Forbidden Voices

By Charles Justus Garard

Before American Alex Barteau goes to teach English in China, he discovers many forbidden voices in his experiences as a newspaper salesman and later as a part-time teacher at a community college where he is taken to jail along with other protesting teachers. Years after earning his PhD and after teaching at a private college in Atlanta, he is hired to teach at a university in northeast China. Here, ironically, is where his real education begins.

Alex discovers many ex-patriots teaching at the university, but he is the only American. His colleagues are from the UK, Australia, South Africa, Canada, and Japan; each of them, he quickly discovers, has his/her own agenda, particularly when it comes to adapting to the teaching methods and expectations of the Chinese administrators. Although Alex's standards are high, his experiences at below-average colleges in the US color his expectations of the students. However, he is not willing to condone the amount of grade changing that he encounters or the negative attitude of many Chinese instructors who resent him and other foreigners taking their jobs. His British colleague, on the other hand, has a different attitude: "I for one was just as bad as immigrants in our two countries. I totally thought that they should convert to my way of thinking about cheating, plagiarizing, bribery, sleeping in class, not having to take part in sports day parades, etcetera. I expected someone to say: 'You chose to be here.'"

Alex's experiences, as it turns out, also include his becoming involved in an intense relationship with an elegant but shallow Chinese teacher. Her beauty but self-centered manner both add to and offer relief from his professional life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Justus Garard
• Release date: Nov 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996445641

Charles Justus Garard

I am a retired PhD in literature and writing who taught for sixteen years at a private college in Atlanta, at a university and community college back in my home state of Illinois, and for seven years in the People's Republic of China. Before finishing my degrees and becoming a professor, I worked in film advertising for two theatre companies in Illinois and sold advertising for a community newspaper in Missouri. Since returning to the USA in 2012, I have been devoting my time to writing. I do have one print book published as a scholarly evaluation of books made into films, focusing on British author John Fowles. My hope now is to continue my struggles to publish fiction novels that I have been working on for years. Two novels based on my teaching experiences in China are FORBIDDEN VOICES and FOREIGNERS AND EMPERORS, which are semi-fictional exposes.. The recently completed and available is the third novel in The Alex Barteau Asian Series titled SMS; THE SCAMMERS. This e-book novel deals with characters from the Philippines as well as from China. My science-fiction novels include a time-travel mystery called OF TIME AND THE DREAMER, a time-travel adventure titled FROM HERE TO ATLANTIS, and a work about an extraterrestrial occupation in a small town called CIRCLES AND REALM. First completed and available is a trilogy of paranormal (horror) novels called the DARK JOURNEYS TRILOGY, followed by a fourth novel in the DARK JOURNEYS series called DARK TWILIGHT. The fifth novel is tentatively titled CURSE OF THE LAMIAI. Featuring many of the same characters in OF TIME AND THE DREAMER is the follow-up time-travel novel titled ISLANDS IN TIME. Recently completed and posted is the semi-fictional experience based on characters from the Philippines titled SMS: THE SCAMMERS. I really appreciate the sweat and mental trials that authors must go through, and I hope to continue my support for my colleagues through group sites through Facebook. Thank you all for support by continuing to read literature -- in whatever format. Right now, the USA is in fifth place among the countries in the world with the most educated people. I hope we can change that by showing that we are not only good at playing computer games. Connect with Charles Justus Garard: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/charles.g.phd Twitter: https://twitter.com/chukk0913 Blog: http://www.virgostone.wordpress.com Smashwords Interview: https://www.smashwords.com/interview/chukkgarard Smashwords profile page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/chukkgarard Web site: https://www.the-alternate-world-of-cjg.com

Book preview

Chapter One

~

OCTOBER

2004

~

"When I heard that an American PhD was coming to our university, I wondered why. Why was he coming here and not to a level-one university in Beijing or Shanghai? Most of the foreigners we saw teaching here were strange to us – strange in appearance, strange in behavior.

