China Mountain Zhang Read Free

never seemed to bother him.
    No, I don’t want to go to the kite races. “Foreman Qian wants to sponsor me to Shanghai University.” I sit in one of his big cushions, sink into it like it was a hug and it thrums gently and starts to warm me up.
    “Isn’t that kind of surprising?” Peter frowns. Three little lines appear in the middle of his forehead. His eyebrows arch like gull wings. They are lighter than his summer tan, just beginning to fade.
    “He wants me to marry his daughter. Then I’ll go to the university, get a job in China, and he can retire back inside.”
    For a moment Peter looks as if he is going to laugh but he takes a long pull on his beer instead. “He’s kidding, isn’t he? I mean, arranged marriages are pretty feudal, you know.”
    “He’s a pretty feudal kind of guy.”

    He thinks a moment. “Can you tell him you already have a fiancé?”
    “No, he’s asked before.”
    Peter shakes his head. “You have such a complicated personal life.”
    No kidding.
    “Hey, China Mountain, don’t sit there all stony. You’re all in your skull again. Come on, Rafael, don’t go all Chink.”
    “Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” I say, sulking.
    “Guilt, guilt, guilt, I feel horrible. Now get off your ass and let’s go to the kite races. I’ll introduce you to a flier and he’s skinny and blond and you can polish your obsession for yellow hairs. He doesn’t have a brain in his perfect little cranium but he’s still hao kan. ”
    “If I go I’ll be up all night and I’ll be a wreck at work tomorrow.” But I go, and we watch the silk gliders race all night above Washington Square; red and yellow sails swooping and skimming in the searchlights. Peter never does find his flier.
     
     
    Next day, Friday. I get back to my flat, shower, change and catch the train back to Manhattan. How does Peter do it? I am at work at six-forty-five, pouring coffee in the vain hope that if I drink enough I won’t accidentally cut my foot off with the cutter. Foreman Qian is there at seven-thirty. I do not know what I will say to him. I will tell him that there is really a girl. I will tell him that I am involved in the sale and transfer of illegal goods and not a suitable choice. I will tell him I am against feudal arrangements like this. I will tell him I have an incurable disease and only have six months to live.
    I follow him into his office and he sits down. I notice his jowls hang a little, like a tired bulldog’s. Then I stare at the wall in back of him.

    “Engineer Zhang,” he says in Mandarin, “Please you come to dinner on Sunday.”
    The wall is white and needs painting. “Thank you, Foreman Qian,” I say, “I would be honored.” And then slink out onto the site.
    Long terrible day, with Foreman Qian smiling at me as prospective son-in-law. The crew knows something is up, and with Foreman Qian lurking around the site, nothing gets done. I do not ever reprimand them directly, it is not the way to get them to work, instead I find small ways to express my displeasure. But my heart is not in it. At noon I lie in the sun on a sack of cement—it’s not comfortable but I only mean to sit a minute. I put my forearm over my eyes and fall asleep, jerk awake and drink more coffee. We finally finish at four. As I pass out pay chits I look at each one, “Your hard-earned pay,” I say.
    I hear Kevin from Queens mutter, “Qian been bustin’ the bastard’s ass again.”
    Little do you know.
    Friday evening I sleep for about five hours and then meet Peter at eleven to drop in on a friend’s party. I fully intend to be home by two o‘clock, three o’clock at the latest. When I get home it’s eight in the morning and I sleep the day away. Saturday I promise myself I will stay home that evening, but I end up meeting a couple of guys for a vid. Sunday morning finds me, as always, tired, broke and with a flat that desperately needs cleaning. It’s not a big flat, it doesn’t take any time to