by Annie Wang
After watching the movie, everybody wants to know about him. He tells his story.
Like me, John is also a haigui, an overseas returnee. With a master's degree in sociology, he was selling life insurance in Silicon Valley for three years, making fifty grand per year – not very impressive by Silicon Valley standards.
Although he is a good-looking Chinese man, John couldn't find a girlfriend in the States. The fact is, two-thirds of the Chinese girls in the States prefer to date locals, mainly white Americans. The ones who do stick around the Chinese community become hot property, with endless streams of highly educated male admirers queuing up for their attention. Even those who are not very attractive can still afford to be choosy.
Seeing John in his mid-thirties and living a celibate life, his friend Mike set him up on a blind date in San Francisco. The lucky lady was a Chinese woman from China named Jane. She was studying nursing in a local community college. She was recently divorced and average-looking.
They met in the Borders bookstore near Union Square. As agreed, Jane carried a Gucci shopping bag as her sign. In the Borders coffee shop, they greeted each other briefly and John went to buy two cups of mocha for them. As soon as they sat down, the girl said, "Hi. I have to say I don't have much time. Your friend didn't tell me your annual income. Can you tell me now?"
It seemed Jane had certainly adapted to the fast-paced American way of life. To her surprising opening question, John replied, "I make fifty thousand dollars per year. But it does not include the bonus…"
She cut him off with her next question: "Do you have a house?"
"I'm renting an apartment in San Mateo at the moment. I'm saving money for…"
"Sorry, John. I only go out with men who have the three Ps," Jane said impatiently. She stood up and left without even touching the mocha John had bought for her.
John felt humiliated. He tried to find out what the three Ps stood for, but got different answers from different friends. Some told him they were Ph.D., permanent residency, and property. Others said they were passport (American), Porsche, and Ph.D. His best friend, Mike, comforted him: "Who cares what three Ps stand for? If Jane thinks she is so great, why doesn't she go for the Prince, the President, and the Prime Minister?!"
Just like my experience, John's heartbreaking meeting with the inhuman and arrogant Jane prompted his final decision to go back to China.
After returning, he got job offers in Shanghai, Beijing, and Shenzhen. He accepted a job in Beijing as sales manager in an electronics company. Although he makes only a third of the money he did in the United States, he is suddenly a member of society's upper class. The entire world welcomes him. He joins a dating club and becomes the most popular bachelor.
The dating club' s owner approaches John one day to offer him a deal. "Please promise me you won't get yourself a girlfriend for the moment. As long as you are available and your document is with us, girls will register and come to us."
"What do I get out of it?"
"You can have half of our profit," says the owner.
John agrees. His job is to interview these single women and turn them down. As long as he is doing it, the money arrives in his bank account every month. The women he has turned down are all better-looking than the Plain Jane that spurned him in Silicon Valley. He turns down each of the women with the same excuse: "I only like a girl that has the three Ps."
Many of the women are intellectual. They all discuss with their friends what the three Ps are and come up with all kinds of ideas. There are two popular theories, one in Chinese and one in English. The Chinese one goes pigu, pifu, piqi – nice butt, soft skin, and sweet temperament. The English one goes: pretty, pure, and pleasing. Only John himself knows that the three P's have no meaning. In a way, he is punishing all women for what Plain Jane did to his self-Estéem.
When women become too easy to obtain, they be come less attractive. Plus, John has an agreement with the dating club that he will not date a girl. His interest in women fades as he interviews more and more eager, available single women. Finally, he starts to get involved with men, most of whom are foreign expatriates in Beijing. "Chinese women mean nothing to me now. Like them, I prefer the imports," he claims.
After hearing his story, I ask John, "What about Jeremy Irons? What makes you a fan of his?"
"I love making men fall madly in love with me like Jeremy Irons does for his Beijing lover in the movie M. Butterfly." John cracks a devious smile.
