Beautiful Country (14 page)

My father spoke with Mr. Zhang and Secretary Su for most of the dinner. I sat there quietly and tried a few of the less exotic dishes as they moved past. The aide I was sitting next to asked me a few questions about my tennis game and told me that he had a son who loved to play basketball. I asked him if he worked for the Secretary and he smiled and said no. He said he was just Secretary Su's “
pengyou
” (friend). I wondered what that really meant. I met a lot of people like that in China that year, people who you could never really figure out who they were or what they did. They always said they were so and so's “friend.” I guessed
that they must work for the government in some capacity, but I could never figure out who they were.

I tried to listen to the conversation my father was having with Secretary Su and Mr. Zhang. From what I was able to hear I gathered that Secretary Su was due to make a trip to the United States later that year, and he was full of questions about the Bush administration policy and whom the people he should meet with were. My father offered to help him arrange his trip and said that he would make a point of seeing some of the members of the cabinet ahead of time to brief them on Secretary Su's visit. Secretary Su thanked him and told him that his efforts were most appreciated. He said that he had spoken with the U.S. ambassador about his trip, but the ambassador had said nothing of substance, and he wished that my father were the ambassador instead. The three of them toasted to this, and the whole table followed suit by raising their wineglasses and saying, “
Gan bei
(Cheers).” Not wanting to appear rude, but also unsure if I was allowed to drink alcohol, I looked to my father for approval. He lifted his glass at me. Taking this as a sign I should join in, I raised my glass and clinked it with Mr. Zhang and the aide sitting next to me and took a sip of the wine. All of a sudden I felt quite grown up, and the dinner was looking up.

There was a shift in the mood of the room when Mr. Zhang brought up the Dover School to Secretary Su. The side conversations dropped away and everyone became focused on what Mr. Zhang was saying. Although Mr. Zhang was ostensibly speaking to Secretary Su, the interpreter still translated everything for my father's benefit. Mr. Zhang told Secretary Su that my father had assured him that Dover was a very good school and it was known for sending many students to Harvard, Yale, and Stanford every
year. Secretary Su nodded his approval and mentioned that the Premier's daughter was currently attending Yale. Mr. Zhang pointed to me and said that I would be attending Dover the following year. Secretary Su spoke a few words to the interpreter and motioned to me with his glass.

“He asks, you are going to this school next year?”

“Yes, I'll be going there next year,” I said. “A lot of my friends are there now.”

She translated what I had said, and he gave her another question to ask me. “Your friends, what do they think of the school?”

I hadn't spoken to either of the two boys I knew who had gone to Dover in more than a month. I didn't know what their opinions of Dover really were, but I knew what my father would want me to say.

“They love it,” I said. “It's demanding. A lot of work. But they say it is preparing them for university very well.”

Secretary Su mumbled in agreement as the interpreter conveyed what I had said. “He says that to have a good education is very important. The most important thing,” the interpreter said to my father. Mr. Zhang nodded and mumbled his agreement. The interpreter turned back to Secretary Su, who continued speaking.

“He wants to know if you think David will like this school?” the interpreter asked me.

“Well, you know, I think he should visit a few schools and see which one he likes. But yes, I'm sure he will, it's a very good school.”

Mr. Zhang cut in. “Tom very good friends with the headmaster,” he said to Secretary Su in English.

My father nodded in agreement. “The headmaster is a terrific
guy. You'd like him a lot. He was one of my very good friends at Dover and my roommate for one year at Yale—we've stayed very, very close. I saw him just last week, and I told him that he needs to get over to China soon.”

Secretary Su waited for the words to be translated. He seemed to approve of what he heard. He looked at my father and began speaking and didn't stop for some time. The interpreter began to translate what he had said, but Mr. Zhang cut her off. “We would like David to go to a university here in China, maybe Tsinghua or Bei Da, but because we used to live in Hong Kong, David is out of the school system in China for too long. We think the best is for him to go to international school and then when he is old enough, to go to school in the United States. And then apply to Princeton or Yale.”

