by Ann Mah
Dawdling over my clothes has made me late. Charlie waits by the mailboxes, and as I cross over to him I feel the eyes of every person in the lobby watching us. I give them all a small wave, the sullen-faced doorman, the skinny, acne-pocked girl behind the front desk, the matronly woman who runs the dry-cleaning service, but their curiosity remains unabashed. I feel their eyes bore into my back as Charlie leans down and politely kisses me on both cheeks.
“It’s great to see you,” he says, and his smile is so warm that I almost forget my nerves.
“Thanks.” I smile back and note with some dismay Charlie’s dark suit, the crisp white shirt, and elegant slash of red tie. “Sorry, I think I’m a little underdressed,” I say. Suddenly, my jeans and skimpy top seem juvenile and sloppy.
“Actually, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I meant to change, but ran out of time.”
“Do you want to run upstairs? I’ll wait for you.”
“Nah, it’s okay. A few more hours in this monkey suit won’t matter.”
We walk into the dry summer evening and Charlie hails a cab from the cars inching along Guanghua Lu.
“Do you spend most of your life in a suit?” I ask after we’ve clambered into the backseat and Charlie has given the driver the address.
“Yes. I feel like I should just wear them to bed. Someone should design a sleep-and-go men’s wear line.”
“It would have to be made out of wrinkle-free material,” I say with a nervous laugh. A faint smile makes his eyes crinkle.
For a moment silence descends, and I worry that the evening will be awkward, but then Charlie starts asking me questions about the magazine and I tell him about Ed’s temper and our family-style staff lunches, and the sound our censor, Tang Laoshi, makes when he reads something deemed inappropriate.
“His face turns beet red and he’ll start shaking his finger and going ‘Juh juh juh juh!’ It’s really awful, because on one hand it’s so irritating that he’s spiking a story, but on the other hand you’re afraid he’s going to have a stroke.”
“I’m going to have to try that when the Ministry of Foreign Affairs tells me something I don’t what to hear. Juh juh juh!”
“No, it’s more from the back of the throat—like ‘juh juh juh juh juh!’”
The cab driver turns around to give us a disapproving stare that lasts the length of a red light. “Laowai,” I hear him mutter as he turns around and snaps on the radio at top volume. Foreigners.
Charlie shoots me a glance and we both stifle a laugh. He grins and it occurs to me that, despite his polished calm, perhaps he was also a bit nervous.
The restaurant’s plain wooden door offers no hint of its romantic reputation, but it swings smoothly open, revealing a lush den dark with mystery. We climb a short flight of stairs, and I run my hand along padded walls that are covered in velvet. Upstairs, a jazz trio plays softly in the corner, tiny tables for two are scattered at discreet distances, and the whole room has the promise and glow that only candlelight can create.
I glance at Charlie in time to see a wrinkle of concern crease his forehead. “Wow,” he says. “I didn’t realize this place would be so, uh—”
“Romantic?” I wiggle my eyebrows in what I hope is an ironically amused gesture.
“Dark,” he says firmly.
A hostess clad in a black chiffon dress floats up to us. “Hello,” she says to Charlie with a gracious smile. She turns to me: “Ni hao.” Her up-and-down glance rips my outfit to shreds.
“We have a reservation, Ai Xiansheng, two people.”
“You used your Chinese name?” I ask as the hostess checks the computer. Virtually all students of Chinese have a name in the language. If you’re ethnically Chinese, it’s given at birth, a reminder of your parents’ mother tongue that you’ll probably bury in the middle of your name, the short sounds too difficult for most Americans to pronounce. For everyone else it is bestowed by their Chinese teacher, the singsong of words a faint echo of their English name. But I don’t know many people who use their Chinese name in their English-speaking life.
Charlie shrugs. “Sometimes it’s easier to make reservations in Chinese, don’t you think?”
