A Certain Smile

by Judith Michael

  "Xi'an?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "I don't know. Xi'an seems to be everywhere these days."

  Yes, she remembered he had brought it up in the restaurant the night before, quite out of nowhere. "This woman owns a shop there and she is anxious for me to become a client so she begged me to let her come to Beijing to try on some of her designs."

  "What is her name?" Sheng asked, an odd question, Wu Yi thought, but his mind seemed to be fixed on Xi'an.

  "Ye Meiyun," she said, recalling the name more easily this time.

  "I know that name. When I was young, my father knew her husband. He killed himself."

  "What an interesting coincidence." Wu Yi found the conversation quite boring. "And after she is here, I go to Shanghai for my Magnolia award. You do remember that I am receiving one."

  "Yes," Sheng said, but he sounded a little distant to her.

  "Sheng? The award for best actress in a television movie! You could not have forgotten!"

  "No, no, of course not. Why don't I come with you to Shanghai? It would be a holiday for us."

  She hesitated. It would be good to have Sheng's adoring eyes in the audience when she gave her acceptance speech. On the other hand, he could be an impediment. Her career would not be helped by being linked to a failure. "Perhaps," she said. "I will see how I feel."

  And he had to be satisfied with that. She hung up, still gazing at her reflection in the mirror. How beautiful she was, even in the morning, even without makeup. She picked up the jeweled comb Sheng had

  given her the night before, and used it to pull her hair from one side of her face and wedge it in place. Very nice. He had good taste in such things.

  I will see him again, she thought. Or, I may not. There is no hurry to decide. He will wait forever, that sweet boy, for me to make up my mind.

  Chapter q

  Miranda stayed behind when the meeting adjourned for tea, taking out her sketch pad to design a cashmere cape, black, with gold silk magnolias. There had been a message at the Palace Hotel when she returned from Xi'an, saying that Meiyun needed a cape to go with an evening gown, and describing it in general terms. "As soon as you can design it, please call me," Meiyun had said, and Miranda had barely been able to wait until this pause in the meeting. My first commission in China, she thought, and her pencil strokes were bold and sweeping.

  But even working on her own private commission, she was having trouble sitting still. The sun had been shining when she had walked into the Baoxiang International Garments Center, and she had not seen it since. A bird had soared high above as she had paused in the doorway, a young girl on a bicycle had smiled at her, a soft breeze had touched her hair, and she had thought of Li's fingers, thin, elegant fingers lightly lifting her hair and letting it fall as they lay together in the Xi'an Garden Hotel, his lips on her forehead, her cheek, her mouth.

  I have to get out of here, she thought. I have to move.

  They had flown back from Xi'an at seven o'clock that morning, and whenever her thoughts turned inward, blocking out the meeting around her, she could hear again the roar of the plane's engines, the soundtrack of the movie, blaring throughout the cabin since there were no headphones, the stomping of stewardesses dashing up and down the aisles to serve everyone before the short flight ended, and the shouted conversations among passengers trying to make themselves heard. Up front, in seats labeled first class because they were two inches wider than the hundreds stretching behind, she and Li sat within a small bub-

  ble of privacy. They looked at each other, then away, then back again, wanting to touch and be touched. Miranda's skin was electric with his closeness: his hand, arm, shoulder, thigh a fraction of an inch from pressing against hers, merging with hers as they had done all night in the deep silence of her hotel room so that nothing, not the thinnest ray of light, could find a way between them. Beneath the noise of the plane, now and then Li bent down to shift his overnight bag or tie his shoelace, and his shoulder touched Miranda's leg, his hand brushed her ankle: the briefest of contacts that left them short of breath, desperate for more. By the time they landed in Beijing, they were exhausted.

