by Ann Mah
At dinner, Ayi sat next to me, maintaining a towering heap of food on my plate. As the honored guest, I was treated to the fattiest morsels of cured sausage, while the dishes of vegetables—inexpensive, and thus ordinary—were kept far from my eager chopsticks. Bowls of mao er dou—cat’s ear noodles shaped like pointed orrechiette—were mixed with scrambled egg and tomato, seasoned with sugar (because tomatoes are a fruit, after all), and doused with the region’s famous black vinegar. Plates of sliced cucumber and tart, stir-fried shredded cabbage rounded out the simple meal.
I politely swallowed slice after slice of fatty meat and finished my bowl of noodles, until my stomach felt ready to explode. As soon as I had slurped up the last bite, Ayi snatched my bowl away and scooped in another helping, my exclamations of “Chi baole!” (I’m full!) falling on deaf ears. Afraid of offending her, I forced down the second bowl. When she refilled my bowl a third time, I thought I might burst from her kindness.
After dinner, Ayi and I watched Xiao Baobei toddle between the broken appliances and rusted bicycles that littered the small courtyard. The baby was actually her granddaughter, the child of her only son, Ayi revealed, holding his photo between tobacco-stained fingers. He’s gone to Beijing to seek construction work, she explained. His wife lives with him and takes care of foreigners’ kids. They send money home once a month. In the picture, a young man with rumpled hair stares out unsmiling, his jaw jutting forward in defiance.
Neighbors stopped to say hello, most eyeing me with undisguised curiosity. Though this courtyard home was built for a single family, the Shis share it with three other households, each living in one of the four buildings that border the square, central space. Running water spouts from a corroded tap, but bathing happens at the public shower down the street. To me, the lack of privacy is a gnawing discomfort—even the toilet stalls lack doors—but everyone else accepts it.
In Beijing, the explosion of new buildings and fleets of shiny Audis make it easy to forget about China’s poverty. But in this rural village, ayi, shushu, nainai, and their neighbors still clearly struggle to find food and clean water. It occurs to me that they’re among the lucky; thanks to a steady flow of tourist income, Pingyao is less impoverished than most. I shut my eyes and try to imagine my grandparents, my father’s parents, Cantonese farmers who emigrated to California in 1925. They died before I was born, taking with them all traces of their former life. I’ll never know if their Guangdong village was anything like this.
Sleep comes in the early hours of the morning and is brief. I am awakened by the sound of a rooster calling roo roo rooooooooo! I saw him clucking about the courtyard yesterday, his tail feathers bristling as he pecked circles around Baobei’s fat toes. Outside, the sky looks milky gray, with clouds blanketing the surface. I climb out of bed and struggle into my jeans, which are fast becoming greasily soft with overwearing. With light filling the sky, I am finally brave (or desperate) enough to visit the bathroom.
Despite the early hour, the family is already awake. As I slip out of the house, I see Ayi hunched over the dining table, the day’s chores already started. Her hands blur as she skillfully rolls and presses dough into cat’s ear noodles. “Good morning!” she calls out to me, waving a hand covered in flour.
In the morning chill, the bathroom seems more manageable and, thus emboldened, I vow to visit the public shower. I need to take a shower; my hair clings to my head like an oil slick. I walk quickly back to the Shis to gather my things, breathing in the heavy, smoky scent of coal that fills the air. In, out, in, out, the deep, calming breaths fill my lungs and a light vibration makes my leg tremble. Who is calling me at 6:30 A.M.? The name lights up the screen: jeff.
“Hey there, you’re up early!” A smile creeps across my face.
“Early? You mean late. I haven’t gone to bed yet, babe. Where are you? You didn’t answer my e-mail.” His voice is husky with cigarettes and something else—desire?
“I told you…I’m in Pingyao. With Tina.” My trip to Pingyao means I had to cancel our date, something I’m sure Tina planned.
“Ohhh yeahhhh.” Is that a touch of anxiety in his voice? “How’s it going?”
