The Last Chinese Chef (37 page)

He came back to Maggie’s name, paused on it, cycled on. He had gotten to know her so quickly, it was hard to believe she had been here less than two weeks. Soon she would leave. Best to pull back now. He went farther down the list.

But she had been there. She had been at the banquet.

And anyway he had promised to tell her.

He went back to her name.
She’s the one you want to talk to.
He pressed the button and listened to it dial.

“Hello?”

“Maggie?”

“Sam?”

“It’s me,” he said. His gray tone was probably enough, but in case it wasn’t, he said the words. “I didn’t get it.”

“You
didn’t?
” she said.

“I didn’t.”

He heard her long, shocked breath. “How can that be?”

He almost laughed.
That’s why you called her.
“Well, one spot went to Pan Jun, the son of the culture minister. Remember, I told you?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “The back door.”

“Very important concept; one of the keys to life here. So that left one spot, and we all more or less thought that one would come down to me and Yao Weiguo. Well, he got it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s an incredibly good cook. Sometimes he’s inspired.”

“I’m still sorry.”

He almost smiled. It was the sound of her voice. “Where are you?”

“In a restaurant. I just ordered.”

“What restaurant?”

She read him the name off the menu.

“I know the place.” He felt a click of decision inside him. “Wait for me. I’ll come over.”

“Really? You will?”

“Yes. Can you wait?”

“I’ll be here,” she said.

 

Maggie sat at her table in the bright-lit restaurant, wondering what kind of state he would be in when he got here. She so felt for him. He should have won. She had been there that night.

As she waited she decided she would think of things to say that would comfort him. She could begin now being his friend. The interview chapter was closed. The story had ended. She might not have technically finished the last paragraph, but she had written it in her mind. From the moment they hung up the phone, as she sat at this table waiting for him, she had composed the last sentence over and over.

When he came in she saw him first, and watched him loop his body through the tables, anxious, scanning for her. She lifted a hand and his eyes came to her, relaxing a notch. Then he stepped close to the table and saw her food still undisturbed. “Why didn’t you eat?”

“I was waiting,” she said.

He eased into a chair. She saw him favoring his body. He was holding himself oddly. “Never waste food.”

“It’s not wasted. I thought you might like some.”

He spoke slowly. “I don’t think I can eat right now.”

“You must feel so angry,” she said.

He made a weak shrug. “It’s my fate,” he said.

“I found out some fate too,” she said, “since I saw you. I got the lab results.”

He looked up.

“Shuying is not Matt’s child.”

Implications tumbled across his face. “That’s good for you,” he said.

“Yes. Strange, but good.”

“Strange how?”

“It’s the end of Matt. Truly the end.”

“That happened a while ago,” he said.

“I know.” She looked at him. His dark eyes were closed, and he was pressing his fingers to the side of his head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fighting a headache. Please,” he said, “eat.”

She took small bites from the plates and nibbled at them, but he, with every passing moment, looked worse. His eyes took on the unmistakable crinkle of nausea. Then of course she could not eat either. The appeal of the food drained away. She put down her chopsticks. “Sam,” she said. He winced at her voice. “What is it?”

“A migraine, I think. I haven’t had one in so long, since I was a kid. I didn’t think I’d ever have one again.” It seemed to hurt him to speak.

“Look what happened tonight,” she pointed out.

He made the smallest movement of assent with his head.

“What helps?” she said, her voice soft.

“Lie down,” he said, with effort. “In a dark room, quiet — if I can fall asleep, even for a little while, it’ll be over.”

“Let’s go,” she said, and signaled the waiter for a check. She paid and then stood up and walked behind him and slid her hands underneath his armpits. He shivered when she touched him. “Stand up,” she said gently. “I’ll help you get home.”

This promise seemed to go through to the part of him which could still respond, and he rose with her, walking steadily out even as he kept one hand over his eyes. “It’s not dangerous, is it?” she asked, and he managed to shake his head. Relieved, she raised her hand for a taxi.

One pulled over and she got him into the back seat, then gave the driver her approximate pronunciation of the intersection next to Sam’s house. She said it wrong, no doubt, but it always got her there. Now when Sam heard it he made a twitch of a smile through his pain. He uttered a few words of the guttural Beijing burr and the driver nodded. Then he sat, still as a stone, eyes closed, every sound they heard as they drove through the streets seeming to magnify his pain. Maggie could almost see his head throbbing. First losing; now this. She would help him get home, to quiet and darkness. That was all she could do.

At his gate he fumbled in his pocket and brought forth the key. She unlocked the gate and then relatched it behind them. She slipped the key back in his pocket. She felt the knob of his hipbone. With her other hand she held his elbow, guiding him. He could barely walk.
I know. Just a little farther.

To get to his room she counted off the three steps up to the verandah. Inside the half-glass door she steered him across the floor and to his bed. He lay down slowly, gingerly, not wanting her to touch him, cringing even when she unlaced his shoes. She turned off all the lights, which made him exhale in relief.

She wanted a wet towel. The closest bathroom that she knew of was across the court in the restaurant’s main dining room. Just inside the door, she found a switch that made the white, lotus-shaped lampshades in the room spring to light. She walked across the dark, liquid-looking tiles to the small restroom, soaked a towel in cold water, wrung it, and walked back.

When she reentered his room he was lying still. She stepped quietly. All his attention was turned inward. She came quietly to the bed and, not wanting to startle him, touched him softly with her fingers first, above the brow. His head made a tick in response. She laid the cloth on him, first one end, so he could feel the cold wetness, then all the way across. He looked grateful. He reached up and pressed it to his temples. Then one of his hands came out and found one of hers, and quickly, naturally, their fingers laced together. He gave her a squeeze of thanks. Then he withdrew and folded his hands on top of his chest, motionless, the way he had been holding them.

