by Kevin Kwan
“Why not?” Nick had asked.
“It’s a Communist country, and our Singapore passports are stamped ‘No Entry into the People’s Republic of China.’ But one day, hopefully, you will be able to go.”
Nick squinted at the almost barren, muddy brown landscape. He could discern some roughly plowed fields and irrigation ditches, but not much else. Where was the border? He was trying to find a great wall, a moat, or any sort of proper demarcation to indicate where the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong ended and the People’s Republic of China began, but there was nothing. The viewfinder lenses were grimy, and his armpits hurt from the grip of his father’s large hands. Nick asked to be put down and made a beeline for the lady selling snacks in the concrete hut nearby. A Cornetto ice-cream cone was far more interesting than the view of China. China was boring.
But the China of Nick’s childhood bore no resemblance to the incredible sights that surrounded him in every direction now. Shanghai was a vast, sprawling megalopolis on the banks of the Huangpu River, the “Paris of the East,” where hyperbole-defying skyscrapers vied for attention with stately early-twentieth-century European façades.
Nick began pointing out some of his favorite buildings to Rachel. “That’s the Broadway Mansions Hotel right across the bridge. I love its hulking, Gothic silhouette—so classic art deco. Did you know Shanghai has the largest concentration of art deco architecture in the world?”
“I had no idea! All the buildings around us are just jaw-dropping—I mean, look at that crazy skyline!” Rachel gestured excitedly to the intimidating expanse of skyscrapers on the other side of the river.
“And that’s just Pudong—it was all pretty much farmland, and none of those buildings even existed ten years ago. Now it’s a financial district that makes Wall Street look like a fishing village. That structure with the two huge round orbs is the Oriental Pearl Radio and TV Tower. Doesn’t it look like something out of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century?” Nick remarked.
“Buck Rogers?” Rachel gave him a blank look.
“It was a 1980s TV show set in the future, and all the buildings looked like some ten-year-old’s fantasy of another galaxy. You probably didn’t watch any of the bad eighties shows that came to Singapore years after they bombed in the U.S. Like Manimal. Do you remember that one? It was about this guy who could change into different types of animals. Like an eagle, a snake, or a jaguar.”
“And what was the point of that?”
“He was fighting the bad guys, of course. What else would he be doing?”
Rachel smiled, but Nick could tell that underneath their banter, she was getting more and more nervous as they got closer to their destination. Nick stared up at the moon for a moment and made a wish to the universe. He wished for the dinner to go smoothly. Rachel had waited all these years and come all this way to meet her family, and he hoped her dreams would be fulfilled tonight.
They soon reached Three on the Bund, an elegant post-Renaissance-style building crowned by a majestic cupola. Nick and Rachel took the elevator up to the fifth floor and found themselves in a dramatic crimson-walled foyer. A hostess stood in front of a gold inlaid fresco that depicted a beautiful maiden in flowing robes flanked by two gigantic prostrating warriors.
“Welcome to the Whampoa Club,” the woman said in English.
“Thank you. We are here for the Bao party,” Nick said.
“Of course. Please follow me.” The hostess, dressed in an impossibly tight yellow cheongsam, walked them past the main dining room packed with chic Shanghai families enjoying their meals and down a hallway lined with art deco club chairs and green glass lamps. Along one side of the hallway was another gold-and-silver carved fresco, and the hostess pushed open one of the wall panels to reveal a private dining room.
“Please make yourselves comfortable. You are the first ones to arrive,” she said.
“Oh, okay,” Rachel said. Nick wasn’t sure whether she sounded more surprised or relieved. The private room was luxuriously appointed with a grouping of armchairs upholstered in raw silk on one end and a large round table with lacquered rosewood chairs by the window. Rachel noted that the table was set for twelve. She wondered whom she would be meeting tonight. Aside from her father, his wife, Shaoyen, and her half brother, Carlton, what other relatives would be joining them?
“Isn’t it interesting that since we’ve arrived, practically everyone has addressed us in English instead of Mandarin?” Rachel commented.
