Isham Cook's Blog: Isham Cook, page 7
March 22, 2017
The Kitchens of Canton, a novel. Ch. 14: Roma
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ALMIGHTY
TRUTH IS ON THE MARCH
NOTHING CAN STOP IT NOW
Malmquist slammed the straw pillow with his hand. “Fuck!”
Attica walked in. “Quid agis? Esne bene?”
“Do you have a candle? I can’t see the writing clearly in here. It’s too dark,” he said as he responded to the message on his tunic.
“Quid est?”
“A candle. You know, light. Fire. A candle.” He depicted a candle with his fingers.
“Mentula sagittandi?” She masturbated an imaginary cock.
“No! I don’t mean a hand-job. I mean a candle, with a flame.”
“Candela?”
“Yeah. Candela.”
She returned with a candle. The grimy cubbyhole illumined, the tunic now spelled out:
I’M NOT EASY
BUT WE CAN DISCUSS IT
“I’m fucked. I’ve lost the connection and it now seems to be mocking me. Oh, of course, you wouldn’t understand.”
She pointed to her sundial watch. “Hora est.”
“I want more time.” He fished a coin out of his pocket.
Her warm hips expanded into his as she sat down on the bed next to him. She reached under his tunic to stroke him. “Ne quid tibi vis?”
“Pertundo tunicam,” said Syria, poking her face through the doorway. She pointed at Malmquist’s erection.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, stroking Attica’s hair. “The problem is I can’t deal with shaved pussy. I need hairy.” He reached over and pulled Syria into the room by her skirt. He lifted it up and ran his fingers through her thick black pubic hair which creeped up to her belly button and down her inner thighs. He gave Syria a big thumbs-up. “Now that is a fucking forest.”
Syria laughed. “Futuitur cunnus pilossus multo melius quam glaber.” She gestured to the bed with her eyebrows. “Agamus?”
“No, you’re too lanky for me. I prefer Attica. But I need a condom. Who knows what flesh-eating STDs are lurking in there that I don’t have any immunity to. You guys have condoms?”
“Quid est?”
“You know, a condom.” He mimed pulling a condom over his penis.
“Aha! Vagina. Vagina sua ovium?” said Attica.
“I do want your vagina, but not without a condom.”
“Est pretiosa.” She left the room.
Syria pointed to the latest message on Malmquist’s tunic:
SPREAD BEAVER
SHOWING THE VAGINAL AREA
“Mutata verba. Quid est hoc? Vagina?”
“Don’t pay any attention to that.”
Attica returned with a lamb-intestine condom dangling between her thumb and forefinger. “Vagina.”
“What? That’s not a vagina. That goes in your vagina.”
She pointed to her groin. “Vulva.”
“Yeah, your vulva. The condom goes onto my cock and into your vulva and your vagina.”
“Pone vaginam in vulvam,” she gestured at the condom.
“The vagina in the vulva? Yes, the vagina is inside the vulva, but you put the condom, not the vagina, into the vulva.”
“Vagina,” she repeated, pointing to the condom.
“Whatever. Anyway, we can buy these natural condoms too. At least I used to see them at Walgreens but not anymore for some reason, probably because they don’t protect against HIV. But then you don’t have AIDS here yet.”
“Unus denarius.”
“A whole denarius for that? That’s ridiculous.”
“Habes pecuniam.”
“Look, I only have this.” Malmquist pulled out another coin.
“Non satis.”
“How about we exchange. I give you massage, you give me condom? I can massage you,” he said as he pushed the air with his hands.
“Frictio?”
“Oh, I have an idea. Do you know how to squirt? Female ejaculation. I can teach you.”
“Ejaculatio?”
“Not me. Female ejaculation. You.” He pointed to Attica’s groin. “Here, lie back. But I need to clean my hands. Water. Aqua.”
“Aqua?”
“I have two millennia of highly evolved bacteria on my hands that’s going to seriously fuck her up unless I wash it off. Yes, aqua.”
“Aqua!” Syria shouted in the hallway.
A dirty little boy dressed in rags appeared in the doorway with a basin of water. He looked confused. “Lavo?” he said, pointing to Attica.
“Who’s he?”
“Aquariolus.”
“Now I need soap,” said Malmquist, presenting his hands. “Soap.”
“Sapo? Non habemus.”
“No soap? I have to wash my hands.”
Syria produced a glass vial containing oil. He removed the stopper. “What’s this? Perfumed oil? You can’t use oil to wash off bacteria! They don’t understand this at the baths either but at least they have soap.”
He scrubbed his hands with the water and wiped them off on his tunic. The boy was dismissed. He applied a few drops of oil to his hands. Lying next to Attica, he opened her legs, played lightly with her vulva until it was damp, and inserted four fingers. He stimulated her rhythmically until her hips began to buck in sync with his hand.
“Vah!” she yelled as a burst of lubrication sprayed out. “Eximius! Quomodo facere quod?”
“Aqua!” stared Syria in amazement.
Another boy appeared, a tall teenager, also dressed in rags and bearing a basin of water. “Aqua vis?”
“Ah, cara!” said Attica, who sat up, startled.
“Nolumus,” said Syria to him. “Vide.”
“She’s so beautiful,” said Malmquist, spellbound.
His face was heavily made up. The garishly drawn eyebrows failed to sully his eyes, which were of the clearest azure, piercing even in the dull light. Blood — or something the color of blood — glossed his parted lips. Rich blond curls protruded from his shawl. “Quis est?” he asked.
“Credimus ex Germania.”
“Aut Britannia,” said Attica.
The boy stared at Malmquist in silence, before kneeling before him and intoning respectfully, “In vestras potes ducere sedes, quae tibi jucundo famularer serva labore.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Te amo,” he said as he caressed Malmquist’s cock.
“Cara, ipse pauper servus,” Syria told him.
“Tace!” he snapped at them, his calm eyes still fixed on Malmquist. Then he pulled up his tunic to reveal an erect penis, pierced with fine gold chains and gems embedded in rows along the shaft. “Solis putas esse mentulam tibi,” he cooed.
“Oh, no, you’re male. Who the fuck are you?” said Malmquist.
The boy pursed his lips in a pout and sniffled, before yelling at Syria, “Ut hic et nunc e!”
