eyes and see the silks above us.
I glance at San-xiang. She is gazing up into the darkness and when the kites flash brilliant into the lights above Washington Square she shivers and takes a drink of her beer.
I don't know why it is so much more exciting to see the race live. Everybody jacks in at home, too. And at home the race is clearer than it is out here. But it is wonderful to see them up there and at the same time be able to close your eyes and see some sense of what they see.
The race is quick-at two laps they always are-and Iceberg doesn't finish in the money. 'Ready for another beer?' I ask San-xiang.
'Yes, please,' she says. She has color in her cheeks, whether from the race, the chill, or the beer I can't tell.
When I come back she smiles up at me. 'Thank you,' she accepts the beer. 'This is fun. You do this a lot?'
'Pretty much,' I say.
'Would you like to be a kite racer?'
'I'm too big,' I say, laughing. Kite racers are small, usually around 40, 45 kilos.
'Yes, but wouldn't you like to be? If you could?'
'If I won a lot,' I say.
She laughs and sips her beer, watching me over the rim of the glass. Flirting. We pour over the program, I haven't heard of any of the fliers in this race but I recognize a lot of the racers in the last three races, the big ones. San-xiang decides not to bet on a rookie, she wants to win.
She doesn't win the second race, or the third, but her flier comes in second for the fourth race and pays 3:1. The credit light flashes and I take her up to pick up her chit. When she stands up she is a little unsteady on her feet from the beer. She refuses my arm but she's delighted when they pay her off. She turns that monkey-face up at me and smiles.
'I'm having a wonderful time,' she says, 'one of the best times in my life!'
We walk a bit rather than go back to our seats and the chill clears her head.
'We won't miss the next race, will we?' she asks.
I shake my head. 'There's a break between the first four races and the last four. The first four are the minor card and the last four are the major card. The best fliers race the major card.'
Peter and a guy from Bed-Stuy are standing where we always stand by the Arch. I hadn't intended to walk that way, just habit. I think about pretending not to see them but decide what the hell and wave. Peter grins and waves back.
'Who's that?' San-xiang whispers.
'A good friend of mine,' I say.
We stop for a moment and talk to Peter and Bed-Stuy, whose name I can't at this moment remember. 'Peter, this is Qian San-xiang. My friend Peter and,' I make those motions one makes when one can't remember a name.
'Kai,' Bed-Stuy says.
'Is that an American name?' San-xiang asks.
'Scandanavian,' Bed-Stuy says, 'But I'm American.' Peter and Bed-Stuy are both fair, both anglo-handsome. Neither one of them is very attractive by Chinese standards-big nosed for one thing and Kai in particular has the kind of angled face that Chinese don't like. Chinese always think Westerner's eyes are set too deep in their heads, that they look a bit Neanderthal. This is not a prejudice I share. But Peter and Kai are dressed well, both in sweaters with leather ties and shimmering reflective strips dangling off the shoulders and shaded glasses sitting on top of their hair. Bed-Stuy has his hair in a tail, like me. They look so bent I wonder if she will guess.
We are carefully low key, talk a little about who is expected to win the seventh and eighth races, and then I say that San-xiang and I have to get back to our seats.
'We're going out to Commemorative afterwards,' Peter says. 'Drop by if it's not too late.'
'Okay,' I say and head us back to the stands.
'What is Commemorative?' San-xiang asks.
'It's a flyer bar that Peter likes,' I say. 'Do you want another beer?'
I buy two more beers and we make our way back to our seats. We pour over the program and talk about who to bet on. I'm tired and want to go home, but San-xiang is clearly enjoying the evening so I feign interest. She sips her beer and looks coyly at me out of the corners of her eyes and not knowing how to respond I pretend not to notice. Clearly she does not think I am gay and that is a relief but the night is beginning to depress me.
'Your friends are handsome,' she says.
'Do you think so?' I ask. '
She giggles and looks down at the program.
Finally the last four races start. It's a so-so card, the seventh race looks good. I pick a flyer at random in the fifth race, San-xiang deliberates before picking the odds-on favorite. I find myself watching for Peter and Bed-Stuy between races. San-xiang is disappointed when her flyer doesn't come in. She wins the sixth race and is so excited she spills her beer. With some trepidation I buy her another, she has had two and a half and it is obvious that she's not accustomed to them. But I am hoping that if she has another she will be drunk and sleepy enough to want to go home after the races.
I finally pick a flyer who places in the eighth race. San-xiang is giggly and unsteady.
'Are you hungry?' I ask.
'What about that place your friends are going, Commemerative, do they have food?'
'Not this late,' I say. 'I know a little Thai place on West 4th Street, it's not far from here.'
'I am having such a good time, I want to stay out all night!' she says. 'Are you having a good time?'
'Of course,' I say. 'When you go with someone who's never seen the kite races it reminds you of your first time.'
'It's so exciting. It's so much better than watching it on the vid.'
This is a night she will remember all her life, the night when she went to the kite races. How many nights do I remember? How many special nights have I had in my life? Is it so much to give up a night?
'Let's get something to eat and then see how late it is, maybe stop in for a drink,' I say. She smiles up at me. Oh, the dangers of pity.
The restaurant is crowded and we pick up our orders of curry and noodles and eat standing on the street. The streets are full of students in outrageous clothes. San-xiang watches a girl in a lavender tunic with no sides, belted at the middle. Underneath she wears a pale green transparent body suit. She is arguing with a boy, shaking her copper hair to make her points. The boy-as drab as she is vivid-is in one of those gray diaper things like they wear in India. He has long, impossibly skinny black clad legs sticking out of his dhoti. I wonder what he would look like if he didn't rat his hair. 'Leave her,' I urge him silently. He is angry and sullen, regarding her out of hot bruised eyes. He crosses his arms and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He is so thin that there is nothing under his skin but long, striated muscle, and the muscles are clear as diagrams over his face bones. Suddenly he turns and walks off.
The girl flips him the finger and stands, rigid with anger, before whirling and walking up the street.
'Dog,' San-xiang whispers in Chinese. She looks up at me for collaboration and I nod, although I know she means the boy. San-xiang takes my arm and I tense, startled, but she doesn't notice.
Commemorative is crowded and loud. Hot and noisy. I try to see Peter and Bed-Stuy but can't, so I take her hand and force my way through the crowd. I finally find them near the back, at the end of the bar. They're talking with a flyer, he only comes to Peter's shoulder, and he's dark and ugly. Not many flyers are pretty, like most of them he looks as if his head is too big for his body.
'Zhang!' Peter shouts, 'This is-!'
I miss the name in the noise but nod and smile anyway. I don't share Peter's preoccupation with flyers. He says they're atheletes, good in bed. I signal the bartender 'two beers' and she puts them up on the bar. Peter hands them to me, we can't get close. Peter is happy and animated, trying to converse with his flyer. Bed-Stuy has the patient look of a man who has stood at a lot of bars and is willing to wait to see if his luck changes. San-xiang seems a little overwhelmed.