“Not really. They can tell from the minute we walk in that we’re not native Chinese. You’re an Amazon compared to most of the women here, and everything else about us is different—we don’t dress like the locals, and we carry ourselves in a completely different way.”
“When I was teaching in Chengdu nine years ago, my students all knew I was an American, but they still spoke to me in Mandarin.”
“That was Chengdu. Shanghai has always been a sophisticated, international city, so they are much more used to seeing pseudo-Chinese like us here.”
“Well, we’re certainly not as dressed up as many of the locals I’ve seen today.”
“Yeah, these days we’re the bumpkins,” Nick joked.
As the minutes ticked by, Rachel sat on one of the sofas and began to flip through the tea menu. “It says here they have over fifty premium teas from across China, served in traditional ceremonies in their private tearooms.”
“Maybe we’ll get to sample some tonight,” Nick replied as he paced around the room, pretending to admire the contemporary Chinese art.
“Can you just sit down and chill? Your pacing is making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” Nick said. He took a seat across from her and started flipping through the tea menu too.
They sat in silence for another ten minutes, until Rachel could take it no more. “Something’s gone wrong. Do you think we’ve been stood up?”
“I’m sure they’re just stuck in traffic.” Nick tried to sound calm, although he was secretly fretting as well.
“I don’t know…I have a strange feeling about this. Why would my father book a room so early when no one’s showed up for more than half an hour?”
“In Hong Kong, people are notoriously late to everything. I’m thinking Shanghai must be the same. It’s a matter of face—no one wants to be the first to show up, in case they look too eager, so they try to outdo one another in lateness. The last one to arrive is deemed the most important.”
“That’s totally ridiculous!” Rachel snorted.
“You think? I feel a similar thing happens in New York, though it’s not quite as overt. At your department meetings, isn’t the dean or some star professor always the last to show up? Or the chancellor just ‘drops in’ at the tail end, because he’s too important to sit through the whole meeting?”
“That’s not the same.”
“It isn’t? Posturing is posturing. Hong Kongers have just elevated it to an art form,” Nick opined.
“Well, I can see that happening for a business lunch, but this is a family dinner. They are really quite late.”
“I was once at a dinner in Hong Kong with my relatives, and I ended up waiting over an hour before everyone else got there. Eddie was the last to arrive, of course. I think you’re getting paranoid a little too quickly. Don’t worry—they’ll be here.”
A few minutes later, the door slid open, and a man in a dark navy suit entered the room. “Mr. and Mrs. Young? I’m the manager. I have a message for you from Mr. Bao.”
Nick’s heart sank. What now?
Rachel looked at the manager anxiously, but before he had a chance to say anything, they were distracted by a commotion in the hallway. They poked their heads out of the doorway and saw someone surrounded by a crowd of gawkers. It was a girl in her early twenties, strikingly attired in a figure-hugging strapless white dress with an ornately sequined red matador cape flung casually over her milk-white shoulders. Two burly security guards and a woman with a faux-hawk hairstyle wearing a pinstr
iped suit attempted to clear the way, while proper teenage girls who had minutes before been enjoying polite, posh dinners with their families had suddenly transformed into shrieking fans taking pictures with their camera phones.
“Is she a movie star?” Nick asked the manager, staring at the girl as she posed glamorously with her fans. With long, voluminous raven hair piled up into a loose beehive, a perfectly sculpted ski-jump nose, and bee-stung lips, she seemed larger than life—like a Chinese Ava Gardner.
“No, that’s Colette Bing. She is famous for her clothes,” the manager explained.
Colette finished autographing some dinner napkins and headed straight toward them. “Ah, I’m glad I found you!” she said to Rachel as if she was greeting an old friend.
“Are you talking to me?” Rachel stared at her, utterly stunned.
“Of course! Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Um, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. We’re meeting some people for dinner here—” Rachel began.
“You’re Rachel, right? The Baos sent me—the plans have changed. Come with me and I’ll explain everything,” Colette said. She took Rachel by the arm and began walking her out of the room. The girls in the hallway started squealing again and taking more pictures.
