Under Red Skies

by Karoline Kan

  I realized how unrealistic my plan had been. I had never interned for media organizations, and I knew nobody. It was too late; I couldn’t turn back.

  As much as I wanted to be a journalist, I also questioned how fulfilling it would be to work as one in China with so much censorship: Topics like Tibet, ethnic minorities, and any criticism of the government and the party were sensitive; and though not officially forbidden, they were usually problematic, but I had felt a shift. Not all the media was directly state-owned. After Reform and Opening Up, the market expanded to independent publishers. Bold journalists, at relatively liberal outlets, wrote about topics related to human rights, activism, and political reform, though they still had to do it subtly and cautiously. Investigative reporting was becoming increasingly popular.

  The internet had provided journalists with a platform to expose more of the truth that had been hidden previously. In response, China’s propaganda department hired two million people to police the internet and report cybercrimes and anti-Communist speech and opinions. But information could spread like wildfire and was less easily controlled. It was the peak of the Chinese media’s shift, and I so desperately wanted to be part of it. Time was on our side, and news could go viral before it was caught and censored.

  Eventually I had a phone interview with Xingguang Media, who were looking for someone to write press releases for their clients. I was so desperate and it was much closer to journalism than an accounting job, so I took it. At least it was media-related. Everything was going fine until the human-resources manager, a man with a shrill, rasping voice, asked, “When are you going to get married? I need to plan ahead for your maternity leave.”

  Instantly, my blood started to boil.

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly between clenched teeth. “I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to work here for a year and then take time off for a baby. I’ll need you to sign an agreement stating that you’re not going to do that.”

  “How can I sign that? I can’t predict the future.”

  He added: “We wouldn’t want to waste each other’s time.”

  In China, speed reigned: Couriers took shortcuts to save thirty seconds; teachers highlighted the “important sections” in books and discouraged students from reading anything that wouldn’t be on the test. Chinese people probably invented speed dating; they wouldn’t hesitate to ask each other’s age, job, hukou, and savings-account balance the first minute they met.

  I didn’t want my work and biological clock to be mapped out for me, so I politely refused to sign the document, but this meant I could no longer work there. I never spoke to the HR man again.

  So there I was again, without a job as graduation day approached. The lack of a job felt as if there were a time bomb sitting on my shoulder. I was sweaty and nervous, a complete wreck. I could barely function. At night, I’d wake up feeling as if a pair of scissors were cutting me into pieces. To my family and friends, I had always been a model student and source of pride. Now I’d end up graduating without a job to go to? I hated to disappoint my parents, especially after I had fought for them to believe in me. I felt stupid and terrible. I’d have to leave Beijing ASAP. It was expensive, and I couldn’t ask my parents for more money.

  When my mother called, I tried to convince her in a lighthearted tone that I was fine. Sun Bin suggested I try again to find an accounting position, which had lots of jobs advertised. So I told my mom I would do that, even if in my heart, I didn’t want to. When Mom and I finished talking, I walked to the highest floor of the dorm. From there, I could see the lights sparkling in distant towers, the stream of cars, and bright blinking dots of airplanes waiting to land in the international airport. If Beijing is so big, why isn’t there a place for me? I often thought. Maybe I aimed too high and wanted too much. Maybe dreams were just a luxury, or a star I would never reach.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Foreign Territory

  Five days before graduation, I saw an online advertisement posted by the English-language magazine That’s Beijing, which was looking for a writer to cover social and cultural news, and be able to deliver copy in English. That was the job for me! I doubted they would take me on with no experience, but I had nothing to lose. I created a Gmail account because I heard that would be more impressive, sent an email with my résumé and writing samples to Mary, the editor in chief, and changed my email signature from Chaoqun to Karoline. I laughed at myself for trying so hard to cater to Western standards, but Mary replied to me the next day.

  I took a bus to the office, which was located in a high-end residential compound called Sun City.

  I knocked. A thirtysomething woman who looked to be from Central Asia opened the door without looking at me. She quickly returned to her desk and left me there. A dozen people in the office were sitting at their desks, either typing fast or talking on their phones. There were three foreign women in the room in addition to the Asian woman. I wondered which one was Mary, but I was afraid to interrupt. I just stood there like a lost puppy.

  A Chinese-looking man saw me. “What are you looking for?” he asked in terrible Mandarin. He emphasized every syllable with too much effort, and it sounded unnatural.

  “Mary…,” I stammered in English. I thought it might make him more comfortable.

  “I’m Kenny, the marketing director,” he said in American-accented English, now with a big smile on his face.

  A blonde woman in her mid-twenties stood up and waved at me: “Hi, you must be Karoline.”

  This was Mary.

  The magazine was using a two-bedroom apartment as the office, the living room an open space for editorial and sales, with two rows of white Ikea desks lined up next to each other. On the desks were magazines, computers, and leafy-green plants. One bedroom was an office for the accountants and HR department. The other was used as a small meeting room. Mary told me they also had offices in Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Shenzhen and were hiring for the city section, which carried the most feature stories.

