As I leave the staff room, I hear the clank of a bucket at the other end of the corridor. There she is, going about her work-a thin, blond figure in a blue nylon coat, her copy of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter stuffed in a torn pocket, mopping the floor in a pair of mules that were designed for dancing. No flat shoes this morning for Jackie Day.
And I can’t tell if she is staring into space or looking right through me.
“It’s sexual imperialism,” Lisa Smith says. “That’s what it is. That’s all it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my face burning, my back aching.
“Oh, I think you do,” she retorts. “Yumi. Hiroko. Now Vanessa. I saw her give you that golden delicious.”
I’m shocked. I was caught red-handed with Vanessa. But how does she know about Yumi? How does she know about Hiroko?
“Do you think our students don’t talk?” she says, answering my question, and I think: Vanessa. Vanessa and her big, mocking mouth. “And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve insulted this college. Please don’t insult my intelligence.”
“Okay,” I say. “But I honestly don’t feel that I’ve done anything wrong.”
Lisa Smith is dumbfounded.
“You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong?”
“No.”
“Can’t you see that we are in a position of trust?” she asks me, crossing her legs and impatiently tapping a combat boot against the side of her desk. “Can’t you see that you’re exploiting your position?”
I never saw it as exploitation. I felt that we were always sort of equal. I know I’m their teacher and they are my students, but it’s not as though they are children. They are grown women. Most of them are more mature than me. And yet they are young. They are gloriously young, with all their lives stretching out before them. True, I’m the guy with the piece of chalk, but they have time on their side, they have years to burn. I always felt that gave us parity, that their youth leveled it up. Youth has its own kind of power, its own special status. But I can’t say any of this to the principal.
“They’re all old enough to know what they’re doing,” is what I say. “I’m not cradle snatching.”
“You’re their teacher. You’re in a position of responsibility. And you have abused that position in the worst possible way.”
At first I think that she is going to sack me then and there. But her face softens.
“I know you think that I’m some kind of old battle-ax who can’t stand to see anyone having a good time,” she says.
“Not at all, not at all.”
That’s exactly what I think.
“I understand the temptations of the flesh. I was at the Isle of Wight for Dylan. I spent a weekend at Greenham Common. I know what happens when people get thrown together. But I can’t condone sexual relations between my staff and my students. Do it again and you’re out. Is that understood?”
“Absolutely.”
Even as I am nodding, I am thinking to myself: you can’t stop me. This city is full of young women looking for friendship, romance and a little help with the native tongue. Even as I am being given my final warning, I am telling myself that it is going to be all right, that I need never be lonely, that I am doing nothing wrong.
I like you, you’re nice.
Where’s the harm in that?
When the pain in my back gets so bad that the painkillers no longer have any effect, I go to see my doctor. At first he looks at me as though it’s another psychosomatic thing, like my heart feeling as if it’s an undigested kebab, but when I tell him about the angel on top of my nan’s Christmas tree, he gets me to take my shirt off and gives me a full examination.
Then he tells me there’s nothing that he can do.
“Tricky thing, the lower back,” he says.
I bump into George Chang on my way home. He is coming out of General Lee’s with takeout, on his way back to the Shanghai Dragon to help with the lunch trade. He looks at my face and asks me what’s wrong.
“Done my back in,” I tell him. “Putting up my nan’s Christmas tree.”
He tells me to come to the restaurant with him. I say that I’ve got to get back to work, but he does this thing that I’ve noticed his wife does all the time. He just acts as though I haven’t spoken. When we are inside the Shanghai Dragon, he tells me to stand perfectly still. He places his hands at the base of my spine. He is not quite touching me, but-and this is strange-I can definitely feel the warmth of his palms. He is not touching me, but I can feel the heat of his hands. It’s like standing next to a quiet fire. How do you explain that?
Then he tells me to lean slightly forward and very gently pummel my lower back with the back of my hands. I do what he tells me. And then I look at him. Because something inexplicable has happened.
The pain in my back is going away.
“What happened there?”
He just smiles.
“How did you do that?”
“Keep doing that exercise.” He leans forward and lightly paddles his back. “Do it every day for a few minutes. Not too hard, okay?”
“What-what was that? George?”
“Very simple Chi Kung exercise.”
“What’s Chi Kung? You mean chi as in Tai Chi? Is it the same thing?”
“Any kind of exercise with the chi is Chi Kung. Okay? For keeping healthy. For curing sickness. For martial arts. For enlightenment.”
“Enlightenment?”
“That’s all Chi Kung. You remember chi. You told me you don’t got any chi. Remember?”
I feel foolish. “I remember.”
“Does it feel bit better?”
“It feels a lot better.”
“You think maybe you got some chi after all?”
He is laughing at me.
“I guess I have.”
“Then maybe you should come to the park on Sunday morning.”
“You’re going to teach me?”
He sort of grunts. “I’ll teach you.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Sunday morning. Don’t be late.”
This year my family teaches me the true meaning of Christmas-surviving the thing.
But the long hours between the Christmas pudding and the blockbuster movies and my old man’s sheepish arrival with his last-minute booty from Body Shop give me a chance to do some thinking.
With the sex police patroling the corridors of Churchill’s International Language School, I figure that it is going to be difficult to meet new faces at work.
So I decide to go private. I place an ad in the back of a listings magazine, in the Personal Services section, which comes just after Introduction Agencies and just before Lonely Hearts.
Need Good English?
Fully qualified English teacher seeks private students.
We can help each other.
Then I put on Sinatra singing “My Funny Valentine” and I wait.
18
I T FEELS GOOD to be starting something new on such a beautiful day.
There’s a light frost glinting on the park’s stubby grass, but above our heads the usual flat gray shroud has been replaced by an endless blue sky and sunlight that is more dazzling than high noon in August. Although our breath is coming out as chilled steam, George and I are squinting our eyes in the light. We face each other.
“Tai Chi Chuan,” he says. “Means-the supreme ultimate fist.”
“Sounds violent,” I say.
He ignores me.
“Everything relaxed. All moves soft. All things relaxed. But all moves have martial application. Understand?”
“Not really.”
“Western people think-Tai Chi Chuan very beautiful. Very gentle. Yes?”
“Right.”
“But Tai Chi Chuan is self-defense system. Every move has a reason. Not just for show.” His hands glide through the air. “Block. Punch. Strike. Hold. Kick. But flowing. Always flowing. And always very soft. Understand?”
I nod.
“Tai Chi Chuan good for health. Stress. Circulation. Modern world. But Tai Chi Chuan not the weakest martial art in the world.” His dark eyes gleam. “Strongest.”