I am about to do something very dangerous and I need someone to know what I’ve been through so that if they find me dead in a ditch somewhere, they’ll know how I ended up that way and who put me there. This is an account of the past few years of my life.
My name is Celia Wu. I live in New York City. I was born in 1988 to Dolores Montenegro, a poet from Colombia and Weidong Wu, a famous erhu player who died when I was eight. I am petite. I get angry very easily. I have always been a misfit. In elementary school pictures, I always looked seedy and ungroomed. Only someone like me could stand in a group picture and be alone. In high school, after I developed breasts and hips, things got a bit better. I got excellent grades and made some friends but had difficulty keeping up with everyone else because of my impoverished background. Unlike the other girls, I couldn’t buy attractive outfits, pay for fake I.D.s to get into clubs and bars, or even go on most of my school field trips.
After high school, I began working at a Borders store by Penn Station, hoping to save enough money to someday go to college. Until then, my intellectual pursuits are limited to reading books at work when no one is around and pressing the “Random Article” button on Wikipedia until something interesting comes up. Now that I have my own money, I have been able to afford better clothing and have taken better care of myself. My improved appearance and the social skills forced upon me through interactions with customers have made me more approachable. But sometimes I still feel revolting.
So now you know who I basically am. Or at least who I was.
I wish my background wasn’t what it was; one changed variable could have led me to somewhere far away from where I am now. It all began when I met Evan Bertrand in early 2007. It was November 19, a generally eventful day. A girl named Melissa thought I had been gossiping about her and slapped me in the middle of a mutual friend’s birthday party at a club downtown. I never tolerate that sort of stuff so I boxed her in the ear and then tried to knee her in the stomach but missed, hitting her pubic bone instead as she tried to kick me in the shins. Ultimately, we ended up wrestling on the floor and pulling each other’s hair. At one point, she managed to straddle me and punch both sides of my face before I threw her off with my legs. I rolled on top of her and grabbed her by the neck, slamming her head against the floor maybe three times before someone pulled me off her. I was dragged outside as I screamed for the right to finish her off.
After we exited the bar, whoever was carrying me plopped me down on the sidewalk. He was a tall man in his mid-thirties, generally good-looking but sort of scruffy. The man introduced himself as McBain and remarked that he hated when large groups of young people congregated in bars and clubs. “It causes a real big disruption for us regular drunks. Say, what’s your name, girlie?”
“Eli,” I said.
“What kind of a name for a girl is ‘Eli? Wait a second, are you a boy or something?”
“No. I am a girl.” After a second I added, “It’s short for Celia.”
“Okay, good, because for a second there I thought I was really drunker than I thought.” McBain reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask. “Well, thankfully, that means I’ve got room for more.” He took a gulp and then offered it to me. I refused it.
Without thinking, I said, “I’m too young.”
“Oh!” he laughed. “So you weren’t supposed to even be in there in the first place, were you, kid?”
“’Kid’? If you’re going to ask for my name, I suggest you use it. Otherwise, I might have to take all the energy I was supposed to use on that empty-headed ho-bag in there on you.”
“Yo, you’ve got spunk. That counts for something.” He handed me the flask.
In two hours, we had gotten mind-bogglingly drunk and hailed a taxi down to McBain’s apartment where I planned on getting him to commit even more crimes involving the corruption of a minor. (I like older men. Maybe it’s a daddy-issues thing.) Unfortunately, we were both so drunk that we couldn’t fit his keys into his door’s keyhole. Instead, we made out on the hallway floor. After kissing me for a couple minutes, he began clumsily unbuttoning my shirt and accidentally pinched me as he tried. I yelped and a young man, only a few years older than me, came down the stairs from the floor above and saw us.
“Get off her, you creep!” the young man screamed. He ran over and swiftly knocked McBain out cold with one punch. He helped me to my feet. “Are you all right? Do you want me to call the police?”
Being drunk, I did not realize at first why this man had stopped McBain. “Why did you punch him!” I half-yelled.
“I was visiting a friend who lives upstairs and as I was leaving, I heard a scream. Did he hurt you?”
