The Last Chinese Chef (36 page)

“Oh, yes. First thing tomorrow. And someone else at the top of my list is Andrew Souther. That’s the guy, that’s his name. I pried it out of Gao Lan.”

“How’d you do that?”

“There’s this restaurant out toward the Beijing Zoo, a Uighur place — you should try it.”

“Ah,” said Maggie.

“I’ll set up a meeting with him here in the office. I’m going to pack it with a few other lawyers, just to drive my point home.”

“Which is?” said Maggie.

“To make the law very clear to him.”

“Thank you. That’s what I was hoping for.”

“At first I was surprised you wanted to help her,” he said.

Maggie spoke slowly. She had given this a lot of thought. “We are connected, she and I, by something that happened in our lives. After I met her I felt that, and then the rivalry part didn’t matter anymore. Also, I’m human — and I met the child.”

“There, you were right. Someone may have to intervene. Zinnia explained a little more to me after you left about Gao Lan — let’s face it, she has only six or seven years left doing that kind of work. And none of this is the kid’s fault.”

“Now, should I pay you for this?” said Maggie. “Because I will.”

“No! No problem. Everything has to be done soon, though, because I’m going home next week. My mother’s sick.”

“I’m sorry,” said Maggie. “I didn’t know that.”

“She’s dying.”

“That must be difficult.”

“It’s not sudden. She’s been sick for a while. Got to go, though, you know? It’s important.”

“I know.”

“Family.”

“Right.
Guanxi.
”

A smile came into his voice. “Listen to you! You like China.”

“Funny you say that. I’ve been sitting here all night, waiting for these results to be posted, staring out the window at Beijing. It’s very mind-altering. I’ve decided China makes me high.”

He laughed. “I know what you mean. This is the only place I’ve lived where I don’t really need any substances. Just being here is enough. It’s like a drug. And if it turns out to be
your
drug, you never want to leave.”

“I’ve thought about that,” she said, “staying. Believe it or not. Which is crazy.”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “People come here, they do strange things. Wait and see.”

 

Sam spent the first day after the banquet cleaning, refusing his father’s help, grateful for the hours of dishwashing and pot-scrubbing and finally floor-mopping, begun when he was already so tired he could barely stand. He finished everything in the early evening when the clear lake light was just starting to wane, and even though it was not late he fell on his bed and was blessedly, instantly asleep. He slept deeply, straight through, without dreams, oblivious to the night noises of the neighborhood outside. When he awoke in the morning he felt cleansed. It had been years since he’d slept so long, more than he could remember, maybe since he was a child. He rose with an easy stretch he seemed to have known once and then forgotten. The job was done. It was past. Now he would wait, and proceed as the way opened.

He spent that day with his father, taking him around to see how the city had changed. They did not visit famous places such as palaces and temples, but the places his father remembered from being a boy: the site of his elementary school, once tucked in a leafy
hutong,
now obliterated by a massive concrete-faced apartment building. They took a taxi down Chongwenmennei Boulevard, now wide, soulless, streaming traffic past intersections that led off to gritty, almost sad-looking streets and alleys. This had been Hata Men, and it was the only thing that brought tears to his father’s eyes. “It was so crowded,” he said, “so gay! The crowds, the vendors — we always walked through here when we shopped for food.” He stared out at the wide modern artery in front of him as if he were not seeing it at all but an entirely different world. “My mother and I.”

“I know,” said Sam. “Surpassing Crystal.” And he and his father touched hands.

That night they joined Jiang and Tan to dine at Fang Shan in Beihai Park, another imperial-style restaurant that had been established the year
The Last Chinese Chef
was published, and with which the three older men had lifelong ties. Located in buildings that had once been part of the imperial pleasure grounds, the place had been started by chefs from the closed-down palace kitchens at the same time Liang Yeh’s father opened Liang Jia Cai. Fang Shan was one of the few restaurants left open by the government in the 1950s. For long stretches it had been only for guests of state, and it was closed entirely during the decade of the Cultural Revolution. Now, though, like the rest of China, it was back to a booming business. They welcomed Liang Yeh like a returning prince, and pressed on the four of them a long and extravagant meal of the chef ’s devising. Sam secretly found the food tired, but the tea snacks, the tiny pastries meant to clear the palate between courses — these were exceptional. They even had
xiao wo tou
and
shao bing jia rou mo.
“Yours last night were better,” Sam whispered to his father.

