by Linda Jaivin
Tomato juice, no ice, thanks. . . . Oh, I said no ice actually, but never mind. . . . Oh really? Minerals exploration and development? That’s interesting. Not. Why do I always use the word interesting when I mean exactly the opposite? I shouldn’t be unfair. I’m sure it’s fascinating, if you’re into that kind of thing. It’s just that I’m not. That’s all. I wonder where he stands on Aboriginal land rights. Oh, God, Julia, don’t bring that up. He’ll either say the wrong thing and you’ll be arguing with him all the way home or he’ll turn out to be okay and you’ll be so relieved that you’ll feel obligated to talk to him. Mengzhong. Mengzhong. It’s a bit like the peal of a bell, really. I wonder if I am pronouncing it right?
That rug, I really am beginning to regret not getting it. Damn. Never mind, I’m sure I’ll be back someday. Thirty-six kilos of luggage is probably outrageous enough for one trip, especially when I went with only fifteen. Bizarre how they didn’t even blink at the overweight luggage at Beijing airport, but then, half the people on this flight seemed to be taking forty or fifty kilos, no worries at all. I don’t really want to dwell on the safety implications of that. Yeah, I had a great time. . . . Yeah, it’s a fascinating country. . . . Just Beijing and Shanghai. . . . Sure, the women are beautiful. Pig. Western men in Asia think they’re God’s gift. I think he’s about to treat me to some tale of conquest. Better nip this one in the bud. The men are pretty dishy as well, of course. Ha! That surprised him. Yes, I do find them attractive, actually. Look at this guy. He still can’t get over it. What a sadster. The second the food comes I’m going to clap on my earphones. Chicken or beef? Chicken please. . . . Oh, you only have beef. Beef then. Thanks. If they didn’t have the chicken, why’d they offer it? Now, on with the headset. Oh dear, what’s this channel? Peking opera, I think. Don’t think I like this one either. Ah, classical will do. Urgh. Disgusting, even for airline food. Really poxy. Doesn’t really matter. I can still taste that Peking duck we had for lunch, or brunch or whatever that was. I’ll be back in the land of mesclun salad and real coffee soon.
Can’t wait to have a cuppa with the girls and tell them all my stories. I wonder where Mengzhong is now? Is he thinking about me? I can’t believe it snowed this morning. Hard to imagine that it’ll be summer again when we land in Sydney. The snow was so beautiful. I wonder whether Mr. Fu was spying on us? Is that why he was so stressed out when I caught up with him again back at the car? Wonder how you say, “Chill out, dude,” in Chinese? Oh, I should be fair. He was probably worried that, having safely shepherded me for three whole weeks through the hazards of Beijing traffic, indulged nearly all my mad impulses (except, of course, my idea that we could just kind of talk our way into one of the prisons, which he firmly resisted), and put up with my taste in evening entertainment (Beijing punk rock—what a trip), he was going suddenly to lose me to the clutches of some street performer who would cause me to miss my plane, overstay my visa, possibly even disappear forever and completely derail Sino-Australian relations. He’d be stuck with the responsibility—and the snakes. I can imagine Mr. Fu sitting there in the car, watching the bag with its creepy contents slithering against the sides, certain that they were poisonous and going to get him. I mean, you can’t blame the man for being such a gloom merchant when you’ve had the history he has—deprived of education in the Cultural Revolution, brother persecuted to death, scraping by on a meager government salary when everyone else seems to have gone into business and is saving up for their first Ferrari.
What is this meat? I’m sure it’s not beef. I think I’ve had enough of it, whatever it is. Sorry? I can’t believe he’s persisting in speaking to me when I’ve got my headset on. No, it’s not the best meal I’ve ever had either, but never mind. . . . Yes, I like Chinese food. . . . What? No, I most definitely did not eat dog! Have you eaten dog? But dog is woman’s best friend! Dogs lounge on the sofa and watch videos, dogs play Frisbee and eat ham sandwiches! Really? You did? How did it make you feel? If only the hostess would come and clear the tray, I could pretend to go to sleep. Warm? Oh, that’s interesting. Interesting, hah! Bet it was even more interesting for poor Bluey! Let’s put the headset on again before he has a chance to continue. God, Julia, you’re terrible. He’s probably a perfectly nice man who’s just a bit lonely and wants a chat. On the other hand, what am I, a chat machine? Besides, how could a perfectly nice man eat dog!