“I think that's very smart,” my father said.

The conversation moved on to something else that didn't involve me, and once again I was ignored. I tried following it for a while but lost interest and turned back to my food. Just then the waiters brought out small dishes covered by porcelain lids. They lifted the lids to reveal a brown gelatinous glob that looked almost like the body of a slug. Mr. Zhang turned to me and pointed to my plate. “This very good. It's a Chinese delicacy. Very expensive,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” I said, prodding mine suspiciously. “What is it?”

He thought for a moment. “
Zhe de yingwen mingzi shi shenme
(What's its English name)? From the ocean. It type of shellfish.” He frowned and called over one of the waitresses. “
Eh . . . Xiaojie, baoyu . . . yong Yingwen zenme shuo
(Waitress, how do you say
baoyu
in English)?” She looked puzzled but he clicked his fingers and waved her away. “Abalone!” he said. “It's called abalone. Do
you know abalone?” I shook my head. “It's very good,” he reassured me. “Very expensive. Maybe at a restaurant will be two hundred, three hundred dollars. Try, try.”

Dessert consisted of sliced watermelon and dragon fruit. After we had all finished I saw Mr. Zhang motion for a waitress to bring over two bags in the corner. It was a custom in China for the guests and the hosts to exchange gifts at the end of formal dinners. The gifts were almost always presented in beautifully handcrafted wooden boxes. They often looked very expensive, but in my experience the gifts were usually the kind of cheap trinkets one might find in a tourist gift shop.

During my time in China I was given two large scrolls of calligraphy, a silk fan decorated on both sides with a traditional-style landscape painting of a mist-engulfed mountain, a miniature set of painted Peking opera masks, and a calligraphy writing set, complete with two wooden brushes, an inkstone, and an intricately carved stone seal. My father had accumulated hundreds of these gifts over the years and no longer bothered to keep track of them. He told me he thought the Hyatt held them in storage for him, but that he wasn't really sure. My father always gave gifts as well, but he never bought them himself. Instead he had his assistant prepare gifts for every dinner he attended.

He did this because he had heard too many horror stories about Americans who had accidentally given highly offensive gifts to their Chinese hosts. There were all sorts of cultural taboos when it came to gifts. For instance, anything associated with the number 4 was out due to the similarity in pronunciation of the words for 4 (
sì
) and death (
s
ǐ). Flowers were another risky
choice, as white and yellow flowers are highly associated with funerals. My father told me that the owner of the Boston Celtics had once handed out green Celtics jerseys and hats at the end of a dinner in Shanghai, not realizing that in Chinese the idiom “wearing a green hat” refers to a cuckold. In giving a green hat to his host, my father's friend had accidentally implied his host's wife was having an affair. Needless to say, it didn't go over especially well with his host.

At this particular dinner, the Zhangs gave me a copy of Confucius's
Analects
printed on silk paper and gave my father a green jade sculpture of a rooster—the animal of his birth year under the Chinese zodiac system.

There was a darker side to this practice of gift exchanges, for it played a significant role in the shadowy world of corruption. I had heard that at the end of dinners between government officials and businessmen trying to win government contracts, the businessmen would often present the officials with lavish gifts of outrageous monetary value. These bribes might take the form of a piece of art, a case of very expensive European wine, or perhaps even a bag filled with stacks of pink 100 RMB notes. I remembered a story my father had once told me about how he had been invited to dinner at the house of a well-known Chinese entrepreneur who wanted my father's help to open several franchises of a big European supermarket in China. While giving my father a tour of the house, the entrepreneur made a point of showing him a gorgeous vase that dated back to the Ming Dynasty. The vase, the entrepreneur claimed, was worth more than $100,000 and could not legally be taken out of China as it was considered a national artifact. My father had complimented the vase and said
how wonderful it must be to own something as special as that. Then they continued the tour and later had dinner. When my father got back to his hotel later that night, the driver went to open the trunk and there, in the trunk of the car, sat the $100,000 vase. My father immediately sent the driver back to return the vase. A year later the entrepreneur's business went under and he was arrested on charges of corruption, fraud, and bribery.

