Jake fell for Qiang before he even met him, two years earlier. A former classmate now living in San Francisco emailed Jake to let him know about a friend who had just left a position as chief marketing officer with a firm that developed programmatic ad buying services.
“He’s the smartest guy I know and the most down to earth,” his friend said in the note. “Oh, and I may as well let you know that he’s very easy on the eyes. You can’t get a better combination.”
The email continued with more details about Qiang, more than necessary for an introduction. Through these details, Jake saw the sense of loss his classmate was feeling because of Qiang’s departure. After reading the email a few times, an infatuation with Qiang began to grow like vines climbing tree bark.
Jake took to Qiang when they first met over drinks at a bar in the neighbourhood about an hour before the party on Pierre’s rooftop terrace. He thought Qiang would appreciate a before party briefing on who’s who and a champagne toast to celebrate a new beginning in Beijing. They might then get to know each other better during the ten-minute stroll to Pierre’s.
Qiang had arrived in Beijing from San Francisco less than 24 hours earlier but showed no sign of the sleep interruption that comes with a trans-Pacific flight. Wearing a navy-blue hoodie over a black t-shirt with faded blue jeans and converse running shoes, Qiang looked very Californian, like a photographer keen to fade into the background and not at all interested in making much of an impression. While no one arrived at Pierre’s parties looking flashy, most sported some kind of personifying element to get a conversation started. An element that no one else at the party would possibly have: a beret here, a studded leather belt there, a psychedelic patch sewn onto a pair of jeans. Jake’s flourishes that evening were the bright orange racing stripes down each sleeve of an olive drab Junya Watanabe jacket which he wore over a grey t-shirt and jeans.
Unlike an American, Qiang arrived with a gift. A tube of Tom’s of Maine brand natural toothpaste, the sort of specialty item that hadn’t yet caught on in China and was available nowhere in the country. It was a token of his appreciation, Qiang said, for Jake making some time for him on a Saturday night and including him in an important social event.
“I know toothpaste is a little unusual,” he said. “But this is good stuff and it’s something I’m sure you’ll use regularly. I have an American friend in Shanghai who always asks for this stuff.”
Jake looked at the box and let out a small laugh. Not because he thought the gift was inappropriate or trite. Toothpaste made with natural ingredients was more than a token. There was real spearmint oil in this product. The packaging was understated, featuring a seal certifying that its ingredients were organic, a counterpoint to every other consumer product in China. Reports of unhealthy or counterfeit items filtering through the consumer markets had just started to make headlines in the domestic media. Jake and one of his colleagues were following the story also. Unable to discern real from fake or contaminated from clean, Jake had subconsciously buried the issue and hoped whatever he was consuming or brushing his teeth with would not inflict any lasting damage on him. Part of Jake wanted to go back to his apartment immediately and brush his teeth. If nothing else went his way that evening, Jake thought, he could end it in the early morning hours by falling asleep with a minty fresh mouth. Perhaps the fragrance of the genuine essential oils would last until he woke the next day.
“Oh my God, I…” Jake started to say.
“Sorry, I’m really the worst when it comes to picking out gifts.”
“Oh no, please. You don’t understand,” Jake continued. “I love this. You’re absolutely right, Qiang. It’s something I’ll be able to use every day for the next month or two and it’s like a little piece of what’s good about the U.S., right? You don’t see so much of this kind of thing here.”
“Well, not yet. It’s coming, I’m sure,” Qiang replied. “I stuffed one of my bags with these tubes so I’ll give you a few more later.”
“Please, that’s not necessary. This is kind enough,” Jake said while holding up the toothpaste box. “Now tell me about what you’ll be getting up to here. I hear you’ll be shooting documentaries.”
The conversation flowed better than Jake had expected, mostly due to Qiang’s curiosity about Beijing. How much had Jake’s neighbourhood changed in the decade he’d been in the city? What kind of live music options are there at 798, the old munitions factory district which had gradually transformed into an artist colony? What sorts of barriers had Jake come up against in his news reporting?
