by Ann Mah
“So…” Dennis pauses and looks down at my résumé. “…Isabelle. Tell me about your experience in journalism.”
Despite the air-conditioning—which is like an arctic blast, given my damp clothes—I feel my palms grow damp. “Well…I worked at Belle magazine for five years…as a fact-checker.” I tack on the last word like it’s an afterthought.
“What about reporting? Ever written for any dailies? Maybe in college?” He bobs his head encouragingly.
I take a deep breath. “Well, I did work for my college newspaper—”
“Yes?” He leans forward eagerly.
“Selling classified ads.”
“Oh.”
The uncomfortable silence settles on us again. I stare outside, where the sun struggles to break free of the pollution.
“How’s your Chinese?” Dennis asks abruptly. He looks down at his thin, dry hands.
“It’s uh…okay. Pretty good. Conversational,” I hedge.
“Are you familiar with news terms? Like…say…nuclear nonproliferation?” He raises his eyebrows.
Should I lie? Is he going to test me? The silence grows as I furrow my brow, pretending to search my brain for the word. “No,” I finally admit. “I don’t know.” I consider snapping my fingers in a “darn it, the word escapes me” gesture, but when I see Dennis narrow his eyes, I reconsider.
“Your résumé says you speak Mandarin,” he says, and I catch a glimpse of impatience in his face.
“It’s a little rusty right now,” I admit.
He stands up. “We’re really looking for someone who speaks Chinese.”
“I understand,” I say, and try to avoid offering him my hand, which is still hot and sticky, but I can’t, and we awkwardly shake.
“We’ll be in touch,” he says as he ushers me out the door.
I nod even though I know I’ll never hear from him again.
Downstairs, I am relieved to find one of the many Starbucks outposts that dot the city. I treat myself to a latte, in the hope that the smell of ground coffee and their familiar little wooden tables will somehow comfort me. My iced coffee tastes reassuringly familiar but does little to solve my problems. I’ve gone from being unemployed in New York to being unemployed in a country where I can’t even speak the language.
Well, at least I can make more of an effort to study Chinese, maybe try to learn a new word every day. I dig around in my bag for my pocket dictionary. Let’s see…here are the N’s…nuclear nonproliferation…bukuofan hewuqi.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. What the hell am I doing? I barely know what nuclear nonproliferation means in English, let alone Mandarin Chinese. I swallow the last of my cold coffee along with my pride and dial Beijing NOW’s number on my cell phone.
Barely two days later I once again regard myself in the reflective doors of an elevator. At least today I’m clean and cool in dark jeans and a crisp white blouse. After my disastrous interview with the Washington Post, I crumpled my soiled linen suit into a ball, shoved it to the back of my closet, and rejoiced when Ed said the Beijing NOW office was casual. The elevator lifts me with slow majesty to the tenth floor, where I find a portly, curly-haired man smoking next to a grimy window. He shoots me a curious glance, and I venture, “Ed Watson?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” A sunny Australian accent warms his vowels.
“I’m Isabelle.” A blank look crosses his face, and I quickly add, “Claire Lee’s sister?”
“Isabelle! Of course!”
“I’m sorry I’m late…”
“No worries,” he says with a bemused smile. He blows a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and stubs out his cigarette in one swift motion. “Come on, let me show you around.”
From the dim hall, he ushers me into a large room that’s bright with fluorescent lights and the stir of people. “The newsroom,” says Ed. “I think the mismatched furniture and scuffed walls add to the charm.” The eyes of the room glue to me, and I manage a soft “Hi.”
“Hey mates, this is Isabelle. She’s an ABC from New York.” American Born Chinese. Ed is obviously well-versed in his expat lingo. “That’s Lily,” he says, pointing a thick finger at a slender girl in the corner, who smiles shyly before tucking a silky black strand of hair behind her ear. “She covers fashion. Gab is from New York too,” he says, nodding at an Asian guy on the phone, short sleeves hacked from his T-shirt to reveal wiry arms cuffed with tattoos. “He writes about the local music scene. His Chinese is amazing.” Gab nods briskly and smiles a hello. “Over there, that’s Tang Laoshi.” Ed gestures at a balding Chinese man with thick glasses and a stare that oozes suspicion. Teacher Tang. “He’s our censor,” Ed hisses out of the corner of his mouth.
