CHINESE BRIAN DENNEHY* AND THE WHITE SPIRIT

It’s the last round, finally. Several men, made overconfident by drink, accept top-ups of baijiu (the “white spirit”), and gulp them down, half glasses of 90+ proof grain alcohol. Briefly, they glow with the approval of their friends and the heat of the liquor; and then, they start to crumple. The young military policeman across from me, with a handsome scarred face that makes him look like a martial arts villain, appears to be throwing up in his mouth and swallowing it down again. A few seats to my right, kindly-faced engineer Lu Zong**, can’t even sit up straight. On our way out I ask him if he is ok, telling him he shouldn’t have drunk so much; he assures me he is fine and slurs an invitation to continue the evening at a lakeside bar. Several minutes later, while I am chatting with the martial arts villain in the lobby, Mr. Lu throws up at the restaurant entrance. “He had a good time” says my host. “If he wasn’t enjoying himself he wouldn’t have drunk so much”. In Chinese I am typically polite to the point of deference but I feel terrible for the unfortunate Mr. Lu and say I think he was bullied into overdoing it. “You shouldn’t say that”, comes the quick reply, “he was happy and honored by your presence, so he drank a lot”. I want to ask if there aren’t better ways to express one’s happiness but I shut up and mentally revisit the evening's progression.

I arrive at the restaurant just before 7 on Sunday night, making my way to the private room that has been booked by my host, Fu Bai**. Taking a deep breath I open the door slowly and look in. Mr. Fu, in a seat facing the door, spots me instantly and suddenly 12 sets of eyes are fixed upon me, 12 pairs of hands applauding my arrival. I am not the guest of honor – that distinction belongs to the venerable Da ge (elder brother), a senior party official who is seated to my right. Mr. Fu, on my left side, spits out rapid introductions to his laoxiang, all of whom hail from the same province.

Among the guests, seated at the round table in order of status: an aeronautics company vice president, a restaurant owner, a public security official, two military policemen, a few wives. They have all been waiting for me, and now that I am here, the drinking must begin. Rushing through the introductions, Fu Bai coaches me to raise my glass to the table and say a few words. Each of us has a goblet of baijiu and a tiny glass to decant into. The other three women present drink juice instead of liquor. I stand, raise my glass and toast the table. But this is not enough. I do it two more times and then I sit down. I’m sweating. I’m getting tired of this game.

Mr. Fu is an old friend of my “boss”, the woman who runs the project I am studying. We were first introduced back in February at a banquet he hosted, and he has since invited us to several big dinners and a palatial Chinese spa. I’ve dined with architects, a general, and the party secretary for the Chinese aeronautics industry. I’ve done this mostly for my boss, because it gives her face to meet all these powerful people, but also because it gives me the opportunity to make contacts that could help me with my research.

And of course, I thought it would be interesting. If I possess feminine wiles*** back home I don't know it, or know how to use it, but here I know full well that I am a novelty - even a catch, and it makes sense to use this to learn what I can about powerful people who would otherwise never grant access to foreigners. I remember joking with friends back home about how I was going to infiltrate the CCP. Apparently this is what I get for all that hubris.

Mr. Fu clearly appreciates more than my ability to attract important contacts and amuse his friends. One night his driver dropped my boss off at her home and Mr. Fu moved to the backseat to sit next to me. He had wanted to take me to a bar where he would be meeting some Chinese Air Force officials but I claimed to have suddenly remembered another engagement. At the bar I called a Chinese friend and begged her to come and rescue me from devious hands and plans.

Mr. Fu is a cadre, or government official, in the Public Security Office. He’s cagey about what he actually does, but I know it’s not good. Often on “business trips” in areas with persistent ethnic or labor unrest, he returns to Beijing with a seemingly endless appetite for seafood and liquor. Standing at a mighty 5’4”, Fu Bai wears polo shirts tucked into trousers belted around his barrel-shaped midsection. He looks a little like a Chinese Brian Dennehy.

Dark-skinned from his youthful stint in the army in Tibet, he has a broad face, a devious glint in his eyes, and speaks with a musical (but frequently difficult to understand) provincial accent. His rubbery mouth reminds me of a dolphin’s.

During his introductions at the table, Mr. Fu states aloud the drinking capacity of every man present, and boasts of my own. There are murmurs of approval at my education, my language skills, and my ability to eat and drink Chinese-style. Concern is expressed at my lack of a husband and the table comes to life as they discuss who it would be suitable for me to marry. Several favor a jundui ren (a military man), but then someone brings up baomi (secrecy) and argues that no Chinese jundui ren would be allowed to marry a foreigner.

I’m having a hard time following the conversation because Mr. Fu is constantly prompting me: I should toast this person, I should try this dish, I should serve Da ge, the guest of honor next to me, from the spinning platter in the center of the table. I feel like a plaything, if playthings were required to drink heavily.

It was only on this visit to China that I discovered my capacity for baijiu. It’s terrible stuff, strong and fragrant, and I never found any reason to seek it out while I was studying here and socializing with foreigners. But baijiu is a vital staple of banquet life and a lubricant for (primarily male) business and politics more generally. There are hundreds of varieties and every region has its favorite. The price ranges wildly from $1.20 US for the bottle of Red Star on the left, to $120 US for the bottle of Maotai on the right.

