Eat Me (15 page)

When we reach Beijing University, tantalisingly close to the old palace, Mr Fu says something to Xiao Wang in Chinese and Xiao Wang pulls up at the side of the road, in front of a restaurant. Mr Fu tells me we'll have duck first, then we'll go. It's only ten-thirty in the morning, I protest. But I've learned when to give in, and so in we go, all three of us, of course. I really do appreciate the way the Chinese always invite the driver along to meals; from what I can gather, it's one of the few egalitarian customs they've got left these days. Anyway, when the steam fades from Mr Fu's glasses, he orders our duck.

The restaurant is pretty empty, not surprising given the time. There is an extraordinarily handsome man at the next table. He has the classic single-lidded eyes and strong bone structure of the northern Chinese, and an unusual, somewhat hooked nose, but what's most striking is his beautiful, almost waist-length hair. Like a lot of northerners, he's tall and well built too. He's wearing one of those army greatcoats that you used to see in the photographs from China in the seventies and eighties but which almost no one seems to wear any more.

But what catches everyone's attention is his leather case on the floor beside his seat. It's moving. Is that an animal in your bag or are you just happy to see me? Mr Fu and Xiao Wang are as intrigued as I am, though Mr Fu is clearly nervous. Xiao Wang leans across his seat and asks, ‘What's in the bag?' The guy answers. Xiao Wang laughs and Mr Fu shudders. Of course, I didn't understand what they were saying. Three weeks in China and I'm not much beyond
ni hao!—
hello—and
xiexie—
thanks. ‘What is it, Mr Fu? ‘Snakes,' he tells me, shaking his head. ‘Terrible. Terrible.'

Sorry? Oh, you're right. Can you step over me or shall I get up? No worries.
Did he touch my leg on purpose? Creepoid. I'll just get up next time. Anyway, back to the restaurant. I'm totally intrigued. Ask him what the snakes are for, Mr Fu. By now, this guy is checking me out as well, and I wait impatiently for a translation. He tells Mr Fu that he is a street-performer, snake-charmer, sword-swallower, kung fu master and contortionist. Cool! He doesn't belong to any official organisation, and Mr Fu tries to explain to me some concept about ‘rivers and lakes', which I gather refers to people who live outside the system. Mr Fu clearly doesn't approve.

I'm enthralled. Snake-charmer tells us how he has always wanted to travel, but that he doesn't think he'd ever get a passport, and so, at different times, he's snuck across the border to North Korea or Vietnam. Each time, he was caught and sent back. Each time, the Chinese police interrogated him and let him go. Apparently, the police think he's a bit of a nut. He doesn't mind. Gives him more freedom to manoeuvre, he says. North Korea! Of all bizarre places to spend a holiday.

Mr Fu is lemon-lipped as he translates this story. Our Peking duck arrives. I signal to snake-charmer to join us. He hesitates, looking at Mr Fu. It's obvious that Mr Fu is not at all happy. Snake-charmer then looks at Xiao Wang, who just picks up a pancake and concentrates on folding it into a little parcel of duck and shallot and plum sauce. Then he looks at me. I've got a big smile on my face and I'm patting the chair next to me. He shrugs, and smiles and, carrying over his bag of snakes, sits down. I'm Julia, I say. He looks at Mr Fu for help. Mr Fu, uncooperative, looks at the duck. I point to my nose—I learned that Chinese people point to their nose when they want to refer to themselves just as we point to our chests—and say, slowly, Ju-li-a. He smiles, points at his nose and says ‘mungjoong'. I make Mr Fu spell it for me. M-E-N-G-Z-H-O-N-G.

I lever up some of the crisp duck skin, meat, plum sauce and sliced shallot with my chopsticks, drop it onto a pancake and fold it as best I can, following Xiao Wang's model, but when I raise it to my lips, a fat lubricated piece of shallot pushes up through the corner and tries to escape. Mengzhong looks amused. He signs for me to watch and demonstrates how to create the perfect Chinese blintz, and then hands it to me. Our fingers touch and I feel a spark. I'm sure it's not the same kind of spark that I feel even with the funny, bookish Mr Fu, thanks to the amazing static electricity of the Beijing winter. Speaking of Mr Fu, he's gone a bit sullen now. But Xiao Wang chats with Mengzhong and I recognise the word Yuanmingyuan, which is Chinese for the Old Summer Palace, so I know he's telling him where we're off to. Impulsively, I point to him and then to us, and with a circling motion somehow make it clear that I'm asking him along. He glances at Mr Fu, and then mimes a bicycle to me. Ah, he's got a bicycle. He says something to Mr Fu, who tells me, with an air of triumph, that Mengzhong is worried about keeping his snakes warm. He had been thinking about performing in one of the local parks but changed his mind when the snow continued to fall, and was planning to have lunch and go straight home. Xiao Wang says something. Mengzhong says something. Mr Fu is shaking his head most officiously.

