Kitchen Chinese (26 page)

“Yeah. I remember this one time when all my friends were going to Macao for the weekend, and I couldn’t afford to go. I felt really lonely.”

A look of incredulity creeps across Julia’s face. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then closes it.

“So, whaddya think?” Jeff flashes another smile at Julia. “Would you be interested in representing me? What kind of money could I get?”

“I—I—” Julia picks up an empty bamboo steamer basket and looks inside as if hoping another dumpling will appear.

“I don’t think you can expect much of an advance, considering how you only have about three American fans and they’re all sitting at this table,” I jumped in.

“But didn’t Jeff’s band play at the embassy Marine Ball?” Julia interjects. “He must have some fans there.”

“Maybe Charlie’s a fan.” Andrew elbows me in the side and winks.

“You should invite Charlie to DownLoad’s next gig!” Julia says excitedly. “That would be a fun date for you two.”

Jeff’s face turns blank and for a second I wonder if he understood them. “I’m going to the bathroom.” He shoves his chair back and stomps off.

“Did I say something wrong?” Julia looks at me doubtfully. “Is he mad?”

“I don’t know.” I try to divide the last egg tart with my chopsticks.

“Iz—” Her clear eyes meet mine, and I press my lips together so she won’t continue. But she does anyway. “I know you think I always butt into your love life, and Andrew made me swear I wouldn’t do that anymore. But…” She swallows. “…are you sure you and Jeff are on the same page?”

“I told you, we’re just friends!”

“
I
know that and
you
know that…but does Jeff know? Look, he may be a self-proclaimed expert on American soap operas, but I’m willing to bet that dating expectations in China are a lot different than in New York. It might be time to have a talk with him to clarify things.”

“We’re on the same page,” I insist, even though I’m not sure that’s really true.

Later, many shrimp dumplings later, after Jeff leaves to meet his producers, after Julia, Andrew, and I take the tram up to Victoria peak and walk the nature trail, admiring the sea and mountains and lush tropical vegetation, after I hug and kiss them good-bye at their guest house, I ride the Star Ferry back to Kowloon and allow the salty breeze to cool my hot cheeks.

Upstairs, I find Jeff in the sitting room, the curtains still drawn, the room flickering with the light of MTV. “Hey,” I say, ignoring the chill that hangs over the room. “How was your meeting?”

His eyes remain fixed on the TV, and even as I perch next to him on the couch, I can tell by the set of his shoulders, his silence, that he is upset. I force a smile and pat his arm. “What should we do for dinner? Let’s go somewhere adventurous. That place on a boat—what’s it called…Jumbo Floating Restaurant? Or maybe one of those underground supper clubs?”

“Whatever.” He pulls his legs up. “I’m still pretty full from lunch.”

“Yeah, me too, I guess. But it was worth it. I haven’t had dim sum in ages.”

“Dian xin,”
he automatically corrects me, using the Mandarin pronunciation.

“And Andrew and Julia enjoyed meeting you,” I keep talking. “They thought you were really…interesting!”

“But not as interesting as ‘Charlie,’ apparently.”

“Um…” This would be the perfect time to talk about the expectations that Julia mentioned. I open my mouth to bring up the topic, but nothing comes out. Do I really need to have this discussion? Suddenly I feel irrationally neurotic. “Hey,” I say instead. “I didn’t know you were thinking about writing a book.”

He barks a laugh. “Me neither. I just thought up the idea today. But it’s not bad, huh? You think she’s interested? I figured I should milk the
guanxi
while I could, ya know?”

“Milk the
guanxi
? But Julia’s my friend, not a business contact. We were having a casual brunch, not attending some sort of networking event!”

“Babe, every event is a networking event.”

“Maybe for you, but I don’t use my friends just for their connections.”

“I’m not using her just for her connections. But if she’s got ’em, why not?”

“Do you think that about everyone?”

