(cont.)

My forty fifth birthday had arrived and nowhere near how I had envisioned it. I returned to the bank to see the manager, who of course had not come in; when do they ever come in on Sunday?. Frustrated, but polite, I went over my situation again with the same teller from the day before, who seemed to take pity on me. He looked over at his sole associate, who only made a "What can we do?" face to him, then looked back to her calculating so as not to get too involved. He looked down at his desk as if thinking about something, then reached back and pulled out his wallet, removed a 50 RMB note and slid it across to me beneath the safety glass. While he was doing this I noticed the female associate watch from the corner of her eye, her head still bowed while her hand lay still above her calculator. He smiled at me so humbly I thought I would cry; his generosity was what had kept me here in China for so long; the Chinese are surprising in so many ways. He said with a reassuring look that for sure a manager would be there on Monday, and his fellow associate finally looked up and shook her head rapidly in agreement, the only thing she could add to the entire bittersweet episode. Feeling bolstered by the young man's extreme generosity, I went for breakfast, compliments of his fifty. I accepted the money from the teller to give him face*--to turn such a generous offer down would have perhaps embarrassed him and so accepting gave him a sense of honour and accomplishment. Also, I felt justified in a small way. After all, the man knew I had several thousand RMB in my account, he just couldn't authorize letting me at it himself, so he knew or hoped anyway, I would reimburse him shortly.        * Read more about "face" in the Notes page.

Children ran around barefoot in the bloody muck of the overflowing drains, everywhere the scarlet tinted water feathered across the dead gray concrete floors.

As I headed for a nearby McDonald's one of the neighborhood prostitutes gazed at me, tilting her head in recognition, a beguiling smile on her lips; I knew this girl and I also knew it would be nearly impossible to keep her from coming with me. She offered me a cigarette and I accepted, something I seldom do, but with the stress of the last few days I felt I needed it. Her name was Lily*, but I always called her Kuai Zi, Chinese for chopsticks, because of her long shapely legs. She was also rather tall for an Asian woman. When I told her my story, she insisted I go to her apartment that night for dinner. I agreed and after eating, we parted company, agreeing to meet around 6:00 pm. I spent the day browsing at the computer market, then on to a bookstore, where I picked up a forgettable fiction paperback. I ended back at Hill, drinking with the usual riff raff, waiting for Lily. When she arrived, we promptly left and dropped by a jie shi--a wet market, on the way to her flat. To understand China, every foreigner must visit one of these, but once is usually enough to remember for a lifetime.

*Read more on Lily in the Notes page.

My first memory of one was lots of red, bloody meat hanging everywhere. Not a lot of beef, but plenty of pig carcasses, right next to the lean, elongated sides of...dog! Vegetables I didn't recognize brimmed over their tables, and a dry good store sold things in plastic bags that looked like they came out of a 2,000 year old Egyptian tomb. "How could they possibly rehydrate that?" I wondered. Shallow metal tanks lined the floor just above ankle level, teaming with lively fish that seemed prone to jump out and get under everyone's feet. Dozens of chickens sat in wire gages, nervously watching a woman cut their brethren's throats and getting tossed into a large vat of scalding water to remove the feathers. Children ran around barefoot in the bloody muck of the overflowing drains, everywhere the scarlet tinted water feathered across the dead gray concrete floors. Lily picked out a large fish, dispatched by the fish monger with a knock to its head with the back edge of a huge meat cleaver. A few vegetables and take away steamed rice and she was done; I got the beer.

At her flat she changed from her street clothes into pajamas, the typical home attire for most Chinese. She shut herself away in her tiny kitchen, which consisted of a two burner stove, a sink, bits of china and nothing else. I heard the wok sizzling away while I sat in the living room, sipping beer and watching one of the numerous bad Chinese period soap operas. She came out after a few moments bringing me a salad of cucumber, garlic cloves, vinegar, soy and chili sauce, something I requested and loved, then disappeared again into her smoky, squalled kitchen. We ate together, sitting on a cheap wooden couch that she had thankfully padded with cushions. Her phone rang and after the call a knock came to the door. Another girl I knew came in and she soon joined us and we all drank beer, ate fish, rice, vegetables and watched bad TV. After a while Lily dragged me to her bathroom, where she helped me undress and then washed me thoroughly in a very hot shower. Chinese girls love extremely hot baths. Then she led my now very pink, steaming form to her bedroom, her friend still nibbling rice before the TV. Lily helped take my mind off the previous two days. Sometime in the night she left to do her work and I slept soundly on her large bed.

END of PART 1

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