Kitchen Chinese (18 page)

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he murmurs, simultaneously sliding the shirt off my shoulders and easing me onto the bed. His hands move up to my bra, but as he touches the clasp, my doubts rear up again. Does it matter that he’s not boyfriend material? And, if I sleep with him, will Tina Chang kill me?

“Wait,” I whisper, but he’s kissing me and it comes out more like, “Eh.” I pull away from him. “Wait.” He gives me a questioning look. “Hi, I, um, I’m just going to the bathroom to freshen up for a minute.”

“You seem fresh to me, baby,” he murmurs. But he untangles his fingers from my hair and doesn’t protest when I pull my shirt back on.

In the bathroom, I wipe away a mascara smudge and run cold water in the sink. The cold, fluorescent light turns my skin sallow, and suddenly my jitters seem neurotic. I’m a modern woman. I’m allowed to have confidence-boosting sex. No strings attached. Although, Jeff is awfully cute. And the weekends would be less lonely with a boyfriend. And I wonder what it would be like to date a pop star…No, no no! I wrestle with my expectations, finally pinning them down. Okay, just sex, that’s it.

I slip my shirt halfway off my shoulders and glide back into my room. “Sorry about that—” I murmur, but the words freeze on my lips. Jeff is on his back, arms outstretched, mouth slightly open, deeply asleep. I gently nudge his shoulder, but he simply turns to his side and emits a soft snore.

Great. While I dithered in the bathroom, he passed out. I stare at the even rise and fall of his chest. What the hell do I do now?

Buttoning up my shirt, I lie down next to him, flipping from my back, to my side, to my back again. I try to sleep, but thoughts
keep thundering through my mind, like eighteen-wheeler trucks on a highway. How could Jeff just pass out? Does he find me that boring? Or unattractive? Or could he really be
that
much of a lightweight?

I toss and turn, but my jeans are digging uncomfortably into my stomach and, anyway, it seems kind of weird to go to sleep fully clothed in my own bed.

Maybe I should change. But I don’t want Jeff getting the wrong message from my sleepwear, an extra-large NYU T-shirt that’s not quite long enough to cover my butt.

Except, I’m really uncomfortable.

Oh, for God’s sake.

What I really need is a pair of cotton pajamas, crisp and modest, the sort of thing Doris Day would have worn. Except, I don’t own any pajamas. But I know who does.

I slide off the bed and tiptoe out my door, down the hallway to Claire’s room. A flick of the switch and the room is flooded with gentle light. I kneel at the drawers in her walk-in closet. Let’s see, socks and tights in the first drawer, T-shirts in the second. Enough yoga pants to outfit an entire studio in the third. Finally, at the bottom, a whole drawer of cotton pajamas, organized by color. I dig to the bottom to unearth a pair in pale blue and quickly change into them, fastening the buttons up to the top.

Tiptoeing out of Claire’s room, I can’t help but linger in the cool, white space. Unlike the rest of our apartment, which is outfitted in bland, birch wood furniture that’s included in the lease, Claire’s bedroom bears her personal touch. Dove gray curtains shield the windows, tumbling to the floor in a pool of shimmering raw silk. The rest of the room is in shades of white, from the thick, textured carpet underfoot, to the cloudlike duvet on the bed, to the cream-colored chaise longue by the window. The room is a pale, calming retreat from the hustle of Beijing.

On the mirrored Art Deco dresser stands a small flock of photographs in silver frames, and I pause to examine them. There is Claire in a Chinese water village, standing near a canal lined with weeping willows and lines of fluttering laundry. Our father’s black and white high school graduation photo, his mortarboard dipping down onto his pale forehead, the shape of his eyes startlingly similar to my own. There are others—Claire and her expat girlfriends clinking slender flutes of champagne, Claire on a white sand beach, Claire in a kelly green dress with a bevy of identically attired bridesmaids, surrounding the beaming bride, who I recognize as Claire’s roommate from law school.

Standing at the back of the photo frames is a bright snapshot, a picture of our family taken at Epcot Center, outside the China pavilion. Mom and Dad have their arms around each other, clutched together like they are survivors at sea, which, considering they’re at Disney World, makes sense. I’m eight years old, grinning broadly at the camera, my mouth and teeth stained red with cherry Popsicle. The picture neatly fills the frame, but as I peer closely at it, I realize that’s because Claire has trimmed the photo, cropping herself out of it.

