Chinese men in Sydney (1-44)

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-20 08:15:25

The Chinese Man in Sydney (197,105
words) Preface:
The affairs between men and women are undoubtedly the most alluring things in the world: Mr. Zhang's extramarital affair greatly displeases his wife. Out of a sense of fairness, she decides to have an affair herself. On the day she decides to have an affair, her first lover is her handyman, Xiao Lu Zi, leading to a hilarious adultery story. This is followed by a thrilling and dramatic story of Mr. Zhang catching him in the act, and from these two stories, a dramatic tale unfolds where Xiao Lu Zi and the boss's wife team up to take advantage of Mr. Zhang… This is a unique novel. Its dry humor, especially its distinctive descriptions of the relationships between men and women, made it a popular read among women when it was serialized in Australian newspapers. You'll laugh until you're doubled over while reading this book, and feel a deep sadness afterward. In other words, it's a work that appeals to both the general public and the general reader; the layman can enjoy the entertainment, while the expert can appreciate its deeper meaning.
The Chinese Man in Sydney (Part 1 ):
My life as a kept man didn't actually begin at the end of the year, on December 8th. My documented history of living off a woman actually began when I was helping Mr. Zhang's wife carry her t-shirts and ended up touching her breasts. But December 8th was a crucial turning point in my later good life, so it all started on December 8th.
I can't remember if my eyelids twitched when I woke up that morning. I only remember that the weather was normal, sunny and windy. December in Australia is like June in China; it's already hot. The sun was shining on the rooftops, and a hot wind was blowing through the leaves. I was sitting on the concrete ground at the warehouse entrance, and I remember I was eating from a large aluminum lunchbox.
I was shoveling food into my mouth when a light breeze blew by, and I looked up to wipe the sweat from my brow. As I looked up, I saw Mr. Zhang emerge from his BMW in the distance, casually pulling a bag of rice from the car. It was a dirty, unpicked rice bag lying on the roadside. Strictly speaking, it wasn't a rice bag, but rather an extra-large t-shirt produced by our factory. Boss Zhang had simply sewed one end shut, turning it into a rice bag. Boss Zhang carried this rice bag towards the factory.
Back then, I wasn't nearly as smug as I would later become; I was a handyman. A handyman is the kind of worker who comes when called and leaves when dismissed. The status of male workers in a t-shirt factory can be understood from the fact that all the female workers didn't call me by my full name but called me "Little Lu." The female workers would call out all the time, "Little Lu, bring me two skeins of white thread." "Little Lu, find me a sewing needle." "Little Lu, massage my back." "Little Lu, the boss is here!" Then the female workers would burst into laughter.
You might ask me how such a big man could stand it? I'll tell you, if you haven't been a new immigrant, you don't know, the most important thing for a person is to have food to eat. Many people have forgotten this seemingly simple but actually not-so-simple truth, but new immigrants can't forget it. So whenever I saw Boss Zhang approaching from afar, my first instinct was to jump up and run upstairs to sweep the floor or move cloths. But December 8th was strange. When I saw Boss Zhang carrying that dirty bag of rice, I didn't run away; instead, I went to meet him.
Swallowing my rice, I greeted him, saying, "Boss Zhang, it's so hot, yet you're running around like this. Being a boss is definitely harder than being a worker."
Boss Zhang, walking along, said, "Yes, yes, being a boss is
all hard work and no reward, hehehe." Hearing Boss Zhang chuckle all the time, I followed with a forced smile, saying, "Exactly, exactly. That's
why there are more workers than bosses in the world." Boss Zhang paused for a moment after hearing my words, then chuckled again, saying, "Little Lu, what you said makes some sense. I never understood why there were fewer bosses than workers in the world, but now you've explained it clearly. Yes, yes, of course fewer people do hard jobs, hehehe."
I thought to myself, "You don't understand anything. This is fate. Fate means destiny, destiny means unchangeable, and unchangeable means no matter how hard you try, it's all in vain." That's really what I thought at the time; I never dreamed that better days were yet to come. I followed Mr. Zhang, chuckling, and ingratiatingly reached out to help him carry the rice bag. Unexpectedly, the moment Mr. Zhang saw me touch the rice bag, he recoiled as if he'd been electrocuted. Mr. Zhang picked up the rice bag, looked around, and whispered, "Little Lu, you sit here and eat. Don't go anywhere, understand?" Then he looked upstairs and said, "If my wife comes downstairs, cough twice, understand?"
I nodded.
Mr. Zhang patted my shoulder and said, "Remember, don't say I'm back, hehehe."
Seeing that I nodded again, he confidently hid in the downstairs fabric warehouse. I really don't understand why
Mr.
Zhang has this kind of quirk; almost every time he comes back with this dirty rice bag, he hides in the fabric warehouse. After Mr. Zhang went inside for a while, you could hear an unusual rustling sound coming from the warehouse. This rustling sound was reminiscent of someone unbuckling and urinating. Obviously, Mr. Zhang wouldn't urinate on his vital cloth, so what was he doing in the dark warehouse? My curiosity surged again and again, but I suppressed it each time. Finally, I couldn't bear it any longer. Seeing that no one was around, I took off my shoes, picked them up, and groped my way towards the rustling sound.
The warehouse was very dark. Moving from a bright place into darkness, I was instantly blind. Following the sound, I hadn't gone far before I bumped into a pile of cloth. The pile was very tall, more than two people high. The round bundles of cloth, already unstable, tumbled down like a mudslide after my impact. I only heard Mr. Zhang let out a soft "Ouch!" from within the pile, then his voice faded as if muffled by a blanket.
You can imagine that Mr. Zhang was now buried under his dozen or so bundles of cloth. My immediate reaction wasn't to save him, but to grab my shoes and flee the warehouse, escaping into the December 8th sunshine. I proved my innocence by shouting.
After a commotion on the stairs, the rescue team surged into the warehouse. The female workers, without a second thought, climbed onto the cloth bags, jumping and shouting wildly on Mr. Zhang's head, the scene resembling a chaotic Shanghai market in the 1970s, lacking any clear direction
. Mr. Zhang was pulled out from a deep hole dug like a well. When he was pulled out, barely alive, he had lost his usual radiance; his face was covered in dust, his eyes were closed, and a glistening snotty nose hung from his nose, making everyone chuckle.
Mr. Zhang's wife, while shouting for help and calling an ambulance, glanced at Mr. Zhang's eyelids, then began slapping him repeatedly, one after another. Needless to say, her large breasts swayed back and forth with great enthusiasm.
Finally, Mr. Zhang slowly frowned. With his eyes closed, he weakly uttered his first words: "Alright." Then, Boss Zhang slowly opened his eyes. His second question was, "Where's Xiao Luzi?"
Hiding in the crowd, I heard the boss call me, and my legs went weak as I moved towards him. I bent down and said ingratiatingly, "Boss, I'm here."
Boss Zhang beckoned me closer. I pressed my ear to him and heard his faint voice say, "Xiao Luzi, after I leave, don't let anyone into the warehouse." Boss Zhang added, "Anyone, understand?" His eyes suddenly brightened, then dimmed again. Boss
Zhang and his wife disappeared into the distance with the wailing of the ambulance. The female workers discussed for a while before going upstairs to buy t-shirts. I returned to the warehouse entrance, picked up my lunchbox, and, thinking about how strange Boss Zhang's words were, looked around and went into the warehouse alone.