“Exi hic nunc!” Syria commanded Malmquist. As he exited the brothel she whispered a warning, “Imperator.”
Malmquist returned to the Caracalla baths and his job in the massage room.
“Plumbarius redibat,” his fellow slaves remarked in startled amusement.
“Ubi eras?” the boss yelled at him.
“Mind your own fucking business. Who’s next?” His hands were at the ready for a female customer.
“Ah, ipse est ille?” said a naked middle-aged woman being attended to by another slave. The gold bracelets on her wrists and ankles presumed wealth, and she spoke with authority. “Volo.”
Malmquist replaced her masseur and began working on her, spiralling his hands up her thighs toward her groin.
“Ego iam exspectat. Audivi peritus es,” she told him. Pointing to his tunic, she asked, “Quid enim dicit? Quid est lingua?” It now read:
THE WAY BACK INTO ONLY
YOU THERE MALMQUIST?
WE HAVE IN CUSTODY
CHINESE LADY ZHANG
“Oh, great, I’m back online. It’s English. How would I say that in Latin? Anglicus?”
“Anglicus? Non audivi praeter hodie.”
As Malmquist worked one hand close to her groin, inserting his fingers as the vulva dilated, he wrote back with the other on the tunic: “WTF IS SHE DOING THERE?” The woman pulled her legs back, and her hips rolled in sync with his hand. “O, mi deus!” By now quite practiced, he was able to maintain a steady rhythm on the woman while glancing at Melynchuk’s response, which came back promptly:
TELEPORTED BY TUNIC
WE WANT TO DISCHARGE
BUT CHICAGO WON’T TAKE
HER WITHOUT NANOCHIP
He made the mistake of writing back on the tunic with fingers dripping with the woman’s lubrication. There were sparks and smoke and the fabric disintegrated where he touched it. The acrid smoke jolted his nostrils. “Fuck!” he shouted, wiping his hands off on a rag. Now the others were curious about the changing script. One slave went up to him.
“No! Don’t touch it. Please.”
Two others held Malmquist’s arms while the slave wrote on the tunic. The entire room, boss included, burst out laughing at the words: “PEDICATUR QUI LEGIT.”
“Resume!” the woman ordered Malmquist.
As he returned to the massage, he found himself pushing the air. The table had shifted. They were still laughing at him. The woman was again looking at his tunic, which now read:
MALMQUIST YOU THERE?
WHO WROTE THE LATIN?
He replied: “HALLUCINATING WORDS EVERYWHERE, NOT JUST ON TUNIC. JUMBLED MULTICOLORED ENGLISH, LATIN.”
The massage table shifted once more and he staggered backward. “Tu aeger,” said a slave to him who took over the lady’s massage. Losing his footing, Malmquist grabbed onto an empty massage table and scribbled back another message before the table disappeared: “I’M ON ACID. SOMEHOW INGESTED LSD. NO IDEA HOW. STRONGER THAN ACID.”
“E tu chi sei?” asked another slave, one he didn’t recognize.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. All the tables had shifted, and gone was the Roman lady. Those on the tables had moved as well, no longer the same bodies as a moment before but a whole new room of patrons.
He dashed out of the room and briskly made his way out of the Caracalla grounds and along the Appian Way to the Forum, and then on to the Diocletian baths. In the gift shop there, he tried to purchase a new tunic with his Roman coins. The cashier shook her head as she fingered the strange coins. “No.”
“Look,” he said. “Do you realize what these are? Real coins from Ancient Rome.”
“Antica Roma?” the girl said. She grabbed the coins and in a whisper bid him leave.
“Not so fast. Look. A denarius.”
“Non è il denaro.”
“Yes, it’s a denarius. Silver,” he said as he bit the coin.
“Argento?” a coworker chimed in.
“A real denarius.”
“Non il denaro. Falsi monete.”
“Penso che significhi un denario, non denaro,” the coworker said.
“Denario?”
“Yes, denario. Denarius. Your ancestors’ money. Now give me some money for it.”
Reluctantly she handed him a few coins and waved him away. “Fuori!”
He left the shop and entered the baths, depositing his new tunic in a locker in the changing hall and himself in the tepidarium, changing spots from time to time in the pool so as not to draw too much attention his way — an unaccompanied slave. He soaked his dirty tunic in the water and draped it over his head like a towel, further obscuring his identity from anyone among the thousand or so present who might happen to recognize him. Yet it wasn’t all that long that the dynamics of the bathers altered. Some looked upset, some pained; others looked around in a confused state. A general murmur grew louder and one by one people left the pool. He could hear the same few Chinese phrases being repeated — “Shui bei toudule”….”Ren zhongdule”….”Shui you du.” Whatever their meaning something was happening, and whatever was happening spelled trouble.
He got out of the water, disappeared into the vast hall’s crowd and slipped into the laconicum, wearing his tunic in the sauna to dry it off. The large sauna was crowded with naked men and prostitutes and slaves attending to their masters, though the steam obscured the space and made it intimate. He could see one Chinese male glaring at him, while another sitting next to him with a blandly obscure face stared at his groin and laid his hand on his thigh. Soon the man bent forward and fellated him. Malmquist took off his tunic, draped it over his head and closed his eyes. Then he took his turn with the man. The man shuddered, and cleaned up Malmquist’s face with a towel. “Wo ai ni,” he whispered. “Ni shi shei de nuli?”
Pretending to be deaf, Malmquist signaled his desire to leave together with the man. They went to the changing hall, where he retrieved the new tunic from his locker, departed the bath block and made their way out of the grounds in silence.
“Ni buhui shuo zhongguohua ma?” the man finally said.
“I don’t speak Chinese.”
“You speak English?” said the man, surprised. “Not Italian?”
“Yes.”
“Why you speak English? Where you from?”
“America.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jeff. What’s yours?”
“Julius.”
“That’s a Chinese name?”
“You call me Julius. You are not slave?”
“I’m slave to a rich woman named Zhang.”
“I want nice big man slave like you,” he said with a placid smile as he brushed against Malmquist. “Come stay with me tonight. Not safe for you here now. You heard trouble?”
“What trouble?”
“Big pool poisoned.”
“Poisoned? How? With what?”
“I don’t know. I don’t use big pool today. Somebody in sangna said.”
“What’s sangna?”
