Mountain Girl River Girl (19 page)

“Did you say you
own
the restaurant?” Shui-lian cut in. “Does that mean you’re the boss?”

Sun Ming laughed. “Yes, to both questions.”

“Then you must be rich and important!” Shui-lian blurted.

Sun Ming laughed again. “I wouldn’t say that. But, listen,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I’m afraid I have to leave now. I’ll come back tomorrow to take you to my restaurant. If you don’t mind my saying so, you both look like you could use a good meal or two—especially you, Shui-lian.” Ignoring Shui-lian’s scowl, she went on, “I also have an idea to talk over with you. Maybe you’d like to work for me?”

“You want us to cook?” Pan-pan asked.

“Not quite. Not right away, that’s for sure. There are lots of other chores that need to be done in a restaurant. You’ll see. I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. Meanwhile, think about it, all right?”

A
FTER THEY HAD HELPED
Da-Ma to bed, washed the dishes, and swept the floor of the dust and grit that constantly invaded from the heaps of dirt and rubble outside, Pan-pan and Shui-lian sat by their tent, each lost in her own thoughts. The night sky was dotted with bright stars. The traffic noise had thinned out, and the street sounds had faded. But the heat lingered, and so did Sun Ming’s last words. Her job offer churned in their heads.

“All my life,” Shui-lian murmured, breaking the silence, “the only restaurant I ever set foot in was the one Da-Ge took Jin-lin and me to when we were supposedly on our way to Shanghai. I didn’t like the place, nor can I remember what I ate. Now you and I might work in one. It makes me nervous.”

“Me too. But not because it’s a restaurant. It could be any place. Niavia left a sour taste in my mouth. Things have happened so quickly, all at once, which makes me uneasy. As Ah-Po would have said, once a person is bitten by a snake, she will shy away from coiled ropes for three years.” Pan-pan thought a moment before she continued. “Now that I’ve finally met Sun Ming, seeing what she looks and sounds like, I realize that’s pretty much all I know about her. Yes, I heard a lot about her when I was a kid. In my mother’s eyes, Sun Ming was like a member of the family. But people change, not to mention that it was a long time ago. How can I be sure we can trust her? She sounds very nice and friendly, but will she always be good to us? After all, she’s a boss.”

“That’s true,” Shui-lian answered absently. She contemplated if it was the right time to tell Pan-pan her decision, before she was drawn into this new episode. Who could tell what further disappointments and humiliation waited for her if she stayed in Beijing any longer?

“On the other hand,” Pan-pan continued, as though talking to herself, “she must be all right or she wouldn’t have bothered to come here and see us, right?”

“Right,” Shui-lian said loudly, to get Pan-pan’s attention. “But that’s all appearance. We don’t know about her heart, do we? Da-Ge said kind things, too. Honey dripped from his mouth. And he smiled a lot.” Shui-lian spat out her next words like they were poison. “But look what he did to me!”

“Take it easy, Shui-lian,” Pan-pan soothed, alarmed at her friend’s sudden distress. She moved so that she was sitting directly across from her. “Whatever Sun Ming is, she’s
not
like Da-Ge or Ah-Wu. That I can tell. I’m sorry I’ve been so negative. I was just thinking out loud.”

“But—”

“How about no buts?” Pan-pan pleaded. “How about we accept the offer? It’s better than nothing. We can take one step at a time, see how it goes. If it doesn’t work out, we can think about something else. The main thing is we’re together. Remember the old saying: Three shoemakers working together are wiser than one scholar. Okay, there are only two of us, and we’re
ex
-shoemakers.”

Shui-lian laughed. She was deeply touched by her friend’s loyalty and persistence.

“What do you say?” Pan-pan urged. “Let’s give it a try.”

Pan-pan’s last words caused a stir inside Shui-lian, the same quivering anticipation she had felt when she stepped off the deck of her family’s boat and onto the firm clay of the shore more than three months ago. On that chilly morning she had had such high hopes of starting a new page in her life with her friend. Jin-lin had given up on her dreams, but Shui-lian’s new friend had stood by her since they had met that day in Bengbu. The question of where her loyalty should stand was so obvious, yet Shui-lian still was pulled toward the direction in which Jin-lin had decided to go.

“I think—” Shui-lian stopped, pondering her willingness to throw water on Pan-pan’s enthusiasm. “I think you’re right. I also think you’re too young to have so many old expressions in your head.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Pan-pan said, beaming. “And I also have an idea.”

“Do you really?” Shui-lian chuckled at the thought of what a chatterbox her friend had become.

“Why don’t we go to her restaurant tomorrow morning to check the place out secretly, since Sun Ming is coming to get us in the afternoon?” Pan-pan asked cheerily. She stopped. “But I don’t know where the place is, or what it’s called.”