  “The most interesting part,” Mary said, smiling.

  She sent me home with copies of the magazine so that I could study its style, and told me to email her three story ideas. That afternoon, I emailed Mary with not three, but six ideas. The next morning, I had the job. The minute I got the email, I went flying out of my dorm room in tears and immediately called my parents. “I’ve got a job!” I said between wet sobs. My dream had come true. I had been right; I could do what I was passionate about. My insistence on being myself had finally paid off.

  * * *

  Suddenly my life didn’t look like the one I had grown used to. I was no longer a student but the independent woman I had always wanted to be. The magazine sent me to cover fancy events, including an Indian food festival at the Ritz-Carlton, and I spent a lot of time trying new restaurants and nightclubs—and now I knew which cocktails to order (or not!) from the menu. Many nights were full of parties and drinking. I took taxis everywhere and my expenses were reimbursed. All my friends envied my lifestyle—which was pretty incredible! I was becoming more sophisticated, partly out of necessity: I learned how to eat with a fork and knife, knew the difference between good and bad coffee, and was meeting people from all over the world. But I was still the nervous village girl inside. Nobody was around to tell me what to do—no teachers, no parents, no rules, and I hated myself for sometimes missing that security. At the same time, I was restless and eager to get rid of the bookish schoolgirl in me.

  It took a long time; I didn’t know how to behave. I was the only Chinese member of the editorial team and the youngest in the office. I wanted to write more but worried that my writing in English was not good enough and would add more to Mary’s editing workload. The fact that English was not my first language was an issue.

  I also noticed how I was discriminated against for being Chinese. At first, I thought I wasn’t invited to certain events because of my Chinese accent, but then I noticed that it
was because I didn’t have a white face. It was especially important to the head of sales, a Chinese woman whose English name was Claire. I never knew her age, but I guessed maybe she was in her thirties. She had long curly hair and always wore bright red lipstick.

  Claire held tons of client events that she needed writers or editors to accompany her to. About one-quarter of the magazine was advertorial, which paid for our wages and other overheads, so her job was important. As a new employee, I had much more free time than my colleagues, but Claire never asked me along. If other people in sales asked me to go, Claire looked annoyed. She said I was too young to impress their clients. What she really meant was that I was too Asian.

  One day Claire asked my UK colleague, Rob, to go to a fashion party with her at the Westin Hotel. It was production week and Rob had tons to do, so he insisted I go instead.

  “What? I can’t just take a Chinese girl to this very important party!” Claire yelled after a few rounds of arguments with Rob.

  But aren’t you also Chinese? I wanted to say. I found it ridiculous that I was being discriminated for my Chinese-ness in my own country. Claire had probably forgotten that she was one of us. She liked laowai, a blanket term we used (sometimes as an insult) when referring to foreigners, and by working with them, Claire thought she was superior to other Chinese people. She spoke more English than Chinese, and even cursed in English, which astonished me.

  Although I despised her way of thinking, I understood where it had come from. She was a product of China. The clients believed that if there were a few foreign faces at their events, it meant their events were international, and that was enough. Conversely, for the Chinese parties, the more laowai, the better. White people are often hired by Chinese for events just to stand there and be white. White people are paid to appear in forums, lectures, and ceremonies, posing as doctors, professors, and other professionals. No skill is needed. They are sometimes given speeches to recite. It all makes the company or organization look good. When Chinese parents look for tutors for their children, they prefer European or American laowai, even if those people are from France or Poland and aren’t native English speakers. They’ll choose them over Chinese tutors, even Asian Americans.

  Claire didn’t care if the person she brought with her could write well or not. She only needed a mascot.

  On the day of the party, after work, I waited for her to get ready. She spent over an hour doing her makeup in the bathroom. It felt like forever. “Did you bring anything else to wear like I told you? You can’t just look like a poor student at this party!”

  “Got it! I’ll change after you are done!” I had spent 400 yuan on a strapless black dress. It was one-tenth of my monthly salary. I must be crazy, I thought when I bought it.

  When Claire came out, she was wearing a pair of stilettos and a cream-colored dress that reached down to her ankles. I quickly rushed into the bathroom to change.

  “Let’s go, girl!” Claire walked out without looking back at me. Her right hand was holding a little round mirror, and she used her left hand to wipe a bit of lipstick from her teeth. She managed to wave and stop a taxi at the same time.

  The cabs barely moved at this time of the day. Drivers cursed and honked their horns. I almost wanted to chicken out when we arrived, but kept telling myself I had to be confident in front of Claire. I walked straight as I could, looking forward, resisting everything that tempted me to stop and look in the grand hotel: the gleaming crystal chandelier, the musicians playing Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” the guests wearing expensive suits and speaking softly in languages I couldn’t understand, the fresh roses and lilies so beautifully arranged in a huge vase, resting on a table in the lobby. I had never been to any place like it.

