The conference is over. The zipping and snap clicks of briefcases follow a round of applause. Pens, once scribbling and scratching on yellow notepads, go silent. Paper shuffles. My hands are still shaking. I presented my first academic paper: a red-letter day.
To my side, the clutch of translators are pushing back their microphones and taking off headphones; all morning and afternoon, in soft triplicate, they’ve related every wheeze and syllable in Cantonese, Mandarin, or English. My host, Dr. D. Y. Yuan, the Dean of the University of Macau’s Faculty of the Social Sciences and Humanities, is smiling at them and nodding. A white-haired fellow with kind cerulean blue eyes, the University Rector, Dr. Rocha Dinis, repeats something and applause follows.
They all looked at me and expected me to say something cogent – established scholars, government officials, and the local press – didn’t they? Dr. Yuan flew me from the other side of the world to be here; he was so glad I was a fellow Brunonian; we drank a mellow green tea as he reminisced about his days in Providence at Brown; parting, he gave me an old scroll from Taiwan and positive words about my paper. The agenda had me as the only researcher talking about Macaense ethnicity. “You have guts,” he said. I didn’t know this was such a big deal. I couldn’t let him lose face, taking such a risk on me.
And I fucked it up. I so wanted to live up to being an Ivy man and a Virginia gentleman: educated and a man of his word. But, unfortunately, I made a mistake in my paper, and Dr. Dinis grilled me after my presentation; he must think my research was deficient and my scholarship mediocre.
If only my wife were here with me, she’d tell me that I did fine; my number one supporter. Actually, who am I kidding? She hated anything and everything that had to do with Macau. She said it was shit. Her exact words were “you devoted your studies to shit.“ No. I do wish she were here; she’d see that it all wasn’t a waste. She’d see me here, at this conference – the first of many, I’m sure – as a scholar and contributing something. And just after a year of grad school. I imagined we’d have a week to see the territory, have dim sum or yum cha, and go to temples. But, she said, no. She’s lived her entire life to get away from this part of the world, she said, why would she want to come back? Macau’s not China, I said. She said I was blind. Besides, we were no more before I left for the airport. She didn’t even see me off.
I wish Julia were here, too. She’d be proud to know that I put everything together with her contacts and weaving in her insights. All those long, sweaty afternoons in the street and barely air-conditioned cafés didn’t go to waste after all; that sad summer when I should have stayed in the States finally reached a logical conclusion and opened a door. I promised Julia I’d come back. I skipped last night’s banquet and went instead to her place; she didn’t live there anymore, the neighbors told me. I drug my wrinkled and jet-lagged self to the café where we’d first met and watched the moon rise. I rolled memories around in my palms and let them fall and shatter on the pavement. She disappeared like so many others. “Where were you,” Dr. Yuan asked me this morning. “Lost?” I nodded like an idiot.
It is over. Breathe. The conference is finally over. My shirt is soaked. The adrenaline’s gone and my head’s leaden. My half-awake eyes scan the confusion of faces hoping to see Dr. Yuan or maybe Dr. Dinis. We’re all supposed to go to a closing dinner and I am to share a car with Dr. Yuan. It would be inexcusable to miss this one. I don’t want to disappoint Dr. Dinis twice either; he wished to talk to me about Brown and the potential linking of our two institutions – that was before. Now, I bet he thinks me a fool. They’re standing in a clump of my fellow conference presenters. Dr. Yuan is shaking the hand of a tall French researcher, now a Brit from Hong Kong University, and now an American professor; Dr. Dinis has an intense gaze on the former. The Brit stands with his hands clasped behind his back, nodding his head. I hear snippets of accented speech undoubtedly relating anecdotal pearls. They carry on like old friends; Macau Studies is a small field where everyone knows everyone. I’m just a stranger hoping for entry into their circle. Now they are all smiling and taking a group photo; here I stand on the periphery, snubbed. I’m out. I blew it.
Two reporters and a soundman from Teledifusão de Macau, the local TV and radio station, are motioning at me. I point at my chest and mouth. “Me?” The three nod. Isabel’s cousin Elsa must’ve sent them. I was thrilled to learn she had relations in Macau – and a journalist, no less. She and my professors at Brown have connections everywhere. A microphone is politely waved into my face:
– Doctor, please tell us, you gave a paper on the Macaense. What makes a Macaense, Macaense? Is it a blood ratio? Or is it a certain parentage?
They’re rolling.
– I posit that acculturation and recognition by the community defines a Macaense as well as self-identification. Without the interplay of these elements, an ethnicity simply cannot exist. It is the maintenance of these factors that I hoped to illustrate. I would never define a Macaense by simple Biology; there is much more than blood. And phenotypes are problematic. In my paper, I discuss three sorts of Macaense: an old-order classic Macaense defined by heredity and place; a Macaense we might call a Eurasian, and another who is Macaense by virtue of perhaps blood. But, an ethnicity is not only genetics – which is only one piece of the puzzle. It is also formed by community, family, and – in the Macaense case – maintained by State institutions.
The radio has enough for a sound bite, either praising or crucifying me. I hope I said the right thing: it is culture, not blood. This is a political issue.
As I speak, my eyes land on a familiar, sardonic smile on a woman standing behind the lanky fellow interviewing me: Julia!
She makes a nod with her head and a small wave of the hand to say hello. It has been two years, and it feels like forever that I’d seen her last. And – irony of ironies – the informant’s now waving a microphone at me.
