At 1:05 P.M. she could no longer stand it. Why had he not come looking for her? She was nervous, yet resourceful as always. She rifled through the UPS bills until she found a receipt for an item Michael had sent. Under the guise of seeking his signature for bill-coding purposes, she planned to enter his office and find out what was going on.
She walked down the hall, ready to thrust the invoice toward him, but she pulled back just in time.
He looked up from his papers.
“I’m starving, how about you?” he said. He reached for his jacket, and she watched him slip a small silver tin of mints into his pocket.
LET’S PRESS PAUSE FOR A MOMENT.
If Lindsey was going to lunch with Mimi, she probably wouldn’t bring mints. When Lindsey ate, in general, she did not carry mints. A person carried mints when he wanted to be minty fresh. Minty fresh for, like, kissing.
This mint thing was a small coup for Lindsey. This mint thing was undeniable proof that Michael like liked her. He cared about his breath around her. Yes. This mint thing was the culmination of her efforts thus far.
PLEASE PRESS PLAY TO RESUME TAPE.
“Let me get my bag and I’ll be right back,” she said. She spun on her heel and glided back to her desk. Crouching down, she pulled out her Shiseido compact and Bonne Bell lip gloss for a quick touch-up, then checked her teeth to make sure all was fine in the realm of dental hygeine. She smoothed down the back of her skirt and strode back to Michael’s office, ready to make a breezy, confident entrance through his door, and into his heart as well.
Unfortunately, when she returned, he was removing his jacket.
“Howard just called an editorial meeting, and I have to go,” he said, grabbing an accordion file folder. Fumbling around for a pen, he looked up and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. He offered a quick “Sorry” and brushed past her.
She stood there numb for a moment. She was light-headed from having not eaten for six hours, and she felt like an idiot as she walked by the glass-enclosed conference room and watched the whole edit staff follow her with their collective eyes. She wondered if it was obvious to everyone that her fragile romantic hope, like a bisque Hello Kitty figurine, had just been smashed to the ground and pulverized into dust.
She took the elevator and went down to the corner cafe. She listlessly consumed a wilted spinach salad. Twenty minutes later, she was back at the front desk, pretty much wanting to die. She turned off the lunchtime voice-mail recording, and the phone immediately rang.
“Vegan Warrior. How may I direct your call?” she said, speaking slightly less merrily than usual.
“Oh, thank God,” a flustered man replied on the line. “I just got off the phone with that Chinese Merchants’ Association about their disgusting animal treatment. They just don’t get it, do they? It’s nice to finally be talking to an American.” He snickered, seeming certain she would sympathize with his experience.
She took a deep breath and released some of the tension that was threatening to snap a vein in her forehead. “How may I direct your call?” she repeated. There was a slight pause as it seemed to dawn on the man that she did not want to engage in anything but the most basic conversation with him.
“Oh, well, yes. Yes, I am calling for Miles Cartier.”
What a dip this guy was. He couldn’t even get the name right.
“Sir, do you mean Michael Cartier?” she asked.
“Yes, Miles Michael Cartier.” He spoke quickly, with contrived urgency, like he was a VIP with mere seconds to talk before hopping on the next Concorde.
But wait, did she hear him right? Was her crush’s real name the Mark of the Hoarder? How could this tragic flaw have evaded her?
She managed to remain calm. She instructed herself to stay professional, finish the call, and then investigate later.
She cleared her throat before speaking.
“Michael Cartier is in a meeting right now. Would you like to leave a message?”
He said, “Um, yeah, tell him that Miles Olin called. He knows my number.”
Great. They were both named Miles. Had the world gone mad?
The next day was a bright, sunny Saturday, so naturally Lindsey wanted to sulk in bed. But she had spent last night doing just that, and Pau Pau was worried. Without knocking, she burst into Lindsey’s stuffy room.
“What’s wrong? Sick?”
Pau Pau’s panicked shriek pierced Lindsey’s eardrums like a searing acupuncture needle perforating the inner coils of her brain.
“Don’t yell at me!” Lindsey hollered out from beneath the covers.
“Not yelling!” Pau Pau said. “Is normal speaking voice for Chinese!”
