Assuring The Guilty

December inhales the heat and comfort of fall. The snowfall is thick this year, the nights dim and long as a leech, sucking out the last few rays of sunlight each day. In a fair-sized house in the middle of a suburban street in a Canadian town, lives a man and his wife both in their early forties, enjoying a pleasantly warm evening, a fire in their living room. It crackles, the breath of a dragon bringing a warm glow to the household. The man is cooking dinner, the woman is cleaning old things in the basement. The man is making a stew. In front of him, the exhaust hood is at work, making an airy noise like the roar of a waterfall as he stirs a large wooden spoon in the red ceramic pot. A river of aroma fills the household, reaching down to the basement.

The woman breathes it in and smiles. It is time to go up. She brings with her a photo she found on top of a pile of white cardboard boxes filled with old documents and clothes. The man hears her footsteps up the stairs.

“Hey,” says the woman, handing him the photo. He turns off the exhaust hood, wipes his hands on a small towel, turns around and takes it from her. “I found this down there. It’s a cute picture. Who is she?”

The man studies the photo. It’s him when he was in high school. His short, spiky dark hair was like that you’d find on a porcupine. His chocolate-coloured eyes. A closed smile. Beside him, a whole half-foot shorter, is a girl. She also has black hair and brown eyes. Her smile is more pronounced than his, like a bolded font, white and cheerful and serene. They have their arms behind each other’s backs. Her friend had taken the picture with her polaroid camera during a field trip to Toronto to watch a French play. He tried to remember the name of the play but couldn’t.

“Is she that girlfriend you’ve told me about?” His wife grins, as if a teasing buddy.

“Yes.”

“Asia?”

“That’s her.”

She joins his side to look at the picture. They stare at it for a long moment. “She is pretty,” mutters the woman. Then she squeezes his arm. “I’ll finish up here. Get the table ready. Tell me all about her during dinner.” The man nods, and she leaves to tend to the stew. He moves to the living room, finding a seat on the couch, staring at the photo in his hand the whole time. Asia, his first girlfriend. How did he lose her? It was a story he did not like to tell. And yet, as much as he did not want to remember, the memories came flooding back, as if in a lake, a team of terrorists blew up the cranial dam of his mind.

#

Late January. Cold. Thick sheets of snow on the roads, but a sunny sky. Exams are already over, giving students a reason to drive their cars from the school’s parking lot to hang out at coffee shops, the mall, or someone’s house. At the front doors of the school, a boy and a girl are walking out.

The boy’s name is Ray. Short, spiky dark hair like a porcupine. A black backpack hung on his right shoulder, his hand holding the strap. Eighteen years old. When he was six, his family immigrated to Ontario from the Philippines. Three out of four of his grandparents are Chinese, and so the culture of both nations courses through his veins, with his mixed looks to prove it. He likes video games and basketball. He is of average height. His movements are smooth and he thinks himself slick, not knowing what is coming to him.

The girl’s name is Asia. Long, dark hair. Half of the time she likes to keep it in a ponytail, half of the time she doesn’t. The same colour eyes as Ray, and shorter than him. The same age as him. Slim. Very pretty. Her roots lie in her Japanese father and Korean mother, who met on a business trip in their twenties. She likes drinking sake with her father and eating Korean barbecue. She is Ray’s girlfriend. Although Ray is not the most outgoing type of person, while she is fairly popular herself, they have been dating for four years. Not anymore.

While every kid leaving the doors of the school is excited or laughing with some friends, Ray and Asia are angry. Their stomping steps contrast with the light, joyful ones of the other liberated students, some of them glancing at the couple.

“Asia, please! Don’t tell me you’re actually doing this!”

“I am! I’m breaking up with you!”

“You’re leaving me after four years for that guy?”

“His name is Eric.”

“But we’re meant to be together! What about those trips we planned to the Pyramids? To Paris? To Greece? Mount Fuji! Seoul!”