  Now they were both at work and, while the executives of the Baox-iang International Garments Center drank their tea, Miranda could close her eyes and picture a map of Beijing, with Li at one end, sitting at his desk, talking to his son, and herself at the other end, drawing in her sketchbook. Grids of streets separated them, skyscrapers and hutongs, shops and apartments, teeming crowds. I'd rather we were in bed, she reflected, and felt again the hard smoothness of his skin beneath her lips and tongue, his swelling beneath her touch.

  I have to get out of here, she thought. I have to move.

  "Mrs. Graham," a secretary said, in the doorway. "There is a telephone call for you."

  Li, she thought. No one else knows I'm here.

  "I had to hear your voice," he said the minute she picked up the telephone in a nearby office.

  "Oh." Her legs were weak and she sat down. "Yes. I've been sitting there, trapped by all those people and all I wanted was to be in bed with you."

  "Why not, then? Can you leave?"

  "No. And neither can you. How did it go, with Sheng?"

  "Unsettling. In some ways better than I expected, but sad, too. I'll tell you tonight. How is your meeting?"

  "Endless."

  "I know. I kept thinking about you, all the time I was talking to Sheng. I drew little shapes that did not touch each other, all unconnected, but then I said your name to myself and felt close to you. Miranda. And then I wondered where it came from, what it means."

  "Latin. It means 'she who is to be wondered at.' "

  "Ah, perfect. Wondered at. Admired. An admirable woman. I like your mother for choosing it. I have an idea for tonight; I would like to cook dinner for you. Shall we do that?"

  "Yes, if I can help in the— No, wait, I can't. Can I? I mean, it's even

  worse than going to Xi'an together, isn't it? That could possibly have been a business trip, but no one would think I'm in your house on business. They'd see me going into your home—an American who had contact with dissidents—and that would be dangerous for you. Wouldn't it?"

  "So many questions," he said gently. "You must not be afraid, Miranda."

  "I'm not afraid for myself."

  "Oh, my dear one. Thank you. But, you know, I am not foolhardy. Occasionally foolish, but not foolhardy. It will be all right."

  "You keep saying that. Have they stopped following us?"

  "No, but it does not matter. By now they must know that you are here only for business, but no one has gotten around to writing the order to stop the surveillance. There is so much inertia in bureaucracies that change takes a long time, even when everyone knows something is wrong. Besides, everyone is preparing to welcome your president; until then, the government will show its best face. You and I will do as we like, Miranda. No one will be hurt. I promise you that."

  How much can promises mean in a country where the rules change at the whim of the government?

  But I don't want to stop seeing him. So I'll convince myself that he's right. And he may be. It's his country.

  "I want you in my house," Li said as she was silent. "In my kitchen, at my table, in my bed. Tell me that you will let me cook for you tonight."

  She gave a small sigh. "Yes."

  "Good. We will have such a fine time. I will pick you up—"

  "But only if I can help in the kitchen."

  She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Can you wield a cleaver?"

  "No. But it can't be much different from chopsticks."

  They were laughing when she heard a rustle at the door and knew she was expected back at the meeting. "I must go."

  "I will be at your hotel at six."

  Miranda followed the secretary back to the meeting, and as soon as she sat down the assistant production manager said, "This sweater." His finger tapped one of Miranda's watercolor drawings. "The two colo
rs, it is more expensive, another step in the process."

  "Of course." Miranda took out her original sketch of the sweater. "But less yam, since it is sleeveless."

  "But a turtleneck. I have calculated it at twelve hundred yuan."

  Silently, Miranda converted it. One hundred twenty-five dollars.

  They would sell the sweaters to stores for two hundred fifty. The stores would price them at five hundred. A little higher than she had hoped, but about what their customers would expect to pay for a fine two-ply cashmere sweater, intricately seamed, in heather-like combinations of blue-gray, silver-black, green-blue, or gold-black, with a deep turtle-neck ending in a long fringe pulled from the yams themselves. It was one of her best designs, at once elegant and casual. She knew it would sell.