– Hey João, I’ll take it from here.
As the reporter turns and writes on a notepad, Julia gives me a squeeze of the hand. Her face lights up:
– Elsa and Zé have given you to me this evening.
– I didn’t know you know them.
– We’re a small community. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows the lovely and lovable Elsa. And her father is the ex-president of the Câmara das Ilhas, you know, of course! – She shakes her head – You’re so grownup in that tie, senhor doutor!
– Please. And obviously, you work with her, too.
– Yes, that – she laughs. – And tonight, everyone’s going to know you. You’re João’s story. Right, João?
The tall Portuguese reporter looks up, shrugs and chases after other conference presenters as they file out in groups of two and three.
– If I knew I was going to be on the radio, I would’ve prepared a statement.
– We were listening in the audience, and we knew what you were going to say. The University gave us your paper. And Elsa told us, too.
– Oh. So Elsa set me up?
Julia smiles and shrugs in her half-serious way.
– Wait – I ask. – What do you mean by ‘given you’?
– We’re having an early dinner, old friend. I know a place you have to try. If your wife came, she’d love it, too.
– But I have a banquet…
– I’ll take care of it. No worries.
Past her shoulder, I see Dr. Dinis heading toward me with his finger in the air. Julia must have seen him out of the corner of her eye, too, as she does a small jump out of his way. Shaking my hand, he breaks into a smile:
– We must talk tomorrow about academic exchanges. But first, you have to meet Dr. Jean Berlie. He is enchanted with your work on the Macaense – as are we all. The University and Macau Foundation can help you with anything. More about that tomorrow. Excellent paper. We’re so glad you came. Jean!
Julia stands behind him, smiling, and points at her watch.
Dr. Dinis waves the Frenchman over, and Dr. Jorge Rangel, the Government of Macau’s Secretary for Education, follows him. We all shake hands among camera flashes. Julia steps back and smiles, arms across her chest.
I didn’t blow it after all.
* * *
The streets are so narrow and other cars driving so fast, I practically have a heart attack as Julia zips across the bridge from Taipa to Macau peninsula; she guns the accelerator around the grand arc of the corniche hugging the Praia Grande. More than once, I press my foot on my imaginary passenger-side brake. She’s so calm and composed, tailgating and then suddenly stopping. She smiles in my direction as I wipe my sweating palms on my trousers.
“We’re here,” she says, pointing to a hole-in-the-wall that looks as though it hasn’t been decorated or cleaned since the 1940s. It is crowded, and workers are lugging red palettes of sweating Coke and Vita Soy bottles past a couple of decrepit umbrella-shaded tables. The restaurant is dark and full of shouting voices. Mou man tai, mou man tai – Cantonese for “okay” or “no problem” rises above all. The door is open to the elements, or rather the only element: humid heat. The interior has grimy white tiles with red-marker-lettered signs with numbers. There’s a shrine with red-flamed electric candles and a red-faced idol – in front of it, a small pile of oranges and apple. A torn calendar reads 3, and I suppose June. The stainless steel counters are rust-stained. There is no AC. I want at least to see a slow-moving ceiling fan. Instead, it is stopped and covered in grease-caked dust. Inside is a no-go, anyway: no tables or half-tables for us. Outside it must be.
Julia shrugs and sashays out with her purse hooked on her forearm.
On this late summer afternoon, not even the coolest of breezes could penetrate the thick humidity of the Porto Interior. I swear to Julia that the pavement is giving off fumes. “You’re always melodramatic about the heat,” she says. “Aren’t you from Hawaii, where it is hot?” “We have something called Trade Winds there,” I say. This is medical-mask weather. You can barely walk or hardly exhale without immediately gasping for air, only to find it heavy in the lungs. The heat is paralyzing. Children across the street on fishing boats jump into the river and return on deck flailing their arms about like hooked fish; by the time they get to the side to jump off again, they’re dry. Even the scant shade of jutting concrete porticos of many a café offers little respite from the pulsating heat emanating from the surrounding bay. And she wants me to leave her air-conditioned car for an open-air table. “Julia, really?” I ask as we sit. Julia gesticulates and says a few words of Cantonese to a man in the shadows.
– You didn’t even look at the menu.
– They only sell one thing. – Julia laughs.
– That makes it easy.
Before I have the chance to do a perfunctory rub of a handkerchief over my chopsticks and spoon, a waiter arrives with our meal. He mops his forehead with a yellowed cloth, and heavy droplets of sweat fall on the plastic tablecloth, barely missing my bowl. The nearby racks of drying fish and the pungent vapors of decomposing produce from the adjacent alleyway are undoubtedly contributing to this afternoon’s aroma. However, biting into a succulent chili pepper and curry-covered shrimp, I forget my surroundings and am transported to gastronomic rapture. Tongue tingling, I am brought back with a swallow of tea.
– So, how was work today? – I ask.
– Oh, fine. It was slow. Not much in the way of news, except for you.
– You haven’t told me what you thought about my paper.
– The truth?
– With you, there’s no middle ground.
Julia pushes her chair back and straightens her back, elbows on the table. She reserves this pose for bad news or serious talk. Roasted by Dinis and now pan-fried by Julia. I can take it.
– Who is this ‘Carmen’?
– Pseudonym.
– Such a funny name. It isn’t on the approved list without an accent.
– What?
– The list of names the government says a Portuguese may give a child unless it is already in the family.