I take a deep breath, ready to complain about the Shis’ primitive home, the smelliness of the toilet, Tina’s suspiciously solicitous manner, but instead I let it out. “Everything’s fine,” I say.
“I wanted to see you last night,” he says sulkily.
“I’m really sorry. But I’ll be back Friday.” I find myself using a wheedling tone, as if I’m talking to a child.
“That’s so far away! I need to see you, Li Jia.”
“Friday.”
On the other end of the phone I hear a rising squeal of voices and then a whoosh as if Jeff has covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Hello?” I say. “Hello?”
“That sounds great, babe,” he says, suddenly distracted. “Look, I really need to crash, so I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll talk to you later—” I hear the series of beeps, which mean he’s ended the call. “’Bye,” I say, but no one hears me.
Back at the Shis’, breakfast postpones my shower. We sit down at the wobbly dining table to another bowl of short noodles mixed with scrambled egg and tomato. The meal is almost identical to last night’s, featuring the same drizzle of dark vinegar, the same liberal sprinkling of cilantro, the same hurried movements that carry our food from bowl to mouth. We shovel the food in swiftly, with only the slurp of noodles and clink of plastic chopsticks on chipped plates punctuating the silence. This, then, is eating for sustenance, with every mouthful chewed, swallowed, and untasted. As I dig into my second bowl (Ayi insisted), it occurs to me that they have probably been eating this same meal for months. I ask about the local produce and am not surprised to hear Ayi say, “Tomato season is almost over. Soon it’ll be only cabbage.”
Well, I tried. I really, really tried. Determined to vanquish any CAP (Chinese American Princess) behavior, I gathered my resolve and a towel, marched to the public shower, paid my two kuai and tried to ignore the wet smell of mildew within. Clutching my towel around my body, I started to undress, awkwardly wriggling out of my T-shirt and storing it on the hook. The shower, a communal space with one nozzle, featured billows of steam and a light carpet of green algae, and my toes curled as I considered my lack of shower-friendly footwear. I stood there in my lace-edged bra, willing myself to strip and jump in, and began to feel the stares.
In Beijing my Chinese appearance means that I can pass as a local, as long as I keep my mouth shut. Here in this tiny village that’s as close-knit as a cable sweater, I am a stranger, an oddity, a welcome diversion from the unyielding stretches of monotony. The gaggle of women in the shower stood scrubbing themselves with quick movements and staring at me, their curiosity as naked as their aged bodies.
“It’s that foreigner who’s staying with the Shi family,” said one, not bothering to lower her voice. “I heard she doesn’t speak a word of Chinese.”
“Is she Japanese?” someone hissed.
“No, I think she’s Korean.”
“She’s too fat to be Korean.”
Their cackles bounced off the tiled walls as I shoved the T-shirt back over my head and ran from the building.
Now, my stomach churns as the driver zooms along the rough roads, one hand on his cell phone, one hand on the wheel. I’ve scraped my hair back into a slippery ponytail but it still feels ready to crawl off my head. I smooth the trousers of my pale gray suit and pull down the soft cuffs of my cashmere sweater. I’ll soon be able to give Gab tips on growing dreadlocks, but at least my clothes are clean and well-tailored. The driver swerves, narrowing the gap between our car and the oncoming traffic, and I dig my nails into my wrist to distract myself from the nausea. I get out my cell phone to call Geraldine, but here, deep in the Shanxi countryside, the signal has faded.
Tina greets me with a face full of solicitous concern. “How’s it going with the Shi family? Did you sleep well?
Are you hungry?” she coos.
I brush her off and sweep out of the car, my sharp heels immediately sinking into a patch of sticky mud. Tina looks at me in amusement. “Didn’t my assistant call you?” she asks. “We’ve had terrible weather and the mud out here is awful!” She lifts a foot and displays a Burberry-plaid Wellington that’s delicately spattered with mud.
“I’m fine.” The words barely make it through my clenched jaw. I follow Tina toward the set, my legs as shaky as a newborn gazelle, my embroidered velvet mules—a prize from the Barney’s sample sale—growing more soaked with every step.
