Kitchen Chinese (32 page)

“Havin’ a good time. Whaddha
you
doin’?” She staggers toward the sink, leaning into the mirror to examine her eye makeup.

“Watch out!” I exclaim as she loses her balance and clutches
the counter to steady herself. “Claire, I think we should go home. You’re…you’ve had too much to drink. And you have other people relying on you.” I look pointedly at her belly.

“Oh, please. Don’t get all saintly on me now.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m enjoying myself. I haven’t felt this normal in weeks. Marco is cute and I think he’s about to ask me for my number.”

“He’s about to ask you for more than that,” I snort.

“Just one more drink,” she pleads. “I haven’t been out in ages. And then we can go.”

“Okay,” I concede. “But make it coffee. You need to sober up or I don’t know how we’re going to get home.”

But either she ignores me or doesn’t hear. As we exit back into the dark swirl of the party, her eyes are frozen on someone in the distance. Standing by the stage, directing a flock of masked acrobats on stilts, is the one person guaranteed to send Claire home: Wang Wei.

She whirls around, snatching my arm. “We have to go now. I was positive he wouldn’t be here tonight. I can’t
believe
the
bastard
…How could he do this to me…” Muttering under her breath, she strides toward the door, glancing back only to make sure I’m following her. “Hurry up!” she snaps, tossing me her beaded evening bag. “You’re going to have to drive.”

Outside in the dry night air, I stop walking. “What did you just say?”

“Let’s go. You’re driving.”

“What?”

“Obviously I can’t, and you’ve been sipping sparkling water all night. Come on.” Her fingers shaking, she opens the bag and extracts the keys.

“Are you kidding me? There’s no way in hell I’m getting behind the wheel in Beijing. Have you seen the way people drive in this city? Let’s just call a cab. We’ll get the car tomorrow.”

“We’re in the fucking sticks. There aren’t any cabs.”
Her voice grows anguished. “Please, Iz, you have to do this for me. I can’t bear seeing him. Please, please, please.”

Despite myself, her desperation makes me climb behind the wheel, thanking my lucky stars that Ed forced me to get a Beijing driver’s license for a story. The steering wheel feels slippery beneath my sweaty palms, and I pull onto the dark narrow road slowly, flashing the high beams.

“Just relax,” says Claire. “Driving here is easy.”

“Okay,” I say, my voice pitched high.

I follow signs back to the main highway, my hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock, foot hovering over the brake. I’ve been driving since I turned sixteen, but nothing could prepare me for Beijing’s pothole-riddled streets, the cars that zoom out of nowhere, wafting in and out of my lane, drivers who never contemplate a glance to their blind spot. By the time we reach the Third Ring Road, my limbs feel shaky. Almost there, I think. Almost home. I press my foot against the accelerator to overtake a giant dump truck as it lumbers along the center of the highway.

Later, what I will remember most is how quickly everything happened. The dump truck veering sharply into my lane, the crunch of metal on impact, the way the brakes feel like air as I ineffectively pump them, the reckless skid of the car as it spins across traffic. Our shouts, not screams, but bellows that come from somewhere deep inside.

It seems like the car won’t stop, but when it finally does, the headlights of the dump truck shine through the gaping hole of the driver’s side window. Broken glass covers my lap, gleaming sharply on my black skirt, the seat, the floor.

“Are you okay?” My voice quivers as I turn to look at my sister.

“Oh my God, Iz, you’re bleeding!” She reaches out to touch
my collarbone, her hands shaking as she removes a tiny shard of glass.

“It’s just a scratch. I’m fine,” I tell her. “Are you?”

“I think so.” We climb out of the car—my door is crunched shut, so I clamber out her side—and slowly make our way to the side of the road. The driver of the dump truck approaches us; he is plump, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a solid belly. I can’t even look him in the eye when he apologizes.