“We just in sangna.”
“Oh, the sauna. Who poisoned the pool?”
“Must be angry slave.”
“What kind of poison? I was in the big pool. Am I going to die?” said Malmquist in a rising panic.
“Make people crazy poison.”
“What do you mean?”
“People screaming, afraid, act like mad people. Jingshenbing, you know? Look, see cars take people to hospital?” He pointed at the convergence of police vans and ambulances at the outer gate, where they had now arrived. Hundreds of Chinese bath patrons, many crying, were being attended to by medical personnel, Italian soldiers in Roman army outfits and higher-ranking uniformed Chinese police. “I’m so glad I don’t go in pool. You seem okay, no? You okay?”
Malmquist was pale.
“Hei!” a Chinese officer shouted at them. “Ta shi ninde nuli ma?” he asked Julius.
“Jiushi a.”
“Women zhengzai xunzhao yige wuren peiban de nanxing nuli.”
The policeman kept looking at Malmquist’s tunic as they spoke. Malmquist managed to glance at it but was only able to make out the words “ZHANG” and “OPERATION” before his paramour whisked him away. “Zanmen zou ba! We leave now. We stay here trouble.”
“What will happen to the slave if they find him?”
“Oh, he be killed immediately.”
Julius lived alone in a small apartment near the baths. Malmquist sat with him on the couch as he turned on the TV, a holographic display a few meters in front of them, and pulled out cans of Coke — they still had that — and snacks, seeds. Julius bit the shells off the seeds with little machine-like movements. They watched the news in Chinese. It was all about the Diocletian pool poisoning.
“Have they found the person who poisoned the pool?”
“They now review security cameras for suspicious slave.”
“How did he manage to poison so many people at once?”
“Some kind of drug. They don’t know what kind of drug. They say no any drug so strong. New drug. How long you stay in pool?”
“An hour at least.”
“Why you not with your master? Where you live?”
“Palatine Hill. She’s temporarily out of the country.”
“Balading? Yes, rich slave have more freedom.”
Malmquist spent the night with him in bed. Early in the morning, Julius was already up and nudged Malmquist awake. “You must leave now. Police go house go house, you know? Check every house. You go back to your house. You not in your house with your master, very serious. Go now.”
Malmquist quickly crossed the city in his new tunic, which presently read:
EVERYONE FELL IN LOVE
WITH SNOW WHITE
I IMMEDIATELY FELL FOR
THE WICKED QUEEN
Upon reaching the Palatine Hill he sped up his pace, sensing someone following him. He checked the tunic once more in case a new message from Melynchuk was forthcoming. The writing remained gibberish.
THEY SAY THAT WE ARE
OVERMEDICATED
BUT I SAY WE ARE JUST
BORED WITH REALITY
He knocked at the door of Zhang’s domus. A minute went by with no response.
“Hei!” someone shouted his way. Down the street a pair of Chinese men in togas were approaching and pointing at him. Then the door opened and a sleepy-eyed Zhang let him in.
“You’re back? I thought you were stuck in America. New Gary.”
“Just got back.”
“How?”
“I fly back.”
“How did they let you go?”
“Oh, they let me go fast. Chicago police. Chinese Consulate find me just in time. They want to give me operation, put device in my brain. You imagine that? Chinese Consulate tell them they do that we send them all to Xinluoma to be slaves. They put me on plane right away.”
“My god, Jeff, what happened to you?” said Delilah, who had appeared as well.
“I don’t have time to explain. Here, take this damaged tunic and repair the holes. Whatever you do, don’t wash it in water. It’s contaminated with some kind of extremely potent psychoactive LSD-like substance but stronger. I’m still fucked up from it. I wore it in the big pool at the Diocletian baths and thousands of bathers are now tripping and have no idea what’s going on. I’m a suspect and if they catch me I’m dead. You’ll probably be okay if you wear it, just don’t get it wet. Don’t masturbate with it on. Now give me the other tunic you wore here.”
“She won’t give it to me. She won’t let me go back.”
“I need her tunic,” Malmquist implored Zhang. “They’re looking for me. If they catch me they’ll take me away. They’ll kill me.”
There was a loud pounding on the outer door. Zhang looked at the security monitor. “It’s the police. A lot of them. Why they come here?”
“They’re coming for me. I’ll explain later. The tunic!” he implored.
She quickly fetched it and handed it to him, and glanced again at the monitor. “What do I tell them?” she asked.
He was already gone.
* * *
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Previous chapter: Ch. 13: New Gary, IN
Next chapter: Ch. 15: Zigaago
Chapter 1: New Gary, IN
Forthcoming (September 2017):
The Kitchens of Canton
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Filed under: Fiction Tagged: China expat fiction, Dystopian satire
March 20, 2017
The Kitchens of Canton, a novel. Ch. 13: New Gary, IN
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He pointed at a food tray behind the cafeteria counter.
“Oh, you again. Hominy grits?” she asked.
“A lot.”
“Can’t give you a lot. Everybody get the same portion.”
“I didn’t ask for a lot. I said there’s a lot.”
“What you mean?”
“You asked me hominy grits, and I’m telling you how many grits there are in that pan.”
“Your humor so bad it’s good. Anyway you can’t eat shit. You can’t fool me on that score. I can serve you a coffee, though. I want to watch that trick of yours again. You seen him do that coffee trick, Akeeshea?”
“I’m watching.”
Deshondra served Carrot a cup of coffee.
“Yep, you folks just lovin’ the sugar,” said Carrot as he opened the dispenser into the coffee and held up his other hand to high-five her. Without taking his eyes off her, he stopped the flow of sugar just in time before the coffee overflowed. “Tee-hee.”
The ladies stared poker-faced.
“Don’t know how the hell you do that,” said Deshondra. “But you wasted us a half dispenser of sugar again.”
“Poor man’s cocaine.”
“What’s up?”
“We’re looking for a convicted pedophile who seems to have escaped to Chicago, where he badly beat up a man. Have you heard any unusual news around here lately?”
“How would we know anything if he in Chicago?”
“We suspect he snuck back in to New Gary, though he has yet to occupy his assigned apartment in the Coliseum.”
“Whoever has? You think he hiding out with someone else? What he look like?”