“And I’m Geraldine,” says a voice behind me. “Welcome,” she says with a warm smile.
“Geraldine is our food editor and resident fashion model,” says Ed as we shake hands and I note her intriguing East-meets-West style, the Japanese-print miniskirt she’s thrown over dark jeans, the thick twist of golden hair held in place by a carved red lacquer comb.
“I’ve got a brain too, Ed,” she says with a laugh, though there’s a smooth touch of sarcasm in her voice.
“She’s moving to the culture page,” says Ed as we move away from the center of the room to his office.
Inside, the door closes with a flimsy snap. I perch on a one-armed chair while Ed settles his stocky bulk behind a tiny desk and eyes me speculatively. “I’m not sure how much Claire has told you about our magazine…”
“Not a lot,” I hedge politely.
“Basically, we’re a weekly English-language magazine for expats. We cover the local art scene, live music, new bars and clubs, restaurants. Our readers are mostly young, mostly men—so is our staff, for that matter, though we’re trying to soften our tone, add a more feminine touch. Anyway, one of our editors just moved back to the UK, and Geraldine, who you just met…” He pauses and I nod. “…is going to take over his beat. Says she’s tired of eating out all the time.” He straightens a stack of papers on his desk. Despite his rumpled clothes and hair, his office is pristine. “So, Ger’s going to do the arts section, and we’re looking for a food critic, someone to write features about wine and regional cuisines, review restaurants, that sort of thing.”
It sounds like a great job. Despite my initial prejudice against expat magazines, I find myself leaning forward and nodding with interest. Claire was right about Beijing NOW, I realize with faint chagrin. Buzzing with energy and ideas, covering food, fashion, and the arts, it’s a perfect fit for me. Is it possible that my sister knows me better than I thought?
“Ideally, we need someone who speaks great Chinese,” Ed continues. “But Claire really gave you the hard sell.”
“She did?”
“Oh yeah, yeah. Beautiful girl, Claire…hilarious too.” He stares into the distance for a minute with a small smile on his lips before recovering himself. “Anyway, she told me all about your work at Belle, and how you’re a great writer—”
I am? I think wildly.
“And how you’ve loved Chinese food ever since you were a kid—”
“But my Chinese really isn’t very…fluent.”
“I’m sure you know enough for the job. Like, do you know how to say…”
Oh dear. Here we go again.
“Steamed rice?”
“Bai mi fan!” I exclaim.
“Braised beef?”
“Hongshao niurou.”
“Broccoli, carrots, potatoes?”
“Xi lan hua, hong luo bo, tudou.”
“See?” says Ed. “I knew you’d be fine. Claire told me about how your parents forced you guys to go to Chinese school on Saturdays and how you both hated it. Her Chinese is really spot on, though, isn’t it?”
Claire hated Chinese school? I remember the stiff set of her shoulders as she copied characters into a gridded notebook, her long, schoolgirl hair lying in a thick tail upon her neck. She was always the first one in the car on Saturday morn
ings, the one who sang folk songs in the bath and recited four character sayings in front of guests. “You should study like Claire,” my mother always said. “Like a good Chinese daughter.”
“So, what do you think, Isabelle?” Ed leans forward, interrupting my reverie. “Are you interested in the job?”
“I wasn’t really a journalist in New York. Only a fact-checker,” I blurt out.
Ed ignores me. “Bluster, Isabelle, bluster,” he declares. “Journo, fact-checker; tomayto, tomahto.” He shrugs. “Everyone reinvents themselves in China. Except for me, of course,” he adds hastily. “I actually was a features editor at the Sydney Morning Herald.
Anyway, I know your sister.” Seeing the surprised expression on my face, he adds, “In China, you have to rely on your guanxi.”
Guanxi. Connections. In the States, connections are like a strand of fishing wire—strong enough to reel in a heavy fish, yet so cunningly transparent they’re almost invisible. I had forgotten that in China, guanxi is like flashy jewelry—flaunted, fawned over, and, at times, used to bribe. Guanxi forms the base of every relationship; from work to friends, it’s the only way most business gets done.
