Winter in the City of Eternal Spring

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New Year's Unmet Resolutions

It's not as I'd expected. The apartment is not yet finished, the electricity unwired, hot water tank and kitchen appliances missing. I remain with Joan in his old flat, the rent contract now under Sergio's name. Joan has run into money problems. He paid the contractor the full cost for the kitchen appliances but the contractor put half that towards his employees' wages. Their employment has dragged on several months past the completion date. Joan is disappointed with their slack attention to detail. The light fixtures in the kitchen will have to be rewired, several cabinets do not close flush, the sliding door and several windows do not shut tight and shake when windy and the shower walls were erected without sealant. My laptop remains in Japan after more than two months of requesting Dave to courier it already. My frustration is getting the better of me. Joan does little to earn money and does not propose how we shall afford to move in upstairs. Typical, feeling unsettled, I wonder should I be in Zhuhai helping Ben and Colin kick start the new school.

I give a demo lesson at Matt's school. Neither him nor the manager watch for more than a minute through the glass door. They are happy with my strong rapport with the students but I will have to wait to hear about any regular hours. At Sergio's gym where the muscled men inspire and conspire, I buy a one month's membership. Joan takes me to the local cop shop and helps me register. Friday night he heads home early leaving me to socialize with his friends at French Cafe. Athena reports on her successful visit to the massage therapist where she received cupping for her first time. Apparently the treatment is given to patients suffering minor colds. She and Yoav recount their New Year's in Dali, soaking in a hot spring, how Athena wondered where all the handsome men were hiding and went to bed early feeling the night's chill while Yoav took some pills and danced the night away in the pool, bringing back to Kunming a souvenir, a red rosey scar on his forhead. New York John, so he's introduced, joins ours discussion. He's young, cute, perky, tells about his holiday in New England, his Indian partner, his gay brothers and his gay uncle, the playwright, and how some magazine wished to write a column on their family. He drops words like verbose and axiom, ecouraging me to use cerebral and cathartic, losing the non-native speakers in confused side glances. Athena learned to speak English back in Greece. She's quite clever, armed with a couple science degrees from the U.K. but still believes in astrology. Yoav speaks with a slight lisp, his 'th' pronounced 'f'. Sandra from Barcelona speaks clear confident American English and Giorgio's English, I tell him not as an insult but as a mere observation though tinted with affection, makes me a little seasick as though I were aboard a gondola, each word ending in an extra vowel rocking the boat over each crest. Gossip spreads among the community like wild fire. I'd thought the story of Joan, Sergio and I remained inside the apartment walls though no one shares with me exactly what version they've been privy to. NY John reminds me of my younger self, prone to excitable monologues, a little flirtatious but meaning nothing, having shared with us all from the start, his fond holidays with his partner of one year, and continued to inform us of their plans to live together in New York and Mumbai and, and, and. He lives alone in a corner flat overlooking Green Lake. The walls are hung with tasteless teapot prints, varied shades of fake brick wallpaper confuse the den and over the dining room table hang unique red and white paper lanterns. In the afternoon, sunlight pours into his study where a small model of New York, the Guggenheim, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building decorate a corner of his desk, a reminder of family and the financial stability that awaits him. Everything in the master bedroom matches, the poor quality silk bedding in gold, the heavy wood wardrobe, the wallpaper, even the light fixtures all share the same stereotypical Chinese design. I suggest to John we throw a murder mystery party in his flat.

I met someone. His name is William. His actual name is difficult for westerners who pronounce it like the Chinese for dead man. I watched him dance at the Hump's New Year Party, a cute face and animated limbs I attach to the stories I've heard. Joan greets him with a kiss on either cheek. Naturally, Joan and he have a history. It's a small town. A week later, another dance floor, perched on stools too close to the speakers leaning precariously into each other's ear lobes. Why are conversations stolen in a night club so special? He wears a mohawk and a slight bridge spans his brow distinguishing him apart from the Han Chinese. His mother's side is Muslim. His youth, his smooth skin, his voice, his fresh unabashed sex appeal I'd like to bottle and spray myself with like a trendy cologne. My friends retire. I order another whiskey coke but am too stoned to swallow its venom. We share a taxi home. We live in the same neighbourhood, scruffy apartment blocks and glitzy high rises near north station. A few pages later we meet at French Cafe, our first date. I'm a little nervous. He's late. I order an ice coffee before he enters wearing a puffy black coat over a white tank top and torn jeans. He's too self conscious to remove the coat, his jeans hang low below the waist. I concentrate on conversation. Two Chinese guys hiding behind a laptop at the next sofa giggle and glance our way then quickly back to the screen. William greets hello to Miri, the young German forever bundled in a white wool hat. Her Chinese study partner eyes William suspiciously but he's oblivious. A group of Swedes congregated by the front windows' sunlight, bent over textbooks, call hello to William. His sister walks in and joins her English boyfriend. "It's my first official date... but I'm not nervous," he admits. "Most guys just wanna sleep with me," he shrugs his shoulders. I prefer sunshine on a first date, you know, to see the other in a clear sober light. We stroll the tree lined promenade circling Green Lake. I learn of his art college background, his unfurnished flat, his fondness for big dogs, for cats. The sun blazes in a blue tile sky, the park climbs, the earth rolls, white duck feathers sail back and forth in the breeze. I feel myself trying everything not to hold him, not to touch his earlobe, not to take him home and undress him and press my lips into each and every curve, plain, blemish. The warm sun is indistinguishable from the calm water, gold, silver, people and park dissolve, two dimensional silhouettes. A wrist watch fails to measure the depth of a moment.

