*RED AND BLUE
As if cued by a high-pitched whistle, audible only to hounds and heels, a dozen men, mostly drivers, lined up side by side along the rim of the gully. Before a stunning view of a half-hidden mountain, with no more modesty than facing downwind would allow, men from different nations and various walks of life enjoyed a moment of transcendent solidarity.
Jianhong watched with clinical detachment as the American trotted over to the gully and joined them.
Fumbling with zippers, pale private members in hand, they took aim and fired, shooting streams of hot amber towards the mountain. Liquid yellow arches reached for the sky but quickly came down again, following the elegant but doomed arc of all gravity-graced parabolas, splashing and dissipating on the rocks below, kicking up ammonia-scented clouds of steam.
“Disgusting!” She muttered. Looking around, it dawned on her she was the only woman in sight. If only Miki would get here already.
After negotiating a winding course through the foothills rimming the extremity of Fuji, the VTR-led caravan ground to a halt at an obscure highway rest stop. Situated on the edge of the wide-open plain facing the mountain, the roadway was blocked with vehicles; all told about a half a dozen cars, logistical support vehicles, television trucks with satellite dishes on top, two black security vans and a tour bus full of Chinese “journalists” from VTR’s sister station in Shanghai, SPT.
Men of diverse backgrounds, to be sure, but when it came to joining the piss parade, they were utterly alike. Repulsive though they were, she was transfixed and not without a touch of curious envy. How rude, how odd, and yet how convenient!
Ji-shin! The earth shook lightly, one of those queasy sort of short shakes that was well over before you were you sure it happened. Just a baby quake, well, it was more than that, more like a probing toddler, but it could be the beginning of something.
Not being Japanese, Jianhong was morbidly alert to the most minor of tremors. There was no such thing as a small earthquake in her mind because even the slightest rumble could be the precursor quake, a warning to the wise that the big one was on its way. Already in a rotten temper, she now had to battle the sudden surge of apocalyptic scenarios rising in her brain. If the big one hit here and now, and she were standing under open sky, would it be safe? What about Fuji? Didn’t quakes and volcanoes go hand in hand? What if the mountain started to tumble down, pour out hot lava or simply explode?
And where was Miki, anyway? She was usually punctual. Wasn’t she supposed to be here by now?
Jianhong was eating herself up with worry. The specter of external collapse neatly mirrored the way things were crumbling inside.
Nobody else seemed to notice the earth vibration just now, or take it seriously if they did. The boorish, boyish out-in-the-open hydraulic exhibition was over, now the men are smoking, joking around. What’s there to joke about?
It had been pre-arranged that they should meet at this scenic rest stop in the foothills near Mount Fuji. Had there been another abrupt change in plans?
After taking refuge inside the car for a decent interval, lest the jaws of the earth should suddenly open up and bite her, she decided to test the restrooms of the abandoned rest station. She loped over to what was probably once a thriving road stop but had fallen into neglect with the closing of the mountain. Even the vending machines were ugly, empty and unplugged. The door to the ladies was broken, revealing a dark, cobwebbed room with rust-stained floors and dripping water. This, the only known ladies room within miles, was in such a state of gross neglect that she elected not to go.
Where, oh, where was Miki? She would know what to do.
As Jianhong crept back to the parking lot, an elite three-car motorcade came streaming round the wooded bend, followed by some security trucks. Miki!
Inasmuch as being the only female around had left her feeling conspicuous for not having a penis, she was pleased and relieved to be joined by her boss, a bona fide member of the no-fly, no-zipper tribe.
The mini-convoy carrying the star of VTR halted at a discreet remove from the other parked vehicles. Attended to by an energetic driver who jumped out and rushed around to open the passenger door, Miki emerged from her VIP vehicle, wearing what for her was very casual wear; a low-cut blouse, a sturdy skirt with a matching wool jacket, color-coordinated pantyhose and comfortable pumps. Looking like a preppy glamour girl from a bygone era, she was immediately surrounded by a security team of wide-shouldered men in blue.
A documentary crew, heavy gear in hand, popped out of a VTR Fact-Keeping Vehicle that rolled up in the rear, instantly going to work at recording her ladyship’s every step and gesture for the evening news. Fresh in from Shanghai, the SPT camera crew, after leisurely finishing their cigarettes, likewise jumped into action, but not for long. Once the visiting lens men got what they needed, they went back to grumbling, slacking and smoking.
The star of VTR was speaking with quiet authority to lingering members of the press corps, when she finally acknowledged her assistant’s fawning presence with a girlish wink. The star’s electro-magnetic charm was on low voltage today, coy, cool, and if Jianhong read it right, at war with herself. Her face lit up for the camera lens --when did it never-- but the smile was not sustained off-camera. She was gracious and pleasant --when was she never-- but beneath her unruffled exterior, she bristled with tension.