I’m shivering by the time we reach the trailer that’s used as an office. “Isn’t it funny how much colder it is here than in town?” chirps Tina. “You’re going to need an extra layer out on the field. But don’t worry, I’ll find you something warm to wear.”
“I bet you will,” I mutter under my breath.
Tina pulls a walkie-talkie out of the back pocket of her lowcut jeans and issues a few commands. Soon I am swathed in a padded, khaki-green jacket, a replica of the military-style coats worn by Chinese security guards. A brown leather belt bundles in the waist, the sleeves fall below my fingertips, and the hem almost hides my feet, which slide around inside a scuffed pair of army boots. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and choke back my horror. I look dirty and bedraggled, like I’ve spent the night on the ground, using my only set of clothes as a blanket. How on earth will a famous Hollywood director ever take me seriously?
“Tina, I can’t meet Max Zhang like this.” I grit my teeth to keep the tears at bay.
She looks at me. “Why?”
“I look like a street urchin! Don’t you have anything else?”
“This isn’t Bloomingdale’s, Isabelle.” She snaps up her puffy silver jacket. “Besides, we don’t have time. Max wants to wrap up the shoot today. You’ll be lucky if we can even squeeze in your interview.”
We sludge through the mud to the edge of a grassy field, the flat plain stretching for miles before breaking into rolling hills. Shanxi province features coal mines and drab countryside, and gazing into the distance, I can see why Max Zhang chose to film here; if you stare long enough at the horizon, the monotony sprawls into beauty, evoking the contrast in the film’s title, Iron into Gold. Tina deposits me amidst a crowd of extras, who are dressed in khaki-green coats similar to mine, though, I wryly note, their clothes seem to fit. “Wait here,” she instructs me. “I’ll come get you after this scene wraps.”
Hours later I have watched so many takes I could perform the scene as a one-woman show. The problem is not with the leads—impossibly glamorous creatures who stand about between takes smoking slender European cigarettes—but with an extra, a sharp-faced girl who keeps stuttering her single line. Max Zhang comes closer to exploding with every take, pressing his lips together in the controlled manner of one used to suffocating his frustration.
“And…action!” he calls out in English. Film-making terms are universal, one of the extras whispers to me. Chinese directors use “action” and “cut” (or “ka”) even if they don’t know any other English words.
The scene begins again and I follow along, unconsciously echoing every gesture and mouthing each line. The extras start milling in the field, the lovers embrace passionately, the servant girl runs in—everyone tenses—but no, she flubs her line one more time.
“Bu dui, bu dui, bu dui! Cut! Ka!” screams Max Zhang, throwing up his hands in fury.
I glance at my watch and sigh. At this rate it’ll be midnight before I can sit down with him for our interview. And if I go back to Beijing empty-handed…I picture Ed’s irate face and shudder.
“Isabelle.” Tina hovers at my elbow, her forehead creased with concern. “Look, I’m really sorry about this, but it looks like we’re going to have to cancel your interview.”
“What?” I gasp. “Are you kidding me?”
“We’re way behind already and we need to pare back the schedule. Max wants to wrap today and it’s just impossible to fit you in.”
“What about tomorrow?” I demand. Rage starts building in the pit of my stomach.
“Max is leaving for Hong Kong tomorrow morning. I thought you knew that,” she says with a smug smile.
“Oh really.”
“Really.”
We regard each other for a moment, and I wonder what it would be like to reach out and slap her. I can almost feel the sting on my fingertips.
“Tina.” I take a deep breath and shove my hands in my pockets. “I know you have some petty grudge against me and frankly I don’t care. But you cannot drag me out to Shanxi province, change my accommodations at the last minute, arrange a room that doesn’t even have a bathroom, and then not grant me this interview.” My voice rises but I quickly remember that to show anger in China is to lose face. “I don’t think you want any negative publicity in Beijing NOW,” I finish quietly.
She shrugs. “It’s not like you’re the New York Times.”
“Tina. I am tired. I am dirty. And I am not going back to Beijing without this interview.”
“Yes. You. Are.”