During dinner Mr. Zhang told us that he had arranged a private tour of the areas of the Forbidden City that were off limits to the general public that weekend. However, the next morning, my father informed me that his plans had changed and he had to return to New York immediately. His business partner in New York had called him in the middle of the night—he needed to go back to sort out a problem with a deal they'd been working on—it was complicated—he'd explain when he had more time. He said it was important that I go on the tour so that we did not appear rude to Mr. Zhang. I thought about asking if I could go with him to New York. But I didn't—partly because I knew that he would say no, but mostly because I knew he would be disappointed in me for asking.

At tennis I asked Bowen if he wanted to come on the private tour of the Forbidden City. At first he was extremely hesitant. I hadn't actually asked Mr. Zhang or Victoria, but I saw no problem as the tour had been arranged for three people and my father could no longer come. Bowen had never been to the Forbidden City before. He told me he wanted to come with us, but he didn't think that Madame Jiang would allow him to go. “How about
this,” I said, “Victoria and I will pick you up by the front gate. Madame Jiang won't say anything if we are the ones who take you out.”

“Maybe she won't say anything, but she will be angry.”

“
Bie danxin, Bowen
(Don't worry, Bowen),” I said. “It will be fine. I'll just get Victoria to talk to her.”

“I don't think I should go,” he said.

“Come on man, it will be cool. Mr. Zhang said he would take us to areas that are not open to the public. Plus, I don't want to go by myself. My dad was meant to go, but he had to return to the States for work.”

Bowen thought it over. I could see the conflict in his face. After a few moments he smiled. “Okay,” he said, “I will go with you.”

I spent the next few nights at the Hyatt as my father's secretary had booked the room through Wednesday of the following week, and I wasn't quite ready to give up the Hyatt's seemingly endless room service menu just yet. On Sunday morning, I went down to the hotel's lobby where Victoria was waiting for me. I told her that I had to swing by the tennis center quickly before we went to the Forbidden City. She seemed puzzled by that, but she passed on my request to Driver Wu. When we arrived, Bowen was waiting by the gate, dressed in a warm-up suit and tennis shoes.

“Oh, look, there's Bowen,” Victoria said. She waved to him, but the windows were tinted too dark for him to see her. I rolled down my window and waved him over. Victoria frowned when she saw him walking toward the car. “Bowen's coming with us,” I said.

Victoria turned in her seat and looked at me. “Does Mr. Zhang know about this?”

“No,” I said. “But I mean it's fine. It doesn't matter, right?”

“You should have asked him,” Victoria said. She pulled out her pink cell phone. “This was arranged for your father. I hope Mr. Zhang won't be mad. I should call his assistant. Tell Bowen to wait while I ask.”

“Victoria, it's fine. He's coming with us. It won't be a big deal.”

Just then Bowen reached the car. I opened the car door and slid over and he climbed in. Victoria shrugged and put away her phone and told the driver to take us to the Forbidden City. We arrived with half an hour to spare. The driver dropped us off by Tiananmen Square and went to find a place to park and wait for us. We walked the short distance down Chang'an Avenue to the huge square where an enormous crowd was massed. All around the square were security cameras. Ahead of us, a group of American teachers held up a flag bearing the name of their school and posed for a photograph. Within moments two policemen arrived and confiscated their camera and emptied the film out onto the pavement. Before I could even ask, Victoria whispered to me that the policemen destroyed all photos with banners because Tiananmen was such a politically sensitive area. The policemen were fearful that any sign they didn't recognize or understand might be the slogan of a protest group or something referencing 6/4, and they couldn't risk that picture getting on the internet.

Victoria changed the topic and asked us if we wanted to get a hot chocolate.

“Where?” I asked.

“Follow me.” She made her way through the crowd of tourists to the Meridian Gate, the large main outer gate that led to the courtyard where tickets and souvenirs were sold. Above the
gate hung a massive portrait of Chairman Mao. I was astonished to see a Starbucks sign—the same size and color as in the States—on top of the doorway of one of the buildings.

