Kitchen Chinese (3 page)

“Will you think about Beijing?” asked Julia.

But I’d already decided.

I couldn’t disappear, of course. But two months later I’d sublet my apartment, sold most of my furniture, and become skillful at decoding the tide of opinion about my decision.

“What an adventure!” exclaimed my neighbor, Liz. “But what will you
do
?” Translation: You’re crazy!

“You’re moving back to China?” said my hairdresser as she clipped layers into my long, dark hair. “How exciting that you’re going back to your homeland!” Translation: Your life is an Amy Tan novel.

On a weekend visit to my parents’ house in the suburbs, I casually mentioned my plan over lunch. My mother beamed. It was the first smile I’d seen from her since I told them I’d been fired (actually, I used the handy term “laid off”). “Your father will be so happy,” said my mother. Translation: I’m ecstatic.

I glanced at my dad, but if he was happy, it proved hard to decipher. A second generation Chinese American born in Queens, his ties to China faded before he was born, when his parents left Guangdong over eighty years ago for the United States. Later, as I climbed sleepily into my childhood bed, he tiptoed into my room and tucked a hundred dollar bill into my hand. “For emer
gencies,” he said. “Don’t tell your mother.” Translation: I’m worried about you.

His concern didn’t surprise me. My parents had been worried about me for years. For starters, there was my choice of college: “You want to go
where
?” my mother had said, when I told her I wanted to apply to NYU. “Is that a four year university?” And then, once I’d graduated, there was my career: “Journalism?” she’d said, when I got my job at
Belle
. “Oh, you don’t want to do that. You’ll never support yourself!” Getting fired amidst a blaze of scandal only seemed to confirm their fears: straying from the white collar, model minority path led to disaster, and, worse, loss of face.

Being at home with my parents was like reverting back to my childhood. I visited them once a month—not as often as they would have liked—and every time I entered via the garage door, I knew exactly what to expect. The modest colonial still smelled the same, a not unpleasant mix of steamed rice and tiger lilies with a faint trace of mothballs. My father still sat in his overstuffed lounge chair watching golf and working the crossword puzzle. My mother, home from her trio of hair salons (the largest Asian hair empire on the East Coast) whizzed around the kitchen stirring bubbling pots of pork stock, or chopping spring onions with an oversized cleaver, all while chattering on the phone in Chinese with my aunt Marcie. Claire’s diplomas still hung in the hallway, a pair of gilt-framed curlicued documents that haughtily announced her Ivy League education. And I still felt the same feelings of adolescent insecurity.

Upstairs, our bedrooms also remained the same, even Claire’s, though she hadn’t been home in two years. The closet held her collection of plain trouser suits, arranged by color; in the desk drawer I found a stack of gift cards to Barney’s, which I’d given
her in the hopes that she’d abandon Ann Taylor forever. They looked untouched. I peered at a row of her college textbooks, arranged neatly by height.

Claire had said that opening her law firm’s Beijing office was a huge promotion, the opportunity of a lifetime, but the thrill hadn’t reached her pale face when she announced the news to us all those months ago. She’d always been ambitious—valedictorian of her senior class, editor of the law review—but it still seemed strange that work could have kept her away for all this time.

My mother caught me leafing through Claire’s old Mandarin textbooks, examining the characters with familiar fascination and frustration.

“Have you heard from her?” she asked, her voice wistful, though her expression remained impassive.

“I haven’t e-mailed her yet,” I admitted.

“It would mean so much to me for you two to be together in China,” she said, heaving a theatrical sigh.

I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes. My mother’s feelings for China were filled with the wistfulness of an exile, expressed with all the melodrama of a soap star. Even after thirty years in America, she still regarded herself as Chinese; her deepest regret—expressed many times over family dinner—was that I didn’t speak fluent Mandarin.

“Mom, just because I go to China doesn’t mean I’m going to have some enormous ethnic epiphany,” I said impatiently. “Or that Claire and I will become best friends.”

She pursed her lips together and looked at me with an air of disappointment that I recognized all too well.

I feared Claire’s reaction the most, but finally typed her an e-mail and waited nervously for her reply.

Her response, when it finally arrived two weeks later, revealed nothing.

And so, one brilliant June morning, I found myself crammed into a coach seat, on a sixteen hour flight for Beijing via San
Francisco. The sun shimmered off the East River as our plane took off, and I said a silent good-bye to New York with dry eyes and a pounding heart. I’d gotten what I wanted: a chance to start over. Except it felt an awful lot like running away.

N
ow, back in Claire’s cavernous apartment, I sit in the living room wrapped in a sweater yet still shivering from the aggressive air-conditioning that chills the air to a frigid sixty-four degrees. The vast space spreads around me, ostentatious in its enormity, with eerie hums and electronic squeals of feedback occasionally breaking the silence. “Don’t worry about those sounds,” Claire assured me earlier. “They like to keep an eye on us. It’s annoying, but our local legal counsel says there’s nothing we can do about it.” I’m still not sure who “they” are: Chinese spies? That seems absurd.