“Excuse me,” breaks in a voice I don’t recognize, the consonants sharp with a light English accent. “But when you ladies are finished bickering, we’d like to try another take.”
I glance over to see Max Zhang, his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh, Mr. Zhang, I’m so sorry…” I stammer.
“Who are you?” he demands, looking at Tina for an answer. “Who is she?” he repeats in Chinese.
“I’m a journalist,” I say.
“You’re the journalist?” He looks at me in surprise. “I thought you were helping the wrangler muck out the pig pen,” he says as I shoot Tina a dirty look.
Tina bleats, “Don’t worry about her, she’s nobody.”
Max examines my face carefully. “Hm. I need a nobody. Can you speak Chinese?”
“A little,” I say, as Tina pipes up: “No!”
“I love this waif look,” he muses. “It’s perfect for the servant girl…dirty hair…we can add some streaks of coal dust to your face…yes. Yes!” He turns to his crowd of minions. “Wardrobe!” he cries out. “Fuzhuang zu!”
Before I know it, I am clothed in the baggy cotton clothes of a servant girl from the 1930s, my hair braided into plaits, my face streaked with dirt. The oversized coat remains—Max (he asked me to call him that) thinks it adds a Dickensian air—though the army boots have been exchanged for a pair of thin cotton slippers.
“Kuai! Zhuren zai majuan li deng ni. Ta yao zhao ni!” Come quickly! The master is in the stables. He’s looking for you! I mutter the line over and over, humming the tones like it’s a song. My heart hammers in my chest so ferociously I’m afraid it might explode. But there’s no one I can turn to for help. The rest of the cast and crew are strangers, and Tina has stalked off in disgust. I can see her near the food service table, shouting into her cell phone.
“And…action!” I watch the lovers embrace and kiss, as if for the first time. The lead actress runs her slender fingers down the side of her leading man’s face and sighs. Oops, that’s my cue. I run in, my legs shaking. “Kuai! Zhuren zai majuan li deng ni. Ta yao zhao ni!” The words tumble out in a shrill screech.
“Cut!” Max walks over and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You’re nervous,” he says, and his tone is sympathetic.
I swallow. “I’ve just…never done this before.”
“May I offer a word of advice?” he says. “Just lose yourself in the moment. Don’t worry too much about the tones. You’re a servant girl. You probably have a thick accent anyway.”
I laugh shakily.
“We’re ready when you are,” he says.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“And…action!”
This time I allow myself to shiver in the cold, and if my knees knock when I run out to the field, well, my character is probably scared witless by the imm
inent arrival of the master, right? I deliver my line in a breathless panic, cringing inside and waiting to hear the fateful “Ka!”
But for the first time today, the scene continues. The lovers embrace once more in a heaving heap of emotion, the lead actress wipes away her tears, extends her hand to me, and together we go running through the field.
“Cut!” Max beams. “Great work, everybody,” he shouts in Chinese. “That’s a wrap!” As the cast and crew start moving en masse to the trailers, he turns to me. “Isabelle, I can’t thank you enough. I was about to throttle that poor Shanxi girl. But, because of you, we’re back on schedule.”
“It was my pleasure,” I assure him.
“If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please let me know. Really.”
“Well…” I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Actually, there is one thing…”
The rest of the day is spent hurrying to film the last scene before dusk descends, but Max invites me to ride back to Pingyao in his car. He is surprisingly candid during the interview, opening up about his impoverished childhood in Taipei, his university years in England, his early struggles in Hollywood, his feelings on filming in China, which his parents fled before World War II.
Plus, he promises me it will be an exclusive.
Imperial
“…Both complicated and elaborate, and very time-consuming. Artistically sculpted food, such as abalones stuffed with minced chicken, decorated with hair moss and peas to resemble the heads of toads, is an important element. The use of expensive or rare ingredients, such as bear’s paws, camel paws, and monkey head mushrooms, not to mention shark’s fin and bird’s nest, is yet another. A third is the penchant for aphrodisiac dishes, such as the obvious stewed deer penis and the more subtle deep-fried beavers.”