She looked off-color. Perhaps she was ill, or perhaps it was a rare case of make-up fail, because today was one of those rare days where the artificial art of enhancement somehow detracted from instead of adding to her looks. The unforgiving light of a bright overcast sky didn’t help. The over-application of foundation and rouge on her cheeks bordered on the clownish to the naked eye, but was almost certainly perfectly calibrated for the high-definition camera.
At an off-moment like this, when the star was neither “up” nor “on,” there was a hint of something rather sad and homely about her. She had the élan of a superstar who had begun to lose luster, passing that subtle point of no return when fame began to fade. She still played to the camera like a pro, but up close she looked tired and slightly worn out. No one who was lucky enough to know Miki had the courage, or bad taste, to tell her what was becoming painfully obvious to her stylists, colorists and beauticians; she was still a beauty, but an aging beauty whose best days were behind her.
Being agreeable all the time to all takers certainly exacted its toll on Miki; Jianhong in contrast found strength in being disagreeable. She needed her elbows and multiple expletive-laden outbursts just to get through the morning commute. She reflexively started swinging and kicking and calling people “turtle eggs” when the world made her numb with dumb rage, whereas Miki was on a more stratospheric plane. She had to shine all the time. To keep her virtual image unblemished she had to suck up and absorb blows without breaking her stride, all the while denying herself the simple joys of living a real life? How often had she seen it fit to still her passions and stall out her love life in keeping with the confines of celebrity?
After graciously fielding a long string of predictable questions, Miki dismissed the men around her and her minders pulled back, giving her eager, attentive assistant the opening she was looking for.
“Miki-san! Everything okay?”
“Busy, busy, busy…”
“Were you delayed by the earthquake?”
“Was there a quake? If we had to stop every time there was a little tremor, we’d never get through the day.”
“It lasted a few seconds…”
“Oh. Listen, Jian-chan. Could you kindly show me to the toilet?”
“It is broken. No good.”
“Well, I have to go.”
“Nowhere to go.”
“But I must go…”
“Well, the men went, over there.”
“Please…”
“It’s not fair, is it? Why do we women have to act like we don’t have body functions?”
“So desu ne,” the star responded formulaically. “Isn’t that odd?”
“Look at the men! They think the world is their toilet!”
“So desu ne.” Miki was subtly rocking back and forth, shifting weight from one foot to the other.
“Ever wonder?” Jianhong asked, “I mean, you ever wonder what it’s like?”
“What is what like?”
“You know.”
“I do?” Miki’s mind was elsewhere.
“They have a, they have, nani?” Jianhong grew tongue-twisted. She proceeded to sift through a long and unpalatable list of English euphemisms, to say what she wanted to say without saying it. She recoiled at the thought of discussing the mystery of the male protuberance --the deceptively doughy little serpent that had, on one unforgettably forgettable night had viciously worked its way into her womb and robbed her of her self-respect and bodily autonomy-- in the preferred dictionary terms. There wasn’t a word for it in any language she was aware of that was not revolting in its own sordid way.
“They have ah, a unit.”
“It’s like a little animal!” Miki murmured absent-mindedly, as if hit with some dim memory.
“Little animal? It’s not cute. But they use it to mark territory, like dogs,” she added bitterly.
“The problem isn’t the plumbing,” Miki added matter-of-factly. “The problem is the plumber.”
Jianhong briefly pondered this. It was true in a way. Like with Collin, she didn’t hold his elaborate plumbing against him, but she did not approve of the way he used it. On a busy weekend, he could pass through more partners than she did in a year, and with utter impunity. All she needed to do was to slip up once, and she was carrying someone’s baby.
“Miki? Shall we go pick flowers!” Jianhong pointed to a dusty gully by the side of the road.
“Flowers?” The star of VTR was distracted by some clandestine considerations, thoughts she couldn’t possibly share.
“I have to go, don’t you?” her assistant clarified, hand dropping to her crotch.
“What about the men?” she murmured.
“Forget about the men!”
Fuji shimmered above a bank of low-lying clouds like an icy mirage. Its capacious cap shined almost as bright as the overcast sky, rendering the upper reaches of the massive mountain airy and insubstantial, only a shade more solid than the ether around it. Clouds lacerated by the peak trapped the glow of the sun. Near the juncture where the broad base of the mountain was anchored to the earth by a ring of foothills, the placid, chilled waters of a broad lake reflected a flipped Fuji. The mirror image of the mountain was rippled by gentle waves, shimmering like an inverted pyramid from a parallel universe.
