A Female Singer

After encountering way too many weirdoes in Beijing bars, I decided to try my luck at a small hill near the Ba-Bao mountain.

It’s said that the biggest race track is on the top of this hill, and the famous musician Peanut’s villa is right nest to it. On my way up, I constantly passed young men wearing rubber soled sneakers nodding their heads to me. They all wore simple, nice, clean t-shirts, with northerner’s characteristic good looks. My expectation increased considerably as I continued towards the mountain top.

Beautiful scenery greeted me along the way finally, the race track. The enormity of it was shocking. The entire mountain top was flattened into an area bigger than the worker Stadium. The green grass was mowed like a young man’s brand-new crew cut.

“Watch out!”

A horse came from behind and without any warning, jumped right in front of me. The smell was so strong it made me want to cover my nose. The jockey’s high-top boots rubbed against the belly of the horse, where there hung a black, somewhat worn leather whip. The horse was swaying and shaking, its hairs shiny like silk. The jockey glanced back at me. His handsome Mongolian profile pressed into the back of my eyes.

The clacking of the hoofs seemed to echo the beating of my heart. I recalled “Kong-Ding Love Song” and felt a clutching in my chest. How I wish that whip was slightly hitting me.

He started galloping on that green grass, his whip flying in the air making a sharp, crisp sound, and the hoofs binging out the smell of the cut grass. The audience pushed me against the railing left and right. They liked to adjust their position to the location of the horse. Someone grabbed my butt. I suddenly noticed that people around me were mostly men. My nylon floral shirt appeared conspicuous among all these strong, husky men in their high-top boots. Everyone’s attention was on the action. Thirsty for blood. That red horse and that good looking red-faced man were leading. His black leather coating clinging to his body, silver buttons carving shiny lines under the sun.
Reminding myself of the business that brought me here, I had to back away from all this excitement and look for that villa. Over the phone the musician gave me the description and location of the house, but my head was so filled with clacking of the hoofs (after all, this was my first time seeing a really beautiful horse) that his words were entirely forgotten.

Darn. Aimlessly I walked towards the nearest tiny house. It looked to be the temporary sleeping quarters for overnight-shift guards and workers. Ought to be safe. After knocking on the door several times and hearing no one, I let myself in.

Darkness inside. A man sitting by the edge of the bed, not wearing any shirt. I instinctively took one sep back. His eyes quickly glanced my way, then he threw something onto the floor. This place is right nest to the race track, but none of the noises could be heard in here.

“May I help you?” He spoke the standard language.

I tapped my head. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Peanut. He lives close by. Do you know where he lives?”

He stood up, pulled open the curtains. “There.” I saw the corner of the flattened hill, through the naked rock, a light gray roof peeking out its head. Lit by the setting sun, it looked sad. The man put on a t-shirt, stomped to the other side of the house(he seemed to be wearing cowboy boots,) and pulled open the rest of the curtains. The sound of the hoofs, muted by the grass, rushed right in.
I noticed that the wall was covered by gray sound-proof boards. There was a old four-track recorder on the floor.

“Are you a musician too?” I asked carefully.

No reply. I thanked him and left the room. Actually I liked his personality. He was one of the handsome young men that I saw a while ago. Maybe I should stay with him.

I headed towards that lone villa, the smell of the grass overwhelming. I looked back to the race track, only several levels of shades visible. The number of people seemed to be increasing and moving, like a wave.

Hot outside. A few pine trees languishing. That villa appeared to be within reach, but the curvy road took me forever to conquer. I sensed a man spying on me through the window. My nylon floral shirt became suffocating.

Peanut opened the door himself. Inside the villa the air conditioner was blasting-a drastic change of season.

I wiped away the sweat on my face. He smiled, elegantly handing me a glass of juice. I gulped it down, my legs shaking on the soft sofa.

“I am preparing for tonight’s performance at Po-Li building, opening for Hong Kong Frog Theater,” he said.

I felt my interest rise. Of course my goal was to be the top singer in the world, but I wanted to learn other things: theater, photography, acting… I always felt I was living under a cover, struggling to come out.

The interior décor was simple, quiet and spiritual.

“l like to be alone, thinking.” He said.

I remembered the song that made him famous: sometimes, night is a torture; something, night is the highest pleasure…He asked me to sing. I did. His head nodding, long hair swinging. “Good, very good. Keep practicing and you will have a bright future.” Then he went back to tending his own business.

Night seemed to fall quickly in this house. The fact that I might have to go down the pitch black mountain alone while he went to the glorious theater himself made me extremely sad. I was a simple girl. Something, the night is the biggest torture. My nose stuffed up and tears came rushing.
Swept by this emotion, I cried out loud, the sound echoing in the empty hall.

He came over, touched my head. “Don’t cry, don’t cry!” He said.

I cried even harder, choking, He held my shoulders, whispering, “lie down.”

I lay down on the sofa, obediently.

“Take off your clothes.”

Swooning, as if someone had just slapped me.

“Who are you?” I asked timidly. My voice raspy and sexy.

“You don’t need to know who I am,” he whispered.” Just take off your clothes.”

I put my head on the pillow, hearing faint hoof sound inside the sofa. The game should be over. Although the villa was not far from the track, no one would come. I felt the surprising gaze of the young man in that tiny dark house. The floral shirt slipped off, nylon rubbing my arms.

He asked me to lie on my stomach, then started to hit my bottom. I realized it was more of a pat than hitting. I didn’t know what to say. The hitting grew louder. He started to laugh, striking different part of my bottom to make different sounds. The sound effect surprised me and my attention me and my attention was diverted. Maybe it was exhaustion, I felt myself relaxing, feeling comfortable (oh, what soothing massage!)

Time went by, I started to moan. My heart was beating so fast that I felt my head swelling, I worried that I might look ugly.

“To be a singer, first you need to learn how to make a sound.” He said suddenly. Putting stress on every word as if he was saying it to another person in the room.

I turned to stare at him, then suddenly I screamed. Let it all out. Diligent sweat fell onto this primeval sofa. Weren’t you requesting a song? Weren’t you requesting a song?

This was my first heartrending song.

Guangzhou, 1999

Today, Summer issue (Chinese version), 2002 ,Untitled, No.2(English version), New York, 2004,