“Caucasian, around fifty. Full head of closely cropped gray hair. Good-looking and fit. Jeff Malmquist by name. Anything ring a bell?”
“No.”
Carrot showed her a photo of Malmquist on his watch.
“Yes. Now where have I seen him before?”
Akeeshea looked at the photo. “Ain’t he the one with Delilah and that kid yesterday?”
“Oh, yeah. That reminds me, officer. Wait a minute.” Deshondra went in back to fetch something.
“Them three was just starting into their meal. That Delilah girl she go to the bathroom to change into some kinda weird dress. But she never come back out,” said Akeeshea.
“Gone just like that. Zippo,” said Deshondra, handing Carrot a bag. “These here Delilah clothes. We searched the premises everywhere.”
“You say she was with Malmquist and a kid? What kid?”
“I forget his name. You recall his name, Akeeshea?”
She shook her head. “Nah. Seen him before with her though. Funny little bugger.”
“How old was he?”
“Couldn’t be more than twelve or so.”
“I see. Any idea what she was doing with a young minor?”
“She herself a minor. Even if she pedo. Never thought anything too weird about it. Not like they was in some kinda relationship. They just friends. But when those two discover Delilah missing, they left together.”
“Mm hmm. I recall them saying something like she all messed up. They did seem like they smoked something and got too high for they own good. But we all confuse because no way she coulda escaped out that door without no one seeing her,” said Akeeshea.
“You been to her apartment, Officer?”
“Of course not. I didn’t know about this until you told me. What’s her full name?”
“Delilah Power.”
“Why would she have taken off her clothes in the ladies room?”
“She trying on this strange dress. That’s why they came here for lunch. She wanted to ask me about it. See if it was genuine or not.”
“What do you mean by ‘genuine’?”
“Don’t know what they was gettin’ at. But in truth I ain’t never seen no dress like that before. No manufacture tag on it. Homemade like. She disappeared with it. I found her clothes on the bathroom floor. When they found out she missing, they seem scared and cleared out fast.”
“Why would she be changing into the dress here in the restaurant rather than before she came to the restaurant?”
“Beats me. She do weird things like that. She notorious. She wanted to change in front of us but that boy Gunther. Yeah, that’s his name, Gunther. Now I remember. He made her go — Yes, what can I get you ma’am?” she asked the customer who had stepped in front of them.
“Wode tian,” the woman said.
“Pardon me, ma’am?”
“Who are you? Why you don’t speak Italy language?”
“Deshondra, ain’t this gal’s dress just like that thing Delilah put on when she disappeared?” said Akeeshea.
“Yeah, be must the latest fashion.”
“Where am I?” said Zhang.
“You ain’t in Italy, dear. This here is New Gary.”
“She got amnesia or something?”
“May I be of some help, lady?” said Carrot.
“This not Xinluoma? Why so poor and shabby? Oh my god, it’s true. This really magic tunic.”
“Magic tunic?”
“She said this tunic will make my breasts bigger.”
“Who told you that? Where?”
“I forgot her name. Di-. Di-. No, no remember her name. She Jiefu’s friend.”
“Jayfoo?” said Deshondra. “You know anyone by that name, Officer?”
“I think she need help,” said Akeeshea. “She has amnesia. Either that or she psycho.”
“Neither of you have seen her before?” Carrot asked them.
“Nope.”
“She must be from a different part of the city.”
“Sounds to me like she escaped from Methodist.”
“I’ll contact the hospital after we get her checked out. In the meantime. Lady, what’s your name?”
“My name? Zhang. I am very important person. VIP. You know VIP?”
“What’s your address? Where do you live?”
“I live in Xinluoma. This not Xinluoma?”
“Where is Sheenlawma?”
“Xinluoma in China. I’m Chinese. Where I am now?”
“You’re in the US of A.”
“What’s that?”
“United States of America.”
“America? Shangdi! I don’t believe. If true, you don’t get me back to China fast, you in trouble.”
“We can work this out at the New Gary tourist information center. They can help. Let me take you there now.”
Carrot escorted her out of the restaurant and into his car.
“Why this place so poor? So ugly?” Zhang asked.
“Looks all right to me.”
“Who are you?”
“Call me Carrot.”
“Carrot. You mean vegetable. Huluoba? Where you taking me? How can I trust you?”
“Do I seem like the type of gentleman you can’t trust?”
“You charming you even more dangerous.”
At the New Gary Police Department, Carrot and Stick seemed at a loss.
“No ID? No purse? No belongings? Nothing?” asked Stick.
“I told you I from China. This magic tunic. Di told me will make my breasts bigger. But she warned me not to wear it. Too dangerous. I’m so stupid.”
“Who is Di?” said Stick.
“What you call this place?”
“New Gary.”
“Maybe she from here. She said ‘new’ something. She know Jiefu.”
“Let me try to get this straight. You’re from a place in China called Sheenlawma. Any data on that city, Carrot?”
“Nothing came up.”
“An American girl by the name of Di who is friends of a man named Jayfoo tricked you into leaving China with a magic tunic that she claimed would enlarge your breasts. Is that correct?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember Di’s name. Longer than Di.”
“Jayfoo is American too?”
“Yes.”
“What were they doing in China? Few Americans have enough money to travel to China.”
“I don’t know. I surprise too. Only Italians in Xinluoma. All slaves. I make Jayfoo my slave. And I make Di my slave too but she tricked me. She in big trouble when I get back.”
“You keep slaves?”
“She’s talking sheer nonsense,” said Carrot. “She must have experienced some kind of psychological damage or trauma.”
“Anyway, presuming she’s not from New Gary, and presuming she is indeed from China, we need to get her out of here and let Chicago take over. The question is how did she ever wind up in New Gary?”
“How do we get her out of here? No one has ever officially been allowed out of New Gary.”
“That may only apply to US citizens. No foreign citizen has ever wound up in New Gary. And the Chinese are a special case. Chicago may want her back fast before she can cause any trouble. The military may have to make an exception. Get Leroy to process her and set her up in privacy somewhere for the time being. Make sure she’s comfortable.”
As Carrot was about to leave, Inspector Melynchuk entered. “Excuse me, Stick, any more word — Who’s this?”
“A mental case who somehow got lost. Nanochip negative. We need a few more checks to confirm she’s not from New Gary. We’re on it.”