I nod, but am not sure if I agree. Too often my Chinese name feels like an unwanted alter ego. As Isabelle, I am articulate, confident, even, sometimes, witty; as Li Jia, I feel tongue-tied and slow, able only to understand the edges of a conversation. Despite his light brown hair and blue eyes—or perhaps because of them—Charlie is clearly more comfortable than I am in China. His foreignness, his otherness, is obvious from a glance. Unlike me. I can slip into a crowd unnoticed, but in a country that highly values foreigners—particularly white men—I am often dismissed with disdain simply for being young, Chinese, and female.
As we walk through the dining room, I peek discreetly at the other customers. Couples bend their heads together, sipping wine from oversized balloon glasses or feeding each other forkfuls of food. But there is a uniformity here that I can’t quite put my finger on until we sit and I am able to glance again around the restaurant: at more than half the tables, the men are white and the women Chinese.
My cheeks begin to burn as I remember how indignantly my colleague Lily dismissed the idea of dating a foreigner. “I come from a good family,” she said. “I went to college. I have a good job. I don’t need to date some white buffoon who can’t even get a date in his own country.” Her meaning was clear. Lucky enough to make her own choices, Lily doesn’t need a waiguo boyfriend to provide her with a better life. As I peer around the room one more time, I note the stares directed at our table. Some are knowing, some are curious. None are sympathetic.
“Should we order a bottle of wine?” Charlie’s voice breaks my reverie and I smile and nod.
“That sounds lovely.”
But before we can decide on red or white, a figure materializes at our table. I open my mouth to ask for a glass of water, and quickly realize it’s not our waitress, but a woman, tall and blond, with glittering blue eyes spread wide with astonishment.
“Well, hello there! I haven’t seen you around the embassy lately!” She shakes a playful finger at Charlie and smiles broadly to reveal large and even teeth.
“Uh, hi! Kristin!” Charlie shifts in his seat.
“You know Scott, of course.” She pulls forward her companion, a stocky man with closely cut hair and muscular arms. “He works in DAO?”
“Scott, it’s good to see you.”
“Hello, sir.” They shake hands.
“I ran into Scott on the way out of the embassy and convinced him we should grab dinner. I just hate eating alone, don’t you?” Her voice is soft and Southern, with an adorable drawl.
“Kristin Morgan, Scott Cooper, this is Isabelle Lee.” Charlie stands to introduce me, and I awkwardly rise. Beside their three all-American faces, I feel short, dumpy, and extremely ethnic.
“Scott, the White Sox played a great game last night,” says Charlie. “I caught the box score online this morning.”
“Aren’t they cute talking about sports?” Kristin crosses her arms and gazes down at me. “I just love your top. It’s so hard to find clothes that fit me in this town. Everyone’s mini, like you!”
“Um, thanks.”
“So, what do you do in Beijing?”
“I’m the dining editor at Beijing NOW.” Her brow wrinkles in puzzlement and I add, “It’s an English-language magazine for expats.”
“Oh, there are so many of those rags I can’t keep them straight—but I’m sure it’s very good,” she adds hastily, glancing over at Charlie. “Do you write restaurant reviews?”
“Yes, and features about food, fashion, art…”
“What a great job! I’m green with envy. You make me want to quit the Foreign Service and jump right into writing.”
An awkward silence descends. Kristin bobs her head up and down with a friendly smile, but I can feel her pale blue eyes probing me.
“What do you do at the embassy?�
�� I ask. Across the table, Charlie and Scott turn their attention to us.
“Oh, I work in the Econ section,” she says vaguely. “Anyway, we’re keeping you from your dinner. We should really get going. Charlie, we’re having a countdown meeting for Senator Allan’s visit tomorrow. I hope you can come. And Isabelle, it was nice meeting you. You know,” she leans in confidentially, but doesn’t quite drop her voice, “you should be proud of yourself. Your English is really impressive, honey.”
I look down at the floor. “Um, thanks.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “But—”
“Kristin,” Charlie breaks in. “Isabelle is American. She grew up in New York.”