Claire’s apartment, part of her white-shoe law firm’s expat package, drips with flamboyant grandeur. Marble columns rise throughout the three-thousand-square-foot space, and giant gilt-framed mirrors cover several walls. In contrast, Claire’s own refined furniture, shipped directly from the States, cowers within the rooms, its normal size shrunk to miniature next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, her prized collection of Central Asian rugs like scraps of patchwork on the pink marble floors.

I try to read my book, skipping whole paragraphs as the words blur, but eventually, as my head jerks up for the tenth time, I creep to bed. Falling asleep is easy, but 2:00
A.M
. sees me wide-awake, my mind as alert as if it were two in the afternoon, which, considering the twelve hour time difference between Beijing and New York, it is. As I slip out to use the bathroom, I pause in the hall to see if Claire has returned, but find only silence, her bedroom door wide-open, her bed still smooth.

My sister and I are six years apart, but there is a greater gap between us. As children, we were allies against a steady stream of dried black mushrooms and crunchy wood ear fungi, thousand-year-old-eggs that wobbled like jelly and endless, countless bowls of white rice. To my mother, whose family fled Shanghai in 1949, these familiar tastes and textures were a safe and steady bridge; they linked her to a world to which she could never return.

For my sister and me, both born with a second-generation horror of being different, nightly Chinese feasts assured a craving for Taco Bell and tuna noodle casserole, or anything that our friends wouldn’t think of as weird. It was one of the few things we ever agreed upon. Once we grew up to have kitchens of our own, we banished bok choy and chicken feet from our diet. Eating at home with Mom and Dad, though, remained the same.

My mind races over the meal we ate tonight, the soft cubes of tofu that drowned within a deep pool of fiery oil, the fat-streaked slices of mutton so redolent of stale sweat. After a childhood spent eating Chinese food, I didn’t expect culture shock to strike at the dinner table.

I’ve only been in China for a day but I think I’ve discovered that what expats say about the country is true of its cuisine: the more you know, the less you understand.

3
:00
A.M
. Wide-awake.

5:00
A.M
. Still wide awake.

7:30
A.M
. Getting sleepy…

The telephone wakes me, ringing and ringing until even the two pillows shoved over my head won’t block the noise. I stagger out of bed and into the living room, blindly lurching from corner to corner in the cavernous space, pausing occasionally to allow the phone’s shrill bleat to guide me. Just as I’m about to retreat to my room and jam three pillows over my head, I spot the phone lying underneath a marble-topped gilt side table and pounce on it.

“Hello?”

But it’s only the dial tone, and even it sounds different here, hollow in its high-pitched drone.

I hang up and totter back to my cozy, soft bed. The light streaming through the windows suggests that the day is not
young, but I don’t stop to look at the clock. Right now I feel the same passion for sleep that I once felt for the Barney’s end-of-the-year shoe clearance: I need as much as possible, damn the consequences.

I collapse into bed, fluff my pillows and pull the down-filled duvet up to my chin. Claire’s sheets are so soft, I think as I drift away. They must be 800-count Egyptian cotton. I am just about to sink into blissful unconsciousness when the phone starts ringing again.

This time I get it after only five rings. “Hello?” I say, and then because, after all, I am in China, I attempt a greeting in Mandarin.
“Wei?”

“Hold the line for Claire Lee, please,” says a cool voice. I wait. And wait. And wait.

Perhaps my jet-lagged brain misunderstood. “Hello?” I say experimentally, but only a series of clicks answers me.

I’m about to hang up and crawl back to bed when Claire’s honeyed tones come floating over the line. “Isabelle? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, darling.”

“Hi.” My voice emerges in a croak.

“Oh, did I wake you? You weren’t still sleeping, were you? It’s two o’clock!”

“Sleeping? At this hour? Oh no, no, no. I’ve been up for ages.” My laugh sounds like a gurgle.

“Oh good. Because I meant to phone earlier, but today has been insane. Listen, I ran into a friend at that party last night…”

I try to focus but my brain refuses to absorb any information. If I closed my eyes, would I be able to sleep standing up like a horse?

“…and he really wants to meet you,” Claire concludes. “Isn’t that great?”

“What?”

“Ed Watson. At the expat magazine. Is expecting your phone call. Honestly, Iz, haven’t you been listening?”

Expat magazine? A dart of alarm shoots through the fog of jet lag. Is that all she thinks I can do? I try to keep the irritation from my voice. “Claire, I’m not sure if an expat magazine is really the right fit for me. I mean, I worked at one of New York’s
biggest
women’s magazines…” Why does she always underestimate me?