“Where is your service elevator?” the woman with the faux-hawk demanded of the manager. Nick followed along, baffled by everything that was happening. They were shuffled into an elevator and then down another service corridor on the ground floor. But as soon as the doors opened onto Guangdong Road, they were met by the blinding flashbulbs from a pack of paparazzi.
Colette’s security guards tried to clear a path through the phalanx of photographers. “Back off! Back the fuck off!” they yelled at the jostling pack.
“This is nuts!” Nick said, almost colliding with an overzealous photographer who had jumped right in front of him.
The woman in the faux-hawk turned to him and said, “You must be Nick. I’m Roxanne Ma—Colette’s personal assistant.”
“Hi, Roxanne. Does this happen everywhere Colette goes?”
“Yes. But this is nothing—these were only photographers. You should see what happens when she walks down Nanjing West Road.”
“Why is she so famous?”
“Colette is one of China’s foremost fashion icons. Between Weibo and WeChat, she has more than thirty-five million followers.”
“Did you say thirty-five million?” Nick was incredulous.
“Yes. I’m afraid your picture is going to be everywhere tomorrow. Just look straight ahead and keep smiling.”
Two large Audi SUVs suddenly pulled up, almost running into one of the photographers. The bodyguards quickly hustled Colette, Rachel, and Nick toward the first car, shutting the door firmly behind them before the swarming photographers could take any more shots.
“Are you okay?” Colette asked.
“Besides my barbecued retinas, I think I’m fine,” Nick said from the front passenger seat.
“That was intense!” Rachel said, trying to catch her breath.
“Things have really gotten out of control in Shanghai. It all started after my Elle China cover,” Colette explained in a carefully modulated British accent tinged with the staccato tones of a native Mandarin speaker.
Still on high alert, Nick asked, “Where are you taking us?”
Before Colette could answer, the car came to a sudden halt a few blocks away from the restaurant. The car door opened and a young man jumped in beside Rachel. She let out a quick gasp.
“Sorry—didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said in an accent that sounded just like Nick’s, before giving her a disarming smile. “Hi—I’m Carlton.”
“Oh, hi.” It was all Rachel could say as they gazed at each other, both momentarily transfixed. Rachel studied her brother for the first time. Carlton had the same perpetual nut-brown tan that she did, and hair cropped closely on the sides but thicker and fashionably mussed on top. Nattily dressed in tan corduroys, a faded orange polo shirt, and a Harris Tweed blazer with elbow patches, he looked like he had jumped right out of a fashion shoot for The Rake.
“My God, the two of you look so much alike!” Nick exclaimed.
“I know! The minute I saw Rachel I thought I was meeting Carlton’s long-lost twin!” Colette said breathlessly.
Rachel found herself at a loss for words, but it had nothing to do with her brother’s resemblance to her. She felt an instant, innate connection with him—something that she hadn’t even experienced when she first met her father. She closed her eyes for a moment, overcome with emotion.
“Are you okay?” Nick asked.
“Yes. Never been better, actually,” Rachel said in a slightly choked voice.
Colette placed a hand on Rachel’s arm. “I’m sorry for this madness—it’s all my fault. When we arrived at Three on the Bund, I got recognized immediately and a mob started to follow us up to the restaurant. It was so annoying! And things only got worse at the Whampoa Club, as you could see. Carlton didn’t want to meet you for the first time in front of three million people, so I told him to wait for us a few blocks away.”
“It’s totally fine. But where is everyone else?” Rachel asked.
Carlton began to explain. “My father sends his profuse apologies. The family dinner had to be called off because my parents had to fly to Hong Kong to deal with an emergency. Dad thought he could make it back in time for dinner, but he miscalculated. So I flew back on my own.”
“Wait a minute, you just came from Hong Kong?” Rachel was confused.
“Yes. That’s why we were late.”
Colette jumped in. “When everything went wonky with the dinner plans, I suggested that Carlton and I fly up to meet you.”
“We couldn’t possibly leave you two alone on your first night in Shanghai, could we?” Colette said.