“Of course,” he says easily. “Like you and me. I think you’re cool, we have fun together, and if there’s an extra bonus of a
Beijing NOW
cover story, why not go for it? It’s not like your mag’s
Rolling Stone,
but I’ve got to start somewhere, you know?”

“So all this time, you’ve just been hanging out with me because I work for
Beijing NOW
?”

“No! Of course not. But you know that’s how business gets done.”

“Maybe in China.”

“Well, we’re in China, aren’t we?”

“I guess I’m just used to a different approach, that’s all. Things are a little more subtle in the States.”

He pats my arm indulgently. “But you’re really Chinese inside so I know you understand.”

Something in his voice makes me sit up and scan his face. “Can I ask you a question?”

He nods distractedly, his eye caught by the new Britney Spears video that flashes on the screen.

“Do you think of me as Chinese or American?” I keep my voice casual, despite the sudden thumping of my heart.

“Chinese, of course!” he answers immediately, bobbing his head to the groove of Britney’s hips.

For a second I think, Wow, my Chinese must have gotten really, really good! But then his answer hits me in the gut. After all this time, all these months, I thought he saw past my black hair, my almond-shaped eyes, the shell of me that looks Chinese, to the American heart beating inside. It turns out, he didn’t see me at all.

L
ater, I lie in bed and watch the lights twinkle across the harbor. Jeff snores softly in the living room, but my mind is too troubled for sleep.

As a child, I played with Barbie dolls and idolized Smurfette. I grew up in a middle-class world, a white world of girls with long blond curls and long last names that made my own—Lee—look like a stump. There were moments when I felt embarrassingly, painfully different, like when kids on the playground would push their eyes into slits and chant: “Ching Chong Chinaman, sitting on the fence! Trying to make a dollar out of fifty cents!” Or when my high school English teacher, Mrs. O’Grady, would urge me to toss my bobbed hair: “Shake your head! Just like a China doll!” But as I grew up and into my skin, dated frat boys, introduced my friends to a world of Chinese food beyond fried rice, perfected my tuna casserole, I felt less and less exotic. By the time
I moved to Manhattan, ethnicity had become chic, and race had spun far from the core of my identity. Chinese American joined the other labels I used to describe myself—editor, foodie, New Yorker—a part of me, but not all of me.

But then I moved to China. And suddenly all those forgotten feelings of belonging and alienation elbowed their way to the front. They’re in the voice of the cab driver who tells me that I’m not American because Americans have yellow hair. In the face of the waitress who profusely praises Geraldine’s simple
ni hao,
brushing off my years of study, the hours I’ve spent memorizing characters. They’re in the glance of
laowai
friends, whose eyes slide over me when they pass me on the sidewalk, unable to pick my face out of the crowd. They’re in the surprise of the Americans I sometimes meet, who compliment my fluent English. They’re in the throngs that pack a restaurant, my dark head slipping in among the rest, indistinguishable from any other.

Before I moved to China, I thought I knew myself. In New York, no one expected me to speak Chinese or know anything about my ethnic background. Now that I’m in Beijing, I’ve realized that other people’s perceptions are as important as my own. I may think of myself as American, but that is an identity that a whole city, a country, my friends, cannot accept. I may think of myself as American, but it is my race, my Chineseness, that is the only part of me people understand.

The pain of alienation surprises me. I thought I’d left it behind with my adolescence, but it turns out it’s still there, still powerful enough to send tears sliding down my face.

Y
ou can’t just keep avoiding Jeff’s phone calls and not returning his text messages, Iz. You have to break up with him.” Geraldine turns and scans a row of laundry detergent boxes.

“Break up with him?” I jump as a shopping cart whizzes by my left foot. Even at 8:00
A.M
. on a Sunday morning, Carrefour, the French hypermarket import, throbs with people. “How can I break up with someone who’s never even been my boyfriend?”

“Iz,” she says warningly. “Maybe you never considered him your boyfriend, but he obviously thinks of you as more than a friend. Unless you’re interested—and in light of your experiences in Hong Kong, I’m guessing you’re not—you need to end it.”

