Kitchen Chinese (24 page)

Had I forgotten her skill at storytelling, or had I never known? Whatever the case, we hung on her every word as she described her salon’s oddest clients. Like the woman who insisted on dying her Pekinese lapdog’s fur the same exact blond as her own. Or the balding man who surprised her one day with his new hair plugs. “I didn’t know what to say!” she exclaimed as we roared with laughter. “Should I mention the lush hair springing across his head, or pretend that nothing had changed at all?”

I’m still not sure how the conversation turned more serious,
how we started talking about my mom and Aunt Marcie’s childhood during Japanese-occupied Shanghai.

But as they shared their memories, I snuck a glance at my friends’ faces, which were somber. And riveted.

“During the war, we barely had enough to eat,” said my mother. “Our mother would give up her bowl of rice for us, so we could have a little more food.”

“Sometimes she’d make soup out of a spoonful of lard, a drop of soy sauce, and hot water. That was it,” added Aunt Marcie.

“We’d be lucky for the vegetables we could scrounge from the market. Cabbage, cabbage, and more cabbage.” My mother shuddered. “To this day, I can’t stand the sight of
da bai cai.
”

“How did you leave Shanghai?” asked Charlie gently.

Mom and Aunt Marcie exchanged a glance. “Our father was a banker. Before the war we lived in a beautiful house, an Art Deco in the French Concession with a garden for us to play in,” said my mother. “By the end of the war it was crumbling to bits. We had the money socked away, but no way to fix it.”

“And when 1949 came,” Aunt Marcie added, “our father knew all that talk of communist revolution did not bode well for him. He decided to move to Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong in the fifties was still developing,” said my mother. “When we got there, I expected a beautiful city, a fragrant harbor. Instead, it was just a little better than Shanghai. And we were surrounded by people who spoke a strange and loud language.”

“We only learned a little Cantonese,” said Aunt Marcie. “We studied English instead. Every day. That was your mother’s idea.” She looked proudly at her sister. “She was so smart, she got a scholarship to study in the States, in North Carolina.”

“At the time, I thought it was the only chance we had,” said my mother.

“When she first got to America, to Chapel Hill, Grace would write me letters about the strange food and strange people,” said Aunt Marcie. “She was so homesick I thought she’d give up and come back to Hong Kong. But then she met Bill and got married…that’s when she sent for me and our parents.”

“I always thought we’d go back to Shanghai,” said my mother. “We left in such a hurry. I didn’t know I was saying good-bye forever.”

“You could always go back,” said Geraldine encouragingly. “To visit.”

“You can’t go home again,” said my mother, with more than a trace of sorrow in her face.

Huh. Who knew she knew any Thomas Wolfe?

Now, as I dry the last serving platters and I load soap into the dishwasher, I imagine my mother and Aunt Marcie as little girls waiting out the endless, hungry drudgery of the war, later helping each other study English, planning and working and hoping for a better life. They’ve always seemed so formidable, tireless, with infinite energy burning in their tiny bodies. It’s strange to imagine them as vulnerable.

I put the last plates away and turn the lights out in the kitchen. Many floors above me, Charlie is probably climbing into bed. I wonder if he knows what he did for me tonight, how grateful I am that he defused the tense situation. In the hall, I pause outside my mother’s room. A crack of light shines from under the door, so I knock softly and push my way inside. She’s in bed with a book, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

“Mom?” I say. “I wanted to tell you something.” But I hesitate. How can I tell her that I think I understand why she criticizes me? That I know she just wants a better life for me than her own?

Her face fills with hope as she says, “You’ve decided to see my plastic surgeon?”

“No!” I roll my eyes.

She sighs, but at the same time a teasing smile creeps across her face. “You’re going to dump that loser Jeff?”

I swat her leg through the covers. “Ma! He’s not a loser. He’s a singer-songwriter…Besides, we’re not dating.” Even to my ears, my voice sounds uncertain.

She raises an eyebrow. “Could have fooled me.” But she lets it go, choosing instead to continue in that same musing tone, “You…Hmmm…Oh, I know!” Her face lights up. “Charlie asked you out on a date! I saw that way he was looking at you!”

“What? No! Mo-om!” I feel suddenly bewildered. She thinks I should date Charlie? He’s not Chinese. And could it be possible that she actually approves of someone I might like? Too bad it’s Charlie, Beijing’s most eligible bachelor, who considers me his substitute little sister.