  Claire called someone over, and a woman walked toward us, swaying her hips like a flower in the wind. When she came closer, I admired her long green-velvet dress and her shimmering green earrings and necklace. Compared with them, I must look like a peasant, I thought. Claire introduced me as “our little editor, Karoline.” The woman gave me the neat, symbolic smile I saw on the face of every woman like her. “I’m Vivian,” she said and then hugged me. That was the only exchange I had with her. She and Claire talked all the way to a room where the party was going on. I just followed.

  Champagne bubbled in flutes, warm yellow light reflected on the marble floors, and waiters in swallow-tailed coats held trays with fine hors d’oeuvres that looked like works of art. It reminded me of the parties in The Great Gatsby, and I was a Chinese Nick Carraway.

  I knew no one, so I just walked around, holding a glass of champagne, and tried to understand those making speeches onstage. My fancy drink was just for decoration to help me pretend I fit in and was having a good time.

  Most people at the event were foreigners. I knew there was a hierarchy among Beijing’s expat community. People asked “where do you live?” more often than “what do you do?” because their addresses would reveal their status without being too direct. If they lived in the Diplomatic Residence Compound, they immediately were popular and everyone wanted to talk to them. Living in such a compound meant there was a big chance they were diplomats or foreign correspondents, one of the most popular expat professions in Beijing. I’d already been to plenty of parties where foreign hipsters would tell me they humbly lived inside Second Ring Road, in many old hutongs that were slowly being restored and had become very fashionable, and how they wanted to become the next Peter Hessler, the American writer famous for his books about China. But they couldn’t wait to tell me they paid more rent than the migrant workers who also lived there, and that their houses had an indoor bathroom, not like the rest of their neighbors who had to share the public toilet. I began to understand that they wanted a taste of Old Beijing culture, but not its inconveniences. The Central Business District had the most foreign businessmen, and Shunyi was the home for English teachers working at the international schools. English teachers were only a little superior to the foreigners half their age living in Wǔdàokǒu, the international students’ paradise.

  I approached a group of three people talking near a window. A young French woman with brown hair and full lips was complaining about how difficult it was to date in Beijing. “You know here it is heaven for foreign men. I can’t compete with local women, can I?” Noticing me standing near her, she looked a bit abashed. I pretended I had heard nothing, and talked to a Chinese American man who had just moved to Beijing as an event organizer for one of the biggest nightclubs. But I soon regretted it. He went on and on about how worried he was every day about something killing him: The water and food were poisonous, cars didn’t obey traffic rules, and the electric wiring in his apartment was too old, but the landlord refused to check it properly.

  “Yes, I understand.” I tried hard to be patient. “So, then, what tempted you to come to China in the first place?”

  “It’s easy to find a job here as a foreigner,” he said without blinking. Before I could respond, he continued, “You know what’s most annoying? That Chinese people always speak Chinese to me.” He chuckled. “I often have to say, ‘Excuse me, I’m not Chinese.’ Well, I am Chinese, but American Chinese…”

  Whatever he was trying to say was not sinking into me or was completely full of contradictions, and I wanted him to get out of my face ASAP.

  Claire had become rather tipsy, so I went with her outside to hail a taxi. I put her inside first and jumped in after.

  So happy to leave, I thought.

  “Ten years, ten years working as a saleswoman in Beijing. I’ve moved five times; finally I’m inside Second Ring Road,” she mumbled. The Second Ring was the most expensive. She turned her face to me, and said with a mysterious smile, “As an older sister, I’m going to tell you something: It’s fine to flirt with foreigners, but never get serious. It’s the lesson I learned. None of the foreigners in Beijing are good people…none of them…Who would want to move from a comfortable developed country to a shit hole?”

 
; It was impossible to have a real conversation with her at this point, so I only nodded.

  When I got “home” to the room I was renting in Dingfuzhuang—not a fashionable area but affordable—it was almost one in the morning.

  I recalled Claire’s comments and thought them funny coming from her of all people. She had many foreign boyfriends, and I was sure she was dating one now. I was also dating a man from the UK. It was not a secret, but I didn’t like to broadcast it to everybody in the office.

  His name was Andrew, and we had met at a dinner with a mutual friend, James. That night I asked James to dinner because I was working on a piece about religion and he had done some research on the topic. When I arrived at the restaurant, James said he had asked another friend to join us.

  Soon, a man with a ginger beard approached our table. He was thin and his legs looked long in his dark blue jeans. I liked his brown-leather watchband. He had a square face, and through his glasses I noticed passion in his eyes. His beard looked redder in the candlelight.

  He looks like a fox, I thought.

  “Andrew, this is Karoline. You’re both writers.”

  Andrew, who was from the UK, said he was in Beijing working on a book about Chinese youth. He said he had read my articles in That’s Beijing and liked them. I was flattered, but not convinced. I had heard that the British could be deceptive, though aiming sometimes to be polite—it was their way of saving face—so when they said interesting, they might actually mean “boring.”

  My English skills were only good enough to deal with one native speaker at a time. When the two of them talked, I found it hard to follow, so I just sat quietly. Before we left, Andrew opened the door for me, and gestured for me to go first. I didn’t know any Chinese men who did things like that.

  A few days later, he sent a text asking if I wanted to go to a Halloween party with him.