We stand there on the side of the road, staring at the wreck of crushed metal that is Claire’s car, the cab of the orange truck hovering above as if victorious. Later, the dump truck driver will file a police report accepting all blame, Claire and I will tell the story to our friends and agree to hide it from our family, we will say how lucky we were to escape with just a scratch. But now, as we wait in the dry night air, I can only clutch at each breath of air, filling my lungs as I’ve done instinctively from the moment I emerged into the world.

A gust of wind blows the hair off my forehead, and Claire crosses her arms and shivers. “Do you want to go to the hospital,” I ask, “just to make sure everything is okay?”

She moves her head almost imperceptibly, but when she finally speaks her voice is clear. “Yes,” she says.

A
smog-streaked sunset tints the kitchen pink as I pour myself a glass of wine and put a pot of water on the stove to boil. In the foyer, I hear the thump of the front door as it opens and closes, and a few seconds later Claire wanders in.

“Are you making dinner? I’m starving!” She looks hopefully at the counter, where I’ve assembled my ingredients: spaghettini, butter, parmesan cheese.

“Just a little pasta. Want me to throw some in for you?”

“Ooh, yes please. I’m famished!” She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. In the two weeks since our accident, Claire has been to the doctor four times, but all seems to be well with the baby, despite her momentary lapse in judgment. She’s less nauseous now and her cheeks have regained some color, though a permanent look of worry hovers in her eyes. I think it’s the expression of motherhood.

A hiss from the stove indicates the water is boiling, and I stir in the noodles, Claire watching me from across the counter. “Oh, so you wait until the water boils
and then
you put the spaghetti in,” she says.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Hey, maybe you can teach me how to make food that the Little Pea will eat. Ooh, like those smoked salmon scrambled eggs…or maybe caviar and buckwheat blini…”

“I see the Little Pea will share its mother’s expensive tastes.”

“Mais oui,”
she giggles.

“Actually,” I grab the hunk of cheese and start grating, “you know who you should ask for recipes? Mom.”

There’s a beat of silence that lasts so long it grows uncomfortable. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Mom and Dad,” Claire says finally. “I didn’t want to say anything until I’d made a decision, but I’m thinking about going home.”

“Back to New York?” I look at her with surprise.

“Yeah.” She twists a lock of hair between her fingers. “It’s not going to be easy doing this on my own, and frankly, I could really use the support.”

“I think that makes a lot of sense,” I tell her.

“Really?” Relief floods her face. “You’re not mad? You’ll have to look for a place to live…”

“Or, maybe I’ll go back too.” I shrug. “I’ve gotten some good experience here, had some good bylines. Maybe I could get some
sort of assistant job at a magazine, working for Condé Nast, or something. And I could babysit.”

“That’s really sweet of you, but do you really want to be an assistant again?” She pulls a face. “Making coffee and copies, fetching and carrying, answering phones…”

“It’s really not that bad.”

“Huh,” she snorts. “I’ve seen
The Devil Wears Prada.
”

“Have you talked to Mom?” I ask, to change the subject.

“I left her a message. She’ll probably call tonight.”

We eat our spaghetti while watching TV, twirling the buttery cheesy strands around our forks. Our plates stand empty on the coffee table and Claire is in the bathroom again when the phone rings.

“Can you get that?” she calls. “It’s probably Mom.”

I answer the phone expecting the booming cheer of my mother. Instead, I hear another voice, familiar and dear.

“Iz? It’s Julia.”

“Hi!” I squeal. “Oh my God, how are you?”

She pauses. “I have good news,” she says.

“You’re pregnant!” I exclaim. “Your baby and my niece will play together!”

“What? No!” she laughs.

“Well, what is it?”

I feel her settling against the phone, making herself comfortable for a long conversation. “So, remember that author I mentioned? The one who’s an editor at
Cuisine
magazine? I was having lunch with her yesterday and she couldn’t stop talking about China. Apparently it’s become this super fad and everyone—”

“Where did you go for lunch?”