I'm dying to know what's going on. I'm fixated on Mengzhong's hands. They are smooth and totally hairless, with long, fine fingers that throughout the meal, agilely continue to fold and proffer Peking duck crepes to me. We've finished everything by now (Mengzhong's dish of fried tofu and veg was delivered to our table and shared around) and Mr Fu pays for the meal, refusing Mengzhong's vigorous attempt to pay for us all himself. We all layer on our jumpers and coats and scarves, and leave the restaurant. The duck is rich, and makes me feel warm inside. Mengzhong is talking to Xiao Wang, who shrugs and says that other phrase I picked up,
meiyou guanxi
, which I gather is sort of like ‘no worries, mate'.

Mr Fu does not look thrilled, and I see why when Xiao Wang opens the back door of the car and Mengzhong puts the bag of snakes on the back seat. Mengzhong then collects his bicycle from where it was leaning against the outside of the restaurant, and walks it over. He pats the small shelf over the back wheel that people use to carry everything from groceries to books and parcels, and says something that I gather means, would you like to dink?
Oh, sorry, no I'll get up. No worries. You're right.
Now go to sleep and leave me alone.

I nod enthusiastically, ignoring Mr Fu's censorious look. Mengzhong starts pedalling slowly. Arranging my camera bag on my shoulder, I jump on and throw my arms around his broad back. The bike wobbles a bit on the packed and slippery snow but Mengzhong quickly finds his balance, and we're off. I wave an enthusiastic goodbye to Mr Fu and Xiao Wang. Mr Fu tosses off a gesture that seems closer to ‘piss off then' than ‘see you soon' but I'll give him benefit of the cross-cultural doubt. Mr Fu, Xiao Wang and the snakes, I assume, are going to meet us at the Old Summer Palace. This is so thrilling! It's just started to snow again, and Mengzhong turns his head and grins at me, a very sexy, self-assured smile and I grin back and hug him a bit tighter than I really have to. This part of Beijing is still quite nice and relatively undeveloped, and there are fewer people around as well. I bury my face in his back and breath in the musty, woolly smell of his greatcoat, which like nearly everything else in Beijing in winter, gives off a faint aura of garlic. We swerve off the main road and I swivel my head just in time to see the car zoom on ahead, Mr Fu's panicked face following our progress up a laneway too small for cars to follow us. Mengzhong gestures and says something and I assume he's just explaining he's taking a short cut. I'm not worried. We're now riding through this really charming rural lane. We pass small peasant homes made of brick, and cheap local eateries with padded blankets hung in the doorways as extra insulation against the cold. When we reach the edge of a large frozen field, he stops the bike. He asks with words I don't understand and hand gestures I do if I'm comfortable back here. Something in my look tells him it's all right to kiss me, and he does, quickly, almost shyly, just brushing my lips with his.

Oh Jake! But why am I feeling guilty? Jake took pains to make it clear to me before I left that whatever we had between us had been great and all that, but he was making no demands on me to be faithful to him, which, if I know men—and I think, by now, I know men pretty well— meant that he had no intention of being faithful to me. I mean, it was pretty clear that it was over, even if we did sleep together the night before I left. He didn't have to take me to the airport, of course, and that was a really nice gesture, even if I did end up paying for the petrol. And a big breakfast at the airport. I wonder if he'll like the Chinese ‘punks not dead' t-shirt I got him? We didn't say ‘it's over'. But I can recognise over when I see it. I think. Anyway, even if it's not exactly over, then he's not the sort of guy who's going to be fussed if I had a one-night, no, make that a one-morning stand. Anyway, I don't have to tell him about it. It's probably not a great idea to tell him, even if it is over between us. ‘Even if'—do I believe it's over or don't I? Goodness, what is this movie? I have to check this in the in-flight magazine, it's just too bizarre. Hmmm.
Joyous National Minorities Celebrate the New Harvest
. Right. Where was I? That's right, not far from the Yuanmingyuan.