“But any moderately sensitive guy would have gotten a clue by now. And don’t quote your
Men Are from Mars, Women are from Venus
crap,” I say as she opens her mouth. “We’re in China and those rules don’t apply here.”

“You need to talk to him. The sooner the better.”

“Let’s just focus on finding the dishwashing detergent and getting out of here.” I approach a smock-clad employee.
“Duibuqi mafan ni. Ni men de hua fen zai na’r?”
The shop girl shakes her head and darts away from me like I’m covered in open boils.

“You just asked for flower pollen,” Geraldine says when she’s finished laughing. “The dishwasher powder is over there.”

“Smarty pants,” I mutter, grabbing a box. And I thought my Chinese had improved.

I haven’t seen Jeff since we hugged good-bye in front of the taxi queue at the Beijing airport. “I’ll call you,” he said, before hopping in the first cab, and eight days later he did. I heard the phone bleat from the shower, but for the first time since meeting him, I didn’t feel like picking up. Three weeks later we still haven’t talked, and I keep hoping Jeff will interpret my silence as a brush-off. Unfortunately, he seems to think I’m engaged in some sort of mating ritual, a prolonged form of playing hard to get that has only inflamed his interest.

I wheel the shopping cart around and follow Geraldine to the produce section, where we examine twelve varieties of fresh tofu. “You’ll feel better once you talk to him, Iz.” She selects a creamy square and pokes at the smooth surface. “It’ll be like…what’s that word?”

“Hideously awkward?” I offer as we move toward a towering pyramid of leeks.

“Closure,” she says, shoving a few stalks into a plastic bag. “You need closure.”

“Maybe.” I toss a bunch of cilantro in the basket. “Hey, let’s go check out the cheese aisle. I’ve got a hankering for a wheel of long-life Camembert.”

“Ooh, cheese!” Geraldine’s face lights up. I knew that would distract her.

Of course I should talk to Jeff. Even though our relationship never developed beyond the platonic level, he deserves my sincerity. It’s the right thing to do, we’re both adults, I should be honest about my feelings—sheesh, I sound like I’m on
Oprah.
But what I haven’t admitted to Geraldine—or anyone, for that matter—is that I’ve never broken up with anyone, least of all a guy I never even considered my boyfriend. I’m thirty years old and a break-up virgin.

Sure, I’ve shot down first dates who wanted to go to second base, tossed the phone numbers slipped to me at crowded bars, ignored e-mails. But throughout my entire life, from my high school boyfriend, Patrick Black, to my office romance with Rich, I have always been the dumped, not the dumper. I could think of this as pathetic, which, alone on a Saturday night with a wedge of Gruyère and box of Carr’s water crackers, I often do, or I could consider myself a hopeful romantic, someone willing to fight for love.

The weird thing is, now that the roles have been reversed, now that I’m the one who has to end things, I suddenly understand my ex-boyfriends’ hurtful behavior. I now know why Patrick still escorted me to our senior prom, even though he’d slept with Jennifer Santora two days before. I know why Brett Corcoran insisted that the only reason he split up with me was because I said I disliked Canadians. (I was kidding!) I know why Rich pretended his parents had died in a tragic plane crash, when in reality they were happily ensconced in an Orlando condominium.

And now, as I pace the kitchen putting away my groceries, I try to think of the kindest, most thoughtful way to have the Talk with Jeff without hurting his feelings. In a coffee shop? Too public—I don’t want him to lose face. Over the phone? A possibility, but given the language barrier, he’s more likely to think I’m asking him to move in with me. At my apartment? No, no,
no. What if he refuses to leave? I shove a six-pack of yogurt into the refrigerator and sigh. The path of least resistance has never looked so appealing.

My cell phone beeps, interrupting my thoughts. It’s a text.

U CAN’T DISTRACT ME W/CHEEZ. DO IT TODAY!! GER

I toss my mobile on the counter. Obviously I’m not going to talk to Jeff today, Sunday, the day of rest. I have pedicures to indulge in, DVDs to watch, spaghetti sauce to simmer. I open a can of Diet Coke and decide to ignore Geraldine. My phone beeps again.

