"What were you wearing?" Li asked.
"A suit." She flushed. "I only brought suits. I didn't think about going out at night."
"The one you're wearing is fine for going out. It's very beautiful. You look excellent."
He had no idea how fine the suit was, Miranda reflected, remembering its price tag, and the price of her other new suit. My first foreign trip, she had thought defensively; I'll have so much to be nervous about, I don't want to have to worry about how I look.
"Chanel, isn't it?" Li asked casually.
She looked at him in astonishment. "How would you know that?"
"CNN has programs on fashion and Hollywood, and it covers the designer shows in New York and Paris and Milan. And I am interested in all Western things, not just some of them."
"Because they're your heritage."
"That is one of the reasons. In fact—" He hesitated, then smiled, a small inward smile, as if amused at himself for what he was about to say. "I think it is because I've still not outgrown the hope that my father will come back. It is embarrassing, but, you know, I can't stop it: at odd times the idea suddenly springs up that today he will appear on my doorstep and embrace me and say, 'Well, it took a long time, but I found you and now we can become friends.' It is an absurd fantasy, a child's fantasy, but still it springs to life, as it has since the moment my mother told me about him. That was when I decided to learn about his country, so that when he came back he would be impressed with me. Later, of course, it was obvious that he was truly gone, but even though the dream faded, it did not disappear, and neither did my studies of America." Ruefully, he shook his head. "I am too old for such fantasies, don't you think?"
Pitying him, Miranda said, "It's been very hard for you. Not knowing, always wondering..."
de
"Yes, exactly. Much harder even than not having a father. Well, and what about your parents?"
"They live two blocks from me. And right now they're living in my house, staying with my children."
"So you have children. How many?"
"Two. Lisa is fourteen and Adam is thirteen."
"And they are of course wonderful."
She laughed. "Of course. Smart and curious and fun."
"You must miss them very much."
She was silent. She had been so busy, and overwhelmed with strangeness, that she had barely thought of home. But at his simple words, her eyes filled with tears. "Right now, this time of night, we'd be in one of their bedrooms, talking about whatever had happened that day to make it special. We do that every night before they go to sleep."
"And is there always something special?"
"Always. Sometimes it's very small and we have to hunt for it, but we always come up with something."
"How lucky you are."
"Yes. I always have been."
"But what of your husband? He is not staying with your children while you are in China?"
"My husband died many years ago."
"That does not sound lucky to me."
"Oh. Well, no." He waited, and she said, "I've been lucky in other ways."
"But you do not talk about your marriage."
Not to you. V/hy should I?
"Not to me," he said. "And indeed why should you?" He saw her startled look. "Have I said something wrong again?"
"No, it's just that— No."
"Well, then, tell me about Adam and Lisa. And your parents. Have you always lived so close to them?"
"All my life. I grew up in the house they're in now, and when Jeff and I married, we bought a house just down the street."
"And you are very close?"
"Yes, very. And Adam and Lisa love them; I couldn't have come on this trip otherwise."
"So they move into your house for all your long trips?"
"I don't take long trips. This is my first."
His eyebrows rose. "Americans are the world's greatest travelers."
"Well, I'm not. I've been busy with my children and my work, and I'm very happy where I live. I do go to Denver a lot."
"How far is that?"
"About twenty miles. I've never felt the need to go any farther; there didn't seem to be any reason for it."
He contemplated her. "Is that true?"
She began to reply, then hesitated. "I'm not really sure," she said after a moment. "Mostly, I guess. It isn't that I'm not curious; I do think about going to other countries, seeing great museums and monuments, festivals, markets, all the different ways people live ..."
"Well, then?"
"Nothing. It's just..." She looked up and met his close look. Prying, she thought, but, still, she felt oddly at ease. "Actually, I've been afraid of going any place where I don't know the language or understand the culture. And I don't like to travel alone."
"But you must have friends who could go with you."
"My friends are women like me; we haven't traveled and we don't speak any foreign languages, and we're afraid of finding ourselves in places where people could take advantage of us."
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
"You don't have to be sorry for me," she said coldly. "How much have you traveled? Your government won't let you go anywhere, even around your own country."
"I have been to all parts of China, and to Tibet and Mongolia. It is no longer true that we cannot travel as we wish, even outside the country. Many people do; it is not difficult."
"You can go where you want?"
"We can travel within China and Hong Kong as easily as you travel in America. And anyone who has the money can go abroad if other countries will give them visas. It is not so easy to get a visa from the United States."
"Why not?"
"Well, perhaps you should ask your government that question."
She was silent. She did not want to debate governments and politics; she knew almost nothing about them and he seemed to know a great deal. Whatever they talked about, she thought, they come back to the differences between them.
The waitresses brought the hot appetizers, and refilled their beer glasses. Once again Li served their portions. Miranda looked at her plate, and met the beady black eyes of a bright red shrimp. Its long feelers seemed to wave at her; its coral shell glistened with sauce. Oh, God, she thought, I can't do this. I cannot eat something that is staring at me.
