A Certain Smile

by Judith Michael

  "Of course I am, a lot of the time, good heavens, I'm not superhuman. Everybody gets tired, even overwhelmed sometimes, you know that; it's just that not all of us show it. I'm a lot like you, you know; how else could we be friends? Now, listen, I want you to go to China. I haven't been there in years and I want a complete report. Meet new people, eat everything, go everywhere, and then come back and tell me about it."

  "I've never done anything like that. You know that."

  "Well, it's high time," Nancy said lightly. "Look, take a first step. Come and meet Ting. She can tell you about China and give you courage. Come to dinner; she really does need ftiends, Miranda, and you have a way of making people comfortable."

  "What way is that?"

  "Oh, quiet, not jumping all over people to get them to do things or say things, not demanding."

  "You mean passive."

  "I mean hstening. Waiting to hear what comes next. Waiting for something to happen."

  Miranda frowned. Waiting for something to happen. She didn't know it was that obvious to others. All my life I've been waiting for something to happen.

  And now many things were happening. How do we get to the places we find ourselves? she wondered. Here she was in a taxi in Beijing, at least partly because she had met Sima Ting.

  Ting had talked all through dinner, about China, about her trip to America, and about her hopes for going home.

  "But you must like it here," Miranda said.

  "I do, please do not think me ungrateful; I am happy to be here and Nancy has been amazing, wonderful, and everyone has been so kind; it is truly a lovely country. But it is not my country, you know."

  "You'll make it yours. Look what your country has done to you and to your friends; they tried to destroy you; they did destroy many of you. You can't really want to go back there."

  "My country has not tried to destroy me; a few men in the government did that." Ting paused. "I think you cannot understand the longing someone has for home, because you are home. I belong in China, you know, just as you belong here. My family is there, and my fiiends, and my work, and there are things we can do, there must be things we can do, to change the system there. Probably we moved too quickly, at Tiananmen; we must ieam to be more gradual, more patient; these are things we must think about." She smiled. "You have a saying, that something is in your bones. My bones are Chinese, they hurt when they cannot touch the ground in China."

  Miranda frowned. "MilUons of people have come here and they become Americans and they forget their other homes."

  "I think they never forget their other homes," said Ting gently. "But whether they do or not, I could not. And I could not truly become an American any more than you truly could become a Chinese. Miranda, I am not saying your country is not wonderful; I am saying that my country is mine, wonderful or not. And this is an important time in China. They call it the 'Beijing Autumn,' do you know why? Because the old men who run the country soon will die and fall, just like leaves ftx)m the trees in autumn, and then things will change."

  They had diimer together one more time, talking about the China

  Miranda would see if she took a business trip there. "I think it would be good if you go there," Ting said. "It is always good to discover new places, and there are many wonders you will not find anywhere else. How do you know what will happen next year? Do things when you can; life changes too quickly to put them off."

  Nancy, who had been listening quietly, nodded firmly. "What did I tell you? Go! A whole world is out there, and you haven't even scratched the surface. I have absolute faith in you; you'll learn things about yourself you never knew before."

  Miranda did not tell her that she found that idea alarming. But also, in a strange, rippling way, exciting.

  A week later, Miranda called Ting to tell her she was indeed going to China. Ting's voice was excited. "Would you do a favor for me?"

  "A favor? In China?"

  "A small one, of no great consequence, but I would so appreciate it. Please, would you deliver a letter for me? It is to my parents and they have not heard from me in such a long time. I write often and put the pages together, hoping to find someone to deliver it. If you could, I would be so grateful."

  "Of course I will. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to myself, and I'd like to meet your parents."

  "Oh, you will not meet them; their home is too difficult to find. If you will take the letter to this small shop, the people there will deliver it to my parents. You will do this for me?"