“Oh!” She covers her mouth in surprise. “I just thought…because of your outfit…” She stops and shrugs. “I’m sorry. My mistake.”
“No problem,” I manage.
“Well, now that I’ve put my foot in my mouth, I really think it’s time to go.” She smiles sweetly, revealing again those large white teeth. “Good-bye.” As they turn to leave, Kristin catches my eye one more time before she walks away. The look she gives me is hard and steely, like a challenge.
Charlie and I sit down again and place crisp napkins across our laps and dutifully study the menu, but though I pretend to mull over sea bass poached in a lemongrass broth and sautéed filet mignon with black truffle jus, my mind skitters. Though I’ve only been in China for a few months, has my Americanness already been erased? Or is there another reality: that no one has ever considered me American in the first place?
“How about a drink?” asks Charlie gently. He signals to the waiter and orders a bottle of Bordeaux, and I try to compose myself in the ritual of its opening, forcing myself to concentrate as Charlie swirls, tastes, and approves.
“Cheers,” he says with a smile. “Here’s to being neighbors.”
We clink glasses and I take a sip that tastes of berries and summer skies and the slow pace of the French countryside.
“This is delicious,” I say, and gulp another large sip. “Do you know a lot about wine?”
“Just a little. I spent a year after college working in a vineyard in Burgundy.”
“Wow. That sounds amazing.”
“It was wonderful…I love that region of France. I still dream about it sometimes.”
“How could you tear yourself away?”
He grins. “I’m still asking myself. After that summer, I lived in Paris for a couple of years, working at an English-language magazine for expats, sort of like Beijing NOW. But I never had proper working papers and eventually the long arm of the law caught up with me.”
“What happened?”
“I moved back to my parents’ house in Connecticut. I heard about the Foreign Service exam from a friend and took it on a whim.”
“Have you been back to France?”
“To visit, yes, but not to live. When I was in Eastern Europe covering the Violet Revolution—which was challenging, but very rewarding,” he inserts hastily, seeing a look of dismay cross my face, “it was a little easier to go back to see my friends, but since moving to Beijing, it’s been more difficult.”
“Do you think you’ll ever live in France again?”
“I hope so. But how can I complain? Beijing is one of the most exciting places in the world right now—at least according to the front page of the New York Times.” His mouth twists into an ironic grin. “The truth is, aside from all the superpower hype, I’ve always been interested in China. I studied in Shanghai one summer in college and I always wanted to come back. But what about you?” He leans forward slightly and I brace myself for the same old question, the one that everyone asks: How does it feel to be back in your homeland? I take a sip of wine and stifle my annoyance, but he surprises me. “Have you ever been to France?” he asks.
“Oh! France! No…but I would love to travel there. I really feel like I have an inner French girl—” I’m interrupted by an insistent ring that grows louder as Charlie reaches into his suit jacket and extracts a cell phone.
“Excuse me,” he says, glancing at the number. “I think it’s the embassy. Do you mind if I take this?” He offers an apologetic smile and leaves the table.
I sip my glass of wine and feel its warmth spread through me. Charlie’s wineglass stands too close to the edge of the table and I move it, imagining his long fingers along the stem, or brushing across my hand, or neck. A smile creeps across my lips and the knot in my neck starts to loosen as he returns to the table.
One glance at his face and I know something is wrong.
“Isabelle,” he says, “I feel awful about this, but I have to cut our evening short.”
“Oh!” I search his face for clues, but his expression is guarded, as if he’s afraid to reveal too much. “Is everything all right?”
“Something has come up and I have to be at a meeting in half an hour.” He signals for the check and turns to meet my eyes. “I feel terrible. A car is coming to get take me to the embassy, but it can take you home after.”
“That’s okay. I can just take a taxi.”
“No. I insist.” Too hurried to wait for the bill, he lays down a few hundred kuai notes. I stare at their garish pink color against the white tablecloth. “We have to go.”
“The car is here already?” I stand up shakily, a bit light-headed from the wine.