“Oooh,” she squeals. “Sophia! I didn’t know you were in town! Hold on a sec, okay? I’m just getting off the phone.”

“Hello?”

“Iz? I have to run. Ed’s card is on the kitchen counter. Just tell him you’re my sister.”

“Will you be home later tonight?” I ask, my voice more hopeful than I intend.

“Ohhhh, I’m sorry, darling…I have to work late and then I’m supposed to go to this dinner party. I’d bring you but it’s going to be horribly boring. All legal mumbo jumbo…” Her voice trails off. “But maybe I could get out of it.”

“No, no. I’m fine.” I struggle to sound confident. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“Definitely. I should try to get over my jet lag anyway.”

“Well that probably makes sense.” Is that relief I hear in her voice? “I’ll talk to you soon then, yes? Big kiss. Mwah. Byeeeee!”

She hangs up leaving me staring blankly at the phone. I didn’t expect Claire to spend all her spare time with me but I’m a little surprised that she’s so, well, social. Back in New York, the only dinner parties she attended were at the office—late night deli sandwiches while preparing for a trial. And what’s up with her
accent? It seems to have evolved from mid-Atlantic to British. Darling? Big kiss?

Something else is different too…something more intangible than the red highlights in her dark hair and new wardrobe of sleek outfits. It’s almost as if she’s…hip. Yet how could that be possible? The Claire I remember wore thick glasses and graduated valedictorian of her class. She was the first person from our high school to go to Harvard, but I don’t think anything ever erased the sting of staying home from the prom. Once she graduated from law school (Yale), her life in New York revolved around making partner at her firm and visiting our parents on the weekend. My parents constantly urged me to emulate Claire’s grades and discipline, her obedience. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” cried my mother, casting aside my report card of straight B’s and C’s. She didn’t understand that I worked as hard at appearing effortlessly cool as Claire did at school. We both viewed the other with a mixture of envy and disdain.

Shrugging my shoulders, I wander into the kitchen where a business card lies stark white against the black granite counter. beijing NOW magazine proclaims the logo, and below it,
Ed Watson, Publisher.
Chinese characters on one side, English on the other.

I push the hair out of my eyes and sigh. Claire may have moved halfway across the world, but nothing could alter her brisk sense of order, her need to tidy everything into its proper spot. A place for everyone and everyone in her place. Her spic-and-span methods now extend to me. Apparently, I’m the mess that needs to be cleaned, the stain to scrub.

I bury my face in my hands. I need to find a job soon—my plane ticket to Beijing used up most of my severance pay. But I didn’t come to China to work for some no-name expat rag. A
bubble of resentment rises in my throat. Why does Claire constantly have to remind me that I’ll never live up to her Ivy League education?

I leave Ed Watson’s card on the counter and stalk back into my bedroom, where I open the curtains to a smoggy gray day, turn on my laptop, and connect to Claire’s wireless. Thirty minutes of Googling turns out a bevy of e-mail addresses for Beijing’s newspaper bureau chiefs. I quickly start typing:

I fill in their e-mail addresses, attach my résumé and send off a dozen messages, crossing my fingers as they flit away.

In the next few days I check my e-mail three, four, five, six times a day, but after a week my hope starts to fade. I wander through Beijing’s great sites, pushing my way through the crowds. Claire offered to accompany me, but her enthusiasm for the capital’s tourist spots seemed weak, and so I explore alone. At the Forbidden City, I inch into the maze of courtyards and ceremonial halls, the surrounding high walls making me feel insignificant. The sun breaks free of the pollution for the first time in nine days at the Temple of Heaven, shining with dazzling
strength against the white marble walkways and elaborate pagodas. I tramp a steep section of the Great Wall, my legs straining with every step, until I finally survey the sweeping landscape from a stone watchtower. I stroll Tian’anmen Square’s wide concrete swaths at sunset, pausing with the crowd to watch a quartet of round-cheeked guards lower the flag. Around me people shuffle and sigh, snapping quick photographs. From the back, everyone looks the same, distilled into an indistinct black-haired head. A sudden realization shocks me: I look just like everyone else.

After two weeks I’ve realized that silence is the new rejection letter. The fear of pennilessness hovers around me like a cloud of gnats. After three weeks Claire’s nagging about Ed has become certifiably maddening. I try to think up a Plan B that doesn’t involve expat magazines or teaching English.

And then, on another humid, gray morning I wake to a phone call.

“Isabelle Lee?” says a man’s voice, clipped and efficient. “Dennis Frank from the
Washington Post.
Got your e-mail…as it turns out we’re looking for a news assistant. Why don’t you come in this afternoon?”

Trying to keep my hands from shaking, I scribble down the address and hang up the phone. Thank God something finally came through. I was beginning to think I might actually have to take my sister’s advice.

