by Ann Mah
“It’s not you.” She pats my arm reassuringly. “It’s the movies and TV. Somehow people have the idea that sex is our national pastime.”
“No wonder he hasn’t called,” I groan. “He thought I was homesick.”
“I thought you said nothing happened.” She raises her eyebrows. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I told you! Nothing happened. It was all very junior high, right down to getting smashed off three sips of booze.”
“If you say so, Iz.” She smirks. “Who knew Jeff was such a lightweight?”
“I think he must have Asian alcohol syndrome. You know, how a lot of Asians get all red and tipsy when they drink because they can’t digest the alcohol?”
“Sounds exactly like my ex-husband. His face would get bright red from just half a glass of beer.”
Before I can respond, a smock-clad spa attendant approaches us, an enormous paper cone in each hand. Creeping behind me, she brushes back my hair and inserts the tip of the cone into my ear.
“What is that?” I shriek, and jump away.
“I ordered us an ear-candling.” Geraldine calmly pulls her hair into a ponytail. “They light the top of the cone and the heat draws out all your ear wax.” She catches my look of horror and smiles. “It’s really good for you. Rebalances your yin and yang.”
“Well, if you’re doing it…” I say doubtfully. The attendant reinserts the cone into my ear, lighting it on fire. Soon a pleasant warmth fills my ear, accompanied by a faint crackle.
“So, have you talked to Jeff since Saturday? Has he called?” Geraldine’s voice is muffled.
“No.” I try to concentrate on the gentle warmth suffusing my head. “You don’t think I should call him, do you?”
“No,” she says, giving me a steely look. “I definitely, definitely, definitely do not.” Despite the flaming paper cone stuffed in my ear canal, her message is loud and clear.
By Wednesday, Jeff still hasn’t called and my fingers itch to dial his number. But every time Geraldine sees me reaching for my mobile, she murmurs, “Don’t do it, Iz. Don’t do it.” I keep one eye on my phone, ready to pounce in case it rings.
“Isabelle, where is the Max Zhang piece? I need to see it.” Ed’s large figure casts a shadow over my desk.
“I’m, er, just putting the finishing touches on it.” I glance down, hoping he won’t see the panic in my eyes. The truth is, I haven’t started writing the story yet. Every time I glance over my notes, I feel a wave of terror accompanied by a little voice. How could you write an exclusive profile on a world-famous, Oscar-winning director? it says mockingly. When I slam my notebook shut, it disappears.
“For fuck’s sake, Izzy. You haven’t started it yet, have you?” Ed crosses his arms and scowls. “It’s been three weeks!”
“I just want it to be perfect,” I say quietly.
“Don’t be intimidated.” His voice softens. “If it’s not perfect, I’ll make it perfect. That’s what editors do.”
“Thanks.” I smile at him gratefully and then quickly try to rearrange my expression. Ed hates sappiness.
“I’ll expect it on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” My voice rises into a screech.
“Yep, that’s right. Deadlines—remember those, Izzy? We’re running a magazine here, not a bloody country club.”
He stomps away, oblivious to the alarm on my face. I open up a new document on my computer and stare at it, my mind as empty as the blank screen. My heart starts to pound as I turn to my notebook and scan through the hurried scrawl. I cannot do this. Why did I think I could do this? I glance over at Geraldine and Gab, but they are both sitting calmly at their desks, happily plugged into their iPods. I watch Gab type a sentence, a smooth stream of clickity-clack on his keyboard that makes me want to rip his fingers out of their sockets.
I take a calming breath and stare bleakly at the screen. And then slowly, very slowly, I begin to feel a certain resolve—not confidence, but something that feels like…impatience. Stop whining and get to work! I grit my teeth, review my notes again, type a sentence and erase it. Type another sentence and erase it. I limp along, erasing one word out of every three, leafing through my notes, carefully piecing my story together like a puzzle. Before I know it, the afternoon has faded to dusk and my cell phone is ringing.
“Hello?” I answer distractedly, my mind still on Max Zhang’s parents, wealthy Shanghai landowners who lost everything when they were forced to move to Taiwan after the war.
