Kitchen Chinese (12 page)

The bottles clank as he searches through them, finally pulling out a heavy flask of Chivas. He pours himself a neat measure, adds ice and a generous splash of sweetened green tea.

“Oh, you’re part of the Chivas and green tea crowd?” I tease. It’s a popular drink among Beijing hipsters, who mix high-priced bottles of Chivas with bottled green tea, swilling the mix down while belting karaoke or dancing at nightclubs.

“Why not?” He takes a sip and grimaces.

I pour myself a glass of red wine and take a ladylike swallow. It slides down my throat in a silky trickle and I quickly take another gulp. Jeff regards me, a tiny smile touching his full lips.

“I don’t make you nervous, do I?” he murmurs.

I glance up from the edge of my glass, but before I can think of a flirtatious response I am interrupted by a familiar squeal.

“Isabelle? Hi!” Tina Chang emerges from behind the yurt and walks toward us, her sharp heels puncturing the grass with every step. What is she doing here? “And Jeff! What a surprise!
Zenme yang?
Do you guys know each other?” she asks. Her overly round eyes dart between us, and I wonder if she’s been watching us from across the courtyard.

“Not really,” says Jeff.

“Isabelle is Claire Lee’s little sister,” says Tina.

“So I hear,” he says.

Tina shoots me a glance and fires off a rapid sentence in Chinese. Jeff responds with a guffaw. My eyes dart between them, but the conversation quickly moves beyond my grasp. There are names: Wang Wei and Li Xiaoping (Claire’s Chinese name), the words “yesterday,” “dinner,” and “wife,” but otherwise I have no idea what they’re discussing. I feel as if I am drowning in an ocean of Mandarin, clutching at familiar words like they’re pieces of driftwood. Tina runs her fingers through her silky hair and Jeff’s gaze lingers on her chest, which is prominently displayed in a lingerie-style bustier.

“Guys, I’m going to see if Geraldine needs any help,” I interrupt.

They turn to me. “Oh don’t go,” says Tina. “We’ll switch to English.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “Enjoy yourselves.”

I find Geraldine in the steamy kitchen, throwing dumplings into an enormous pot of boiling water as fast as her
ayi
can fold them.

“Oh, thank God, it’s you,” she says. “Can you put those salads into serving platters? And dish up some bowls of noodles?” She flaps a hand at the containers of food that crowd the kitchen counter.

“Why is Tina Chang here?” I hiss at her.

“What? Jesus Christ!” She swipes a hand against her sweaty brow. “She told me she couldn’t come!”

“But why did you invite her?”

“Are you kidding? Do you know what would happen if I had a party and didn’t invite Tina Chang? Instant shit list. She’d cut us off from Topanga Films. Or worse.” She turns panicked eyes upon me. “Did she see you and Jeff together?”

“Um. Sort of. Well, just talking.”

“Oh, dear God.” Geraldine puts down her long-handled kitchen strainer and reaches for her glass of wine, draining it in a gulp. “Can’t. Think. About. This. Now.” She holds her glass out to me. “Would you mind topping this up at the bar?”

By the time I return with a full bottle (Geraldine seemed pretty stressed), the buffet line snakes around the room. In deference to her lovely, traditional home, Geraldine serves a buffet of old Beijing comfort food. We crowd into the kitchen/dining room and circle the big table, filling small bowls with
zhajiangmian
: doughy, hand-pulled noodles topped with a salty preserved bean sauce, studded with chunks of pork, and showered with an assortment of vegetables, from boiled soybeans to strips of cucumber. Platters of
laohu cai
, or tiger salad, a refreshing mix of slivered cucumber, bell pepper, and cilantro, add crunch to the meal, while thick-skinned boiled dumplings give it heft.

I wander into the kitchen, in search of my ravioli-
jiaozi
. I’ll just make a quick sauce, melt some butter, sauté some sage, and serve them in a nice platter. “Have you seen my
jiaozi
?” I ask the
ayi.

“Nide jiaozi?”
she says, puzzled. “We put them together with the others.” She gestures to the dumplings that bob within a boiling pot of water on the stove.