DON’T IGNORE ME! G.

Arrggh! She can be such a pest. I sip my soda and scroll through the received messages in my phone’s tiny in-box. Geraldine, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Ed, Jeff, Jeff. Hmm, he has been calling me a lot lately. I glance at the column of names, and a twinge of guilt nips at me. Geraldine is right. I should talk to him.

I take a deep breath and try to figure out what to say. “Jeff,” I mutter, “we need to talk…I think you’re really great. But…” My fingers hover over his number, but before I can dial, I snap the phone shut. This is ridiculous. Jeff and I aren’t in a relationship, we never have been. So why is my heart pounding in time to the jackhammers twenty floors below?

I stand there for a while, staring at my phone, trying to work up my nerve. Open phone, close phone. Open, close, open, close. Dial, end call, dial, end call. Oh God, it’s no good. I can’t tell him. I’ll just have to screen his calls for the rest of my life. The phone beeps again, and I jump, nearly dropping my Diet Coke on the floor. What does Geraldine want now? Oh God. It’s from Jeff.

HEY BABE, U UP FOR SUSHI 2NITE?

Clearly, this is a sign. I start punching in a message, my fingers moving faster than my judgment.

SORRY CAN’T DO SUSHI. BUT I DO NEED TO TALK
TO YOU ABOUT S.T. THINGS MOVING IN WRONG
DIRECTION 4 ME. THINK WE NEED TO TAKE A BREAK.

Quickly, I hit Send and watch the screen as a little envelope folds itself up and floats away. There, it’s done. It may have been unorthodox, but at least I was honest.

The swiftness of his answer startles me.

R U BREAKING UP W/ME OVER TEXT MSG?!

Breaking up?! We were never together! Quickly, I press the buttons to reply.

DIDN’T THINK U THOUGHT OF ME THAT WAY. I THINK YR GR8,

BUT WE’RE 2 DIFFERENT. R U MAD?

His answer is only one word but it worries me.

WHATEVER

Hm. Maybe a text message wasn’t the best way to handle the situation. Oh well, it’s over now and no one ever has to know.

T
he shaky feeling of uncertainty plagues me for the rest of the weekend, but I manage to tamp it down with half a bottle of red wine and a pirated
Grey’s Anatomy
DVD box set. Now, thank God it’s Monday morning and I’m back at work, surrounded by friends and colleagues and not my own thoughts. I stare out at the oddly tinged winter sky and wait for our editorial meeting to begin.

“Okay comrades,” says Ed, plopping into a chair with uncustomary good humor. “It’s February, I’m thinking twittering love birds, hearts, romance in old Beijing…Isabelle, let’s start with you.”

I glance at my notebook. “I thought we could ask the St. Regis’s chef to do a recipe column on chocolate fondue. The dining feature is on track for romantic hot pot for two. And we’ll do a rundown of the top spots in town to take your sweetheart on Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes, good,” Ed nods. “But watch the clichés, we’re not fucking zombies. Let’s add something for all the bitter single people out there. Maybe a feature on the best and worst breakup spots…” He muses. “Or breakup horror stories…like Dear John letters, voice-mail messages, getting dumped by SMS…” He fixes me with a wicked grin as the room erupts in laughter.

My face burns. Do they know? Surely they don’t know.

“Good idea.” I nod, hoping my bland tone will distract them from my flaming cheeks.

“Great!” booms Ed. “I’ll expect copy by this afternoon. Shouldn’t be too hard since you’re such an expert.” More laughter.

“I told you to break up with him, Iz, not permanently emasculate him,” Geraldine teases. “I hear he’s furious! He’ll probably never date again.”

“Don’t feel too bad,” Gab smirks. “Think of it as a favor. This’ll be great material for his next album.”

“But we were never even together!” I protest. “Does everyone know?”

“Not everyone.” Ed pats my arm. “Just everyone who reads the
Beijing NOW
online forum.”