“Hey, babe.”
It’s Jeff. A smile creeps across my face, followed by the merest wrinkle of irritation. I mean, where has he been?
“Hi.” I try to keep my voice light.
“Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been in the studio recording. My manager thinks this new album could be a real crossover for me.”
“Um, that’s great!” I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. Crossover? What the hell is he talking about? In my mind, all I can hear are Max Zhang’s clipped tones saying: First the war, and then the communists. It ruined my mother, absolutely tore her apart. She was never the same after we moved to Taiwan.
“So, are you busy tonight? Wanna go to bed?”
“Excuse me?” I say a bit frostily.
“Some friends and I are meeting at the Bed bar tonight. I thought you’d wanna join us.”
Oh, he means the bar, of course. Duh. How many times am I going to fall for this joke? “I’d love to, but I really can’t. I’m on deadline trying to finish a story.”
“Finish it tomorrow. You write fast.”
“Ed’s breathing down my neck. He gets uptight about deadlines.”
“I don’t know why you work so hard on that magazine,” he says sulkily. “It’s not like anyone reads it.”
I ignore this because we’ve had this discussion before and, really, he’s right. None of Jeff’s friends read Beijing NOW. They’re Beijing locals—why would they be interested in an expat magazine? And just because most expats only read it in the bathroom…well, he doesn’t have to know everything, does he? “Maybe we could get together another time,” I suggest delicately. “What are you up to this weekend?”
“I have a gig Saturday night,” he sighs.
“Well, I’d love to come. I’ve never heard you play live.” In fact, I’m a little curious to see how his boy-pop band will translate to a live performance.
“It’s some American embassy event. Apparently, security is going to be really tight and it’s impossible to get on the guest list.”
“Oh.”
“But Sunday might work. Maybe you can cook me dinner and I can finally try your famous pasta. I’ll call you later, see how things are going, okay?”
It’s a good thing this piece about Max Zhang is so absorbing. I linger at the office until hunger drives me home, and then sit at the desk in my bedroom until 2:00 A.M. When I finally fall into bed, I’m almost too exhausted to think about how Jeff seems to be calling all the shots.
The piece is with Ed by Thursday morning, and by the time I get back from lunch, it’s on my desk, splashed with red ink. And yes, he’s reworked the lead and sharpened the nutgraf, circled numerous sentences and left the ominous remark: Passive voice! You should know better! But at the bottom of the last page, in a scrawl so untidy it’s almost illegible, are the words Good job. From Ed, this is the highest praise, and even though he is more mercurial than a Beijing Internet connection, I still respect him as an editor, and a faint flush of pride creeps across my cheeks.
Though my fingers itch to start revising, I only have time to glance quickly through the pages before racing out the door for my two o’clock appointment, an interview with a Spanish chef about his high-concept tapas/dim sum bar.
I could never have guessed what would happen while I was away.
“It was like an explosion,” says Geraldine. I’d invited her and Gab over after work, and they’re sitting at the kitchen table taking turn
s relating the afternoon’s events between swigs of cold Tsingtao.
“Tang Laoshi must have been snooping through your desk,” Gab says. “I didn’t see him, but all of a sudden he was standing there screaming, ‘Juh juh juh juh juh!’”
Well, Ed always said there was a thin line between being the office censor and office spy. I imagine Tang Laoshi slipping up to my desk unnoticed by my busy colleagues, his liver-spot-speckled hands rifling through my papers.
“And then he ran into Ed’s office and shoved a bunch of papers in his face. It was almost like he was in a state of shock. All he could say was, ‘Juh juh juh juh!’ and ‘Bu xing, bu xing, bu xing!’” Not okay.
“At first Ed was really calm. He asked Tang Laoshi to sit down and offered him a cigarette. They both lit up and just sat silently smoking for a few minutes.”
“But then,” Geraldine says, “Ed asked him what was wrong…” She looks at Gab and they sigh. I edge toward the pantry and grab a can of refried beans. We’re having Mexican food straight from an Old El Paso kit: hard-shell tacos, grated orange cheese, bottled salsa, ground beef seasoned with a spice packet—all the greasy, salty, prepackaged foods we miss.
