Cinema Love
Jiaming Tang
Jiaming Tang, whose debut novel, Cinema Love, was published by Dutton in May. (Credit: Dutton Adult (HC) 2024)
Do you see her? The limping woman with the shopping bags. She walks slowly and stares with hatred in her eyes. Maybe it’s the heat. The sweat dripping from wrist to sidewalk as the carp she bought spoils in its plastic. A shiny tail pokes out from behind a bent bundle of chives, and the ice cream in her other bag is melting. The marchers crowding the streets smell the fish, or at least some imagine they can. Anything to dismiss this glaring woman whom they believe to be an enemy. There’s something haughty about her. An expression matching the crinkling of a nose, like when you see a beggar on the street and decide to cover your face. In the words of one of the youngsters, “You never know with people nowadays.” He’s not wrong, but he’s not right, either. It’s true, this woman doesn’t care for the marchers. She’ll believe in rent cancellation when she sees it, but right now she’s got a carp spoiling below her wrist and all these people in the way. The white ones she pushes, especially if they’re posing for pictures. She’s kinder to the Chinese marchers, but her sympathy lies solely with the old men and women.
A few are her neighbors, two of them illegal. To her, their courage is stupid. What if the cops get you, and what if you are infected with the new illness? It’s better to be safe than sorry, especially in this part of the world. She shakes her head and walks up the stairs of her building. The steps haven’t been swept in weeks, and scraps of paper are scattered everywhere. Receipts, lotto tickets, scratch‑off cards, and a child’s drawing—ugly. Her apartment is on the third floor, a one‑bedroom, and the door opens the moment she shakes out her keys.
“Did you get the shrimp paste?” Old Second asks.
The woman doesn’t respond and instead places her groceries in the fridge. They’ve been married for thirty years and rarely address each other by name. A grunt is greeting enough for them. Instead of calling her Bao Mei, Old Second clears his throat and glances in his wife’s direction. It’s the kind of communication you see in very old couples—ones who’ve gone through things together.
“It’s a million degrees out, and all those people,” Bao Mei says.
“Did you remember the shrimp paste?” Old Second asks again.
“No. Out.”
“Are you sure? They always have it at the big store. Near Canal.”
“Why don’t you go yourself if you have all the answers?”
“It’s one block over. Doesn’t take more than five minutes.”
“Okay,” Bao Mei says, thrusting her shopping bags at him. “Why don’t you go now? Walk through all those people, I dare you. God. It’s so sweaty out there, so sticky. You touch someone and you’re stuck to them like tape.”
“Next time go the other way. The crowd is gathered on one end of the road.”
“I don’t have time to talk to you anymore. I’m going to lie down. With all those people out I haven’t been able to sleep at night.”
“The protests only started this morning.”
“Yeah, well.” She blinks while lying on the futon. “Let’s hope what happened to us doesn’t happen to them.”
Together, Bao Mei and her dreams remember everything. Not just her own memories, but those of others. Asleep, her body twitches and so does her mouth—choking on silent words as they fail to enter waking life. Today, however, a scream exits her lips, mixing with the thick August air. When she wakes, it’s to the loathsome sound of Old Second running from the bedroom. They perform their usual routine. He asks if she’s all right; she tells him she’s had a dream. No, she doesn’t want to talk about it; yes, she’ll take a bowl of water. The warmer, the better so she won’t taste the tap flavor like blood in her mouth. She swishes it. Looks around at this apartment they’ve built together as husband and wife.
From Cinema Love by Jiaming Tang, published by Dutton, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2024 by Jiaming Tang.