Lindsey groaned and pulled the pillow tighter around her ears.
“What you want? Meen bow?” Pau Pau asked, offering to make toast. She added, “With strawberry jam? Ho teem!”
“No thanks,” Lindsey replied.
Pau Pau desperately sought breakfast options that might please her finicky grandchild. “You want gai-don? You like scramble? How about Pepsi-Cola?”
Receiving no response, Pau Pau left the room but rapidly returned, advancing to rub a dollop of stinky Tiger Balm on the girl’s chest and throat. Lindsey sprang up and covered her neck with her hands, yelling, “No, no, no!”
“Wha?” her grandmother stood back with the orangish-brown goo globbed onto her fingers. “Not sick?” Pau Pau looked bewildered.
“No, only tired. I’m O-KAY,” Lindsey said loudly, assuming volume created clarity.
“Ai-ya, I make doong-gwa soup. Just in case.” Pau Pau sputtered out of the room but left the door wide open.
Lindsey got up to shut the door and flopped back into bed. She couldn’t explain her silly office romance to her mahjong-playing, soup-making grandmother. When Lindsey thought of Michael she used a totally different compartment of her brain, separate from any idea of Pau Pau and her old Chinese ways.
Lindsey forced her 128-pound self out of bed and into the shower. Afterwards, she tried phoning Mimi but only got her answering machine. Knowing she had to get out of the apartment before she drove herself crazy, she threw on jeans and a sweatshirt and decided to walk off her glum self-loathing.
Before she could dodge past the front door, Pau Pau approached, carrying a tiny plastic bottle. Lindsey was familiar with the green-and-yellow vial filled with dry, black powder consisting of mold particles scraped from decayed watermelon rind. It was used to heal canker sores and prevent scratchy throats.
“Open!” Pau Pau commanded, and Lindsey obeyed. Pau Pau squeezed the plastic walls and blew a small puff of black dust into the back of Lindsey’s throat, then screwed back on the white cap. Lindsey tried not to taste the bitter remedy, and trudged down the stairs.
She ambled down to Polk Street and stopped by an empty taqueria for a lonely chicken burrito and a soda. She wanted a Coke, but the sight of the red-and-white logo reminded her of the cans at the office she had been stupidly picking up after Michael. She got the Orange Crush instead. Not that it mattered.
After eating, she still didn’t feel like going home, and she didn’t want to see anyone. Even having to put on her happy, well-adjusted face for other shoppers and store clerks was too much of an effort. She detoured off the main street and hiked up to the more residential area west of Van Ness Avenue. She walked farther up Washington Street until she came to a more secluded area with tall evergreen trees.
A bit out of breath, she stopped to admire a long, wide brick driveway that wound around the hill and up toward a stately cream-colored mansion that resembled an ornate meringue. She studied the decorative plaster, the Corinthian columns, and the sparkling French doors lined with flouncy drapings.
This isolated house gave Lindsey a sense of déjà vu. She felt like she somehow knew this place but didn’t know why or how exactly. She noted the elaborate baroque detailing and searched her brain for clues as to why she felt so strange. Perhaps she had seen an article about this house in a magazin
e. Oh, yes, now she knew. She vaguely recalled reading an article about a famous romance novelist who lived in the city, and this must have been the place. She remembered being impressed that a writer could afford such a sweet pile of bricks.
She took one last, wistful look at the palace, which gleamed as if it were speckled with sugar crystals, and headed back down Washington Street. She brushed her palm along the building’s facade and took long strides down the sidewalk, being careful not to step on any cracks.
As her last fingertip lifted off the limestone wall, she had not one inkling that eighty-five years ago her Grandpa Samuel Gin and her Great Uncle Bill played on this very same spot.
On Sunday Lindsey’s mom picked her up, and they headed to Fort Mason for an Asian antiques show. As the gold sedan pulled into the driveway, Lindsey ran outside and thought about how glad her mother was that she lived with Pau Pau. Her mom said she hoped Lindsey would learn to respect her cultural heritage more, now that she didn’t live with strangers, especially foolish bock-gwais. As she jogged around to the passenger side and got into the car, she recalled the time her mom had visited her back in college. Her shared flat had been an embarrassing mess, and their conversation had gone something like this:
Mrs. Owyang: How can you live like this? This junky place is an insult to your father and me. If you respected your Chinese heritage, you’d clean up this rat’s nest!