POPULAR PHRASES
HAIGUI: Sea turtles; refers to overseas returnees who come back with advanced degrees, Westernized lifestyle, and nice jobs. Unlike the endangered sea turtle, their numbers are growing every year.
PIGU: Butt.
PIFU: Skin.
PIQI: Temperament.
10 Sean and Hugh
Our company, World News, has nine people in the Beijing office. It's quite international. Sean, an Englishman, is the bureau chief and Hugh, an American, is the vice bureau chief. We also have Linda, our Oceanian reporter, who specializes in environmental issues; Mr. Chun, our financial specialist from Hong Kong; and Mr. Lai, from Singapore, our accountant. Two assistants and one driver from Beijing make up the rest of the team.
Sean and Hugh have different focuses. Sean is interested in politics, such as human rights violations and China 's undeveloped interior. Hugh prefers to write about economic growth in the prosperous coastal areas. Hugh has assigned me to write on Chinese dot-coms, luxury goods users, and General Motors in Shanghai. Sean has asked me to do stories on China 's think tanks, Taiwan relations, and religious issues.
I remember when I first started the job, Sean had a talk with me in his office. "Niuniu, you have many advantages as a reporter. Your Chinese and English are flawless. You've got friends and connections here. You have a strong sense of news-worthiness. You have 'unlimited potential.' But what I value most is that your views are balanced. The influences of Chinese and American culture mean you are not overly politicized. Too many Western journalists reporting on China are influenced by their own personal values. In other words, they have a tainted view of China. And I hope you are an exception."
I was so flattered by his words that ever since I have worked hard to demonstrate the diligence of a Chinese and the defiance of an American.
My two bosses' jobs are dream jobs and the competition is fierce. Normally, to become a bureau chief in a foreign country, one has to work at home for many years to pay one's dues before being posted abroad. Being a correspondent posted to a large city like Beijing, Moscow, or Paris is a sign of status and success.
Sean and Hugh both earn over $150,000 per year. They each have a company-subsidized apartment, a maid, a driver, a travel allowance, and a generous expense account. And they get both Chinese and English public holidays. Compared to the middle classes in most developed countries, they live like kings.
Sean, age thirty-seven, studied politics at Oxford University. He speaks fluent Mandarin, and whether he is speaking English or Mandarin, he likes to swear. In his Oxford accent, his speech is peppered with references to sex, genitalia, and mothers.
Sean is a workaholic. He is short-tempered and quick-thinking, and few people can keep up with him. Every day Sean arrives at the office at eight o'clock, and often works late into the night. He wants every article to leave people struck with admiration. But he is extremely circumspect and serious. Compared to the other foreigners in China, who enjoy chasing women, the handsome Sean never has any interesting sidelights. It seems that, apart from work, there is nothing else in his life. Even when he is eating out with friends, all he ever speaks about are current affairs and Sino-U.S. relations.
As his subordinate, I have never spoken with him about anything other than work. Except once. I went out at lunchtime to buy ice cream at the Häagen-Dazs next to the International Club Hotel, and I saw Sean sitting by himself on a bright yellow bench, eating a coffee-flavored Häagen-Dazs ice cream with gusto. A grown man, totally absorbed in his sickl
y sweet ice cream, sitting in front of the purple Häagen-Dazs sign. As I watched, I thought it was funny. I greeted Sean. He smiled at me for the first time, showing a mouthful of white teeth. "I love sweets. The sweeter the better. Especially ice cream."
My other boss, Hugh, tends to speak more outside work. Hugh studied history at Stanford and is a Fulbright Scholar. Because we both lived in the Bay Area for a while, we have more in common. Hugh and Sean are both tall and handsome but have different styles. Sean is domineering and enjoys the limelight, whereas Hugh is relaxed and refined. He once said that he was a dreamer and came to China in order to find meaning in life. He meditates and practices yoga every day. He's what people call "an egg," white on the outside, yellow on the inside.