“No Ray, you only think we’re meant to be together.” She pauses. “You said you didn’t want to lose me to someone like Eric. What did you mean by that? What’s wrong with him?”

A stutter leads to a pause.

“Whatever. You don’t have to like him. Go home, Ray. I’ll call you when you feel better.”

She turns and leaves, leaving a crestfallen boy at the front of the school.

They have had their share of rough times before, and the boy thought this was merely one of those. One of the worse ones, but still repairable. She’d be back to normal the next day, and this would never have happened. They would lie to all their friends that something happened, like always.

The two don’t eventually get back together.

Two weeks pass. In that time, the two have little contact, both trying to forget about the other. It is difficult. Ray will not move on. He will not delete her photos on his accounts, he will not give her back the things she left at his house or in his car. Asia does move on, although reluctantly, as if she is still unsure of it all. But eventually, her feelings for Ray cease. She spends more time with Eric. The two eventually become lovers. 

Asia does not want to let go of Ray as a friend. She regularly invites him to get bubble tea with Eric. Ray always accepts, with a glimmer of hope of rekindling their romance. Eric, who Ray thinks would be skeptical of him, never seems to mind his presence at all. For some reason, this bothers Ray greatly, like an itch behind his back he can never reach.

Eric is a trim young man who everyone at school thinks is a pleasant guy to be around. He has a strong build, the sign of someone who regularly goes to the gym. His hair is smooth and combed, and his beard is clean-cut. Both are short and have a dirty blond colour with the slightest reddish hue. Ray does not have a beard; he always shaves his facial hair. Eric gets A’s in school, sometimes B’s. Ray usually gets the same as well, but losing Asia has caused him to lately perform poorly in class. Eric is taller than him, perhaps reaching six feet. Ray is a few inches short of it, and he thinks about how Eric towers over Asia when he is holding her, a girl who is already shorter than Ray is. Eric’s clothes make Ray feel unstylish. He’s dressed in a white shirt, a blue jeans jacket, and khaki pants. Ray is wearing black jogger pants and a red hoodie, his usual fit. He imagines a scenario where Asia is talking to Eric, praising his clothes and grumbling about Ray’s.

Ray has interrogated Eric before. 

“Where are you from, Eric?”

“Here. I was born in Toronto.”

“No, I mean your background. Where are you from?”

“If I were to choose, I’d put myself as Canadian first. But I have German and Irish roots from my dad and British roots from my mom. Possible Norse ancestors.”

“You like any games?”

“Yeah, a lot. Ever since I was a little kid. A few consoles. A PC.”

He doesn’t believe him.

“Any sports? Basketball? Do you watch the NBA?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I like soccer and rugby too. Hey, some guys told me you were good at basketball. You should join the school team.”

Ray imagines a doll with a huge creepy smile, one hand behind its back holding a knife.

One night, the three of them are hanging out and getting bubble tea. Finally, he loses it. It is when they are waiting outside the shop and Eric sees Asia inside chatting cheerfully with the cashier, a boy wearing the shop’s cap and apron uniform. She is paying for her drink. Eric chuckles and says, “I’ve never dated an Asian girl before. She’s flirty, eh?”

Ray’s volcano of a heart erupts. He pushes Eric in the chest and he stumbles. “What do you think you’re saying about her?” he shouts.

“What? I didn’t mean--”

Ray pushes him again, hard. He almost falls this time. “Now what are you going to do? Push me back?”

“No!”
“Do it. Push me back!”

“I won’t.”

“Isn’t that what you people do? What else? Tell me to stay away from your girl?”

“No.”

“Tell me I’m not good enough for her?”

“No!”

“That you’re better in every way?”

“NO.”

“Are you going to tell me to look at myself right now? Tell me to open my eyes?”

“Never!”

Asia steps out of the shop, raising a palm to each of their faces. “Stop! What’s going on, you two?” She is leaning toward Eric’s side, and she is only looking at Ray. Her gaze pierces through him like he’s a rabid animal. “Ray, what did you do?”