I hope the neighbors managed to keep the big fern in the entranceway alive. I wonder what the girls have been up to. Wonder if any of them have had any little romances? No, I won’t have any coffee. No, no tea either. Thanks. Seat back, headset on, eyes closed. I’m going to be so trashed when we arrive, I can tell already. My mind is such a jumble of images and smells and sounds. Let’s try and focus, why don’t we? I know what I want to focus on. I don’t want to forget any detail of what happened this morning. It’s been such a rush to here from there, packing and checking out. Before I knew it I was saying good-bye to Mr. Fu and Xiao Wang, and I was on the plane—no chance really to savor the events of the morning at all. Let’s be disciplined. Start from the beginning.
All right . . . I wake up very early. I look out my hotel window and see it’s been snowing all night. I go for a walk with my camera. Yes, I’m finished, thanks. Strangely enough, it doesn’t feel that cold. The sparkling white of the snow, untrammeled at that time in the morning, and the soft glow of the dawn makes Beijing seem like a new city, one that’s more ancient, pure, and calm. I walk to the Forbidden City and thrill to the sight of the snow piled in uneven drifts on the golden tiles and crenellated red walls of the palace. For nearly two hours I stroll around the palace and Tiananmen Square, taking pictures. When I get back to the hotel, I find a fretsome Mr. Fu waiting in the lobby. He tells me there are lots of bad people around in Beijing these days, robbers and thieves and rapists, and that I shouldn’t go wandering around like that by myself. I laugh. You would think from the way he was talking that we were in New York! Poor Mr. Fu. He’d see disaster lurking in a well-made bed.
We go to the hotel coffeeshop where I warm my hands and cheeks on a cup of coffee and tell him that I want to make another trip to the Old Summer Palace to see it in the snow. He says it’s too far away. He says it’s too cold. He asks, didn’t I have to do some last-minute shopping and packing? What about our planned Peking duck lunch in that famous restaurant in the center of town? I insist. I say the plane’s at four in the afternoon, we’ll be right if we leave right now. I don’t care about the duck. And I can forget the shopping. My Visa’s expiring anyway, so to speak. (He doesn’t get this. Never mind.) Please, please, please, Mr. Fu. Please, please, please. Finally he’s shaking his head and saying I’m crazy, but telling me to put on more clothes so I don’t catch cold. I’m already as rugged up as I can be, so I just grab some more lenses and batteries and film and we’re off. In the rental car driven by the ever-amiable Xiao Wang, we traverse the city. All its nonstop clamor—the horns, the shouting, the jackhammers, and pile-drivers—is magically silenced by the blanket of snow.
When we reach Beijing University, tantalizingly close to the old palace, Mr. Fu says something to Xiao Wang in Chinese and Xiao Wang pulls up at the side of the road, in front of a restaurant. Mr. Fu tells me we’ll have duck first, then we’ll go. It’s only ten thirty in the morning, I protest. But I’ve learned when to give in, and so in we go, all three of us, of course. I really do appreciate the way the Chinese always invite the driver along to meals; from what I can gather, it’s one of the few egalitarian customs they’ve got left these days. Anyway, when the steam fades from Mr. Fu’s glasses, he orders our duck.
The restaurant is pretty empty, not surprising given the time. There is an extraordinarily handsome man at the next table. He has the classic single-lidded eyes and strong bone structure of the northern Chinese and an unusual, somewhat hooked nose; but what’s most striking is his beautiful, almost waist-length hair. Like a lot of northerners, he’s tall and well built too. He’s wearing one of those army g
reatcoats that you used to see in the photographs from China in the seventies and eighties but which almost no one seems to wear any more.
But what catches everyone’s attention is his leather case on the floor beside his seat. It’s moving. Is that an animal in your bag or are you just happy to see me? Mr. Fu and Xiao Wang are as intrigued as I am, though Mr. Fu is clearly nervous. Xiao Wang leans across his seat and asks, “What’s in the bag?” The guy answers. Xiao Wang laughs and Mr. Fu shudders. Of course, I didn’t understand what they were saying. Three weeks in China and I’m not much beyond ni hao! (“hello” ) and xiexie ( “thanks” ). “What is it, Mr. Fu?” “Snakes,” he tells me, shaking his head. “Terrible. Terrible.”
Sorry? Oh, you’re right. Can you step over me or shall I get up? No worries. Did he touch my leg on purpose? Creepoid. I’ll just get up next time. Anyway, back to the restaurant. I’m totally intrigued. Ask him what the snakes are for, Mr. Fu. By now, this guy is checking me out as well, and I wait impatiently for a translation. He tells Mr. Fu that he is a street performer, snake-charmer, sword-swallower, kung fu master, and contortionist. Cool! He doesn’t belong to any official organization, and Mr. Fu tries to explain to me some concept about “rivers and lakes,” which I gather refers to people who live outside the system. Mr. Fu clearly doesn’t approve.
