The Mandarin Club (12 page)

They had made it into a sort of clubhouse for their group. There was a familiarity about the place that gave them comfort, something unpretentious about the garish green martini glass on the neon sign out front and the rotund waitresses inside. The floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust, creating a roadhouse feel. Juicy burgers arrived at tables in red plastic baskets, color-coded toothpicks marking the cheese. The fries were crisp and hot, the pitchers of beer frosty and cheap. There was a scruffy crowd, a mix of deliverymen and the local bowlers who tolerated the students in their midst.

With Alexander, she had ridden over to the guys’ house, rolling on their bikes down streets with bucolic names like Lemon and Orchard. Alexander had produced some pungent Mendocino buds and they had gotten high along the creek bed at dusk, savoring the smoke and the easy talk it brought forth.

Later in the evening, they were all gathered in the bar. Barry was impressively drunk, his hands gripping Booth’s shoulders as he egged the others on and called for another round. Branko was holding his own, working on a late burger, deep in conversation with Lee. They drank from their mugs, soaking in the welcome camaraderie. It had been another long week running tutorials and composing thesis chapters in the student carrels lining the Serra House hallways.

Rachel, her back turned to Barry, was ensconced in the corner booth, engaging Mickey. Their conversation had started as light banter, in keeping with the mood of the evening. She remained gracefully buzzed from the sunset joint. She had felt provocative ever since, unconcerned about the sense she was, or wasn’t, making. She was pleased to suspend her insecurities and assume everything came out sounding profound.

Mickey was retelling stories from one of his adventures in the Colorado mountains. Rachel was amused and curious. She wondered, as she often did, at the components of his kaleidoscopic personality that flashed through his beery grin. She was seeing Mickey in a new light this night. She was fascinated by his ability to be all things to all people. He was a consummate performer. Here was a guy who could track bear on horseback, but also ace the college boards. Here was a guy who could sweet-talk the hard-bodied California beach girls, but who also spoke fluent Mandarin.

For some reason that night, she had probed deeper. Mickey had been teasing her about her primal fears, snakes and spiders, and asking about her phobias. She had suddenly turned toward him and leaned right into his face. Holding him with her eyes, she asked him directly: “Simple question: name that which you fear most.”

Mickey shucked and jived a bit. His shoulders would actually drop as he rolled back from the hips, maneuvering to laugh it off. Rachel just held her pose, prodding. “Give it up, Dooley.”

“You’re really serious?” he asked after a while.

“Dead serious. No dodging this time.”

He stroked his chin, throwing her yet another sideways grin, then peered beyond her, searching for one of the gang to rescue him. It was to no avail.

He smiled cautiously as he began. “That which I most fear. . .”

“Yep.”

“Sheesh, got me there. I mean, just between you and me?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“The truth is,” he said, “I’ve always been afraid of dying young.”

“Dying young?”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit. You push the edge all the time. Cliff-diving, hang gliding out at Point Reyes, all that survivalist stuff you guys do out in the desert.”

“No, Rachel. I mean, I think that’s why I do it. The waste of dying without having fully lived. Scares the hell out of me.”

“I’ve never seen you afraid,” Rachel countered, regarding him skeptically. “I’ve never even seen you flinch.”

“That’s the point,” Mickey said. “It’s probably death defiance. I just think it would be fucking tragic to pass some mundane existence in the ’burbs, only to get run down in some shopping mall parking lot.”

“Tragic?”

“Sure. In some ways, I’ve always thought I’d die young. Half expected it even. Something I saw in the desert once. Maybe it was the peyote or the Budweiser. It made me want to do it all. To cheat death, to outrace my demons. I wanted to see every continent. Taste every dish. Seduce every pretty girl.”

“Every one?”

“Present company excluded, of course.”

“I should be flattered?”

“Roomies’ girl.” He was flirting with his eyes now, his trademark “aw shucks” look. “Hell, Rachel. You’re like a sister.”