The next day Sam’s father, Jiang, and Tan left on an excursion to a temple outside the city, leaving Sam alone in the courtyard rooms, clean now, and ordered. The dining room was still hung with the calligraphy from the banquet, and each time Sam passed through on his way to the kitchen he remembered the meal, the way it had soared even after the loss of the thirty-crab sauce, the up-rush of triumph he had felt when the diners applauded him at the end. Tonight he would hear. The press conference was at eight, and the two winners, the ones who would be given the coveted northern spots on the Chinese team, would be announced. He knew he had a chance. He had surpassed himself. Every time he thought of it he felt a churn of excitement. By the time late afternoon came and the sun was low, he could stay inside no longer. On top of everything else, the place felt empty to him without his father, which was strange because Liang Yeh had been there only a short time. Sam went out, locked the gate, and started to walk around the lake.

It was the perfect time of day. Twilight would fall soon; right now the long light was glorious. The streets gained a second life after dark, especially in the warm summer months and the golden weeks of autumn. Out walking then, Sam felt that the city, its subtleties enhanced by shadow, was all his. That was a good way to feel tonight. He wanted to win.

He walked the rim of the lake, its lively line of restaurants, shops, and teahouses, its foot-pedaled boats now tied up at their little docks. His chances were strong. It all depended on how good Yao Weiguo’s banquet was — it was between him and Yao. That was if one of the two spots went to Pan Jun, which it would. Sam felt the frustrated contraction inside him.
It’s life,
he thought,
live with it.
It was the dark side of
guanxi,
another truth of being here.
Still, I can win. It’s either me or Yao Weiguo.
As he walked, only the balls of his feet touched the ground, as if he were lifting right into the air. With every breath he felt himself praying to fate.

By the time it grew close to eight he had made his way to the club end of the lake and taken up a resting post by an old marble column left from before, when the lake was a quiet place. Sam had never seen it like this, but his uncles had told him. Most of what he saw around him now had been built in the last decade.

Five minutes, he thought. There were bars behind him with TV screens; he had been in them before. He knew this was a place he could see the news. His feet had known where to bring him.

He walked into a bar full of people. He heard a wall of voices and the crack of billiards from a spotlit table in the corner. There was a TV flashing images from the wall with its sound turned down; good. He could sidle over and turn it up when the time came.

He ordered cognac, not currently a hip drink. It was what his uncles ordered when he was out with them. That was why he liked it, and why he ordered it now, to feel connected to them — that, and the golden, half-punishing flavor, which he loved.

He drank it slowly, in tiny tastes, holding down his excitement. A glance at the screen, no, not yet, a commercial. Then the news would start. They would either go live to the press conference or do a story on it right after. He took another sip. He knew no one in this bar. He was also the only foreigner. He could have chosen to be with friends tonight, to have gathered a congenial group around him. He knew enough people in Beijing to have done it. But he didn’t. He put it off, waiting. Then his uncles and his father went away for the night, and he realized he wanted to hear the news alone. So he was here. Because often, in China, being in a crowd was being alone.

It was time. He saw the story’s introduction. First there was a slick preamble about the Cultural Games, with a montage of traditional performers and martial artists and chefs, and then there was a similar profile of the contemporary arts festival that was scheduled to take place at the same time. Finally they cut to the press conference. There was the committee. He recognized them.

Sam rose from his stool. He was about to move over and raise the volume when something semi-miraculous happened — a young man seated closer got up and did it first. As the sound went up, the announcer was reading names, and photos of the ten contestants were spilling across the bottom of the screen. There was Sam. He sat back on his stool, taut and quiet, waiting, his mind saying,
Yes. Yes.