She eased back. Quiet. Silence. She wanted him to fall asleep. Three steps from the bed was a frayed leather armchair. She lowered herself into it without a sound, an inch at a time, and sat quietly.

The room was dark, the only illumination the two silver squares of streetlight from the
hutong
behind, bent in half at the seam of wall and ceiling. Occasionally she heard sounds from outside, people passing, a few cars, but mostly the room was silent.

She could leave, she thought. He was settled. He would surely fall asleep now, and when he woke up he would be better.

She would leave, but not yet. Right now she wanted to watch him. Time went away. She saw his breathing turn deep and regular. When a noise intruded from outside he no longer winced. She thought he might be asleep. Good. Sleep. She liked the forever feeling of the room, the old wooden furniture, the sight of him so undefended. It had been a year since she was alone with a man in a room while he slept, and a decade since it had happened with anyone but Matt. No, that was not true. She and Sam had slept for a few hours in the little upstairs room at his Uncle Xie’s house. That had been different. Now she was on watch. She was the guardian, the one caring. She kept her eyes on him until slowly she felt them starting to close. She was drifting into sleep. It was comfortable in the chair. That was the last thing she remembered thinking.

When she awoke she moved with a jolt. He was awake. He was sitting up on the edge of the bed. He looked dazed, and shiny with relief-sweat, but once again like himself.

She stirred. “Are you okay?”

“I am. It’s over. I fell asleep.”

“Good.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You brought me here.”

She shrugged. “You feel all right?”

“Fine.” He appeared to be at an odd midpoint between exhausted and exhilarated. He massaged a ring around his scalp.

“Here. Let me.” She went to stand behind him, but the angle was wrong, even though he turned his body to help her. Then her fingers caught in his tied-back hair.

“Sit down,” he said, and touched the bed behind him. She climbed up, settled a few inches from the back of him, and touched the coated elastic band that bound his hair. He brought up a practiced finger to hook through it and pull it off. His hair fell straight and heavy. She had never seen it loose. He looked different. She slipped her fingers underneath it to massage up, from the base of his scalp, following the arc his fingers had marked earlier.

She saw him relaxing. The jumpy little trigger points around his head seemed to disperse. His spine straightened. It took her a while to work her way to the top of his head, to the midpoint above his forehead, where she finished.

He caught her hand as it fell away, carried it around to his face, and pressed it to his cheek. Then he moved until his lips were in the center of her palm. She knew he was going to kiss her there and he did, but instead of the single lip-press she expected, he did it slowly, for a long time, and with all the care and attention he might have lavished were he kissing her on the mouth. There was no mistaking what he was saying. A torrent of pain and hope poured through her brain, threatening to short-circuit everything, but her hand moved against his face by itself, responding.

What to do now? Cross this line unthinking? Neither was young. They were fossils. He was older than she, which was saying something. She knew little about his past, but for the first time in her life it didn’t seem to matter. Of course he had pain and remorse in his suitcase. So did she. Hers was different, though; it was total. Being widowed wiped a person clean. There was nothing unfinished; everything was finished. She was empty. She carried nothing. She never expected to love again. Don’t think of love, she reproved herself. Don’t even allow the word to form. This could be only a moment. No pretending. She held herself still, moving only her hand against his mouth.

In the end her body decided for her. He brought his mouth to the cleft between her fingers with so much love that she found herself inching up, just a little, until she was against him from behind. She slid her left hand around his waist, he caught it with his, and again their fingers interlaced. In this way they held each other and exchanged promises and trepidations, all without speaking, all without hurry, for each wanted to be sure. This was the long moment that was like a question. She let the question play, loving the strong, wiry feeling of his body from behind. Her hand played with his stomach and he tilted himself up to her. She put her lips on the back of his neck. That was it. She had answered. His hands loosened, his body turned, and in a long second she saw the prismatic potential of their lives unfolding.
Don’t think about that.
Then he was facing her, undoing her clothing, cupping a gentle hand behind her head to bring her mouth to his, and she felt the future and the past fall away from her.

 

When they awakened it was deep night, and cold. They were naked. Her legs were wrapped around him. She saw the blankets on the floor and remembered the moment they were pushed off the bed. His eyes followed, and they both started to laugh.

“Look at us,” she said, touching his chest. “Like a couple of teenagers.” Then she said what she was scared to say. “Sam, that was so good.”

“I know.” He caught her under the rib cage and stretched, first back, then forward, taking her with him. She felt a gentle pull up and down her spine.

He let her go. There was a shine to his face. “You want to get up and sit in the courtyard? The moon’s up. The city’s sleeping. I like this time,” he added, but with a different tone, as if now he would start to tell her about himself; as if there were many things she would need to know.

“I like it too,” said Maggie.

He rose and drew some folded things from a pile, pajamas — his, but they fit her. Not like the capacious things she used to borrow from Matt. Matt. She swallowed at the new strangeness of the thought of her husband. The dial had moved. She had made love to someone. Sam had put on pajamas and was tying the string at his waist, free in front of her, his hair still loose. She reached out and gathered it and let it drop. The touch made him raise his face, happy. She felt it too. This was the night Matt would start to become a memory.

Sam set out two rattan recliners in the court and lit a sheltered candle between them. They lay side by side and watched the leaves above their heads. The waning moon made a lazy letter
C
atop the rim of the wall.

“It’s so quiet,” she said. “I thought your father would be staying here.”

“He is, in that room.” Sam pointed to the north-facing room across from his own. “But he went with Jiang and Tan on an overnight pilgrimage to a temple.”

“Are they religious?”

“Only about food. This place has the best vegetarian cuisine in north China. They pray with the monks, sleep at the temple, and eat like kings. They come back tomorrow.”