Monkey Watching the Sea

Monkey Watching the Sea

by Katherine Westermann

When my husband said a mountaintop resort, I hadn’t pictured so much walking. Or so much damp. The world is grey and crowded inside this heavy fog. Over fifty of us are climbing a narrow trail to the ‘Monkey Watching the Sea’ viewpoint, named for a monkey-shaped rock formation that stares down at the world-famous Huangshan Sea of Clouds. Legend has it, the monkey’s view grants Clarity. 

       We shuffle up the trail at an invalid’s pace. Some of the tourists are old, tiny as children, and their bones set the tempo. Glen and I should be hand in hand in this claustrophobic mist, but he’s drifted ahead of me in the procession of tourists, his assistant at his heels. 

    Glen gave me three options for our vacation this year, all in mainland China. When I decided on the “secluded” mountaintop resort of Huangshan, I hadn’t realized that Numen Lei, his personal assistant and Chinese cultural liaison, would come with us. If I’d known that, I would have picked somewhere less romantic and cheaper to get drunk. At the mountaintop resort, every item— all food and drink—was carried up on someone’s back. On the hike up, we passed hard-muscled porters, running bundles of garbage back down from the resort. Through the evaporating fog I see a distant pagoda on a neighboring peak, floating in the clouds like a Chinese Mount Olympus. The tourists, Glen included, start snapping pictures. It’s strange to me that anyone bothers. That exact shot is in the brochure.         

           This place is beautiful, but it’s clammy, and the altitude irritates my asthma. I take a steadying breath, reminding myself not to complain, not to catastrophize. I am a supportive helpmate. I am one of the good Americans abroad, respectful of the environment and respectful of the culture. Glen and I have lived in Shanghai for the last six months, but I spend the bulk of my time in the French Quarter, where everyone seems to enjoy Americans and wants to practice their English. Up here, kids snap my picture without asking, and the waitstaff give me dirty looks when I struggle with the menu. Glen and Numen seem happy here. They keep leaning their heads together whispering excitedly. I catch bits and pieces.

            “The Sea of Clouds is best photographed at sunrise,” mutters one of them and I hear them titter softly.    

           I am sleepy and mentally foggy, but I try not to show it. Numen points to a vine growing out of a craggy rockface and Glen stoops to take a picture. His tongue protrudes in concentration, and I grin at his familiar habit. Taking my chance to catch up, I push through the crowd and come to stand behind my husband. He is bent down in a perfect position for butt-smacking, but I’m afraid he won’t think it’s cute. My playfulness irritates him lately. Numen murmurs something about framing in photographs.

           “Do they have Huangjiu up here?” I interrupt, desperate to get the conversation off photography. We only carried up two cameras, and they’ve stuck me with the heavy binoculars, claiming I can use them to birdwatch and spot monkeys in the treetops.  

           “Huangjiu?” asks Glen, and I can’t tell if he’s kidding or genuinely forgotten the name of that sweet Chinese wine. 

           “Little early for Huangjiu,” says Numen, cutting his eyes at me. The expression makes me feel guilty for eating or drinking anything carried up here on the backs of the local people. 

           “Huang means yellow, right?” I say, changing the subject again. 

           Numen ogles me, disgusted. “You are on Huangshan, the Yellow Mountain. Huangshan.” He shakes his head at me, hissing out laughter.

           “Wow,” I say, trying to recover. “I mean, I knew Huangshan was the Yellow Mountains, I knew that,” I stammer. “I knew, but I didn’t realize, you know?”

           Glen straightens up from his photo. “Classic Lydia, airheaded to the last.”

           “Glen!” I say, stung, but he just grins at me, either not seeing my hurt feelings or pretending not to.  

           Cheeks burning with shame, I take off up the trail, barging past the able-bodied and carefully maneuvering around older people. Above the mist, the air is crisp and cold. My lungs start to ache, and I feel my heartbeat behind my eyes. I slow down. At the top of the trail there is a clearing and guard rail. The monkey-shaped rock formation is perched on a hump that looms above the viewpoint. He looks lonely and stupid up there.

           I walk to the guardrail and peer down. The rising sun bleeds yellow across the horizon like a broken egg-yolk. The humped mountains rise from the thick clouds below. From up here the frothing white mist really looks like an ocean. This view looks exactly like a painting you’d see in a Chinese restaurant back home. Huangshan is the Yellow Mountain, of course. I feel so stupid. I followed Glen to Seoul and then Singapore, before coming to Shanghai. But China is harder. The vastness of the culture and people daunt me. I will always be a foreigner here. I wait, hoping for a revelation. The brochure promised Clarity. But I am dull, muddled. The clouds look edible, like cotton candy.

           I hear Glen and Numen laugh behind me. Hands shaking, I lift the binoculars that hang around my neck and fiddle with the settings until Numen and Glen are clearly in focus. They are cresting the trail and Glen is peering up at Numen with a look of puppy dog devotion. The way he used to look at me. That is why we are vacationing in China. That is why I am here. The shift in perspective is stark, like an image snapping into focus. He loves Numen, not me.

           They lean together, hands touching, eyes gleaming with joy, then Glen sees me watching, and he jerks away from Numen, looking guilty. Dropping the binoculars, I turn back to the clouds. A lonely monkey watching the sea.