– I’ve never heard of such a thing.
– Look it up. Lista de nomes admitidos – permitted name list. And no one in Macau has that name. Only a Hong Kong-born Portuguese can have such a name.
– Accent?
– Over the ah. Cármen. Very sloppy. Besides, why not say her real name? Who are you trying to fool with pseudonyms when we all know who you speak to? We know who she is.
– I. I don’t know. It just seemed fair.
– She is Ana Maria’s friend, who introduced us after all.
– How did you know?
– Just everything. The school, her experience in Portugal. The pharmacy. So obvious. We have a nickname for her: Daughter of The Moor. Daughter of the Portuguesa who became Chinesa. Yes. We all know her. And she’s married, and she has a daughter! You lied. And she is not Macaense.
– I wanted to protect her identity. I didn’t want to make her person too obvious. And what do you mean by ‘not Macaense’? She seems to fit the bill in my book.
– You’re a funny man. Macaenses already know who is and who isn’t. It is funny that you are defining.
I slump back. Julia shakes her head:
– You have it wrong. Do institutions define? No. Macaenses – those that are true Macaenses – have history.
– History?
– Roots. Deep roots: here. That’s history.
– That’s a strange statement. What about her brother?
– The architect?
– The very one. So you do know who she is. He has roots here. He’s been tapped by the Governor to be on the provisional council that’s organizing RAEM’s government; you know the people that are writing Macau’s constitution, keeping the present political system intact for one ‘country, two systems’ – or whatever it is called these days – after the Transition. So how can one without these ‘roots’ of yours speak for the Macaense?
– He minds his own interests. He is a businessman. He wants to continue to make money. That is really what it is all about: not Macaense, not culture, none of these things.
– He is to one of three Macaense among the one hundred that will be on the Preparatory Committee – think it is called.
– No. He will be one of four Macaense, if we go by your word. And they say not Macaense, but ‘Portuguese-speaking.’ Big difference. Stanley Ho will also, undoubtedly, be on the Committee too. He is Macaense, although he is ashamed of his roots. He turned his back on the ‘Eurasians,’ as the British call him. He wants to continue stuff his pockets with money from his casino-casino – that is why. Raimundo ‘Portuguese-speaking’ and Stanley ‘Macaense not Macaense’ are speaking for the Macaense. É uma pena.
– Thus, it is money, not ethnicity, that guides Raimundo? And he and like his sister, the Moor’s daughter, is not Macaense?
– They are not. They are part of the community – the Portuguese community without generations. And Lin, that half A-chan, never.
How racist. Calling someone A Chan is like calling someone a wetback. She must be baiting me. So I’ll just hold my tongue.
– Teresa is Macaense. And that’s it?
– Yes. She is from an old family.
– I see. What about old families that have branched and returned? I am speaking about the refugees from Shanghai and the Hong Kong Portuguese?
– Cousins. They are other Portuguese of the Orient. They couldn’t come back unless they had a family. Without family, we are nothing.
– Once Filhos da Terra, always? That means ‘native-born sons,’ yes?
– Yes. But they are less.
– I get it. I think. Anyone born in the community before the modern Portuguese state, say after the Pacific War, started coming in numbers and commingling with Chinese; those are Macaense.
– Yes. That is what I am saying. Commingle. You sound so racist.
– Well. I can’t say marry. That would imply a politico-religious status. No everyone is a product of marriage. Union would be a permanent thing. I hate the term used by Freyre – the Brazilian – miscegenation. That is racist. Commingle. It describes sex, but euphemistically. Politely.
– You have a problem with sex. You think it is dirty.
– No. I just think it is something. I don’t know. It is messy.
– You do.
Julia’s smiling at me. Messy. Dirty. I hate dirt. I like things best after it snows, just like Providence a few months ago: all covered in a blanket of white; clean, pure and untouched, placid and crisp.
– And people that left, – I continue – forfeited being Macaense. In Hong Kong, they became simply ‘Portuguese’; they whitewashed their origins.
– Yes. They were ashamed of being half-caste, I think the English say. Better to call themselves Portuguese. In Macau, we are a Portuguese people. But the Hong Kong Macaense, they abandoned Macau. And then they came back!
– All right. Old families hung around Macau: Macaense. Portuguese roots by blood, somewhere. The true Macaense, the Old Guard, are those that have always been here.
– Yes. We speak Portuguese. We are mostly Catholic.
– Macaense that left to Hong Kong, Shanghai, where ever and stayed: Portuguese of the Orient.
– Right.
– Half Portuguese, half Chinese born from the 1950s are Eurasian. Not Macaense.
– Macaista.
– What? Macau thing.
– Of Macau. But still Portuguese of the Orient?
– No. Macau thing.
– Oh, come on. That ‘ista’ makes it an adjective, so it is like the word Oriental. Rugs and vases from the Far East. A pejorative. Thus, in your estimation, Carmen is ‘Macaista,’ and Teresa is ‘Macaense’? And Lin, she’s nothing because she’s not Lusophone?
– Bravo! I don’t make up the rules. I am just telling you the truth.
I have a bit of a headache, and my eyes are burning.
– Wait. Henrique de Senna Fernandades, he’s Macaense, right? But his family came from Shanghai. And he’s considered the literary voice of Macau.
– You are mistaken, Senna Fernandes always Macaense from Macau. His family bought a noble title: they are Macaense since forever. You are thinking about Batalha. From that family was made the Patuá glossary. They are from Shanghai. They are not Macaense like my family.