He must be lonely, scared to make the first move on a closeted local. Six months ago his boyfriend returned to Ohio, a computer guru who overstayed his visa a half year and shall never be welcomed back. They seldom write, seldom talk but things are not entirely over, 'ex' is omitted from the American's title. William is well aware he is kept an eye on by his boyfriend's buddies still residing in Kunming, various acquaintances who pass on information, details, whereabouts. Joan informs me that William's new washing machine is a surprise gift of the American's. William is reluctant to share some stories. It's only a first date. I'm relieved to see his confident, look-at-me attitude relax during our walk. I want to learn his foibles, his affections before I learn his anatomy. I'm undecided whether he needs to know me, whether he has the maturity or right without admitting the true state of affairs with his American. He declines an invite to a barbecue at John's. I lie to the gang of foreigners that William had to teach. On parting I steel a kiss, a perfect smacker on the lips, a ripe plum of happiness.

The gang's already drunk, Joan in the lead with a litre of gin. The Mediterraneans dance to techo remix of Bronxy Beats. An overweight curly blond from North Carolina flips the lumpy burgers and tends the grilled aubergines cooking in tin foil. A polite and boring girl chats with him on the balcony. John shows me around the flat. Battiste, tall, strong, outgoing, introduces me to Brando, a Venetian backpacker with a prickly beard. Miri and i reminisce about Berlin. A stiff drink prepared, conversations played, glances to the wallpaper, a cigarette, a joint sparked, I watch Joan out the corner of my eye stumble back inside with an empty glass. He rummages inside his coat pocket. The pills? It's the last I see of him for the evening. Have you seen Joan? No, I tell the others. Athena calls him, locates him in a taxi, somewhere. The party continues. Sandra pulls up on her pedal bike. A couple of pretentious French crowd on to the balcony. Hours later still drinking, the setting is a club in Kundu. Joan has taken several pills. I help him outside for a vomit inspiring breath of fresh air, drips into his bangs, and a ride on a chained swing bench with two painted girls, Mien Mien and Xi Xi, and a skewer of spicey chicken foot. Everyone is sexy, sweaty, confined. I play Yoav's long tourseau like a xmas gift's unwraping. Before he leaves next week he will not admit his bisexuality. The Italian premadonnas, Valeria, Maria Vittoria and Julia wiggle sediciously among the boys. Sergio's co-workers from the gym share our dark corner, a black light booth where my eyes fall on a hunky guy in shades and a letterman jacket, his skinny girl, a skinnier guy with a lemon-shape head, a fat fellow with a receding hairline and long thick dreads. I sober at the bar playing dice with the barmaid. I'm among the first to crash, returning home at four in the morning to discover Pawan rummaging through the kitchen rubbish bin and all the windows wide open. Joan has no recollection, no explanation. I find him back next day noon smoking at the dining table, moaning, still high, and sleep deprived.