“Any more word on the Malmquist case? The chemical analysis?”
“Results not back from the laboratory yet, sir.”
“Okay, let me know as soon as they’re in. It’s rather urgent. We’re trying to locate a woman in China who’s been controlling him somehow or hacking his identity, but I need more evidence to push this through.”
“This woman here says she’s from China. If she’s someone important, maybe she can help.”
“Yeah, I from China!” said Zhang.
“No, this has to go through official channels.”
“Oh, Inspector, I need a quick word with you about something.”
Leroy entered. “Who dat?”
“Leroy, get her processed and set up somewhere. We’ll be in touch with you later. Make sure she’s properly treated and keep her out of the bullpen. She might not be from New Gary.”
“Ain’t the first time this happened. It’s becoming a trend.”
“Where you taking me?” said Zhang as Leroy led her out of the interrogation room.
“Inspector, Carrot informs me we may have a missing girl on our hands, by the name of Delilah Power. Last seen in the Zone cafeteria.”
“You checked her residence?”
“Not yet. Need a search warrant.”
“Why?”
“If she doesn’t answer the door, we need to break in. No full-time superintendents reside in those buildings. It’s resident-run and they set the rules.”
“Oh, of course, I forgot. Okay, I’ll take care of it shortly.”
Meanwhile Zhang may have been spared a spell in the bullpen but not the sniggering of those inside it.
“Leroy, where you find that Oriental bitch?”
“Oowee.”
“Damn.”
“You just pay them no attention,” Leroy told her. “You ever use one of these?” He handed her an AK-47.
“What’s this?” she said, shocked.
“If you fixin’ to crawl back to Chicago you’ll need it.”
“You ain’t even strip-search the slant-eyed ho yet and you giving her that?”
“Y’all shut up. If she from China the way she say she is we don’t want her coming back here to cause us no trouble. You be nice to her.”
“I can’t use this,” Zhang said, handing it back to Leroy. “You protect me. I pay you good.”
“You have money?”
“You help me get back to China, I pay you good.”
“Let’s go. I’m taking you to the Zone.”
They got in Leroy’s car. “How you get here?”
“I don’t know. This magic tunic.”
“Magic tunic? That’s the craziest shit I ever heard. Speaking of China, this here pedo named Malmquist told me I could get a job there massaging girls in a fake Rome. You know anything about that?”
“You want massage me? Okay, you help me go back to China, I let you massage me.”
“I mean I want to go there to do massage. Oh, never mind. In fact we’re going to see him now. Maybe he can explain. I’m gonna put you up at Delilah place until I get further notice of what to do with you. He with Delilah.”
“Dilaila? She young girl, pretty? She Jiefu’s friend. This her tunic! She got me in trouble. That’s her name. Dilaila. You tell your boss that’s her name. I tried to explain to them.”
“Who is Jayfoo?”
“He my slave, older guy. He said he from Chicago.”
“Here we are. Now what you do is, see them sandbags? You around to the building door and knock on it and tell the person who come to the door you want to see Delilah. Maybe she come herself but usually it’s that boy Gunther.”
“I don’t understand. You show me.”
“Oh, all right. I guess you really is from China since your English ain’t too good.”
Gunther greeted them at the door. “Hey, Leroy, have you seen Delilah or Malmquist?”
“No, I thought they was with you.”
“She disappeared, and then he disappeared. I’m totally freaked out. I’ve been waiting here for someone to come back. Who is this?”
“She Chinese. She need a place to stay until we find out what to do with her.”
“What’s she doing in New Gary?”
“Beats me. Get her something to eat. But don’t you let her out of your sight or I’m in trouble. Them bosses don’t know I’m using Delilah’s pad as a halfway house.”
“How did you get here?” Gunther asked Zhang as soon as Leroy left.
“Dilaila made me put on this magic tunic and it send me here.”
“Yeah, that’s the same dress Delilah put on back in the cafeteria which caused her to disappear! You know where she is?”
“She now in Xinluoma.”
“Where is that?”
“China. Her friend Jiefu he there too.”
“You mean Jeff? Jeff Malmquist?”
“Yeah, Jiefu.”
“So you’re not pedo?”
“What’s that?”
“Everyone here is pedo. Except me. I sneak in to see Delilah. We’re best friends.”
“You mean everyone criticize?”
“Why criticize?”
“Pidou that means criticize and humiliate severely.”
“You mean pedos are criticized and humiliated in China? It’s much worse here. They’re all confined to New Gary for life.”
“Why people pidou here? What they do to get in trouble?”
“They’re pedo. Pedophile. Child molester.”
“What’s that?”
“You just said pedos are criticized and humiliated in China.”
“Yeah, pidou means criticize, humiliate.”
“Oh, I got it. That’s what the word means in Chinese.”
“Yeah, pidou a Chinese word. You know Chinese?”
“I’m talking about pedophile. It’s an English word.”
“What it mean?”
“I just told you. A child molester.”
“What’s molester?”
“You know, someone who molests a child. Has sex with a child.”
“Sex with child? Who does that?”
“Man, you have a lot to learn. Everyone in New Gary has been convicted of child sex.”
“Everyone? You Americans so strange. We don’t do that in China. Maybe old pervert. But very few. What’s the matter with you? You too young to be pervert.”
“I’m not. I’m from Chicago. Lot’s of people here were falsely charged. Or wrongly charged.”
“I don’t understand. This place so strange. I don’t like it. I want to go back.”
“How did you get here?”
“I told you. Dilaila give me this tunic. When I put it on I suddenly sent here.”
“Why don’t you try taking it off and putting it on again? Maybe that will work.”
“Good idea.” Zhang pulled off her tunic.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were naked underneath. You’re just like Delilah. No shame. Hey, can you take me to China? I heard it’s a lot better than the US.”
There was a loud knock on the door.
“Who’s that?” said Zhang. Before she had the chance to put the tunic back on, the door opened.
“Shit, I forgot to lock the door,” said Gunther.
“Is this Delilah Power’s residence?” said Carrot.
“Yeah, but she disappeared,” said Gunther.
“Well, if it’s not Ms Zhang. And who may you be?”
“Gunther Pollock.”
“What are you doing in New Gary, Gunther Pollock? I don’t detect a nanochip in you.”
