AnYi 安亦

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Tell the story of a man who lives in a motel.

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I’m about to get ready for my evening shift when someone knocks on my door. What a fright it gives me! I start frantically packing away my protection box when I hear his voice. ‘Lili? It’s me.’

I open the door. There stands Shaoren, in his cheap suit and faded fifth-hand Converse shoes, a timid smile on his narrow face.

‘What?’ I snap at him. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack! I thought it was the cops.’

‘My fault. Um,’ He’s blushing for some reason, hesitating. That’s not like him.

I tell him to hurry up and let it out. I’m busy. He blushes even harder. ‘I want to ask a favour.’ He finally blurts out, taking out a plastic bag from behind his back. Needless to say, I am very familiar with the shape and size of the content of that bag.

Really, I knew this would happen sooner or later. Men. They’re all like that. They come and go all the time, just like trains. Some are scheduled, precise and punctual to the second; some operate on whims and think they’re unpredictable. I’ve learned to stop caring at this point – I had a college professor once, or so he claimed, who drivelled about a bunch of sociological theories and stuff – I didn’t really pay attention, but he held my hand when it was over and said something like ‘People like you should be recognised as workers; your labour also counts as making a living.’ And I found it hard not to roll my eyes. Of course I bloody make a living, idiot. This happened not that long ago, and I remember telling Shaoren about it. He listened with a pained expression and I thought he was having bowel problems or something, but in the end, he started to cry like a baby, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. I had to hold his head on my chest so he could cry better; it was awkward and uncomfortable, since both of us are bony, and his tears felt cold and clammy on my clothes. I knew how to make men come, not how to make them stop being so sad. All of them are sad who come to seek my service, but Shaoren was not like them. He’s so young and…innocent, I guess. With that pair of glasses, he looks like a student himself. He could very well be for his age, if fate hadn’t thrown him into this shithole. I didn’t know why he had to cry about some stupid college professor, but he’s always been soft. Too soft for his own good. I have this strange, almost maternal exasperation towards him, and that makes what’s about to happen even more awkward.

Still, work is work. I’m about to start evening shift anyway. I let him in and close the door behind him. ‘You’ll have to pay, you know.’

He nods, like a schoolboy answering a teacher’s question. ‘Of course. I’ve got you a present – is that OK?’

He doesn’t really have money. Neither do I, which is why I make it a rule never to do it for free – still, Shaoren is sort of a friend. Friends are hard to come by for a whore, and I suppose I could give him a discount. By the looks of it he’s probably never touched a woman before.

‘It’ll have to be quick, though. I’ve got an appointment at eight.’ I start unbuttoning my dress but have to pause mid-way when I catch the confused and frightened look in his eyes.

‘You do know how this works, right?’ Now I’m getting confused too. ‘The general requirement is taking your clothes off.’

He looks even more frightened, backing away till he’s leaning against the scabby wall. Turning into the colour of a flamingo, he stammers that it’s a misunderstanding, and that he doesn’t want sex. ‘I want to ask you a favour…but not that.’ He fishes something from out of his pocket. It’s an old polaroid camera. ‘I was wondering if you’d be OK with…taking a picture with me.’

And now he’s looking at me with such innocent expectation I start to wonder, for the thousandth time, how he even survived till this point.

‘What do you want to do with a picture?’ I don’t like the idea. It is a general principle that we don’t allow customers to take any photo of us, unless we could foresee a potential opportunity to blackmail them into silence. To my knowledge, Shaoren isn’t a big fan of taking photos either. I’ve noticed how careful he is when making sure none of his colleagues ever find out about where he lives, or who he associates with after work. He always gets off the underground three stops before the motel and walks from there. He still refuses to use a smartphone. His wallet is free of any portrait of family or lover, and I’ve started to think he must be an orphan, another lonely bastard on the edges of the urban forest like myself. But there’s something off about him. Sad and exhausted as we all are who dwell in the grey areas of the metropolis, he alone remains hopeful – it’s the kind of hope that brings light to his eyes whenever he receives his monthly salary, or when he occasionally makes a phone call, or finds a stray cat that follows him, or when the motel manager gives him snacks. He looks like someone who knows what he’s living for, and sometimes he smiles with such radiance and faith that I almost want to punch him in the face for its striking intensity.

Such as right now. He begins to grin sheepishly, and his voices goes soft. ‘It’s my little sister. Her foster parents told me she’s out of the hospital today. She’ll live! And I just really want to send her a picture and…I want to let her know I have friends here.’

And suddenly I remember the first time I met him. I knocked on the wrong door that night and he thought I was a helpless damsel in distress. Not only did he invite me in but also gave me his only remaining pot of instant noodles. He had very few possessions with him in that little room, and his clothes were all wrinkled and dusty. But he was somehow still smiling, and said to me, ‘I’ll be here if you need help, friend.’ I remember how he got into trouble with the manager’s brother-in-law the next day, and I soothed it out by telling him if he didn’t let Shaoren stay, certain videos would appear on his wife’s phone. Shaoren only found out about me a month later, and that was when he started to think we could be friends. What a naïve fool, I thought. Turns out I’m right, but yeah, he’s a nice fool too.

The picture looks surprisingly beautiful. We both look very young, and the cool tones and blurry effect gives us the pretence that we are happy. I think the little sister will probably believe it.