Why would she snip herself out of the photo? I think back to that vacation. If I was eight, then Claire was fourteen and in that awkward tween-teen period with braces, glasses…you name the nerd accessory and she had it. It was the summer between Claire’s freshman and sophomore years of high school, and I remember my mother nagging her about signing up for Science Club instead of writing for the school literary magazine. I stare at the photo, which is perfectly surrounded by an elaborate silver latticework frame. Did she remove herself because of unhappy memories? Or only because the photo fits so flawlessly within the frame without her?

I hear a rustle from my bedroom and hurriedly replace the
photo, switching off the lights as I leave. But in my room I find only Jeff, curled on his side. Throwing a blanket over him, I examine his face, but nothing—not even an eyelash—twitches. I try not to sigh as I crawl under the duvet, listening to his snores, before finally falling asleep.

T
he next morning, I awake early and lie in bed watching a thin line of sunlight stream in through the gap in the curtains. Jeff sleeps beside me, the even rise and fall of his chest testimony to his calm. Unlike me. My thoughts feel scrambled, beaten like egg whites into an inconsequential fluff. Memories of last night creep back. Oh no, we didn’t…I glance down. No, still fully clothed in my pajamas, thank God. Okay, we were kissing and then…oh yeah, he fell asleep!

I tiptoe into the kitchen and start spooning coffee grounds into the percolator. Claire must have spent the night at Wang Wei’s penthouse, thank goodness. We’ve never discussed her overnight guest policy and I’d prefer not to start now, not with Jeff here. The coffee drains nosily into the pot and I pour two mugs and stare at them. How does Jeff drink his coffee? Does he even drink coffee? I reach for the sugar bowl but stop when I hear a musical blast coming from the living room. In the foyer, I find Jeff’s cell phone, blaring Christina Aguilera. It must have fallen out of his coat pocket last night. I reach for the throbbing, flashing phone, and as I attempt to switch it to silent, the display catches my eye. The caller ID reads tina, and the accompanying photo is of a leggy, Asian woman, stark nude. Jesus! Is that Tina Chang? The face is blurry, but those perky breasts seem familiar. I hear a sound from the bedroom, hastily tuck the phone into Jeff’s coat and dart back to the kitchen.

In my bedroom, I place a mug on the bedside table and pat
Jeff on the shoulder. “Good morning!” I say cheerily. I’m suddenly anxious to get him dressed and out the door before Claire gets home.

“Coffee? No thanks…Sleep. More sleep.” He rolls over and pulls the duvet over his head.

I whisk the curtains open and sit next to him. “Are you hungry? I could make us some breakfast.”

“Owwww, too much light,” he groans. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten,” I say, pulling the covers off his head.

He opens one eye. “Nice pajamas.” His hand darts out and fingers my lapel. “What do you have on underneath—”

Quick as a flash, I move off the bed. “Uh, do you want to take a shower? I put out some clean towels.”

“Only if you’re coming in with me.” He grins at me.

“Er, maybe next time…I, um—I’m going to the gym soon. Do you have any plans this morning?” I ask pointedly, hoping he’ll get the message.

“I’m meeting up with my manager…I should probably get going.” He rolls over lazily. “Unless you want me to stick around…”

“No!” I exclaim. “I mean, no thanks. My sister’s probably going to be home any minute…” I allow my voice to trail away.

“Ah. Gotcha.” He starts pulling on his clothes, groping for his socks, yanking his half-buttoned shirt over his head. Suddenly, he stands and throws his arms around my waist. “I had a fantastic time last night,” he murmurs huskily.

Pressed against his chest, I feel my knees start to weaken. “So fantastic that you fell asleep!” I tease, but my voice is unexpectedly shaky. “I can’t believe you were that tipsy after only two glasses of champagne!”

He flushes. “I hadn’t eaten all day…Must have been the empty stomach.” He kisses my lips softly, oh-so-softly. “You
know I think you’re special, Li Jia. Most Chinese girls are so formal and stiff, it’s boring. But you—you’re different. You’re so open and relaxed…”

“I’m not Chinese,” I point out, but it’s hard to keep up the witty banter with his grassy, clean scent filling my consciousness.

“That’s what I’m trying to say, baby. You American girls are so liberal.” He plants a kiss on my mouth, which is slightly open with astonishment. “Mmmm…It’s…” Kiss. “…very…” Kiss. “…sexy.” Kiss. He pulls me with him toward the front door. “Thanks for going to bed with me.” He cocks an eyebrow.