“Story of my life!” She was laughing now, but exasperated. There was something simple and pure that rang true in his confession. “I wonder if you ever had—”

“Hey! What’s this heavy tête-a-tête? Gotta share!” It was Barry, leaning in to break up the private moment he’d spied out. Before Mickey or Rachel could respond, Barry was shouting over them at their comrade. “C’mon, Lee! Rejoin the party! Gotta keep up, my man.”

Lee appeared sullen, a bit far gone. He gazed warily at the shot glass in his right hand as Branko tried to explain something he wasn’t following.

“Truth or Dare!” A shout erupted. It had been Barry’s idea. Truth or Dare, the guys’ adaptation of a game of self-revelation—a game where they threatened to expose their deepest secrets.

Barry was circling now, grinning, a bit too eager as he roared: “Branko goes first!”

Branko regarded him coolly for a moment, thinking as he chewed, a bit of onion caught in his brown moustache. The others had gathered, so Branko played along, turning first to Alexander.

“OK, let’s start with you, Alexander,” Branko began matter-of-factly.

“What the hell are you doing living here in academic nirvana with a bunch of engineers and business whizzes? Shouldn’t you be off writing novels somewhere? Don’t writers need to go suffer for a while before they have anything to say?”

Alexander smirked, but did not miss a beat. “I’m a plant,” he said. “I’m spying for
Reader’s Digest
, collecting material on how The Chosen Ones live.”

He reached and sampled one of Branko’s fries before continuing. “My assignment is to chronicle the rise of an entire generation devoid of ideology. You’ll all end up as characters in my first bad novel.”

He raised his glass and gave a slight bow.

“Pretty weak, Bonner,” Mickey said, moving to reclaim the lead. “Barry, you’re next. Your question is for Booth.”

Booth was grinning, his thick red curls splayed in several directions. “Martin B., OK,” Barry hesitated. “Would you sell out your country for a million bucks, or—”

“Or a babe!” Mickey added.

“Yeah, a hot one,” Barry parroted.

Booth pressed forward, ever earnest, struggling to play against type, emboldened by the whiskey shooters Mickey and Barry had been pushing. “I won’t need to. I will be Secretary of State, preaching democracy to the developing world, and bringing freedom to the godless Communists. Then I’ll step down and tour the nation giving inspirational speeches with Billy Graham.”

“For a fee, of course,” Mickey interjected.

“Of course. A big fee. I will have a limo and driver, and run diplomatic errands for the UN before I retire home to Iowa to raise thoroughbreds. I’ll be livin’ the dream, guys.”

Next, Booth threw a lob to Rachel, something about describing “perfect foreplay.”

“A kiss,” she offered, swigging her beer. “A good kiss.”

But the boys leaned in, wanting more. “C’mon, girl,” Mickey demanded. “Give it up!”

“It’s that simple. That’s all you need, really. A kiss that communicates. Mischief. Intimacy. Desire. An invitation to an unveiling.”

Mickey let out a long whistle of admiration to break the awkward silence that followed. Rachel had captivated her male audience, as usual.

Then, a bit sobered, she turned to Branko and asked him why, if his parents were European, he seemed obsessed with studying all things Chinese.

“I’m so sick of reading Kissinger and Brzezinski and all those Euro-centric academics. Back east, all those Kremlinologists yammer on and on about the Soviets. Well, you know what?”

Branko had their attention.

“The fucking Soviets will sink under the weight of their own corruption, their own internal contradictions. They don’t believe any of that Marxist-Leninist crap they spout. But the Asian dictators—they are true believers. The Communists in Beijing will have far greater staying power. They have refined the ability to dominate the masses. They exploit the Asian tradition of sacrificing individual will to communal need. They will prove to be far more efficient tyrants.”

He looked sternly at Lee as he concluded. “The Chinese are the Orwells to come.”

Way too serious. But that was Branko, and his fellow Mandarins just let it pass.

Mickey drew an easy question—to describe errors he had made the first time he had sex. His response was droll, if uninspiring. Rachel thought for a moment that she actually detected some embarrassment, a private place he was protecting beneath all his bluff and bluster.