A few minutes later I am tearing at my suitcase, which has stood untouched in the corner of my room since I arrived three weeks ago. I poke around, hoping to avoid unpacking for at least a few more days, and pull out…a flower-splashed bikini, a sequined top, a tweed skirt—good grief, what was I thinking when I packed? Finally, I unearth a pale linen suit and blue silk blouse. Perfect, crisp and professional. Since it’s too hot to wear
the jacket, I throw it over my arm in the manner of a jaunty cub reporter.

Outside, I step out onto the street, dodge a herd of bicyclists wearing scary Darth Vader–style shaded visors over their faces, and hail a cab from the tangle of cars inching their way along Guanghua Lu. The car is cool, but smells strongly of stale cigarette smoke, and the cotton-covered seat feels slightly damp beneath my back, from someone else’s sweat, I realize with a grimace. As we edge along, I try to prepare for the interview. Topics to highlight: my experience at
Belle
, interest in journalism. Topics to avoid: getting fired.

“Ni shi na guo ren?”
says the taxi driver, breaking into my thoughts. Where are you from?

I answer haltingly in Chinese.
“Wo shi meiguoren.”
I’m American.

He removes his eyes from the road to stare at me. “No! You’re not American!” he continues in Mandarin.

“Yes, I am!” I bare my teeth at him in a big American-style grin.

“Americans have yellow hair and big noses. And they’re fat,” he retorts.

“Well, I was born in America. I grew up there.” I want to continue, but my Chinese falters. I don’t know the words for pop culture or second generation, and even if I did, I don’t know how to tell him that right now China seems as foreign and indecipherable as Mars.

“You look Chinese.”

“I am Chinese. But I’m also American.”

“No wonder your Chinese is so bad,” he says acidly. “You should study harder.” He snaps on the radio with an air of displeasure.

We creep along the Second Ring Road, one of the major high
ways that encircle the city. I know from my guidebook that the road is built around the old city walls, and I peer out, hoping to catch a glimpse of an ancient stone barricade or crumbling watchtower, but instead see only sleek, bland high rises, dazzling and empty, and shabby cereal box apartment buildings that seem late for an appointment with the wrecking ball. Construction sites blossom on almost every block, the bright yellow cranes a splash of color against the gray sky. The air crackles with energy, excitement, opportunity, and for the first time in months I feel hope flutter in my chest. Perhaps there’s a place for me too in this brave new Beijing.

Before I know it we’ve clattered to a stop.
“Dao le,”
announces the driver. We’re here.

“Where is…the…uh…place?” I ask in my broken Chinese.

He gestures vaguely into the distance.

On the sidewalk, I gaze up at the blocky buildings and down at the address in my hand: 2 Dongzhimen Nei Dajie. Hmmm…the nearest building reads 43. Are we even on Dongzhimen Nei Dajie? I pull out my cell phone. Should I call Dennis Frank’s office for directions, or will that make me look like I don’t have a clue about this city? Which I don’t. I scroll through my phone, looking for Dennis’s number. Wait a second. Why isn’t his number in my phone? I could have sworn I’d programmed it into my contacts list. My phone only operates in Chinese and I must have confused the characters for “save” and “delete,” I realize with horror.

Okay, no problem. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Squaring my shoulders, I begin to walk the long block to the next office building, ignoring the beads of sweat that start streaming down my forehead. Phew! These wide blocks seem designed for the girth of a tank, not pedestrians. And who knew Beijing was this hot? And humid? Ten minutes later…None of the buildings have
numbers. Okay…I’ll just ask someone for help. I approach a young woman, about my age, elbow-length gloves covering arms that wield an Olympics 2008 umbrella. Is it supposed to rain? I glance at the sky, which is oddly bright with sun straining through the layers of ozone.

“Er, excuse me?” Damn. How do you say “excuse me” in Chinese?

At the sound of my voice the girl’s eyes grow huge and she moves her hand rapidly from side to side—the international sign for “go away!”—before scurrying down the street, her umbrella bobbing with every step.

Five long blocks later my face drips with sweat, but by some miracle I’ve finally found the right address. In the cool, dark elevator, I gaze at myself in the reflective doors with horror. My silk shirt is drenched with sweat, my linen trousers look limp and wrinkled. My face is flushed and sweaty like I’ve just run a marathon; or worse, like I’m going through heroin withdrawal. I try to cover my soaked shirt with the suit jacket, pulling it on only to discover a rust-colored stain on the lapel. Ketchup. I remember the night Richard dropped a splodge while trying to feed me a french fry at the Corner Bistro. Now it looks like I’ve had a messy accident with a handgun. Great. I can look either sweaty and disheveled, or bloody, sweaty, and disheveled. I pull off the jacket as the elevator doors open.

Dennis Frank ushers me into his office right away, tactfully ignoring my sodden appearance. We sit down and he tactfully directs his gaze to my face.