Ray ignores her. He leaves before anything can be explained. Behind him, he hears Asia say, “What’s wrong with him?” Then, from Eric: “I don’t know. But I feel sorry for him.”

Time passes. A week goes by since Ray last spoke to Asia or Eric. Then, one day, Asia shows up at Ray’s house. His mother leads her in and says he is in his room. She goes up to talk to him and finds him in his bed, under the covers, back turned to her. She sits on the bed and stares out the window of the room. It is a dark and cold February night. There is a light snowfall outside. For a while, everything is silent and peaceful.

“He says he’s sorry for anything he said.”

Ray says nothing.

“You made him feel guilty for being with me. Now he won’t talk to me either. I can’t interact with him. He knows about the two of us more than you think. I told him.”

Ray says nothing.

“I didn’t come here to take you back. I came here to tell you to stop driving a wedge between us. Whether you like it or not, we fit together. He’s a really nice guy. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

Finally, Ray sits up and looks at her. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Because I don’t love you anymore.”

A little hurt in her eyes.

“You can go be with him. I’m not stopping you. I’m not doing anything.”

“Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?”

“Tell me why you don’t like him.”

“Do your parents like him?”

“What is that supposed to mean? I don’t need their permission. Answer my question.”

“So your parents don’t like him.”

“Answer my question.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“We can still hang out with you. I’m willing to talk to him.”

“Also a waste of time.”

“We can still invite you for bubble tea.”

“It’s best if you don’t.”

She says nothing. They stare into each other’s eyes. Ray sees sadness in hers. She sees indifference in his. She stands up, puts a hand on his face, pauses, and kisses his cheek. Says goodbye. Then she leaves. 

They never speak to each other again.

In the next few months, he spirals into the things he ends up regretting the most in his life.

He is in his room, at his desk, on his computer. He is googling the spouses of Asian Hollywood actresses. They are all the same, he realizes. Perhaps they might look different when compared to each other. Some have hair the colour of mud, others the colour of cookie dough. Some’s eyes are brown, some are grey, some are lapis. Some are skinny, some are tall, some are pale, some are stocky. But they are all the same. He sees pictures of galas and shoots, them, each with an arm around their wife, grinning at the cameras. Always a lot taller. When he searches up Asian actors next, all their spouses look similar to their husbands.

It’s a cold, windy afternoon, and school has just ended. He’s waiting at a bus stop to go home, scrolling through posts on social media. Most of them are from kids at his school. He knows some of them, does not know others. Some of them are posts of couples, of a boy with his significant other, or a girl with hers. They are sharing lattes in their winter coats. They are exposing their tongues to the camera. They are posing near an ice cream store, posing near a known street, embracing each other near a train track, or presenting their middle fingers. He checks the profiles of all of them. Both the boy and the girl, always. He searches for the flags they put in their biographical descriptions, those that declare their ethnicities. He sees Vietnam, Thailand, the Philippines, India, Iran, Bangladesh, China, Korea. If both the boy and the girl have flags in that category, he likes the photo. He sees Germany, France, Russia, Ireland, Britain, Canada, the USA, Sweden. If at least one person in the couple has a flag like that, he does not like the photo and he unfollows the person with the flag. Most of them are the boys of the couples.

He is at school. He talks with many kids, some of them friends, some of them not. In the hallways, during class, at lunch, after school. Some of them are girls. 

One girl comes up to him. He knows her. She wears a hijab and has a scent of saffron and curry. She was born here, but her parents are from the Middle East. Her father has a thick accent, her mother is very protective of her. They have a conversation about a show they both watch, discussing the characters, discussing the plot. He laughs, she laughs. She thinks, He’s a pleasant person to talk to. Then she leaves.