Lindsey: It’s the Year of the Rat—good luck! Besides, I’m surrounded by Chinese culture. Just look at my fabulous chinoiserie drapes and place mats. I bought them at Pottery Barn.
Everything Lindsey knew about China she learned through shopping. And watching Antiques Roadshow, of course. The dynasties were all easier to remember in terms of porcelain narcissus bowls, Quan Yin statues, and bronze vessels.
Lindsey had asked her mother to attend the Fort Mason show because she figured it would be a good way to share quality time together while simultaneously demonstrating her interest in something Chinese. Although her mother had agreed to go, she didn’t seem to notice Lindsey’s effort toward cultural betterment. Her only comment to her daughter was, “Why do you want to buy used things?”
When they arrived, Mrs. Owyang almost ran over one of the valet parking attendants, insisting on parking herself. “Very Pau Pau,” Lindsey noted to herself.
The admission price was twelve dollars, and once inside, the place had a museum atmosphere with lots of revered whispering. About a hundred booths were lined up with all sorts of goods: pillows, rugs, ancient snuff bottles, cinnabar boxes, gold, jade, and pearl jewelry. Furniture and textiles were spread about the gigantic space, which had been arranged with glass cabinets filled with ceramic, stone, and metal treasures.
Lindsey and her mother strolled around alongside middle-aged whites. Several men wore tweed blazers with elbow patches, and a few women donned antique silk robes with horse-hoof sleeves. Lindsey wondered how, in the timespan of a hundred years, the elaborately stitched garments had gone from the backs of Mandarin officials to the backs of Tiburon housewives. She didn’t think snooty American socialites should be cavorting in imperial Chinese robes.
Noticing the dearth of Asian shoppers, Lindsey wondered if other Chinese folks were uninterested in these furnishings because they had already inherited stuff from their families. Or perhaps they were attracted to more European styles or to sleek, modern decor. Even Mrs. Owyang preferred American Federal and Colonial-designed interiors. She disdained gaudy exportware and bought only Wedgwood or Villeroy & Boch from Neiman Marcus.
Mrs. Owyang clucked her tongue and made comments under her breath, criticizing the poor quality and outrageous prices. She picked up a candy dish and gawked at the price tag. “Four thousand five hundred,” she said. “I don’t think so!”
Admiring some Qing Dynasty porcelain serving dishes, Lindsey asked her mom about the designs on an oversized charger, but Mrs. Owyang shrugged and said, “I have no idea. Go ask the saleslady.”
A woman resembling Dustin Hoffman dressed as Tootsie approached them. “Aren’t those pieces wonderful?” she exclaimed. She fiddled with the sleeves of her brocaded jacket and boasted that she was an expert on feng shui and the I Ching. She described the symbols of the Eight Immortals that were painted in famille rose colors, and Lindsey scrutinized the pictures and followed along as the woman rambled, “…that one’s a fan, and there’s an umbrella, that one looks like a golf bag with clubs…”
Lindsey thanked the woman for her explanation and called over to her mother. “Hey Mom, did you hear that these designs symbolize good luck and long life?”
Mrs. Owyang glanced dismissively at the serving plate and pursed her dry, burgundy lips. “I suppose, but we’re not paying a thousand dollars for that filthy old thing.”
They passed ornate footstools, cylindrical hat stands, and long, sequined wedding skirts with yellow rhinestone dragons and red jeweled phoenixes. Lindsey stopped to inspect a porcelain cube also painted with the symbols of the Eight Immortal Golfers.
Lindsey and Mrs. Owyang continued down the aisles, passing trunks carved from camphor wood and a display of ceramic parrots and painted citrus fruits in the shape of Buddha’s hand. By a lacquered altar table, Lindsey paused to observe several pairs of tiny embroidered slippers. She looked down to her boots and wiggled the toes of her left foot. As she lifted one of the miniature shoes, she wondered what physical pain and emotional anguish had been endured to tightly bind a normal foot into the space of a doll-size slipper.