“No, he didn’t hurt me. He was trying to…you know, get with me.”
“That dude’s old enough to be your dad!”
“No, he’s not!” I paused to do some guesstimating and mental math. “At least I don’t think so….”
The man leaned forward to sniff my breath which seemed to confirm that I was drunk. The man took my hand and led me outside. He took me to his car and shoved me into the passenger side; I was about to protest and ask, “How do I know you aren’t some crazy rapist?” but saw a Jesus fish bumper sticker and figured he seemed safe enough. He asked where I lived and when I was too incoherent to answer, he shuffled through my bag and found my cell phone.
“’Mami’—is that someone’s name or is that what you call your mother?”
“Don’t call my mom!” I howled.
He thought about not listening to me, but then scrolled further through my list of contacts to look for other options.
“Call Elizabeth.”
“Okay.” He called my best friend and dropped me off at her apartment.
Before he left, we exchanged names and numbers. His name was Evan Bertrand. It was a lovely, heroic, French-sounding name which greatly pleased me.
Evan and I began dating about half a year after that. We started out as friends but realized one day that we could be something more. Honestly, I ended up really loving Evan. Unlike me, he had grown up like a king. He was financially secure, handsome and popular. He was well-liked by his friends and feared by his enemies. He was a star volleyball player and was in the National Honor Society in high school. In college, he continued playing sports but took more to what he called “practical sports” like martial arts, fencing and shooting. He played guitar in a band and rode motorcycles. He became a junior accountant by the time he was 25. To me, he was perfect. He was good enough on paper to bring home to the parents but bad enough to take for a wild ride.
On August 18th, 2008, the night before Evan’s 26th birthday, I came to his apartment to cook him dinner as a surprise. Or at least to try cooking him dinner. I was using a Giada deLaurentiis cookbook from work that I “borrowed” that day by stuffing it into my backpack when no one was looking. I thought “everyday Italian” sounded simple enough but was not having any luck. I ended up ordering Chinese food. After I ordered, I realized I would feel bad if I didn’t try to make him anything at all so I took out some vegetables to make a salad. I was cutting some lettuce and carrots when he came in. I ran quickly to greet him.
“Surprise! Happy Birthday!”
“Oh! Hey! Uh, I didn’t know you would be here.” He didn’t look too happy to see me; I figured he was just too shocked or that I had taken the thunder away from something he had planned for tomorrow.
“Yeah, I know you didn’t know. That’s why I yelled, ‘Surprise!’”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Well, uh, thank you. Why are you holding a knife?”
I looked down and realized I was still holding it. “Oh, I’m making a salad. I also made some Chinese food but I made that in advance; I’m getting a friend to deliver it here later. He’ll say he’s from China King but it’s really all me.”
“That’s so sweet of you, my little culinary genius.” He smiled and I felt at ease again. We hugged and he gave me a peck on the lips. “Get back in there and finish the job!” he teased.
“Yes, sir!”
As I continued chopping, Evan nervously wandered back and forth through his apartment, moving objects, shuffling through files that he kept locked up in a cabinet, eyeing the door. I had just finished tossing the salad and pouring thousand island dressing on it when Evan’s doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” I said cheerfully.
“No, no!” said Evan harshly. “Get some drinks out or something. Stay in the kitchen. I’ll open the door.” Evan didn’t look away from me until he knew I was in the kitchen. When he knew I was gone, he answered the door. I wondered why Evan was acting so strangely, got drinks quickly and then hurried back to eavesdrop, leaning against the kitchen wall closest to the door. I heard Evan talking. “No, this is not the time. Leave me alone. I’m busy tonight.”
I couldn’t hear whoever it was when they spoke but I knew it was undoubtedly not the Chinese delivery guy at the door. I stepped out of the kitchen. “I’m done!” I said cheerfully. I looked at the man in the hallway. He wore a large jacket, baseball cap and…gloves. Gloves and a jacket in the middle of August?
“That’s great. Can you get me my wallet in my bedroom? I thought they were in these pants but I must’ve left them in those new black jeans I bought. They should be in the hamper.” I knew Evan was trying to get rid of me but walked away anyhow.
