Kitchen Chinese (20 page)

A voice booms over the loudspeaker, causing me to jump in fright. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the U.S. Embassy Beijing Marine Ball.” A muscled young man in military uniform, his face flushed above his stiff collar, stands at the podium. “As you know, we gather each year to celebrate the birthday of the United States Marine Corps. But tonight we are proud to also honor a special individual, our ambassador.” My stomach growls and I clutch at it, wondering what we’ll be served for dinner. Probably dry roast beef.

“Not only does he bring superb leadership skills to the job, we appreciate his unflagging spirits and excellent sense of humor. Even when our hours are long, he always has a smile for all of us…” The young sergeant drones on, and I look longingly at the glass of red wine in front of me. “Through Six Party Talks and Sec-State visits…” I crane my head, trying to find Charlie. Hm. I wonder why he’s standing back there by the door. “Please welcome Beijing’s most eligible bachelor…” Laughter. “The United States ambassador to China…Charles Eliot!”

I start to clap, but suddenly my hands freeze in midair. Striding up to the podium, shaking hands along the way, is Charlie. The applause roars around me, but I sink into my chair, shock draining the color from my face. Charlie is the American ambassador? To China? It seems impossible, but as I stare open-mouthed at the podium, everything starts to click into place. The late night calls from the Foreign Ministry. The unexpected trips to Washington. The unrelenting work schedule.

Oh God. My face flames as I recall the disparaging remarks I made about the ambassador, all secondhand gossip from Claire’s
friend, Eric. Which, I realize now, could very well have been the bitter ravings of a jealous colleague.

“Isn’t it amazing that Charlie’s already an ambassador?” Claire murmurs. “His rise to the top has been incredibly fast. They say he’s a shoe-in for Secretary of State someday.” I can scarcely respond, let alone concentrate on Charlie’s speech, which stirs up more laughter and another enthusiastic round of applause.

Dinner passes in a blur of cold beef and leaden roast potatoes. I smile politely at the guy on my right, who is more interested in punching buttons on his BlackBerry than talking to me, but I can’t stop the swirl of confused thoughts in my mind. Claire shoots me a look, but she is occupied by her neighbor, a taciturn bearded man whom I recognize as a senior partner at her law firm.

When the waitstaff distributes small plates of soggy apple pie and a stage crew starts setting up for the band, I lean over to my sister. “Claire, I’m not feeling too well. I think I need to go home.”

She looks at me in astonishment. “But the band hasn’t started yet! I thought you’d want to hear Xiao Zhu play live.”

“Who?”

“Little Zhu. Zhu Bian. Jeff. Jeff Zhu. You know, your boyfriend?” She pokes at her piece of pie and pushes it away.

“My what!” My jaw drops. “Jeff’s not my boyfriend. We’ve barely even kissed!” I insist a little too vehemently.

“If you say so, darling.” She smiles knowingly and pushes back her chair. “I must say hello to the Swedish ambassador’s wife. See you later!”

I drain my glass of wine and stare at the plates littering our deserted table. First Charlie, now Jeff. Haven’t I had enough surprises for one night? And how on earth did Claire get the idea
that Jeff is my boyfriend? I start calculating the cost of calling Julia on my cell phone when my thoughts are cut off by a drum roll and blast of disco fog.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Jeff emerges on stage, dressed in dark jeans and a tank top that bares his muscular arms. “We are DownLoad.”

The stage lights flash and two other band members join him, launching into a bouncy Mando-pop song that I recognize as their popular single, “China Love,” complete with carefully choreographed dance moves. They’re actually not bad—their boyish faces and pop beat would send a flock of adolescent girls swooning—but here at the sedate embassy ball, the dance floor remains completely empty. From the stage, Jeff scans the thinning crowd and his face darkens. I should get up and dance, I think. But…alone? My inhibitions glue me firmly to my seat.

The beat changes into something more familiar and I recognize a remixed version of Madonna’s “Holiday.” With Chinese lyrics. I take a deep breath, stand up and edge toward the dance floor.

“Hey!”
Charlie appears at my elbow, shouting over the music.
“You gonna dance?”

“Maybe,”
I shout back.

“What?”
He raises an eyebrow and steps out onto the parquet.
“Come on! Holida-ay! Holida-ay!”
he sings and moves around to the beat. He’s so unabashed and carefree that I can’t help but giggle.
“Come on, Iz! Don’t leave me hanging out here!”
he calls.

