by Ann Mah
Suddenly, there’s a loud crackling sound, sounds of a struggle, as if the phone is being wrestled away from him. “Hello?” I say.
“Hello?” says a shrill female voice. “Who is this?” it demands.
“Isabelle Lee,” I say faintly. I’m not sure why I give my name, but something tells me the voice on the other side won’t rest without it.
“I knew it!” says the voice. “You bastard!”
“Tina,” I hear Jeff’s voice pleading. “Mei shi.” It’s nothing.
She screeches into the phone: “I’m going to teach you a lesson, Isabelle Lee. You think you can move here and swoop in, and steal all our Beijing men? I don’t give a fuck about you. Welcome to my bad side, Isabelle.”
I remove the phone from my ear and stare at it in disbelief as she continues screaming. Who talks likes this? Tina has obviously been watching too much daytime TV. I can’t help it. A giggle escapes from my lips.
“Are you laughing at me?” she shrieks.
“Tina, Tee-nah.” Jeff’s voice carries a placating tone. “That’s enough. Please, honey, stop.”
Beep-beep-beep. The call is ended.
I stare into space, my brow wrinkled with confusion. That certainly didn’t go according to plan. Are they together, or not? I’m not sure what’s going on, but I do know this: I’ve finally met a real, live Wicked Witch of the East.
I don’t tell Geraldine about my conversation with Tina—why worry her?—though I can see her pupils dilate with fear when I inform her that Jeff and I are going out on Thursday.
Oh, yes. He called back an hour later, with total silence in the background, apologized profusely, and asked if I wanted to grab a bite to eat on Thursday night. Actually, the phrase he used was “grab a mouth to eat,” but I didn’t have the heart to correct him.
The stodgy New York me would have said no, but the new, insouciant Beijing me said yes. I still don’t have any real answers about the Tina situation (“I swear to you, we’re not together anymore,” he’d said) but who cares? We’re having dinner, not eloping.
At my desk, I gaze dreamily at the computer, remembering Jeff’s dark eyes and soft lips, the intensity of our kiss. Mmmm…I picture us sipping cosmopolitans at Suzie Wong’s…Maybe he’ll introduce me to some of his celebrity friends—Faye Wong and Jet Li and, er…I’m drawing a blank on other Chinese celebrities…Well, whoever is famous in Beijing, anyway.
“Isabelle, Geraldine. I want to see you in my office. Now.” Ed’s florid face looms suddenly over my desk, chasing away my daydreams. He jabs a finger at me before turning and stomping away. Uh-oh. Is something wrong? I tally the possible offenses but the list adds up to zero. I shoot Geraldine a puzzled glance and together we creep toward Ed’s office.
Inside, Ed kicks the door shut. “Look,” he says. “I don’t know who pissed off Tina Chang, but we have a big problem.”
“What? Why?” Geraldine’s voice rises in alarm.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair.
“She just called to say Topanga Films will not allow Geraldine on the set of Iron into Gold,” says Ed. “Apparently Max Zhang didn’t like your snide comments about The East Is Red.” He peers at her. “When did you write about The East Is Red?”
“I have no idea,” Geraldine says slowly. “Unless it was a short description for a listing. That movie came out five years ago. And who cares what I think? It won an Oscar!”
“Tina also said that they’d be happy to accommodate someone else on the set. We all know she loathes Gab, so that leaves…Isabelle.” They both turn to look at me. “What the fuck is going on here?” says Ed.
“I—I—” I can only stutter in confusion.
“Does this have something to do with Jeff?” asks Geraldine, her eyes narrowed. “Is she that crazy?”
“Who is Jeff? Does he work at Topanga?” demands Ed.
“Jeff is…this guy…” I feel my face growing warm.
“Tina’s ex who now fancies Isabelle.” Geraldine crosses her arms and turns to me. “I told you to be careful.”
“I’m hardly interested in Isabelle’s love life,” snaps Ed. “So what if you’re on her shit list? Why would she suddenly want you to have a shot at a Beijing NOW cover story?”
“Who knows?” Geraldine shakes her head. “But knowing Tina…I’m sure she has some kind of Machiavellian plan up her sleeve.”
“It’s no use speculating.” Ed sighs. “Isabelle, pack your bags—looks like you’re going to Pingyao.”