Another time, during lunch, another girl approaches him at his table. Unlike the previous girl who had black hair, a tan face, and dark eyes, this one has blonde hair and blue eyes. She is also bigger than the other girl. She wears a ring on her left hand and a necklace around her neck, exposed by her cream crop top. She has dark blue jeans and smells of fresh perfume. Her eyelashes are long, her nails too, and she holds a phone in her hand. She knows him. They have been talking for the past school year, and the girl considers him her friend by now. She says hello, asks how he’s been doing, what he did on the weekend. He is cold to her. He says rude things to her, insults her hair, tells her to leave him alone. What do you want from me? She is confused and angry. She says he must be in a bad mood. She leaves with one of her own.

Early March, chemistry class. A girl with medium-length black hair and round glasses asks him for help on last night’s homework questions. He has seen her before. She celebrated Chinese New Year last week. At lunch, he often sees her eating something with rice, other times dumplings with soy sauce. He tries to help her the best he can. He is patient with her. He goes slowly and explains the concept well, being caring and kind. She smiles at him. What a gentleman. The next few times he sees her, in the halls, in lines at the cafeteria, outside class, he talks with her, opens doors for her, laughs with her.

Mid-April. The snow is slowly melting. A girl he has never met before sits next to him in French class. She was born in Florida but moved here when she was young. Her parents are fully American, born and raised. Their parents too. And theirs. It goes so far back that she probably has roots in England. She has light brown hair and soft, greyish-green eyes, reminding him of the back of a turtle. A dozen or more freckles on her nose, like the stars of a constellation. She always smells of mint because of her mint gum, and she’s very talkative. When she tries to talk to him, he pretends not to hear her. When she pesters him more, he says he does not care. She laughs, thinking he is toying with her. There can’t be any other reason. They don’t know each other; how can he hate a person he has never met? He says he genuinely hates her. She laughs at his jest. Then he says some very rude things. So much mint gum. Bad breath? She eventually learns to shut up whenever she is beside him. She tells her other friends to stay away from him as well. Their faces are pale whenever they see him.

Late May. He is having a conversation with a Japanese girl. They banter, they laugh. He is nice to her, and she ends up thinking he is kind. A stranger approaches them. Sandy, wavy hair. Cobalt grey eyes, fairly tall. He is a robber at their bank, a lion at their wolf pack. He thinks the stranger is going to pass them by and let them be, but he wraps an arm around the girl and smiles, saying hello. The girl introduces her boyfriend. To him, she looks like a daughter presenting a dirty, stray dog and asking to keep it. The air around them turns a hundred degrees colder for the rest of the conversation. He is silent, observant, blunt. His arms are folded, and he has a scowl. When they invite him to go somewhere after school with some other friends, he refuses and tells them being stuck in traffic would be more fun.

He hears news of his cousin, much older than him, who is engaged to a man she met in Houston. He sees a picture of her fiancé and does not feel like going to the wedding. Another cousin, the same age as him, is in love with the members of a British boy band. He does not like speaking to her.

One night, he sees a bustling metropolis. It is nighttime and the clouds are low. They cover the moon like a translucent blanket. The lights of the city illuminate the streets hauntingly, and he sees shackles around the city’s feet, set by a tyrannical sovereign. The city of Hong Kong, in a period he learned about in school.

The buildings are Victorian, giant clocks adorning many of them. Domed rooftops, some with a cross on the top. Cylindrical frames, pillars supporting them. An eerie glow from the lanterns of the streets rises to the top of the tallest buildings, like there are massive flashlights on the ground pointing at the dark sky. Arched bridges over the water like the underside of a stretching cat, erect pipes emitting smoke like a steamship on the horizon. Paddleboat ferries on the rivers, their passengers wearing top hats and monocles and bead necklaces and white gloves. The men are in fancy suits darker than midnight, the women are in elegant dresses or corsets with intricate lace designs, feathers in their hats. The streets smell like gasoline, perfume, smoke, clean fabric. The honking of cars, the chatter of people, and the music of operas and theatres fill the otherwise silent night with vibrant sound.