“I’m a little afraid to ask what happened next,” I admit.
“Tang Laoshi started waving the papers around again and stuttering ‘Zhang Daoyan, Zhang Daoyan.’” Gab scans my blank face. “Director Zhang. Max Zhang.”
“Oh, no…my story…” I whisper.
“He couldn’t even string a sentence together,” adds Geraldine. “He was so irate he could only shout words like ‘cultural revolution,’ and ‘Taipei,’ and ‘capitalist roaders,’ and…” She takes a deep breath. “…‘censored.’”
I gasp. “Censored? But what about—I mean—didn’t Ed—do anything?”
“I heard him mutter, ‘I’m sick to death of you commie bastards,’” says Gab.
“Really?” I laugh.
“Yeah, and then he challenged Tang Laoshi to an arm wrestling match,” Geraldine injects, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “No, not really. What could Ed do? The Three Represents Press owns us. They pay our salaries, publish the magazine, and, as a Chinese company, it’s their responsibility to censor us.” Her glance is sympathetic. “Don’t be too upset, Iz. We’ve all had pieces censored before. It’s kind of like a badge of honor.”
“But how can you stand it? This isn’t—” This isn’t journalism, I want to say, but I bite the words back. To imply that we’re too good for Beijing NOW would only raise some painful truths about all our situations. I wrench open a jar of salsa and start spooning it into a bowl. “What will happen to my story?” I ask instead.
Geraldine looks at me sympathetically. “It was a terrific piece, Iz. You could try selling it somewhere else.”
“How?” The word feels bitter in my mouth. “I don’t know any newspaper editors. I don’t have any magazine contacts.” Except at Belle, I think bitterly. And my name is like seven-month-old mascara there.
“Maybe you could look on the Internet and send some query letters,” suggests Gab.
I shake my head sadly. “I worked in magazines for six years. I know what happens to random query letters.” I lean my arms on the counter. Behind me, the refried beans bubble thickly on the stove, with an angry pop. “Well,” I say, trying to inject a cheerful note into my voice, “at least it’s an adventure. I guess this is all just part of the China experience.”
“Like bossy ayis and surly waitresses!” exclaims Geraldine.
“Or old men who hawk loogies on the sidewalk and police raids at rock shows!” chimes in Gab.
I raise my beer. “Here’s to squat toilets and tapped phones!” We laugh and touch our bottles together with a heavy thunk, but when our gazes meet, the concerned look in their eyes matches the one in my own. It says: When did all of this start feeling normal?
Iz?” Claire’s honeyed tones float across the apartment, through the bathroom door. The closed bathroom door. “Iz? Where are you, darling?”
I sprinkle a few more lavender bath salts into the tub, twist the taps shut, wrap a towel around myself, and sigh. After our ill-fated dinner with the Keegs, I’d hoped Claire would start sounding more normal, but she’s still using the same affected tone, clinging to it as if it’s hiding something. “I’m in here!” I open the door, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam.
“Oh, there you are! Ooh! It’s humid! Be careful, I just had my hair blown out.” She fans the air around her head with both hands. “Are you busy?” she asks.
“Er, no. Not really.” I cast a longing glance inside the bathroom, the steaming tub edged with softly lit candles.
“Oh, goodie. Because I wanted to ask you—” She hesitates and looks into the bathroom.
“It’s okay. You’re not interrupting me. I can just add a little more hot water to the tub.”
“No, It’s just—do you mind if we move? I’m really afraid the steam is going to frizz my hair.”
In my bedroom, Claire curls up on the bed and I try to wrap the towel around myself a little more tightly. “What’s up?”
“Are you busy tonight?” She smooths her hair and tucks a stray strand behind her ear.
“Why?” I ask slowly. Claire’s invitations often involve a lot of money, and too much conversation about torts and testimony—or tan lines, depending on who we’re with.
“Well, the Marine Ball is tonight, and Wang Wei and I were supposed to go together, but something come up the last minute and he can’t make it. So, I was wondering—”
“A ball?” I cross my arms and grab at the towel as it slips. “Oh no, I mean, it’s really kind of you to think of me but I don’t think—”
“Oh, Iz!” she sighs with an impatience that surprises me. “I knew you were going to say no.”