“I snuck in to see my friend Delilah Power,” he said.
“I need both of you to come with me now.”
Zhang was covering her front with the tunic.
“You may put that back on,” said Carrot. “Don’t worry, I’m a robot. I don’t feel embarrassment,” he winked.
Back at the police department, Zhang and Gunther were turned over to Leroy, while Carrot conferred privately with Stick and Inspector Melynchuk.
“If that isn’t the cleverest damn thing I’ve ever heard,” said Melynchuk. “A pedophile sneaks into New Gary with a twelve-year old boy and is caught red-handed with him naked, and there’s nothing we can do.”
“That’s correct. Pedophiles cannot be convicted of pedophilia in a jurisdiction where the entire population has been convicted of pedophilia,” said Carrot.
“No one would ever have imagined a pedophile would dare to sneak a victim into New Gary for the purpose of committing pedophilia. It’s brilliant. Oh, and how were you able to gain access to the building?”
“Leroy was just leaving the building when I arrived. He let me in.”
“So between the time Leroy dropped her off and you arrived she got naked with the kid that fast? A few seconds?”
“There is a fairly long hallway to walk down. But yes. It is odd they would have gotten sexual so quickly.”
“The boy was clothed?”
“The boy was clothed.”
“And she came all the way from China to do it. The Chinese are known for being a clever bunch,” said Carrot.
“What were they doing in Delilah Power’s place anyway? What was Leroy doing there? He was supposed to set the woman up in a private apartment.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”
“So nothing will happen to her when she’s back in Chicago?” asked Stick.
“They’ll know about it, but no, there’s nothing anyone can do. Normally, foreigners who commit crimes are immediately deported, but she’s neither committed a crime nor can be deported,” said Melynchuk.
“Why not?”
“I suppose you two wouldn’t know about that. We’re run by the Chinese. They pay my salary, which pays for your maintenance and upkeep. In fact, you were built in China.”
* * *
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Previous chapter: Ch. 12: Gwongzau
Next chapter: Ch. 14: Roma
Chapter 1: New Gary, IN
Forthcoming (September 2017):
The Kitchens of Canton
You might also be interested in:
Reset, a play
Newsex, a play
Lust & Philosophy, a novel
Filed under: Fiction Tagged: China expat fiction, Dystopian satire
March 18, 2017
New Book Release: American Rococo
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What do seashells, obesity, graffiti, and the American ghetto have in common? Nude hot springs and the Japanese theater? Atheists and family-values conservatives? Why do atheists go on religious pilgrimages? How have schools infantilized our understanding of Shakespeare, and the textbook industry conspired to turn our language’s history into agitprop? What is the single most dangerous sexual idea that even the liberated can’t handle?
Ranging across centuries and continents, Isham Cook’s far-flung essays, whether discoursing on the most radical or homespun of topics, are guided by the notion of the “edge.” The edge represents the limits of conventional understanding, the zone beyond stereotypes and groupthink; it is where received ideas are recast in fresh and striking ways.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1: An American Talisman
Chapter 2: American Rococo
Chapter 3: Theatrics of Japanese Noh, Kabuki, and the Mixed-Bathing Onsen
Chapter 4: John Dowland and the Lost English Consort School of Chamber Music
Chapter 5: Philip Glass and Tan Dun
Chapter 6: From Van Gogh to the Camino de Santiago: Symbolic Travel and the Modern Pilgrim
Chapter 7: Why Airbnb Ain’t My Cup of Tea
Chapter 8: The Breast Etiquette Project
Chapter 9: My Problem With the Atheists (It’s Not What You Think)
Chapter 10: A Shakespeare Sex-and-Violence Starter Kit
Chapter 11: Multiply, Cascade, Explode: A Theory of Literary Fiction
Chapter 12: Anglish and English: Why Our Language Is 750 and Not 1,500 Years Old
Chapter 13: Advanced Love
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NOW AVAILABLE IN:
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NetGalley
Filed under: Miscellania Tagged: Airbnb, atheism, breast freedom, Camino de Santiago, English consorts, Japanese mixed bathing onsen, People of Walmart, Philip Glass, Rococo, Shakespeare, Tan Dun
American Rococo: Essays on the Edge
March 10, 2017
The Kitchens of Canton, a novel. Ch. 12: Gwongzau
[image error]At my 180 kilograms it takes an effort to lift myself out of the bath, but I’ll be damned if I’m hooked up to the crane. Ingmon and the boss grab me under the arms and that does the job. Standing up, I can no longer see my penis under my belly even when erect. I can’t get hard anyway, with no place for it to expand. Previously, to check if my erectile function was normal, they would lift the bag of blubber high enough to access the penis and squeeze out a few spurts on the digital spoon. But now that it is getting all too awkward to manipulate they have a device for the purpose — a shelf to raise the blubber bag and a vibrating hose to slurp up the penis. Thankfully, they continue to handle me manually on the bed. They’ve found from experience that the human touch is simply more efficient.
I assume the quality and taste of semen extracted with friendly hands is superior as well. It would be nice if they joined me at my meals, but I am served a different diet from them. It’s Chinese food, but the carbo-rich repast is heavily infused with leeks, chives and garlic, designed to make me fat. The more obese I become, the more Ingmon and the boss seem to like me. Admittedly, it’s not a full-fledged interest but a divided attention. From their tone and emphases detached from anything they’re presently doing, their conversation clearly has nothing to do with me. I suspect their job is easy and they have a lot of time on their hands. They’re bored. Then again, we’re crossing the Pacific Ocean. Occasionally, as if suddenly recalling where they are, they address me directly, as the boss does now.
“Aa, hai laa, ngodei kapnei camdou jatgo zipsaujan.”
The words are not to be found in my Cantonese playpen. I have no idea what she’s saying. They then begin the game of trying, usually unsuccessfully, to paraphrase their meaning.
“Zipsaujan. Nei jigu hai jige zo.”
“Ji wui waapai ngodei dim fong nei zau,” adds Ingmon by way of explanation.
The problem is they can’t explain anything without piling on yet more unfamiliar words. This is understandable. Most people lack the ability to break a message down into comprehensible bites, an exclusive art possessed by foreign-language teachers.
“Zungjau jatgo singkei zau dou Gwongzau laa.”
A word I recognize. “Gwongzau?”