I climbed over the pile of cloth that had almost buried Mr. Zhang, and suspiciously turned on my flashlight. I shone it into a corner deep inside, and I almost screamed. I don't know how to describe the shock I felt. I can only ask you this: Have you ever seen money? Don't answer without thinking, "Who hasn't seen money?" Let me tell you, the money you've seen is just a little bit in your savings account, small change, not big money. I'll also tell you, even if you've seen big money, it's only in movies. In movies, a suitcase full of cash usually appears in a drug exchange, usually two gangsters wearing sunglasses, one with a suitcase full of US dollars, the other with a suitcase full of drugs, facing each other, ready to make a deal. Suddenly, a police car arrives, then gunshots ring out, and then the suitcase full of cash scatters like rain on the ground…
You know without me saying that money is counterfeit. Think about it, if that suitcase full of cash were real money, would the director still be a director? He would have already picked up his suitcase and gone to the Mediterranean, with women on his left and right.
On December 8th, I saw real money. Real money wasn't neatly arranged in a suitcase, but piled up haphazardly—as my grandmother would say, it was as big as a mountain.
Specifically, Mr. Zhang's money consisted of different denominations and colors of Australian dollars, from five to one hundred dollars, spilling out of that inconspicuous, dirty rice bag and scattering all over the floor. It suddenly dawned on me—this was the source of the rustling sound Mr. Zhang made, like he was urinating. It turned out that every time he came back, he would hide in the storeroom and rustle as he counted his money.
By human nature, I could have easily taken a few coins that day. You see, the boss was complaining about his thankless work, yet he was making a whole rice bag's worth of money; taking a few coins wouldn't have been a big deal. But strangely, I didn't have that thought at all that day. I just knelt down and helped Mr. Zhang sort the red and green bills by color and put them back into the rice bag.
Mr.
Zhang returned from the hospital the next morning. He didn't say thank you when I handed him the rice bag, but after work that evening, Boss Zhang came up to me, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "Little Lu, I heard your place isn't very nice. From today onwards, you'll live with me. You'll open the factory gate for me in the morning and close it for me at night. You'll be my right-hand man.
Hehehe, work hard, understand?" With that, Boss Zhang handed me the factory keys.
I stared at Boss Zhang, wide-eyed. I knew in my heart that Boss Zhang must have carefully counted the money in the rice bag.
Seeing that I didn't move, Boss Zhang said, "Go, go pack your things. Don't bring in your blankets and sheets. The simpler the better." After saying that, Boss Zhang pulled out two large bills and threw them at me.
And so, at midnight, I moved into Boss Zhang's mansion as his trusted confidant. It was a million-dollar estate with a front and back garden. However, the first thing I encountered after moving in was Boss Zhang and his wife arguing.
Two voices, one deep and one thin, collided sharply in the midnight air of the manor. They spoke Chinese, but clearly in a coded language, so I could only vaguely make out phrases like "one, three, five, two, four, six" and "fairness" and "unfairness." Later, I figured out that the Zhang family manor only had the front garden where Mr. Zhang's wife lived, while another woman lived in the back garden. According to their gentleman's agreement, "one, three, five" meant Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when Mr. Zhang would go to the front garden to have marital relations with his wife. As for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, Mr. Zhang could go to the front garden or not, it was entirely up to his conscience.
That day, I moved in on a Friday, and according to the gentleman's agreement, Mr. Zhang should have gone to the front garden.
But he insisted that it was midnight, meaning Saturday, not Friday, and refused to step into the front garden. Thus began their heated argument about whether it was Saturday or Friday. The argument lasted about twenty minutes, temporarily ending with Mr. Zhang's wife slamming the door shut.
Why did Mr. Zhang's wife so desperately want him to come to the front yard? And why was Mr. Zhang so afraid of going to the front yard? I didn't understand at the time. It wasn't until later, when I became the wolf who let Mr. Zhang into the house, that I truly understood. At that time, I was sitting on a sofa, Mr. Zhang's wife's huge buttocks on my lap, my hands on her large breasts. I had just experienced, on Mr. Zhang's behalf, the breathtaking "Come on up" and "Go down" (Mr. Zhang's wife's common phrase). Dejected, I finally understood why Mr. Zhang's wife always wore a pink, semi-transparent nightgown and sat on the sofa every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, eagerly awaiting Mr. Zhang's arrival, while Mr. Zhang avoided his wife like the plague. Really, how easy is it to fill the deep well that is Mr. Zhang's wife?
On
December 8th, I almost caused Mr. Zhang's death, but he treated me like his savior and let me move into his mansion. The next day, I became the foreman. Because I wasn't used to it, I instinctively picked up the broom when Mr. Zhang came in.
Mr. Zhang threw the broom away and said, "Hey, Little Lu, you don't need to sweep. You deliver these ten bags of T-shirts to this address." As he spoke, Mr. Zhang picked out a car key from a large bunch and handed it to me. The car key was long, with a remote control attached, looking like a small pistol. Mr. Zhang never dreamed (nor did I) that the little pistol he gave me would later kill him with a single shot.
When I delivered the first batch of goods to the address Mr. Zhang specified, I finally understood the secret of his T-shirt business.
I had never understood how Mr. Zhang sold hundreds of thousands of T-shirts one by one. I was always worried that our factory produced a mountain of T-shirts every week; how long would it take Mr. Zhang to sell them all? It's like a friend of mine who works in a Western toilet paper factory. He was always worrying like a fool about how to sell all those truckloads of toilet paper that were hauled out every day, as if the whole world had diarrhea. Now I understand, Mr. Zhang's T-shirts are like my friend's toilet paper; once they're made, they'll naturally sell like hotcakes. There's no need for us fools to worry.
After shipping T-shirts for a while, I became familiar with the big wholesaler Jack Lee. One day I said to Jack Lee, "If I had T-shirts—I mean, if—cheaper than Mr. Zhang's, would you want them?"
Jack Lee immediately asked me, "Why not?"
I looked at Jack Lee curiously and said, "Aren't you friends with Mr. Zhang?"
Jack Lee said, "I am friends with your Mr. Zhang, but friends are friends, and business is business. They're two different things."
I found this very interesting. Friends are friends, and business is business—these two sentences sounded like repetitive nonsense, and at the time, I really didn't understand. This was probably mainly because I had just arrived from mainland China at the time, and relationships there weren't as straightforward as they are now, where friends are friends and business is business. The peak season
for Chinese men in Sydney wearing
T-shirts arrived as scheduled. Excitedly, Mr. Zhang walked around like the wind every day, clutching his precious, dirty rice bag.
This whirlwind-like walking style reminded one of Shi Qian, the chicken thief from the 108 Heroes of the Water Margin.
At the same time, Mr. Zhang started having headaches. There are basically two kinds of headaches: one caused by poverty, and the other by wealth. Mr. Zhang's headache was the latter. He said he didn't know how to hide his money.
I replied, "That's simple, just put it in the bank and earn interest." Mr. Zhang jumped up in fright, saying, "The bank and tax bureau's computers are connected; this is like walking into a trap!" I said, "
Then hide it at home." Mr. Zhang asked, "Is home safe? If a thief comes, they can take everything and you won't even dare call the police." I said, "Then hide it on your person." I explained that I usually hide my wages in my shoes when I pass through the indigenous areas. Mr. Zhang laughed and blurted out, "How much can you hide?" I suddenly remembered that the money Mr. Zhang and I were discussing was the storage of a sack of rice he carried home every week, not my few bills. I laughed and said, "If it's too much, I'll help you hide it." Mr. Zhang immediately chuckled and said, "It's not much money, just kidding." I smiled and said, "Mr. Zhang, don't be nervous, I'm not borrowing money from you. Even if I did, I think you'd agree." Mr. Zhang said, "That's right, that's right, I trust you." I continued, "When we were in school, we learned that when you have money, you should expand production; that's called money making money. Hiding it is the dumbest thing to do." He said he wanted to invest, but didn't know where to invest. I offered a suggestion: "You send out so many T-shirts for printing every day, why don't you open your own printing factory and print them yourself? That way, you keep the profits within your own family
." Mr. Zhang's eyes lit up immediately. He said excitedly, "Little Lu, you're a hero! I'll reward you handsomely. Sit down, let's discuss starting a printing factory."
