Bald guy was going to be a great chef.
I heard a scream from downstairs, then dead silence. I set down the cleaver, rubbed my hands with soap, washed the front, the back, between the fingers, even under the nails. I dried my hands with a paper towel. Before going down I checked the mirror—gym yesterday wasn’t for nothing, I look a little thinner today.
On the way down I panicked. I heard sobbing, broken up. Could it be Xiao Liu crying? I’d had a crush on Xiao Liu for two years—when she first came to interview in the kitchen I thought, damn, she’s something. Who knew my apprentice liked her too. I had to pretend I hated her.
The storeroom where we keep supplies is lit by blunt white spotlights dead in the center. From the rafters hangs the hemp rope the boss told me to buy yesterday for moving. It’s tied in a noose. In the ring is my apprentice’s pale head. He’s bald—looks like a huge goose egg. He’s naked. Across his belly is the tattoo he got: “I will love Liu Xiaoxin for life.” His genitals are bare, no socks—every day I told him to wear socks, otherwise it’s bad for circulation; doesn’t matter now, no circulation left. His small bald cock is actually pretty long, standing up straight on his corpse. On the floor lies a white, sticky fluid. His final erection was heroic, magnificent—and useful to me, because I lost a rival in love. I heard one way to humiliate an enemy is to display his manhood. Now I could love Xiao Liu freely, though I didn’t need the display.
I think he killed himself. In the kitchen there’s only me and Xiao Liu. I was chopping meat—come on, she wouldn’t kill him. She was annoyed by his chasing her, but not that far. Hanging like that on a rope—on TV that’s how someone kills themselves.
The cops came. Business ruined for the day—what rotten luck, couldn’t they come tomorrow? I’m supposed to have the day off. Xiao Liu and I stood shoulder to shoulder and told the police about our relationship with the bald guy. They took us to the station. In the car I worried whether the kitchen’s stove had been turned off and the door locked—but the coroner should check the fire. At the station we made statements. I thought Xiao Liu looked suddenly prettier, more composed.
Next morning the sun was unusually bright. Because the bald man was dead the boss gave us three days off. I decided to go buy a pancake and ask Xiao Liu out. I lit a cigarette, grabbed a jacket, went down. The wind was sharp today—my right eyelid twitched—and then I heard, “Don’t move!” Who can stop the wind? I was tackled, my hands cuffed behind me, they hit me so hard my face bled. Then they took me to the station again. In the car I kept thinking about the lock.
This time it was different. They interrogated me. The cops asked a pile of questions; I told the truth. Then they asked if I’d killed him. I was stunned—didn’t he kill himself? I asked for lunch first, but they wouldn’t give it. My apprentice used to get rough with police when he was arrested for fighting; I called a childhood friend who became a bureau chief and got him released. Now he’s gone. I should never have helped him.
They put me in a little room and said it was time to eat. Then they beat me. Slaps to the face, curses at my grandmother; then they fed me the lunch I’d begged for an hour, all the while cursing my ancestors; then they put a plastic bag over my head and called my mother names; finally they burned my hand with a cigarette, spat in my face, told me to stop lying.
It hurt. I was hungry. I told them I didn’t kill him—he killed himself. I had no proof of suicide and nobody saw me chopping meat. The cops said Xiao Liu claimed my hands were clean, not like someone who’d just been chopping. I said I had chopped—it’s because Xiao Liu was downstairs and I didn’t want to meet her looking messy. “I’ve liked her for two years,” I said. The officer slapped me again; my excuse was pathetic. They told me Xiao Liu’s statement said, “The head chef was always mean to me—if it weren’t for the bald man pursuing me, I would have quit ages ago.” How could I be in love with her if she said that? The cops said if I had a crush it only made me more suspicious: me and the bald guy were rivals, who wouldn’t want to get rid of their rival? They said the tattoo on his chest—her name inked there—made it look staged, like a fake murder scene.
I figured this: maybe I should’ve killed him sooner. When he was lying there with the tattoo, unable to move, I could have put a plastic bag over his head and beaten him until he died. If I admitted to killing him, they might feed me—though I didn’t kill him. The bald kid started learning from me after middle school: washing dishes for two years, then I taught him cooking little by little. He learned Sichuan and Italian dishes; he was already very skilled. I can’t have kids, so I treated him like my son. He was even studying Huaiyang cuisine—better than I was at his age. Bald guy would have been a great chef. But I can’t prove I didn’t kill him.
A cop was called out. Five minutes later he came back with a bowl of rice. I didn’t eat—afraid of another beating. He saw that, gave me back my phone, took off my cuffs, told me to eat and then I could go.
Bald guy committed suicide.
The sunset that day was extra pink—pink on the concrete, pink on the river. I took the ferry, watched the sun go down, and jumped.