– But they are Macaense.
– No. Português do Oriente. Macaense is Filho da Terra. From and always of here. – Julia pauses and sighs. – It isn’t bad. This is my opinion. Others have theirs. You can’t make everyone happy all the time. You can’t do that here. There are four thousand of us and four thousand perspectives. But things change. But we know. We know the histories. We have a long memory.
– Why don’t you have histories written by yourselves about yourselves?
– We are too busy living. We aren’t Anthropologists. It is only you that want to define what we already know. Let me tell you something about Cármen’s family.
I look up from my bowl of noodles and nod, slurping:
– Should I get out my notepad?
– No, – Julia responds – this is about ‘1, 2, 3’. Remember me telling you?
– Of course. You said once this ‘was the moment’ for the Portuguese to show their true colors.
Julia has a look of resignation in her eyes:
– The Portuguese gave us away in ‘1, 2, 3’. There is no doubt who was who then. The Chinese merchants stopped selling anything to us. Just like before, they could close the Border Gate and starve us to death. No water, no food. They know who is Portuguese and part of the community. Just as we know who is really Macaense. It is simple, and you don’t need to confuse things over a couple of people who don’t fit in your boxes. Now about Cármen.
Julia takes a sip of tea and ashes her cigarette. A stagnant breeze goes down the street. I stop concentrating on her voice and listen to the shrill honks of cars and trucks. At the intersection, a white-gloved policeman waves traffic past a pile of rubble. Her eyes are looking through me:
– And the Macaense. Cármen had an uncle – a certain Boaventura do Rosório. He helped make the militia that kept the streets clear when the Portuguese soldiers and police stayed in the barracks to let the Chinese rule. He led a group of us against the Chinese and made a stand at the Pharmacia Popular; you know the place run by Cármen’s father – Leonel – for my cousins the Nolascos. That Boaventura, though, he had many connections to the underworld – very under the table dealings. He was involved in very obscure business – doing narcotics trade and prostitution. He was very rich, and he never worked. He was the heaviest man in Macau at four hundred pounds, at least. He dressed well, had his nails professionally manicured, and had all three of his daughters go to private schools in Canada. And everyone knew about his collection of authentic Chinese antiques. His fortune was ill-got. It is people like him that put a stain on our community. He spoke out against the Chamber of Commerce and got into a fight with the Communists. That made him one of us.
– Despite his shameful dealings?
– Yes. He was Macaista before, and then he stood up. Then he made roots and history. Cármen, Raimundo: no roots. They do nothing for us. Besides, being appointed by a corrupt governor means nothing.
– Interesting. Did this clash with the PRC-controlled Chamber of Commerce happen to many Macaense? The standing up?
– No one with any sense would anger the Communists. No one dared to, not then. We all know on which side’s our bread is buttered. Let us just say he thought he was untouchable. The Communists declared him public enemy number one, and he was ruined. He and his wife left in a big hurry leaving everything behind. He was a chased man. He went from Macau to Hong Kong, to Rome, and to Lisbon. He lived in Portugal until he died. Mid-seventies. You go to Amadora and find his grave.
I nod and eat the rest of my noodles and regard the last shrimp in my bowl. It is mottled grey and not a fiery pink; the head and tail haven’t been removed, and the vein is still intact. Cantonese chefs never forget to clean their shrimp; it must be a special gift for me or maybe Julia – we got the same thing.
She’s right. These aren’t my stories; why should I care? All I’m doing is recording gossip and trying to make sense of it all. But, it is what Anthropology does: making intelligible one culture group’s truths and transmitting them in a language understood by the Anthropologist’s society. And, in the telling, we reach for universals. However, are the Macaense as a creole people holders of some sort of proprietary life-ways, or are they simply exploiting others’ want of the exotic to accentuate what little difference they may have among the Portuguese? Is there such a thing as ‘Portuguese of the Orient’? Or even in my case, ‘Portuguese of Hawai’i’? Or am I looking at everything all wrong? They say Macau is a Portuguese city in China, but a town is nothing more than a collection of buildings; could the Macaense be nothing more than a Chinese people with Portuguese surnames? Those I’ve met are either virulently proud of their Portugueseness, critical of the Metropolitan Portuguese, or say they are a cultural bridge with the Chinese. I see no syncretism; I see just people, like me, living in a city gathered together in families and protecting what little they have; and here I am, at the end of one phase of their history. Everything I do corroborates Pina Cabral, except this concept of honor. And he mentions the social reproduction of culture across generations, but not the actual maps of desire. And the ever-important question of how one gains entrance to the Macaense society – through history. History. I’m no Anthropologist; I’m in Portuguese cultural studies. Splitting hairs, but hairs nonetheless.
Julia lights a cigarette and takes a drag, beaming.
– You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you. Not about here. Not about the Macaense, anyway.
– I don’t understand.
– You’re too trusting. That’s why Rocha Dinis attacked you. The A-Chan was pretending she knows nothing of Macau. If she were who she says she was, she would have a Portuguese passport. We give it away to anyone that asks! She was tricking you. If Rocha Dinis wanted to draw blood, he would say something. But he saved your face.
– Oh shit, Julia. Did she play me?
– We have to toughen you up. Olha. Do you remember that Teresa?
– How can I not? She had plates on her wall with crowns in the center.
– Ha. She only tells you half of the story. She’s terrified of Portugal and leaving Macau behind.