This is the origin of the printing factory that later made Mr. Zhang a fortune, and also the origin of his downfall. It shows that good and bad things often come together.
I want to say a few more words about Mr. Zhang's printing factory, because it not only involves Mr. Zhang's downfall, but also the beginning of my affair with Mr. Zhang's wife.
I remember I mentioned at the beginning about the Monday-Wednesday-Friday and Tuesday-Thursday issues at Mr. Zhang's house. I said that after Mr. Zhang discovered that not a single penny was missing, he invited me to move into his mansion with complete trust. That was the first night I heard Mr. Zhang's wife fly into a rage because he refused to enter her room. At that time, I still thought it was wrong for Mr. Zhang not to fulfill his duties as a husband, unaware that his wife was a parched desert.
Saying Mr. Zhang's wife was a parched desert was too calm a metaphor, lacking the dynamic, unpredictable feeling of water. Only after I and Mr. Zhang's wife became intimate did I truly understand and fully sympathize with why Mr. Zhang always ran away. Frankly, for a while afterward, I couldn't bear to hear Mr. Zhang's wife call out, "Little Lu, come on up."
Just hearing those three words made my legs go weak. But to be fair, the first time I heard Mr. Zhang's wife call me "come on up," I was truly passionate, soft where I should be, hard where I should be.
Specifically, the first time was like this: Mr. Zhang and I rented an old warehouse in a secluded place, then sealed all the windows and transformed it into a T-shirt printing base. In this base, we began to pirate the world's most popular, famous, and best-selling brand-name T-shirts.
Only four people knew about this pirated brand-name factory: Mr. Zhang, Mr. Zhang's wife, me, and Li Danling.
To maintain secrecy, we sealed off all the light; the smell escaped only through the roof exhaust fans. The workers we hired were all undocumented immigrants struggling to survive. When they arrived at this dark, ink-smelling old warehouse, their first thought was, "Wow, this is safe!" They came in before dawn and left after dark; isolation was exactly what they craved.
Every day, they wrapped the printed incriminating evidence in plastic garbage bags, and as soon as it got dark, Mr. Zhang and I would sneak around and smuggle them out bag by bag, then a whole network of smugglers would transport them to various locations, where they would appear in shops and street stalls throughout Australia. This clandestine operation reminded me of the famous saying, "Murder at nightfall."
My fascinating story with Mr. Zhang's wife took place one night in this warehouse.
That night, I was alone in the warehouse. Coincidentally, Mr. Zhang had vanished. It seemed like God had arranged it; we couldn't find him anywhere. Meanwhile, customers kept calling. They all asked the same question: "Are you still delivering world-famous brands?" Back then, these counterfeit T-shirts sold incredibly well. Australians loved designer brands but couldn't afford them. So initially, customers were polite, using "please" and "thank you." But after a few calls, they lost patience and started swearing.
Under the constant pressure of my English, I couldn't take it anymore and called Mr. Zhang's wife.
I said, "Mrs. Zhang, please come over, I can't take it anymore." Mrs. Zhang said, "Wait a minute, I'm coming right away."
That's how my story with Mrs. Zhang began.
Sydney Chinese Man, Part Six
. That day, I really didn't know if Mrs. Zhang's wife's promise to come right away was premeditated or just a spur-of-the-moment decision.
I only remember that when I opened the old warehouse door and handed the first pack of world-famous brand T-shirts to Mrs. Zhang, she didn't take it with her hands, but with her breasts. If
you've ever been in the industry, you'll understand that when Mrs. Zhang held the T-shirts with her chest out, my hand was actually in front of the pack. To put it more clearly, my hand was between a pack of T-shirts and a pair of huge breasts. I handed the bag of T-shirts to Mr. Zhang's wife, and immediately felt two warm lumps on the back of my hand. Needless to say, you'd be eager to ask me how it felt. I remember my first sensation was like being electrocuted. Of course, "electrocuted" isn't quite the right analogy. Because someone who's actually been electrocuted wouldn't want to be electrocuted again, but after my first electrocution, I couldn't wait for the second. That night, a total of 103 bags of counterfeit brand-name T-shirts were delivered to the van by my hands and Mr. Zhang's wife's chest—meaning I received 103 electrocutions, not a single one missing. How exhilarating it was to be electrocuted! I think Mr. Zhang's wife was also electrocuted, her face flushed. We worked silently, getting happier and happier, wishing we could turn those 103 bags into 1030. So when we reached the last bag, we both said in unison, disappointed, "How come it's gone so quickly? All gone?"
Then, naturally, came the crucial moment of unspoken agreement: who would speak first? Mr. Zhang's wife, with her seasoned composure, remained silent. Because I wasn't sure what was going on, I didn't dare to push my luck. So, I tentatively said
, "It's getting late, I have to go deliver some goods." As soon as Zhang's wife heard I was leaving, she immediately revealed her true colors, saying, "Anyway, it's late, just deliver something tomorrow." Then she twisted her neck, saying she twisted it while moving the t-shirts. As she said this, she reached behind her neck and started massaging it.
If I said I didn't understand this signal, I'd be being too fake. I chuckled inwardly while feigning concern, saying, "Then I'll take you home first and have Li Danling massage it for you."
Zhang's wife glared at me, then kicked the warehouse door shut without a word. She looked at me with shining eyes, like a hunter eyeing its prey, saying, "Little Lu, you can play dumb with Zhang, but if you play dumb with me, that's called being ungrateful, you understand?" After saying that, Zhang's wife pulled off one sleeve.
Instantly, a strong, snow-white arm, as strong as an ox, was revealed before me. She pointed to the junction of the shoulder and neck, saying, "Right here." After saying that, she closed her eyes, as if the world didn't exist.
I remember I didn't pounce on Mr. Zhang's wife like a starving man would. Maybe it was because I'd been doing odd jobs for so long that I'd lost my courage. Or maybe Mr. Zhang had been good to me, and I felt embarrassed to take advantage of his wife. So I carefully gripped his thick, white shoulders, glancing at the warehouse door every now and then. I imagined where my hand would stop if Mr. Zhang suddenly pushed the door open. I didn't want to make a mistake that would haunt me forever, returning me to the days when I was carrying a cloth bag looking for work. I'll never forget the hardships of when I first arrived in Sydney, carrying a cloth bag with a Coca-Cola bottle filled with tap water, going from house to house along the railway, searching for work.
Mr. Zhang's wife closed her eyes for a while, and when she felt no movement, she opened them. Seeing me in a daze, she spoke. She said, "Little Lu, I know what you're thinking."
I was startled and quickly squeezed Mr. Zhang's wife a few times.
Boss Zhang's wife looked at me and said, "Let me tell you, Xiao Lu, I own half of this factory. Do you understand what I mean?"
I said, "Of course, of course."
Boss Zhang's wife patted my face, like petting a small pet, and said, "Of course what? You don't understand what I mean? Let me make it clearer, I decide who wants this factory and who doesn't. Do you understand now?"