Barry was asked about Rachel: Would he or would he not marry her after depriving her of her innocence? He bobbed and weaved effectively, caveating, temporizing, throwing in a couple of glib lines. Ultimately, he said, they all would dance at the wedding. It was a welcome declaration for Rachel, never quite sure where she stood as she struggled to keep up with her chosen man.

The last question of the night was directed at Lee by Mickey.

Mickey was on his feet, squeezing his palms in that almost annoying display of energy he could barely contain. It was his moment, the conductor center stage to orchestrate the night’s grand finale.

He paced a bit for dramatic effect, then suddenly slid into the banquette right next to Lee. Mickey was enjoying it all almost too much, stalking his weakened quarry, closing for the kill.

“My old friend, Lee. Ah, yes.” He began to lightly massage Lee’s shoulders. “It nears midnight at The Oasis. Tonight you must tell the truth.”

Mickey milked the scene, relishing the spotlight. Then he pulled back to confront his target.

“Why, of all the students in China, did the Party choose you to lead the first big student exchange with Stanford?” Mickey’s words came ever slower now as he drove home the query. “And what the hell will they expect of you when you return?”

Here it was—the question Lee had been waiting for, the one he’d been dreading since he first arrived twenty-two months earlier. He’d practiced the response countless times back in Beijing. He’d continued to rehearse it with his security chaperones at the Chinese consulate up in San Francisco, to whom he reported every month.

Lee knew what he was supposed to say. He knew well the price of his ticket to the West. He’d prepared to mouth the safe lines, to obscure his fears and fantasies beneath the fog of the Party line.

That was all before, though. It was before the intoxicating flirtations with freedom. Now, after he’d tasted the forbidden fruits, his resolve was weakening. He’d witnessed brilliant young minds—teenagers in seminars—challenging the conventional wisdom of their elders. He’d shared the irreverent debates of their after-hours Club. He’d ridden the cable cars, laughing and hollering in the fog. He’d walked the Pacific cliffs, smoking marijuana, arguing history. He’d been to the wild art galleries and X-rated movies. He’d witnessed the cornucopia of choices in the supermarkets, the malls full of plenty, the shiny cars full of rambunctious children and grinning parents. He’d read the free press and watched the uncensored television news. He’d even dabbled in his own private journals, writing verse and short stories with an imagination he’d never known. He’d seen the world with new eyes. He’d grown to question all he’d ever learned.

He had become the very subversive he’d been warned to avoid.

Now, when the moment he’d most feared finally arrived, it was too late. Wading through the evening tide of liquor, he was unwilling to play back the properly filed response. So, like some faraway tune recovered, he embraced the truth. It seemed the simplest thing to do.

“My father was a mechanic,” he began, breathing deep. “He fixed stuff during the Long March. He was still just a kid, really. He could make anything work again: guns, trucks, whatever they could get their hands on. The old guys loved him. He married during the Japanese occupation, and had two daughters. His first wife and children were killed by Chiang’s troops, the counter-revolutionaries, in 1948, just before the end of the war. He came to Beijing and became a top cadre, an Army engineer.

“Several years later, he married again. A teacher, my mother was. He started another family—me.” Lee was averting his eyes, gathering himself as he rolled ahead.

“My mother was killed during the Cultural Revolution, in 1966, after we were forced to leave Beijing. My father could barely go on. He was ashamed at what had happened to the country under those cannibals, the Red Guards, the wild-eyed ideologues who thought life was so cheap. He was ashamed that his own people could cause so much suffering, and that Mao, our great leader, our revolutionary hero, had inspired it all.

“But then my father came back again. His friends were rehabilitated under Comrade Deng. The country seemed to have a brighter future. My father had all the benefits of the Party. He could take care of me. His friends were big shots once more. I was sent to university in Beijing to study the enemy, America, to learn everything about you, your business, your propaganda techniques. I was trained to speak slang English, to sing Elvis and Beatles songs. They sent us to infiltrate, to learn your ways, to identify your weaknesses.”

He paused again, longer this time, and steadied himself, fighting back the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Then he summoned all his strength as, desperately, he tried to make them believe.

“When I return, when I go back to China, they will find ways to make me betray you all.”