Eat Me (14 page)

Jake smiled and licked his lips. ‘Bit like walking through mud, isn't it?' he said, tucking that foot back down onto the sofa and reaching for the other.

‘There's something about you, wherever you go, I call your name out low
.' Nearly helpless with bliss, Philippa reached out and pulled off Jake's towel. They tumbled off the sofa and onto the rug. As they went, Philippa just managed to snaffle the condom she'd hidden in the bowl of grapes. Pulling her clean-licked feet over his shoulders, he entered her with slow, lazy thrusts timed to the rhythm of the song.
‘And there's nothing I can say. You've got to take a chance on me and see what it gets you, and see what it gets you
.'

See what it gets you. Philippa's warning system was down. The night before she might have perceived irony in those lyrics. At this moment, however, undulating underneath this charismatic semi-stranger, love songs in the air, hormones on the brain, she suffered a severe, if temporary, irony deficiency.

Afterwards, as they lay cuddling on the rug, Philippa looked up past Jake. Was that a man's face in the window of the building opposite? That's odd, she thought, that flat's been vacant for ages. How long had he been there? What had he seen? She was just manoeuvring for a better look when Jake kissed her again. By the time she looked again, the man, if he'd been there at all, was gone.

‘What are you looking at?' asked Jake.

‘Nothing.'

He shrugged. ‘Can I've a shower?'

‘Sure,' she replied, following him into the bathroom.

Afterwards, they made coffee. Seated side by side on the sofa, they dipped warm croissants in each other's coffee. After consuming two regular and one almond croissant, Jake patted his stomach and put his arm around her shoulders.

‘It just occurred to me, Jake,' Philippa said, with a touch of trepidation. ‘When you said you were seeing someone off at the airport yesterday, was that the woman you'd been seeing?'

‘Uh, sort of.'

‘Sort of?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Where'd she go?'

‘China.'

‘Really? She might have been on a flight with a good friend of mine, Julia, a photographer. What a funny coincidence. You might have even seen her in the queue—she's short, thin, dark with long black hair, and usually wears interesting, retro clothing.'

Jake choked on his coffee. He coughed rather violently, and Philippa, concerned, patted his back. He had to think fast on this one. ‘Doesn't strike a bell,' he shrugged, thinking, CLANG CLANG CLANG. Oh well. He'd have three weeks with Philippa and then he'd say goodbye. Three weeks was plenty, really. Practically a lifetime.

Or maybe this is how it happened:

‘Where'd she go?' Philippa asked.

‘China.'

‘Really? What's she doing there?'

‘She's a photographer. She's going on some sort of cultural exchange. Sounds pretty cool, actually.'

‘Oh really?' Philippa said, covering up her emotions. ‘What's her name?'

‘Julia. I actually met her at the same party where I met you.'

Philippa needed time to digest this.

‘Uh, Jake, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I'm going to have to go to work soon.'

‘But it's Sunday.'

‘I know. That's my day for working on my novel.'

Perhaps, she thought, it simply went like this:

‘Where'd she go?' Philippa asked.

‘O.S.'

‘Is that a place?'

‘Yeah,' said Jake, stretching himself out and into Philippa's lap. ‘It's a place.' He started to pull up her sarong over her legs, exposing her thighs, which he kissed. He meandered upwards. ‘But I like this place better.'

PEKING DUCK

What
a mad mad place. I wonder if I'll ever be back, if I'll ever see Mister In Your Dreams again, if his snakes made it through the day, if my interpreter will ever recover, if I paid too much for that opera costume, if my film will come out all right, if I'll ever be able to pay off my Visa, if Jake will be waiting at the airport and if so what I'll say to him. Mengzhong, ‘In Your Dreams', what a name. Mengzhong, Mengzhong. I'm sure I never pronounced it correctly. But then, he didn't do so well with ‘Julia'. Never mind.

I'm sure I should have bought that rug. Sure, it'd have cost a fortune to ship, but where are you going to find one like it in Sydney? I wonder if I'll have to declare my tea? Australian customs are so strict. I can't believe I did what I did with Mengzhong. I can't believe it was just this morning. Seems like another universe. God, I'm wired. Hope the neighbours remembered to water my plants. I wonder if there's any interesting mail waiting for me.