11 A Sweet Note of Passion
One of the things I like about my journalist job is not having to spend all day in my office. This has allowed me to stay out of office politics and maintain a good relationship with most of my colleagues. But I have never imagined those relations are as good as they seem today.
I walk into my office building and board the elevator. The three people already in the elevator all greet me with exceptional warmth. There is a chorus of enthusiastic good mornings. I am a little surprised, but I try to respond in a similar manner.
"How was your weekend, Niuniu," says Mr. Lai.
"Fine, thanks," I say.
Then Mr. Lai winks at me.
The wink seems forced. Not insincere, but practiced. Almost as though Mr. Lai had been holding that wink in his pocket all morning just waiting to spring it on me. Was this a "How do you do?" wink? No, I didn't think so. This was almost certainly a "Thanks for last night" wink.
I smile awkwardly and face the front of the elevator. When the door opens, I step out and head toward my office, Mr. Lai's eyes burning into my back.
I walk to my desk, put down my belongings, and pick up my cup. I walk to the kitchen to get some hot water when in walks Linda, a New Zealander. I have gone to lunch with Linda on several occasions and am rather fond of her.
"I, I can't believe this!" Linda says, walking up closely behind me. "You had me totally fooled. I'm so glad you had the courage to tell me. I don't think I would have felt comfortable approaching you."
"Oh, um… Linda, I'm sorry. I'm a bit confused."
"Oh, please don't worry about it," says Linda. "I totally understand. I was the same way. Listen, this isn't the time or place to talk, but let's have lunch, okay?"
And then Linda is gone.
On the way back to my desk, I encounter Mr. Chun, who on several occasions has asked inappropriate questions about my personal life. I have learned to steer away from him at all cost. This time, he stands in my path holding a pile of color-coded files and a box of paper clips. But he doesn't say anything to me. He just stands there smiling, bobbing his head up and down with all the apparent satisfaction of a man who can finally say, "I told you so."
"What was happening?" I think. If ever there was a day I ought to go out in the field to gather a story, this was it. I suddenly feel extremely self-conscious. Just thinking of this sequence of events causes me to shudder.
Whisking by Mr. Chun, I return to my desk hoping to quickly check my e-mail before heading out.
I see that I've got sixty-seven new messages: a surprisingly high number for a late Friday morning. But even more strange is that most of them are titled "Re: I Love You."
"Another chain letter?" I wonder.
I haven't received so many e-mails on one topic since I responded to the Internet hoax about the little girl who needed a liver transplant and had been promised a donation of $1 for every person I contacted by e-mail from the McDonald's Corporation.
I open the first e-mail, the one from Sean. It reads: "I appreciate your candor, but I am involved with someone else. I have a great deal of respect for you. Please, let's not mix business with pleasure."
Then comes one from Mr. Chun: "My wife is visiting her parents this week. Please meet me after work in the parking lot. I know a place where we can be discreet. P.S. Have you ever fantasized about us doing it on your desk at work? I have!"
Then one from my cousin: "I think you know that I love you, too. We have always had something special between us. But this kind of love is forbidden, and I think it is best we do not pursue it. It burns me that we will never be able to be together. I don't think our families would accept it."
The last e-mail is from Hugh: "Hi, Niuniu, I have to say I was quite surprised by your e-mail, it didn't seem like you at all. I'm flattered to hear that you are interested in me, but I don't think this is the right time for either of us."
Below this message, I read the text of the e-mail to which he responded. In a very convincing and eloquent manner, the message makes a brief plea for love at my request.
I have become the most recent victim of the I Love You computer virus. The virus affects Microsoft Outlook users and sends out a sweet note of passion to everyone listed in its victim's address book.
Several hours later the news of this virus becomes widespread throughout the media, at which point countless e-mails fill my mailbox from people begging me to disregard their previous correspondence.
All except one, from Mr. Chun, which reads: "Well, I'm still game if you are."
12 Have You Divorced Yet?
Is Chile ma? – Have you eaten yet? – the most popular greeting in China? It used to be.