“Hai aa, zijau jatgo singkei.”
“Cat tin,” says Ingmon, crooking her index finger in the shape of a hook.
The upshot is Canton is near. And the regrettable thing is I’ve never felt closer to a woman than to Ingmon. How do I know she likes me and is not just engaging me sexually as part of her job? For even if only going through the motions an actress can perform quite convincingly in bed. Still, I’m convinced she’s genuinely into me. It comes down to the delicate and drawn-out quality of her kissing. It’s the way she whispers “boubui” in my ear. It’s the thoroughness with which she licks up the last of my semen. And best of all: she’s been spending the night more and more as the calendar unwinds.
The boss has been cooperative in all of this, though not so far as climbing on top of me herself. The two operate together seamlessly, their roles only subtly distributed, as if they were sisters instead of boss and subordinate. I’d rather they’d switch roles from time to time but there’s no sign they’re up for that yet. At her most daring she’s grabbed my erection and fit it deftly inside Ingmon as she squats over me. Ingmon could easily do it herself, so the boss’s gesture is gratuitous. And thus all the more intriguing. She even squeezed my hard-on and stroked it a few times, remarking with a grin, “Nei gam taai.” Lovely words stamped indelibly in my mind. Nei gam taai. By this point they’ve figured out I get more aroused with the presence of a third person in the room. In fact I’m keenly attracted to the boss and her domineering air, approaching fifty with a matronly bosom and a crew cut like a dyke (if I may use the word affectionately). If her bloom has faded, it still shines in her eyes.
How crucial sexuality is to communication. Not just the act itself but the whole ensemble of behaviors from seduction onwards which function as a signalling system, particularly in the absence of a mutually comprehensible language. I would even propose that all essential interaction can be accomplished through sexuality alone. We evolved out of this template — not much else went on inside the caves we lodged in for millions of years — and acquired spoken language only much later. Words aren’t that important, finally, except in emergencies, to defend oneself, for record keeping, and to work with as an aesthetic substance. The normal business we’re engaged in is not to convey information but attitudes — acceptance or denial. This can be done as effectively without words as with them. Mastery of language is the ability to use words in ironic or misleading ways, which is ultimately just a means of conveying attitude.
Let me try to illustrate this by elaborating on the eight final women in my life. They fall into two groups — those I can speak English with and those I can’t. In the former are Delilah the younger, Delilah the elder, and somewhat imperfectly, Zhang; in the latter, Giulia, Wing-yee, Attica, Ingmon, and the boss. They divide into the same two groups in another respect as well: I am only physically attracted to the latter. This does not mean I am in no way erotically inclined to the former. Take Delilah the younger, and her unusual, distinctive face. I fully appreciate many would regard it as beautiful; it just doesn’t turn me on. Nor does Zhang’s, with her angularity and hardness. If you look at Zhang in a certain light, she could be a man. Her face is perfectly positioned between the male and female; just change the hairstyle and the clothes, and she’s a man. I would even grant she’s quite handsome, only that I’d hope to find a cock in her pants, along with her manly tits. Now Delilah, by contrast, has an unmistakably female face — a concise, female jaw. Her only flaw is a nose that’s too long, though its sweep and flare suggests that most people’s noses are too short.
Yes, she’s beautiful, objectively speaking. Would I prefer Delilah to have been closer to me in age, say thirty or forty rather than fifteen and seventy? Would a riper figure have kindled my passion? It’s a moot point, since her spirituality is seductive enough. Nothing is more exciting than a person who can project an erotic field, above all a precocious fifteen-year old. Delilah the younger knew exactly what she was doing, even when she couldn’t articulate this in words, as Delilah the elder was able to do to her directly when they met. Yes, she had that movable vision, the ability to see around things, around corners. The thoroughness sprung from kindness. That comprehensiveness and anticipatory acumen engendered of desire. The sheer pleasure in vision — and the pain of having this vision even momentarily obstructed. The gaze that projects and forms a screen, an aura. The drunk, gaping, obsessive gaze spewing itself unchecked like a machine gun, or the “invisible arrows” of Danny’s gun, as the Romans put it.
The thoroughness of kindness. Zhang had it, in spurts, when not blinded by power and acquisitiveness. Giulia was endowed with it as well, but only to a modest degree, trapped as she was in slave mentality. On the other hand, Wing-yee didn’t seem to have it; she had something else instead, equally penetrating but more pragmatic, as the dire events involving her and Zhang revealed. This is not to say Wing-yee was altogether lacking in eroticism, but it was entirely of a different order, disarmingly transparent. Too much so; an eroticism lacking in comedy, without which it can no longer be called eroticism but some other as yet unnamed cultural phenomenon. She was indeed of another era, one I still don’t understand, a different ethical breed, of which I am now involuntarily partaking here in this ship with these two. Oh, yes, Wing-yee too was as beautiful as they get, and of a beauty more to my liking. Remarkably, she was drawn to my smell as much as I was to hers. This guaranteed something would happen, whatever the obstacles gathering in our path. Not that it was forbidden; she could do whatever she wanted with me. Coupled with kindness, there is much to explore in the realm of touch, even if, as with Ingmon and the boss, it’s our sole form of speech.
As Ingmon removes her tunic and straddles me, a tear drops on me like a raisin. That’s a first. The boss stands next to us, a bit closer than usual, and more relaxed, too much so, ominously so. Is she projecting what I’m supposed to be feeling? I once made a nervous pass at her breasts. Playing the elegant librarian putting an antsy teenager in his place, she grabbed my arm and placed it back at my side, showing no outward discomfort but clearly establishing her limits. I make one more assay and trace their outlines with my fingers. This time she doesn’t resist.
“Bei keoi tai neige bo, bannje ge haaupo,” Ingmon says to her. “Ceoi laa.”
“Ng seoi jiu.”
“Ceoi laa.”
“Nei dim boudaap ngo?” The boss says with a sigh, shedding her upper garment. Her gigantic breasts are slung in a simple red halter top tied around the neck and the back. I undo the lower string and out they plop. I grab one but she remains immobile as I try pull it toward my mouth.
“Joeng to kap naai,” Ingmon tells her.