Collin was a looker who knew a good scene when he saw it. He also prided himself on having a kind of radar for women, the kind of twin radar that inevitably located for him not just the prettiest girl in the room but the one most likely to go home with him. And here, out here in the wild, he saw two such women. His eyes followed the girlish moves of Miss Japan and Miss China with mild bemusement. What a contrast the two babes cut, one demure to a devilish degree, the other a demonic angel. If Miki was the classic “Noh” star, jet black, all subdued, slow motioned, methodical and infinitely refined, Jianhong was pure “Peking Opera,” not without mime-like moments of pure equipoise, but once unleashed, dynamic, colorful and explosive.
Oh, if only they could both be Collin-fornia girls. Seeing the two of them alone, strolling aimlessly by the side of the road, he decided to humor them.
“Oh, no!” Jianhong greeted bitterly. “Speaking of donkeys, look who’s here!”
Collin flashed a predatory grin, brushing right past his coworker to greet the star.
“Hal-low Mi-ki! I just wanted to thank you for arranging, ah, the hotel, it was wonderful.”
“Hello, Collin.”
“I don’t know where I’d be without your help…”
“You’re looking well,” she observed approvingly.
“Wow, thanks, Miki.”
“So, what have you been doing?”
“Just relaxing, oh, and I did the rewrites.”
Jianhong quietly fumed as attention turned to Colllin. It was not as if he had combed his hair or put on the new clothes, like the clothes she had gotten for him; he was still sporting yesterday’s worn threads. But he had been messing around in the hotel and was smeared with the scent of sex, and Miki knew it. Highly successful women like her were often aroused by the scent of a rival; it helped them identify, isolate and kill off the competition. What an uncanny nose she had for hormones, sharp enough to pick up even day-old afterglow, even if none of the details were known.
“Collin? Did you know you were on the news today?”
“Oh, boy, I hope it was good.”
“Yes. You came out looking pretty good, a little young, maybe.”
“Looking good?”
“They used your passport photo…”
“No, I don’t mean the picture, I mean what did they say?”
“Illegal, unarmed and insubordinate. Most-wanted.”
“Me? Most-wanted? What a joke! Most-unwanted, that’s more like it.”
“Don’t worry, you are not unwanted here.”
“And not unwanted in police station, either,” Jianhong jumped in. The presence of the fair-haired ape-man was thwarting a very urgent matter, but her boss was so hardcore a public-pleasing professional as to put bodily needs second, even with Collin.
“Miki? Do you think I need a lawyer or something?”
“A lawyer? Oh, my. I’m afraid your problem’s bigger than that. No. You cannot return to Tokyo under any circumstances. Not now, not for a long while.”
“What then?”
“As long as you stay out of their jurisdiction, they are unlikely to go after you. Oh, by the way, I have a new script that needs checking. Don’t polish too much, just double-check the dialogue.”
“Okey-doke,” he answered distractedly.
“Oh. And one more thing, how do you pronounce this Chinese name?” she asked. “I have to introduce this gentleman from SPT on international TV and I don’t have a clue how to say his name.”
“Why not ask her?” He gestured to Jianhong who was glowering a few feet away.
“You know her,” she said, shifting to a whisper. “She doesn’t like to be reminded that she’s Chinese, but that’s not why I’m asking you.”
“Why then? What do you want to know?”
“What I want to know is how to say it, that is to say, not necessarily to say it right, but rather I want to know how to say it as it is said in standard English, so it’s easy for everyone to understand.
“Oh, okay. Let’s see. Q-I-N? Qui, qua, quo, hard to say. I’d say, call him Quinn.”
“Quinn?” Miki raised a single eyebrow. “I should have known better than to ask. I keep forgetting that you faked your credentials.”
“So, nice talking to you Collin,” Jianhong sniped from the sidelines, hoping the man-child would pick up on the ‘unwanted’ vibe and leave them alone. The exasperation in her tone did not go unnoticed.
“Oh well, hey, the weather’s taken a turn for the better, hasn’t it?” he observed, gamely trying to wind up the conversation.
Jianhong coughed a fake-sounding cough. “We want to go, but you go first.”
“Go, as in go, going, gone?” he quipped. “Or go as in have-to-go?”
“How about get, as in get lost?” parried Jianhong.
“Sure. Got it. Take five, girls. I’ll make myself scarce. Hey look, the truck over there. They’ve got the hood up, looks like engine trouble, maybe I’ll mosey on over, go see what the boys are up to.”