By the time crumpled cocktail napkins began to accumulate and the empty wine bottles started to outnumber the unopened ones, Jake realized he had been sticking by Qiang’s side since they arrived, even as they merged into and out of small groups of guests keen to introduce themselves to the new arrival. Qiang gave no hint that he’d had enough of Jake’s company. But, Jake thought after introducing him to a couple of other journalists, wouldn’t anyone with good social graces stick with their escort in this situation? This question then set off a recap of the evening to that point. Who had benefitted more from the before-party de-brief and the champagne toast, not to mention the leisurely stroll to the party? Jake suddenly saw through his own self-deception. Was his attachment to Qiang throughout the evening predatory – a bid to mark territory – or selfless? Which way had Qiang seen it? Was Qiang just too polite to extricate himself from this game? Once this possibility became clear to Jake, he scanned the venue for another island of social interaction on which he could beach himself. He spotted a friend of Pierre’s who had just returned from a holiday, someone tedious but worth a few minutes of droll conversation for the opportunity of a smooth transition away from Qiang.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” Jake said as he tuned back into the conversation Qiang and a few others were having about a new railroad to Tibet. He put a hand on Qiang’s shoulder. “You seem pretty established here, Qiang. I need to chat with a couple of friends over yonder,” Jake said, gesturing across the terrace. “If, for some reason, I don’t find you before I leave, you have my number and email, right?”
“Oh, sure,” Qiang said, looking a bit confused, just as Jake wanted it. “Don’t worry, I’ll look for you before I go,” he added.
“You never know who might sweep you off your feet at one of Pierre’s parties, Qiang. Pierre’s not happy unless there’s plenty of gossip about what happens here. Anyway, we’ll get together sometime soon if I don’t see you later. Drop me a line whenever you want.”
As he walked away, Jake felt as though he had played his hand like an expert. He exchanged the possibility of a fast romance, however remote, for assurance that he wasn’t a loser, at least not in this particular case. Dignity is healthier than speculative pursuit and, anyway, time would tell whether something more exciting could develop between him and Qiang. With this achievement of discipline over emotion, Jake had found it easier to keep his thoughts about Qiang confined.
Over the next couple of weeks, the few times when the two of them met for lunch or drinks, their conversations rarely strayed from impersonal subjects like their shared hatred for warmongering Republicans in Washington, DC or American films, which Jake was able to keep up with thanks to Beijing’s many bootlegged DVD shops.
Qiang might occasionally mention others in Pierre’s circle who invited him for dinner and Jake would clench his teeth but reveal only a casual interest.
“Oh, yeah? What did you say?”
“It was awkward,” Qiang said several times, always to Jake’s relief. “My work is my only focus right now.”
Jake would then say something like, “You’d think that message would have sunk in by now.”
Knowing that Qiang batted away propositions like cold marketing calls helped Jake accept the distance he would have to keep. At least he was a confidante of sorts, enjoying a proximity to Qiang that no one else in Beijing had. It wasn’t like being chosen last for the sports team or the sting from the d
ozen rejection letters Jake got back from the prestigious colleges he should not have bothered applying to.
But this resignation didn’t last. Just as water has a way of infiltrating the strongest of barriers, Jake’s feelings broke through their constraints when he saw a hidden dimension to Qiang’s kindness.
A mid-week dinner party organized by Pierre added fuel to Jake’s attraction. Pierre wanted to do something special for an old friend in town on business for just a few nights. He called it for 8:30 p.m., which really meant 9:00 p.m., to accommodate the work-related crises that seemed to be part and parcel of expat jobs as home offices in New York or London sent impossible requests. Only ten guests, including Jake and Qiang, probably, Jake thought, because Pierre wanted to get closer to the fresh arrival. Place cards with names scrawled out in Pierre’s handwriting supported his theory. Four on each side of the table’s length. Pierre at one end and his out-of-towner friend at the other. Jake and Qiang at opposite corners and, of course, Qiang was to share a corner with Pierre.
