Money Boy (11 page)

At the keyboard, someone is playing “I Believe.” The song is upbeat. People are dancing. It is one of the few Chinese songs without the sappy romantic stuff about love and loss. In fact, Lawrence resembles one of the actors in the MV version, all successful and high-fiving his colleagues. Someone grabs the mike and I join him. I dance, too, closing my eyes to let my body find the music.

I shake my head hard, trying to escape the gloom that Ba threw onto me.

I made Ba lose face in front of my new friends. Ba will hate me forever. I doubt that I'll ever see him again. We're finished. Our family is finished.

Then I'm singing the words on the screen.

Believe in me and tomorrow is yours,
Believe in youth and the energy roars.

When I rejoin the crowd, Lawrence gives me a big hug.

“You should sing more often. You have a good voice!”

In our family, Ba claims to have the best voice for karaoke.

Then Old Chen nudges me.

“You met Mr. Han, have you?”

“Just yesterday.”

“Stay away from him. He's a pimp.”

I don't miss a beat.

“I know,” I declare. “I met him on Boy Street. How do you think we became acquainted?”

Chen and Lawrence glance at one other.

“Don't go to him again,” says Chen. “His kind of money comes easily, but there are better ways to live.”

“You're young,” says Lawrence. “Your life is just starting. Go home with your father.”

They're all the same, these old men, trying to squash the energies of young people. I feel sorry for them.

“This was great!” I gesture at the karaoke machine and keyboard. I give them cheerful goodbyes, pretending not to be bothered.

“You haven't finished your sushi!” Chen exclaims.

I'm already out the door.

I'm the world's biggest fool.

Only an idiot presumes that an elegant big-shot such as Mr. Han might be interested in an immigrant nobody called Ray.

Han owns fine artwork and has a great body. He knows gay life in Toronto backwards and forwards.

Less than a week ago, I was hiding in the closet afraid of being gay.

I thought that Han liked me, enjoyed my company and wanted to be a friend!

I was so happy to give myself to him! He was gentle. He patiently explained things. He told me over and over how handsome I was.

Instead I was being led around like a toddler taking his very first steps. He was checking me out, to see if I would fit into his business. I was nothing to him but another body on Boy Street.

Internet cafés are costly and hard to find now that everyone owns a laptop.

After leaving yesterday's K-party at Rainbow Sushi, I went to a basement shop for on-line gamers and bought a block of computer time. It was cheaper that way.

But as soon as I logged on, I wanted to leave. The stink of old pot and cigarette stubs was strong. The brown carpet of wormy fibers on the floor was sure to be infested with bugs and parasites.

The war was going badly. We lost Monkey and Long Range during Thursday's botched raid on the signal tower. Central punished the local people for helping Heaven Hand and Scholar to escape. Its soldiers marched into three villages and took thirty slaves.

Yesterday we ambushed the slave convoy. But enemy soldiers were hidden among them, dressed as slaves. When their chains were removed, they pulled out hidden weapons. In the fight, Heaven Hand was captured.

That means I have to log back on this morning.

But scrolling through
Rebel State
, I keep thinking about Han. Should I meet him for lunch? Do I want to work for him? If I don't, what will I do for money?

The enemy ties Heaven Hand to a post. They pour sweet wine over him, luring insects to eat him alive. They challenge us to send a warrior to fight the Sentry who guards Heaven Hand. If our fighter wins, then Heaven Hand will be set free. If our fighter loses, then both rebels will die.

I'm leader of Heaven Hand's team, so it's my duty to fight. The Sentry wears heavy armor. I dance around him, but he is stronger and tosses me around like a toy. His spear keeps me away. Finally I get close by rolling through like a runaway log. With both my hands, I swing my sword and break his spear. Soon I have one foot pressing him to the ground. I use my sword to open his visor.

The Sentry is a woman! An old hag with white hair and leathery skin spits at me. I protect my face against her poisoned saliva.

To kill a woman will reduce my Honor. But I have no choice. It's my duty to save Heaven Hand.

So I do.

I don't like being caught off balance. I'm supposed to be in control here. After Heaven Hand is set free, I log off without joining the victory celebration.

Instead, I count my real-world money. I paid rent last night, and will need to do so again today. Yesterday it felt smart to refuse Ba's offer, but now I'm short of cash. I still need a cell and laptop.

I've got no choice but to meet Han and make a deal with him.

——

He takes me to a little Italian restaurant where the inside walls are brickwork just like the outside, only cleaner. I guess diners are supposed to imagine that they're eating outside in the fresh air, in some warm southern climate.

The menu is written in Italian, in fancy script. I can't read the words, and no doubt Han is waiting to see me make a fool of myself. Why else did he choose this place?

“This restaurant is one of Toronto's best,” he says.