"The first time I saw the American was at the banquet for the Foreign Languages Department held in the International Hotel. He sat there at the round table two tables away from me, staring forward most of the time. He didn’t say much to the loud Canadian who sat next to him on his left, or to the Chinese teacher on his right. He did not stand when the Dean of Foreign Languages introduced him as the new English professor. He did not even stand up to shake hands when the Dean introduced him directly to our president.

"After that, I didn’t pay much attention. I sang songs with the Japanese instructor while the others played some kind of guessing games.

"The second time I saw him was at the special lecture in the large classroom. This was in the middle of October. I went, as one of the Chinese teachers of English in the department, because I wanted to hear what an American professor sounded like. The sign outside the building said his name was Alex Barteau PhD and that he would lecture about archetypes in literature. He drew images of a house on the board, which was supposed to represent the human mind. When one of the masters-level instructors asked if he wanted to use a microphone, he said that he wouldn’t need it. The room was full of students, and many of them, attending only because they were graduating, were unable to understand his English very well. However, because he walked around the large room as he spoke and because he had a voice that sounded like an actor on a stage, they could certainly hear him.

"I noticed that he sweat a lot. The back of his shirt was wet throughout his talk. I guess it is good that he did not know it.

"He called on me one time when I raised my hand. He didn’t say my answer was right, but he didn’t say it was wrong either. It had to do with the color red as one of the symbols he was talking about.

"I couldn’t tell his age exactly. He wasn’t young. He had wavy light-colored hair that was long in the back, and he was overweight. He didn’t wear his shirt like any of the Chinese men his age; the first two or three buttons were unfastened, and this caused some of the girl students and Chinese women teachers to stare at him. Not many Chinese men had hair on their chests like this man did, and certainly not the blondish color.

If anyone had told me at that moment that I would have a relationship with him that would last even after he moved on from here to another university down south below Shanghai, I would have shaken my head. I had my plans all mapped out: two more years at this second-level university to fulfill my three-year contract, earning enough money to send extra RMB home to my parents, farmers in southern China, and to my sister to help her with her education. I had no interest, like some of the Chinese women, in getting involved with these strange foreigners.

Dawn [Zhu Yang]

*

Chapter Two

~

OCTOBER

1970

~

Jagged remains of a broken bottle congealed in front of the stiff bristles of the broom as Marvin pushed it toward the curb. He shoved the wrinkled hat back on his black brow and looked at the young man in the rumbled trench coat approaching him. ’Mornin’, Alex. He leaned against the handle of the broom, unclenched his teeth, and waved the stem of his white-bowled pipe. Where’s your nose-warmer?

Morning, Marvin. Alex Barteau peeled back the lapel of his coat to reveal his own pipe in the breast pocket of his blue sports coat.

Marvin beamed his approval; then he nodded at the broken glass at his feet. Looks like they got you again, Man.

The right front window of the St. Edwards Advertiser had an ugly hole in its center. Cracks streaked toward each corner.

Alex craned his neck to look up at the bridge, at the narrow old structure that extended across the small downtown business district and connected with the top of the opposite hill. Occupants of any vehicles crossing the bridge could look directly down onto Main Street. What kind of people can they be? Throwing bottles from car windows in an area like this?

Marvin squinted up at the bridge. They got to be insane, Man. Nothin’ else.

Below the bridge, on the opposite side of the street, was the display window of Appelbaum’s clothing store. Hand-painted cards with huge bold letters had been tacked in every available space on the backdrop: SUITS SPECIALLY TAILORED. Someone had inked two lines under the SPECIALLY and drawn an over-sized exclamation point behind the TAILORED. A white banner exclaimed SELLING OUT in bold, red lettering and of ALL OUR SPRING ’70 MERCHANDISE in small hand lettering.

Alex created a mental image of what Appelbaum’s window would look like with a hole through it, disrupting the lettering.

I better get inside, Marvin. Alex gestured with his briefcase. See you around.

