Aside from a little cold I'm nursing it's my usual Bloomington Saturday afternoon: my half-hearted attempts to work interrupted mostly by tea breaks and flashes of loathing for this cruel little town. Inhale fresh air and unrestricted internet; exhale boredom and nostalgia. Repeat. Forever.
So it was fortuitous that while searching my computer for some notes I made on an event I'm trying to write a conference paper about I came across the story below. I wrote it about a year ago for a friend's magazine but never posted it here. Along with the usual stuff I remind myself about how lucky I've been to see what I've seen and to have made such fascinating friends, this reminded me of the downsides of being anomalous (forced drinking! powerful sleazy men!), and how I'm probably still hungover not just from all the excitement and intellectual stimulation of Beijing, but from not being so goddamn remarkable. Maybe B-town isn't so bad after all. Maybe it's me that's being a spoiled brat.
But I do miss the good old days. And badminton.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
One January afternoon Mrs. Li picks me up in northern Beijing. I settle into the backseat next to Ms. Li, who apologizes that the sheepskin covers that normally adorn the seats of her friend’s baoma (BMW) are at the cleaners. The car accelerates several feet to regain its place in the stagnant traffic and the man in the front seat turns to greet me. Isn’t he shuai (good-looking)? Mrs. Li asks. I take in Mr. Xu’s receding pompadour, lined face, and Burberry scarf and grunt in polite assent.
At the club Mrs. Li checks in and we follow her to our assigned badminton court. Appraising me in my tennis skirt and t-shirt, Mr. Xu pronounces me hen jiankang (very healthy). I thank him and mutter something about the importance of physical fitness in a modern society. Mrs. Li takes me aside to explain that Mr. Xu is not only the chief partner in her law firm but one of the 10 most famous lawyers in China. Inwardly wary of her intentions I smile and tell her I’m delighted to meet him.
The next stop is a pre-show dinner a few kilometers away. It takes us nearly an hour in traffic to get there. In the car Ms. Li tells Mr. Xu she has looked forward to dining with him for almost two years and insists on treating. Mr. Xu counters that he is not accustomed to letting meinv (pretty women) pay for meals and that he would be honored to treat.
At the restaurant a valet parks the car and a hostess meets us at the door to usher us to the elevator. Another hostess leads us from the elevator into the restaurant, passing us on to a third who brings us to our room, past fountains, chandeliers, and various gilded objects. A waitress is already stationed in our private suite.
Chrysanthemum tea and cold dishes arrive first. Mr. Xu has ordered a bottle of Moutai, a famous brand of baijiu (white spirit), weighing in at 106 proof and retailing for 120USD. Elegantly prepared dishes are placed in the rotating center: roast duck, spicy beef, fish soup, filet mignon.
Dinners among Chinese seeking to pan guanxi (literally “climb relations”) involve endless toasts and little actual conversation. Toasting requires florid language and magnanimous mutual praise, but its basis is often random. At one point, Mr. Xu asks me if I think Mao Zedong was “a good person”. I respond diplomatically by parroting the accepted dictum: his actions were 70% good, 30% bad. Mr. Xu is delighted; a foreigner that knows the 70/30 formula! He desires to toast me and so we clink our small glasses over the table (I am careful to raise my cup at his level then lower it quickly to meet his glass, showing my subordination and respect) and empty them.
As Mrs. Li is driving and Ms. Li has a “delicate stomach”, the bottle is mostly left to Mr. Xu and myself. I wonder if I can will myself to remain even-keeled, particularly after Mr. Xu hushes Ms. Li for bringing up his wife living abroad, and the thought that I am being set up as a potential mistress abruptly suggests itself. While I am quite curious about the intelligent and powerful Mr. Xu, my curiosity does not extend to wanting to see him naked.
The packed theater smells of kettle corn. While I try to follow the play Mr. Xu repeatedly leans over to explain things, ask my Chinese astrological sign, and reach for my hand, unclasping my fingers, to place a stick of gum in it. There isn’t much plot to follow; the play is a huangdanju (absurd drama) with ridiculous characters, disjointed scenes, and satirical humor bordering on sacrilege.
I can understand 90% of the dialogue but only about 25% of the jokes. A parody of the National Day review of the troops conducted last October by Hu Jintao gets one of the biggest laughs. At curtain call the director arrives on stage with his upper body emerging from the sunroof of a tiny Smart car. Using words and motions identical to those of the Chairman as he appraised the nation’s military forces, the director barks out “tongzhimen hao!” (hello comrades!), his cast shouting back “wei renmin fuwu!” (we serve the people).
Mr. Xu isn’t ready for the evening to end. He directs Mrs. Li to drive us to a German-style beerhall where young Chinese women wearing ill-fitting Bavarian dresses bring us large glasses of pilsner and assorted snacks. I attack the garlic bread and paw at the dried sausage, calculating its liquor absorbing capacity to be negligible at best. Mr. Xu is in high spirits but Mrs. and Ms. Li look exhausted. Their attempts to drink as little as possible do not go unnoticed. “Gei wo mianzi!” (give me face) Mr. Xu admonishes, raising his glass.
By the time we are driving Mr. Xu back to his posh residential community I am feeling the effects of twelve hours with the Chinese elite. I recall Mr. Xu’s nonchalant response to Ms. Li’s questions about the CCP’s recent attempts to recruit him, considering that such a savvy, intelligent, powerful man must have access to people and places completely off-limits to foreigners. For most foreign researchers in China, the word access has an irresistible, almost erotic, power. Suddenly I find myself wondering whether being the mistress of a married Chinese man 18 years my senior wouldn’t be a welcome break from the decidedly non-glamorous life of a graduate student. A creepy farewell hand caress from Mr. Xu abruptly breaks the spell. I go home and fall sleep, still burping baijiu when I wake up in the morning.