I immediately smiled and said, "I understand, I understand." As I spoke, I glanced at the door, and a restless hand reached into Boss Zhang's wife's bra like a treasure hunter…
That night, our actions were relatively simple, both primitive and forceful. We were really like pile drivers, one thrust after another, without any foreplay or afterplay. This was probably because I hadn't been with a woman in a long time, and I hadn't thought about all that. Or maybe I was still nervous; I barely even saw clearly before I went in. I only heard Boss Zhang's wife say "yes," then I said "oh," she said "yes," I said "oh" again, she said "yes" again, and so on, until we were both moaning and laughing.
Because Mr. Zhang's wife was screaming so loudly, I was afraid the sound would break through the door, so halfway through, I climbed off her to turn on the radio. My meaning was clear: I wanted to drown out our "yes" and "oh" with rolling stones. Unexpectedly, Mr. Zhang's wife was furious at my sudden departure. She opened her eyes, grabbed a shoe, and threw it at me, hitting the printing press next to me. This was the first time I realized that women, when anxious, could be just as impulsive as men. I smiled and said, "What's wrong? Why are you in such a hurry?" Mr. Zhang's wife yelled, "What are you doing! Come here!"
This was supposed to be a happy occasion, but her throwing and yelling made me unhappy. I thought, "What the hell do you take me for? I turned on the radio for the greater good!" I really wanted to pull up my pants and leave, but remembering what Mr. Zhang's wife had said when she patted my face, I swallowed my anger and forced a smile. I ran back and patted her plump, white buttocks, saying, "You, you're such a child! How was I supposed to know you'd scream so loud?"
"Was I very loud?" asked Mr. Zhang's wife. "I didn't think so
," I flattered. "You were making so much noise the roof was shaking! If people notice this place, Mr. Zhang will be in trouble."
Mr. Zhang's wife laughed, looking at me with a double meaning, "Looks like Mr. Zhang didn't choose the wrong person."
I smiled sheepishly and said, "Let's not talk about that. How about we start over?"
Mr. Zhang's wife glanced down at me, giggled, and said, "I can do it! Can you?"
I looked at myself and said sheepishly, "I'll give it a try. I should be able to."
Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Okay, come on up."
After we finished, I turned off the radio and turned on the light. Under the light, Mr. Zhang's wife was fixing her hair. Her face, moistened by the rain, was fresh and delicious, just like the three-yellow chicken from my hometown. I leaned against the wall, looking at her, and couldn't help but say, "You really look like a three-yellow chicken." She turned around,
combing her hair, and said, "What?"
I changed to Mr. Zhang's language and said, "I meant you look especially beautiful now."
Boss Zhang's wife, with the shy demeanor typical of women, asked, "What do you mean? Now?"
I said, "Yes, now."
Boss Zhang's wife smiled, her face flushed, and said, "Little Lu, you're so naughty! But Ah Zhang also said that when I do this kind of thing, I look five years younger."
I said, "Five years? More than that, at least ten years."
Boss Zhang's wife said, "That's good, come more often then."
I didn't realize the subtlety and dreadfulness in her words at the time, and, oblivious to my own limitations, I clenched my fist and said, "Okay, I'll come whenever I have time.
" Boss Zhang's wife gave me a very strong look and said with a smile, "Little Lu, as long as you can handle it, I can come every day."
I, oblivious to the implications, said, "Can't handle it? Who can't handle it? Don't think I'm skinny; this kind of thing isn't about skinny, it's about bone structure." As I spoke, I bent my arm, showing a small muscle for her to touch.
Boss Zhang's wife waved her hand, too lazy to come over and touch it. I've noticed this applies to both men and women; once they're satisfied, they don't want to touch anymore. Luckily, she didn't touch me. Just as she waved her hand, the door suddenly opened, and Boss Zhang rushed in, panting. He was yelling "Where's the goods? Where's the goods?" as he ran.
You can imagine how startled I was. My legs went weak, and I bent over, clutching my belt, and said, "Goods? What goods?"
Boss Zhang's wife, being a seasoned veteran, immediately switched to offense. She glared at me and said, "You rascal, where have you been? You even turned off your cell phone! What were you doing?"
Boss Zhang, arriving late, probably hadn't been doing anything particularly important. He was clearly stunned by his wife's preemptive attack. He looked at his wife in a panic and muttered to himself, "Where did I go? I didn't go anywhere. The cell phone died, it didn't work, hehehe."
Boss Zhang's wife continued her offensive, saying, "Where did you go? You've been gone for so long?" "Do you know that if it weren't for Xiao Lu offending all the customers? Xiao Lu's back is almost broken from carrying so many T-shirts."
Boss Zhang immediately chuckled and said, "You've worked hard, Xiao Lu, a big reward is in order." Boss Zhang walked over, looked at my belt as I was fastening it, and asked with concern, "How's it going? Is your back badly hurt? Hehehe, should we go get it checked out?"
I immediately smiled and said, "It's nothing, it's nothing. It's what I should do."
Boss Zhang's wife chimed in, "I'm exhausted too." Then she twisted her back and said, "It's all thanks to Xiao Lu today."
Boss Zhang proudly said to his wife, "See? I told you long ago, Xiao Lu is pretty good, pretty good. Now you believe me. He's the one who helps me in crucial moments."
Boss Zhang's wife looked at me, a hint of flirtation in her eyes, and said, "Not bad? Just average, I think. But he is indeed helpful." She winked at me and chuckled.
I was too scared to look at her. I glanced at my watch and said very seriously to Boss Zhang, "Well, I'll go deliver the goods first. The customers are waiting."
Boss Zhang said, "Okay, okay, go quickly." As I turned around, he reminded me to fasten my belt. He laughed and said, "I just came in and saw your belt was half loose. I thought you were being brave, pissing in front of my wife, hehehe, just kidding, just kidding."
The next day,
I didn't return to the factory until almost ten o'clock. When Boss Zhang's wife saw me come in, she greeted me like a war hero, offering me a cup of ginseng tea and urging me to drink it.
I said, "It'll give me a nosebleed."
She said, "No, I drink a cup whenever I have time, it's very good."
My back ached, and I thought, "Luckily I have time for a cup; if I drank three cups a day like I was eating, I'd be dead."
As I took the cup, Boss Zhang's wife, still not satisfied, reached between my legs and said, "In the future, if there are some things you can tell me, I can ask Ah Zhang to do them himself."
I looked around and whispered, "It's broad daylight, someone might see."
Boss Zhang's wife laughed and said, "Yes, I forgot it's broad daylight."
I pushed her hand away and hurriedly looked over her shoulder at the office. Mr. Zhang's wife immediately understood what I meant. She said, "Little Lu, let me tell you, even if the whole factory knows about this, Zhang won't know. In your mainland Chinese terms, he'll be kept in the dark. Do you believe me?"
I said, "Well, you still have to be careful. As you say, 'better safe than sorry.'"
Mrs. Zhang thought about it and agreed.
But honestly, everyone's seen us going in and out, flirting all the time, so it wasn't surprising anymore.
Sometimes, when Mr. Zhang wasn't around, she'd take a bite of chocolate in public, then tell me to take a bite too. We'd share, so sweet and affectionate. Some of the older workers, whether they really meant it or not, said, "Little Lu, you're so lucky. Look at us, we've spent our whole lives working like this." I thought to myself, "What do you know? This isn't easy."
Because I was Mrs. Zhang's lover, I could do whatever I wanted in the factory when Mr. Zhang wasn't around. I'd boss this person around, that person around, like Napoleon pointing out the flaws in the system. One worker complained, secretly saying I was a kept man. When I found out, I told her to get out in front of everyone the next day. It's clear that life often starts badly, like being a kept man. But as you do it, you get used to it, and once you get used to it, it becomes natural, and once it becomes natural, you're happy. That's some of the insights I gained from being a
male concubine. I remember in ancient books, eunuchs who had been male concubines for a long time often became bolder and started doing things that shouldn't be done by eunuchs. It
was the same for me. After being a male concubine for a long time, I became bolder and started doing some things other than being a male concubine.
