It took Minmin and me almost an hour to get out of Beijing, where many streets were jammed and the area near the Great Hall of the People was blocked by the police to make way for a motorcade. But once we got on the expressway, traffic became sparse and we started cruising with ease. The new eight-lane road, four lanes each way, was well built, washed clean and shiny by a rainsquall before dawn. Minmin was at the wheel, her narrow hands in the nine and three positions. She said she’d never driven such a long distance before; at most she’d spun to Huairou, a town about forty miles north of Beijing, so she was excited about this trip. The roadsides were hardly used, and only a couple of billboards appeared along the way. I noticed that the tolls were expensive. The ticket Minmin had picked up at the entrance to the highway stated seventy-six yuan from the capital to Tianjin, about twelve dollars for ninety miles. That might account for the scarce traffic.
It was warm for mid-March, and patches of distant woods were just in leaf, the fuzzy branches shimmering a little. Spring seemed to be coming early this year. It had been a dry, warm winter in the Beijing area, and it had snowed only once, lightly. Somehow since getting out of the city, we hadn’t encountered any of the police cars that were omnipresent in Beijing. I gathered that only on the highway could you escape the police’s surveillance, though the absence of the slashing strobes and blasting bullhorns gave me more discomfort than ease.
As we were approaching Tianjin, we saw a brand-new billboard that declared: WELCOME MIGRANT WORKERS!
“That sounds fishy,” Minmin said, flicking her fingers dismissively.
“Unconvincing at least,” I agreed, knowing how migrant workers were viewed by common Beijingers — like underclass citizens; their children couldn’t even go to public schools. It had always bothered me that the Chinese were not born equal in spite of their constitution that guarantees every citizen the same rights. People from the countryside, greatly deprived compared with city dwellers, had to own real estate in a city in order to become its legal residents. Even though this was an improvement over the former policy, which did not allow country people to become legal urbanites at all, it was still discriminatory. It reminded me of the investment immigration practiced in North America, where a large sum of money can buy a U.S. green card or a Canadian maple leaf card. Yet I’d never heard a Chinese complain about the discrimination against the country people. As a matter of fact, most Chinese viewed the current policy as a progressive step toward reducing the gap between the country and the city. I once asked a reporter why this inequality hadn’t raised any public outcry, and he merely shook his head and gave a resigned smile.
I had not expected to travel so fast. Within three hours we’d almost reached the border of Shandong province, so we pulled off the expressway to grab a bite. We found a restaurant called Jade Terrace, where the waitstaff wore tangerine-colored shirts and white aprons. A thin young waiter with a raw, new haircut seated us and asked, “What would you two beauties like for lunch?”
“I’m no beauty,” I said. “I’ll become a senior citizen in a few years, so save that word for a nice-looking girl.”
Nonplussed, he looked at Minmin inquiringly, then they both laughed out loud. I had a problem with the term meinű, a beauty, employed indiscriminately by the Chinese. Every young woman was called that, whether she was homely or beautiful. I disliked such a careless use of language, which blurred the actual forms of things and ideas. The word “beauty” ought to refer to someone who at least had some pretty features. My objection to the waiter’s greeting also implied I knew I was average-looking.
We ordered steamed fish, spiced tofu skin mixed with mustard greens, and sautéed lotus root to go with rice. I calculated that we should be able to reach Linmin in less than two hours. “Let’s relax and take our time,” I told Minmin, who was fanning herself with a menu. It was warm inside the dining room, the air thick with the smell of frying oil.
Our order came, all at once. To my amazement, the fish was a sizable salmon fillet, garnished with a few slivers of daikon and two sprigs of cilantro. I told Minmin, “I don’t think I ever saw salmon in China twenty years ago.”
“This fish was imported,” she said.
“But they sell the dish for only twenty-two yuan here. How can they make money?”
“I don’t mean the full-grown salmon were imported. The fry were originally bought from Europe and then sold to domestic fish farmers. So this salmon must have come from a local farm.”
“I see.” I noticed that she didn’t touch the fish and served herself only the tofu skin and the vegetables. “You don’t like salmon?” I asked.
“I like it, but it’s not safe to eat fish randomly. Don’t ever eat fish heads and innards at restaurants. A fillet might be all right, less contaminated.”
“Contaminated by what?” I asked in surprise.
“Chemicals. My brother saw local farmers feed their fish lots of antibiotics to keep them alive in polluted ponds.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. Food contamination was indeed a major problem in China. Just a week ago I had read in a newspaper that a small boy died after eating two pork buns bought at a food stand. It was also common knowledge that contaminated baby formula and poisonous milk were still rampant in some cities and towns. Word had it that thousands of infants had been sickened by drinking milk adulterated with melamine, a chemical used in making plastics. But I was nearly fifty-four and wasn’t terribly bothered by the problem. I told Minmin, “By Chinese standards I’m an old woman and shouldn’t worry too much. But you youngsters should be more careful about what you eat.”
“Especially when you want to get married and have a baby,” she said.
Minmin mentioned that her sister-in-law had been on a strict diet to detoxify her body so that she could have a better chance of giving birth to “a clean, healthy baby.”
“What does she eat? Vegetables and fruits only?” I asked.
“No. Some vegetables aren’t safe either, like napa cabbage, leeks, bean sprouts, tomatoes. Leeks are the worst because you have to use a lot of insecticide to keep worms from eating the roots.”
“What vegetables are safe then?”
“Potatoes, taros, carrots, turnips. This is okay too.” She picked up a perforated slice of lotus root.
“How long will your sister-in-law continue to detox?”
“A whole year. Besides the diet, she must drink an herbal soup every day.”
“Ugh, I’d rather eat contaminated food.” It gave me a chill just to think of the bitter medicinal liquid.
Minmin went on to say that her brother, a real estate developer, had urged his wife to go live in L.A. so she could give birth to their baby there. “Besides the better living environment,” Minmin said, “the child would become a U.S. citizen. But my stupid sister-in-law won’t go, saying she’s afraid of America and doesn’t mind living and dying in China, blah blah blah. What she really fears is that my brother might shack up with another woman in her absence, so she claims she doesn’t want to be a new member of the Mistress Village in L.A.”
I laughed but immediately covered my mouth with my palm. Hundreds of young Chinese women, mostly mistresses of wealthy businessmen and powerful officials, had been living in a suburb of L.A. where they could get around without speaking English and where a whole support system was provided for those expectant mothers. The gated community was nicknamed the Mistress Village, a moniker that often cropped up in the Chinese media.