Resignedly, she inches closer and I suckle her teat. Her obedience emboldens me. I guide her head toward my body’s lower half. Ingmon assists by grabbing her by the breasts and pulling her close. She raises her own groin enough to release my cock from her vagina, so that it springs into the boss’s mouth.
“Wanjau di, jigu, boubui,” Ingmon whispers to her, patting her on the head. She unties the remaining string of the bra bib, tugs it out from under her tits and tosses it on the floor. “Neje wanjau di jigu! Hai to ge dingbou paa soeng luksapgau.”
“A?”
“Hai to ge dingbou paa soeng luksapgau,” Ingmon repeats, and then to me, “Ceoi jige fuzi,” gesturing that I should remove the boss’s pants.
They’re stitched up the side with knotted buttons and it takes some work to get them undone. Ingmon covers her mouth and giggles at my lack of dexterity. She gets off the bed and undoes the buttons for me.
“Hai to ge dingbou,” she tells the boss.
The boss lifts herself over me in sixty-nine and I clamp her hairy mess on my face. I can’t see what they’re doing, but I can feel Ingmon pressing her groin against my shaft as the boss fellates me. Then she goes to work on Ingmon as the latter slips me back inside her. They’re moaning — Ingmon with an abandon she never displayed with me. Soon the boss starts shaking and a hot flush of her water drenches me as she convulses in orgasm. It’s the most satisfying sexual encounter I’ve ever had. It’s also my last, for their waves of pleasure not yet wholly subsided, we’re surrounded by several men in sanitation uniforms, one bearing a syringe.
The sedative acts immediately. It doesn’t put me to sleep, but profoundly relaxes me, at the cost of a modest degradation in consciousness. I experience extended moments but not the turns between them; each spell’s integrity is intact, just not what gets me from one spell to the next. Now I was with Ingmon and the boss, now I’m being carted down a corridor without recalling how I got there, now I’m in another room alone with my favorite music being played on the best surround-sound system I’ve ever heard, while my reclinable chair gently massages and jiggles my body. I don’t recall telling them to put on the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour, but here I am listening to the music of my childhood and it’s clearly not coming from inside my head. Interestingly, I hear all the songs on the album both consecutively and simultaneously, but leave off before the songs are finished, as I suddenly want to hear Led Zeppelin III. As I think the album, the Beatles fade out and Led Zeppelin fades in. Before I’ve finished the explosive side one of that album, I switch to Monteverdi’s Vespers and settle on that, a work better suited to losing myself in, should I not be able to return.
Freshly baked baguettes, a variety of cheeses and dark chocolates at my side, a bong packed with ganja buds sparkling with resin which goes nicely with the Monteverdi, and a bottle of wine. A Chinese winery of the future, black in the glass, so perfectly balanced the sweet and sour cancel each other out and it hits the tongue like spring water, followed by a peppery, firey aftertaste. I drink the whole bottle before the Monteverdi is over. When the music ends — I’m able to listen to the work all the way through with no annoying awareness gaps — I fiddle with the holographic video display. It has every movie, news show or book ever produced, called up again by thought commands. It takes some practice to isolate and select something without conflicting mental commands overriding it. I’d like to have a look at the history of the world over the preceding century but can’t figure out how to call up reference points I have no knowledge of. I try activating “Chicago 2060” but this only generates random items, a spinning carousel of gun commercials and horror films with titles like “Revenge of the sewer colony” and “Battle of the backyard baby snatchers.” Will need some help with this, if there’s time, and if I can find an assistant before being ferried away again for what I assume will be my last scene.
My thoughts harken back to my final moments with Ingmon and the boss, and a 3D video of our sexual embrace appears before me. With my eye motions I can swing the angles around in any direction as well as zoom in and out. I even figure out how to pause, fast-forward and reverse. This multi-angled viewability makes it the most fascinating porn film I’ve ever seen, and I replay it again and again from every perspective. And then I notice something peculiar. I thought Ingmon and the boss were playing some kind of secret sadomasochistic game of theirs when Ingmon started ordering the boss around. It was the first time they had done that and I wasn’t able to figure it out until now.
I am also able to call up every sexual encounter I’ve had with Ingmon from the beginning, and to put together the history I go over these as well. Whenever they start talking to each other, Ingmon tends to speak first and the boss answers. I had assumed Ingmon’s softer and more demure manner followed from her subordinate status, and the boss’s prompt responses from her liberty of expression. But now the reverse seems to be the case. Ingmon’s power over the boss freed her from the necessity to modulate her tone, while the boss was not at liberty to delay her responses. Could it be I have been mistaken all along and it’s Ingmon who is the boss?
The new revelation reminds me of Giulia’s relationship with Attica, which likewise took me the longest time to understand. Despite her slave status, Giulia was an aggressive take-charge type, self-directed, street smart and savvy, pragmatically rather than erotically inclined. If she freely gave herself sexually, it was because it was the easiest thing to do at the moment. No one had a less complicated approach to sex than Giulia. She entered into it with such ease and finesse she almost set a standard to aspire to (while Wing-yee was quite clumsy about it and there’s a certain appeal to that too). At the same time, she was hot-tempered, impatient and seldom at peace. Attica, meanwhile, lived in the moment. She had an equally uncomplicated approach to sex but that was her job. Getting her in bed cost me not a few denarii. Not that our lovemaking was cold and unfeeling — the stereotype of purchased sex. To the contrary. Her steely beauty and lack of sentimentality indeed greatly appealed to me. And she was kind. She and Giulia complemented each other in many respects and grew close. And as they grew close, their dynamic changed and it was Attica who took charge.
* * *
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Previous chapter: Ch. 11: Roma
Next chapter: Ch. 13: New Gary, IN (upcoming)
Chapter 1: New Gary, IN
Forthcoming (summer 2017): The Kitchens of Canton
You might also be interested in:
Reset, a play
Newsex, a play
Lust & Philosophy, a novel
Filed under: Fiction Tagged: China expat fiction, Dystopian satire, future china empire
The Kitchens of Canton, a novel. Ch. 11: Roma
February 11, 2017
Anglish and English: Why our language is 750 and not 1,500 years old
December 29, 2016
The Kitchens of Canton, a novel. Ch. 10: New Gary, IN
December 25, 2016
The Kitchens of Canton, a novel. Ch. 9: Zigaago
December 18, 2016
An American talisman