“Starbucks?” I asked. “How is there a Starbucks here?”

Victoria turned and looked at me, puzzled. It was clear that she didn't understand my question.

“How did Starbucks get here?”

“They just came,” Victoria said.

“No, I mean how did they get permission to put a big American chain in an ancient building of the Forbidden City?”

“Oh,” she said. “The officials invited Starbucks. They needed to raise money to restore parts of the Forbidden City.”

“But isn't this an original building?”

“Yes,” Victoria said. “It's from Qing Dynasty.”

Victoria was not bothered by the presence of Starbucks. She obviously understood it as a practical solution to a funding problem and not as an affront to Chinese culture. “In fact, the Qing Dynasty was ruled by the Manchu.” Victoria pointed to a small blue plaque with a red-and-gold-edged frame on the side of the building. Next she pointed out two columns of three characters each. The first column was Chinese characters that read, “Please come in.” I did not recognize the characters in the second column. They were less elaborate than the Chinese and almost looked like Arabic. Victoria answered my question before I could ask it. “That's the Manchu language,” she said, pointing to the Arabic-looking characters. “It says please come in.”

“You can read Manchu?” I asked. The Manchu people were one of China's fifty-four ethnic minority groups. I had learned about them from Teacher Lu. As their name indicated, they had originally come from Manchuria.

“Only a small amount. My father's family is Manchu, so he taught me how to read very basic words.”

“So are you half Manchu?” I asked.

“Yes, but I am registered as a Han,” Victoria said.

“Why?”

“I was born during the Cultural Revolution and my parents feared that being different might bring unwanted attention. Almost everyone changed their official ethnicity to Han during those years. Ninety percent of China is Han now.”

“I am Han too,” Bowen added.

I had read about the Han Dynasty, which had lasted over four hundred years from about 200 BC to 200 AD. I knew that during the Han Dynasty the Chinese had come to rival the Roman Empire in wealth and power and geographic reach. But I didn't really understand what it meant to be Han. It seemed like such an umbrella term that included so many dissimilar people. Perhaps tracing one's lineage to what was considered the high point in Chinese civilization was why it was so important. My father had often told me how Chinese civilization had been at the forefront of human culture and technological advances for most of the past five thousand years and how it had been humiliating for many Chinese when they fell behind the Europeans and became seen as a second- or third-tier nation in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. At times like that, people needed to cling to links from a glorious past to feel pride for their country.

Victoria ordered us two hot chocolates and got a latte for herself. We walked outside with our drinks and a small Chinese woman came up to us waving books of Mao's quotations and paper Chinese flags. She didn't understand English but had mastered a few simple phrases like, “Look, look, very cheap.” Bowen
waved her off, but I stopped walking and looked at what she was selling. As I was about to learn, if you showed the slightest interest in purchasing something, these street vendors would harass you for half a mile. It didn't matter how many times I waved her away, the woman continued to follow me for another few minutes, periodically jumping in front of me, pushing her trinkets toward my face. Several other vendors, seeing that this woman had found a prospective customer, started following us as well. Victoria turned and snapped at them in Chinese and they fell back.

Victoria said, “Keep moving. If we stop, the beggars will come.”

The beggars clawed meekly at the edges of the tourist groups. They were dirty, and most were physically disabled. A boy a few years older than I hobbled up to me on crutches. He tapped me on the arm and stood and looked straight at me, holding his hand out. His right foot was missing. His leg ended at his knee in a dirty ball of gauze. He was pale and weak and he was missing most of his teeth. His face was dirty and clothes were ragged, and his eyes looked past me. I reached in my pockets and pulled out the change from Starbucks and a crumpled U.S. bill. I unfolded the thin bill, which must have been left in my jeans when they were last washed. I handed the worn-out image of Abraham Lincoln to him. “
Xie xie nin
(Thank you),” he whispered.

I felt someone grab my arm. I turned and saw that it was Bowen. “Let's go,” he said. “You can't help them all.”