Once, the mustachioed man who had been supplying cloth to Boss Zhang for a long time quietly said he wanted to invite me to dinner. So I went.
He found a very high-end restaurant for us to eat at. While we were eating, he revealed his true intention. He said, "I invited you to dinner today to talk about our cooperation."
I was very surprised. I said, "What can we cooperate on?"
He looked around and said, "There are many things we can cooperate on. First, tell me if you want to make money?"
I said, "Of course."
He said, "That makes things easier."
He leaned closer and said, "When I deliver the cloth, we can cooperate."
I looked at him, puzzled.
He said with a grin, "Little Lu, I've inquired about you. I know you have a special position in the factory." No, no, no, don't misunderstand. I'm not interested in your business with the boss's wife. I mean, let's be frank, we can cooperate. For example, every time I deliver fabric, I'll only deliver about half a ton, but the invoice will say one ton. Do you understand what I mean? When I unload, you just turn a blind eye and sign, and we'll split the money for the other half ton.
I felt a chill run down my spine. I said, "This, this, isn't this a crime?"
The man with the mustache stroked his chin and smiled, saying, "How is this a crime? This is called making some extra money. You know your Zhang is making a fortune now, we're just following him to make a little extra."
I remained silent.
The man with the mustache continued, "Doing business is about everyone making money. Usually, this kind of inside-outside cooperation is a 10/90 split, at most 20/80. I think you're a good person, how about we split it 30/70?"
I was shocked. 30/70? I mentally calculated how much fabric we brought in each month. Good heavens, in just a few months I'd be worrying about hiding money like Boss Zhang? Turns out, opportunities to make money are like finding a needle in a haystack—you can search high and low and then it just falls into your lap without any effort. Boss Zhang would never know how much cotton fabric he brought in or how much he cut, because I managed it all. Of course, I was laughing inside, but my face was still furrowed. I was starting to doubt his word. I wanted to know if he'd split the loot after each theft, lest he steal and then run away without getting his share. Just as I was about to ask, the man with the mustache spoke first. Perhaps he misunderstood while I was frowning. Seeing my furrowed brow, he assumed I was unhappy with the 30/70 split, so he gritted his teeth, offered a toast, and said, "Damn it, we're friends, no beating around the bush. How about 40/60?"
I burst out laughing. And so began my life as an assistant, a gigolo, and a thief.
Eight Chinese Men in Sydney
But the truth will out. The theft wasn't discovered, but my affair with Mr. Zhang's wife—or rather, her affair—was caught red-handed one late autumn night.
Looking back, if Mr. Zhang's wife hadn't been so eager to call me, we could have continued our affair unnoticed for a while longer. But she called, and I went, and the affair was exposed.
I remember it was a late autumn night. A chilly autumn wind swept through, leaves rustling on the ground. My three lines of landscape description aren't purely for aesthetics; my description of late autumn is more profound, foreshadowing my later naked jump out the window, shivering on the balcony, and finally being caught sneezing.
That day, Mr. Zhang's wife called me over, saying she couldn't sleep. I said, "Don't forget what day of the week it is." She said, "What? Friday."
Perhaps you've forgotten the earlier questions about Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays versus Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. "One, three, five, two, four, six" refers to the fact that on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings, Mr. Zhang was supposed to go to his wife's house to fulfill his marital duties. That night was Friday, and it was quite late, but Mr. Zhang hadn't appeared yet, so his wife guessed he wouldn't come. She brazenly said, "How come I didn't know it was Friday? If Mr. Zhang comes, it's simple, he'll be on the left, you on the right!"
I hate these kinds of jokes. When I travel by plane, I'm afraid people will wish me a safe journey; when I travel by boat, I'm afraid people will flip the fish over during a meal. I looked around and said, "What if he really comes? Where can I escape to?"
After hearing my worries about escaping, Mr. Zhang's wife also helped me look around. I remember there are scenes in movies where the husband suddenly returns halfway through an affair, but the directors always handle it too simply. Directors usually have three solutions: one is to have the actor crawl under the bed, another is to have the actor squat in the closet, and the third is to hide in the toilet. Actually, these three methods all demonstrate the director's naivety and ridiculousness. Modern Simmons beds don't allow people to crawl under them, closets can be opened at any time, and toilets are even more unrealistic, needless to say. So after much consideration, I decided that in case of an emergency, the ideal escape route would be to hide on the balcony. Because it was a chilly autumn night, and Mr. Zhang had come to his wife's room to fulfill his husbandly duties—in modern terms, to pay his dues—he wouldn't be in the mood to enjoy the night view from the balcony. But I hadn't considered that it was also a chilly autumn night, and I would sneeze naked.
Honestly, when Mr. Zhang broke in that night, I didn't do anything to his wife. In criminology, this is called attempted rape. In fact, even in rape cases, there's a difference between attempted and completed rape. If it's completed, you've gained an advantage, and being executed is acceptable. But if it's an attempted rape and you're executed, that's unfair.
The main reason we failed that night was that after we got into bed, someone brought it up first—maybe I mentioned that stealing Mr. Zhang's t-shirts to sell would be discovered sooner or later. But Mr. Zhang's wife thought we didn't need to be afraid of him. She said, "Who does he think he is? Would I have this factory without him?" I said, "That's true, that's true, but it's not good to find out, is it?" Mr. Zhang's wife waved her hand and said, "I know, we'll just do it ourselves." I said, "You mean we should split up?" Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Zhang is still relying on you. If we do it ourselves, we'll definitely crush him." I was worried that Zhang had many friends in the T-shirt market, and we wouldn't be his match. Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Oh, what's the point of friends in business? Whoever offers the lowest price is a friend." Mr. Zhang's wife probably wasn't interested in discussing Zhang in bed. She waved her hand as if to chase him away and said, "Little Lu, why do you always talk about such pointless things at times like this? Can't you concentrate a little?"
Seeing her displeasure, I quickly patted her and said I brought a pornographic magazine; there were some poses in it that we could learn from.
Mr. Zhang's wife was delighted and told me to quickly get her the magazine. She said thoughtfully, "It's like eating; you can't always have the same few dishes." The
first sound I heard was from the stairwell. At that moment, Mr. Zhang's wife was performing a difficult pose based on a picture in a pornographic magazine. She told me to wait until she was in the right position before coming up. She said, "Little Lu, listen carefully, come up as soon as I call you, I can't last more than a few minutes." But Mr. Zhang's wife, her internal organs churning, failed several times. Panting, she plopped down on the bed, complaining that it was too difficult. I stood beside her, arms crossed, laughing, "We called this 'vertical dragonfly' when we were kids. I never imagined that what we used to do on the street would develop into something like this in the West."
I pointed to the picture and said, "Those girls in the picture are all eighteen or nineteen years old, how can you compare to them?" Mr. Zhang's wife was displeased. She took a deep breath and tried again. Head down, buttocks up, eyes rolling back, she said, "Can't you come and help me?" I said okay, okay, and smiled as I went to help her lift her feet. Just then, I heard footsteps at the bottom of the stairs.
Since I knew Mr. Zhang's voice so well, I couldn't possibly believe it was a cat. I muttered to myself, "It sounds like Ah Zhang."
Upon hearing this, Mr. Zhang's wife immediately plummeted from mid-air. Her head thudded like she'd been hit by a fascist plane, landing headfirst on the ground. But I couldn't laugh anymore. I jumped off the bed and dashed into the bathroom.