  "Of course," Miranda said again, and the next day Ting brought a bulging manila envelope to her. So, as she sat in the taxi in Beijing, rocking from side to side as the car took comers with screeching sharpness, she asked herself again, How do we get to the places we find ourselves? How can we ever predict, or even understand, all the forces that shape us and move us through our lives?

  The address turned out to be a tiny food store, with bins on the sidewalk piled high with vegetables. Inside, the shelves were stacked with cans and jars covered with labels she could not read. A few things she did recognize. If I lived here, all we'd eat would be peanuts, eggs, noodles and dried mushrooms, she thought. At the back of the store, a man and woman stood behind a counter. "Please?" the man said.

  Miranda held out the letter. "I was asked to deliver this."

  The man made a small bow. "Thank you." He gestured to shelves in the store. "Please?"

  "I don't understand," Miranda said.

  The woman walked around the counter and selected a bag of dried

  mushrooms and two cans. She put them in a paper bag and handed it to Miranda.

  I have to buy something, too? Miranda thought. But the man and woman were both making small bows; then the man held out his hand and when Miranda put hers in it, he shook it vigorously. "Goodbye," he said. "Thank you. Thank you."

  My reward, Miranda thought, amused, and made her own goodbyes before returning to the taxi. She showed the driver a letterhead from the Palace Hotel and he nodded. Done, she thought, settling back as they merged into a busier street. Such a simple thing; it will make Ting's parents happy. She imagined not seeing Adam and Lisa for five years, hearing from them only intermittently, if at all. She wouldn't be able to bear it. These people must be very strong.

  I'll ask Li about that, she thought. How many people go through this, how many went to prison.. .. Then she changed her mind. She didn't really want to tell him about Ting. She liked the idea of having her own errand, going about Beijing alone, on business that had nothing to do with Talia or Li.

  And so, instead, in the restaurant that night, she told him about tipping the taxi driver that morning. "He didn't thank me."

  "How do you know?" Li asked. "You don't speak Chinese."

  "He didn't say anything. He didn't even smile. But, then, I didn't see very many smiles today."

  "People were unpleasant to you?"

  "Oh, no, they were incredibly polite. And they did smile, but they weren't real smiles. I mean, they were like handshakes: something you do in business. They weren't warm."

  "The people or the smiles?"

  "Neither."

  "Perhaps they save their warmth for people they know."

  "I'm not asking them to love me," she snapped. "I just think they might be more friendly."

  "Well. Friendly." He made a small gesture. "That is often a problem for foreigners in China." He refilled their glasses of Yanjing beer and settled back in his chair. "Let me tell you an ancient fable. One day a poor man met an old friend who had become an immortal. As the poor man complained of his poverty, the immortal pointed his finger at a brick by the roadside, which immediately turned into a gold ingot. 'This is for you,' he said. When the man was not satisfied with this, the immortal pointed his finger at a pile of stones, mming them into gold coins. But the man still was not happy. 'What more do you want?' asked the immortal, and his friend replied, 'I want your finger.' "

  Miranda laughed. "I like that. And the moral is, everybody w
ill always want more, but nobody is willing to give everything, so at some point we ought to be satisfied with what we have."

  "Exactly. That fable is from the fourth century B.C. Nothing changes, you know, across the centuries, or across borders. Now tell me about the rest of your day. Was it a good one for business?"

  "No. Well, maybe it was; I'm not sure. No one asked for my finger, but they did demand things that I didn't want to give. ... Oh, I don't know; I have to sort it all out. There was so much going on it felt like three or four days, at least. I'd rather be here, at this lovely restaurant. Fangshan? Is that how you say it?"

  "Fong-shon. An imperial restaurant, which means the chefs have revived the cuisine once served to emperors. An elegant cuisine. It suits you."

  She frowned. "Why do you say that?"

  "You think it is not true?"