Oh dear. In her haste, Geraldine has combined everything together, and the round premade wrappers mean my ravioli blend in with all the other crescent-shaped dumplings. Now they’re really fusion, cooked together with their Chinese cousins: savory pork and chive, soothing pork and cabbage, bright shredded carrot and egg. Well,
meibanfa
. There’s nothing to be done. Shrugging my shoulders, I slip out of the steamy room, find a plate and heap it with food, dumplings and noodles and salad, drizzle vinegar on everything and head outside. Ed and Gab beckon to me from the
yurt and I join them, settling against the rough cushions to enjoy the mysterious flicker of candlelight against cloth.

“We thought we’d rescue you from Jeff Zhu and his boy-band fabulousness,” says Gab with a curl of his lip.

“Er, thanks,” I say, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Hey, your hair looks good tonight. A little more…clumpy.”

“It’s been forty-two days since my last hair wash,” Gab says proudly.

“If only people knew how you suffer for your rocker chic.” I bite into a dumpling, verdant within and spicy, like anise. “Mm! Is this…fennel?”

“Cheers, Iz,” says Ed, raising a paper cup to me. His baggy cargo shorts reveal legs surprisingly muscular and long. I’d never noticed them before, since he’s always sitting behind a desk.

“Those fennel and egg dumplings are really good.” Gab waves his chopsticks at my plate. “But there are some really weird ones in there. Call me crazy, but I swear there’s cheese in one of them.”

“Huh,” I say casually.

“And it’s kind of gross with the soy sauce and vinegar.”

“So, how’s your gorgeous sister?” asks Ed, ignoring the foodie talk. “Is she here tonight?”

“No, she went to Shanghai with Wang Wei.”

“Oh.” His face falls.

“I’m going to get some more food,” announces Gab. He picks up his plate, which is empty except for five dumplings filled with white and green that look very familiar.

“I’ll come with you,” I say quickly, before Ed can start expounding on Claire’s beauty, wit, and unavailability, which he tends to do when he’s had a few.

“Bring me a vodka on the rocks, okay?” Ed calls after us.

We slither out of the tent, giggling like schoolchildren. Gab moves toward the drinks table and I go inside to look for the bathroom, passing through the empty, air-conditioned living room and down a long hallway lined with boxes and Geraldine’s Flying Pigeon bicycle. I find the bathroom, dim with candlelight and heady with the scent of lilies mixing with another, pungent, odor. A handwritten sign above the toilet proclaims:
We have ancient plumbing. Please place used toilet paper in the bin. DO NOT FLUSH IT! Thank you!
A trash can heaped with toilet paper stands in the corner, its quiet reek bearing testimony to the obedience of Geraldine’s guests.

My ingrained American squeamishness means I hurriedly wash my hands with Geraldine’s posh ginger lily soap and leave the bathroom. The living room appears quiet and cool, and I pause for a minute to perch on the sleek white leather couch. Outside, voices rise to a shriek, but inside they’re a soothing rumble. The double doors open and shut.

“Are you hiding in here?” Jeff approaches the sofa.

“I’m taking a break.” His presence fills the room and I’m suddenly aware that we’ve never been completely alone together. I cross my arms and swallow. Something about Jeff’s lazy smile and lingering gaze makes me very nervous.

He sits down close to me and lays an arm across the back of the sofa, which almost, but not quite, touches my shoulders. “Li Jia,” he says, using my Chinese name. “Those were some weird ass
jiaozi
.”

A laugh escapes me. “They were my Marco Polo–Genghis Khan fusion ravioli,” I protest. “And I didn’t exactly envision them being eaten with soy sauce and chili oil.”

“What was in them exactly?”

“Cheese,” I admit. “And spinach.”

“Chinese people don’t really…like cheese, you know.”

“Are you saying you didn’t like them?”

“Welllll…” He hedges and I giggle. “But…” He leans in and I catch his green grassy scent. “I really like you, Li Jia.
Wo juede ni hen xing gan
. I think you’re really sexy.”

“Really?” My voice rises with surprise. “We barely know each other. I mean, I don’t even know what you do.”

“Do?”

“For a job. What do you do?”

He seems startled. “I thought Geraldine told you. I’m like a…
zenme shuo? Liuxingge
. Pop star.”

I giggle again. “You’re joking, right?”

“Noooo…not joking. I’m a singer-songwriter. I perform in Chinese.”

“Are you famous?”

“Among a certain set of thirteen-year-old girls.”

“Well I guess it explains your hair,” I say, trying to hide my astonishment.