  "The two colors must be perfectly consistent," she said, ignoring the price for the moment because it was never wise to agree to any figure immediately. "In the blue-gray combination, for example, there must be no variations such as two or three shades of blue, or blue and buff, or, worse, blue and white."

  "Of course, of course, we will come as close—"

  "No. I said exactly the same. We must be confident that the entire run will have this look of heather. Not tweed or anything like it. The two colors must blend perfectly into their own third color."

  "Then I fear that the cost will increase, both for control of the yam and the production time. The only way we can guarantee the price and time schedule I have given is to manufacture the sweaters within reasonable limits."

  "That is not acceptable." She looked around the table at the circle of smooth faces floating above perfectly pressed suits, crisp shirts, sober ties, patiently folded hands. They're part of a culture that's been around for thousands of years; they can wait out anybody. But not me. Not today. Her impatience had been growing; now it rose like a breaking wave, and crashed upon the conference table. "I cannot imagine that a company as experienced and skilled as yours would fail at quality control of yam dyes. You would be out of business in a week if you could not guarantee colors. I came to Baoxiang because of your reputation for excellence, but if I have been mistaken, and we cannot work together, there are companies in Thailand and the Philippines and Malaysia that have expressed an interest in working with us. I would like to work in China because your workers take pride in what they do, and I admire many of your products, but I must be safisfied or I will go elsewhere."

  Her heart was pounding. She had no authority to work with any manufacmrers other than those on her list, much less travel to other countries. But her voice had been decisive, and the words had come out as easily as if she had held them in reserve all this time. That is not acceptable. Exacdy what she should have said at her first meeting, only five days ago. But then she had felt helpless, and now, suddenly,

  she was confident, daring, almost reckless. It was as if, through Li, she had found a place in China: no longer an impotent outsider, but someone who could be a player in their negotiating gamesmanship.

  Besides, she had seen the quick look between the production manager and the vice president when she had mentioned those other Asian countries, and she knew she had struck a sensitive chord.

  "It would be unfortunate for us all if our transactions were not successful," said the production manager, speaking to Miranda past his assistant who had been doing the talking. "Certainly dye lots can be consistent; selecting them is one of the skills that have taken shape here under our scientific management system. Whatever you need, we can provide in a superior fashion to anyone else."

  "And the price?" Miranda asked bluntly.

  "We will keep it to twelve hundred yuan."

  Her heart was racing again, this time with exhilaration. Done, she thought. Well done.

  Excitement surged through her. It seemed she had been buoyed by excitement since arriving in China, but it had truly flowered only the day before, in Xi'an—so much had flowered in Xi'an—and now she was excited about everything. New foods. New ideas. China. A commission from Meiyun. Dinner at Li's house. Love.

  Excitement tightened her muscles, heightened her senses. She was alert to her surroundings in new ways, poised with anticipation, ready for today and tomorrow, no longer afraid of being taken by surprise or overwhelmed. She tried to remember when she had felt like this: confident that whatever waited around the comer she could face, and grasp, and incorporate into her life.

  Never. I have never felt this way.

  Like my children, beginning a new adventure.

  It will go more easily now, she thought, then wondered whether she meant this meeting at Baoxiang, or her work, or perhaps her whole Ufe.

  Three hours later, when the production manager said, "That is the last one," it was clear that the meeting, if nothing else, had indeed gone more easily, the pace picking up, negotiations moving rapidly through the remaining designs to an amiable conclusion in which they all had made compromises. A pity I can't use that threat all the time, she thought, gathering up her worksheets and sketchpad.

  "Do you wish a taxi?" the production manager asked her as the room emptied. Miranda started to say yes, but suddenly she knew that she could not possibly sit any longer; she was churning with restless-

  ness and elation and she had to move, to feel her body stretch and come alive after six hours at a conference table.

  "I'll walk," she said.

  "To your hotel? The Palace?" He was shocked. "It is much too far."

  "Is it?" She had no idea how far it was, but the farther the better: she needed space, movement, air.

  "At least six kilometers."