  "I know it's not." She looked away, shutting out his gaze. The room he had chosen was the smallest in the restaurant, with only six tables, each beneath a red, fringed paper lantern. A large window overlooked Beihai Lake, pale silver in the fading light, with dark trees massed along the shore, their overhanging branches trailing in the water. The restaurant was on an island in the lake, suspended between shimmering water reflecting the rising moon, and filmy clouds moving across an opal sky. It was a dreamlike oasis in the frenetic city, shielded from automobile horns, the acrid fumes of buses, and neon lights flashing in staccato bursts. "This must be the only peaceful place in Beijing," Miranda said.

  "On the contrary, we have many, each different from the others. If you will allow me, I will show them to you."

  Again, she frowned. "I don't understand—"

  Two waitresses, theatrically made up and wearing identical silk gowns slit to the thigh, arranged four serving dishes on their table. "I ordered for both of us," said Li. "I thought that would be easiest."

  "Yes, of course. I wouldn't know where to start."

  "We start with cold dishes..," He spooned a portion onto Miranda's saucer-sized plate, and then onto his own. "Spiced beef. The others are shredded chicken, duck's tongue, and fried eel. Eat only what you like."

  I'll eat it all. If he thinks he can scare me off with things like duck's tongue and eel.. . well, he could, but I wouldn 't let him know it. She reached for her fork, then realized there was no fork. Two ivory chopsticks lay against a small porcelain rest, gleaming malevolently. Her

  face flooded with embarrassment. She had not eaten lunch because she had been ashamed to admit she did not know what to do, and she had assumed Li would take her to a place that had knives and forks, like the hotel restaurant where they had had breakfast.

  Desperately, she glanced around to see what others were doing, but the others were all Chinese, perfectly at home, no help at all. I hate this, she thought angrily. I hate being in a strange place. I hate Li for bringing me here.

  She picked up the chopsticks and tried to hold them as she saw others doing. It looked simple, but no matter how she wound her fingers around them, she could not make them move separately.

  "Like this," Li said gently. Covering her hand with his, he guided her thumb and fingers to hold the two ivory sticks, smooth and cool, tapered slightly, with red Chinese characters etched along their sides. "The bottom one stays still; the top one moves up and down, like a pin-cer. Put your thumb across both, right here, to stabilize them. Now we will bring the tips together, like this, and pick up a piece of beef. Perfect. Now, again. You see? Now you try it." He took his hand away and watched Miranda practice, "Ah, very good. Now another. Good, good. You're very quick. You never used chopsticks in America?"

  "The restaurants always had forks on the table. I never thought it was necessary."

  Or intriguing. Why wasn 't I more curious to try them, even oncel

  The beef was delicious, spicy hot and sweet, and when she looked up and met Li's waiting look, she said, "It's wonderful. And now that you've taught me how to get it into my mouth, I think you should eat and not worry about me."

  "I want you to be pleased."

  "I am," she said, and it was true. She felt happy. After a day of being intimidated and insecure among foreigners who knew everything while she knew nothing, isolated every time they spoke Chinese, nervous about the responsibility of negotiating for her company with strangers so totally different from her... now, for the first time, she could relax.

  She liked the hushed room with its crisp white tablecloths and translucent paper lanterns, the red and gold porcelain lamp on their table, the small white plates that held one serving at a time of the foods parading before them. She liked the muted colors of the carpet, the dark silk drapes at the window looped back with gold cords and medallions, the strange music wafting in a minor key from hidden speakers. She liked the intimacy of their table, a small island of Eng-

  lish in an incomprehensible sea of rapid-fire Chinese. Without Li, she would have felt she was drowning; with him, she felt adventurous, able to think about dinner.

  She took a long drink, to cool her mouth from the spicy beef. The Chinese beer was soft and mellow, but with a distinctive bite, and it was served like water, the waitresses keeping their glasses filled just as waiters filled water glasses at home. Miranda had always thought beer was common and cheap, compared to wine, but it was just right with these dishes, and even if it had not been, she would never call attention to herself by asking for wine or anything else that would make her stand out as even more different from everyone else. She disliked being the center of attention, and that was even more true in China. Anyway, she liked the beer and it was new, which made her feel still more advenmrous. A wave of gratitude filled her and, abruptly, out of context, she said, "Thank you," to Li, and he said, very simply, "I'm glad you're pleased."