Two glass counters positioned perpendicularly and connected by a waist-high wooden door occupied the reception area of the Advertiser. The receptionist’s desk, where Edna Crumpe took a classified liner-ad from the telephone, stood beyond the counter and near the broken window. Mabel Haridan, the bookkeeper, sat behind the glass-enclosed cubicle. She lifted her bulk from the swivel chair behind her desk and raised a fleshy arm to the classified sheets taped to the paneled wall. Holding the receiver of her own phone, she took a crayon marker from a dish of twenty ballpoint pens and slashed a red P.U. across one of the real-estate ads. This was a short-cut indicator that the same ad should run again in the next issue of the paper.

Next to the bookkeeper’s cubicle was the door-less entrance to the news editor’s office. Macy O’Brian patted his gray toupee into place and leaned across his cluttered desk to pick up his large brown bottle of rubber cement. ’lo, Alex. His small-knotted necktie dangled from his wrinkled collar. Guess I’d better start tearing up papers now that all of the salesmen are here.

Alex looked at his watch. He was late again.

So much for talking to Muny about new tires, he thought.

The executive recliner in the thick-carpeted general manager’s office was vacant. Matthew Muny towered over his private files, his back to the doorway.

Alex lightened his step as he passed his office, deciding ,once more, to postponethe issue about the tires. The company was supposed to furnish salesmen with gas, oil, and tires, but whenever he told Muny that his tires were getting thin, he received a bored look as if Alex were dwelling on trivialities.

Alex winced when shards of broken glass that remained on the floor crunched under Macy’s feet, but Muny didn’t look around. Macy followed him down the corridor.

A short, thin man in a green tweed suit-coat and slacks that didn’t match emerged from the doorway next to Muny’s. He shuffled his feet and emitted a dehydrated cough. Morning, Alex.

Hello, Frank.

As advertising manager, Frank Raymond dummied the positions of the display ads each week. Salesmen could only make the requests of their accounts known. Positions were not guaranteed, except for some of Muny’s accounts. The ads for some of Alex’s clients had been bumped from a particular position because Muny’s accounts wanted a strategic place – such as the back page.

Alex’s own cubicle was the last door on the right. He reached it just as Frank called to him.

Uh, Alex?

Frank was in his mid-forties, but his gaunt, weary face made him appear older.

Yeah?

We’re, uh, having a quick sales meeting today at one o’clock. You and Bryon and me in Muny’s office. The Downtown Merchant’s Association is planning a sales promotion for next week, and we want to make sure all of Main Street will be covered.

All I have on Main Street is The Groove Shop, Alex reminded him. What is it now? They had just experienced Dollar Days and the Great 1970 Sale.

Frank dropped his narrow chin against his chest, causing the skin from his neck to pad his jaws, and stared at Alex from under his bushy eyebrows. Coupon section. Nothing to worry about. He spun away.

Alex could see Macy in the backroom. He separated that day’s issues and tore out designated ads with a metal ruler. He wondered if the competition newspaper, the St. Edwards Daily-Bulletin, required its news editor to tear out display ads for paste-ups so the salesmen could deliver them to the various advertisers.

He snorted and stepped into his cubicle, hanging his trench coat on the bent hanger behind the door and setting his briefcase upright next to the desk. His knee struck the corner of his metal desk as he leaned over to turn on the crane desk lamp. He pressed the black button and the twin fluorescent bulbs sent a bluish-white across a pad of layout sheets. Littering the pad were drawing tools, pencils, an X-acto knife, a brown bottle of rubber cement and erasers. He moved the pencils and knife aside to look at the beginning of a half-page tire ad he had been working on. Next to the left border of the ad he had penciled the dimensions of the ad: 3 COL. FULL. Three-columns referred to the width of the ad; full meant that the ad ran the entire length of the page.

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and picked up his large glue bottle.

*

The bell above the door of the Groove Shop clanged as Alex entered.

Slacks, skirts, blouses, and swimming suits – like those in the front windows – hung from racks in the center of the store. Ensembles were spread out on chicken wire in plywood frames like pinned butterflies.

You must’ve made a mistake when you marked that ticket.

Alex recognized Irv Goldwyn’s voice. He looked around and saw him standing in front of the small, red-curtained dressing room.

I’m sure I didn’t tell you to sell that dress for $18.50 – not when Schildman’s vogue is getting $19.50 for the same dress.

Morning, Alex said.