“I’m sorry. You know these society events really aren’t my thing and—”
“It’ll be fun.” She looks down at the cream-colored invitation. “And it’s in honor of Ambassador Charles Eliot. I’d have thought you’d want to show him your support.”
“What on earth would give you that idea?” I shrug. “Look, it’s really sweet of you to ask me, but—”
“Do you have plans tonight?” she demands.
I run over my plans for the evening: a long soak in the tub, then curling up on the couch with a glass of wine, cashmere blanket, and the pirated box set of Ugly Betty…“Yes.”
“What?” Her eyes narrow.
“Oh, some people from the office are going to Alfa for eighties night. You know how I love Madonna!”
“So you’re going out with some of the girls?”
“That’s right. Geraldine and Lily and, er, Gab.”
“Alfa’s eighties night is on Fridays.”
Damn.
“Honestly, Iz. You don’t have to lie to me. If you don’t want to go to the ball, it’s no big deal, you can just say so.”
“Claire, I really don’t want to go to the ball.” I try to soften my words with a smile.
She slides off the bed and walks over to the door, where she leans against the frame. “Remember our lovely night out with the Keegs?” she says musingly. “I defended you from that walnut-faced woman and her pudgy son…”
“You abandoned me in the middle of dinner!”
“You asked me to go with you and I did. And now all I’m asking for is one tiny little favor…” She locks her caramel-colored eyes upon mine.
“Okay, okay,” I grumble. “Guilt-trip me into it, why don’t you?”
“Oh, thank you darling! Here’s the invitation.” She thrusts a card into my hands. “It’s black tie. Be ready by seven, okay?” She skips out of the room, leaving me to stare into my closet, where there are no ball gowns.
At 6:45 I am standing in the foyer, stomach sucked in with a girdle, hair pinned into a loose bun, my temper black. Why did I agree to go to the Marine Ball? I don’t even like swimming in the ocean.
“Are you ready to go?” Claire clicks across the ma
rble floor, looking stunning in a silvery gray cheongsam. She snaps her beaded evening bag shut and inspects me. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I glance down at my dress, a chartreuse off-the-shoulder number that I’d worn as a bridesmaid at my friend Erica’s wedding and brought to Beijing in a sentimental moment. Richard and I went to Erica’s wedding together, and it was the last time I remember us having fun together. We’d danced the “Hava Nagila” and when my hair tumbled down around my shoulders, he wouldn’t let me pin it back up again. “You look all rosy and windblown, like Botticelli’s Venus,” he said. “A little, Asian Venus.”
I don’t know how he saw that, because the dress was supremely unflattering, even when I had a summer tan to offset the acid color (and bottomless champagne to offset my vanity). Now, it looks ridiculous. But without any other long gowns in my closet, what choice do I have? “What’s wrong with it?” I ask sulkily.
“You look like you’re about to dance the funky chicken and elbow your cousin out of the bouquet toss. Whose wedding is this from?” She fingers the faux satin fabric, lifting the skirt to expose my feet. “You wore the dyed-to-match shoes?” Her eyes widen. “Why on earth did you bring this to China?”
“I don’t think it’s that bad. My friend Erica really wanted her bridesmaids to be able to wear the dress again. Besides, I don’t have anything else.” I scowl. “The shoes make the skirt the right length.”
She takes my arm and pulls me down the hall into her room. “Come on.”
“Claire, I can’t borrow your clothes. You’re about twice as tall as me and half as wide.”
“We’ll find something,” she says firmly, switching on the lights to her walk-in closet. “I refuse to be seen with you in that dress,” she mutters. “Here, try this.” She hands me a black tulle skirt.
I take a deep breath and try to suppress my annoyance. “Claire, this is never going to fit. Maybe I should just stay home…”
“Oh, no. You can’t get out of this by cooking up some sort of fashion emergency. Come on, put it on. Hurry. The car is waiting for us downstairs.” She starts flipping through the hangers.