“Lupa.”

“Did you get that pasta I like? The one with the black pepper and pecorino cheese?”

“Iz,” she says warningly. “This call is like eighteen dollars a minute.” She takes a deep breath and launches back into the story. “She kept asking me about my trip to Hong Kong and how I knew about so many great restaurants. So finally to get her off the topic I told her about you and your columns on Chinese regional cuisine.”

“How—”

“Andrew forwarded them to me. Anyway, I thought she would drop it and we could talk about her next book idea. But she got really excited and made me promise to get in touch with you.”

“Why?” I smile at the enthusiasm in Julia’s voice, but I have no idea why she’s so excited.

“So I told her you’d call her today. Well, tonight for you.”

“Sure, but why?”

“For the
column
,” she says in an exasperated tone. “The one I told you to write. About regional cuisines in China.”

Suddenly I am clutching the phone so tight my ear burns.

“She wants to hear your ideas,” Julia continues. “It’s just for the website, and it doesn’t pay much, but I figured it could be a good way to make some contacts, you know? Hello…? Iz?”

I want to answer her but I can only stare at the variegated shades of pink in our marble floor, unable to utter a sound.

T
here are just a handful of perfect days in Beijing, days unsullied by smog or dust, sultry temps or frigid winds. Days when the skies look scrubbed clean, when the sun brightens painted eaves and glints off glass and steel office towers. I’ve been eyeing the weather reports on CNN anxiously all week, but as I wander among the cool, fragrant aisles of the Laitai Flower Market, I feel silly for having worried. Of course Claire’s last Saturday in Beijing would dawn shiny and golden, a perfect autumn day.

I shift the flowers in my arms and add a bunch of white roses before carrying them to the shopgirl.
“Waaaah! Neme duo hua’r!”
So many flowers! She divides them into two piles and starts wrapping them in newspaper.

“They’re for a party,” I tell her, glancing at my watch. Only two hours left and I have centerpieces to arrange, champagne to chill, food deliveries to accept.

At our apartment, the giant space looks even larger, stripped bare of Claire’s rugs and artwork. I pad quickly through the rooms, breathing a sigh of relief when I see that Claire’s not home. Ed promised to keep her occupied this morning with a whistle-stop tour of the Forbidden City, which Claire still hasn’t seen despite her five plus years in Beijing.

“Don’t wear her out,” I commanded. “And don’t let her drag you home too early, or you’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Don’t worry.” He turned away, but not before I thought I heard him say, “I’ve been hoping to spend some time alone with her.”

Claire asked her law firm for a transfer three months ago, and since then things have been a flurry of shopping and packing, doctors’ appointments, ultrasounds, and a whole new wardrobe for her growing bump. Together we sorted through our belongings, discarding old papers and clothes (Claire spent a happy and merciless hour in my closet) in preparation for our move. Our relationship has become a bit easier since the car accident, despite Claire’s black moods, which still roll in like summer storms. We haven’t started swapping clothes or secrets, and we probably never will, but we admire each other now from a respectful distance, our glances no longer wary.

I didn’t think she’d want to know, but a few weeks ago she came home and told me that she’s having a girl. “Can you believe it? I just hope she doesn’t grow up to hate me. You know mothers and daughters…” she said with a grimace. Later, though, when
she thought I wasn’t listening, I caught her patting her belly and whispering about third-wave feminism.

The doorbell rings and I help the caterers carry in trays of food: enormous bowls of cold sesame noodles, platters of poached salmon, grilled beef studded with Sichuan peppercorns, a mound of leafy salad greens sprinkled with lacy Yunnan herbs, tiny
pao de quejo
cheese puffs, all from Claire’s favorite restaurant, an eclectic Brazilian-Chinese-European fusion bistro.

Geraldine arrives on the dot of one, immediately throwing an apron over her lime green sundress. We stack plates and napkins on the dining room table and arrange the flowers in vases, large masses of creamy white blossoms scattered throughout the apartment.