As the guests unwound with gin drinks and wine around the piano in Pierre’s living room, munching on cashews and nori, Jake moved his place card, switching himself with the guest seated on Qiang’s immediate left.
When the guests gathered at the table, each taking positions behind their designated seats, Pierre gave Jake an inquisitive look. Eager to bat away an awkward exchange, Jake opened his arms in a gesture that drew attention to the table. Fine silver and crystal. Two bottles of Veuve, each planted in ice-filled tureens, and several bottles of well-aged Bourdeaux. Pierre’s dinner party guests were always forbidden from bringing their own wine. Pierre would explain that he ordered too much of his own but everyone knew he simply didn’t trust the tastes of his guests and no one begrudged the opportunity of an immaculate meal without even having to drop 100 kuai.
“Impeccable taste, as always, Pierre,” Jake said. “Thanks very much for inviting … me.”
Jake almost said ‘us’, stopping himself at the last moment when he realized ‘us’ might be taken to mean him and Qiang, an implication that might be risky.
The dinner was prepared by the sous chef at one of Beijing’s most prestigious Western restaurants. The meal consisted of eight courses including a starter of tuna tataki served with wasabi mayo and red quinoa and a main course of pan-seared lamb chops, broccoli rabe, rosemary fingerling potatoes and parsley butter.
Pierre played the role of a Western banker well. The most financially well-endowed expats in Beijing usually flaunted their ability to live a life removed from the local environment in every respect - nutritionally, linguistically and vertically.
After a fourth course of garlicky escargot, the chef’s two servers brought out a very pale sorbet served in martini glasses. Confused, Jake looked at what he thought was dessert.
“I…”
As he began to speak, Qiang put a hand on his knee and clenched. The effect was much like a jockey pulling his reins to stop a horse from trotting.
“Wow,” Qiang said, interrupting Jake and turning to Pierre. He kept his hand on Jake’s knee. “You’ve gone as far as to have us cleanse our palettes. I guess the main course is coming next.”
With a hand on Jake’s knee and compliment to the host, Qiang had saved him from the kind of embarrassment he dreaded most. He had no idea how common it was for the cultured classes to “cleanse their palettes” with sorbet during a meal. Was this something they did at family dinners or was it only reserved for fine dining? Jake had been to many high-end restaurants. He had picked up a taste for things like fig marmalade with hard cheese on water crackers, an oddity for someone who had only ever eaten preserves. Jelly to him went with peanut butter on pre-sliced white bread or an English muffin if things were fancy. How is water the featured ingredient in any food product anyway? How had he not yet come across this custom of cleansing one’s palette with bland sorbet before the main course?
As these questions darted through his mind, he remembered to finish the sentence he started.
“I… have never seen the cleanse served in martini glasses.”
Jake couldn’t be sure that the sorbet wasn’t usually served in martini glasses, so he clarified.
“I mean I haven’t seen it served in such nice martini glasses.”
The other guests had already dug into their sorbet, some of them continuing with their conversations, so Jake’s ignorance remained concealed.
But the relief he felt - this infusion of warmth, reassurance, bliss and confidence - vaporized into memory when Qiang took his hand from Jake’s knee and put it back on the table.
How, Jake wondered, did Qiang know what he was about to ask? His kindness had sprung into play like a reflex, giving Jake more insight into Qiang’s intelligence.
Jake pulled Qiang aside after they left Pierre’s to ask him.
“Oh, that” he said, as if he had completely forgotten the incident. “I was there once before. The first time I got sorbet in the middle of a meal, I had no idea what it was. It’s not a common thing as far as I know. Anyway, I kind of sensed what you were about to say. Don’t worry, that kind of thing is only for extreme foodies.”
Qiang laughed away any residual embarrassment Jake had felt as though they were in on a joke together.
