Night in Shanghai

by Nicole Mones

  Her turn came and she showed the driver the firm’s Beijing business card, which bore the apartment address, then let herself melt in the back seat. She had done it; she was here. A freeway sailed along outside, dotted by lit-up billboards in Chinese and English for software, metals, chemicals, aircraft, coffee, logistics. What was logistics? Not knowing made her feel old.

  She still had a few loved ones, at least. She flipped open her phone. It chirped to life. The first number was her mother’s. Maggie didn’t call her often, but every time she got a new phone she put her number first, at the top of the list, anyway. Her mother had raised her alone and done it well, even if she hadn’t been able to make much of a home for Maggie. She deserved to hold the top slot.

  Next came Sunny, her best friend and most frequently called number. Then Sarah; her other friends. And Matt’s parents. Her heart tightened, as always, at the thought of them. Their suffering had been like hers.

  She closed her phone as the car swooped down off the ring road and into the city. Right away she saw this was not the Beijing she remembered from three years ago. The boulevards were widened, the office buildings filled in, the street lighting redone. Maybe it was the coming of the Games. Or maybe it was just the way Beijing was growing. She remembered Matt saying it had been under construction all the time, going back more than a decade. Always building, investing, expanding, earning.

  The driver turned down a side street and stopped in front of the building she remembered. She paid the fare—ninety-five kuai. She smiled at the thought of the man in the airport agreeing to pay three hundred. It was like being her old self for a minute; she’d always loved to be the better tourist.

  Inside and up the elevator, she let herself into apartment 426 and clicked on the overhead lights. It was the same. The couch, the television, the windows that faced the city.

  She rolled her suitcase to the wall. Her steps were loud in the silence. There was an envelope on the coffee table. To Mrs. Mason, it said. From the law firm. She opened it. Welcome you to China. Please come to the office in the morning.

  Only someone who didn’t know her would call her Mrs. Mason. She had never changed her name. No doubt they didn’t know her; Carey was likely to be the only one still in the office who had been there three years before, when she came. She remembered Matt telling her that, aside from Carey, the Beijing office was never able to hold on to foreigners for long. That was one reason the lawyers in the L.A. office, like Matt, had to go there. Then in the last few years they’d hired two Chinese attorneys who had gone to university and law school in the States and then returned, and the pressure eased. Matt didn’t go at all the last year and a half before he died. In any case—she checked her phone again—it was too late to call the office now. Calder Hayes would be closed.

  It was early enough to call the chef still, but first she had to do some reading. She slid out the file with Sarah’s writing on the tab, Sam Liang, and made herself into a curl with it on the couch.

  The first thing she saw was that he was a chef of national rank, which had to be near the top in the Chinese system, and there was a list of prizes and awards. That was fast, she thought. He’d been here only four years. Then she came to an excerpt from his grandfather’s book, The Last Chinese Chef.

  Chinese food has characteristics that set it apart from all other foods of the world. First, its conceptual balance. Dominance is held by fan, grain food, either rice or wheat made into noodles and breads and dumplings. Song or cai is the flavored food that accompanies it, seasoned vegetables, sometimes meat. Of the latter, pork is first, and then aquatic life in all its variety. The soybean is used in many products, fresh and fermented. Dian xin are snacks, which include all that is known under the Cantonese dim sum, but also nuts and fruits. Boiling, steaming, or stir-frying are preferred, in that order, stacking food when possible to conserve fuel. Chopsticks are used. Of the world’s cuisines, only Japanese and Korean share these characteristics, and everyone knows they have drawn their influence from the Chinese.

  She looked up and out the window at Beijing. The urban shapes of progress gleamed back at her, the cranes with their twinkling lights, the tall, half-built skeletons. Clearly a city on the move. And yet this chef seemed to be reaching back into the past.

  Fine, she decided. Contradictions were promising. They gave depth. She reached for her cell phone and punched in his number.

  It rang twice, then clicked. “Wei,” she heard.

  “Hello, I’m looking for Sam Liang.”

  At once he turned American. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Maggie McElroy. Table magazine?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “the restaurant article. Wait. You’re not here already? In Beijing?”

  “Yes—”

  “I didn’t send the e-mail yet, or call. I should have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He fumbled the phone and then came back. “I hope you didn’t fly here just to talk to me.”

  “What?” Wasn’t that the idea? Wasn’t she supposed to do that? Sarah had told her he was ready to go. “Only partly,” she said to him now on the phone. “I did have some other business.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Because right now, as of this morning, my restaurant’s not going to open.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I have lost my investor.”

  “But you can get another, surely—can’t you?”

  “I hope I can. I’m going to try. But until that happens and while it’s all up in the air, I’m sorry, I can’t do the story.”

  Maggie didn’t think well on her feet. She always came up with the right response later, when it was too late. Writing worked better, allowing her time to sort things out; hence her choice of profession.

  But she had to try to come up with something now. “The piece doesn’t have to be about the restaurant. A profile of you would be fine.”

  “A profile of me? Whose restaurant is not opening?”

  “Not like that—”

  “With what just happened I can’t say it seems like a good idea. I hope you understand.”

  “That could be a mistake.” Her mind was whirling, looking for strategies, finding none. “Really.”

  “Please—Miss McElroy, is it?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Accept my apology. And please tell your editor too, I’m very sorry. I had no idea this was going to happen.”

  “I know,” Maggie said. “Do you want to at least think it over? Because I’m going to be here for a few days.”

  “I’ll think if you like. But I don’t see how I can give you an interview about a restaurant that is not going to open. Or how I can do a profile when something like this has just happened.”

  “I understand,” she said. She was disappointed, but she also felt for him. A lot of attention had been trained on this opening.

  “Enjoy your trip.”

  It was an American thing to say, polite, faintly strained, distancing. He wants to get rid of me. “Take my number in case.”

  “Okay,” he said. He took it down dutifully, and thanked her when she wished him good luck. Then they said goodbye, smiled into the phone, and hung up.

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  About the Author

  NICOLE MONES is the prize-winning author of the novels The Last Chinese Chef, Lost in Translation, and A Cup of Light, which have been published in more than twenty-five countries. Her nonfiction writing on China has appeared in the New York Times Magazine, Gourmet, the Los Angeles Times, and the Washington Post. She is a member of the National Committee on U.S.-China Relations. For more, visit nicolemones.com.

 

 

 
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