We get going again along the path skirting the field. We arrive at one of the entrances to the park, and from there proceed to the famous ruins. It's so hard to imagine this place once housed thirty imperial pleasure palaces. Now it's a sprawling public park with some dramatically collapsed columns and a few other remnants. Last time we were there, Mr Fu had told me all about its history, how it had been plundered by the British and the French in 1860 and burnt to the ground by allied Western forces again forty years later and how the ruins have been preserved as a symbol of China's humiliation at the hands of the imperialists. We spot him first. Mr Fu is obviously feeling pretty badly done by. He's stamping his feet impatiently in the snow and blowing out anxious little puffs of steam-breath. I assume Xiao Wang's in the heated car with the snakes. I call out and give Mr Fu a big wave and a smile. He lifts his chin in a curt greeting. He doesn't take his hands out of his pockets. Never mind. I take out my camera and shoot pictures of the ruins, which look even more desolate and dramatic with their lashings of snow. Children are playing at the base of the old palace, and their bright red cheeks match their red padded coats and knitted caps. I point the lens playfully at Mengzhong and he signals me to wait a minute. He takes off his coat and hat and before I know what's happening, he's flying through the air in an extraordinary series of loops and spins and somersaults. He lands on one of the columns, nearly loses his balance on the slippery snow there, spreads his arms and laughs, a big throaty hahahaha laugh that sounds straight out of the Peking Opera we saw the other night. Even Mr Fu is impressed.

I applaud and Mengzhong shakes out his hair. My camera is waiting for him as he makes an equally dramatic descent back to where we are, and I use up nearly an entire roll of film. Mengzhong puts his coat back on, says something to Mr Fu and the next thing I know, I'm dinking again and we're off and racing down one of the pathways in the park. We're both in high spirits now, and I laugh and hold on tighter as we strike a patch of ice and zigzag madly, nearly taking a tumble. I have no idea where Mr Fu is, whether he's following, fuming or just planning to meet up with us later.

We arrive at the entrance to a giant maze. The emperors always had the best toys. The grey stone walls of the maze are topped with at least a foot of snow, and it's another popular spot with the kiddies. Mengzhong locks his bike and buys us entry tickets. Before I know what's happening, he dashes into the maze and disappears. I bolt after him. I keep hitting dead ends but finally I collide with him rather suddenly as I round a corner, skidding on ice. He catches me, taking my mittened hands in his. He is a very naughty boy. I see this in his eyes. I'm a naughty girl, too, and I stand on tiptoes to kiss him and this time I slip the tongue in. He's not, shall we say, averse. He says something in Chinese. I look at him blankly, and laugh, and he laughs and shakes his head, and I say meng-joong and he says jyuli-ya and now it's me running off through the labyrinth and him chasing after me. When I find myself in a dead end, I quickly scoop up some of the snow and make it into a snowball which I pelt him with. I try to make a getaway, but he tackles me and we both fall to the ground. We're just about to kiss again when some schoolchildren in lurid red and pink outfits pour round the corner and, pointing at us, jump up and down and yell something I guess means something like ‘snogging, snogging, we caught you snogging'. Needless to say, we scramble to our feet and get out of there as fast as we could, giggling like mad.

When we finally reach the end of the maze, we find a gateway that leads to a path up a small hill. We climb up, hand in hand, our feet scrunching through the snow. I look down and I think I see Mr Fu starting through the maze. But I can't be sure. He's dressed like so many others in padded blue jackets, with caps and glasses. It's started to snow heavily again. We get to the top of the hill and we're panting and our breath is coming out in clouds. We move closer to the little copse of trees at the top of the hill and soon we are embracing and kissing madly, tasting the duck in each other's mouths, trying to grope through eight hundred layers of clothing. It is insane. Although we are among the trees, it is hardly a private spot. The trees are small and bare, and not that densely planted either. We can hear the laughing and whooping and shouting of people enjoying themselves on all sides. Mad mad mad! I barely know the guy and can't communicate with him to save my life and it's freezing cold and snowing and we're in a public park in China, in the middle of the day, for Christ's sake, and Mr Fu is probably looking for me and I'm supposed to be representing my country, sort of, and here I am with a street-performer a circus acrobat a snake-swallower a fire-eater a sword-juggler with a Peking opera laugh, and isn't this the most thrilling tryst I've ever had?