The Fox Fairy at the FRA

Abstract

THE FOX FAIRY AT THE FRA / Catherine Dai IWAITED FOR HIM in front of the Fleet Reserve Association's clubhouse, which towered conspicuously above the one-story shops on either side. When he arrived, it was beginning to rain. He parked his motorbike next to mine under the awning and we hurried to the door. A bunch of Chinese kids stood around, punked-out and looking like they had money to burn, but it was Saturday night and they would have a hard time getting in without a member's help. "What's the deal?" Nick whispered. "They're carding tonight." He frowned and we pushed our way in. The first floor was packed with newcomers Uke Nick and bonafide ex-pats like myself—American businessmen, retired officers, students, Chinese associates, wives, girl friends, and whores. Everyone, even people I knew, watched us pass, their glances bouncing off my face to linger on Nick's. He was one of the best-looking Western men to have come to the island in a long time—tall, with thick, walnut-brown hair, heavy brows, very fair skin, and intense blue eyes that were the terror of the Chinese guys in the dojo, who almost became hypnotized when he focused on them. We were celebrating his modeling contract with Runnex, the big sportswear firm. Soon his face and body would be in every major magazine in the country. I didn't make introductions as we pressed toward the bar and ordered our beers from the Chinese woman bartender. Keep them guessing, I thought. Though it was early, the place was already intense with smoke, and despite the mad whirring of the air conditioner, everybody I brushed against was clammy. "Where we going?" he asked. "Wherever there's an empty chair, I guess." I didn't want to sit with anyone I knew. I spotted a chair at a table where a middle-aged American was sitting with a not-very-pretty Chinese girl. She had three plates in front of her and was shoveling food in clumsily with a fork and knife. The guy's hand was on her bare knee, but she paid no attention to him. I recognized him as an occasional player on the Softball team I had belonged to last year. He was always complaining about how much he missed his family back in Arkansas. He smiled at me and winked. I winked back, then turned around and pushed Nick in the other direction. "Why don't we just park at the bar," he suggested. "Tm almost ready for another." 16 · The Missouri Review "Patience, I think I see something," I said, heading toward a dark corner where a long-faced, long-haired Frenchman sat with a woman who could have been his twin. "Pierre, como tally vu," I greeted him, then whispered to Nick, "He hates Americans." "Sounds like my kinda guy. Why don't we just keep moving on?" But I wanted Nick to myself, so I pointed to the two empty chairs beside them. "Mais oui?" I asked, privately enjoying my bad pun. Pierre made a limp gesture of acquiescence, then lifted his droopy bloodshot eyes to his companion. "Merde," he said. We turned our backs on them and drank our beers. While Nick watched the fluctuating combinations of people, I studied him, amused by his interest. He stared blatantly into people's faces, grimacing at the pair of blondes sitting near us, who shrieked with laughter, squinting his eyes at the Chinese women who sat at tables in threes and fours, waiting with sullen expectation while their more aggressive counterparts mingled with any single men they could find. "I don't believe the women here," he said, turning to me. "I get accosted everywhere I go. College students want to practice English with me on the bus. Salesgirls follow me around in the shops like baby ducks. At first, I thought they were worried that Td steal something, but then they started asking me if Tm married. When I went into offices looking for work, the secretaries passed me their phone numbers. It's incredible. I literally had to run out of Cave's bookstore...