“It’s something like ‘Old Style,’ if I heard her correctly,” Shui-lian answered. “And she did say it’s nearby. Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

“Good. You see, already two heads are better than one. Wait! I’ll bet Lao Feng can give us the directions. We can leave him a note and at the same time let him know we’ll be away tomorrow for a little while.”

“All right,” Shui-lian said. I’ll tell her tomorrow for sure, she thought.

P
AN-PAN AND SHUI-LIAN
got up the next morning to find a note under a brick outside their tent. It gave them detailed instructions and a roughly sketched street map showing how to get to the restaurant, along with Lao Feng’s blessings and wishes for good luck. They tiptoed past the house—needlessly, for the demolition crews had already begun to clatter and roar—and headed west. At the intersection designated by a star on Lao Feng’s map, they turned north and walked three more blocks to Sun Ming’s street. A short distance east, they found themselves before a large residential compound filled with rows of high-rises. The area was bustling with early morning frenzy—pedestrians hurrying to and fro, and bikes, cars, and buses clogging the street. On the corner next to a bicycle parking lot stood a two-room brick building with a flat roof, above which the name
Lao Chuan Tong—
Old Tradition—was spelled out in neon. Sun Ming’s restaurant. The left side seemed to be a fast-food dispensary, where a queue of people waited as fat steamed buns, freshly baked flat bread, and crispy deep-fried dough were handed out over the counter like batons in a relay race. The savoury aromas of fried meat and spring onions wafted over to Pan-pan and Shui-lian.

Making sure Sun Ming was nowhere in sight, Shui-lian took the lead across the road and stopped in front of the doorway to the restaurant’s main room, where a curtain of sheer plastic strips allowed glimpses of the movement inside. The eating area of the restaurant, Shui-lian concluded. She stepped over to the window beside the door for a better look. A large blackboard filled with words and numbers covered the wall.

“It looks like a menu,” Pan-pan whispered next to her. “My goodness, they’re offering at least five dozen dishes. No wonder Sun Ming didn’t want us to cook!”

“Look,” Shui-lian hissed, pointing at a young woman passing by with a tray. Their eyes followed her, watching her put the tray down on a table occupied by two men and place a steaming bowl in front of each of them. Before she turned to leave, one man grabbed her sleeve and said something to her. The server burst out laughing.

“What’s that all about?” Shui-lian murmured uneasily.

“Relax, Shui-lian. I’m not sure. This is a neighbourhood restaurant, so maybe they know each other. Not all men are bad, you know. Think about Lao Feng.”

“I guess you’re right,” Shui-lian answered. “Anyway, I like what she’s wearing.”

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Pan-pan agreed. “It’s their uniform,” she added, pointing at two other women who were shouting orders through the serving window at the back of the room. They wore bright yellow jackets in traditional style, with a mandarin collar and frog buttons across the upper chest and down the side under the arm.

“I wouldn’t mind wearing one of those for a change,” Shui-lian giggled, looking down at her threadbare shirt. “At Niavia we wore rags.”

“So, what do you think?” Pan-pan asked. “It doesn’t look too bad, does it?”

“Not at all. Now, you listen,” Shui-lian scolded, mock seriously. “Stop sounding like an older sister. Remember, I’m older than you.”

“How could I forget?”

T
HAT AFTERNOON,
after a feast of Yangzhou fried rice, spicy stir-fried pork, and spinach served by one of the young women Shui-lian and Pan-pan had seen earlier, Sun Ming insisted the two girls head back to Lao Feng’s place.

“You’re my guests today. Tomorrow you begin work. That is, if you’ve decided to join me.”

“We’re looking forward to it,” Shui-lian jumped in, eyeing Pan-pan, who smiled and nodded.

During the meal, Sun Ming had mentioned that Shui-lian and Pan-pan could move into a nearby apartment and live with four other women who worked for her. They were older but, like Pan-pan and Shui-lian, all came from other parts of the country. “You’ll pay rent, like everyone else, but it’s nominal,” Sun Ming said, “and it would be better than living in a tent.”

As soon as they arrived back at Lao Feng’s house, Lao Feng wanted to hear their news, even before they had sat down. They told him about the delicious meal and Sun Ming’s offer.

“Does that mean I can get a discount there?” he asked mischievously.

“You can always try,” Pan-pan replied with the same lightheartedness. “One thing, though, we might learn how to cook someday and give you and Da-Ma a treat.”

“But don’t start to starve yourself right away,” Shui-lian joked.

“Y
OU KNOW WHAT,
Shui-lian? I’m so glad we came here, and happier still that we found Sun Ming. Every time I think about it, I can hardly believe such a miracle could happen.”

Shui-lian looked at Pan-pan, whose face was lit up by a smile. “The real miracle,” she said thoughtfully, “was finding a friend like you.”