Mr. Zhang's wife also jumped off the bed and rushed into the bathroom. I yelled, "What are you doing in here? You hold them off!" Mr. Zhang's wife ran out. She ran a few steps and then came back in, saying, "We can't hide here, Ah Zhang needs to use the bathroom." Hearing this, I immediately remembered our earlier discussion about escaping. I quickly jumped out of the window, naked, without even opening the balcony door.
Before Mr. Zhang's wife could close the window properly, Mr. Zhang entered the room. I heard him ask his wife, "Why are you running around the room naked?"
"Who ran away?" said Mr. Zhang's wife. The wind picked up, and the windows rattled. Mr. Zhang said, "Then why do I hear footsteps thumping in the room?" His wife said, "I think you're getting old; you can't even recognize the sounds on the TV anymore." Saying this, she didn't close the window but leaned closer to Mr. Zhang, getting intimate. She rolled her eyes at him and said, "It's so late; I thought you weren't coming." Her naked, coquettish manner was quite adorable. Through the gap in the curtains, I saw Mr. Zhang suddenly become aroused; he knelt down and started pecking at his wife's snow-white buttocks like a chicken pecking at rice. Mr. Zhang's wife made a face at the curtains.
After pecking for a while, Mr. Zhang perked up and started taking off his clothes. He placed his clothes on top of his wife's. When he took off his shirt and was about to take off his underwear, he noticed a dangling belt among the pile of clothes—it was the one I forgot to hide when I ran away too quickly. Mr. Zhang never dreamed that someone had been lying in bed with him for a long time before he got on. So when he saw the dead snake-like belt, he didn't react immediately. He probably thought it was his wife's, and even muttered to himself, "If only men's things were that long." Mr. Zhang's wife also saw my damn belt, but she skillfully teased, "Zhang, if you were that long, I'd be dead." As she said this, she leaned in and covered my belt, cleverly averting a dangerous situation.
But a problem still arose. The problem was that as Mr. Zhang undressed and leaned towards his wife, and she leaned towards him, in this indistinguishable situation, Mr. Zhang accidentally stepped on a shoe and almost twisted his ankle. Only then did Mr. Zhang let go and look down.
For the first time in my life, and hopefully the last, I hid under the window watching a couple argue about their affair.
I watched as Mr. Zhang picked up that size 42 leather shoe and examined it for a while. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping my shoe, the other supporting his chin, motionless like a famous foreign sculptor, The Thinker.
Mr. Zhang's wife remained silent, her sexy backside facing me, searching for a bra among a pile of clothes. She slipped one hand into the bra, then tried to slip the other in, but then, perhaps feeling an itch on her back, she bent down and scratched, the autumn skin making a rustling sound. Because she had been searching for the bra, she had disheveled her clothes, exposing my belt, socks, and panties to the elements. Mr. Zhang picked them up one by one and threw them on the floor. Watching this, I thought to myself, as a lesson, I should tell the younger generation: if you want to have a proper affair, the first important thing is to prepare a large plastic bag to put all your clothes in, so that if something unexpected happens, you can calmly grab it and run away. Just as
Mr. Zhang's wife finished putting on her bra and began to put on a shirt, Mr. Zhang spoke. He said, "Hey, what do you suggest we do?"
Mr. Zhang's wife, already prepared, adopted a "whatever happens, happens" attitude, saying, "Whatever you say, happens." She casually buttoned her shirt as she spoke. However, it was clear she wasn't indifferent; her mind was in turmoil, and she buttoned the buttons incorrectly, one up and one down.
Mr. Zhang said, "What else can I say?"
His wife retorted, "If you don't say what to do, don't ask me what to do."
Mr. Zhang said, "I don't need to ask you what to do; you've already done it, haven't you?"
His wife was speechless for a moment. She looked down and fiddled with her fingers, realizing her button was wrong, and corrected it. If you have any experience with marital arguments, you'll understand that this is like lighting a fuse; it won't be long before it explodes. Naturally, in this battle between Mr. Zhang and his wife, she was initially on the defensive. Mr. Zhang, without even looking at his wife fixing the buttons, said confidently, "What? Speechless now?" After saying this, to amplify his point, he chuckled three times. Seeing his wife's silence, he began to think he was invincible. He yelled, "I'm not trying to be mean, but you're fucking cheap! I've never seen such a cheap woman! Why didn't you sleep with someone like me? At least I could have gotten over my anger. But who did you...who did you sleep with? That damn Lu Zi! Who is Lu Zi? You even want this kind of trash?! If word gets out, you might lose face, but I do!" Mr. Zhang glanced at my shoes and said viciously, "You even want a handyman? I think you can...you can go find a garbage collector next!" Mr. Zhang hadn't been this assertive in front of his wife for a long time because of Li Danling's affair. Tonight, seeing his wife backing away, he shouted excitedly, almost forgetting the content of their argument. He suddenly became a prolific producer and listener of a torrent of voices. When Mr. Zhang shouted about Lu Zi and how he wanted this kind of trash, he raised his voice to the limit and gestured wildly, like conducting a symphony, creating an invincible effect. When he yelled, "I think you can go find a garbage collector next!", Mr. Zhang's thoughts raced while his words flowed slowly, causing him to become breathless and off-key. It was a bit like a singer who couldn't hit a high note and suddenly went off-key—it was comical and almost made me laugh.
That night, Mr. Zhang's wife adopted the strategy of a penhold grip player in table tennis. She held her ground steadily, looking for an opportunity to unleash a beautiful topspin shot. We'll see below that her strategy that night was brilliant.
I remember Mr. Zhang's wife unleashed her topspin shot around 1:00 PM. I timed it precisely because the priceless antique clock in Mr. Zhang's wife's room chimed. That was when Mr. Zhang was at his most excited, fiercest, and most arrogant. As the clock struck, while cursing, he suddenly threw his size 42 leather shoe, which he had been clutching for a long time, out the window. The shoe grazed the window, almost grazing my scalp, as it flew out. The loud thud signaled that Mr. Zhang had reached the pinnacle of glory; any further and he would fall.
As Mr. Zhang threw my shoes at me, he launched into a tirade against his wife, calling her a "broken shoe." "Broken shoe" is a term used in northern China to describe a woman who is easily aroused by men. I don't know how Mr. Zhang, a southerner, knew this northern term and used it so fluently.
His wife, also a southerner, had never heard of the term and didn't understand its malicious meaning. She replied literally, "Shoes are bound to wear out; it would be strange if they didn't."
This habit of arguing without understanding infuriated Mr. Zhang. He grabbed my second shoe, a size 42, and threw it out the window with a loud thud, followed by barking from the dogs.
This was a long-awaited opportunity for Mr. Zhang's wife. She immediately shouted, "Good! Good! Throw it! Everyone throw!" She grabbed a purple clay teapot from the table and threw it out the window with all her might. A loud bang, like a bomb exploding in the night sky, followed by the frenzied barking of the dogs.
After throwing the teapot, Mr. Zhang's wife was still in high spirits. Her head darted excitedly around, muttering, "Throw, throw, throw, throw everything! Come on, throw!"
Only then did Mr. Zhang realize that throwing the first shoe was a brilliant move, while throwing the second was incredibly foolish. He understood the consequences of his wife's incessant head-turning. So, Mr. Zhang rushed forward, bravely protecting a mirror with one hand and an antique clock with the other, simultaneously blocking the television and VCR with his body, repeatedly shouting, "What are you trying to do? What are you trying to do?"
Mr. Zhang's wife retorted confidently, "What do I want to do? Get out of my way! I'll do whatever you want!"