“The place looks gorgeous, Iz.” Geraldine pauses in the living room, admiring the sun as it streaks over the floors. “Do you think you’ll miss it?”

“Of course.” I glance out the window at the gleaming buildings that rise around us, the cars inching their way along the Third Ring Road. “But I’m looking forward to having my own space. And my new neighborhood.”

“And your new neighbors, I hope.” She arches her eyebrows and grins. “I can’t wait to have you down the street!”

With Geraldine’s help, I’ve found an apartment near Houhai, a bright space with white walls and avocado green tiles in the kitchen. It’s about one-third the size of Claire’s apartment, but still far roomier than my old place in New York.

“How about Claire?” Geraldine asks. “She’s not moving back in with your parents, is she?”

“Oh my God, no!” I laugh. “She’s renting something on the Upper East Side. It’s only a one-bedroom but it’ll be big enough until she can find something else.”

“And close enough for your mom to visit,” Geraldine reminds me. “Or is she still too upset about everything?”

“Yeah, that lasted for about a day. She’s already knitted twelve pairs of booties and started driving Claire crazy with her advice. Her latest e-mail warned Claire against talking on her cell phone and making photocopies. Apparently the flash of the Xerox machine can release radioactive rays to the fetus.” I roll my eyes.

The doorbell rings again and I go to answer it, smoothing down the folds of my floaty silk skirt. The polite smiles of Claire’s coworkers greet me, that reticent senior partner with the pointy Shakespeare beard, and his wife, a pleasant, buxom woman with pillowy arms. “Hi!” I exclaim, trying to buy time with enthusiasm. What are their names? “It’s so great to see you, Don and uh…Barbara.”

“Steven,” he booms. Damn. Well, at least I got her name right.

“Brandy,” she offers.

“Can I get you a drink?”

By the time I’ve wrestled open a bottle of white wine and settled them on the sofa, the bell has rung again and again, and soon the living room is filled with Claire’s friends. There are the Chinese glamour girls, huddled by the window as far away from the food as possible. A gaggle of expats stands by the bar, pouring healthy slugs of gin and helpfully opening bottles of wine. Claire’s coworkers relax on the couch, blinking in the unfamiliar freedom of being away from the office on a Saturday afternoon. Gab and Geraldine munch on handfuls of cheese bread in the kitchen, while Tina Chang and Jeff snuggle in a corner, oblivious to the stares of the other guests.

By three-thirty I’ve drunk three caipirinhas, refilled the platters of food twice, and unplugged the toilet once. “Irene! Great party! Where’s Claire?” Kristin from the American embassy
brushes past me on her way to the bathroom. That’s weird, I don’t remember inviting her.

Geraldine refills my glass from a tall pitcher. “Should I be worried that Ed and Claire aren’t here yet?” I ask.

“I think you should relax and enjoy the party.”

“But what if they got into an accident? What if something’s wrong with the baby?”

“What if they’re locked in a passionate embrace in Ed’s apartment?”

My mouth drops open. “Are you serious? Ed and Claire?”

“Stranger things have happened.” She smiles.

Before I can press her for details, two short beeps from my cell phone announce a text from Ed. “Oh my God, they’re in the elevator! Everyone, shhhhh! They’re coming!”

The room quiets to an unnatural silence, until I’m sure everyone can hear the wild pounding of my heart. Will Claire be surprised? Happy? Suddenly I wonder if throwing her a surprise party was a good idea. I hear the scratchy rattle of the key in the lock and take a hasty swallow from my glass. Claire is laughing as the door opens but she’s soon drowned out in the chorus of our greeting.

“Surprise!”