“You don’t like my hair?” He runs a hand through the bleached mop, causing strands to stand on end. “I really like your hair,” he whispers, leaning in to tuck a wisp behind my ear.

“Really? I think—”

He stops me with a kiss, his full lips soft and urgent. My stomach flutters with nerves, but he tastes sweet and fresh, like mint mixed with vanilla. After a while he pulls away and strokes my back.

“I thought you were here with Tina,” I say.

“We’re just friends.” He moves his hand to caress my cheek.

“But—”

“Shhhhh.” He leans in to kiss me once more, and I feel myself relax into his muscled chest. I’m not sure how long we sit there before I hear the living room doors open and close with a soft thump.

Jeff and I jump apart with guilty haste, but we’re too late. Tina Chang stands in front of us, her face frozen in shock.

“I thought you didn’t know each other!” she shrieks.

“I thought we had broken up,” says Jeff coolly.

Her face flushes as she runs out of the room and slams the door behind her.

“Where were we?” Jeff murmurs, running a hand up my thigh.

But Tina’s brief appearance has squelched the romantic atmosphere like baking soda on a grease fire. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it’s going to tear my chest open and leap halfway across the room. If anything happens to the Max Zhang story, Ed will fire me. And kill me. In that order. I shake Jeff’s hand away and push myself off the couch. “It’s late. I better get home.”

“Oh, don’t go, baby.” He purses his lips together in a pout. “You’re so groovy.”

Despite my panic, I laugh. “I have to work tomorrow. And maybe you should find Tina. She looked pretty upset.”

He grabs my hand and plays with my fingers. “Let me help you find a cab.”

“I’m okay.” The wine and warm summer evening have combined to give me a throbbing headache, and I can’t wait to escape to the cool, dark silence of my bedroom. “Thanks, though, for a, um, memorable evening.”

“Let’s go out again this week. I’ll call you.” He pulls me down to kiss my cheek but doesn’t get up from the couch as I leave the room.

I
t’s past midnight by the time I get home, but despite my headache, I’m too jittery to sleep. My encounter with Jeff has left me feeling unsettled, like the most popular boy at school finally asked me to dance, only to abandon me midway through the song. And then there’s Tina. Recalling the deep flush of her face when she saw Jeff and me together makes my mind race with worry. What if Tina kills the story on Max Zhang? Geraldine would be so disappointed, and as for Ed…yikes. Ed might actually implode.

I perch at the desk in my room, turn on my laptop computer and bask in its electronic glow. My hands hesitate over the keyboard before I log in and compose an e-mail to the other side of the world.

I pause for a second and hit Send. Julia is no more than a mouse click away, but the twelve-hour time difference makes phone calls impractical and I miss hearing her voice. Instead, we write messages while the other sleeps. She sends me pictures of the baby and gossipy news about publishing, but it doesn’t compare to living only eight blocks away from her.

I push my chair away from the desk and head into the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of water and stare out the window. The Third Ring Road streaks by our apartment, lined
with colored lights and, even at this hour, whizzing with traffic, like a highway to the future. From twenty floors above, I watch a stream of cars zoom by a giant billboard that’s emblazoned with enormous Chinese characters. I’ve stared at the ad for weeks now but still don’t know what it says. Now, I try to puzzle out the words again, one by one, each inscrutable character a reminder that the ad is targeting someone else, that I am an outsider.

I thought moving to Beijing would make my troubles disappear, but in the harsh, neon light of the capital, that hope seems childish. Instead, I seem to have traded one set of problems for another. My career is still at a standstill. My mother still disapproves of my job, my hair, my lack of a boyfriend. I’m still single—in fact, men now actually flee from their dates with me. Instead of making new friends, I think I’ve made an enemy. And, despite our physical proximity, my sister still feels like a stranger. I lean against the windowpane, allowing the iciness of its smooth surface to cool my throbbing forehead. Below me the unending traffic flows, each burst of light a mocking twinkle.

When I check my e-mail the next morning, Julia’s reply is at the top of my in-box.

My heart sinks. Richard already has a new girlfriend? I didn’t expect him to stay single for long, but a part of me was hoping he’d pine after me. That he’d miss me so much he’d follow me to Beijing. Which is ridiculous, because the most interest Richard ever showed in China was his weekly take-out order for sweet and sour pork, which he ate with a knife and fork. The thought of him perched at his kitchen table, daintily cutting bites of pork and scooping up the cloying sauce with pork fried rice, makes me laugh. I’ve been too busy to think about him for weeks, I realize, with a deep breath that clears my lungs and brushes away a margin of doubt.