I stare at his hair. It's a wig and he's an old man, I tell myself. I'm young and he's not.

“Will you order now, gentlemen?”

The waiter drapes the cloth napkin over my lap and arches a bushy white eyebrow at me.

I gesture to Han. “He goes first.”

I duck behind the tall boards of the menu. Han's English is free of an accent. He's lived here a long time. Or he had really good teachers. Maybe his family in China has lots of money. He jokes with the waiter, an old man who seems puzzled by how much Han knows about wines.

The waiter turns to me. I raise my glass of water and say loudly, in my best English, “I will have the same as my father.”

Han chokes and sprays out a mouthful of water.

I laugh out loud.

The waiter withdraws quickly and quietly. I switch back to Chinese.

“What were you saying about good restaurants?”

Han uses a napkin to dab at the water on his shirt.

“You know, you never asked about my line of work.”

“I know what you do.” I make myself sound bored.

“You're very clever!” He flatters me like an adoring grandparent. “Who told you?”

“People. At Rainbow Sushi.”

“Old Chen and Lawrence?”

I nod.

“Then I'm surprised you showed up today.”

“Why? I know what you want!”

“So we know what I want.” He pauses. “But I don't know what you want.”

“I need a laptop. You know I play on-line games. I need to stay on top of things.”

“What? Did your head get slammed in a door?” He shakes his head. “You're here because of a computer game?”

I shrug. The waiter presents him with a bottle of wine, opens it and lets him sniff the cork.

Yeah, I'm a stupid kid. And I don't mind if Han believes that. This is all about survival, about paying the rent.

“The food here is famous,” Han says. “You know, every time we meet, you have food in front of you. You're still a growing lad.”

“You pimp,” I say in Chinese.
La-pi-tiao
is an insult.

“Want some advice?” he asks. “Go home and go back to school.”

“Want some advice?” I say. “Change the subject.”

I want to stomp out, but I'm hungry. Every meal is important. I take a breath.

“Tell me, how did you start in this . . . line of work?”

Han sips his wine and glares at me. I can't tell if he likes my question or not.

“I came here a long time ago,” he says. “My job brought me downtown and to Church Street. I'm a computer expert. Everyone needed me. I met lots of people.”

Slept with lots of people, I think. You must have had great fun. You were young. You were good-looking. You had all the luck in the world.

Now he's bragging, and I regret asking.

“The men I knew, they knew more people. I knew many Chinese immigrants, and I knew many westerners. Some of my westerner friends really liked Chinese men. But they had no way to meet them. They asked me to introduce them to my Chinese friends. Now I provide a service, connecting westerners to Chinese men. It's a dating service. Will you work for me?”

Do I have a choice? Do I want to stand outside in the cold, watching cars with heated leather seats coast by? Do I want to be looking out for the cops all the time? Han can make my life much easier. Every customer will be someone who wants a Chinese boy.

I play hard to get. “Why should I work for you?”

“Safer,” Han declares.

“I take care of myself,” I retort. “My father was an army instructor. He taught me how to fight.”

“You get high-class clients who will treat you gently and with respect.”

“Good,” I say. “Immigrants get little respect these days. What else?”

“You'll earn money. Yesterday you were begging. You were starving to death.”

“Chen offered me a job at Rainbow Sushi. I can work there.”

“For rot wages.”

“I'll have self-respect!”

“You?” He laughs even louder. “You stood on Boy Street, two nights in a row! You lost your self-respect long ago.”

If he knew my mother, then he would know exactly how long ago. Good thing this isn't
Rebel State
, where honor matters.

I bend over my food and mutter, “I can work for you.”

“Fine! You can meet a client tonight.”

Before Han can stop me, I grab the bottle and chug down some wine.

——

Back at the Church Street coffee bar, the cashier remembers me. I recognize the geometric designs tattooed in blazing colors on her arms.

“Where's your laptop?” she asks, smiling.

I am so surprised that she repeats herself.

“Got stolen,” I tell her.

“No!” Her eyes widen. “Where?”

“At the hostel.”

She tells me to check the bulletin board. Sometimes people have laptops to sell at low prices.

This place is going to be my hangout. I take my drink to a tall stool at the counter that runs along the wall-sized front window. The street trees are bare of leaves; their trunks and branches are skeletons. It's chilly but people stroll by without rushing. It's sunny, so sunglasses are bobbing everywhere. Patio chairs and tables sit on the sidewalk, and two hardy souls in sheepskin coats sip their coffee outside. Every now and then, someone walks by and greets them.