Mr. Zhang said, "Don't you have any sense of reason? How can you do this?"
Mr. Zhang's wife glanced at him and said calmly, "Why can't I do this? You can do this, why can't I?"
Mr. Zhang understood immediately that his wife's words were a veiled reference to throwing things that evening, but also a veiled reference to Li Danling. He understood this clever double entendre and was immediately speechless. The time had come for Boss Zhang's wife to shift from a defensive to an offensive strategy. "
Come, come, come," Boss Zhang pulled his wife down to sit, adopting a more conciliatory tone, "Honey, I know you're good in that area, and I admit I'm no match for you, hehehe. Really, if you wanted to steal one, get one, I'd turn a blind eye. The problem is you're doing it at the factory now, and with Xiao Lu Zi too. Where does that leave my reputation?" Boss Zhang said earnestly, "Honey, you know my standing in the T-shirt industry. How about this, you get rid of Xiao Lu Zi, and I'll help you find someone else, okay?" Boss Zhang chuckled, his hands rubbing his wife's broad back.
I nervously watched Boss Zhang's wife, thinking that if she nodded, I was doomed. But Boss Zhang's wife was truly something else; she wasn't buying it. She retorted, "You still know about reputation? Have you considered my reputation in these past three years? Three years!" When Mr. Zhang's wife mentioned the word "three years," she thought of those painful years, her nose twitched, and it looked like it was about to rain. This made Mr. Zhang a little flustered; it seemed he, like me, was afraid of women's tears. He was at a loss, wanting to reach out and hug his wife, but then he withdrew his hand, saying seriously, "Crying is useless. Crying doesn't solve anything." He saw his wife sitting upright, one eye filled with tears, the other eye brimming with tears, and he said anxiously, "Why are you crying? Who was wrong tonight?" He frantically searched for tissues. Unable to find any, Mr. Zhang ran into the bathroom and grabbed a roll of toilet paper, pulling out a section for his wife. His wife ignored him, turned her head, and another tear fell. Because this tear had been there longer, it was quite full, and once it fell, it hung all the way down to her chin. Mr. Zhang quickly went to wipe her chin. As he wiped, he explained to his wife, "Today you were wrong. I wasn't wrong, right? You were wrong, so why are you crying?"
Mr. Zhang's wife ignored her husband's analysis. She squeezed her eyes, and a tear rolled down from each eye. Then she suddenly cried out, "I'm so miserable!" and burst into tears.
Mr. Zhang was at a loss. He stood beside her, rubbing his hands together, muttering to himself, "This is ridiculous! You cry as if I'm the one who's wrong? I didn't do anything wrong today, so how can I be wrong? If anyone should be crying, it should be me." Mr. Zhang analyzed the situation and realized he was confused by his own words.
His wife ignored him and just kept crying, sobbing uncontrollably, like someone had died.
Mr. Zhang grew impatient. He gently placed his hand on his wife's heaving shoulders and said, "Alright, alright, enough with the tears and snot. Let's call it a funeral. I didn't do anything wrong tonight, but I'm wrong too, okay?" "Ugh, you women, your tears and snot are so annoying!"
Mr. Zhang's wife knew she had won, but she didn't immediately stop crying. As a woman, she understood women's ways very well. She knew that if she tried to reconcile, it would only make things worse. Ignoring Mr. Zhang's apology, she forcefully flung his hand off her shoulder, screaming, "Don't touch me!"
Faced with his wife's bluffing scream, Mr. Zhang, a grown man, really wanted to slap her a few times. However, he didn't. The reason might be that Mr. Zhang's initial attack in the argument had been too aggressive; his desperate shouts and decisive gestures had exhausted his energy. Besides, as a businessman, Mr. Zhang might have thought, since his wife had already given away her treasure, and these things aren't like other things—once given away, they're gone forever—it's better to save his energy. This business-like calculation of costs and profits quickly made Mr. Zhang realize his mistake. After his wife screamed, "Don't touch me!" he still smiled like a traitor, saying, "It's autumn, hehehe, catching a cold won't do." Saying this, he picked up a coat and put it on.
Everyone knows that men offering to help women get dressed usually only happens during the flirting stage. In long-married couples, let alone the man offering to help the woman dress, even if the woman occasionally asks the man to help her dress for fun, the man will usually say, "Alright, alright, your arms are so thick, do it yourself." So when Mr. Zhang, for the first time ever, proactively grabbed his wife's thick arm and stuffed it into the sleeve, he expected his wife to give a shy, charming smile and then utter a smug remark, "You're crazy!" But things didn't go as Mr. Zhang expected. Before his wife's arm even touched the sleeve, she flung it away, saying, "I'd rather freeze to death!" Thus, Mr. Zhang's attempt at reconciliation was coldly tossed to the ground.
Even as an observer, I thought Mr. Zhang's wife's two ungrateful actions were excessive. Sure enough, Mr. Zhang was furious. He yelled, "Fine, don't go too far!" and lunged forward, grabbing his wife's dressing mirror like a grenade, intending to throw it out the window. I thought to myself, "Oh no." I knew that if the mirror slammed shut, the neighbors would definitely call the police. When the police arrived, they'd look up and see me naked on the balcony. But at that critical moment, Mr. Zhang suddenly slammed on the brakes.
Why he stopped at the last second was a mystery at the time; I couldn't figure it out. Later, I asked Mr. Zhang's wife, and her words gave me an insight. She said, "He's not made of wood, can't he sense that?" She then smiled. Based on her words, I deduced that there might have been subtle differences in how she threw Mr. Zhang away the first time. If the first sudden throw was simply anger, the second throw was more significant. It contained a double meaning of anger and reconciliation, with reconciliation clearly prevailing.
Mr. Zhang understood his wife's intentions perfectly. The moment he raised the mirror, he must have suddenly sensed the good intentions behind her second throw, so he slowly lowered the mirror, even jokingly saying, "Hehehe, I always thought it would be more auspicious to move this mirror somewhere else."
Mr. Zhang's explanation was clearly illogical. His wife rolled her eyes at him and said, "Go ahead and throw it away if you want.
Go ahead and throw it away." Mr. Zhang smiled sheepishly and said, "I'll just have to buy more in a few days, hehehe."
Boss Zhang's wife pressed her advantage, saying, "What's a mirror? If you won't throw it, I'll throw it for you!" She then ran to grab the mirror. Seeing
this, Boss Zhang grabbed his wife's hands and hurriedly said, "Oh dear, oh dear, I was wrong, I was wrong, okay? You don't expect me to kowtow
, do you?" I nervously watched Boss Zhang's wife's reaction. I thought it would be unwise for her to shake him off a third time. Clearly, Boss Zhang's wife was quite adept at dealing with her husband. This time, she didn't shake him off, nor did she automatically lean towards him. Instead, she stood motionless, silently letting her tears flow.
Seeing his wife's tears falling like broken pearls, Boss Zhang was moved. He pulled his wife closer to him, essentially pulling her into his arms. Boss Zhang's wife then rested her head against his chest, and the two became inseparable again.
The storm had passed, and my tense body began to relax. Unexpectedly, as soon as my body relaxed, I immediately realized something was wrong. I felt an irresistible force surging up my lungs. Before I could even cry out in alarm, my eyes narrowed, my nose stung, and then a deafening bang startled all three of them. 　　My first sneeze erupted, and Mr. Zhang abruptly released his wife's waist, shouting, "Who's there!"