“They sent it before they called.” He smiles ruefully. “That’s what I get for asking my secretary to make my dinner reservations.”
We head into the warm night, and sure enough, at the restaurant’s door stands a dark sedan with black license plates that are stamped red with the character shi for embassy. A driver climbs out of the car and rushes to open the back doors. I climb in on the right side and reach to pull the door shut. To my surprise, the driver holds the door and motions for me to slide to the left.
“You can’t sit there,” he says.
“Meiyou wenti,” Charlie inserts quickly. “It’s no problem. I’ll just sit on the other side.” He walks around the back of the car.
“That’s so odd,” I remark once he’s settled himself. “Why didn’t the driver want me to sit on this side?”
“Oh, there’s some silly protocol rule,” he says vaguely. His phone rings again. “Yes,” he barks. And then, “I’m in the car. I should be there in fifteen minutes…Yes. I reviewed the talking points this afternoon…It’s probably going to be a long night…Okay, see you in a few minutes.” He ends the call. The car glides through streets filled with chattering, laughing people, but inside we are silent. Charlie crosses his arms and presses his lips together; he seems intensely focused, as if he’s trying to speed through traffic using sheer force of will.
But the brake lights flash like neon as we creep down Guanghua Lu in fits and starts, the driver alternately accelerating and braking until I am woozy from the motion mixed with the wine. Finally, the car passes through a gate and stops outside the darkened embassy. Charlie reaches over to grab his briefcase and then wrenches open his door.
“Isabelle.” His smile is like an afterthought. “I’m really sorry about this.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
He hesitates for a second and then says: “I’m going to be away for a few weeks in Washington. But I’ll give you a call when I get back and maybe we can get together then.”
“Great!” I reply cheerily as my heart sinks. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but everyone knows that going away for a few weeks is code for “I’m not interested.”
He waves good-bye and slams the door shut. I watch the briefcase swing from his hand as he swiftly walks into the embassy.
“Xiaojie. Ni xiang qu na’r?” The driver turns and stares at me. Where do you want to go?
I glance at my watch: 9:00 P.M. I could go home, but the thought of our cold, empty apartment tightens my chest. “Wait a sec,” I say to the driver.
Geraldine answers on the first ring, but I can barely hear her over the din of music. “Hold on! I’m going out
side,” she shouts.
“How’s the karaoke?” I ask when she returns.
“Fun.” She giggles. “More importantly, how’s the date going? Are you calling me from the bathroom to tell me you’re in lurrrve?”
“Actually, the date’s over. Charlie had some sort of work emergency and—”
“Where are you?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’m sitting outside the American embassy in a car, and the driver’s staring at me like I have two heads.”
“Come meet us,” she says immediately. “A bunch of us are heading over to Gui Jie for hot pot.”
“Hot pot? It’s like eighty degrees outside.”
“That’s why they invented industrial air conditioners, my friend. Come on, give the phone to the driver and I’ll tell him where to go.”
Geraldine gives swift instructions and soon we are gliding toward Gui Jie, or Ghost Street, a bright and blinking stretch packed with twenty-four-hour eateries, popular for late night, postdrinking binges, the Chinese equivalent of an all-night diner. Touts surround me as I exit the car, clapping their hands and crying out, “Xiaojie! Xiaojie!” But I ignore them and make my way toward Xiao Shan Cheng, which beckons with all the electric glitz of a Las Vegas casino.
“Huanying guanglin!” exclaims the staff as I enter the restaurant. Welcome honored guest. Their voices are faint against the roar of diners, who are packed elbow-to-elbow at round tables of ten. A bubbling cauldron of broth fills the center of each table, and patrons jostle each other to dunk paper-thin slices of meat, or plop fat mushrooms and triangles of tofu, within its oily depths. Already my skin feels sweaty from the humid room, despite the promised air conditioners that ineffectively blow out lukewarm gasps. The place veritably embodies the term renao: it’s hot, noisy, and chaotic, a dining atmosphere beloved to most Chinese.