  Kilometers. How many miles was that? I should have learned this in school, she thought, but it had never seemed important. She nodded, as if six kilometers were an easy stroll, quickly made the rounds of the executives with proper goodbyes, then mcked her folder of papers and sketch pad into her briefcase and left the building, coming into late-afternoon sunlight with a sigh of relief. Like being let out of school. She laughed aloud, suddenly so piercingly happy she could not contain it.

  Unfolding her map, she tried to memorize it, then she moved in the general direction of Wangfujing, keeping pace with the crowds, glancing at shopwindows, at the traffic, at faces. After a few blocks it occurred to her that not once had she thought of herself as one American surrounded by hundreds, thousands, of Chinese. She was simply one person walking amid shoppers and homeward-bound workers like herself. They're just people. They don't look different anymore. How amazing that is.

  At an intersection, she stopped to study her map again and a small crowd gathered. "What is it you look for?" a young girl asked in careful English. "Perhaps we may be of help."

  Miranda had wanted to do it herself, but when she looked at the faces around her, another circle of faces but this time curious and friendly, she could not shut them out. "Wangfujing," she said. "The Palace Hotel." She pointed to her right. "I think I should go this way."

  Some of the faces nodded, but then a discussion began, with pointing fingers and animated disagreements. Miranda waited, understanding nothing. Finally the young girl said, "There are two ways. Perhaps you would like us to accompany you."

  "No! No, thank you," she added, not wanting to seem rude. She was confused by friendliness and generosity, having decided that China had only their opposites, and she was not sure how friendly she should be. "I like to go slowly, to see everything. To learn about the city."

  They beamed. "You are impressed with Beijing."

  "Yes. Very much." And when she walked on, after saying thank you and goodbye— "Xi-xi, Zaijian" —which pleased everyone, including

  herself, she did find the city impressive. More than impressive: beautiful. Beijing lay under a golden light that transformed the polluted air, gilded the garbage along the curbs, brightened apartment windows, turned cracks in the sidewalk to soft shadows. Miranda wondered at that light, but it fit so well with her own excitement and piercing joy that she accepted it, walking as easily as if sh
e were at home. She no longer felt she was choking in the dense air; she barely noticed the peeUng doorways or the garish neon signs hanging overhead, crowding against each other in a jumble of color; she was engulfed by the screeching, rumbling, chattering, clanging, honking street noises but none of them distracted her from her thoughts or dimmed her happiness.

  She walked down one street and then another, smiling at a young boy on the back of his father's bicycle, bundles of leeks slung across his lap. She watched an elderly man doing his exercises, stretching, squatting, touching his toes, while smoke trailed lazily from the cigarette in his mouth. In the next block, she bought a roasted sweet potato from a vendor, and peeled and ate it as she walked. Beneath the blackened skin, the flesh was deep orange, meltingly soft, pungent, steaming, and she nibbled at the edges, too impatient to wait until it cooled. The sweet roasted smell was all around her as others ate their own, and it mingled with diesel fumes, soot, wafting odors of garbage, and the acrid smoke of Chinese cigarettes. Miranda breathed it in and did not frown.

  In fact, she smiled, and others smiled back. And as she walked and walked, now and then checking her map, crossing at intersections where uniformed police on raised circular platforms tried vainly to create order, her stride grew longer. She enjoyed being part of the mass of people, part of their pulsing life and purposeful thrust toward home.

  All of us going home, she thought. Wanting companionship and love. And dinner. And she knew that that was something Li had done for her: where once she had seen only the differences between people, now she saw how much alike they were. And because of that her world had expanded, and was still expanding, becoming enormous, varied, exciting, real. Thank you, she said silentiy, to Li, to China, even to herself, for being able to learn. She smiled at that. Thanking myself. How very odd. And at that moment she began to recognize buildings and shop windows and a cluster of stunted trees that told her where she was: Wangfujing was one block away, and she was almost home.