The Yuehui (The Date)

I like sitting by the window in my one-to-one Chinese class, which happens twice weekly in a French patisserie. It allows me to slyly people-watch during frequent moments of distraction.

So imagine, one day, the corner of my eye catching a flash of white frills. I double-take and behold through the glass a young girl striding by, instantly conspicuous amongst the shoddy pedestrians: dressed in a teasing yet pure snowy bridesmaid mini-dress paired with swan-like stilettos, a baby-blue handbag pendent on the crook of her slender frame’s elbow. Feigning obliviousness to the passing oglers, she looks absolutely ridiculous.

Then she’s gone, out of my sight and care. A few minutes later, I look up from my textbook to see her nesting egg-like at the table opposite. This is an opportunity for closer inspection.  Topping the not-so-virginal baptismal outfit is a cascade of black hair, not a strand out of place. Her cosmetically-enlarged irises artificially match the colour of her bag, but not the shape of her eyes, and a scrapeable layer of icing nearly masks ancient evidence of acne devastation on her golf-ball cheeks. Only an explosion of red on her dynamite lips completes the South-Korean flag colour theme.

She nests for an unknown amount of time, until an example of the word I've coincidentally just learnt – a 小鲜肉 (“Little Fresh Meat”) or urban dandy asserts himself on the chair facing hers, not before catching sight of my curious glances and throwing me a cheeky grin. He’s wearing a suit, and that’s about as much as can be said for him. After he brings her a drink, I leave them to it, and go back to trying to concentrate.

Another indefinite amount of time passes, maybe fifteen minutes, during which I only catch them sharing a quiet smirk at me stumbling over some Chinese sentences. Then suddenly they both spontaneously stand up. This abruptness is enough to recapture my attention, and I watch them march out of the patisserie, leaving behind two almost-untouched glasses of caffeinated froth. It’s only at this point that I realise they did not speak a single word to each other for the duration of what I’ll hesitantly describe as their date. Out of the door of the patisserie, as if choreographed, they turn on their heels and without a backward glance, separate in perfectly opposing directions.

Still naïve about modern Chinese society, especially when it comes to young courtship, I consider what I've just observed. Perhaps it was as it seemed; a Little Emperor and a Material Girl trying their luck for the sake of appearances, their overwhelming self-indulgence holding them back from conversing and even eating. Sometimes the Fu’erdai, the Rich Second Generation, make a point of leaving get-togethers early and their food untouched simply to give the impression that they have busy lives and better places to be. His opportunistic grin may have been a boastful indication of the Baifumei he’d bagged (Rich White Beauty), something for his mates and money to salivate over. Or maybe I got it all wrong and it was just a covert business deal. Or table-sharing that didn't quite fulfil expectations. Either way, I’d never seen anything as unromantically surreal.

The departure is so sudden it seems almost purposeful. Half-expecting them to return, I keep an eye on the frappés for about two minutes before swiping hers and sucking it down. Well, someone had to get lucky, right?

Lei Ayi

God, I hate Lei Ayi.

Lei Ayi is a servant, in the regular sense of the word. Rich Chinese families like my hosts dribble out around 4000rmb (£390) a month for an old-ish lady to clear up their filth, feed them, clothe them and generally rim them in other such ways, like some socially acceptable paraphilic infantilism. These housemaids (ayis) give up their families, hopes, dreams, and human dignity for chickenfeed from the hands of moneyed cunts who need someone to wipe their pooey arse.

Do I pity Lei Ayi? No. When I arrived she was a complete bellend to me. Wary of a new foreign intrusion into her territory, usurpment of some of her duties (involving the kid mostly) she yelled at me in Sichuanese like, every day. She didn’t like that I was putting a stop to her spoon-feeding the child and that I was refusing to tidy up its playtime mess alone. She would watch me with the beadiest eye when I crossed into the kitchen, and forbade me from eating certain foods (plum jam, cornflakes, mango) because they “belonged” to the Princess. Even though her mother had said I could help myself to whatever, because I was “part of the family”, something I never really felt like. Then after seeing me having a few, Lei Ayi started hiding strawberries from me. FOR REAL. HIDING STRAWBERRIES.

After a few months, it was evident I wasn’t going anywhere because the kid loved me and I was refusing to cave into this old lady’s constant harassment, so she started to relax a bit. She realised I’d taken a load off her back by making the kid more independent in the mornings, as well as teaching it that hitting the housemaid is unacceptable. So sanctions against me were slowly lifted; the tyrannical monopoly over the kitchen gave way a little and I could make myself fried eggs for breakfast once more. Around this time, an unspoken chumminess germinated; the recognition that both of us were dicked about by our fashionista she-master. At least I thought that was happening - one evening we exchanged miffed glances over the kitchen counter we’d been made to sit at whilst the host family and some guests supped in happy togetherness at the dining table.

But one day, just as lunch was about to be served, our gracious employer left the house saying she’d be back right away. Half an hour later and she still hadn’t returned, so I sated my wailing gut with an avocado sandwich, but Lei Ayi continued to linger, staring out of the window like a displaced refugee. Angry, I urged her “just eat! She always does this. I bet you she won’t come back.” When, two hours later she did, Lei Ayi triumphantly told her exactly what I’d said, grassing on me for my transgressive and unslavelike behaviour. I momentarily felt betrayed. Then I realised that, whilst she might, I don’t mind not being the bourgeoisie's bitch.

It’s not because Lei Ayi is clearly a basic bitch that I feel a lack of pity. I lack pity because she lets herself be treated like a domesticated dog. Fair enough, maybe it’s the best paid job she can get because of her lack of educational qualifications or other white-collar “skills”. She gets accommodation and food, and can send home her earnings to put her grandson through school and soften the blow for her mah-jong gambler husband. But the way she comes running, anytime day or night from whatever burdensome task, as soon as she hears her name screeched from the upstairs bedroom just makes me sick. I’m trying to teach the kid politeness and respect for other human beings but this is posed in stark contrast to the conspicuous mistreatment of Lei Ayi by the kid’s very own parents. Maybe I should blame them, who without Lei Ayi wouldn’t last half a day. Yet whilst I try to put her on an equal footing with them, or higher even because of her admirable tirelessness, she would never reciprocate this to me. She would lick their perineums and say it tastes like fortune cookies, and believe it too. A classic case of ragged-trousered philanthropism, the poor woman’s been brainwashed into believing that compared to them, she is scum. And if that’s what she wants, I’ll leave her to pant over their underpants.