Jianhong watched Collin lumber across the road, glad to see his back. He clumsily greeted the Japanese drivers and security detail without eliciting more than a weak nod, but undaunted, he jauntily pressed forward to gawk at the stalled vehicle. The zipper tribe was gathered round the hood of a heavy-duty truck, tending to the injured automotive innards as the engine whined and groaned, bleeding oil and other fluids. The take-charge types rolled up their sleeves and bent over the smoking engine, while the less mechanically inclined stood back a bit, chatting and smoking on the periphery.
“Look at them!” Miki noted with a hint of affection. “Just big boys, all of them!”
“They compete to take control,” Jianhong added dismissively.
“And so it is,” Miki responded coolly. “Someone has to be in control.”
With the men busy staking out turf and establishing hierarchy, the moment had come. The two women took hurried steps, scurrying down an the earthen incline of the embankment until they were out of view of the road, though only just barely so. They surveyed the edge of a vineyard of fertile soil and withered vines.
“Yuck. I don’t like exposing myself outside,” Jianhong said.
“What’s there to be ashamed of?” Miki answered dismissively, playing with the snaps on her designer bag. “Girls are sugar and spice and everything nice.”
“Did Collin tell you that?” Jianhong asked warily, detecting an echo of the American’s weird slang.
“No, silly. I learned that in boarding school, in America.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Shall we water the grapes?” Miki joked.
“Poor grapes.”
“Good wine.” Miki, added with a giggle. “Here?”
“I guess so…”
“The fact that women have to do it too shouldn’t come as news to the men.”
“You are right. We worry too much about what they think,” Jianhong declared. She was anxious to reestablish the sisterly rapport that had been broken by too much work, too much stress and too much Collin.
“Yes, I know. Even in the toilet.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” Miki explained with a hint of impatience. “Cover up toilet sounds, the triple flush,”
“Triple?” Jianhong did and didn’t get it. “Number one is the fake flush to cover up the sound of pee splashing, right? Number two is the real flush to empty the toilet. Why three?”
“So no one knows which flush was real, and which was not real.”
On TV, Miki was puncture-proof, angelic and antiseptic, a virtual presence immune to the hard laws of human nature. But here, out in the open, under a broad sky, she was grounded and of the earth as she squat on her haunches to relieve herself in the raw.
The millions who admired Miki Matsu’s aloof elegance and blemish-free electronic charm from afar, and even the hundreds in the office who knew her “in person” as a model of guarded graciousness, would have a hard time picturing her now, as Jianhong did, panties hanging around her ankles, skirt lifted to her hips, bending over in the bushes like a peasant.
Inborn poise and immaculate self-control did nothing to prevent the star from letting loose a gush that gurgled into a bubbly puddle that was quickly absorbed by the thirsty soil.
When it came to her assistant’s turn, things took an icky turn.
“Oh, no! Oh yes!”
“Are you okay?”
“Okay, okay, oh, dear, I need a, oh, a sanctuarynapkin…!”
“Huh?
“She-pad?” Jianhong couldn’t get the words right, but she knew exactly what she needed. What’s more, a smile of relief spread across her face. After weeks of waiting, the verdict was in: not pregnant.
“Wakata… Say no more.” Miki stood up, snapped her silken panties into place and then reached into the designer bag still slung over her shoulder, extracting a pink plastic-wrapped pad from one of the inner pockets.
“Here you are,” Miki whispered. “Mine is due too, any day now. Oh me, oh my, what bad timing.”
“But it is happy, happy. No more worry, worry,” chimed in Jianhong, acutely aware of her deliverance. “A happy time of month.”
“Not on Fuji. The monthly is the reason women were banned from Fuji for so long, for centuries, did you know that?”
“So what? Who cares?” She straightened out her long sarong and stood triumphant and erect, flexing her limbs. “Oh, Mee-kee, I feel so high-pee!”
Jianhong’s guileless joy effectively confirmed what Miki’s subordinates had been whispering for weeks now. Her assistant played it coy and protested innocence, but the facts suggested otherwise. “It wasn’t him, was it?”
“Was it what? Who? Collin? No, of course not. Please, I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m back on time!”
They washed up with bottled water, each trickling a few drops on the other’s fingers, and then headed back to the roadside caravan.
“No one ever need know,” Miki whispered, though she had known all along. The two strode uphill in tight tandem, in a close, sisterly kind of way.
“You knew?”
“We women have a six-su sen-su,” Miki said, pronunciation straining, “A six-a-the sense about such things.”
Freshly liberated from the greatest burden a woman could bear, Jianhong was in a mood to celebrate and swing. As they scrambled up the embankment, she raced up the top, lifting her arms like a crazy bird about to take flight. “I’m free! I’m free, I’m free! I’m free!”
The two women, full of girlish banter, twittered happily in the warm sun, oblivious to the barren mechanical world of men on the other side of the road.