Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014 (17 page)

Husband One asks how I like to spend my free time.

Dad says, "Wei-guo is the founding general of his battalion. He serves on the Strategic Games Council."

The razor clam at the end of Husband Two's chopsticks stops halfway to his mouth. He comes alive. "I've amassed 5,468,325 krps in Metagalactic Domination. I am Emperor Divine of Omega Centauri, Superior Warlord on Andromeda Magellanic Cloud, Eunuch General on Messier 83, Minister of Justice on ESO 137-001..."

I find myself drifting as he drones on about his virtual rankings. Big Dad's glance darts from Husband One to Two to May-ling. Head down, she is now the one who cannot stop eating. Husband One nods along, the smile on his face an upturned grimace. He is perhaps as much pained by his counterpart's ramblings as by my military games. Ever my biggest fan, Dad forgets that much of the public believe that our nighttime exercises in parks and open spaces promote, rather than deter violence.

When Husband Two finally takes a breath, Big Dad seizes the moment. "Forming the battalion was a continuation of Wei-guo's conscription. He puts in his time now on the governing board, heading up the commission on safety. I'd say he spends most weekends on his bike with his Little Brother—he is a volunteer mentor—training for the Beijing Youth Cup." Husband Two seems content to return to picking out clam meat.

"That's terrific," Wu May-ling says to me. I think it's terrific, too, the way she is trying to forge a connection.

I ask how she likes to spend her free time.

She glances at Husband One as if checking with him. "Before BeiBei came along, I loved to salsa and merengue."

I am immediately transported to her virginal youth. To her pulsing hips. I've long dreamt of a cosmopolitan spouse.

Big Dad says, "I understand you have just one child."

She flinches, and I hold onto her eyes with mine. My gaze tells her that I am on her side, that I do not want to find their situation odd. Every man is allowed one child, and negotiating the size of the dowry refund and the option of a dissolution if a baby is not born within three years is the matchmaker's number one order of business. After six years of marriage, May-ling should have two kids.

Husband One replies, "Our son just turned one. We're planning a three-year spacing between children."

Big Dad addresses May-ling again, "May I ask—I hope you don't mind my asking—have you ever used an infertility specialist?"

Husband One covers May-ling's chopstick hand, but just as quickly snatches it back and checks my reaction. "May-ling is only twenty-four."

"The oldest child is yours?" I wish Big Dad would quit.

"Our son belongs to all of us." Husband One sits up even taller. "And, no, we do not believe in sex selection."

"Nor do we," Dad pipes up. That is, of course, everybody's party line these days, but there's no denying the unnatural number of males in our two units.

"We are a true family in name and deed," says Husband One. "Our son takes the Wu surname as will all our future children."

My two dads' eyebrows shoot up together. In order to promote female births, the adoption of maternal surnames will become official in another year, and the birth rate has skyrocketed in anticipation. Supporters of China First fear that over time, the law will send more men overseas for wives and births, undoing all the gains made by ten years of tax breaks for Advanced families. Big Dad asks why they want to add a spouse.

"We believe in sharing both our country's wealth and pain. Should it become necessary for our government to raise the unit spousal limit, know that we are prepared to go the max again and make that sacrifice."

May-ling starts at Husband One's proclamation. Drops of tea blaze a dark trail down her silky peaks. My fathers are at a loss for words. The large bamboo steamer of dumplings, which Husband Two failed to pass, sits empty. He eyes the steamed hairy crab, no doubt wishing for a lazy Susan rather than the intimacy of this smaller table.

"Every unit has its quirks, so let's not waste more time discussing our bad habits." Husband One promises that our matchmaker will satisfy all our questions later. "Today, I am most interested in getting to know Wei-guo. To see if a rapport exists."

May-ling's gaze snaps up. She stops dabbing at her cleavage. We find each other and grin.

"Absolutely not," Big Dad says the moment May-ling and her two husbands step out of earshot toward the restaurant's door.

"I like her," I reply, my heart still thumping from the thrill of her hand in mine. I feel as if I'm in grade school again the way she secretly pressed her phone number into my palm. "She's charming."

"She's a minx is what she is," Big Dad declares. I wipe his wayward spit from my nose.

On my other side, Dad's face is dark with concern. "I bet your Big Dad is right: Wu May-ling is barren."

Hero points out that they have a child. "I guarantee that she's fertile."

I say, "If anyone can't have kids, it's Husband One."

Dad pats my hand and reminds me that this is our very first match.

Big Dad adds, "There're more pretty girls than one."

No one seems to want to acknowledge the scarcity of brides. After we saved the requisite two million
yuans
needed to enter into matchmaking talks, it has taken another eight months for me to get this nibble.

"You're her first as well." The matchmaker says that Wu May-ling just came on the market. "She picked your picture out of about three hundred."

My heart does a little jig. Big Dad sneers.

The matchmaker fluffs his hair. "I didn't want to color your judgment with talk of money. This is, after all, a marriage. A lifetime commitment." He reveals that they're only asking a million nine in dowry. "I found you an amazing deal. The best one around."

"A good deal is the farthest thing from our minds." Big Dad is touchy on the subject of money. A man who loves tax savings more than his own dick is the public's favorite stereotype of the Advanced male. "What's the catch?"

"They want an honest man. Somebody they all like." He explains that the threesome is going the max because they have their eye on a new home, a three-bedroom apartment. "I'm not supposed to tell you this: Wei-guo's name will be on the deed."

Big Dad raises an eyebrow. "Like I said, what's the catch?"

"Did I mention that the two husbands are brothers?"

"Is this a joke?" Dad says. "Wei-guo will be forever outvoted. What century do they think they're living in anyways? Brothers sharing a wife."

Those brothers seem an equal and opposite reaction to the other. I don't sense much rapport.

Dad stares at the matchmaker. "That second husband is kind of an interesting fellow."

"He's a very good engineer." Hero cannot stop twirling the jade ring on his index finger. "You already know about the maternal surname. Also, they want me to stress that they are a true family, that the children belong to all the fathers."

"Of course," Dad says. "We believe the very same."

"Let him finish," Big Dad tells Dad.

"They don't assign nights. May-ling chooses who gets bedroom time."

A smile takes over my face. I can already see her picking me over Laurel and Hardy.

"That's outrageous," Big Dad says. Mom kept a strict bedroom schedule, as do most Advanced families. She used to spend every other week with each of my dads, but they eventually talked her into alternating nights. The sex aside, too much advantage and intimacy got lost over seven days.

"They believe in the equality of all members. As the most junior spouse, Wei-guo will undoubtedly benefit from such thoughtfulness."

"How do we know for sure then if a child is ours?" Dad asks.

"That's the point," the matchmaker says. "They are all yours."

Big Dad grimaces.

Dad's eyebrows are almost at his hairline.

Hero bows his head. "I understand your concern." He promises to speak again with May-ling's husbands.

"This is not a marriage," Big Dad says.

On the contrary, I want to say, it's better. I welcome this chance to win with my wits, my looks, my sperm. I know I don't want the clinical tedium of weekly hygiene appointments for the rest of my life.

The matchmaker leans forward. "I know those folks, and I wouldn't propose them to you if I didn't think that Wei-guo has a very good chance at becoming May-ling's favorite."

Dad says, "That's too much pressure. Marriage should be a sanctuary, not a popularity contest."

Hero puts one hand over the other and bows with the daintiness of a courtesan.

"You are right, of course. I wanted you to have a shot at May-ling 'cause she'll be snapped up by next week—" He waves dismissively. Not only will he continue to market me aggressively, he will re-feature me as the bachelor of the week.

"Will they allow a compatibility test?" Big Dad says.

The matchmaker starts. "You want me to ask?" A perogative of the bride, Compatibility Tests are more myth than reality.

I close my fingers around the twice-folded slip of paper in my pocket and make a non-committal hum. I don't want anyone's help getting May-ling into bed. Furthermore, there's no need to rile up the dads until I am certain I want her.

The matchmaker asks if my STD panels are up to date. They are requiring a genetic disease profile and tax returns for the last three years as well as bank statements. "They also want an intelligence test."

He sweeps our faces for reactions. "If you are interested."

He fears that my IQ is a deal breaker.

I dial up May-ling the next morning.

"I was hoping you'd call," she says. Dots of color scintillate on the screen and coalesce into her face. I forgot how her eyes dance.

I dim the lights and back up a bit before I activate the video cam. "I liked meeting you yesterday," I whisper.

"I liked meeting you as well," she whispers back.

I tell her that I want to show her my studio tomorrow.

"Yeah?" If she does not bring up her husbands' dating rules, I'll know we have something.

"I'll pick you up at eleven?"

"I can be at your studio at eleven."

"Do you drive?" She would be safe to come alone, locked inside a car.

"Don't you worry."

"All right then," I say. "I won't worry."

I drink in May-ling's flirtatious smile and wait for her to be the first to hang up.

I go beyond my usual vacuuming and trash-emptying routines to eradicate the kind of grime my mother would have noticed. I wipe down, disinfect, and reorganize all the free weights. I dust and shine every machine, every ball, every flexibility strap. I spend nearly two hours wiping the dust, fingerprints, and streaks off the mirror walls. I go through an entire roll of tape ridding the dark floor mat of lint.

At home, I bone up at matchmaking sites. Bathe. Arrive on Time. Be a Gentleman. Compliment. I find the tips elementary until this: Learn to dance. If your woman is out on the floor with someone else, you might as well not exist. I imagine the husbands left in the dust while May-ling and I shimmy, twist, and twirl together, communicating with our bodies our horizontal desires. I spend the rest of the evening studying up on salsa and merengue, listening to, downloading, and organizing music.

A fourteen-piece orchestra will infuse my studio with sexy, hip-shaking rhythm when May-ling arrives. Casually clad in form-f itting black tee and my shortest shorts, I will give her a hands-on tour of my facility. I will assess her flexibility, her muscular strength and endurance, her cardiovascular capacity. I will coach her through the use of my equipment. My wit, my charm, my virility will remind her of everything her husbands are not.

Our last stop will be my basketball court/movement studio. A catered Cuban lunch will await there as well as mojitos, which I will personally mix. I will tell May-ling that it is her turn to coach me. Though I've studied the steps online, I will play the uncertain, but ultimately brilliant student.

Murmuring repeated apologies, May-ling stumbles into my studio a half hour late, a sleeping child on one shoulder and a large bag hanging off the other. Her hair is up in a ponytail, the loose pieces damp snakes plastered to her neck and forehead. Whitish curds mottle the front of her shapeless red top. Perspiration rings her armpits. This is not the date we agreed upon, but what can I do but be a gentleman.

She groans when I relieve her of her weights and whispers that she walked all the way here. BeiBei was up all night teething. He is a light sleeper, and getting into a car would have interrupted his much needed nap.

I cannot help noticing the echo of Husband Two in his extraordinarily big head.

"You walked here alone?"

"Not alone," she said. "I had my little man."

"I can't believe your husbands let you out unescorted." Stories of women abducted and sold on the black market appear at least once a month in the news. Disgraced and discarded wives make up half of the squatters currently occupying Mao's Mausoleum. May-ling's flash of displeasure shuts me up.

"I need to go wash my hands." She transfers her baby onto my shoulder. "Would you mind watching him? I'll be fast."

Of course the boy starts whimpering that very second and arches off me toward his mother. She croons and kisses his cheek. He wraps his arms around her neck and pulls her breasts into my elbow. I freeze. She claims it always takes him a minute to wake up.

Shushing her boy, May-ling encircles us with her arms, puts her cheeks to his, and rocks. Soon, both their heads are on my shoulder. Jittery with excitement and dread, I'm coaxed into swaying with them. Their warmth melts into me, and this sustained, whole-body consciousness of another is not something I know. I touch my head to May-ling's. When she does not flinch, I breathe in her scent of sweet ginger, of sweat, of soured milk. BeiBei is a ball of heat between us. My neck is sticky with his perspiration, but lulled and slightly euphoric, I hold on tight.

May-ling cups BeiBei's head with a hand. "Say hi."

He arches back to regard me and sticks his fingers in my mouth. Kissing him again, she tells BeiBei that MaMa is going to the bathroom. She smiles as she peels herself away and waves. "Be right back."