– She seemed fairly confident when I met her.
– That was two years ago! Ancient history. We are going back to the ‘Motherland.’ The researchers at the conference were laughing about it.
– I figured that was some sort of post-colonial arrogance or euphoria. It did strike me as sort of strange.
– Macau, and you know, was never Chinese. It has always been ours. Not Portugal. And now the Chinese will tell us who is and who isn’t.
I want to say I take issue with this. The land is China’s; it was worthless to them, and the Portuguese settled here. Or rather were sequestered here; the Chinese ruled the Chinese, and the Portuguese their own in the fashion of a classic trader’s quarter. I don’t think squatter’s rights apply to a city. However, Macau would not be Macau without the Macaense or is that the myth I’ve bought into – my museum mentality, my desire to preserve and embalm. But, it is the Portuguese who’ve written about the place and set memory to stone. If this is indeed two cities, then why is there nothing from the local Chinese? No stories, no books, no chronicles. Or, is the omission of a voice as powerful as a voice? Well, now the local Chinese have a powerful official backer, and they’ll push out the Macaense from their role of civil servant and comprador. All the Macaense will have left are street names and funny last names speaking of another time; that’s sort of sad, but it is the way of the world. Why am I so interested in recording this person? Is it because my own have lost everything to be like the Haole in the Islands?
Julia takes a cigarette from her purse and lights it. She takes a long drag and raises her eyebrows as she exhales. I square my notepad with the table’s edge.
– I see. How do I know you are not playing to my sensibilities of self-determination? And you know that I think the revolutions in Africa were just.
– You don’t know. So what do I have to gain?
– You just told me in so many words that Teresa was a fraud.
– She’s not a fraud. She was putting up a good face for you. We are all putting up a good face for you. Once you write us, this is us forever.
– I don’t understand. There have been plenty of things written about the Macaense.
– And when Macau goes to China, no one will care about us. You will see.
– So, you are giving me data for me to shape my ideas and present… no. You are steering my data and guiding my research.
– Of course. That’s what we do.
Julia puts her tea down and takes another drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out.
My face reddens:
– I’ve been had this entire time.
My heart sinks. God. This is unreal.
– The best lies are those based on the truth.
Julia pulls out another cigarette, lights it, and takes a puff. I watch the exhaled smoke rise to the umbrella apex.
– I’m lying.
– What?
– I’m lying. See how easy it is with you. You take everything so literally. You have to listen and read between the lines. I learned this as a journalist: do your research before you publish anything about this place. We can see through lies. And we know the truth of what goes on. That Cármen. Look, she has it out for us despite her brother in RAEM, you know?
– I don’t get it. If he is your voice, why would his sister want to take you down?
– She’s angry for her parents, for what happened to her in school, for how she was treated in Portugal, for her divorce. And she needs to blame. Because we called her chencau.
– Chencau?
– It once meant Chinese convert—someone without roots. We would let them in the community because they became Catholic: like a pre-Macaense. Now we use it for people that look very Chinese or speak poor Portuguese. An insult, really. Ask Cármen. She dislikes Macau because of all the lengalengar.
– Lengalengar. Gossip. Talk story, like we say in Hawai’i.
– You say that so affected. Ha-vai-e.
– Huh?
– Hawaii. How you say it.
– That’s how we say it in the…
– Islands. Look, stop pretending. Stop pretending to be something you are not. You are a good man. I like you for that. You trust. You try too hard.
What is she getting at? First, she attacks my research, now the way I talk.
A woman with a basket ambles by, waving a pack of tissues at us. Julia shakes her head, and she walks on. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the waiter leaning against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette – he’s a veritable mirror of Julia’s motions: swishing his hand at invisible, darting flies.
She looks the same as we met that weird afternoon at a sopa e fitas joint right across from the park with the Vasco da Gama statue. She was sipping tea in a black cheongsam. My first thought was: what have I gotten myself into; the second: she’s so pretty. Blue-black fluid outlined her eyes with a smudged dusted kohl-look. She had a distinct Latin air, a small Portuguese nose, clear skin with a peculiar pleasant olive tone, and thick, wavy dark hair. Yet she also looked somewhat Chinese – or perhaps I imagined it. Shoulders bare, she was a fashion plate, poured into her dress. But it was her eyes that drew me. I understood in a moment why the iris is called just that: a subtle rainbow of shades of light brown and green. I could lose myself in them. She sat absorbed in her thoughts, smoking. I must’ve looked a fool, sweat-rag in hand, introducing myself.
– When did we first meet? It was what, my second week in Macau? – I ask.
– Yes. I remember you called and sounded so nervous. You said, and I’ll never forget it, a ‘mutual acquaintance said I benefit from speaking with you about Macaense identity.’
– Yes. – I nod. – And I had a notepad and a recorder. The first question I asked was, ‘what language did you primarily speak at home?’ And you looked at me like I was crazy. I was going to have a heart attack. Yes, that’s the same blank look.
Smoke from her cigarette circles her head. She blinks and smiles:
– And you repeated the question, slower!
– I didn’t know if I was mumbling or not.
– And I said: ‘Of course, Portuguese and Cantonese. A Patuá word sometimes.’
– And then you started chain-smoking. And I had to try a cig, too.
– ‘Can I pinch a fag?’ You were ridiculous!
– Let me be ridiculous again. May I pinch a fag?
– For you, any time.