In other words, everyone.

O
h God. People keep sneaking up behind my desk, shouting, “You’re texted!” and then bursting into laughter. It’s become the new office slogan. Ed told Lily he was going to text her if she didn’t come up with an exclusive interview with the designers of Shanghai Tang.

I stare at my calendar while waiting for my computer to chug to life. The empty boxes wink at me mockingly. Monday, no plans; Tuesday, no plans; Wednesday, young professionals’ meet-and-greet—or should I say
meat
-and-greet; Thursday, no plans; Friday, Saturday, Sunday…ugh. Here I am, alone. Okay, so maybe Jeff and I had some issues, but in the grand scheme of things, were they really so important? We had some fun times together, despite the fact that he thought we were in a relationship that would lead to a
Beijing NOW
cover story and I didn’t. Now that I’ve texted him out of my life, I miss him.

My e-mail starts to load and I scan the names hoping to see Jeff’s. But no, just spam, spam, freelancer queries and…something that makes my heart stop.

Ohmigod, ohmigod. The
New York Tribune.
The
New York Tribune
! The city’s biggest newspaper, with an arts section read by anyone who’s at all interested in modern culture? My stomach clenches and I swipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. It’s been so long since I wrote to Tara Joyce that I’d given up on ever hearing back from her. Now she wants two thousand words by Friday? Okay, calm calm calm. Youcandothis. Deep breath. You can do this.

Oh fuck. It’s no good. I can’t do this. I’m going to have to turn them down. I stare at my computer screen, at the words
New York Tribune,
and curse the day I ever wrote to Tara Joyce. I hit Reply, but before I can start typing Ed’s red face looms over my desk.

“Have you moved on to breakups by e-mail now?” he asks, his mouth curving into a sardonic grin.

Grrr. “Actually, I just got an assignment from the
New York Tribune,
” I snap, crossing my arms. But then the panicky feeling takes over again. “And I’m really freaked out,” I admit. “I really don’t think I can—”

“You need an extension on your dining section this month?”
he booms. “Well, I guess I can give you a few extra days. How about Monday?”

“No, you don’t understand. I truly don’t think I’m capable of—”

He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, no need to text me, Isabelle. How about next Wednesday?”

I swallow. “Wednesday is fine. But I really wanted to ask you how I can get out of—”

“Jesus, you’re tough. All right, you can freelance a couple of the pieces out, but just this once, okay?” He leans against my desk and regards me thoughtfully. “You know, when you first walked into this office I thought you were a real pushover. Claire told me about what happened in New York and you just seemed…defeated. Talented, sure, but without the balls to really go for it.” He pauses to sip his coffee. “But first you dump Jeff Zhu—who most women in this town would kill to date—and now you’re really nailing this
Tribune
story. I guess I underestimated you.”

I bite my lip. “Er, thanks.” Shit. There’s no way I’m getting out of this now.

He turns to stride toward his office, and as I watch his retreating back it takes all my resolve not to throw myself at him and croak, “Help.”

The next days pass in a tense blur of too much coffee, too much anxiety, too much time spent on my cell phone trying to set up interviews. Finding people is surprisingly easy, but convincing them to go on the record with me, a freelance journalist with bad Chinese, almost makes me regret not studying the language harder when I was a kid. (Almost.) In the end I talk to Max’s friends from film school, his rival directors, his first wife, the slinky actress Chen Mei, who starred in all his early films, and who, it’s rumored, dumped him on the set of their last collaboration.

I spend hours taking taxis across town and back again, and even more time cursing my inadequate Chinese, which seems to run dry every time the conversation turns juicy. Thank God for Lily, who patiently helps me translate the sections of recorded interviews that I can’t understand.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t care that I’m home alone on a Friday night. I sit glued to my laptop, typing and deleting with harried fingers, until finally, in the early hours, the article is done. I glance over the pages one last time. Is it good enough? Should I show it to someone else for a second opinion? Well, no time now. A few clicks of the mouse and it’s gone.