“Well, I give up. What is it?” She turns her face up. Devoid of her customary dark makeup, her eyes look lined and vulnerable in the glow of the lamplight.

I take a deep breath. “I just wanted to say I’m glad you and Aunt Marcie were here for Thanksgiving. And that I love you.”

“Oh, my daughter.” She reaches her arms out and I perch on the side of her bed to hug her tiny frame. “I love you too, my
xiao baobei,
my precious treasure. I’m so proud of you.” She rocks me back and forth, back and forth, and whispers in my ear, “Just remember, it’s never too late to change your mind about seeing Dr. Wu.”

A smile spreads across my face as I read her e-mail over and over again. After my mother and Aunt Marcie’s visit, the holiday season dragged on. I missed Julia and Andrew almost as much as the devilled eggs they serve at their annual yuletide party. December passed with lingering, arid cold and a blur of articles about overstuffed hampers and roast goose dinners. I thought Claire and I might spend the holiday together, but when I asked her about it, she seemed reluctant.

“Maybe we could invite some people over for Christmas,” I suggested one Sunday afternoon in early December. I was curled up with my book on the sofa, and Claire was parading outfits before the mirror, trying to decide what to wear out to dinner with Wang Wei.

“That would be nice, sweetie…” She smoothed a black pencil skirt over her nonexistent hips and looked critically in the mirror. “But Christmas isn’t really a big deal here. No one really celebrates it. Unless you want to go dancing.”

“I just think it would be nice to spend the holiday together with our friends, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, Iz. Didn’t we just get everyone together for Thanksgiving? I really don’t think I can handle another family holiday.”

“I don’t think Mom and Aunt Marcie have any plans to come back to Beijing, if that’s what you’re worried about. Besides, I didn’t think their visit was that bad,” I added, thinking back to Thanksgiving night, when my mother looked so small and vulnerable in the sharp lamp light.

“Are you kidding? It was a freaking nightmare. I didn’t see Wang Wei for a week. And could Mom and Aunt Marcie have been any more annoying about the marriage and having children thing? They’re obsessed.” She rolled her eyes.

“But their story. About the war. It was so—so heartbreaking. Didn’t you think? I never knew any of that.”

“Me neither.” For a second her face softened, but then her mouth set again in that straight line. “But I’m sick and tired of feeling guilty about not having kids. So what if I’m single and childless? Haven’t I done everything else they always wanted?” She threw out the words as if she were talking to herself.

“They just want us to be happy,” I said weakly.

“They want themselves to be happy,” she snapped. “Mom and Aunt Marcie have this childish idea that we should be a perfect American family. Two loving, successful daughters who live next door to their parents, raising happy broods of romping grandchildren. Guess what? Life isn’t that easy. Families are fucked up. People fuck up. I—” She broke off. “Why the hell do you think I moved to China?” she said instead.

I stared at her. Why? Because she felt pressure to have a baby? That seemed a little extreme. And what did she mean about fucking up? I opened my mouth to ask her. But after so many months, the words stuck in my throat.

“You’re right,” I said eventually. “Their expectations can be a little unrealistic.”

Claire held a crisp white blouse up to the black skirt. “What do you think? Does this look too waitressy?”

“Who cares? You’re already Wang Wei’s slave. Why not dress the part?” I muttered. Not quietly enough as it turned out.

“I really wish you wouldn’t talk about him that way. He’s my boyfriend. And I care about him. A lot.”

I sighed. Ever since the night of the Marine Ball, Wang Wei had become a sore subject between us. In my opinion, he seemed to symbolize everything that was wrong with Claire’s life: the hollow friendships, her obsession with status,
the charade of happiness. “I’m just worried about you,” I finally said.

“You sound like Mom.” Her tone was not affectionate. “Don’t you think I know how to make decisions for myself? Okay, maybe I wasn’t prom queen”—this was a direct reference to me, though I wasn’t prom queen, just a prom princess—“but I’ve dated enough guys to know what I want.”

“Claire, he’s about as affectionate as an iceberg. He’s married, he’s dabbling in some shady business deals…Is this really making you happy?”

“
Don’t.
Second-guess my decisions.”