Actually 　　, asking who was there was pointless; he should have guessed who else was around, but he hadn't expected me to be hiding on the balcony. He released his wife, sat on the sofa, and said slowly, in a shrewd, almost arrogant tone, "Come out." 　　My hair slowly rose through the window, then my forehead, my eyebrows, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my upper body… I climbed through the window and walked towards Mr. Zhang. I didn't feel the fear and tension one would expect from an adulterer. I remember my skin was covered in goosebumps; the cold night seeped into my bones, and I just kept sneezing. My sneezing made it impossible for me to control my head; it tilted back and forth repeatedly, one sneeze after another, so loud that not only did the dogs for miles around bark, but some lights in nearby houses also came on. 　　Mr. Zhang sat there watching me, and he should have been scolding me, yelling at me, or even hitting me. But because my sneezes kept coming, Mr. Zhang couldn't get a word in edgewise, and even his attempts to curse his mother were drowned out by my loud sneezes. He could only watch me, and with each sneeze, he would slap his thigh, as if tapping to a beat. 　　Mr. Zhang's wife, seeing me like this, had long forgotten the serious scene of the evening. She clutched her stomach, giggling incessantly, saying, "Oh dear, my stomach, my stomach!" 　　Infected by his wife's delightful laughter, Mr. Zhang also couldn't help but laugh; his facial muscles gradually relaxed, and he chuckled. Later, seeing my long snot hanging down like noodles, he didn't care anymore and burst into hearty laughter. 　　Because they were both laughing, I stole a glance in the mirror. In the mirror, I was covering my crotch with both hands, my face a mess of tears and snot. I couldn't help but laugh myself. 　　The three of us laughed heartily for a while, like close friends, until suddenly Mr. Zhang realized something. He realized that this lighthearted, joyful scene had ruined the seriousness of his supposed attempt to catch someone in the act. For a moment, he wondered if this was a conspiracy we had orchestrated. So Mr. Zhang stopped laughing. He solemnly tossed me a pair of pants and said, "Here." This condescending tone, using "Here" without speaking, made me understand that there was no chance of getting away with it; another storm was brewing. 　　After saying "Here," Mr. Zhang turned away. His wife, seeing her husband turn around, also turned around. I found it ridiculous. Why did she turn around? She should have picked up the pants and handed them to me. What was there to be embarrassed about between us? 　　However, I understood Mr. Zhang's wife's embarrassment and predicament, so I wisely wiped my nose, picked up the pants from the floor, and put them on myself. 　　When Boss Zhang heard the metallic sound of me fastening my belt, he turned around. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and I quickly lit it for him. 　　Boss Zhang squinted, exhaled the smoke, and casually uttered a weighty remark, "Little Lu, didn't expect you to have such guts." 　　I quickly glanced at Boss Zhang's wife. I figured the only one who could save me now was her. I gestured for her to step forward and say something, preferably admitting she would take full responsibility, like the gentlemanly words spoken in the warehouse where they were printing counterfeit designer T-shirts: "Little Lu, who gets fired and who doesn't is up to me!" 　　However, Boss Zhang's wife showed no such intention. She looked at Boss Zhang, then at me, and said, "Little Lu, hurry up and apologize to Zhang. A real man takes responsibility for his actions." 　　I was furious. Women are like that; they run away first when it matters. I figured since I was already out of a job, I might as well clear my name and tell the whole story. So I firmly said, "Boss lady, I think we should apologize to Mr. Zhang together and explain what happened." 　　Mr. Zhang's wife was stunned for a moment. From the corners of my tightly pressed lips, she probably saw a kind of resolute determination, like a warrior going to his death, something she had never seen before. She later explained that it wasn't a matter of being afraid of Mr. Zhang, but rather that if we argued, she was afraid that in my anger I would reveal that we stole the t-shirt, which would then be a criminal case. I really didn't expect Mr. Zhang's wife to know a little about the law, prioritizing the greater good in a crucial moment. I saw her walk to Mr. Zhang's side, pat him on the shoulder, and say earnestly, "Mr. Zhang, things have come to this point, it's better to think positively, 　　your health is the most important thing." Mr. Zhang's wife used words meant for comforting someone at a funeral in a scene of catching someone in the act of adultery, which made Mr. Zhang both angry and amused. He shook his head and said, "How unlucky you are! What do you mean by that?" 　　Mr. Zhang's wife didn't understand that she had used words meant for a funeral. She asked in surprise, "What do you mean? I said your health is the most important thing." 　　Mr. Zhang, fuming, was about to stand up and say, "Is it really that simple, just an apology?" 　　His wife pressed him down onto the sofa, sitting on the armrest herself, her breasts pressed against his ear. She said earnestly, "Zhang, Xiao Lu was just acting on impulse. He's a good helper after all, and he's been working very hard this peak season. You know that, a man's momentary impulse is understandable." 　　Mr. Zhang turned to look at his wife and said, "What do you mean? Are you saying Xiao Lu has worked hard, and you're going to reward him tonight?" 　　His wife was furious. She pointed at Mr. Zhang and said, "How can you talk so rudely? Is my body something to be rewarded with?" "I'm saying Xiao Lu was just acting on impulse. You know how men act on impulse."　　　Mr. Zhang ignored his wife and beckoned to me, saying, "Xiao Lu, come here." 　　I approached Mr. Zhang nervously, imagining he'd suddenly slap me like in a movie. But Mr. Zhang just squinted at me and said, "Xiao Lu, you really have guts." 　　I panicked and, ignoring Mr. Zhang's wife, said, "I don't have the guts, boss, I have no choice." 　　Mr. Zhang's wife chuckled and said, "What do you mean 'no choice'? Do you think I'm a tiger?" She then said to Mr. Zhang, "Actually, Mr. Zhang, to be honest, we're evenly matched. You have your partner, I have Xiao Luzi, I don't have an extra one, so we're tied." 　　Mr. Zhang immediately retorted, "Can Xiao Luzi compare to Ling?" 　　His wife said, "Don't say 'Ling' or 'Ling,' I don't want to hear it!"

Boss Zhang immediately changed his tune, saying, "I meant, how can Xiao Lu compare to Li Danling? I've told you so many times, you can find someone else outside, I'll turn a blind eye, but you go after Xiao Lu, and see what kind of person he is."
Boss Zhang's wife glanced at me and waved her hand, saying, "Xiao Lu, wipe your snot." She led me to Boss Zhang and said, "Xiao Lu, at least there are two advantages. One is that he's obedient to his own people, and the other, you know, hehe, don't you also like young men?"
Boss Zhang knew his wife's words made sense, but he still said from another angle, "The problem is, how am I supposed to face people after this? If others find out my wife is having an affair with my handyman, I might as well hang myself."
Boss Zhang's wife said, "So what? You used to be a worker too. Besides, if Xiao Lu keeps me company, I won't argue with you anymore. You can go and keep your man company without worry."
Boss Zhang was stunned for a moment, then tentatively asked in a cautious and uncertain tone, "You mean if I don't come on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, you won't argue?"
Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Yes, I said it was a draw."
Mr. Zhang immediately widened his eyes and said, "You mean it?
" Mr. Zhang's wife rolled her eyes at her husband and said, "Do I ever go back on my word?"
Mr. Zhang suddenly perked up. He turned his head, pointed at me, and shouted, "Little Lu, did you hear that? You're the only one here tonight, you're the witness!" Mr. Zhang's face was strange; under the light, it had been dark just moments before, but now it suddenly shone. He said, "Alright, alright, everyone heard it, we have a witness, you have to keep your word. 1, 3, 5, 2, 4, 6 are void, hehehe, all void."
Mr.
Zhang gradually became less concerned about my relationship with his wife. Besides being used to this principle after seeing it so many times, he might also think that because of my relationship with his wife, in a sense, I was more like...

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Chinese men in Sydney (1-44)

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