Yes, it was my first trip to China. And you?
I know I should have closed my eyes. I hope this guy in the next seat isn't going to talk to me the whole way back to Oz. I'll die. I wish they had a special section on planes for ‘people who are not in the mood to share feelings or exchange experiences or communicate in any other fashion to the person next to them'. Unless of course their seat companion happens to be a killer spunk, in which case you could just move straight to the mile-high club lounge. Unfortunately, Mr 38A is not a killer spunk; in fact, I don't think he'd count as even a mildly threatening spunk. Of course, that's so unfair. Shouldn't judge books by their covers and I suppose I should consider myself lucky that he's waited this long to start talking. It probably helped that I just stuck my nose in
The Wild Girls Club
all the way from Beijing to the stopover in Guangzhou.

Oh really? You do business there? How interesting.
Stop it Julia. Don't encourage him.
Yeah, no, actually, I'm a photographer. On a three-week exchange sponsored by the Australia–China Council.
Why are you telling him all this? It's just going to incite more conversation.
Both black and white and colour…Yes…For magazines, mostly.
Here we go. Maybe we can just switch onto automatic pilot. Maybe I should pull out
The Wild Girls Club
again. No. I'll never be able to concentrate.

Uh, Julia. Nice to meet you, Mick.

God, aren't the girls going to die when they hear that Mengzhong was a snake-charmer and sword-swallower
and
a contortionist. He had the most amazing stories about sneaking across the border to North Korea and being in gaol JESUS that's what you call turbulence! Hate that! It's so scary!
No, I'm right, thanks, Nick. It's only a little turbulence…Oh, sorry. Mick. I'm so bad with names.

The interpreter, Mr Fu, didn't seem highly amused. Still, didn't that woman at the embassy say that in China nothing was as it seemed? I mean, judging from the general picture she painted, Mr Fu might have been offended politically, or he might just have wanted to be paid off to piss off, or maybe—and I'm no bad judge of body language, especially when it comes to these things—he was just jealous. Wouldn't that have been bizarre!

Tomato juice, no ice, thanks…oh, I said no ice actually, but never mind…Oh really? Minerals exploration and development? That's interesting.
Not. Why do I always use the word ‘interesting' when I mean exactly the opposite? I shouldn't be unfair. I'm sure it's fascinating, if you're into that kind of thing. It's just that I'm not. That's all. I wonder where he stands on Aboriginal land rights. Oh, God, Julia, don't bring that up. He'll either say the wrong thing and you'll be arguing with him all the way home or he'll turn out to be okay and you'll be so relieved that you'll feel obligated to talk to him. Mengzhong. Mengzhong. It's a bit like the peal of a bell, really. I wonder if I am pronouncing it right?

That rug, I really am beginning to regret not getting it. Damn. Never mind, I'm sure I'll be back someday. Thirty-six kilos of luggage is probably outrageous enough for one trip, especially when I only went with fifteen. Bizarre how they didn't even blink at the overweight luggage at Beijing airport, but then, half the people on this flight seemed to be taking 40 or 50 kilos, no worries at all. I don't really want to dwell on the safety implications of that.
Yeah, I had a great time…Yeah, it's a fascinating country…Just Beijing and Shanghai…Sure, the women are beautiful.
Pig. Western men in Asia think they're God's gift. I think he's about to treat me to some tale of conquest. Better nip this one in the bud.
The men are pretty dishy as well, of course.
Ha! That surprised him.
Yes, I do find them attractive, actually.
Look at this guy. He still can't get over it. What a sadster. The second the food comes I'm going to clap on my earphones.
Chicken or beef? Chicken please…oh, you only have beef. Beef then. Thanks.
If they didn't have the chicken, why'd they offer it? Now, on with the headset. Oh dear, what's this channel? Peking opera, I think. Don't think I like this one either. Ah, classical will do. Urgh. Disgusting, even for airline food. Really poxy. Doesn't really matter. I can still taste that Peking duck we had for lunch, or brunch or whatever that was. I'll be back in the land of mesclun salad and real coffee soon.