I creep out onto the floor and before I know it the familiar, infectious beat has me shaking my hips. We throw up our arms and dance around the empty floor. Jeff plays some more Madonna, and soon another couple joins us, and then another, and another, until the dance floor is packed. When the music slides into a slow song, I somehow find myself in Charlie’s arms, mov
ing in an unhurried circle, everything very proper, with inches between us, just like a junior high school slow dance.

“You could give Beyoncé a run for her money,” says Charlie. “I didn’t know you could dance like that!”

“Well, we all have our secrets.” I raise my eyebrows. “Some of us, more than others.” My voice emerges sharply.

He swallows. “About the ambassador thing…I’m really sorry, Iz. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I just have one question.”

“Anything.”

“Why do you live in our building? I thought there was some fancy ambassadorial residence on Guanghua Lu.”

He smiles. “Can you keep a secret?”

I nod.

He leans in so close I can see the faint stubble on his chin. “It has rats!” he whispers. “Bionic rats! We’ve been trying to get rid of them for months.”

I laugh, and he looks relieved.

“Listen, Iz. I really wanted to tell you. Really. But at first I didn’t want to scare you off…and then I didn’t know
how
to tell you. I’ve been struggling with what to say for a few weeks—I thought for sure you’d think I was lying, or delusional. And actually, I kind of liked being incognito. You weren’t intimidated by me, which was…a relief.”

Before I can respond, the song trickles to an end and Jeff whispers huskily into the microphone: “I’d like to dedicate that last song to a beautiful woman. Isabelle Lee. My girlfriend.”

What?
My head snaps to the stage, where Jeff stands staring at me and Charlie. Is Jeff insane? Why would he announce to the world that I’m his girlfriend when I’m clearly not? Or does “girlfriend” mean something else in Chinese? Maybe I should ask Geraldine. I shake my head sharply and frown at Jeff, but he
simply lifts his chin before a cloud of disco steam descends and his face fades from view, the beat changing into something fast and insistent. My heart sinking, I turn to Charlie, who remains frozen, a surprised look on his face.

“Charlie, listen. Let me explain, Jeff and I aren’t—I mean, he’s not—” I put a hand on his arm, but he turns away and rearranges his features.

“It was great seeing you again, Isabelle.” Suddenly, his voice is as polite as if I’m the Swedish ambassador’s wife. “But I should probably mingle among the other guests. Good night.” He leaves the dance floor and I find my way back the table, where I collapse into a chair.

I don’t know how long I sit there before Claire appears. “Iz? A bunch of us are going to Bellagio to get something to eat. Do you want to come?” She scans my face. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I bury my face in my hands. “Charlie and I…Jeff dedicated the song to me, and—” I stop. What does it matter? Dancing with Charlie hasn’t changed anything. His interest in me is obviously platonic, otherwise he would have made more of an effort to see me. Why do I care what he thinks? I take a deep breath and smooth the tremor out of my voice.

“It’s okay, honey. Jeff’s going to finish his set and meet us at the restaurant!” she says cheerily.

Before I can tell her that Jeff is the last person I want to see, she adds, “Besides, you have to come.” She lowers her voice. “Wang Wei is meeting us there, and I told him you were coming. He wants to meet you. Isn’t that great?” She beams at me.

I still haven’t met Wang Wei, and after all these months, I’m dying of curiosity. Claire snatches stolen moments to be with him; the minute her BlackBerry lights up with his name, she reaches for her laptop, so she can simultaneously talk to Wang Wei while canceling her preexisting other plans. She says his
schedule is crazy—apparently developing new properties built on the land of poor, displaced, uncompensated Beijingers takes up a lot of time—but I suspect something else keeps him very busy: his wife. Knowing Claire’s hair-trigger defensiveness, however, that’s an opinion I keep to myself.

Instead, I paste a smile on my face and try to repress a feeling of impending doom. “Great!” I echo her. “Come on, let’s get our coats.”

L
ater, much later, our group is still sitting around an enormous square table at Bellagio. Claire sits next to Wang Wei, who rests one thin hand on her thigh, while the other clutches his shiny leather man-purse. We’ve only exchanged pleasantries, as he’s spent most of the night leaning across Claire to chat quietly with his business partners, the cueball-headed Yang Biao and the flat-topped Peng Bo, who insists that I call him by his English name, Chaos. Their girlfriends, Chloe and Pearl, two Taipei girls who rival Claire in beauty and thinness, sit beside them, emitting occasional giggles. Their voices are unbearably
dia
—high-pitched and sugary sweet.