Li picked up a shrimp with his fingers, twisted off the head, and
sucked the meat from the shell. "It isn't really looking at you," he said conversationally.
He had not sounded condescending, but she was sure he would if she gave up now. She picked up a shrimp, slippery with sauce, averted her eyes, and twisted off its head. Without the eyes, things were easier, and the spicy meat was unlike any shrimp she had ever eaten. She looked at Li. He seemed engrossed in his own shrimp. Well, I don't need his approval, Miranda thought, and realized that she had been looking for it. For eating a shrimp? How absurd can you get?
Night had turned the window black and it reflected the small lamp on their table and the flashes of their ivory chopsticks. As they tasted the fourth appetizer, Li said, "Do you like them?"
"I like them all."
"Even the shrimp?"
"Especially the shrimp. Everything is wonderful. Much better than the Chinese food I've eaten at home."
"I would hope so," he said, smiling. "Do Adam and Lisa like Chinese food?"
"They like everything. In great quantities."
"Yes, I remember how teenagers never seem to fill up. And you had no one to help you, help earn a living. Have you always designed clothing?"
"No, I started out as a secretary at the University of Colorado, in Boulder. Jeff taught engineering there. I wanted to quit when Adam was bom, but we needed the money and then Jeff died, very suddenly, when Adam was a year old and Lisa was two, and I had no choice but to keep working."
"He was in an accident?"
"No. He just came home one day from playing tennis and didn't feel well and lay down and when I went to find him for dinner
, he was dead."
"How terrible. You went to wake him—perhaps you shook him and spoke his name—and he did not respond."
Miranda watched him curiously. "Exactly. Is that what happened with your wife?"
"No, no, we had been separated for years when she died. I was just trying to imagine what it must have been like for you. You had no warning; you expected a normal evening, and when you went to find him you were thinking about something quite ordinary, probably the dinner you were cooking, perhaps whether you had turned off a burner—"
"Yes," Miranda said sharply. It was as if he were shding inside her, taking over her experiences.
"Well, so your husband died. And you stayed on as a secretary?"
"Yes, but at another place, a company that imported sweaters and knit suits and sold them under its own label. I started sketching for fun, mostly on my lunch hour, and a friend of mine showed a few of them to the president of the company and they sent me to school for a year, and I became one of their designers. There are only three of us, and it's not all that glamorous, you know: we don't go to fashion shows; our own names aren't on the label; usually we don't even work with models."
"But you like it."
"Yes, because I like creating things. It's the best way to feel you're in control; there's a beginning and a middle and an end, and you make it happen."
"And it brought you to China."
"Yes."
The main courses were served, platters of beef with oyster sauce, chicken curry with noodles, and Beijing duck.
"Wrap the pieces of duck in one of these pancakes," Li said, taking up a paper-thin pancake and sprinkling shredded green onion over it.
"It's like a crepe," Miranda said.
"Exactly. In fact, food is so much the same everywhere. Here is our pancake and the French crepe—"
"And in Mexico a tortilla."
"And in Russia a blini.'"
"And in Israel a blintz"
"And in Italy a crespelle."
"And in Africa ..." She laughed. "I'll have to look it up."
"But you see how alike we are: everyone, everywhere, eating pancakes. One can learn a great deal about people through their food. You should visit some of our markets while you are here; you would enjoy them."
A large bowl of bean curd soup was set in the center of the table. Miranda gazed at it in despair. She could not eat another mouthful, and, anyway, whoever heard of soup coming at the end of a meal?
"It clears the palate," Li said. "Try just a mouthful."
In fact, it was light, fragrant, and delicious and they both had second helpings.
"The markets," Li said. "Lively and colorful, something like country fairs I have read about in America. And there is food up the harmonica."
Miranda stared at him. "Up the what?"
"Is that wrong? I read it in a magazine and looked it up. A toy musical instrument—"
She burst out laughing. "A kazoo. Food up the kazoo." She could not stop laughing. "I'm sorry, I'm not making fun of you, it's just that it's mostly kids who say it, and it has nothing to do with music—" She began laughing again. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm being rude."
"No, it's all right, I only wish I understood the joke. Ah, here is our dessert. Let me serve you."
He was in charge again. Thank God, Miranda thought, and realized how awful she had felt, seeing Li at a disadvantage, in fact, putting him there, embarrassing him, perhaps even hurting him.
She watched him cut the fresh fruit into neat wedges. With dread, she waited for the rest of dessert to be served, knowing she could not eat it, whatever it was, but soon it was clear that the fruit was it. Thank God, she thought again, and reflected on the strangeness of an evening when the things that made her grateful were a man taking charge with dessert and there being no real dessert.
Li poured pale green tea through a silver strainer into their cups. "We can go to one of the markets tomorrow," he said casually. "You must tell me your schedule so that we can set a time. I have a meeting at ten, but it is best to go early in any case, say seven o'clock, when the foods are freshest and the tourists have not come. We could get breakfast there, too, on the street."
"On the street?"
"The vendors make excellent food. I will show you."
On the street. Totally unsanitary. How many inspectors check to see what's going on? None. I know it. But Li wouldn't take me anywhere that's really awful, a place that would make me sick — would he?