“I’m not,” I said, even though I was. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I told you.
I’m happy.
” She turned from the mirror to face me. “And you know something else? I don’t comment on your ‘love life.’” She spat out the last two words as if they had quotes around them. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t comment on mine.”

She left the room, and a few minutes later she went out for the night without saying good-bye. When I apologized the next day, she seemed tired and flat, as if someone had pulled a plug and deflated her.

As it turned out, Wang Wei surprised Claire on Christmas Eve, whisking her away to Phuket for two weeks. And so, Geraldine and I spent Christmas day at the St. Regis Hotel, stuffing ourselves at the free-flow champagne brunch, where we drank a bottle of bubbly. Each.

We had fun, but after I staggered home at five in the evening, my stomach felt hollow—and it wasn’t just from my alcoholic breakfast. It was my first Christmas away from home, spent in a country that didn’t even celebrate Christmas. I thought I’d find
it liberating, simpler. The truth was, I missed my family, even Aunt Marcie.

And so, Julia’s e-mail arrives at just the right moment, finding me with a bit of spare cash (my parents very generously deposited a Christmas gift in my bank account), homesick for friends, and considering an escape from Beijing’s smoggy, chilly skies, if only for a weekend. In fact, Jeff asked me last week to accompany him to Hong Kong, but I’ve been hesitant about accepting his invitation.

Ever since that ill-fated evening when he passed out in my bedroom after only two glasses of champagne, I’ve been uncertain about my feelings for him. On the plus side, who doesn’t love being showered with attention? Sometimes when he shoots me that lopsided grin, my knees turn as wobbly as a cube of fresh tofu. He’s funny and generous, always heaping gifts upon me. (Admittedly, I was a little taken aback by his Christmas present, a giant Hello Kitty plush toy that takes up a full corner of my bedroom, but I chalked that up to the cultural gap. For all I know, he thinks we crazy Americans celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ by exchanging stuffed animals.) He’s always willing to accompany me to work events—like the opening party for the new Philippe Starck–designed restaurant, where the paparazzi snapped a shot of Jeff with his arm slung around Zhang Ziyi that appeared in all the local press. Plus, spending time with him is like taking my very own Chinese language immersion course. We hardly speak English at all anymore.

And yet…Something keeps holding me back. It’s not just Jeff’s unreliability in making plans or returning phone calls, or the naked picture of Tina that’s still in his phone (it comes up whenever she calls). It’s not just his offhand comments about the loose sexual mores of my fellow female Americans, gleaned
from film and TV. (If I have to listen to one more bawdy joke about Rachel on
Friends
or Samantha on
Sex and the City
, I might actually renounce my American passport.) No, I think it has something to do with the feeling of despair that washes over me whenever I see Claire sigh because Wang Wei hasn’t called. It’s the leaden realization that she’s settled for something mediocre, when she deserves more.

I lean back in my chair and sigh. Yes, Hong Kong could be just what I need right now—tropical climate, postcolonial charm, great restaurants, swish hotels, not to mention a visit with my best friends, Andrew and Julia. Just the thought of seeing them makes me exhale.

I
’m not sure if Jeff’s noticed, but throughout our three-hour plane ride south, and on the high-speed train that whisks us from the airport to the city center, I can scarcely sit still. I’m bursting to tell him about Julia and Andrew, how we met, how they’ve never been separated from their daughter before this trip, how much I’ve missed drinking wine at their kitchen table. But I can scarcely insert a word into the conversation.

“Can you believe it?” he says, just as I’m about to tell him about the time Julia and I saved her cat from choking on sausage casing. “There’s
another
profile of Cui Jian, and this time they’re calling him the grandfather of Chinese rock!”

“Outrageous.” I repress a yawn. He’s spent the entire morning dissecting the past three months of
Chinese Rolling Stone
.

“I just don’t understand why they don’t want to feature my band.” He tosses the magazine aside in disgust. “D’ya think
Beijing NOW
might do an article of something?”

“Hmm?” I look up from my cell phone, which doesn’t seem to have service in Hong Kong. “Sure, I can ask Gab, if you want.”
That’s odd. Jeff has always scoffed at
Beijing NOW.
But before I can question him, he smiles at me indulgently.

“Babe, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Oh, what is it?” I try to look enthusiastic. Jeff’s last surprise was a set of Pokémon hair clips, each festooned with a fuzzy, bobble-bodied Pikachu.