  When her plate was empty, he refilled it from the bowl of shredded chicken. "Now," he said, serving himself. "I still want to hear about what you did today. And what you thought and felt."

  Miranda took a thin strip of chicken between her chopsticks and carried it smoothly to her mouth. How about that, she thought exultantly. One lesson and I'm eating like a local. She felt a rush of confidence, and from that came honesty. "Mostly I kept wishing that I'd done more and seen more in my life."

  "Like learning to use chopsticks?"

  "Learning everything. If I'd traveled more, if I knew more about the world, I would have handled things better today. I wasn't aggressive enough; I didn't make it absolutely clear that my company expects certain things done in a certain way."

  "Are you ever aggressive?"

  "What?"

  "I'm sorry; that was rude. Perhaps when I know you better I will ask such a question. Or by then I will not need to."

  Deliberately, Miranda laid her chopsticks on their porcelain rest. "What is this all about?'

  "This? You mean my rudeness? My apology?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Well." He nodded. "You mean the two of us sharing breakfast and dinner and perhaps someday knowing each other well enough for me to discover whether or not you are aggressive. May I answer you later? I promise I will answer you, but for now would you accept it if I say

  simply that I enjoy your company and find it pleasant to dine with you, and that I would like to help you have a pleasant evening, and a more pleasant stay in Beijing?"

  No, she thought, but she did not say it. Just as she avoided calling attention to herself, she always tried to avoid making a fuss. It was best to keep everything smooth by going along with people as much as possible. Besides, it really was a pleasant evening: far better than eating alone in her hotel room.

  "Yes, all right," she said.

  "Thank you. Did you like the chicken?"

  "It had an odd flavor. I almost liked it."

  He chuckled. "Next time perhaps you will like it better. This is the fried eel." He spooned a portion onto her plate. "A bit slippery, for chopsticks, but Vm sure you can manage it; you are doing so well. Whom did you meet today?"

  "The vice
president, the manager of production, the general manager of the factory, the people in charge of production, and some others I never did figure out. The factory is enormous; have you ever been there?"

  "My company built the number two building."

  Her eyes widened. "That was a huge project. It's much larger than the number one building."

  "And better built. They should have called us first, but they were trying to save money."

  "Who was? Your government?"

  "No, the Japanese. That company is a joint venture, funded mostly by a Japanese investment firm. Chinese investors own a small part of it, and of course the management is Chinese, though they brought in a group of Japanese advisors. It is an excellent company; you'll find them good to work with."

  "I think they find Americans demanding and arrogant."

  "Americans are demanding and arrogant. It comes from being the most powerful nation in the world." He refilled her plate. "I see that you like the eel."

  "Yes, very much." She frowned. "I don't think I'm demanding, and I'm certainly not arrogant. I don't feel more powerful than anybody. Mostly I'm ashamed because I'm so ignorant about things. I didn't know your government let foreigners own companies; I thought communism meant the government owns everything."

  "That is no longer true. Did they give you a tour of the factory? What did you think of it?"

  "It was very impressive."

  "Tell me about it. I haven't been there since we finished work on it."

  Miranda described the air-conditioned, brightly lit workshops, more than a city block long, each with long rows of individual worktables where women sat bent over their sewing machines. Pieces of brightly colored fabrics were piled beside them, looking like sleeping birds, wings folded, voices still. In fact, there were no voices at all: no one gossiped or laughed or described ailments or bragged about children or grandchildren, or hummed a tune. The only sound was the whirr of sewing machines, the only movement the controlled motions of swiftly stitching hands ... though every one of the women did look up to make a piercing survey of Miranda as she walked past, from her hair to her shoes.