“Well, considering how you fell asleep, I hardly think—Oh! You mean the bar.”

He grins. “I gotta run, babe. I’ll call you later, okay?” The door clicks sharply behind him, and I lean against the wall, torn between desire and something that feels a lot like relief.

T
he rest of the weekend drifts by in a confused blur. I can’t stop thinking about Jeff, but my thoughts are edgy, not dreamy.

I keep replaying our date over and over in my mind. Curling up against Jeff’s hard shoulder at Bed. Lovely. The sparkling glasses of champagne. Delicious. The tingle I felt when his lips brushed my neck. Yum. But then it all comes screeching to a cringeworthy halt. Why did he fall asleep? Why does he have a photo of Tina’s
naked
body in his cell phone? Obviously, not sleeping with him was the correct decision, right? I mean, how could getting involved with Jeff lead anywhere but down a path of heartbreak, sorrow, and too much Cracker Barrel cheddar (which I can’t even find in China, anyway)?

Now it’s Sunday night. Jeff hasn’t called. I know I shouldn’t
care. In fact, I don’t care. But…those worries are starting to creep through my brain again—the fears that I’m going to spend my life alone, taking in stray cats and practicing traditional Chinese medicine. Jeff and I didn’t make any plans to see each other again, but I thought he might fancy me. But then again, what was that he said about American girls being open and carefree and…liberal?

“What was he implying? That American girls are easy?” My voice rises above the tinkle of new age chimes. Geraldine and I are at the Taipan Spa getting foot massages, yet despite the dim lighting and lingering scent of lavender, I feel far from calm.

“A lot of Chinese people do seem to think Americans are sluts,” Geraldine says thoughtfully.

“Great. Nothing even happened and now I’m a floozy,” I huff. “Who is Isabelle Lee? Oh, she’s American so she must be loose.” I squirm as the masseuse presses down on a ticklish spot in my arch.

“It’s not you.” She pats my arm reassuringly. “It’s the movies and TV. Somehow people have the idea that sex is our national pastime.”

“No wonder he hasn’t called,” I groan. “He thought I was homesick.”

“I thought you said nothing happened.” She raises her eyebrows. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I told you! Nothing happened. It was all very junior high, right down to getting smashed off three sips of booze.”

“If you say so, Iz.” She smirks. “Who knew Jeff was such a lightweight?”

“I think he must have Asian alcohol syndrome. You know, how a lot of Asians get all red and tipsy when they drink because they can’t digest the alcohol?”

“Sounds exactly like my ex-husband. His face would get bright red from just half a glass of beer.”

Before I can respond, a smock-clad spa attendant approaches us, an enormous paper cone in each hand. Creeping behind me, she brushes back my hair and inserts the tip of the cone into my ear.

“What is that?” I shriek, and jump away.

“I ordered us an ear-candling.” Geraldine calmly pulls her hair into a ponytail. “They light the top of the cone and the heat draws out all your ear wax.” She catches my look of horror and smiles. “It’s really good for you. Rebalances your yin and yang.”

“Well, if you’re doing it…” I say doubtfully. The attendant reinserts the cone into my ear, lighting it on fire. Soon a pleasant warmth fills my ear, accompanied by a faint crackle.

“So, have you talked to Jeff since Saturday? Has he called?” Geraldine’s voice is muffled.

“No.” I try to concentrate on the gentle warmth suffusing my head. “You don’t think I should call him, do you?”

“No,” she says, giving me a steely look. “I definitely, definitely, definitely do not.” Despite the flaming paper cone stuffed in my ear canal, her message is loud and clear.

By Wednesday, Jeff still hasn’t called and my fingers itch to dial his number. But every time Geraldine sees me reaching for my mobile, she murmurs, “Don’t do it, Iz. Don’t do it.” I keep one eye on my phone, ready to pounce in case it rings.

“Isabelle, where is the Max Zhang piece? I need to see it.” Ed’s large figure casts a shadow over my desk.

“I’m, er, just putting the finishing touches on it.” I glance down, hoping he won’t see the panic in my eyes. The truth is, I haven’t started writing the story yet. Every time I glance over my notes, I feel a wave of terror accompanied by a little voice.
How
could
you
write an exclusive profile on a world-famous, Oscar-winning director?
it says mockingly. When I slam my notebook shut, it disappears.

