The four boys seemed disinterested with what was going on around them; they did not get up to dance and their eyes glossed over people without any spark of interest or recognition. They were like the mirror balls, faraway planets, sending out splinters of light that skated across faces and bodies like luminous fish. A stone chorus, watching intently from their red velvet sofa, so still as if not breathing, such that each time one of them blinked it was like an exhalation, and Robert himself exhaled in relief.
As usual, the music they played was not Robert’s type. When Robert was once asked by Wan Tung what type of music he liked, he had said, “the sentimental kind”. When Wan Tung asked him further what that meant, Robert could not tell him exactly. But in his mind he knew it was something with some light piano, and candlelight, something romantic. But Robert realised that like ‘sentimental’, ‘romantic’ did not say much about his taste in music either. It was just one of those words that could mean something or nothing at different times.
In fact, the song blaring over the speakers annoyed Robert, what with its frenzied beats and the brassy wailing of a female singer. He looked around him to see so many people writhing to it, some flinging their arms up into the air and some shaking their heads around like dogs trying to dry themselves after rain. Then there were those whose bodies were still, but whose feet tapped restlessly, their eyes closed and their heads tilted upwards as if receiving some holy light, some ecstatic revelation. Robert decided to walk over to the bar counter and ordered a tequila. As he was walking, two men brushed past him, and he caught a whiff of the cologne they were wearing. Or maybe it was perfume, Robert thought wryly. You could never tell in a place like this. But the momentary friction of one of the men’s exposed biceps against Robert’s shoulder gave him a tingle, and he reassured himself that despite the music that roused nothing in him, this was the place for him to be.
When Robert got back to his spot, the boys were still there. Robert smiled and took more sips from his glass of tequila, and he felt generous. For the past three times he was at the club, that sofa had been his; he had sat there because it was the only way to disguise the fact that he could not dance. Now four boys had taken that place from him. Robert assumed that like him, they were not into dancing. Perhaps some of them had a certain clumsiness that was best hidden from a crowd that was quick to spot beauty and quick to expect that the beauty would come in a total package, with attendant talents. (But how good they were at concealing it!) Robert felt comforted and no longer believed that he had been dispossessed of his one oasis in a whirlpool of shattered light and thunderous music. He had company. After realising that his glass was half empty, Robert decided to take a closer, though guarded, look at the boys. There was one sitting nearest to where he was standing, who had cheekbones so sharp and angular they were almost shiny. He was wearing a baseball cap whose peak was folded severely down the middle, and beneath it his eyes glimmered, appearing almost metallic in the chaos of the lights. It was this boy whom Robert approached suddenly, with the tequila still warm in his breast and the ice in his glass tinkling mutely.
“Hello!” Robert yelled at the boy.
The boy looked up at Robert and did not smile.
“Hi, I am Robert.”
He kept the fire of his drink burning as he stood in the boy’s cold gaze.
The boy said, “Hi, I am,” and paused. “Jason.” He came up with the name on the spot, Robert believed. His spontaneity grabbed Robert by the neck. Caught by such a lie, Robert suddenly lost all his nervousness.
“Do you go to the disco often?” Robert asked.
The boy nodded at Robert.
“I like your cap,” Robert said.
“Thanks,” the boy said.
“I’ve been looking for a cap like that for some time.”
“You want it?”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Here, take it.”
“I don’t want it.” Robert backed off.
“I can always get another one,” the boy insisted.
“No, really.”
“Put it on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“This is nice.”
“You’ll look good in it.”
“Really?”
“Here. See you around.” The boy pressed the cap into Robert’s hands, the corner of his lips lifting slightly as if caught by hooks.
When Robert walked out of the club, he believed that he still had his dignity intact. He reasoned that dignity was nothing but simply the fear of looking ridiculous. That was all. And a lot of people wore caps, young boys, old men, women even. As Robert passed two boys near the exit, he noticed that they were holding hands. Feathers of light were falling on their faces like blurred snowflakes. Robert tried to transpose himself on the boys, tried to imagine an adolescence bound to the simple gesture of clasping palms. What was I doing when I was your age?, he wanted to ask. What was I doing then?
In the car, Robert sat in the dark, sinking into his seat and closed his eyes. Had he done the right thing just now? He opened his eyes and looked at the club as if he were watching a television screen with the volume turned off. He had bashfully accepted the cap and put it on his head. It was tight, so he adjusted the strap till it fit. All the while, the boy, his hair just a little downy, had stared at him, almost hungrily,