I’m enthralled. Snake-charrner tells us how he has always wanted to travel, but that he doesn’t think he’d ever get a passport, and so, at different times, he’s sneaked across the border to North Korea or Vietnam. Each time, he was caught and sent back. Each time, the Chinese police interrogated him and let him go. Apparently, the police think he’s a bit of a nut. He doesn’t mind. Gives him more freedom to maneuver, he says. North Korea! Of all bizarre places to spend a holiday.
Mr. Fu is lemon-lipped as he translates this story. Our Peking duck arrives. I signal to snake-charmer to join us. He hesitates, looking at Mr. Fu. It’s obvious that Mr. Fu is not at all happy. Snake-charmer then looks at Xiao Wang, who just picks up a pancake and concentrates on folding it into a little parcel of duck and shallot and plum sauce. Then he looks at me. I’ve got a big smile on my face and I’m patting the chair next to me. He shrugs, and smiles and, carrying over his bag of snakes, sits down. I’m Julia, I say. He looks at Mr. Fu for help. Mr. Fu, uncooperative, looks at the duck. I point to my nose—I learned that Chinese people point to their noses when they want to refer to themselves just as we point to our chests—and say, slowly, “Ju-li-a.” He smiles, points at his nose and says “Mungjoong.” I make Mr. Fu spell it for me: M-e-n-g-z-h-o-n-g.
I lever up some of the crisp duck skin, meat, plum sauce, and sliced shallot with my chopsticks, drop it onto a pancake, and fold it as best I can, following Xiao Wang’s model, but when I raise it to my lips, a fat lubricated piece of shallot pushes up through the corner and tries to escape. Mengzhong looks amused. He signs for me to watch and demonstrates how to create the perfect Chinese blintz, and then hands it to me. Our fingers touch and I feel a spark. I’m sure it’s not the same kind of spark that I feel even with the funny, bookish Mr. Fu, thanks to the amazing static electricity of the Beijing winter. Speaking of Mr. Fu, he’s gone a bit sullen now. But Xiao Wang chats with Mengzhong and I recognize the word Yuanmingyuan, which is Chinese for the “Old Summer Palace,” so I know he’s telling him where we’re off to. Impulsively, I point to him and then to us, and with a circling motion somehow make it clear that I’m asking him along. He glances at Mr. Fu, and then mimes a bicycle to me. Ah, he’s got a bicycle. He says something to Mr. Fu, who tells me, with an air of triumph, that Mengzhong is worried about keeping his snakes warm. He had been thinking about performing in one of the local parks but changed his mind when the snow continued to fall and was planning to have lunch and go straight home. Xiao Wang says something. Mengzhong says something. Mr. Fu is shaking his head most officiously.
I’m dying to know what’s going on. I’m fixated on Mengzhong’s hands. They are smooth and totally hairless, with long, fine fingers that throughout the meal agilely continue to fold and proffer Peking duck blintzes to me. We’ve finished everything by now (Mengzhong’s dish of fried tofu and vegies was delivered to our table and shared around) and Mr. Fu pays for the meal, refusing Mengzhong’s vigorous attempt to pay for us all himself. We all layer on our sweaters and coats and scarves, and leave the restaurant. The duck is rich and makes me feel warm inside. Mengzhong is talking to Xiao Wang, who shrugs and says that other phrase I picked up, meiyou guanxi, which I gather is sort of like “no worries, mate.”
Mr. Fu does not look thrilled, and I see why when Xiao Wang opens the back door of the car and Mengzhong puts the bag of snakes on the seat. Mengzhong then collects his bicycle from where it was leaning against the outside of the restaurant, and walks it over. He pats the small shelf over the back wheel that people use to carry everything from groceries to books and parcels, and says something that I gather means, would you like a ride? Oh, sorry, no I’ll get up. No worries. You’re right. Now go to sleep and leave me alone.