“For fuck’s sake, Izzy. You haven’t started it yet, have you?” Ed crosses his arms and scowls. “It’s been three weeks!”

“I just want it to be perfect,” I say quietly.

“Don’t be intimidated.” His voice softens. “If it’s not perfect, I’ll make it perfect. That’s what editors do.”

“Thanks.” I smile at him gratefully and then quickly try to rearrange my expression. Ed hates sappiness.

“I’ll expect it on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?” My voice rises into a screech.

“Yep, that’s right. Deadlines—remember those, Izzy? We’re running a magazine here, not a bloody country club.”

He stomps away, oblivious to the alarm on my face. I open up a new document on my computer and stare at it, my mind as empty as the blank screen. My heart starts to pound as I turn to my notebook and scan through the hurried scrawl.
I cannot do this.
Why did I think I could do this? I glance over at Geraldine and Gab, but they are both sitting calmly at their desks, happily plugged into their iPods. I watch Gab type a sentence, a smooth stream of clickity-clack on his keyboard that makes me want to rip his fingers out of their sockets.

I take a calming breath and stare bleakly at the screen. And then slowly, very slowly, I begin to feel a certain resolve—not confidence, but something that feels like…impatience.
Stop whining and get to work!
I grit my teeth, review my notes again, type a sentence and erase it. Type another sentence and erase it. I limp along, erasing one word out of every three, leafing through my notes, carefully piecing my story together like a puzzle. Before I know it, the afternoon has faded to dusk and my cell phone is ringing.

“Hello?” I answer distractedly, my mind still on Max Zhang’s parents, wealthy Shanghai landowners who lost everything when they were forced to move to Taiwan after the war.

“Hey, babe.”

It’s Jeff. A smile creeps across my face, followed by the merest wrinkle of irritation. I mean, where has he been?

“Hi.” I try to keep my voice light.

“Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been in the studio recording. My manager thinks this new album could be a real crossover for me.”

“Um, that’s great!” I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. Crossover? What the hell is he talking about? In my mind, all I can hear are Max Zhang’s clipped tones saying:
First the war, and then the communists. It ruined my mother, absolutely tore her apart. She was never the same after we moved to Taiwan.

“So, are you busy tonight? Wanna go to bed?”

“Excuse me?” I say a bit frostily.

“Some friends and I are meeting at the Bed bar tonight. I thought you’d wanna join us.”

Oh, he means the bar, of course. Duh. How many times am I going to fall for this joke? “I’d love to, but I really can’t. I’m on deadline trying to finish a story.”

“Finish it tomorrow. You write fast.”

“Ed’s breathing down my neck. He gets uptight about deadlines.”

“I don’t know why you work so hard on that magazine,” he says sulkily. “It’s not like anyone reads it.”

I ignore this because we’ve had this discussion before and, really, he’s right. None of Jeff’s friends read
Beijing NOW.
They’re Beijing locals—why would they be interested in an expat magazine? And just because most expats only read it in the bathroom…well, he doesn’t have to know everything, does he?
“Maybe we could get together another time,” I suggest delicately. “What are you up to this weekend?”

“I have a gig Saturday night,” he sighs.

“Well, I’d love to come. I’ve never heard you play live.” In fact, I’m a little curious to see how his boy-pop band will translate to a live performance.

“It’s some American embassy event. Apparently, security is going to be really tight and it’s impossible to get on the guest list.”

“Oh.”

“But Sunday might work. Maybe you can cook me dinner and I can finally try your famous pasta. I’ll call you later, see how things are going, okay?”

It’s a good thing this piece about Max Zhang is so absorbing. I linger at the office until hunger drives me home, and then sit at the desk in my bedroom until 2:00
A.M
. When I finally fall into bed, I’m almost too exhausted to think about how Jeff seems to be calling all the shots.

T
he piece is with Ed by Thursday morning, and by the time I get back from lunch, it’s on my desk, splashed with red ink. And yes, he’s reworked the lead and sharpened the nutgraf, circled numerous sentences and left the ominous remark:
Passive voice! You should know better!
But at the bottom of the last page, in a scrawl so untidy it’s almost illegible, are the words
Good job.
From Ed, this is the highest praise, and even though he is more mercurial than a Beijing Internet connection, I still respect him as an editor, and a faint flush of pride creeps across my cheeks.

Though my fingers itch to start revising, I only have time to glance quickly through the pages before racing out the door for my two o’clock appointment, an interview with a Spanish chef about his high-concept tapas/dim sum bar.