I take a deep breath, but before I can say a word, he plunges into a discussion about salary—naming a figure so tiny it makes my former slave wages at Belle look grand—benefits, and my visa situation. “We’ll help you get you a Z visa. You’ll need it to work legally in China.”
“But—But—” I stammer.
“What’s wrong, mate?”
“I haven’t said yes!”
“Don’t be coy, Isabelle. No other prospects on the horizon, are there? Listen, if you don’t like the job, you can quit. No hard feelings. And if you’re not up to snuff, don’t worry. I’ll fire you.” Ed roars with laughter.
I chuckle a tiny bit to prove I’m a good sport, but inside, my heart beats fast in a mixture of terror and excitement.
My new desk is part of a square in the center of the room, facing Gab and Lily, with Geraldine sitting to my right. Only Tang Laoshi has a private corner, with his desk angled so he can watch us. The room buzzes with activity—the phones ring constantly, bilingual conversations flow over one another, ideas and suggestions are tossed around.
Lily finds me a stack of back issues and I start leafing through a copy. Typos and awkward layouts litter the pages, but the articles strike just the right note of informative and sassy. Scattered as Ed seems, he seems to keep a sharp eye on the writing. I’ve just started reading his weekly “Editor’s note” when my cell phone rings.
“Did you get the job?” Claire’s voice is high with excitement.
“Er, can you hold on a sec?” I feel self-conscious talking in front of everyone, and leave the newsroom to slip into the corridor.
“Don’t you love Ed? Isn’t he totally hilarious? And come on, you have to admit that Beijing NOW is the perfect place for you to work.”
“Everyone does seem really energetic and full of great ideas,” I admit.
“So, was I right, or was I right?”
“You were right.” I resist rolling my eyes, even though she can’t see me.
“See? You should listen to me more often.” She laughs. “When do you start?”
“Soon. Right away. Actually, tomorrow.”
“Wow, Ed really doesn’t mess around. That’s wonderful! I’m really happy for you.” She does sound happy, but I’m not sure if it’s because I finally took her advice. “Anyway, darling,” she continues, “I should probably get back to work. I just called to say congratulations! Oh, and I’ll probably be home super late tonight, so don’t wait up, ’kay sweetie?” Before I can respond, she’s ended the call.
I return to the newsroom, where I start to peruse the current issue, laughing out loud at a witty article by Geraldine about the wild side of Cantonese cuisine. She glances away from her computer and over my shoulder. “Yuck,” she says with a shudder. “I actually had to eat dog meat for that piece. It was horrible.”
I look at her with new respect. “What was it like?”
“Tasted like chicken, of course. Very stringy, gamey chicken.”
As if on cue, my stomach resonates with a loud growl. “I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m not a fan of dog meat, I’m just hungry.”
“Do you want to grab a bite to eat? It’s just about dinnertime.”
“It’s only six-thirty!” My voice rises with surprise.
“Yeah, but this is China. Lunch is at eleven-thirty, dinner at six. Stray from those hours and you’re in trouble. Come on.” She closes down her computer with a few efficient clicks of the mouse. “I’ve got a hankering for jiachangcai.”
I’m not sure what jiachangcai is, but am too famished to protest. Geraldine waves a cheerful good-bye to the newsroom and we find our way outside. We pass a narrow alley that’s lined with tiny food stalls, and I pause to admire the griddle-fried pancakes that gleam with hot cooking oil, and breathe in the fragrant steam that rises from the vats of spicy soup.
We arrive at a small, bright restaurant that’s crowded with dark heads, the walls scuffed and stained, the floor littered with chopsticks and chicken bones. As we enter, I realize we are the only two foreigners, and that the entire restaurant, both customers and staff, have turned to stare. “Look!” A pimpled girl points a bony finger at Geraldine’s bright hair. “Laowai!” Foreigner. Their eyes swivel between us, but linger on me, curious to see what kind of Chinese person would befriend an outsider.
I stand by an empty table, awkward and unsure. For the first time, I realize how difficult it will be to live in China, a foreigner by nature, with the appearance of a local. For a moment I feel overwhelmed by the prospect, but then Geraldine sits, and I sit across from her.