“But this is Geraldine’s story,” I protest.
“I don’t think you understand, Isabelle.” Ed leans over his desk and I can see a vein throb in his forehead. “We need this story. So get to work. And don’t fuck this up. Your ass is on the line. This time I mean it.” He turns to his computer screen.
“I’ll forward you information on the guest house and how to get to the set,” says Geraldine as we leave his office. “The bus leaves at eight A.M. tomorrow.”
“I’m really sorry about this.”
“It’s not your fault, Iz.” She squeezes my shoulder. “To be honest, I don’t envy your time with Tina.”
My laugh sounds hollow, even to my ears.
I’ve backpacked in the Adirondacks, driven across the U.S., flown across the Pacific, but I’ve never traveled like this before, with a chicken squashed at my feet. I’m on my way to Pingyao in a bus that’s packed to the aisles, and though I’m lucky enough to have snagged a seat, it’s impossible to relax amid the roar of voices and acrid smell of fresh cigarette smoke.
Beside me sits the chicken’s owner, a stocky woman with round cheeks and a wide, gap-toothed smile. We’ve exchanged a few polite words about the chicken—its fate is sealed upon arrival—but her thick Shanxi accent means I have to strain to understand her. Miraculously, she thinks I am some sort of slick Beijing city girl and has not questioned my accent or broken grammar. I’m not sure how I could explain to her that I am American.
I sigh and think back to this morning. After waiting all night for the alarm to ring, I overslept by almost an hour and awakened with a racing heart and no time to shower. I snatched at my clothes—yesterday’s jeans, lying crumpled on the floor, a clean T-shirt—zipped up a hooded sweatshirt, and ran out of the apartment. When the elevator finally arrived, it was packed. I squeezed myself inside, pulling my overstuffed backpack to one side and hitting someone in the chest.
“Oh, sorry,” I apologized, glancing behind me and finding Charlie’s calm, blue eyes.
“Isabelle! How are you?” His smile changed his whole face, erasing the worried crease in his brow.
“Hi!” I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. Why did I have to run into him this morning? Why? After all those times I put on lipstick just to take out the trash, I had to run into him now? “When did you get back from the States?” I bit back the question hovering on my lips: Why didn’t you call me?
“A couple of days ago,” he said. “Listen, work has been crazy but—” He hesitated, looking into the elevator’s mirrored doors, at the reflected faces of the other passengers, all listening intently to our conversation, and pressed his lips together. We descended the remaining eighteen floors in silence.
At the lobby, everyone streamed out of the elevator and Charlie paused by the revolving doors. “Isabelle, I want to apologize for not calling,” he said slowly. “But things have been really busy at the embassy…The situation with North Korea is crazy and…” He continued, but it all just sounded like a bunch of weak excuses. How could anyone be so busy they couldn’t spare five minutes for a phone call? “Nuclear crisis…Six Party Talks…uranium enrichment…” continued Charlie, worry clouding his eyes. “But I don’t want to bore you with the details—”
“It’s okay,” I broke in, before he could create any more excuses. He obviously found lying disconcerting; his entire forehead was crumpled into a deep furrow. “I understand, you’re busy.” I shrugged. “And if the choice was between calling me and saving
the world from nuclear destruction, you definitely made the right decision!” I barked a short laugh and patted him on the shoulder in what I hoped was a friendly gesture devoid of romance.
“Iz, it’s not like that—” He stopped when I glanced at my watch. “Do you have to be somewhere?” he asked.
“Oh my God, the bus! Taiyuan!” I gasped, my heart suddenly dropping to my knees. Running into Charlie had momentarily made me forget about my tardiness. But if I missed the bus, I was toast; Ed would fire me, for sure. Through the lobby’s plate-glass window, I scanned the street for a taxi, while trying to push Ed’s wrath from my mind. “Oh my God, no cabs, no cabs. If I miss the bus, Ed will kill me…”
He lay a calm hand on my shoulder. “My car is outside. I could take you to the station.”
“You?” My voice rose in disbelief. “Aren’t you busy? Don’t you have to be at work?”
“I think I can show up late for once.”
I followed him outside, and climbed into the backseat of his black sedan, relief causing my annoyance to evaporate. “But won’t your boss get mad at you?” I ask. “Isn’t the ambassador incredibly demanding?”
