Russell Shor presents an innovative take on ‘Coolies work for six cents a day,’ skillfully employing the writer’s art of interpretation! Thanks Russell for making a contribution.

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Sharon was the Western name she chose the day she turned fourteen. She liked the meaning of the characters — cleverness + beauty–whose phonetics most closely resembled that name. And she liked how it went with her family name; Shen.

My trip to Taipei had begun badly. The start of the Iraq war had doubled air security and the Taiwan government was turning away flights from Hong Kong, forcing me to change my flight at the last minute.  I was still frazzled the next day when I arrived at the office of the Man Seng Gold Corportion.

Sharon was waiting just inside the door, introducing herself with a very proper handshake and directing me toward four middle-aged men seated on one side of an oval table.  I couldn’t help but look her up and down. She was tall, filling a navy blue business suit with what 1990s fashionistas called the lacquered look. Everything shiny and perfect, like a porcelain statue. Me? I felt anything but perfect and had a serious craving for caffeine.

She eyed me – was there a secret smile behind the porcelain? “I imagine you are quite frazzled after your flight so I have sent for tea – strong tea.”

Over tea and light cake, Sharon showed me samples of the ring and bracelet styles that her company could produce for us – occasionally nodding to the middle aged gentlemen. I wondered to myself whether they could maintain quality through long production runs without raising prices – the department stores I bought for were sticklers for these.  As soon as my thought was finished, Sharon looked at me, announcing: ”Quality, Capacity and Price. Our company’s pillars.”

At the airport, I bid her good bye. She shook my hand. “I am very certain we will meet again.”

A month later, with the contracts signed I was dispatched back to Taiwan to supervise.  Sharon was nowhere to be found when the three men, brothers it turned out, showed me around the factory near the city airport and escorted me to the high-rise flat my company had rented for me.

The adjustment was difficult. My fiancée had broken our engagement just before I left, telling me that my assignment abroad moved the second thoughts she’d been having up to the front of the line. “And,” she added, “we just weren’t meant for one another.”

The same noodle shop each evening at dinner and the same sterile view at my windows made me wonder how long I could endure this assignment when Sharon reappeared. Same porcelain look. Same business voice. “You must be tired of those little restaurants every night, so I will make you a home-cooked dinner, if that is agreeable to you.”

“Agreeable? Absolutely! I’ll bring the wine.”

Over gingered tilapia, snow peas and rice, Sharon told me her family lived in a small city at the far end of the island, that she’d studied business at the University of London and that she had no interest in small town life.

I began reciting my resume’ when she interrupted: “Do you miss her very much?”

“Her?”

“Yes. The woman you left back in Chicago.”

“I…we…weren’t married–”

“I know. I suppose she felt you and she were not meant for one another.”

Sharon and I became lovers the night I kept asking myself whether there’s a real human face behind that porcelain. I really did look forward to our weekly dinners, but she seemed so untouchable that I didn’t make any move. That night, she leaned back in her chair and asked what I thought of her. I was fishing for words when she said, “I know I seem untouchable. I must in our business culture. “ She extended her arm toward me. “But I am human, a woman. I can be touched.”

A year later, I made up my mind to marry her. My plan was to take her to the roof restaurant of the Grand Hotel and propose over champagne. As we dressed to go out, she stopped, turned to me and said, “My family is quite traditional so I cannot get married until my older sister marries.”

Over dinner, I told her I could never understand how she knew so many things in advance. She simply nodded and smiled.  But, when the champagne arrived, she did agree to live with me provided we keep it secret from her family and company. The secret held though six years. Very good ones. Not much conflict because I learned quickly that any arguments were futile because she’d always know where my thoughts were headed and block me way before I got there.

I had dodged reassignments and even a promotion to stay with Sharon in Taiwan until the world economy crashed last year. My boss gave me 60 days to wind things up.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Sharon. One evening, I returned home late and found our flat filled with boxes. Two large suitcases occupied the bed that she and I had shared all those years. Beside the bed she stood, arms folded, in her navy blue business suit and porcelain face.

“I’m trying to be cool,” she announced in her all-business tone. “I knew you were leaving … I work my sixth sense every day.”

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