As Jake rode home in a cab, he wondered if he would have made the same protective move on behalf of another guest. He wasn’t sure. Or maybe he was sure but didn’t want to acknowledge what would have transpired. When you’re so conscientious about what other people think, you’re not inclined to pass up a chance to look smarter. Qiang had no interest in this kind of opportunity.
“…and I’ll be home in a week, hopefully with Qiang,” Jake hears Diane say as she ends the phone call.
A loud flush from the powder room followed by a rush of water from the faucet helps to break the spell. Ben emerges and walks into the dining room. He’s shed his overcoat, showing him to be thinner than he appeared at first. Or perhaps his odd introduction made him seem bigger. He wears a black leather blazer over a t-shirt with an image of Mao Zedong standing next to Whitney Houston.
“That was cathartic,” Ben says.
“You’re just an open book, aren’t you, Ben?” Jake says. “We’re having some tea but I also have some red wine on offer.”
“Yes, Qiang told me you love your red,” Ben says as he opens his suitcase and rummages through it. He pulls out a bottle of wine with an appropriately faded label full of French text. Côtes du Rhône, several cuts above Australian varieties Jake usually buys in Beijing. Ben hands it to Jake.
“And for all of us…,” Ben says as he digs further through a mass of clothing he didn’t bother to fold properly. He pulls out a bottle of precious-looking whiskey and holds it up like a trophy with one hand and points at Jake with the other.
“You, my friend, are from Kentucky, so I got the best Bourbon available in Bluegrass Country!” he says.
Jake tries to place Ben’s accent which sounds like the midwestern broadcast standard, except for his slightly long pronunciation of “grass,” which suggests either an elite, New England upbringing or a significant chunk of time spent in the UK.
Jake recognizes the label. “Basil Heyden’s. You know bourbon.”
“Basil Heyden’s! Spicy like rye but smoother,” Ben announces like a spokesman for the product.
Jake doesn’t like bourbon, or anything from Kentucky for that matter. And no one from Kentucky drinks Basil Heyden. Jake sees it more for people who pride themselves on cultural intelligence. Proclamations of love for Kentucky bourbon, particularly when you’re not from the state, confer high and low-brow credentials simultaneously. One needs a thorough understanding of Scotch, including the subtleties of highland peat moss, in order to make the conscious decision to like the version of whiskey developed in North America, the kind descended from the stills of Appalachian hillbillies.
None of this matters to Jake as much as the fact that this complete stranger knows how much h
e likes red wine. In fact, everything so far feels wrong. Teapots, bourbon, cathartic defecation and the generally light tone all seem at odds with the situation facing them. But Jake chooses to be a diplomat.
“This is too kind of you, Ben,” Jake says as he scans the wine bottle’s label. “I have a few questions for you, like how do you know about my greatest weakness, but we should probably save that for later.”
“Let’s all just have a sip of bourbon and we’ll get into it,” Ben says. “Where are your glasses, mate?”
Fatigue catches up with Jake as soon as they’re sitting around his dining room table, Jake with red wine, Diane with tea and Ben with his high-end bourbon.
“You know,” Jake says as he takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, “Qiang has a contact in Washington who may be able to start what we call, in English, some back-channel chatter about your brother. This would make it clear to whoever’s holding Qiang that his disappearance will become something China’s Foreign Ministry will eventually need to manage if the issue drags out. It would be a warning, delivered respectfully, allowing the Foreign Ministry to keep face.
“Friends in Washington? No, I don’t think it’s the time for that,” Diane says.
“Have you thought about when the time will come for us to reach out to our connections in Washington?” Jake asks. “I’m not proposing that we go to the media at this point. We just want the authorities to know that Qiang’s disappearance hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“I understand,” Diane says, this time looking at Jake directly. “I understand and appreciate that but I don’t think it’s an appropriate time yet.”
“So, you’re planning to visit the Public Security Bureau tomorrow? What kind of strategy are you going there with and what do you hope to accomplish?” Jake asks as suspicions about Diane begin to worry him. Whose side is she on?
The Wounded Muse Page 9