Irv grinned at Alex, saw that he was not a customer, and returned his attention to Julie LaCroix. No, Dear. You marked it wrong. I’ve been in business too long to make a mistake like that. And those girls’ boots: they’ve been selling real well. You should’ve put in a re-order for ‘em.

Jewelry and sunglasses displays occupied the small sales counter. Julie was hidden behind one of the displays. But the boots weren’t selling that well at first. You told me not to re-order – to wait until you told me to.

Irv stuck a toothpick between his yellowed teeth. I didn’t tell you that, Dear.

I’m not lying, Mr. Goldwyn.

"I’m not calling you a liar. You must’ve just thought I told you to wait."

Irv walked around the end of the counter. He took a coin from the open drawer of the antique cash register and left the drawer open.

Julie grinned at Alex. She wore her reddish-brown hair long this morning; it softened her face and made her appear childlike.

Alex shuffled the bundle of papers under his arm and thrust the one with Groove Shop penciled above the masthead toward Irv.

Irv took out the six copies of his 2 x 70 line ad glued to white sheets with red lettering: "As Advertised in the St. Edwards Advertiser. He walked over to the window case. Good. His eyes drifted across the ads of the facing page. But he’s got Schildman’s Vogue on the opposite page. I don’t like to have other clothing ads close to mine. You know that."

Frank had to keep the downtown ads together, Alex said, and the downtown ads all run in the front pages of the paper – so sometimes he has to —

I know I don’t run big ads like some other merchants, Irv interrupted. But still I think I should get consideration since I advertise every week.

They all do. And you do get a good position.

Alex realized that what he said wouldn’t register. It was always the same.

Julie drifted around the end of the counter.

Alex noticed that she wore a short dress that had come from the store’s inventory. Irv preferred that his girls wear clothes from the rack.

Well, I still expect you to look out for my interests. Irv turned his back to Alex and shuffled to the front door. He opened it and the bell jangled. I’ve got to get down to the other store. He closed the door and flashed past the display window on his way down the sidewalk.

See what he just did? Julie nodded at the cash register. He’s always checking the drawer to see if every penny is accounted for, and he gripes when we’re either short or over. And that’s why. She slammed the drawer shut. He’s always taking money out of that drawer. His wife and daughter do the same thing when they work here. They never replace it, and they never tell me about it.

Over her head, in the right corner of the shop, was a mural painted on a four-by-eight foot plywood board.

I don’t know how he expects me to keep track of inventory with the way his family carries out so much merchandise without giving me the control tickets. I never know how much is gone.

A huge human eye was painted in the corner of the mural, and around it, on a blue background, was an acrylic collage of scenes and figures. Students demonstrated with placards, but instead of protest slogans, the signs read: CLEARANCE SALE, SIDEWALK SALE, BACK-TO-SCHOOL SPECIALS, PASSING THE SAVINGS ON TO YOU, and PRICES SLASHED.

Yet when something’s fouled up, he blames me … sometimes in front of customers. Julie saw that Alex’s attention was on the mural.

I’m surprised he hasn’t taken that down, he told her.

Julie turned and looked over her head.

Figures in the mural included a puppet of a man with operational and support strings leading up to a huge dollar sign. A red price tag read: 2 FOR $5.00. A Santa Claus held a wad of green dollar bills in his hand.

I don’t think he even looks at it, said Julie. All he cares is that it covers the heat pipes and cracks in the corner.

It really killed him when I wouldn’t take any money for painting that mural. ‘Course, he made that offer before I did it.

You just better hope your boss doesn’t come in and see it.

Muny wouldn’t care, as long as it didn’t cost him a paying customer. Somehow Alex couldn’t picture Matthew Muny ever coming into The Groove Shop. Anyway, I better go deliver the rest of these paste-ups.

Will you be going to lunch today? Her large, round eyes watched Alex as he moved between the racks to the front door.

Not today. Got a sales meeting at one. The bell jingled. Alex mimicked Irv’s toothy grin. Don’t sell the whole store now.