I nod enthusiastically, ignoring Mr. Fu’s censorious look. Mengzhong starts pedaling slowly. Arranging my camera bag on my shoulder, I jump on and throw my arms around his broad back. The bike wobbles a bit on the packed and slippery snow but Mengzhong quickly finds his balance, and we’re off. I wave an enthusiastic good-bye to Mr. Fu and Xiao Wang. Mr. Fu tosses off a gesture that seems closer to “piss off then” than “see you soon,” but I’ll give him benefit of the cross-cultural doubt. Mr. Fu, Xiao Wang, and the snakes, I assume, are going to meet us at the Old Summer Palace. This is so thrilling! It’s just started to snow again, and Mengzhong turns his head and grins at me, a very sexy, self-assured smile; and I grin back and hug him a bit tighter than I really have to. This part of Beijing is still quite nice and relatively undeveloped, and there are fewer people around as well. I bury my face in his back and breathe in the musty, woolly smell of his greatcoat, which, like nearly everything else in Beijing in winter, gives off a faint aura of garlic. We swerve off the main road and I swivel my head just in time to see the car zoom on ahead, Mr. Fu’s panicked face following our progress up a lane too small for cars. Mengzhong gestures and says something, and I assume he’s just explaining he’s taking a shortcut. I’m not worried. We’re now riding through this really charming rural lane. We pass small peasant homes made of brick, and cheap local eateries with padded blankets hung in the doorways as extra insulation against the cold. When we reach the edge of a large frozen field, he stops the bike. He asks with words I don’t understand and hand gestures I do if I’m comfortable back here. Something in my look tells him it’s all right to kiss me, and he does, quickly, almost shyly, just brushing my lips with his.
Oh Jake! But why am I feeling guilty? Jake took pains to make it clear to me before I left that whatever we had between us had been great and all that, but he was making no demands on me to be faithful to him, which, if I know men—and I think, by now, I know men pretty well—meant that he had no intention of being faithful to me. I mean, it was pretty clear that it was over, even if we did sleep together the night before I left. He didn’t have to take me to the airport, of course; and that was a really nice gesture, even if I did end up paying for the petrol. And a big breakfast at the airport. I wonder if he’ll like the Chinese “punks not dead” T-shirt I got him? We didn’t say “it’s over.” But I can recognize over when I see it. I think. Anyway, even if it’s not exactly over, he’s not the sort of guy who’s going to be fussed if I had a one-night, no, make that a one-morning stand. Anyway, I don’t have to tell him about it. It’s probably not a great idea to tell him, even if it is over between us. “Even if”—do I believe it’s over or don’t I? Goodness, what is this movie? I have to check this in the in-flight magazine, it’s just too bizarre. Hmmm. Joyous National Minorities Celebrate the New Harvest. Right. Where was I? That’s right, not far from theYuanmingyuan.
We get going again along the path skirting the field. We arrive at one o
f the entrances to the park and from there proceed to the famous ruins. It’s so hard to imagine this place once housed thirty imperial pleasure palaces. Now it’s a sprawling public park with some dramatically collapsed columns and a few other remnants. Last time we were there, Mr. Fu had told me all about its history, how it had been plundered by the British and the French in 1860 and burned to the ground by allied Western forces again forty years later and how the ruins have been preserved as a symbol of China’s humiliation at the hands of the imperialists. We spot him first. Mr. Fu is obviously feeling pretty badly done by. He’s stamping his feet impatiently in the snow and blowing out anxious little puffs of steamy breath. I assume Xiao Wang’s in the heated car with the snakes. I call out and give Mr. Fu a big wave and a smile. He lifts his chin in a curt greeting. He doesn’t take his hands out of his pockets. Never mind. I take out my camera and shoot pictures of the ruins, which look even more desolate and dramatic with their lashings of snow. Children are playing at the base of the old palace, and their bright red cheeks match their red padded coats and knitted caps. I point the lens playfully at Mengzhong, and he signals me to wait a minute. He takes off his coat and hat and before I know what’s happening, he’s flying through the air in an extraordinary series of loops and spins and somersaults. He lands on one of the columns, nearly loses his balance on the slippery snow there, spreads his arms, and laughs, a big throaty hahahaha laugh that sounds straight out of the Peking Opera we saw the other night. Even Mr. Fu is impressed.
I applaud, and Mengzhong shakes out his hair. My camera is waiting for him as he makes an equally dramatic descent back to where we are, and I use up nearly an entire roll of film. Mengzhong puts his coat back on, says something to Mr. Fu and the next thing I know, I’m on the back of the bike again, and we’re off and racing down one of the pathways in the park. We’re both in high spirits now, and I laugh and hold on tighter as we strike a patch of ice and zigzag madly, nearly taking a tumble. I have no idea where Mr. Fu is, whether he’s following, fuming, or just planning to meet up with us later.