While my mother was in town Mr. Fu hosted a banquet for us, encouraging me to drink so much that I blacked out and later got sick in my mother’s hotel room. While he apologized profusely for worrying my poor mother to death, he didn’t let up with the invitations. Last week he called or texted three times with dinner invitations. Each time I told him I was busy and finally he asked when I would not be busy. So I acquiesced. I thought he needed to save face and expected that he would respect my promise to my mother to never drink so much again.

Still, I’m not much surprised at this latest banquet to find that Mr. Fu is not being good to his word. I try covering my glass when the refills come and tell him several times that as a filial daughter I must adhere to my promise but it’s no use. I have to toast Da ge, I have to toast Lu Zong, I see no end in sight. So I try subterfuge. Filling my small glass from my goblet I pour fast and make sure to spill as much as possible. During a drinking lull I visualize knocking the small glass over, as if by accident, when next I reach for it. Later, I pour some on the floor. No one notices. I’m jealous of the other ladies, sipping their juice with ease and grace.

I’m not drunk but I’m certainly not enjoying the drinking and I don’t like the limp, sweet dishes or the huge quantities of meat. I devour vegetables and make sure to sample everything else out of politeness though as a general rule I don’t ask what anything is. The one time I do so, trying to change the topic from Mr. Fu’s suggestion that we go to Shanghai together to see the Expo, I am told the dish is yezhu. I don’t recognize the word at first but then it dawns on me: wild boar.

So I’ve got my wish, haven’t I? Were I willing, Chinese Brian Dennehy would be taking me to banquets twice a week, introducing me to the Chinese elite, feeding me expensive cuisine and top-shelf baijiu, and letting me observe the inside workings of power.

For that is the point of this whole deal; while on the one hand the dinner, with me as the exotic draw, serves to consolidate long-standing ties between men in different industries and government positions (competitive drinking is a great leveler); on the other hand many of the men present clearly have pragmatic aims: as the booze flows they get up and stand in clusters or move around the room, passing around expensive cigarettes and talking in confidence. I watch one man move in close to speak with Mr. Fu and then approach Da ge, the powerful man next to me. I can’t hear them over the din of the room but I can guess any number of shady deals could be involved: maybe it’s a land grab, maybe it’s a big bank loan, but whatever it is, it is clearly worth it to this guy to attend this dinner and drink himself silly so he can capture Da ge’s attention at an opportune moment. And just as clearly, there’s no reason for him to let me in on whatever it is he is up to.

This is the worst part, worse than sleazy Chinese Brian Dennehy (I want to ask about his wife and two young children when he attempts to wipe some splattered food off my blouse but I just get up and take care of it myself) and chewy flavorless wild boar, and liquor that tastes just as I imagine J. Lo’s latest fragrance smells: the fact that I am surrounded by powerful people and interesting goings-on and yet I am almost completely shut out of it.

Early in the evening a man a few seats down from me starts off on a rant about the US government. He has worked in financial affairs, he says, and believes the bankers and the Fed want China to be little more then a colony. I'd like to hear more but Da ge cuts him off sharply, saying he’s said enough. There is less censoring as the evening progresses and I later discover another reason the man is not partial to Americans. Red-faced from drink he announces that while the American people are mostly good but he really prefers to spend time with Russian xiaojies (xiaojie, or young lady, is also a euphemism for a prostitute).

But aside from a few tidbits such as this I learn nothing new from the evening. Conversation directed at me takes the form of either joking or flirtation: Mr. Fu offers to send one of the military police with me to the bathroom for “protection”, a man who has some secret government job tells me he works as a priest. I’m not the same person when I’m speaking Chinese, when I’m Qiao Wei instead of Erika. It’s not just language limitations but how the language shapes who I am and what people expect of me. So it is that the guileless, charming, passive Qiao Wei has become a perfect foil for powerful middle-aged men who want to flirt and boast and look cool in front of their friends.

“We met in the military” Mr. Fu tells me of four of the comrades present “during the kangmei zhanzheng (literally the war of resistance against America, referring to what we call the Korean War)”. I nod dumbly, still processing the language, and then protest “but kangmei was in the 50s! you’re not old enough for that!” The table roars with approval at the success of Mr. Fu’s joke and my rudimentary awareness of Chinese history. It’s really rather humiliating. I worked so hard to learn this language, to win funding, to navigate my way into a institution, gain the trust of my coworkers, my boss, and her friends; but here all that matters is that I am attractive, obedient, and gullible.

In the car, Mr. Fu and two of his friends encourage me to join them in more drinking at Houhai but I tell them I am tired and wish to go home. As I am getting out of the car Mr. Fu asks for a kiss, pointing to his cheek and puckering his lips. His friends laugh. I can’t think of anything to say but xia ci ba (next time).

The next morning, I will go to the office and tell my boss that as much as I don’t want to harm her friendship with Fu Bai, I don’t want to go to any more banquets. I will tell her I felt like a plaything last night and that I don’t trust that Mr. Fu’s advances won’t go any further or that he will respect my promise to my mother not to drink too much. She will tell me she understands, that I shouldn’t go if I don’t want to. There will never be a next time.

*thanks to Austin for the title inspiration

**names have been changed, to protect me.

***I have no idea what this actually means