A quick phone call. A second date. We hang out in his shop, a yellow tungsten glow, a low couch covered in blankets, handbags hung on display, tatty eclectic fashions, cozy. The odd customer enters the one room hovel, an aging structure hidden in an alley off WanLingJie. We kiss for real and shiver in the expanding cold. We're last to leave the restaurant, A Korean next door where dishes are served with several small bowls of spicy and sour red, orange, yellow and green kimchi. The crowd at Halfway feels uninviting, unappealing. We stroll the lake and watch distant neon lights flicker primary colours. He bought an apartment recently, paying mortgage equal to rent. It's simple, no stove, no refridgerator, neither dining table nor chairs. A cheap sofa lies tucked in open corner between unpacked cardboard boxes and plastic luggage bags. A TV set squats in another corner and a vinyl CD case labeled Will & Grace, not the first reminder of my Japanese ex. It's cold, faces north, the entire wall a long row of floor to ceiling tinted glass. A half dozen tea lights are light and placed around the bed, a stick of incense burns next to the wardrobe. He cracks open a bottle of Lang Tsang Jiang and shows me on-line pics of his favourite porn star, Johnny Hazzard. I look at his graphic designs and show him my travelblog, my life in Japan, my family in Canada. I used to share too much too soon. I used to try hard to be liked, wanted. I hold back now, take it slower, don't say everything on my mind, don't share what will be soon forgotten or misunderstood. I listen and worry he is not strong enough, not challenging. What typically disinterests me, I find a way to admire; his cool fashion, his hairdo, his designs. I wait to discover his insecurities, his foibles - where did I learn that word? Lying naked, hot under the blankets, our third date, I feel perfect. I hate perfect. It screams with the anticipation of cracking. I have a sweet mouth, he says. We kiss until only our lips are still awake.

If One New Year Weren't Enough

"I don't think it's going to work, you living with me." I'm heading out the door when Joan drops this bolt of lightning before me. "I have my own life and you have yours." I'm confused, lost for words, for thoughts. Only yesterday he was brainstorming with me how I might ship my things over from Japan, a response to my feeling unsettled and desiring to settle here a few months, to hide out the winter. I enter Will's shop feeling stressed, distraught. Perhaps you could house sit for Matt and Jacob while they're back in Europe, he suggests. A funny looking Dutch fellow with a tiny pooch is looking for a flat mate and so is Athena. Will thinks he is the reason for Joan's change of mood. "So, Joan, can we talk?" I stand next to him the following morning. "No, it's okay, everything's okay." But it's not. I continue to walk tiptoe around the apartment weary of the ripples I've caused in this small town.

Yoav is leaving. With sunburns painted on an afternoon poolside we convene at the Hump for his farewell party. Balloon creatures hang from the light fixtures; plastic horns and funny masks are thrown into the crowd. The place is hopping, music spinning; a queu to the bar and to the toilets, a crowd mingles outdoors. My friends are pill popping. I’m a little put off, too sensitive perhaps, conservative, I let it affect me, drain me. I can’t find my groove. I wander outside, sit with YouTzai and her dog Toni, wrapped in a pink balloon. I leave with Will. We spend the night folded in each other’s limbs like balloon creatures. His boyfriend, a dozen time zones away, is a ghost. A loud crash, a smashing of glass, a woman’s scream, domestic violence in the flat downstairs. Will calls the police, reported and forgotten by morning, a sad ghost. I return to Joan’s, a mess of half consumed beer bottles, wrappers, ashtrays, like a late night diner. The boys are out drinking at French Café. They haven’t slept in two days. Joan reports on his pink skin, another afternoon poolside watching the local theatrics, aquatic costumes from an outdated S&M collection, masks from early episodes of Star Trek, foreign swimming strokes and hallucination-like exercises, a contest for the ugliest and the strangest. My head’s in the refrigerator brainstorming a chicken vegetable stir-fry when Sergio enters sleep deprived and spacey. “What’re you doing?” “I’m cooking dinner.” “Go out,” he murmurs. “What?” “Go out.” “I’m just gonna cook dinner then I’ll leave.” “No! Go out now!” He springs from the couch, “Get out! Get out!” I start to gather my things. “What’re you doing? Get out! Give me the keys!” He starts throwing my bags into the hallway. “Give me they keys! Where are the keys?” He’s at my throat as I search the flat confused that my keys have so suddenly disappeared. I find them in the hallway. Sergio grabs the set. I have to pry them from his angry little fist and remove the keys to Joan’s and Shxpir’s. I slam the fridge door shut, ingredients lie scattered on the floor and gather my rucksack. I head to French Café. Joan, Giorgio, Yoav act concerned and comforting. It takes a couple g&ts before I can relax. It’s not the first incident where Sergio has reacted violently without due cause. I know he has a sweet side. It’s the drugs, the alcohol, the whey protein or the daylong techno soundtrack to his sex starved life. He spends each day surrounded by weight lifters, belly dancers, unflattering odours. I tell Joan that I saw it coming, that Sergio never in fact invited me into his flat, that I was Joan’s guest and that since the New Year, we were both his guests.