*

Chapter Three

~

OCTOBER

1970

~

Well, gentlemen. We’ll make this short since I’m sure you’re all in a hurry to start making your calls for next Thursday’s paper. Muny forced a flaccid grin that crimsoned the skin over his high cheekbones – a hint to the others to share his amusement at his own dry humor. His small gray eyes took in each of the three salesmen seated across from his desk.

Frank Raymond converted his nervous cough into a chuckle.

Bryon Parks, seated next to him on the sofa, smiled and looked at the floor.

Alex sat in a well-padded chair, scooping his pipe down into the pouch on his lap.

Muny leaned back in his recliner, his dry smile still splitting his elongated countenance. This Downtown Merchants Association promotion won’t cause any problems that I can foresee, since Bryon handles the Main Street accounts.

Here it comes, Alex thought. The adoration. Bryon Parks had been recruited from the Daily-Bulletin because of his sales ability and smooth personality. Even though he had the imagination of a snail, he was popular with many of the merchants. Muny had given him accounts from Alex’s sheet of accounts, even from Frank’s sheet. Except for The Groove Shop, Alex said.

That’s right. Muny’s expression sobered. Irv likes your psychedelic artwork or something.

Alex held his hand and lighter inches away from the pipe bowl as he nodded that he was correct.

What about the Melton Bakery? Muny glared at Alex. It’s been brought to my attention that a salesman hasn’t called on them for more than a month. Now I think we own them the courtesy of at least dropping in on them occasionally. That account is still on your sheet, I understand.

Alex tapped a cadence on the arm of the chair. Uh, no Sir. That account’s been transferred.

It’s still on your sheet, Frank interjected.

Is it? The bakery wasn’t one of Alex’s obnoxious accounts that he was nervous about calling on; he just didn’t think about the business because it ran ads so seldom. I’m sorry.

Frank produced a noncommittal grunt at his apology.

Alex realized that he was tapping too loudly; he took the unlit pipe from between his teeth and held it tightly.

I don’t want a week to go by without each of these accounts being called on, said Muny. A loud buzz from his telephone drew his attention. He leaned forward from his reclining position. That’s your job, a salesman’s job. Either you’re a salesman or you’re not. He lifted the receiver as his forefinger depressed the intercom button. Yes? Okay, Edna. I’ll take it. He pressed the flashing button, one of the outside lines. Hello, this is Matt Muny. Oh, hello, Sol. All ready for your grand opening tomorrow? Yes. It’s a strong ad.

Alex stared at Frank and Bryon.

Neither of them looked back at him.

Frank shifted uncomfortably. The deep cushions of the sofa seemed to engulf him; his knees were close together and jutting out awkwardly to meet his pointed chin, causing him to look like a small boy planted in his father’s armchair.

Bryon looked at his notebook resting on his knee, his capped pen tracing imaginary circles on the cover.

Neither of them said a word.

Alex understood how Julie felt when Irv Goldwyn berated her in front of customers.

Yes. We’ll be there tomorrow to take pictures of our ribbon-cutting ceremonies. Right.

Alex stuck the pipe into his mouth as he listened to Muny. He turned the bowl on its side and drew in the flame. His hand was unsteady.

All right, Sol, Muny continued. I think we can arrange that. We’ll see you there tomorrow morning.

Alex bit the pipe stem as Muny hung up the phone.

That reminds me, Alex. I’d like you to come with Frank and me tomorrow morning when we go out to Jannings’ grand opening. Macy will be occupied on another story, so we’ll need you to take the usual pictures. The mayor’s supposed to be there.

Alex felt a strange warmth flush through his system. He put down the pipe and watched the smoke thin to a faint thread.

*

Julie handed the girl in the tiny dressing room cubicle a two-piece swimming suit and closed the red curtain. She looked around. So why don’t you quit?

Sure, Alex said. Just like that. I’ve been out of work before. I don’t like it.

Well, you don’t like selling ads. You’re no good at it, you say. You don’t like calling on people.

After getting out of the Navy, he had tried to sell sets of encyclopedias in San Diego. He hadn’t done well at that either.

Mainly new accounts. My regular accounts, I don’t care that much about. He shuffled toward the corner where his mural was mounted but glanced