In the streets, the original citizens are in tattered garments and bamboo hats. Some are carrying sticks on their backs with loads on each side, some are shirtless and drinking bottles of opium, sitting on wooden crates or concrete steps. There is the smell of noodles, alcohol, lavender, oil. A man is grilling something in a corner and it is flickering like fireworks. Two women gossip as they enter a shop. The men have queue hairstyles, a long, single strand of braided hair at the back of their heads. The women have their hair short, long, or tied in a bun. All of them scurry like rats when a foreigner appears. 

One particular woman’s heels clip-clop on the cobblestones in a hurry. She is wearing a tight, red, flowered qipao. Her hair is tied up in an exquisite bun, a stick tying it all together, a pink rose on its side, strands of it falling to the sides of her face. Her face is gorgeous. Soft features, blushful cheeks. She has the fragrance of sweet vanilla. She looks refined, simple. An elegant and dignified woman. Yet he knows she is a courtesan for the outsiders. Three of them chase her now, three aristocrats with moustaches and canes, seizing this night to pick on this poor woman of the Orient. They tail her in the streets, walking calmly and chuckling at her distress as she runs. They know she has nowhere to go. They corner her in an alley.

“Please, I am not working right now! Please…”

They ignore her pleas. They are cackling deep from their protruding bellies. They advance closer to her. Their hands are reaching out, like those of the undead. They might as well have the empathy of the undead. Their smiles are gleeful and wide, their eyes as if they had not eaten in days. They joke with each other, they laugh. They whistle, they shout, they tease the lady. Their hands are now on her. She begs them to stop. The qipao is sliding off her like an eel, betraying her. She screams.

When he wakes up from the dream in a cold sweat, in his bed, at three in the morning, he has reached his peak hatred. There is no stopping it. The flame is out of control, it burns the rooms of his rational mind. He will torture every single one of them. All of them. Those aliens. Those murderers. Those thieves, those plunderers, those conquerors. Those perpetrators of the worst crimes in human history. He will be cruel to each of them and refuse to interact with them in public. He will not work for a business owned by one of them, nor ever take one as a lover. He will be vigilant of all that they do. He will be cynical of all their agendas. He was now a hare in a world full of foxes. And where he lived, the foxes outnumbered the hares. Every time he saw one of his fellow hares, a girl, be with one of them, he imagined the hare being caught by the fox’s mouth. Didn’t they see? Didn’t any of them see? They were being hunted! One by one!

All he can think of is Asia leaving him for Eric. Another hare snatched by the cunning of a fox.

#

Over dinner, the man explains it all. The whole story about Asia. All that he remembers, all the details he can recall. He talks and talks, his wife listens to every word as they eat. They place butter on pandesal. They put the sauce of their French beef stew over their white jasmine rice. His wife has red wine, he has a bottle of sake. The man talks the whole time.

He finishes. The wife takes a long time to digest it all. When she finally says something, she tries to defend him. He shuts her down immediately. His thoughts on the matter differ.

“I assure you, it was natural for you to think that way,” she says.

“No,” he says firmly, “It wasn’t.”

“How can you say that? You are very justified in thinking this. The world is.”

“I’m not. We’re not.”

“But at least you know why you thought like that. You might not be alone.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter how many of us there are. One, two, a dozen. Millions or even billions. We are all mistaken. And me? I was wrong too. Atrociously wrong. I was stupid. I was ignorant. I was bad. I didn’t deserve to live here, in Canada, of all places.”

Silence. A reformation of thoughts.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Maybe I am.”

“You are. You were wrong. And you recognized it.”

After the meal, the man washes the dishes while the woman clears the table, bringing the dishes to him. The house is filled with the wordless clanking of plates and streaming water. The flame in the fireplace crackles softly.

When they are done, the woman puts on her coat and opens the door. The frigid wind seeps into the house. She gestures at him to follow her. “Come on, we have to shovel the driveway, remember? Plus, it’s beautiful out here. Look, the snowflakes! Come!”

He watches her go outside with the wonder of a child. She’s trying to lick the snowflakes out of the air. He exhales. Through the doorway, all the man can think of is how beautiful it is to see them land on her blonde hair, as she looks to the sky with her bright, blue eyes.

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