Julia is absolutely right. I can’t sit around waiting for Prince Charming to come along. I should get out there, put on some heels, put on some makeup, for God’s sake. I peer at my face in the mirror. Living in Beijing has made me lazy—after all, scruffy jeans and a pilled sweater look like couture when your neighbors are strolling the block in their pajamas. But today I’ll make an effort, I vow, pulling out a black skirt and unearthing a pair of knee-high suede boots. Today I’ll wear mascara and lipstick, squeeze into tights, and pretend I care about the way I look. Like in New York. Before Richard dumped me.

And behind the plan for self-improvement is the unspoken
hope that if I try a little harder, perhaps Jeff will call. And, I know, I know, I’m not really interested, but I have to admit it boosted my ego to have the attention of one of China’s smoothest pop sensations. (I admit it—I Googled him.)

I perch on the edge of my bed and start rolling up my last pair of unladdered black tights. Beijing is halfway around the world from New York. Maybe my Beijing dating style should be 180 degrees from my New York approach. More honest, less inscrutable. More carefree, less crafty. More casual fling, and less man-of-my-dreams. Maybe I should call him.

Except, what would I say?

I stand in front of the mirror and practice holding my cell phone to my ear. “Hi, Jeff.” Good tone. Friendly, casual, not desperate. “Hi, Jeff,” I repeat. Er. What next?

“Iz?” Claire pops her head into my room. “Do you want a lift to work?” She sees me with the phone clutched to my ear and stops. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone,” she whispers, backing out of the door.

“Wait!” I exclaim, my cheeks tingling. I can’t believe she caught me rehearsing a phone call in front of the mirror. It’s so geeky, I’m tempted to pretend I’m actually in the middle of a phone call. On the other hand, I can’t resist a ride to work in Claire’s clean car, versus screeching around corners in another smoke-filled taxi death trap. I reluctantly lower the mobile from my ear. “I’m not on the phone,” I confess.

“Darling, what on earth are you doing?”

“Practicing,” I mumble.

“Practicing? Practicing what?”

I wildly try to think up an excuse but come up with…nothing. “Practicing calling someone.”

“Who?” A teasing grin spreads across her face. “A
boy
?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, get your stuff together. I’ll help you figure out what to say in the car.”

Wait a second. Claire is going to help me?
Claire?
The girl who didn’t go out on her first date until after law school, and even that was set up by my mother?

“But—you don’t—” I bite back the words.

She pauses with one arm in her suit jacket. “What.” She fixes me with a challenging stare.

“You don’t know how much I appreciate this,” I say in a rush.

In the car, Claire issues advice while simultaneously checking her BlackBerry, scanning the newspaper, and smoothing on another coat of lipstick. “Just be casual,” she says, her voice as instructive as Dear Abby. “Men don’t like it when women are too aggressive. Especially Chinese guys.”

“Should I ask him out for a drink?”

“Depends. Is he Chinese or foreign? Chinese guys think good girls don’t drink. They like women to be ladylike.”

“But I do. Like to drink, that is. I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not.” Like you, I think.

“I’m just trying to help you.” She shrugs. “Cross-cultural dating is hard. When Wang Wei first asked me out, I turned him down flat just because he’s married. But he kept calling and texting until I finally agreed to have coffee. And what can I say? He swept me off my feet!” She giggles a little self-consciously.

My eyes widen. “Wang Wei is
married
?” I gasp. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, they start to make sense. So that explains Claire’s secrecy, why she hasn’t yet introduced me to him.

“Oh, don’t be such a prissy American, Iz.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s been trapped in a loveless marriage for years. His wife lives in Shanghai with some Italian guy and everyone knows it.” She crosses her arms and lifts her chin, as if daring me to disapprove.

I hesitate. I want to grab her slim shoulders and pelt her with questions, but I know she’d only interpret them as criticism. I ask her instead, “Claire, are you sure you’re okay…?” The words hang in the air.