A woman with a menacing smile stiffly stretched across a Katherine-Helmond-in-Brazil facelift swiftly descended upon Lindsey and whispered, “Don’t soil them! The oil from your fingers is poison!”
Lindsey looked up, startled. She shuddered, then apologized as she placed the hooked heel back on the table.
She walked to a grouping of grotesque fu dogs, and nearby, a woman held up a rounded plate and turned to her design consultant. “Ooh, this says it’s a War Ming dish. Isn’t it a wonder that they made gorgeous porcelains even during the great war?”
The designer replied, “Mrs. Harris, that’s a warming dish for reheating food.”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Owyang was scrutinizing the jewelry cases. She worked as a sales manager at the Jewelry and Gift Mart downtown and was always keen on sizing up potential competitors.
Lindsey steered her mother toward one of the few stations manned by a Chinese vendor. She peered into a glass case filled with intricate jewelry made from brilliant turquoise kingfisher feathers and gold foil. On the next shelf, she was attracted to pieces made from delicate silver filigree.
“Oh, look at those earrings,” she pointed.
“Silver is junk. Only 24-karat gold is worth wearing.” Mrs. Owyang stated her opinion with authority.
“But I like those,” Lindsey protested, pointing at silver hoops with small jade squares pressed into the woven design.
They inquired about the price of the earrings, but the man didn’t reply; he just turned over a price tag that said $99.99.
Lindsey asked her mother, “That’s not such a bad price, is it?”
Mrs. Owyang stared at her daughter’s face as if she’d just realized that she’d given birth to one of those suckers born every minute. She blinked a couple of times and nudged her daughter aside. Lucky for Lindsey, her mother was fluent in the most important Chinese dialect of all: bargaining.
As she dickered with the vendor in Cantonese, Mrs. Owyang punctuated her words with haggling gestures and grunts. She talked down the price to $40, and sealed the deal with a reverberating slap on the glass case that would have made Pau Pau proud. The man looked defeated as he placed the earrings in a silk pouch and somberly accepted the two twenty-dollar bills.
“No tax?” Lindsey whispered quizically.
Sounding bored, Mrs. Owyang replied, “Tax is for whites.” She spoke as if exemption from sales tax between Chinese people was the most natural thing in the world. Swiveling her arm, she unsentimentally handed Lindsey
her prize.
“Thanks, Mom!” Lindsey poked her finger inside the purse and lightly touched the delicate pieces of silver and jade.
“You’re welcome. Your early Christmas present.” Her mother spoke with stern reserve, but Lindsey noticed her tight but satisified smile.
Lindsey thanked her again, knowing her mother would forget by the time December rolled around.
Your Goose is Cooked, Duck
Wednesday night Lindsey drove to her cousin Brandon’s apartment. They were both go-betweens for their mothers, coordinating the delivery of Uncle Bill’s next round of hypertension pills.
Her cousin answered the door wearing sweats and a faded Speed Racer T-shirt. She followed him inside and marveled at the collection of plastic Godzillas, Mothras, and Ultraman action figures that crowded the bookshelves and lined the perimeter of the carpeting.
She passed a room filled with Bruce Lee photos fastened neatly to the walls with map pins. Bruce was shown kicking Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, relaxing in gold sunglasses, defeating Chuck Norris, and winning a cha-cha dance contest.
“Wow, who knew Bruce was so versatile?” Lindsey said. She followed Brandon into the kitchen, where he reached atop the refrigerator and tossed her a vial of white-and-brown pills.
As a kid, Brandon was a scrawny little nothing. He was a braggart and a show-off who never knew when to shut up. Many older kids considered beating the crap out of him, but they hesitated because they worried that all Chinese kids were natural kung fu experts. Brandon didn’t actually possess any skills in martial arts, but he avoided getting his ass kicked by strutting around and mimicking the kung fu maneuvers he studied from Bruce Lee movies. Some impressionable classmates spread the rumor that he was one bad-ass mofo, and luckily, his fighting skills were never challenged. He considered Bruce Lee his personal savior.
The Dim Sum of All Things Page 7