Putting off her answer, she nibbled on persimmon and pineapple and drank the steaming tea, its flavor subtle and smoky. What an extraordinary evening it had been. Strange and exotic. She and Li were alone now, and, in the silence, their voices had dropped to a murmur even more intimate than their earlier conversation when they had leaned toward each other beneath the surrounding chatter. They had found so much to talk about, skipping from one subject to another, making small discoveries. But they had barely begun: most of their lives still lay untouched. She remembered the feel of his hand on hers as he taught her to use chopsticks. A hard hand, the skin taut over thin bones, but also warm and gentle. And protective.
Her fingers curved around the warm skin of the persimmon. "I'd like to see the markets. At seven o'clock? I'll be ready."
Chapter z
Li saw Miranda look for him as she stepped from the elevator, and he moved forward, his hand raised in greeting. From the quick glances of other men in the lobby, he knew his smile revealed how glad he was to see her, and he smoothed his feamres to neutrality and waited where he was, instead of meeting her halfway. She wore a different suit from that of the night before; this one was gray silk, and she wore it with a white silk blouse tied in a bow at the neck. How pale she is, Li thought. Her skin was clear and translucent, her blond eyebrows like fragile wings, her ash-blond hair a shimmering cloud that made her hazel eyes seem larger and darker, almost startling, when she widened them to look around. There was something ethereal about her, Li thought, especially surrounded as she was by Chinese, with their slightly sallow skin, black hair and eyes, and soUd, purposeful bodies. Among them, Miranda seemed to float. Fragile, Li mused. I think. I have no idea how much of her is real and how much illusion.
He watched her make her way through the crowded lobby, slipping sideways between men standing in tight groups and bellboys maneuvering around them with rolling carts teetering with luggage. She stood straighter than she had the night before, more curious about her surroundings, as she surveyed the bustling lobby thronged with sleek businessmen and groups of camera-laden tourists clustered around guides holding aloft colorful banners with the names of universities and museums. Miranda's gaze settled on the tourists, on their cameras and name tags and trusting gazes as they followed their guides, and when she frowned Li knew that she was feeling separate ftx)m them. She is here to work, he thought, and she has met me, so she is not
exactly a visiting stranger, but neither is she one of us. She is in between: sometimes a difficult place to be.
He felt himself reach out to her, to gather her in and protect her. That was what had happened at the airport. He had just seen a friend off to Hong Kong, and had been walking back toward the garage, when a gap had opened in the milling crowd and he had seen Miranda's face, pale and cringing above shoulders hunched defensively against the indifference of Chinese throngs. Then the gap had closed, swallowing her up. Li had pushed forward, to find her. Around him had been the blank faces of Chinese in public places: focused straight ahead, allowing nothing to invade the inviolate few inches of space they wrapped around themselves as they plowed toward their destinations. Li had forced his way through them, barely aware of being jabbed by elbows, knees and buttocks, determined to reach her, thinking that someone should bring a smile to her face and brightness to her eyes and take away that awful look of fear and helplessness.
Of course there had been more to his impulse than that. She was American. And she reminded him of—
"Good morning." She had made her wa
y across the lobby and was holding out her hand to him.
Aware of the scrutiny of the men close by, Li took her hand in a businesslike clasp, then stepped back to let her walk ahead of him. "I have a car waiting."
At the comer, a small black car protruded into the intersection, the driver, absorbed in his newspaper, serenely unimpressed by the furious chorus of horns and shouts from other drivers forced to edge around him. "At home, this would be illegal," Miranda said. "Parking in an intersection."
Li smiled as he sat beside her in the back seat. "If the car had a bumper sticker attacking the government, that would be illegal."
"Would it? A bumper sticker?"
"If it were considered subversive."
He watched her digest that and then, it seemed, brush it aside. He wondered why. Didn't all Americans like to discuss politics? Perhaps not this American, because she was talking again about automobiles. "But you must have traffic laws," she said.
"A great many. But some things are more illegal than others, and traffic laws are rather far down the list." He leaned forward to speak to the driver, then sat back. "I promise we won't run anyone down today; even the Chinese consider that significant."
She shook her head. "I can't tell when you're being serious."
"I'll give you fair warning."
Her face changed and he gave a small sigh of impatience. Why couldn't she relax and stop worrying about comments that might seem too personal for her taste? "Well, let me tell you about the market. Not one of our largest, but it's my favorite because it hasn't grown as commercial as the ones that attract tourists. Oh, wait," he said suddenly, and told the driver to slow down. "This is one of our projects," he said to Miranda. "An office tower, most of it already leased by General Motors and IBM."
Miranda gazed at the concrete shell thrusting skyward. But it was the scaffolding that held her attention. "It's very strange; what is it made of?"
"Bamboo. Lashed with plastic straps at the joints. Extremely strong, and light enough to move easily from job to job."
She studied it from top to bottom, where the poles were planted on the sidewalk without anchors. "It looks as if one gust of wind could bring the whole thing down."
A Certain Smile Page 4