The panel’s senior member, a quiet, block-faced man, gave a carefully written, flowery little speech that culminated in his raising his voice to an abrupt and unaccustomed shout as he called out the name of the first winner.

Pan Jun. His face, enlarged, detached from the other nine, floated to the top.

Well, Sam thought, still strong inside, he knew this. Ever since the day he and Uncle Jiang went to visit the Master of the Nets, when he saw Pan Jun and found out he was the son of the minister; ever since then it had been clear. He wet his lips. They were like paper.

Another flowery buildup, and then a second shout — Yao Weiguo. Yao’s face detached and rose to the top, taking its place beside Pan Jun’s.

Sam felt he was in a bubble of agonized silence.
But I cooked a great meal.
He stared at the screen.
How could I lose? You loved it. All six of you.
But then they cut away from the panel and went on with the news. Obviously, Yao’s meal had been better. That was it. Simple.

He turned away on his stool. The sound was lowered again. He took his glass and drained off what was left, grateful he was alone, grateful no one knew him. He paid the bartender. Now he just wanted to leave. He should go home.

Outside, the air cleared him somewhat. He stood staring over the dark water, hands in his pockets. He remembered the story he’d been told, how in past centuries young scholars who had failed the imperial examinations drowned themselves in this lake. Some people claimed to see their ghosts. Was it just his defeat and his dark imaginings, or could he feel them tonight? He stood quiet, watching, turned away from the voices and the sounds of laughter drifting from the string of lights and restaurants behind him, focusing on the water, which he imagined to be filled with souls. Was it real or only a feeling? He didn’t know, but he liked the fact that he felt these things here. Back home he had never had this sense of the past. Maybe it was natural. This was where half of him originated.

He felt a pang for his father and his uncles. He was in the river of life with them. It was time to talk. They were probably waiting for him to make the call. He took out his phone, dialing Uncle Jiang’s number. “First Uncle,” he said, when he heard Jiang’s voice.

“I know, my son, I heard,” said Jiang softly. “My heart is too bitter to bear words.”

“I thought I had a chance, truly.”

“You did!” said Jiang. “Come now. Here. Your Baba.” Sam waited while the phone was passed to Liang Yeh.

“I’m sorry,” his father said.

“Wo yiyang,”
said Sam, Me too.

“I told your mother. She cried.”

This made Sam feel blanketed in sadness. “I wish you didn’t have to tell her,” he said, and even as the words slipped out he knew they were not really what he meant; he meant he wished he had not failed, that his father had had good news to give her.

“I tell her everything,” Liang Yeh said, surprised.

“I know, Baba. It’s okay.” It was not his father’s fault. He had lost, that was all. It had been between him and Yao, and Yao had won. Sam felt his head throbbing. Yao was a great cook. That was all there was to it.

“Ba,” he said, “listen, I want you and First and Second Uncle to put this from your mind. Enjoy the temple. You know how famous the food is, and you know you cannot enjoy it when you are tasting bitterness.”

“Yes, but,” said his father, “how can we put it from our minds when we know you will not?”

“I will, though,” Sam promised him. And then Jiang and Tan each got on the phone, and he assured them of the same thing, and told them to eat well. When he hung up he was glad they were away. It would be a relief to be by himself now.

Should he go home, then? The moon was narrow, waning, and later it would rise. One of the charms of his courtyard was that no one could see into it from anywhere outside. Would that be enough for him tonight? To lie outside on a wicker chaise, in drawstring pajamas, and listen to the leaves? That was what he had missed, not growing up in China. If he had been a child here he would have heard poetry recited on a night like this. No. If he had been a child here he would have suffered.

His head hurt.

I should go home, he thought. Yet he recognized inside him a concomitant need for the laughter and reassurance of a friend. Who? Because this was a naked moment.

He opened his phone and scanned the screen. Restaurant friends, drinking friends, friends who knew women. He had connected with a lot of people. A stranger in a faraway place had to know a lot of people. That was the cushion beneath him. But how well did he know them? There were few he felt like being with right now.