Recently, Lile ma – have you divorced yet? – has taken its place among young and middle-aged Chinese, especially in big cities where the divorce rate has risen to double digits.
In the yoga class that Lulu and I go to every week, we meet quite a few professional women in their late twenties, thirties, and early forties. From talking to them, I've learned that 50 percent of the women are divorced, including our teacher Gigi.
On her fortieth birthday, the class takes the health-conscious Gigi to a Haagen Dazs shop to celebrate. Some order ice cream and some order cakes. I order both tiramisu and a green tea sundae. Gigi, although we insist that she eat something fat-rich just once, orders Perrier.
As we eat our high-calorie and high-fat ice creams and ice cream cake, we sing Happy Birthday to Gigi.
Gigi looks gloomy and she twirls her spoon in the ice cream we've given her, "Gee, I'm not happy at all. For a woman, reaching forty is pathetic. Have you heard the popular saying? Twenty-something are like basketballs. Thirty-something are like volleyballs. Forty-something are like soccer balls."
"What does that mean?" I ask.
Gigi sighs. "In basketball games, players all try to chase the ball. In volleyball games, if the ball comes to you, you need to receive it. In soccer games, you kick the ball somewhere else." Gigi kicks her leg violently for extra emphasis.
"But maturity is a kind of beauty – isn't it?" I say.
"Right!" Lulu agrees. "Fashion magazines say that truly mature women are those who have children with their second or third husbands."
"Like Yoko Ono," adds another girl, trying to help.
"Like ZsaZsa Gabor," Lulu continues.
"Catherine Deneuve has two children. Neither is from her husband. Does it mean she is more mature than other women?" I ask.
"I guess I can never be that mature. Since I divorced three years ago, I haven't been able to find a man to marry. They all want younger women. I don't understand why there are so many young Chinese women out there for men to choose from. Even married men have more chances than divorced women." Gigi is very frustrated.
Lulu has told me what she heard about Gigi's husband. He was a professor who was involved with one of his students. The student landed a good job through his connections, but soon dumped him and ran off to the United States with an American man. He went back to Gigi, but it was too late.
After Gigi mentions divorce, other women start to ask each other, "Are you divorced?"
"Yes."
"How about you? Have you divorced yet?"
"Yes."
All o
f a sudden, all the women except Lulu and me find a common topic and share their stories with one another.
Ah Du says, "My first husband was nice, but he was a lousy lover. You see, in China, especially among the old generations, women are proud of being cold fish. Women who have sex drives are considered bad luck. I knew that. At first, I was frustrated, but I swallowed it. I meditated, practiced tai chi, tried every way to stop my natural urges. But things changed after I got into law school."
"You met another man?" Lulu asks.
"No. I learned from the textbooks that my sexual desires are protected by law. It is legitimate to divorce someone for bad sex!" says Ah Du.
"So you've become a smart woman who knows about your rights," I tease her.
"Divorce for me is like sex. Once you've done it, you want to do it repeatedly. Now I'm divorced three times. But in order to catch up with Liz Taylor, I have to quicken my pace," says Ah Du.
"Does dumping men make you feel good?" Lulu asks.
"If men can upgrade their computers, why can't we upgrade our husbands? All we want is the same thing: better and faster performance."
An art teacher can't wait to chip in with her story. "My ex and I were college sweethearts. We came from Guangxi, a poor province. He was kind but timid."
"Typical Chinese intellectual," comments Ah Du.
"Yes. After we graduated from college, he got a job as a librarian in Beijing, making only three hundred yuan per month. I was a schoolteacher, making five hundred yuan per month. He lived in his dorm with his roommates, and as a teacher, I lived with my roommates. We couldn't afford to rent an apartment."
"In those days, if you didn't work for a waiqi, a foreign company, or weren't a corrupt official or the relative of a corrupt official, you had no chance of buying a flat, " says Gigi, who understands the situation of the art teacher.
