Jonathan and I were in the taxi line at the Suzhou train station, slowly shuffling along, while fanning off cigarette smoke that was being blown in our direction. She weaved through the crowd, slow enough to make sure that people saw her deformed hand and collected the occasional coin, but quick enough to dodge the verbal abuse or move past the indifference.
She stopped in front of me and asked me for a little something to help her. Once again, she raised her hand - gnarled, like chicken feet that has been cooked in curry stew for way too long - callously, as if it's a mere chip to leverage human emotions. I gave her some money. Then as she was about to turn away to move to the man in front of me, I asked her to wait. I fished out a bar of rich, creamy milk chocolate bar that I had been saving from Hong Kong, and offered it to her.
Her eyes darted around the crowd, seeming to look around for approval. She glanced back at me, with a shocking familiarity, and refused. She had a cold and couldn't eat chocolate; I should give it to the young man next to me instead.
Later, while sweeping my floor at home, I snapped my head back from the realization that I had seen that look before on a different girl. The same hard eyes. A whispered confession at the homeless shelter for children in front of the barred windows. A plan to track down the restaurant owner who made her pick up broken glass with her bare hands and make him swallow those cutting shards one by one.
---------
Last week, after a sales pitch in Shanghai, I returned to the Suzhou train station, competing with the old ladies for an early spot in the taxi lines.
I noticed the bowl first, the few coins, and finally the written petition describing the accident that left her with the horrific mutilation on her hands.
Then I see her eyes. And her gnarled hand. But this time, instead of the smooth skin of a child, there were angry, vengeful burns.
All of a sudden, I tasted the bitterness of chocolate in my mouth and gagged.
No comments:
Post a Comment