Wang Wei is handsome, I suppose, with his sharp features and rimless glasses, though I’ve noticed that his thin lips rarely lift into a smile. I try to listen in on his conversation, but all I can hear is the quiet but forceful cadence of his voice as he issues instructions to his colleagues. Their deferential nods indicate their respect (or is it fear?). When Wang Wei stops talking to eat a piece of chicken, I open my mouth to ask him a question. But what? Where are you from? What’s your favorite color? I want to get to know him, but I don’t know how to push past that cold aura of quiet power that makes me shiver.

Next to me, Jeff and his bandmates smoke a steady stream
of Marlboro Reds and dissect the show in rapid Chinese. Jeff showed up about an hour after we did, bouncing in with a grin and kissing me on the lips, though I tried to avoid it. I haven’t had the chance to ask him what the hell he was thinking when he introduced me as his girlfriend. But it’s hard to stay angry with him. He keeps turning from his conversation to interpret for me, or scoop morsels of food on my plate. Plus, he looks damn cute in that cutoff T-shirt, which shows off his muscled arms.

I sip from my cup of chrysanthemum tea and try to imagine myself with Jeff as my boyfriend. Dating a Chinese guy would certainly be a first in my relationship history. Hell, I’ve never even had an Asian boyfriend. It’s not something I’m proud of.

“Why don’t you go out with a nice Chinese boy?” my mother would urge, her voice cracking with frustration. “Why?”

Why? There were so many reasons. For one thing, there were only three Asian guys in my high school—we only make up 3.6 percent of the U.S. population, after all—and one of them was gay. Then in college, after Blaine and I broke up, I did have a brief fling with a Korean guy, Rodney Chung. Unlike the sons of my mom’s friends, who were all prelaw/premed, he was majoring in sociology, and planning to work for Teach for America. Unfortunately, he also had a fiancée, which I discovered when she called late one night while we were, er, studying. After college, while working at
Belle
, I got set up with a couple of bankers, Chinese Americans who’d relocated from the West Coast. Alas, one of them was convinced the Met was a hot stock on the Nasdaq and Tolstoy some sort of Russian media mogul. I’m pretty sure the other one had a gambling addiction—unless you could consider the off-track betting parlor a romantic venue for a first date.

And then there were all those subconscious reasons, the messages I unconsciously absorbed from the media but couldn’t ar
ticulate. The Brad Pitts, Matt Damons, and Tom Cruises who strutted across movie screens with their golden skin and hair, high-bridged noses, and wide blue/green/anything but brown eyes. The choppy voiced, slit-eyed caricatures on TV who emasculated Asian men, depicting them as sneaky, or inarticulate, or nerdy, or most of all, undesirable.

But Jeff is different. For the first time, I’ve met a Chinese guy who looks like he could be comfortable on a motorcycle—and not just one that’s attached to a Wii. Maybe he’s never read Shakespeare, but his muscled arms and dimpled smile definitely make up for any missing brain power. Shouldn’t I finally date someone Chinese? After all, I am ethnically Chinese. I’m living in China now. And—not that this is a major concern, but still—my mother would be thrilled. At the thought of Jeff’s boyish smile, my stomach flips. But it changes to an anxious churn when I remember his high-handed behavior at the ball. Why did he have to call me his girlfriend in front of everyone? For a second Charlie’s puzzled, pained face flashes before me, and my stomach twists with a feeling that I can’t identify.

My gaze crosses the round table and rests on Jeff’s band members. There’s the drummer, Li Xing, a round-faced, muscular guy with a shaved head and kind smile. Next to him sits the guitarist/manager, Hu Jia, an arrogant expression resting on his sharp features as he surveys the restaurant’s other tables. And then there are the triplets, as I’ve come to think of them, the backup dancers: three petite Beijing girls, their hair frizzed into identical mullets. They scoop spoonfuls of shaved ice and mango into their pretty mouths and offer squeaky monosyllabic responses to all our questions.

It’s well after 2:00
A.M
., but Bellagio remains packed with an energetic crowd, most of whom have spilled over from Babyface, the swish nightclub next door. We’ve eaten savory strips of
tofu with fermented black bean, and nuggets of Sichuanese fried chicken hidden in a nest of bright chili peppers. Claire ordered dessert: a towering mound of shaved ice piled high with red beans, green beans, tapioca pearls, sago chunks, canned fruit cocktail, condensed milk, everything, really, as its name
zonghe baobing,
indicates. It’s cold and sweet, like ice cream with a rubbery chew.