For a second her mouth tenses into a thin line. But then that smooth mask descends again and she brushes away an invisible speck of lint from her lapel. “I’m fine,” she says a little too brightly. “Anyway, who’s the lucky guy? Do I know him? Is it Charlie?”

Is she changing the subject? And how did she know about Charlie? “Um…” I’m not sure what to say.

“What?” She laughs at my confusion. “You think I didn’t know you and Charlie went on a date together? I ran into him in the lobby a few days ago and he told me how sorry he was to cut it short.” She nudges me with her elbow. “I think he really likes you. He couldn’t stop asking about you.”

“Really?” I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from creeping up. “What did he say?”

She ignores me. “Did he call and ask you out again?”

“Uh…no…”

“Well, then you definitely shouldn’t call him!” She looks shocked. “Never, ever pursue a man. Ever. That’s one of the first rules of dating.”

“Is Charlie dating anyone right now?” I ask as casually as I can.

“Hmmm? I don’t think so. Not for lack of opportunity, of course. But the guy’s practically married to his job.” She twists her mouth to one side. “Now, let’s see…how could we get you two together again…Ooh, I know! Kristin is having a party on Saturday. Charlie will probably be there.”

Kristin was the supercilious blonde who worked with Charlie. I’m pretty sure I have no desire to ever see her again. “I think I’m busy next weekend,” I hedge.

“Honestly, Iz. I don’t know how you’re ever going to meet
someone if you just hide in your room all the time,” Claire exclaims crossly. “You really need to—”

“Anyway, I was talking about Jeff. Jeff Zhu,” I break in before she dispenses more Claire Lee Dating Advice 101 (which, come to think of it, sounds suspiciously like
The Rules
).

“Jeff!” She looks surprised. “Oh! He’s a cutie. But be careful. He has this crazy, completely bonkers—”

“I’ve heard all about Tina,” I insert. “Don’t worry.”

“When it comes to Jeff, Tina is nuts,” Claire admits, as her driver slides to a stop in front of her office building. “But I was going to say, he has a crazy problem with commitment.” She climbs gracefully out of the car. “Well, I must fly. Big kiss, darling. Mwah. And good luck. Byeee!” With a trill of her signature farewell, she is gone. I stare at her slim back as she walks briskly into her building and can’t help but worry.

Now, I sneak into the hallway at work to see if it’s empty. Our open-plan office makes private phone calls impossible, which means there’s usually someone in the hall whispering furiously into their cell. A swath of open space means the coast is clear. Well, here goes. Taking a deep breath, I whip out my phone and quickly punch in Jeff’s number, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as it rings and rings. Finally, he answers,
“Wei?”

“Hi, Jeff? It’s Isabelle, uh, I mean, Li Jia. Listen, I hadn’t heard from you…er, I mean, I was just wondering if you might be free sometime this week for a drink.” I consider Claire’s advice and add: “Or coffee. Or, er, ice cream. You know, to get together. Sometime this week,” I finish lamely. So much for my casual, friendly, confident tone.

“Iz—Li Jia! Can you hold on a second?” There’s a rustling sound, as if he’s covered the receiver with his hand, and I hear muffled voices in the background. He returns a moment later. “Sorry about that.” His voice is crisp. “So, you’d like to meet this
week? I’m fairly booked, but I could manage say…Thursday at four
P.M
.?”

“Okaaayyy…” I shuffle the floor in confusion. “Well, that’s not so good for me, because I have to, you know, work.”

“Let me call you back,” he says. Then, to someone else: “Okay, okay. I
said
okay!” Back to me: “I’ll have my assistant call you back.”

“Your assistant?” Are we setting up a business meeting? I feel embarrassment creep through me. Perhaps I’ve misread the entire situation.

Suddenly, there’s a loud crackling sound, sounds of a struggle, as if the phone is being wrestled away from him. “Hello?” I say.

“Hello?” says a shrill female voice. “Who is this?” it demands.

“Isabelle Lee,” I say faintly. I’m not sure why I give my name, but something tells me the voice on the other side won’t rest without it.

“I knew it!” says the voice. “You bastard!”

“Tina,” I hear Jeff’s voice pleading.
“Mei shi.”
It’s nothing.

She screeches into the phone: “I’m going to teach you a lesson, Isabelle Lee. You think you can move here and swoop in, and steal all our Beijing men? I don’t give a fuck about you. Welcome to my bad side, Isabelle.”