Pan-pan flushed and her eyes filled with tears. After she regained control of herself, she started talking with emotion. “After what happened today, especially what we saw in the restaurant, I couldn’t help but wonder whether, if we work really hard there, someday you and I can open our own place. I even have a name for it already,
Shan Shui Fan Dian—
The Mountain and River Restaurant. What do you think?”

“How about The River and Mountain Restaurant? After all, I’m older.”

The two friends burst out laughing.

“Whatever we call it,” Shui-lian went on, “we’ll make sure Lao Feng and Da-Ma will always get a big discount.” She then grew serious. “But before we do anything like that, we should save up our money for you to see a doctor.”

“Me? Doctor? What for?” Pan-pan frowned. “Oh, that,” she said quietly, squeezing her arms against her ribs out of habit as she looked at the wall of bricks, a zigzagging silhouette across the ruined courtyard under the dim street light. The wall she and Shui-lian had built together.

“We’ll see,” she said.

A
UTHOR’S
NOTE

Many readers may be surprised by the issue of “fox stink”—
hu chou—
in this story. In medical terms, fox stink is called axillary bromhidrosis.

There are two kinds of sweat glands in the human body: the eccrine glands, which secrete water and salt, and the apocrine, which release a milky fluid containing acids and fats. When broken down by bacteria, these acids and fats produce a noticeable odour—what North Americans call B.O. Different people produce different amounts of apocrine sweat; a few produce a lot. This condition is inherited.

In China there is a very strong cultural aversion to apocrine sweat odour. Deodorants and anti-perspirants like those commonly used in North America and Europe are not widely employed there.

During my latest trip to China (spring 2007) I saw various advertisements posted on buses, the walls of buildings, and electric poles by individuals, doctors, and even hospitals, offering to cure fox stink.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Mountain Girl, River Girl
is a work of fiction, although the seeds of the story were planted by two young women whom Bill, my husband, and I met in a small restaurant on a quiet street off Changan Avenue in downtown Beijing. The modest restaurant was frequented largely by local residents and transient workers. One day Bill and I went there for breakfast. The two youngest servers were curious about the foreigner at one of their tables. They looked happy, and they giggled as they took our order. Each appeared not a day older than fifteen and spoke with a heavy Sichuan accent. I wondered what had brought them to the capital and a job in a restaurant. I couldn’t help recalling my own youth nearly forty years ago when I lived in China, even though, unlike me and millions of others, they had not been forced by the government to leave their homes.

We returned to the restaurant a few times. But not until the last meal, when we were ushered into a special windowless room in the rear, did I have the chance to speak privately to the girls. They were fifteen years old, not eighteen as they had told us previously.

“My father wanted to get rid of me from the day I was born,” one said quietly, while her friend, the shy one, said nothing but kept her eye on the doorway in case the boss came in. “He wanted a son. If it were not for my grandmother, I wouldn’t have been kept alive. Grandma died a few years ago. I always knew that my mother would be allowed to have another baby only if I disappeared.”

Bill and I continued our travels, but their words and images stayed with me throughout the trip. Before I left China three weeks later, I knew I would write a story inspired by the two girls from Sichuan.

Bill and I returned to China two years later with a group of friends. As soon as we arrived in Beijing, I went to the restaurant. It had the same sign above the entrance, the same door of stiff plastic strips that had yellowed with the passage of time. I stood at the doorway, seeking the two faces that had engraved themselves in my memory. I wondered if they would remember me. There were five young women busy serving and shouting orders toward the kitchen. I didn’t recognize any of them. The owner of the restaurant was sitting in a corner facing the entrance. When she saw me walk toward her, she stood and headed toward the kitchen.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“Yes. What do you want?”

“I just want to know if the girls I met two years ago are still with you.”

“They left a long time ago.”

“Where did they go?” I asked, moving to the left so that I could peek into the kitchen, hoping to find them there.

“How do I know where they went? They’ve moved on, and that’s that.”

All I wanted was to tell the girls from Sichuan that I had written a book after I met them and to ask their names so that I could thank them properly. But they were gone.

My thanks go to my editor, Barbara Berson, for her thoughtful suggestions and comments, and to David Davidar for his warm welcome and support. To John Pearce, who is a friend and an agent equipped with a pencil and eraser. (The old trade dies hard.) To Ye Zhong-xing for the calligraphy that graces this book. To Judy Phillips for her skilful copy editing. Thanks are also due to the Ontario Arts Council and Canada Council for the Arts, for being there and for supporting this project.

I am grateful for having two wonderful brothers who have offered valuable suggestions and shared with me their past and present experiences. I am so sorry that years ago one of them spent two years working in a sweatshop in China.

Last but not least I want to thank Bill for always being with me. His love and encouragement as well as his fine expertise in words made this book possible.