Just like that day two years ago, she tamps her cigarette into the ashtray and reaches into her purse. She produces a pack of Marlboro Reds and gently taps the box on the table’s edge:
– A fag?
– How can I not resist? You’ve had, how many now? Five?
She smiles and says, “three.” Reaching into her bag, a tube of lipstick falls under her chair, making a clinking sound. We hit our heads together as we both go for it. We laugh.
– Just like the first time. But, of course, you planned it, didn’t you?
– For you to look down my blouse? Always.
– I didn’t.
– I saw it. You did.
– I did. But Julia, there was nothing to see!
She kicks me under the table.
Cigarette lit, I take a long, cool drag. I glimpse at the features of her face trying to pick out the Cantonese or Malay or whatever and the Portuguese in her. She turns her head, and with a voice brimming with sarcasm, she furrows her brow:
– Did you want me or something that day? I never asked.
I fumble with my smoke:
– What? Me want? You?
– You were looking at me all the time. You were so strange and so obvious.
She leans over the table; I notice a slight rise of the nipple under her top.
She puts her hand on mine, and I dent the cigarette a little. I can feel myself blushing. And just like two years ago, I feel a vague stir and revulsion inside.
– Hold it naturally, like a pencil. Here, between the middle finger and the polegar. Thumb. That’s it.
She shakes her head; her once grave face opens up into a friendly smile.
– Thanks, Julia.
– You know, I am kidding you about wanting me. I know you: head over heels for your Chinese wife.
– What is it that you said? Wanting? That never stopped other men or you, for that matter.
– It was the truth. You have to admit you were acting a little strange that day – she sighs.
I was euphoric being with such an attractive woman. All the others I’d met before were old enough to be my mother. Not that mama’s not pretty; I don’t know.
– You were a breath of fresh air because I didn’t know what to expect.
– You thought I was going to be a church bell, didn’t you?
– No. Okay, yes.
Julia nods and laughs.
Perhaps an unconscious part of me did want to feel her skin against mine back then to forget all the confusion and pain, but today, that’s all over. It is just good to see my old friend after these past two torturous years: my marriage imploding, my doubts about graduate school, and now my venturing overseas.
– Remember, – I say – how you said Western and Chinese men looked at you like some sexual fantasy?
– Yes, your point is?
– I think you think everyone sees you that way. I never did.
– You are a funny man. Maybe you’re right. You don’t?
I shake my head and pour the last bit of tea into her cup.
I’d like to think in her I found a kindred spirit. In me, I hope, she found a friend. She introduced me to other Macaense women whom I interviewed. We talked, walked in museums, ate in restaurants, and she showed me tantalizing glimpses of the joy Macau was. My wife called the place the “Black Door” because people who went there never came back. Perhaps I left my heart here with Julia. I never told my wife about Julia. She wouldn’t have understood.
She lights a cigarette and barely misses ashing in her empty noodle bowl. She folds a bill in half and leaves some coins on the table. She motions for the curb. In her car, she tells me:
– I’m disappointed. You didn’t talk about me in your paper.
– I wanted to see how this conference goes. You know, I longed to return to Macau the day I left – you inspired me, you know? I’m so glad I made it out here again. I have an idea.
– You and your ideas.
I doodle on the dash with my finger:
– Well. I want to collect women’s stories like Daphne Patai did – only for Macau and write my dissertation on them. I want to touch on family stories, culinary arts, religion, and sexuality – all those things that women carry with them. I think women in Macau are the true vectors of culture. I’m going to Portugal first, and I’m going to come back here and do it; I need to get fluent in Portuguese before I can speak to all of you in your language, and not you to me in translation.
Julia smiles and nods.
– Look at you. You did listen. Going to be a professor. Why didn’t your wife come again?
If I could remove just a single chimeric year of my existence, I would. It would be that first one as a married man. Should I tell Julia my secrets, my unfortunate truths, just as she’s shared hers with me? I kept it all away when we first met. If I whelp them stillborn and expurgate my soul, will she laugh at me? I regret each and everything that happened. Perhaps it was fated that it all happened; it led me to here, to her, to right now.
Papers notarized the day before, my wife said goodbye at the airport, “No regrets?” She never was my wife. We were a convenience marriage, more convenient for me than anything else. I cannot hide behind the skirts of youth or inexperience. I knew what was going on. I just want it all to go away. There are many things I want to wish away.
Tears begin to form in my eyes. A wave of fevered heat explodes from my tightening chest. Sounds escape from my mouth, but I can’t understand them. Black feathers cover the sun, and my eyelids are cold. My lips are numb.
– We’re divorced.
Somehow we’re back in Taipa. First, the Porto Interior and now Taipa. Time evaporated. We’re in a dark garage. Her hands are on my neck; she’s kissing my eyelids. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry”, Julia says. I don’t say stop. Make it stop, please? I’m running Julia, running, and I want everything back. I want to go away, far away. “I don’t know. It is all over,” I stammer. “Come on upstairs,” she says. I sit up and say, “I’m sorry for ruining our evening.” Julia shakes her head and holds my hand. Black feathers float behind her, and I’m struck intense daylight.
– Are you okay? – Julia says.
I open my eyes and see Julia smiling.
– Jetlag’s hit me hard.
– You need a strong tea. Let’s go to my place.
She guns her car through a stop light and we reach a tall apartment building facing the bridge.