Mr. Zhang called and gave Victoria instructions on where to meet him. We followed Victoria back through the Meridian Gate to a side street on the west side of Tiananmen Square. We were there only a few moments when two big Audi SUVs with
darkened windows came roaring up. A driver hopped out of the second Audi and opened the doors for us to get in. We drove off down the side street and came to a heavily guarded checkpoint where five soldiers stood guard. The driver of the first Audi rolled down his window and spoke with the soldiers who seemed to be expecting us because they waved us right through. We passed through the checkpoint and entered the city through a gate and came to a small parking lot where several dozen cars were parked. I noticed their license plates were all military or government plates. We got out and I saw that our Audi also had military plates.

Mr. Zhang and a second man exited the first of the two Audis. Mr. Zhang greeted Victoria and me and introduced his companion as his “friend, Mr. Chen.” He frowned when he realized my father was not with us.

“Your father? Where is he?”

“Oh, he had to go back to New York,” I said. “He said it was urgent. Did his office not tell you?”

“No,” Mr. Zhang said. “Nobody told me.” I could tell that he was irritated. He turned to Victoria and demanded answers for why he hadn't been informed.

“I brought my friend Bowen instead though,” I said, not wanting Mr. Zhang to think that my father's place on the tour had been wasted. Mr. Zhang abruptly stopped speaking. His attention shifted to me. He looked at Bowen and then turned back to me. He grunted his acknowledgment of Bowen's presence and then walked back toward the SUV, dialing a number on his phone. Victoria, Bowen, and I stood in silence with Mr. Chen while Mr. Zhang finished his phone call. After a few minutes he hung up and walked back to us.

“Okay, no matter,” he said. He gestured to Mr. Chen. “Chen Jie will take you for tour. I have to go to a meeting. I will see you after.” With that, he got back on his cell phone and turned back to his SUV where the driver was waiting with the door open. His actions confused me because I had thought he was meant to go on the tour with us. But Mr. Chen motioned for us to go with him, and we followed him into the second SUV. The gates opened, and we drove inside and crossed a wide moat. Victoria turned to me and explained we were now in the Inner Court where the emperors lived with their extended family. Mr. Chen was met by a man who worked in the Forbidden City and would be our guide. The guide led us down a long, narrow alley enclosed on each side by stuccoed walls twenty feet high. The only sounds came from our footsteps as we walked single file down the alley, which felt more like a crevasse. The contrast between where we were now and where we had just been was disorienting. Occasionally we passed huge wooden gates that were locked by thick chains and padlocks.

We must have gone four or five city blocks before we stopped in front of one of the gates. The guide pulled out a large ring of keys and flipped through it, selected one, and opened the lock. He pushed one side of the gate open and asked us to step across a raised wooden transom into an expansive walled courtyard. Set in the middle of the courtyard was a decaying temple nestled in scraggly grass. Broken branches lay around two old and desiccated trees. I could see that the temple had once been painted bright colors of red, gold, yellow, and blue, which were now faded and dulled. Paint had chipped off in large patches and some of the wood appeared charred as if there had been a fire. Roof tiles and pieces of an elaborate cornice lay on the ground.

The guide led us to the door of the temple. The door wasn't locked, but it was jammed shut and he struggled to open it. He spoke in Chinese, and Victoria translated for me. “This is a very special tour. No one has been in here for many years.” He beat his body against the door several times and freed it open. He motioned for us to step inside. It was dark. The only light came from the doorway, and it was hard to see anything farther than five feet into the building. A statue of Buddha greeted us at the entrance. The Buddha along with everything else was covered in dust, almost as if this building had been sitting at the foot of a volcano and ash had settled on top of everything. I glanced at Bowen and saw the fascination on his face—it was the look of someone seeing something that they never knew even existed. I turned to Mr. Chen and asked him when was the last time someone had been in this temple. “Probably not since 1924. When the last emperor was expelled.” He said that most of the Forbidden City was like this. “Only one-third is open for public. More than one hundred twenty acres is closed and is like this.”