Can't wait to have a cuppa with the girls and tell them all my stories. I wonder where Mengzhong is now? Is he thinking about me? I can't believe it snowed this morning. Hard to imagine that it'll be summer again when we land in Sydney. The snow was so beautiful. I wonder whether Mr Fu was spying on us? Is that why he was so stressed out when I caught up with him again back at the car? Wonder how you say, chill out, dude, in Chinese? Oh, I should be fair. He was probably worried, that, having safely shepherded me for three whole weeks through the hazards of Beijing traffic, indulged nearly all my mad impulses (except, of course, my idea that we could just kind of talk our way into one of the prisons, which he firmly resisted), and put up with my taste in evening entertainment (Beijing punk rock—what a trip), he was going suddenly to lose me to the clutches of some street-performer who would cause me to miss my plane, overstay my visa, possibly even disappear forever and completely derail Sino–Australian relations. He'd be stuck with the responsibility—and the snakes. I can imagine Mr Fu sitting there in the car, watching the bag with its creepy contents slithering against the sides, certain that they were poisonous and going to get him. I mean, you can't blame the man for being such a gloom merchant when you've had the history he has—deprived of education in the Cultural Revolution, brother persecuted to death, scraping by on a meagre government salary when everyone else seems to have gone into business and is saving up for their first Ferrari.

What IS this meat? I'm sure it's not beef. I think I've had enough of it, whatever it is.
Sorry?
I can't believe he's persisting in speaking to me when I've got my headset on.
No, it's not the best meal I've ever had either, but never mind…Yes, I like Chinese food…What? No, I most definitely did not eat dog! Have you eaten dog?
But dog is woman's best friend! Dogs lounge on the sofa and watch videos, dogs play frisbee and eat ham sandwiches!
Really? You did? How did it make you feel?
If only the hostess would come and clear the tray, I could pretend to go to sleep.
Warm? Oh, that's interesting.
Interesting, hah! Bet it was even more interesting for poor Bluey! Let's put the headset on again before he has a chance to continue. God, Julia, you're terrible. He's probably a perfectly nice man who's just a bit lonely and wants a chat. On the other hand, what am I, a chat machine? Besides, how could a perfectly nice man eat dog!

I hope the neighbours managed to keep the big fern in the entrance way alive. I wonder what the girls have been up to. Wonder if any of them have had any little romances.
No, I won't have any coffee. No, no tea either. Thanks.
Seat back, headset on, eyes closed. I'm going to be so trashed when we arrive, I can tell already. My mind is such a jumble of images and smells and noises. Let's try and focus, why don't we? I know what I want to focus on. I don't want to forget any detail of what happened this morning. It's been such a rush to here from there, packing and checking out. Before I knew it I was saying goodbye to Mr Fu and Xiao Wang, and I was on the plane—no chance to really savour the events of the morning at all. Let's be disciplined. Start from the beginning.

All right…I wake up very early. I look out my hotel window and see it's been snowing all night. I go for a walk with my camera.
Yes, I'm finished, thanks.
Strangely enough, it doesn't feel that cold. The sparkling white of the snow, untrammelled at that time in the morning, and the soft glow of the dawn makes Beijing seem like a new city, one that's more ancient, pure, and calm. I walk to the Forbidden City and thrill to the sight of the snow piled in uneven drifts on the golden tiles and crenellated red walls of the palace. For nearly two hours I stroll around the palace and Tiananmen Square, taking pictures. When I get back to the hotel, I find a fretsome Mr Fu waiting in the lobby. He tells me there are lots of bad people around in Beijing these days, robbers and thieves and rapists, and that I shouldn't go wandering around like that by myself. I laugh. You would think from the way he was talking that we were in New York! Poor Mr Fu. He'd see disaster lurking in a well-made bed.

We go to the hotel coffee shop where I warm my hands and cheeks on a cup of coffee and tell him that I want to make another trip to the Old Summer Palace to see it in the snow. He says it's too far away. He says it's too cold. He asks, didn't I have to do some last minute shopping and packing? What about our planned Peking duck lunch in that famous restaurant in the centre of town? I insist. I say the plane's at four in the afternoon, we'll be right if we leave right now. I don't care about the duck. And I can forget the shopping. My Visa's expiring anyway, so to speak. (He doesn't get this. Never mind.) Please please please, Mr Fu. Please please please. Finally he's shaking his head, and saying I'm crazy, but telling me to put on more clothes so I don't catch cold. I'm already as rugged up as I can be, so I just grab some more lenses and batteries and film and we're off. In the hire car driven by the ever-amiable Xiao Wang, we traverse the city. All its non-stop clamour, the horns, the shouting, the jackhammers and pile-drivers, is magically silenced by the blanket of snow.