“That’s so nice of you. But Carlton, are your parents okay?” Rachel inquired.
“Yes, yes. It was just a business emergency…at their factories in Hong Kong. My father should be back in a few days,” Carlton said a little haltingly.
“I’m glad to hear it’s nothing too serious,” Rachel said. “Anyway, I’m so thrilled that you and your girlfriend could be here.”
Colette burst out laughing. “Oh how cute! Am I your girlfriend, Carlton?”
“Er, Colette’s just a good friend.” Carlton smiled in embarrassment.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed—” Rachel began.
“That’s quite all right. You’re not the first to make that assumption. I’m twenty-three, and unlike most girls my age, I don’t believe in tying myself down to anyone right now. Carlton’s one of many suitors and perhaps someday—if he behaves himself—he will receive the final rose.”
Rachel caught Nick’s eye in the rearview mirror. He shot her a look that said, Did she REALLY just say that? Rachel bit into her lip and looked away, knowing that if she saw his expression again she would burst into laughter. After an awkward pause, she said, “Yes, when I was your age, getting married wasn’t really a priority of mine either.”
Carlton looked over at Colette. “So, Miss Bachelorette, what’s the plan now?”
“Well, we can go anywhere. Do you want to go to a club, a lounge, a restaurant? Do you want to go to a deserted beach off the coast of Thailand?” Colette offered.
“You should know she’s being totally serious,” Carlton added.
“Er, beach later. I think some dinner might be nice,” Nick said.
“What do you feel like eating?” Colette asked.
Rachel was still too frazzled to make any decision. “I’m up for anything. How about you, Nick?”
“Well, we’re in Shanghai—where can we find the best xiao long bao?”
Carlton and Colette glanced at each other for less than a second before chanting in unison, “Din Tai Fung!”
“Wait a minute, is it the same as the Din Tai Fung in LA and Taipei?” Nick asked.
“Yes
, it’s the same Taiwanese chain. But believe it or not, it’s better here. Ever since they opened, it’s become wildly popular even with locals. There’s always quite a queue, but thankfully, we’re in special company tonight,” Carlton said, winking at Colette.
“Let me text Roxanne—she’ll arrange for us to get in through the back door. I’m done meeting my public for today,” Colette declared.
• • •
Fifteen minutes later, Rachel and Nick found themselves comfortably ensconced in a private dining room with windows overlooking the skyline.
“Does everyone always dine in private rooms in China?” Rachel asked as she stared out at the nighttime view. Almost every building seemed to be putting on some kind of light show. A few towers looked like they were edged in Day-Glo, while others pulsated neon lights like giant boom boxes.
“Is there any other way? I can’t imagine dining with the masses—all those people staring at you and taking pictures while you eat,” Colette said, giving Rachel a look of horror.
Soon stacks of bamboo steamers containing Shanghai’s most famous delicacy were paraded into the room. There were juicy xiao long bao dumplings of every imaginable variety along with other crowd-pleasing dishes—hand-pulled noodles with minced pork, chicken and golden egg fried rice, sautéed string beans with garlic, vegetable and pork wontons in a spicy sauce, Shanghai rice cake with shrimp, sweet taro buns. Before they began to eat, Roxanne rushed into the room and took a few pictures of Colette smiling over the food.
“Sorry to keep everyone from eating—I just have to throw my fans a bone every hour!” Colette explained. She quickly perused the selection of images with Roxanne and instructed, “Just tweet the one of the black truffle dumplings.”
Nick tried not to laugh. This Colette was a trip. He realized that she wasn’t intentionally trying to sound pretentious—she was just perfectly blunt. Like someone who was born famous or royal, Colette seemed genuinely oblivious to how the rest of the world lived. Carlton, on the other hand, was down-to-earth compared to Colette. Nick had been forewarned by his mother that Carlton was “terribly spoiled,” but he was nothing if not impressed by his impeccable manners. He expertly picked out all the dishes, ordered a round of beers, and made sure everyone—especially the ladies—had plenty of food on their plates before placing any on his own.