A waitress appears and hovers impatiently over our table, her pen poised. “Are you ready to order?” she asks me, her eyes resolutely avoiding Geraldine. I flip through the menu searching for familiar characters, but can’t decipher much more than “meat,” “vegetable,” and “rice.”
“Do you eat everything?” says Geraldine.
“Yes,” I say with relief.
“Okay,” she says, without even a glance at the menu. “Women lai yi fen’r mayi shang shu, yi fen’r mapo doufu, yi fen’r di san xian…that’s probably enough,” she muses. “Liang wan mi fan. Gen can jing zhi’r, cha shui.” She bestows a sweet smile upon the waitress. “Xie xie.” Thank you.
The waitress writes it all down, her expression impassive, and shuffles away “What did you order?” I ask with admiration. “You didn’t even look at the menu!”
“Oh, it’s easy!” Geraldine laughs. “The food is the same at every home-style joint.”
Ah! Jiachangcai. Home-style food. The simple, comforting dishes that people eat every day.
“Chinese cuisine is like poetry—everything has a beautiful name,” she continues. “Ants on a tree. That’s just ground pork and cellophane noodles. Mapo doufu—you probably know—it means pockmarked tofu, but it’s actually just tofu in a spicy sauce. And di san xian is my favorite. Earth’s three fairies—eggplant, potato, and bell pepper combined in a brown sauce form a magical flavor.”
My mother never translated the names of dishes; she simply cooked and we ate. I feel suddenly excited by the idea that such unadorned fare could be entwined with poetic charm. “Your Chinese is so fluent!” I marvel at her ease.
“Well, after six years in China, I should at least know how to order my dinner.” The waitress slaps down a pot of tea and a stack of dishes still wet from the sink.
“You should dry everything.” Geraldine hands me a paper napkin. “Germs,” she explains.
“So, what brought you to China?” I ask as we busy ourselves with dripping, doll-sized plates and teacups that are chipped and stained with age.
“I came on a Fulbright scholarship with the firm intention of only staying a year,” she says, and laughs. “But then I fell in love and we got married…six years later, I’m divorced and
still here.”
“What happened?”
“Culture clash. He was too Chinese, I was too American.” Her smile is wry. “How about you?”
“Me? Oh, I just wanted to discover my roots,” I say lightly, hoping she’ll drop the subject.
“Really? A returnee? You don’t seem the type.” She eyes me shrewdly, but the waitress returns with our food, plunking everything down in the middle of the table, and the moment passes. “Dong kuaizi,” says Geraldine, unwrapping her chopsticks and placing a tiny paper napkin in her lap. “Move your chopsticks—it really just means, dig in!”
The food, fresh from the wok, glistens with oil. But the cellophane noodles are spicy, savory with ground pork and laced with chili flakes, and the tender vegetables in earth’s three fairies are salty and sweet with a rich, brown sauce. I alternate bites before piling cubes of tofu into my rice bowl, allowing the fiery chili oil to seep into the fluffy grains and then scooping everything into my mouth in a hot, delicious bite.
If I’ve had food like this before, I can’t remember. It’s peasant fare, simple and cheap, spicy and salty, filling and delicious, and we eat it as such, with no pretensions of daintiness. Geraldine tells me about her courtyard home, which sounds like a dreamy relic of old Beijing, and I confide that Claire’s vast apartment seems icily cold.
“I think I’ve met your sister,” says Geraldine, selecting a slice of eggplant. “Tall, thin, great clothes…sort of looks like an Asian Nicole Kidman?”
The thought has never occurred to me, but now that she’s mentioned it, I realize that Claire and Nicole Kidman are a cross-racial ringer for each other.
“Yep, that’s her.” I help myself to another scoop of tofu and try to think of how I can change the subject. It’s not that I want to avoid talking about my sister, I’m just not sure I have much to say. In the weeks that we’ve lived together, I’ve watched Claire whirl from work, to cocktail parties, to art openings, to charity benefits, to dinners with clients and colleagues. Her phone rings constantly, heralding laughing conversations that are peppered with “darling,” and her bedroom sees more clothing changes than the fashion tents at Bryant Park.