I could never have guessed what would happen while I was away.

“It was like an explosion,” says Geraldine. I’d invited her and Gab over after work, and they’re sitting at the kitchen table taking turns relating the afternoon’s events between swigs of cold Tsingtao.

“Tang Laoshi must have been snooping through your desk,” Gab says. “I didn’t see him, but all of a sudden he was standing there screaming,
‘Juh juh juh juh juh!’
”

Well, Ed always said there was a thin line between being the office censor and office spy. I imagine Tang Laoshi slipping up to my desk unnoticed by my busy colleagues, his liver-spot-speckled hands rifling through my papers.

“And then he ran into Ed’s office and shoved a bunch of papers in his face. It was almost like he was in a state of shock. All he could say was,
‘Juh juh juh juh!’
and
‘Bu xing, bu xing, bu xing!’
” Not okay.

“At first Ed was really calm. He asked Tang Laoshi to sit down and offered him a cigarette. They both lit up and just sat silently smoking for a few minutes.”

“But then,” Geraldine says, “Ed asked him what was wrong…” She looks at Gab and they sigh. I edge toward the pantry and grab a can of refried beans. We’re having Mexican food straight from an Old El Paso kit: hard-shell tacos, grated orange cheese, bottled salsa, ground beef seasoned with a spice packet—all the greasy, salty, prepackaged foods we miss.

“I’m a little afraid to ask what happened next,” I admit.

“Tang Laoshi started waving the papers around again and stuttering ‘Zhang Daoyan, Zhang Daoyan.
’
” Gab scans my blank face. “Director Zhang. Max Zhang.”

“Oh, no…my story…” I whisper.

“He couldn’t even string a sentence together,” adds Geraldine.
“He was so irate he could only shout words like ‘cultural revolution,’ and ‘Taipei,’ and ‘capitalist roaders,’ and…” She takes a deep breath. “…‘censored.
’
”

I gasp. “Censored? But what about—I mean—didn’t Ed—do anything?”

“I heard him mutter, ‘I’m sick to death of you commie bastards,
’
” says Gab.

“Really?” I laugh.

“Yeah, and then he challenged Tang Laoshi to an arm wrestling match,” Geraldine injects, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “No, not really. What could Ed do? The Three Represents Press owns us. They pay our salaries, publish the magazine, and, as a Chinese company, it’s their responsibility to censor us.” Her glance is sympathetic. “Don’t be too upset, Iz. We’ve all had pieces censored before. It’s kind of like a badge of honor.”

“But how can you stand it? This isn’t—” This isn’t journalism, I want to say, but I bite the words back. To imply that we’re too good for
Beijing NOW
would only raise some painful truths about all our situations. I wrench open a jar of salsa and start spooning it into a bowl. “What will happen to my story?” I ask instead.

Geraldine looks at me sympathetically. “It was a terrific piece, Iz. You could try selling it somewhere else.”

“How?” The word feels bitter in my mouth. “I don’t know any newspaper editors. I don’t have any magazine contacts.” Except at
Belle,
I think bitterly. And my name is like seven-month-old mascara there.

“Maybe you could look on the Internet and send some query letters,” suggests Gab.

I shake my head sadly. “I worked in magazines for six years. I know what happens to random query letters.” I lean my arms on the counter. Behind me, the refried beans bubble thickly on the stove, with an angry pop. “Well,” I say, trying to inject a cheerful
note into my voice, “at least it’s an adventure. I guess this is all just part of the China experience.”

“Like bossy
ayis
and surly waitresses!” exclaims Geraldine.

“Or old men who hawk loogies on the sidewalk and police raids at rock shows!” chimes in Gab.

I raise my beer. “Here’s to squat toilets and tapped phones!” We laugh and touch our bottles together with a heavy thunk, but when our gazes meet, the concerned look in their eyes matches the one in my own. It says: When did all of this start feeling normal?

I
z?” Claire’s honeyed tones float across the apartment, through the bathroom door. The closed bathroom door. “Iz? Where are you, darling?”

I sprinkle a few more lavender bath salts into the tub, twist the taps shut, wrap a towel around myself, and sigh. After our ill-fated dinner with the Keegs, I’d hoped Claire would start sounding more normal, but she’s still using the same affected tone, clinging to it as if it’s hiding something. “I’m in here!” I open the door, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam.