The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

The building was three stories of mostly concrete.  The front exterior was covered with polished white brick tiles.  The building was surrounded by a 3-meter wall laid of orange clay brick lacquered with lime-cement stucco and double-coated with a chalky white primer.  The base of the wall still showed clay brick stacked two deep, one on top of the other.  In the gaps between the brick, was garbage shoved into oblong spaces.  Some were green or clear plastic bottles flattened like coins.  Others were pieces of Styrofoam from anywhere.  They were all dust-laden.  The wall was stately besides the bottom 25 centimeters.  And the wall was graffiti free.  The top of the wall was crowned with burnt-red tiles each clapping the tile beneath.  The tiles were stacked, built like a fort and glued with cement.  The wall covered the yard like a poker player with cards.  The yard was big, the size of a soccer field bent into an L-shape.  Half the yard was flattened yellow dirt where students played soccer; the other half was paved with cement.  White lines were painted on the cement forcing students to stay in bounds.  A permanent 10-foot hoop stood at each end of the cement half of the yard.  A gate made of expanding accordion-like metal stood at the 10-meter gap in the wall.  Complimenting the gap in the wall, was a windowed booth covered with the same polished white tile. 

In the booth, was an elderly man listening to an AM/FM radio while reading the
Handan Daily
newspaper.  A plastic bottle of sunken green leaves so soaked they looked black rested in front of the radio.  The volume was low.  The bottle partially blocked the sound.  The elderly man didn’t seem to care; he was too interested in his newspaper.  His black hair was slightly peppered and swept across his head right to left.  His hair wasn’t neat or untidy, much like him.  As the sentry of a school gate, he was under constant reminder that the mind needs exercise, so each day he studied his newspaper.  While the students were in class, there wasn’t much else for him to do. He operated the accordion gate but for now, no one needed in or out.  It was just him and his paper and the sound of the radio shut out all loneliness.  Along the outside wall of his booth, were the Chinese characters
Handan No. 4 High Middle School.
  He had manned the gate there for eleven years.  The school was simple enough.  Each classroom was designed to hold fifty students, most averaged around forty-four.  The floors were all finished concrete, no carpet, no tiles, no surfacing.  The walls were painted the same chalky white as the outside, but only one coat of paint was used for inside—not two.  There was a whiteboard at the front of each classroom 4-meters in diameter.  Every whiteboard had railing attached with a world map that slid to any position along the whiteboard.  The People’s Republic of China was centered on the map.  All desks were wooden, including the teacher’s desk.  The rooms had six florescent bulbs each.  There was no lamp at the teacher’s desk.  There were twelve classrooms on each floor and three floors with classrooms.  An outdoor stairwell built of steel and concrete was wide enough for three lanes of human traffic.  The stairwell connected all floors top to bottom. 

Just off the stairs on the second floor, two classrooms over to the right, was Room 208.  There, Mr. Li taught English literature where most students enjoyed most lessons.  Most female students thought Mr. Li was very handsome, even the male students could see why.  The boys were willing to admit that Mr. Li was worthy of more than a passing glance.  His looks were interesting because they were uncommon.  The overwhelming majority of locals had features explaining Asian ancestry, but Mr. Li was ambiguous.  His hair was as black as any, but it did something different with the light.  Instead of reflecting light cleanly, it choked darkness in some places—guilty-like.  His hair made waves with its increasing length, being delightfully mischievous.  His skin was deep red to brown and his nose was a little long and a little broad.  His eyes were big for a Chinese man but they spoke Chinese fluently, so did Mr. Li.  He spoke through lips that were thickened, not thick, and surrounded by newly shaven facial hairs.  From far away, he would not draw much attention.  From close up, some would call him
laowai
—foreigner.  Most would stop themselves before calling him a foreigner.  They couldn’t be sure if he was or if he wasn’t, still unsure what he was and what he wasn’t.  His face had many scars but time had negotiated against most of them.  Two didn’t go unnoticed:  the one above his right eyebrow over three centimeters and the one on the right side of his upper lip about a centimeter long.  Like the faded scars on his face, he looked blended.  Some people thought he was foreign, but when he spoke the clue was big enough—he was a half-breed.  In China, it made his authority on English literature that much more convincing.   It wasn’t the Chinese half; it was the other half that carried the authority.  He played the part well.  He seemed extra worldly and well-traveled for someone in his early thirties. His worldliness approached other-worldliness. 

He had conquered the world and ordered it into his classroom for the benefit of his students.  He was fond of Shakespeare.
Macbeth
was a staple in his classes.  His interest in theft of power seemed almost personal.  He was teaching his students to recognize that kind of theft, even amongst themselves.

“What is on his mind?  Why is he convinced of his actions?  What is driving Macbeth?  Think about how you answer,” said Mr. Li.  His room, his rules, students had to answer in English. 

“Shu Tao,” Mr. Li liked to call on students at random, his life had been random but it gave him an edge.  He never coddled his students, coddling made them complacent.  A girl, shy in demeanor and expression, stood up.

“Mr. Li,” was all she could manage to say.

“Did you do the reading?” asked Mr. Li.  His English was flawless but his voice was chilly.

“Yes,” said Shu Tao.

“So you know that the king is dead,” said Mr. Li.

“Yes,” said Shu Tao.

“Do you know who did it?” asked Mr. Li.

“Macbeth,” said Shu Tao.

“Does anyone agree with Shu Tao?” asked Mr. Li.  Over 30 voices said yes.

“Wang Shaodong,” Mr. Li called out.  A tall boy confidently stood up with a slight smile and slight mustache on his face.  A lot of students giggled because the boy was popular.

“Do you agree with Shu Tao?” asked Mr. Li.

“No,” said Shaodong.  The boy was smart enough to know the game was afoot.  He just wasn’t sure what game he was playing.  He realized Mr. Li would not have continued with him if he was satisfied with the previous answer.  He knew enough to know that it was time to disagree.  But he didn’t know why he should disagree.  Mr. Li knew as well.

“Why?” asked Mr. Li.

“Because she’s wrong,” said Shaodong.

“Why?” asked Mr. Li.

“Macbeth didn’t kill the king,” Shaodong wasn’t sure where he was going.  He did the reading during lunch hour and he knew Macbeth had killed the king.

“Ok,” said Mr. Li, “Then who killed the king?”

“I killed the king!” said Shaodong.  The class turned into a riot for no more than fifteen seconds.  Riots never lasted long in Mr. Li’s class.  It wasn’t that kind of class. Mr. Li wasn’t that kind of teacher.

“Ok, Shu Tao, do you agree with what Shaodong has said?” asked Mr. Li.

“No,” said Shu Tao.

“Why?” asked Mr. Li.

“Because in the book, Macbeth killed the king,” said Shu Tao.

“And you believe the book?” asked Mr. Li.

“Yes,” Shu Tao wasn’t really sure anymore.

“And you don’t believe Wang Shaodong?” asked Mr. Li.

“No,” said Shu Tao.

“Neither do I,” said Mr. Li, “So you say Macbeth killed the king.”

“Yes,” said Shu Tao.

“Would you kill the king?” asked Mr. Li.

“No,” said Shu Tao.

“I’m going to give you some time to think it over because we know Macbeth and Shaodong would kill the king, right Shaodong?” Mr. Li asked.

“Yes,” said Shaodong still standing.

Mr. Li said nothing.  A river of calming pause flowed into the room.  Mr. Li took advantage of the pause to let it settle his mind.  He leaned against his desk and put his hands on the edge for balance.  Shu Tao and Wang Shaodong felt awkward as the only students standing.  Other students were thinking how awkward it must feel to be standing with no one saying anything.  When all the students were thinking this, the silence began to get uncomfortable.  Mr. Li had perfect timing. 

“Shu Tao, would you kill the king?” asked Mr. Li.

“No,” said Shu Tao.

“Why?” asked Mr. Li.

“Because I don’t want,” said Shu Tao.

“So why did Macbeth kill the king?” asked Mr. Li.

“Because he wants to be the king,” said Shu Tao.

“And he thinks no one can kill him, correct?” said Mr. Li.

“Yes,” said Shu Tao, she was more comfortable listening than speaking English.

“So you can understand why Macbeth kills the king,” said Mr. Li.

“No,” said Shu Tao.

“Wang Shaodong, can you understand why Macbeth kills the king?” asked Mr. Li.

“Yes,” said Shaodong.

“Why?” asked Mr. Li.

“He kills the king, then he is become king and no one can kill him,” said Shaodong.

“In other words, why not kill the king?” said Mr. Li with a pause, “We’ll stop here because we’re out of time but I want you to finish Act III for tomorrow.”

The rumbling of students loading their bags echoed in the classroom for up to a minute before an electronic bell broke through.  The bell was followed by the comfortable hymn of a
hongge
folksong.  A familiar narrator’s voice came out of the same manila speaker box sitting above the classroom door frame.  The narrator was undoubtedly female and gave instructions about new requirements from the school’s head office.  She also advised about preparations for the upcoming college entrance exams—most students ignored most of what she said.  When she finished, another electronic bell sounded and students headed for the door.  On her way out, Shu Tao was stopped by Mr. Li.  To make his point, he spoke in Mandarin.

“
You know I never asked you if Macbeth killed the king, I only asked if you knew who killed the king.  Yes or no was all you had to say.  Always regard what’s being asked of you,”
said Mr. Li.

Shu Tao had a surprised look on her face before nodding then leaving with a girl wearing the same blue track suit and quiet character.  Mr. Li knew Shu Tao had done the reading.  She always did the reading, it was her nature.  He had called on her to see the reaction on other faces, to find the perfect combination of relief and anxiety.  Those were the ones who hadn’t done the reading—his favorites to call on.  To figure out who hadn’t done the reading, he had to read forty-two students’ faces in seconds.  It was a unique skill, but he was like a surgeon with it.

Mr. Li paused and stared at his empty classroom.  A room going from packed to empty so quickly would have ushered in feelings of loneliness for most, not for Mr. Li.  The emptied space gave him a sort of calm.  For that time, there were no more variables:  no students’ faces to read; no noises; no gestures.  His mind would interpret it all because it had no choice.  A constantly turning pen or a blink that lasted too long would send pulses to his brain—data.  His brain would analyze the data by compulsion.  It was just the way he was.  He never had a choice in the matter.  He took both the time and the space to inhale and exhale in long deep draws.  And he repeated.  He reached an inner peace for ten seconds or less, but that was all he needed then he went back to his duties.  He grabbed the whiteboard eraser and started to wipe clean the whiteboard.  His strokes went up and down constantly until he stopped by instinct.  It wasn’t until he heard ringing in his ears that he realized why he had stopped. It took him a split second to realize the ringing wasn’t in his ears but in his shoulder bag on his desk.  His brow narrowed causing a deep wrinkle.  The phone ringing was odd.  It only rang once before, for work, and he was at work.  There was no one to call him.  He lived alone.  All his bills were automatically withdrawn from a regular savings account at
Bank of China
.  He had no family, no wife, no children, no girlfriend.  He knew his neighbors’ names and occupations but did not speak to them.  He ate all his meals at home and never ordered out or carried in.  He ate food from the same fridge, bought from the same store, cooked on the same stove, for over three years.  He watched TV with the volume at level five; volume five couldn’t be heard through walls.  He barely watched TV, but he watched Sanda boxing as a compulsion—he hated soccer. 

He had no car or footprint.  He was just Mr. Li, living on the sixth floor of a building at the end of an alley with no balcony or landing.  He was barely seen and never heard from.  Only a handful of female teachers at the school even knew his given name.  He was so intriguing that they looked in his file to see.  But they never called his phone, even though the number was in his file.  No one ever called his phone.  He had done something wrong.  It didn’t make a difference whether he answered or not.  It was the phone ringing that was significant.   It meant he was back on the grid.  The curiosity was getting to him, he had to know where he slipped up.  He reached in the bag and pulled out a dated model cell phone.  He clicked a green button but didn’t say anything.