“That’s what people say,” he said wearily.
The driver raced in a special, speedy (e.g., terrifying) manner to the station, but Charlie and I were so busy discussing Max Zhang’s filmography, I scarcely noticed the close brushes with oncoming traffic.
“He’s such a legend of Chinese film. I can’t believe you get to meet him,” he kept saying. “Your job is so cool. The only other person I know who gets to meet celebrities is my little sister. She’s a makeup artist.”
“Your sister?”
“She lives in L.A., works in the film industry. You remind me of her, actually. She’s really funny and loves crossword puzzles too.”
Hmph. His sister. As the car hurtled along the break-down lane, everything became clear. Obviously, I misread the situation; Charlie’s not interested in me romantically. No wonder he never called—he sees me as some sort of surrogate little sister. I tried to hide my mortification by rifling through my backpack. Happily, the bus station came into view.
“Looks like we’re here!” I zipped up my bag. “Thanks again for the ride.”
“You’re welcome.” He leaned forward to help me lift my bag. “When are you getting back from Pingyao? I’m going to Pyongyang next week, but maybe we could get together after that? I think they’re still renting boats on Houhai before the lake freezes.”
And will the boat ride include a lollipop and a pat on the head? With effort, I swallowed my sarcasm. “That’s okay,” I said instead. “I’ll probably be pretty busy when I get back, closing the magazine.”
“Oh! Okay.” Again Charlie’s brow furrowed.
“But thanks for the ride! I really appreciate it!” I forced a cheerful note into my voice, grabbed my bags and leapt out of the car, running toward the entrance. By the time I reached the ticket counter, I had banished Charlie to the back of my mind.
I hurled myself onto the bus to Taiyuan, a large German wide-load with air-conditioning and doily-covered seats, which lumbered off with a huff of exhaust as soon as I had settled myself. At Taiyuan, I switched buses, going from grand to grungy. The bus to Pingyao has forgone luxuries like shocks and power steering. We jolt along the rough road, the horn blaring continuously, careening left to pass slow trucks carrying loads of mud-smeared pigs or heaps of coal lumps, careening right to avoid the trucks that threaten head-on collision. I watch the girl in front of me, a tiny creature with sallow skin, open the window and quietly retch down the side of the bus. I rake my greasy hair into a ponytail, gaze at the chicken as it presses its long plume of tail feathers against the wicker cage, and promise myself a long hot shower upon arrival.
Tina meets me at the station, and my heart thumps at the thought of confrontation, but she seems cheerful and chatty. Her sharp-toed boots clatter on the pavement as we walk to the car, and she helpfully hefts my bag into the trunk. We sit side by side in the backseat and wait for the driver to finish his cigarette.
“Thanks for coming to get me, Tina.”
“Mei shi. It’s no problem.” Her eyes avoid mine, but her voice is solicitous and I begin to relax. Maybe she’s not angry. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding.
Encouraged, I take a deep breath and attempt to clear the air. “Listen, Tina…I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry—” I break off as she turns her head toward me and blinks.
“Are you tired?” she asks.
“Er, I am a little tired,” I admit, confused. Clearly she doesn’t want to discuss Jeff, and so I follow her cue. “Are we going straight to the guest house? I’d love a hot shower.”
“Actually,” she flicks a sidelong glance at me from beneath her lashes, “there’s been a change in plans. We had some last minute housing changes and had to move you. But don’t worry.” She pats my arm. “We found you another spot.”
“Where?” Something in her tone seems odd. I cross my arms, suddenly wary.
“Well, I thought you might want to experience the real Pingyao. One of the sound guys knows a local family and they’ve invited you to stay with them. Won’t that be fun?” Her laugh is brittle, like glass shattering against granite.
I stare at her with alarm. The idea of staying with strangers, of imposing myself in their modest home, is unthinkable. “If it’s possible, Tina,” I keep my voice smooth, “I’d prefer to find another guest house.”
“Unfortunately…” She shrugs, and I get the feeling she’s enjoying herself. “Did I mention the International Photography Festival is going on right now? Everything else is booked.”