I was looking through Evan’s hamper and had come to the conclusion that there were no such jeans when I heard a loud thump. I stopped moving around and making noise so I could listen. I heard nothing else. I shrugged and continued on with my mission. I opened Evan’s closet and found a brand new pair of black jeans. I felt the pockets and found that they were empty. His wallet must have been somewhere else.
I was closing his wardrobe when I realized I had never before seen the inside of his closet. He had no business suits, which surprised me because he was an accountant. I tried his desk next, in case he absent-mindedly tossed it on top. I shuffled through the few things that were on top and found no wallet. After some contemplation, I went through his papers to look for anything related to accounting. There was nothing.
I tried opening his drawers and found they were all locked, which surprised me. I had slept over here quite a few times and he had always walked about his apartment with ease, opening drawers whenever he needed to. I wasn’t under the impression that Evan ever locked his drawers.
Of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if an accountant who probably had some sensitive information in his home kept his desk locked. I was surprised, however, when I tried opening the drawers of his captain’s bed and found that they were shut tight as well. It was as if Evan put his room under lockdown. I tried all of the bed’s drawers and found one that had not been completely shut. It wouldn’t open immediately so I yanked at it a few times until it popped open. Inside was a backpack that contained a wallet, a passport, keys, a change of clothes and a few other items that I did not see as quickly. I opened the passport and saw Evan’s picture but not Evan’s name—the passport identified him as Jean-Jacques Gericault. I opened the wallet and found a Coloradoan driver’s license identifying him as the same along with some supermarket loyalty cards, $234.27 in cash, three credit cards, a condom, a Social Security card and a debit card. Was Evan pretending to be this man? Was Evan this man before? Was Jean-Jacques just someone who resembled Evan? I was stunned and didn’t know what to make of my findings. And just when I thought my mind was boggled enough, I found something between some of the dollar bills: a newspaper clipping of Jean-Jacques with a woman named Aurora Chen—who looked a lot like me. Was she an ex-girlfriend? Did Evan have raging yellow fever? Why hadn’t he ever mentioned her—assuming, of course, that this was Evan.
I was about to inspect the entire bag when suddenly, a loud cry came from the living room, accompanied by a crash that sounded like an object skidding across the floor. With my heart pounding thunderously in my chest, I shoved Jean-Jacques’s wallet into my pocket and stuffed the bag back into the drawer and tried shutting it but had some difficulty because the backpack was so big. No wonder Evan hadn’t been able to close it.
I heard scuffling, indistinct shouting, banging and a muffled scream of pain. I came out into the living room and found Evan standing over the strange man’s body. There was a gun on the floor a few feet away from them and the man was holding a large knife that was now embedded in his own body. I imagined that Evan had forced the man to stab himself during a struggle.
“Oh, my goodness. Evan. Evan? What in the—”
Evan turned around and saw me. “Eli, you gotta go. This man is part of a local drug ring that has connections to an international business. Some very bad people are going to come looking for him and you cannot be here.”
“Why did they want you?”
“I used to be mixed up with some drug stuff. Now I’m out but they want me back. That’s all you need to know.” He found my purse on his sofa and handed it to me. “Don’t call the police,” he said emphatically.
“That will connect you to the scene of the crime and I don’t need them asking you any questions. Did anyone see you come here?”
“No, I don’t think so. I was being discreet because I wanted this to be a surprise and didn’t want to run the risk of anyone telling you—“
“Good, good. Get out. I’ll call the police myself. My fingerprints are all over him anyway. Just check in on me later.”
With that, he basically pushed me out the door.
As I left, I knew that there was something more to Evan than I had known about. I knew that those drawers were not always locked. He had never hidden anything from me. But when he knew the apartment was going to be empty, he kept everything under wraps. Did he leave things open when I was over so I wouldn’t be suspicious? Because he had somewhere else to hide his secret identities?
I probably should not have listened to Evan at all. I probably should have run to the police. But I was in love with him, curious about what I had found out and hoping to God that Evan wasn’t one of the bad guys. Instead, I went home and did as much research as I could on “Jean-Jacques Gericault” from Colorado.
That was my first real mistake.