Circumstances remain frustrating. Dave emails me from Japan with more bad news. Neither the post nor the couriers will ship my laptop to China. I had imagined myself sitting at Joan’s office, sun bathing wood surfaces, listening to my music, writing in my computer. My book, shipped from Japan, “How to Write a Screenplay” has been lost in the post. The contracter and his stooges return every other day to the new flat to make small alterations, now three month past the completion date. The electricity remains erratic, the shower walls have still to be sealed, the paint job splatters along the trim have not been cleaned, the gas pressure is too weak, the barbcue on the balcony is awkwardly set. Joan admits that many of his design requests to the contractor were too foreign and unfamiliar with the man, but the man in turn was not forthright with Joan. Six men arrived the other day to install the dishwasher, water heaters, washing machine, oven, stove and deep fryer. The latter two were removed when Joan refused to pay the balance. He has paid one and a half times the cost of the appliances but the contractor has twice redirected funds to pay his employees and undoubtedly to line his own pocket. The contract stipulated that the employees would not be paid until completion. Joan is understanding. The men need their livelihood. Joan continues to do little work. I hear him on the phone most days for a couple hours chatting intimately in Italian with Mia, his business partner in Shanghai. They will have to meet with their accountant in Hong Kong over Chinese New Year to rectify the tax forms. Pa’Wan lives alone in the upstairs flat tearing styrofoam packing to bits, shreding quilts, scattering their cotton clouds. He grows bigger and bigger. At my pestering, Joan buys a stronger leash. I do nothing each day in keeping with the local theme. University students have scattered across South East Asia or returned home for six weeks vacation. Joan drink his beer and studies Chinese with a dismissive attitude. Shxpir sleeps late, runs errands for his handbag shop, feels disappointed with his hiphop classes and with the gym’s management who feel he shoul be bigger. Yoav didn’t leave much, I realize. I never saw his little kebab stand in Kundu, having failed within two months and costing Yoav nearly 6000€. I arrived a few weeks after Yoav and Joan’s failed takeover at the Box. The manager changed her mind, said she would not lease it, said she would run the place herself.

My favorite part of the day falls in its closing hour when Will returns home, nibbles on a box of take-away, brushes his teeth and joins me in bed. It's cold and we cuddle beneath a half dozen blankets. Our heads resting on pillows we look at each other, no smile, no fear, no awkwardness. “Whom else can you do this with? Nobody.” I answer my own question. “I think I’m the older one,” he says with a cheeky grin. He tells me about the countryside and the small towns where he grew up. I learn about his fallout with the art college. “I’ve traveled many places. I grew up in relative wealth and freedom. And you didn’t. But I don’t feel we’re unequals. You have strength and confidence.” “I know what I want,” he smiles. I like Will a lot. He’s had one other gay partner while I can no longer keep track of mine. His ex is not entirely out of the picture, an unattractive thirty-one year old American who overstayed his visa and had to return last summer to his native Philadelphia. Will’s friends did not like the guy. He and Will were friends more than a year before they dated, then at some point they moved in together. Joan says with a smirk how Will lived rent free for a half year. His ex sends the odd emails and phones occasionally. Will was attracted to his commitment. He looks for security. Our faces watch each other inches apart propped on pillows and I try to understand what it’s like to be in his skin. Does he know what he wants? The American has offered to pay a 2000$ visa process to bring William to the States to find work. “Talk with your friends and family”, I comment. “No, it’s my decision.” “Just remember you’ll be indebted.” “What’s indebted mean?” “You’ll be under his power.” Will likes me too but I’m clear with him that there’s a ninety-nine percent chance he and I have no future together. As blissful as these hours are, laying in bed, an unbelievable intimacy between two unlike creatures, I know my story will leave him soon enough. I have tears in bed confused by my stong attraction and his charming reciprocity. “In five years when you’re ready to settle, come find me.” Just as Joan says, he is a simple guy, and all the more loveable.

Each day the news reports on the blizzard blanketing the country, scenes of stranded vehicles, the military handing out bowls of hot soup, crowded airport departure halls. The worst in fifty years, the captions read. The wind howls through the narrow block. The weather gallops across the concrete plain. Thick bolts of lightening crash on the far side of town. The windows and sliding door to the balcony shake inside their loose frames. A herd of rain clouds pelt the curb, peoeple rush for cover. Rain turns to hail. Joan and I watch from the kitchen in amazement. Late night snow falls in the city of eternal spring.

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Photos

Yuantong Si
Buddhist temple in the heart of Kunming

tearing down and building anew
a common sight acros the city

February afternoon
winter in the city of eternal springtime

traffic is a major headache in Kunming
recent changes to traffic patterns have only added to the confusion

Comments

[Leslie]

tender
I love your love stories.