Read Online White Tiger on Snow Mountain by David Gordon - Free Book Online
Authors: David Gordon
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asked.
“I have to track down my ex-lover.”
“What?” I was a bit incredulous.
“Don’t be jealous. He’s my lover from a former life.”
Nina was an odd girl. I won’t go into our whole relationship; I’ll just say that we fascinated each other in a way only possible for those with absolutely nothing in common, like an anteater and a flamingo meeting at the waterhole. I remember the one Christmas Eve we shared. She dragged me to church with the rest of her brightly blond clan, sang about Jesus with unnerving gusto, then gave me a framed nude photo of herself as a gift. She was a ballad-singing, break-dancing, DJ-ing actress-model-dancer whose great ambition was to be a pop star or appear in a sitcom. She got by on the occasional overseas toothpaste ad while moonlighting at a midtown massage parlor where, dressed in a bikini, she oiled up and rubbed down tense businessmen for $250 a pop, as it were, plus tip. I pictured a kind of human car wash where tiny elven girls pumped and polished the hoary carcasses of old husbands, detailing them like the fat, sleek vehicles they drove home. Although a dozen years her senior, I was still the youngest and poorest boyfriend Nina had ever had.
Early on she complained that I didn’t treat her with the “reverence” and “worshipful attitude” she’d come to expect. Apparently, other reviewers had praised her lavishly as “a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Letting her so much as touch her wallet when accompanying her in a shop was “a major faux pas,” which, frankly, made her feel embarrassed for me. I could only laugh. She fell pretty short in the old-fashioned girlfriend department herself: When I was sick in bed for a week, she didn’t bring me soup or even visit. She admitted it hadn’t so much as crossed her mind. She’d never risk losing her voice. Maybe we were both no good.
Still, like I said, I sit in a room reading, and to see her DJ before a crowd of jumping kids or performing her Qi Gong exercises in the morning, swinging her arms and bouncing up and down in her underwear—well, it was like a breath of life. What she saw in me, who knows? The truth is, in the end, she even started cooking for me, awful concoctions that I wolfed gamely while, suspicious but happy, she slopped seconds onto my plate.
Nina had once lived in Taipei, years before. She’d been recruited as the white member of a multicolored girl-pop group, recorded one minor hit, and been the lover of a Chinese gangster. Or maybe not a gangster. A guy who owned bars and lent money but supposedly didn’t involve himself with drugs or violence, the line between businessman and criminal being perhaps a bit blurrier there than here. Perhaps. Anyway, we visited together, and I fell in love with the place. It was like the dream where you don’t know if it’s the future or the past: Streets full of thousands of scooters, and everyone in those facemasks and helmets. Alleys crammed with stands selling dumplings and papaya milk and candied tomatoes. Girls with umbrellas hiding from the sun. Old men in pajamas chewing
bing-lang
and spitting red juice. Sweet teenagers on dates lining up for tripe.
It was ghost month. The day we arrived, the news showed the opening of the gates to hell. People put out offerings of incense and flowers for their ancestors, but also instant ramen noodles and Oreos and Cokes. They came out of office buildings with bundles of ghost money, red and gold, and set it on fire in the street. We took afternoon naps while it poured and wore things that I at least would never wear at home: red robes, sleeveless undershirts, slippers in the street. At dinner, blindly, we felt for each other beneath the table. We raced back to ourtiny rooftop room, with the laundry dripping from the one barred window and neon fish swimming through the drowned streets below. Dressed like a princess in imitation silk, hair pinned high with lacquered sticks, she stepped out into the hall and then
“I have to track down my ex-lover.”
“What?” I was a bit incredulous.
“Don’t be jealous. He’s my lover from a former life.”
Nina was an odd girl. I won’t go into our whole relationship; I’ll just say that we fascinated each other in a way only possible for those with absolutely nothing in common, like an anteater and a flamingo meeting at the waterhole. I remember the one Christmas Eve we shared. She dragged me to church with the rest of her brightly blond clan, sang about Jesus with unnerving gusto, then gave me a framed nude photo of herself as a gift. She was a ballad-singing, break-dancing, DJ-ing actress-model-dancer whose great ambition was to be a pop star or appear in a sitcom. She got by on the occasional overseas toothpaste ad while moonlighting at a midtown massage parlor where, dressed in a bikini, she oiled up and rubbed down tense businessmen for $250 a pop, as it were, plus tip. I pictured a kind of human car wash where tiny elven girls pumped and polished the hoary carcasses of old husbands, detailing them like the fat, sleek vehicles they drove home. Although a dozen years her senior, I was still the youngest and poorest boyfriend Nina had ever had.
Early on she complained that I didn’t treat her with the “reverence” and “worshipful attitude” she’d come to expect. Apparently, other reviewers had praised her lavishly as “a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Letting her so much as touch her wallet when accompanying her in a shop was “a major faux pas,” which, frankly, made her feel embarrassed for me. I could only laugh. She fell pretty short in the old-fashioned girlfriend department herself: When I was sick in bed for a week, she didn’t bring me soup or even visit. She admitted it hadn’t so much as crossed her mind. She’d never risk losing her voice. Maybe we were both no good.
Still, like I said, I sit in a room reading, and to see her DJ before a crowd of jumping kids or performing her Qi Gong exercises in the morning, swinging her arms and bouncing up and down in her underwear—well, it was like a breath of life. What she saw in me, who knows? The truth is, in the end, she even started cooking for me, awful concoctions that I wolfed gamely while, suspicious but happy, she slopped seconds onto my plate.
Nina had once lived in Taipei, years before. She’d been recruited as the white member of a multicolored girl-pop group, recorded one minor hit, and been the lover of a Chinese gangster. Or maybe not a gangster. A guy who owned bars and lent money but supposedly didn’t involve himself with drugs or violence, the line between businessman and criminal being perhaps a bit blurrier there than here. Perhaps. Anyway, we visited together, and I fell in love with the place. It was like the dream where you don’t know if it’s the future or the past: Streets full of thousands of scooters, and everyone in those facemasks and helmets. Alleys crammed with stands selling dumplings and papaya milk and candied tomatoes. Girls with umbrellas hiding from the sun. Old men in pajamas chewing
bing-lang
and spitting red juice. Sweet teenagers on dates lining up for tripe.
It was ghost month. The day we arrived, the news showed the opening of the gates to hell. People put out offerings of incense and flowers for their ancestors, but also instant ramen noodles and Oreos and Cokes. They came out of office buildings with bundles of ghost money, red and gold, and set it on fire in the street. We took afternoon naps while it poured and wore things that I at least would never wear at home: red robes, sleeveless undershirts, slippers in the street. At dinner, blindly, we felt for each other beneath the table. We raced back to ourtiny rooftop room, with the laundry dripping from the one barred window and neon fish swimming through the drowned streets below. Dressed like a princess in imitation silk, hair pinned high with lacquered sticks, she stepped out into the hall and then
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