* * *
– Olá Elsa… Está… Sim, sim… He’s here… Yes, yes. He’s exhausted from the conference. And he’s still jetlagged. Yes. He’ll keep on the couch just fine. Yes. Yes. We’ll listen to the radio together. João was hilarious. Beijinhos to Zé and Filipa. Kisses.
Julia clicks her cell phone off.
– You are staying here tonight. I want to hear everything. Everything.
I want to make things normal again. I don’t want to think about her tender kisses on my eyelids in her car. I’m such a self-absorbed ass, breaking down like that in front of her. I can take care of this on my own; I should have been silent and used my prepared statement: “It would have cost too much for her to fly to Macau and then Lisbon.” But, of course, that’s not entirely true. But it sounds better than she’s going back to Charlottesville to be with her lover. It sounds better than she’s left me, and there’s no turning back. It sounds better than it was a clean break. It sounds better than we were living in different rooms, living separate lives, living as siblings might. She was my best friend, my confidant.
A kettle whistles, and Julia disappears. Her voice comes from the kitchen and pulls at my collar:
– Now you tell.
Julia returns, sits quietly, and listens, legs tucked under thighs, leaning against me.
– There’s so much I didn’t tell you. There’s so much I’ve wanted to tell you.
– Tell me, then. I’m right here.
– Nathaniel is his name. He was my friend and not really my friend. She was my wife but not really my wife. I hated them and myself for what happened. I thought in Providence, settled and in graduate school, my ire had bubbled away and had long evaporated; that all’s long forgiven and buried. He came for a visit just before I left, and I realized it hadn’t. I’m getting far ahead of myself. It started three years ago.
– When you were here?
– No. Before.
– You’re good at keeping secrets.
– I don’t know about that. He was this slacker who lived in the house where we rented a room for a summer. It was known as the purple-door house. When I met him for the first time, he looked totally wasted and tired and had his Kurt Cobain mojo going on. Initially, something about him got under my skin: maybe it was his always being right; perhaps it was that empty hunger in his eyes. No matter what it was, my first impression was negative. He gave me a bad vibe. In hindsight, where everything’s clear, I should’ve just told her that this house wasn’t going to work out. But the rent was low, and we had friends there. And and and. So, perhaps it was fated.
– Fated. That sounds so Portuguese. And you’re not Portuguese.
– I’ll pretend not to hear that.
– Go on.
– When I came across him the second time, he was asleep in a butterfly chair. The hippies are painting a red outline on the door as we move in. He just snores despite the ganja-giggles and suitcase crashes. But, later that night at dinner, when he opens his mouth and starts spinning po-mo theory with a dash of Taussig, I knew he was an intellectual, just like me – not a pseudo but the real deal. He was in rare form. At that moment, I start to warm up to him. She does too. Days pass, and I’m off for an archeological dig in the cornfields of a nearby county. When I come back for the weekends, I have this sneaking gut suspicion that something just isn’t right between the two of them. I think perhaps I’m being irrational. Maybe I’m too sensitive or wound-up. Maybe it was the humidity. I had this feeling they were together as a couple.
– I don’t know what to say. This is ghastly.
– My heart at the time wanted to be completely in love. I wanted desperately to love her. I felt if I swallowed my insecurities, I could. A change came over her in that house and she was becoming comfortable in her flesh, or rather, I sensed she was. She’s stopped wearing a bra and panties, and was “ready to go” as told me when I came back on the weekends. On the other hand, my body never felt right. Young, in love, optimistic, paranoid, insecure. In short, it was a Molotov cocktail waiting to explode. Once I found Nathaniel’s underwear in our room, I mentioned it joking. But, mum’s the word from everyone in the house. Another time, I mentioned a scrap of an idea to one of the hippies and she said I’d been in the sun too long. Digging in the clay with nothing but your thoughts can do a number on you, I agreed. So, I held my tongue. Why rock the boat?
– How?
– When the summer ended, we moved into a cool flat. Finally, our own place. Eventually, he’s invited over for dinner. It’s late, we’re tired, and she suggests he stay the night. This becomes a ritual. We have dinner; he feigns tired and sleeps on the couch. Weeks pass with intense late-night conversations, and we all connect. From the outside, it must look like some sort of love triangle. I told myself, it isn’t anything of the sort; we’re just good tight friends. As the semester wears on, I find myself coming home later and later. I’m studying like an animal and holding down a couple of jobs. I tried figure modeling for a while – I kept it secret – because I despised my body. And, I would come home, seeing the two of them leaning against each other. My dinner would be waiting for me, and I’d eat it while the two of them chatted. One night, while I’m preoccupied with something at the library, he opens up to her. He tells her a secret. When I come home, she asks me if he could sleep at the foot of our bed. She tells me the secret, and my heart sinks. He’s our friend; he needs our support, so I think this isn’t out of the ordinary. Sure, I say with a shrug. He doesn’t have to face his demons alone. So, there he sleeps, night after night.
– You didn’t.
– One morning, I wake up to find him holding her. His hand is poised over her breast, and his legs are wrapped around hers. I shrug it off. I just roll out of bed and dash off to work. Evening comes. Again, the same thing. A week, then two. A month. A semester. I wake up, and there he is, holding her. Eventually, something inside snaps. I protest. I say, so as long as he’s here, I’m sleeping on the couch. Fine, she says. I sleep on the couch. I take pills to drown out them out. It continued that way for the rest of the year. We still chilled as though nothing happened.
– You’re ridiculous. I’m sorry to say it. Chill with him, your wife’s lover.