Two men saunter by in leather pants and leather jackets, black and shiny. They hold hands and laugh through thick beards. A man hurries by with two dogs, each with a rainbow collar at the neck. They get stopped by a little blonde girl who reaches out to pet them. Before she can do so, a man grabs her hand. He pushes his face close to hers. She looks down at her feet as he scolds her. Her father, I guess. Another man joins them with a stroller holding a younger girl. The girls wear identical jackets. The girls have two fathers. They chat with the dog owner briefly.

Asian men walk by. Were any of them at Rainbow Sushi yesterday? No. Our gazes cross for a second. No telling if they're immigrants or Canadian-born, or if we share a common tongue. In the gay newspaper, raunchy personal ads sit beside those from respectable banks and dentists. I check for events by the Chinese gays. None, but I spot an announcement from a club for on-line game players who are gay.

Maybe I can make new friends there.

——

Very late that night, Han drives me to my destination.

“This'll be easy,” he tells me. “You won't have to do much. Are you scared?”

“If I were, would I be here?”

“Don't worry,” he says grandly. “I've known Bruce for many years.”

“I'm not afraid,” I declare. All the same, I wish I had my cell with me.

“Remember, make small talk with the guest,” says Han. “And don't worry about your English. This man, he wants to be your close friend.”

The car stops in front of a tall downtown condo near the waterfront. The entrance is glass and marble, with statues of Greek gods standing on high pedestals. They carry spears and raise bows and arrows, ready to fire.

Han phones up to open the door, and then he waves goodbye. By the elevators, a stone fountain spews water from a lion's mouth.

My throat is dry as paper. The elevator is lined with dark wood and brass. High in a corner, a camera watches me.

At a door, Bruce waits with a glass of red wine. He is middle-aged, short and a bit overweight. Strands of long gray hair are pasted over a bald head; a soft belly flops over his belt like a cushion. Jazz music plays in the background.

This man could be anyone: teacher, bank manager, symphony conductor. I can't tell. Nothing in his place reveals much, except that he is well-to-do. Large paintings of cold winter landscapes hang on his walls. His aquarium is as big as a desk, and tropical fish of all colors and sizes glide and twist under a long lamp. A motor hums softly, sending a steady chimney of bubbles to the surface. The water looks very peaceful.

“Do you speak English?” Bruce drops onto a black suede sofa and invites me to sit.

“Yes.” I stay standing. “I practice everywhere I go.”

“Great. You sound fine. Wayne told me your English was good.”

Wayne? That must be Han's English name.

“Are you from China?” he asks.

I nod.

“Shanghai?”

“No, Beijing.”

“I've been to China several times,” he says. “It's a wonderful place. So much to see, so much history.”

“Did you go by yourself? Or with a tour group?”

It's easier to talk than I thought it would be. I guess I know how to go after good tips, too.

“I've tried both ways,” he tells me.

I imagine he used money boys every night on his trip. A blessing for China's economy.

“Which do you think is better?” I ask.

“Tour groups. But I'm lucky. I had really good guides, people who spoke good English.”

He waves at a bowl of nuts on the coffee table.

“Won't you sit down? I can get you something to drink. Juice? Soft drink?”

I shake my head, wanting to get through this as fast as possible. Out the window and far away, a serpent of bright lights crawls along the freeway.

“Wayne is a good buddy of mine,” Bruce says, pouring himself more wine. “We've known each other for years. He said you're a personal friend of his.”

“He has been a big help to me,” I say.

“Did you meet him here, or in China?”

“Here.”

“And you? Do you travel to China much?”

“No, I like it here,” I say. My words are a big surprise to me.

Suddenly I want to say new things, think different thoughts. Maybe I shouldn't rush the customer. Maybe we should go slowly. Maybe if we keep talking, Bruce will get distracted and decide not to touch me.

“There is more freedom here,” I say, “and the air we breathe is much cleaner. Gay people can get married here. Are you married?”

Bruce winks at me. “Who would want a dumpy old guy like me?”

“Someone who likes tropical fish?”

He chuckles. “I really wanted a dog, but the condo doesn't allow it.”

“Some dogs are small as cats.”

“Even cats aren't allowed.”

He finishes his wine and smiles at me. I freeze. I can't think of anything else to say.

He takes me to a bathroom and tells me to take a shower. The jazz music follows me everywhere. The bathroom is as big as an apartment in China. The shower has so much space that no curtains or glass doors are needed. Its tiles are familiar shades of bamboo: dark and pale greens, yellows and browns. When I turn on the water, streams of water shoot out from spouts high and low. I sniff the soaps and shampoos on the rack. They are sharp and perfumed.

Suddenly Bruce calls out, “Scrub yourself clean, really clean, you hear?”

I spin around. How long has he been there, watching me?

He is wearing a bathrobe now. It is brown. I start to shake, so I make the water hotter. I wait for him, but he seems to want to watch. He has a far-off look in his eyes. Maybe he's on drugs.