Pingyao is quaint and shabby, like a miniature village that’s been forgotten for a hundred years. Ancient walls surround the center, and low buildings poke their dainty eaves and peaked tile roofs up from narrow streets. The Shi family lives on a dusty lane not far from the main drag. Cars are banned inside the town walls and so we walk the final stretch, yellow dust settling on the cuffs of my jeans and over the toes of my running shoes.
We head down Xi Dajie, a semipaved street that runs through the heart of Pingyao. I read in my guidebook that centuries of poverty inadvertently preserved the town’s Ming dynasty features; indeed, it seems almost forgotten by time, with red lanterns swinging from tiled roofs, the buildings low and capped with pointed eaves, the streets narrow. We weave our way among crowds of tourists, passing small shops selling cigarettes, postcards, and other tourist kitsch, before turning into a narrow alley. Tina stops at the crumbling gate of a courtyard home, identical to the others on the block, and the Shis tumble out to greet us, all four of them: grandmother, mother, father, and baby, whose split pants flash open to reveal that she’s a girl. I sneak a glance at Tina and see she’s arranged her features into an innocent expression. “Ni hao!” she calls out, her voice pitched silkily high, the way Chinese people think young ladies should sound.
Tina introduces me as “Li Jia, nimen de waiguo pengyou.” Your foreign friend. Mr. Shi rushes forward to shake my hand, a stream of “Ni hao, ni hao, ni hao,” flowing through the smile that broadens his weathered face. His wife, Wangmei, stands next to me, her strong hand patting my shoulder in a rhythmic beat. I turn to greet the grandmother, an older woman with cropped gray hair and proud posture, who holds a plump-cheeked baby in her arms. Her sharp eyes scan my face intently as she stretches out a leathered hand to touch my cheek. Forty years ago these people would have been proud to be called peasants. Now they are considered rough and rural, although unlike most country folk—who are suspicious of outsiders—their faces are open and friendly.
I call the younger woman “ayi,” or aunt, the grandmother “nainai,” the man “shushu,” or uncle, as if they are my own family. These are terms of respect in China and, after several months here, they roll off my tongue. It’s difficult to determine their ages—their lined faces belie their youth, though not the bitterness of life. The baby is introduced as Baobei—I la
ter find out that’s not her real name, but a nickname meaning “precious treasure.” She opens her mouth to emit a hungry wail and Nainai bounces her inside, the rest of us trailing behind her.
The rest of us, I should say, except for Tina, who seizes the opportunity to whisk herself away. “’Bye,” she says, squeezing my arm so that the duffel bag slips off my shoulder and jars my elbow. “Meet the driver at the train station tomorrow at eight A.M. He’ll bring you to the set.” She gives a small wave and disappears around the corner, leaving me alone.
Nine-thirty P.M. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. I’m wide-awake, my eyes round as gum balls. Next door, the Shis slumber. I can hear the measured rise and fall of their breathing through the house’s thin walls. I already have to pee. How will I make it through the night?
Going to the bathroom is out of the question. Going to the bathroom would require putting on my shoes and finding a flashlight, making my way outside and down the dark street to the public toilet, where I would have to squat over a rotting plank, my stomach churning from the smell. No, I can’t. I can face it during the day, but at night it’s too terrifying. For the first time in my life I wish for a bedpan.
And something else is keeping me awake. Something that, with shortness of breath and an ache in the back of my throat, feels a lot like fear. I’ve never interviewed a Hollywood director before—hell, six months ago I had never interviewed anyone. My stomach heaves—and I’m pretty sure it’s not from drinking unclean water. Even though I’ve watched all of Max Zhang’s movies and read every scrap ever written about him (in English), a doubtful chill keeps creeping down my spine. I’m not sure my Chinese is good enough. I’m not sure if I’m good enough.
Turning on my side, I try to distract myself by mulling over my evening at the Shis’ house. Ayi and I spent the evening in an elaborate dance of politesse: she kept trying to offer me things—food, fruit, tea, her bedroom—and I kept trying to refuse them. She won. She insisted that I sleep in her bed, her tone so vehement I feared she might burst a blood vessel. Now, she and Shushu lie tucked up on the concrete living room floor, their aged backs reclining against the unforgiving surface, while I lounge like a princess in their bed. Add guilt to the list of emotions that chase each other in my head.