Claire’s eyes open huge and dark, her face flushes rosy, as she places one hand over her mouth and one on her bump. Her friends engulf her, hugging her and patting her belly to feel the baby kick. She stretches a hand to her face, and if I didn’t know better, if I wasn’t completely sure of Claire’s rigid stance against any form of sentimentality, I’d have sworn that she brushed a few tears away. Someone brings her half a glass of champagne, which she sips slowly. Chatter floods the apartment, people eat and drink, spill and laugh, and I stand back and watch the party, happy that it is finally complete.

In the kitchen, I arrange squares of chili-infused brownies on a silver tray and unearth pints of mango ice cream from the freezer.

“Hello,” says a familiar voice behind me. I turn and find Charlie’s steady blue gaze, two flutes of champagne in his hand. “I thought you could use a drink,” he says.

“How…Who invited…I mean, how did you know…?”

He smiles. “I ran into Claire in the lobby last week and she told me about the party.”

“What! That little fink! I can’t believe she knew all along and—”

Charlie hands me a glass and raises his in a toast. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Claire told you—”

“About your new column? Yes. Well done, Iz, though I must say I’m not surprised. I always thought you had a writerly look about you.”

“Pale with bloodshot eyes?” I joke.

“More like extremely observant with a razor sharp wit.” Our glasses clink and we each take a sip. “If you need help doing any research, trying new restaurants, I’d love to go with you—” He breaks off and looks at me shyly.

“Aren’t you leaving soon? Moving to Paris?” I narrow my eyes. “Just because I’m not a litigator or—or a diplomat doesn’t mean that you can’t take me seriously.”

“Take you seriously? All I’ve ever wanted was to—”

“Haven’t you been avoiding me?” I demand.

He looks slightly abashed. “No! I know it might seem that way. But first I got tied up by the North Koreans and their nuclear weapons, and then after I saw you in Shanghai…”

“Yes?” I raise my chin.

“I just couldn’t understand why you’d give that guy—what’s his name?”

“Jeff?” I say unhappily.

“Yes, him. Why did you even give him the time of day?” Before I can answer, he continues. “Look, it’s true. I’m moving to Paris. But I still have a year left in Beijing and a lot can happen in a year.”

I look at him doubtfully. “I don’t know…”

“Take the noodle shop across the street—opened and closed within a year. Or, Claire—she went from Sexpat in the City to mother-to-be in less than a year. And you, how long have you been in Beijing?”

“Ten months,” I admit.

“Well, if you can build a new life in a new country in only ten months, surely that’s enough time to…fall in love?”

I feel myself wavering. “And after a year, then what?”

He looks at me hopefully. “Do you like Paris?”

And then he takes a step toward me and I smell that fresh, clean scent again. Gently he puts his arms around me, and my knees tremble as his mouth touches mine.

I don’t know how long we stand there in the kitchen, but I’m about to suggest we move into the bedroom when a step behind us makes us break apart. I feel heat in my cheeks as I straighten my skirt and sweater, looking up to meet Claire’s amused gaze.

“Well, it’s about time!” she says. “Honestly, I’ve never known two people more resistant to my matchmaking…completely obstinate…” She grabs the tray of brownies from the counter and turns to leave.

“Wait a second!” I say. “You—You planned this? You were trying to set us up?”

“Let’s just say it was obvious to me from the minute I met Charlie that he’d be perfect for you.” Her smile is satisfied. “Bring in the ice cream, okay? You can make out after our guests leave.”

Charlie gathers up the cartons and leaves the kitchen, but I linger behind, filling the kettle, turning it on to make coffee. Even from our kitchen window the view of Beijing sprawls blocky, dotted with construction sites, teeming with cars, always in motion. I can sense the crackle of energy in the air, the shaky levitation of hope, the busy, big world, so full of possibilities.

There will be work ahead, research and writing, and many, many difficult conversations in Chinese. And good things too, the birth of my niece, spending time with Charlie, picnics on the Great Wall, boat rides on the Back Lakes, late night strolls through shadowy
hutongs
…

The kettle whistles and I turn away from the window wondering if perhaps Charlie would like Chinese food for dinner, and if so, what kind.