“You’ll see…” He smiles mysteriously.

Through the train window, I watch the scenery flash by and try to relax. Two weeks ago, when I mentioned to Jeff that I was going to Hong Kong to meet my friends, his face lit up. Before I knew it, he had booked himself an airline ticket, and reserved (separate) hotel rooms, negotiating a matchless price at the guest house where Andrew and Julia are staying. When I opened my mouth to clarify that this was a friendly,
platonic
weekend away, he reassured me that he would be busy with meetings and appearances for his Hong Kong record label.

Our taxi slows and I peer out the window, my nervousness giving way to excitement at seeing Julia and Andrew in our guest house lobby. I leap out of the car and bound toward the double doors. The entrance seems far grander than it did online, with a circular driveway and a fleet of mint green Rolls-Royce limousines. And…that’s odd…are we on the Kowloon side of the city? I look up and gasp at the grand cream-colored building, twinkling with stately, serene elegance.

“Surprise!” says Jeff. “We’re staying at the Peninsula! My record label booked me a suite here since I have all those promotional appearances to do.”

“Wow!” For a moment I am speechless. But then I realize what he’s said. “A suite?”

“Isn’t it amazing? A suite at Hong Kong’s most expensive hotel!” he marvels.

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to stay here!” But my smile feels
stiff. What about staying in separate bedrooms? “Um…” I hesitate.

“Bie danxing!”
he says, with a trace of impatience. “Don’t worry. I’ll sleep on the sitting room couch.”

“Oh, okay.” I’m surprised by the relief that floods through me.

The white-suited bellhop gathers our bags from the trunk of the cab and I stare out across the harbor. Even the Peninsula’s driveway has a view of the water, capped by the glittering towers of Hong Kong island. I hope it won’t be too inconvenient to meet up with my friends, who are staying over there on the other side of town. I swallow a sigh. I guess it really doesn’t matter. After all, what kind of ingrate turns down a suite at the Peninsula?

My resistance dissolves the minute I step inside. The airy marble lobby drifts with the seductive, heavy fragrance of star lilies mixed with cigar smoke, the strains of a string quartet waft politely over a curved staircase, potted palms dot the polished floor. The bellhop whisks away the tattered backpack I’m using as an overnight bag, and from the moment we check in, everyone greets us by name.

Our suite overlooks the wide mouth of Hong Kong harbor, with a view of the city’s famous skyline. The towering high-rises gleam bright with glass and steel, dark mountains rising above them. I stare at the boats and ferries scudding to and fro and think of Julia and Andrew, across the water on Hong Kong island.

“I should call my friends.” I reach for the phone and start punching numbers on the complicated phone/fax/CD/DVD player hybrid. “How do you get an outside line?”

Jeff grabs the receiver and replaces it. “Don’t call yet. Let’s have a glass of champagne and enjoy the view up here.”

“But they’re waiting for me,” I protest. “I don’t want them to worry.”

But he’s already moving toward the minibar, where he extracts a demibottle of Veuve Clicquot from the refrigerator. Popping the cork, he swiftly pours two glasses and hands me one.

“Li Jia…” He motions for me to sit next to him on the couch and reaches for my hand.

“Er, yes?” I try to whisk my hand away, but he’s got a grip on it like he’s drowning and I’m his only connection to the lifeboat.

He leans his head to one side. “We’ve spent so much time together these past few months, I really feel like we’ve become close.”

Oh, dear Lord. How am I going to get myself out of this one? I cross and uncross my legs, trying to avoid Jeff’s confident gaze.

“But I was hoping we could get closer…” he says.

“Uh…” I stall for time by gulping some champagne. “That’s really, um. Wow. But—”

Before I can finish my sentence, he’s set down his champagne flute, slid closer, and wrapped me in a hug. “You’re so diverting,” he says. I think he means funny.

I try to pull away gently and finally break free, flinging my hair over one shoulder in the process. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I apologize. My ponytail has accidentally whipped him in the eye.

“Jesus, Li Jia!” He blinks several times, blotting at his streaming eye with the back of his hand. “You knocked my contact lens out. We need to find it. I can’t do my appearances in glasses!”

I lean over to switch on the table lamp and the bright light kills any final hope of romance. “Don’t move,” I instruct.