– But you know, when I was here, interviewing, I got faxes every day that they were at it again. It’s the same all over again the following year. I thought I was going to go crazy. Then, I’m accepted into graduate school. We bid him bye and move to Providence. We hear nothing from him, and then in the middle of the winter, he shows up. He stays for a week and then leaves. I get a couple of fellowships to work in Portugal. And then she decided to leave me. She can’t come to Portugal, she said.
– Stop. Julia says. I’ve heard enough. That is why you were so far away then.
– Was I the complete fool or what? I did not want to see what was going on. Maybe if I stuck my head in the sand, it’d all go away. Perhaps I could’ve ignored it away.
– And it continued? You let it continue?
– Yes.
– Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You ignored. You knew. You should have just left.
– I couldn’t. You don’t know the rest of it
– Tell me.
– I don’t know, Julia. I needed a way to get a student loan. That’s why we got married. She was my girlfriend. Before, I thought I liked boys. But, the thought, to be with them, I couldn’t. With her, I wanted to like girls. She said she loved me and I’ll come around eventually, so why not? And I thought if I loved her, it would cure me. A year, two, three, nothing. I just couldn’t do that and everything fell apart. She said she ‘couldn’t be with a gay’ after all. The most I could do was hold her hand without feeling sick inside. And now my friend is gone, the only one who understood.
Julia shakes her head.
– You’re not gay. You aren’t anything. I knew the moment I met you.
– I don’t know what I am anymore.
– Turn it into a paper bird and burn it, let it go. I understand you.
* * *
The sky turns an ashen orange, and the shadows of passersby outside grow longer; Julia opens the curtains on her windows and cracks open the balcony door. The city in the distance is beautiful. Refracted from a peeking sliver of the windowpane, thin quavering fingers of light reach feebly across the room to her yellow muslin skirt, sheer and thin, lightly brush her thigh and rest upon the cool metal of a wood and metal pipe she has between her hands. Delicately carved on its surface is a design of intertwined flowers and dragons. The wood’s cooked caramel color and blackened mouthpiece perfectly complement the thin bands of silver clamping it together.
– It is beautiful – I say as she hands it to me to admire. – An opium pipe!
– It was my mother’s. I heard you’re going to Lisbon to study Macau’s opium houses. You should just stay here instead.
The smell of incense mingles with burnt paper wafting from a nearby balcony. Ashes, once bright red and now powder white, drift to meet the setting sun. The ceiling fan, turning languidly, draws the yellow smoke inside. Shifting my eyes from the ceiling, I find the dragon dancing.
Julia slides off her sandals and opens a small wooden box. She lifts two plastic baggies and holds them in both hands for me to see. Inside one is a small lump of what looks like a ball of tar, and in the other white powder.
– Is that opium? And what’s that? Coke?
– Ssh. I don’t want the neighbors to hear.
And with a polite laugh:
– Not afião. Besides, where would I get opium? It is sheesha tobacco, Arabic. And this is Vitamin K.
– We’re going to smoke Vitamin K? What is that?
– No, silly, we’re going to mix and smoke them together. Ketamine. It comes from Hong Kong; it is safe.
I look up and down and swallow. I’ve heard that it’s a dangerous drug: a dog tranquilizer.
– Are you okay with it? – Julia asks. – I think you need to relax and forget everything. This will help. I was the same as you, this is my therapy. Do you want to?
I silently nod in agreement. It will be fine; she’d never hurt me. She told me once that for Buddhists, there is no sin. Only what is wrong. This wouldn’t be wrong.
Her lids grow heavy as she takes a pinch of the black pitch and molds it between her fingers. She puts the tobacco ball in the palm of her hand and starts rolling it vigorously. It makes a sticking noise with every turn. She says it is for the heating. I sit entranced with every movement.
She wipes her hand on a rag and places the ball on a metal pin in the glass bowl at the end of the pipe. Then, delicately balancing on a cushion beside me, she fingers the strand of beads around her wrist, and just before she lights the flame, she says:
– I’m going to make a call. I want a couple of girlfriends to come over.
* * *
Julia opens the door and lets in a couple of women. They give each other beijinhos. I shake their hands. Names are spoken: Nora, Ana. Cups of orange juice are passed around. “Drink,” Julia says. “Vitamin K with Vitamin C,” Nora tells me. “Get ready for a trip,” Ana squeezes my shoulder.
Holding the pipe, she leans, purses her lips, and inhales. She hands me the pipe, and nods for me to do the same. After three long drags, I close my eyes. A rush of nicotine warmth and then calm. Julie passes the pipe from one of us to the other.
She motions to the cushions on the floor. Turning around, I find Ana methodically unbuttoning Julia’s blouse and massaging her neck. She moves from her jaw to her shoulders, first with her index and middle fingers and then with her palms. She slips her hands up the back of the blouse and moves them down Julia’s spine making small circles with the tips of her fingers. Julia sighs in appreciation.
The waxing light becomes shades of blue and yellow, and melts into gray puddles. Shadows are elongated needle-thin and evaporate. Complete serenity whisks across my limbs, and the breeze invites me to flow along with it to the sea. Ana is kissing Julia. Nora’s arms are around me. I kiss her gently on the cheek. I feel strange kissing a woman like this. She returns the kiss on my cheek and then my lips. She intoxicates. I fall asleep on her chest, arms around her waist. My body is no longer my own, and I am nothing.