The Music Box
Turpan, Xinjiang Provence, China
There was to be a raffle, I was told. The MC was going to call out the number of a ticket and a prize would be given; nobody knew what it was. There were two small boys sitting with me at the wobbly little table. I had originally been sitting alone, which I preferred. I liked the feeling of aloneness that sitting by yourself in a crowded place provides. They invited me over, pulled a seat out for me; one never sits alone among the Uygers.
The first thing I noticed was the raggedness of these boys. One was very small, his growth stunted by poverty. He had a face covered in freckles and his head was shaved. The other was a little taller, bigger and with interesting hair. Lyle Lovett hair. They were both wearing dirty, ill-fitting suits.
I took to the small one and poured some harder shit into his Sprite. I had stashed the bottle near my feet; when I went to pick it up I looked at their shoes. The suit was too short in the legs and I could see that had no socks on. Their ankles where covered in dirt. They were urchins.
There were many children at this bar. It was designed to look like a adolescent hangout. ‘Glow in the dark’ paint. On the wall someone has crudely painted skulls, stick figures surfing, stars, monsters. Tacky designs created to excite to undeveloped minds. On the ceiling a net hung down low with wigs and Halloween masks and party balloons attached. One often sees these places in lands where Islam has a tenuous presence; places where kids go to do bad things. Along the walls were small alcoves, little rooms where for a fee one is able to receive privacy. Using my lighter for illumination, I look inside one of these tiny rooms: A table and a couch. People have sex here.
My table is approached by a tall, frizzy haired Uyger girl wearing heels, black pants and a pink, translucent headcarf. It strikes me how un-Chinese the Uygers are. Culturally and physically they are as different as night and day from the Han. She looked like a Chechen or Afghan. Dark hair, freckles, big ass, statuesque facial features. Her left eye was lazy, slightly cocked to the side. It was this feature that I liked best about her; it made her more human, fallible.
She wants to dance with me. I look at the table from where she came: people where looking at me to see what I would do. I try to get out of it. I am too shy to dance. I could never muster the courage to try. I had always envied those that could.
She insists, pulling my arm.
The dance floor is filling with people, by the music I can tell it is time to slow dance. The lights are very, very low. We walk to the dance floor. I look at the other couples and see people amateurishly grabbing ass, kissing wet sloppy kisses. The one-man-band plays a clonking version of Lionel Ritchies’ Hello.
We take our place on the checkered dance floor. The air is hot with teenage hormones. I ask the girl in Uyger her age. She tells me with her fingers she is nine-teen. We dance, holding hands. Fuck it.
It begins awkwardly, she steps onto my sneakers. We laugh to hide our embarrassment. She looks at her friends and covers her eyes. Eventually, we catch a rhythm and it works.
‘You are strong boy. Beautiful boy. I love you.’ she says into my neck, speaking English. People who don’t speak English are prone to this kind of grandiosity; they have yet to learn the scale of words.
I want to escape this girl; she felt needy. Together our hands have become sweaty. I loathe dancing.
The song ends and I go back to my yellow seat. The two boys are sitting and grinning at me. They have no friends; while every table is filled with people in sharp clothes, they sit in solitude. The smaller boy is smoking a cigarette. He offers me one, pours beer for me into a little plastic cup. I wonder what their story is.
‘You are our friend,’ they bigger one says to me.
It is now time for the raffle. The two boys encourage me to pull out my ticket, maybe I have won. “I don’t care about that shit.’ I say. They don’t understand. I take my ticket out anyway and vow if I win to give them the prize.
A number is called and for several moments all these horny teenagers fall quiet until the winner is determined.
It is the small boy from my table. He stands and fixes his collar and goes to collect his prize. “What is?” I ask his friend in Uyger. I hope it is more alcohol. If it is alcohol they will give me some. I want to drink for free.
The boy goes up to the stage and receives a small box. He is so young and small; no older than thirteen. He looks nervous on the stage. People are laughing at him. He comes back and sits with us. A jealous, jeering crowd starts to gather. He opens the wrapping. It’s a music box.
The others tear into him. Such a shameful gift; a gift for women! He opens the wooden box and the frail music comes out. What a humiliation for him.
I ask to see it.
He hands it to me and I am struck by the intimacy of this gift. The small box was tasteful, with red felt inside, skillfully carved on the outside. I wondered why they chose this as a raffle prize. I hand it back to him. The others are razzing him about it. “Guzel, guzel.’ I say. ‘Very nice, very nice.’
The others go away and it is the three of us again at our little wobbly table. Nobody says anything.
The DJ announces it is time to ‘Disco.’ With a hiss the dance floor fills with steam. The two boys want to go and dance. I promise to watch the little music box.
The dance floor fills with people. The music is appalling, pulsing European techo/house.
We come to make you partay!
We come to make you partay!
We come to make you move yo’ body!
I drink my beer and watch the people dance in the strobe lights. They dance horribly, jerky, awkward movements. This music and dance is foreign to them, liked for what it represents more than for what it is.
Strobe lights make people appear as grotesque cartoons of themselves. It is life in freeze frame, ugly people can look attractive, graceful people look blundering. I see my two friends dancing. They are being pushed around by the other boys. It looks like dancing but is in fact assault. I look elsewhere and see men groping women. The strobe light is whipping people into a frenzy.
This scene makes me nervous. When I was young I used to go to raves and push drugs. Those who would try rob me or try to make off with free drugs always came under the stealth of strobe lights. Friends of mine have been knifed in strobe lights. Predatory people lurk under the strobe light.
An arm reaches past me and snatches the music box. I watch two boys begin to play catch with it. They took it because they could, because the two boys I was sitting with are rejects. I know they will break it, smash it to the ground. Such is the cruelty of jealous boys.
I get up, walk over to them and take the music box back. There are girls there, watching this. I am the only foreigner in the room. They stand up and I point for them to sit down; I feel like a bouncer or a reform school teacher. I am much bigger then them. They sit and laugh it off, chortling to save their wounded pride. I was thankful for the ease of it; I didn’t want to fight.
I was still standing when the Uyger girl comes to my table and beckons me to sit. Women do this, try to diffuse fights. I sit with her. The two boys have left, leaving the music box on the table. I present it to the Uyger girl and she clap and shouts, putting her hand over her mouth. We sat and held hands until they were sweaty and sticky. I didn’t care anymore.
