New clothes. I have waited all week to for Saturday night. Because Haibao likes it that way I have tied my hair back. My suit is black and in Haibao's words, "So ruthlessly conservative it's not. Everyone will think you're a vid artist or something."
Liu Wen, sitting on the couch and needing his hair brushed, as usual, approves. "Pretty," he says. "Need to make some money on the side?"
"No," I say curtly.
He grins at Haibao. Liu Wen is wearing a business suit coat that has seen better days, over gray tights that have been worn so often that they bag at the knees. Haibao is in white and looks, this evening, perfect. He is also in a good mood. A delightful mood. His hair is freshly trimmed, he smells ever so slightly of ocean and evergreen. He smiles when he sees me, gives me a beer which I shouldn't have but which I drink anyway.
We look as if we are going to three completely different places.
"You look like a bride," I tell Haibao.
Liu Wen laughs, "I told him he looks like a funeral."
"Funerals in the west are still in black," I say.
"And brides in the east wear red," Haibao says.
"The east is red," Liu Wen says, "and now that we've had our cultural exchange hour finish your beers because I'm hungry."
But we don't. Haibao doesn't want to leave yet, he wants to watch the sunset from his window. So we talk, about my engineering mark, about Liu Wen's week (in carefully vague terms.) Liu Wen has apparently had a fair week, business-wise.
Outside the window it is the west which is red. The towers of the overcity, the new communes, rise above Nanjing. The sides that face west are red, and those between us and the horizon are black silhouettes. Red and black, the colors of good luck. While Liu Wen and I talk, I watch Haibao. He is engrossed in the window. The city goes blue-gray, and we sit in the halflight until it is almost dark, finally silent, as the lights come on in the city.
"I want to give you each something," Haibao says, "you have both been my friends through this difficult time."
Liu Wen looks amused. I'm taken a bit aback. To Liu Wen he gives a ring set with Australian opal. "It is not your style, I am aware," Haibao says, smiling, "but it is one of my favorites."
Liu Wen looks perplexed but tries it on. It fits his smallest finger.
To me Haibao gives a small gold box set with a tiger-eye. "It's very old," he says, "Qing Dynasty, 1600s. Open it."
Inside it says Guai-zi, 'Ghost.'
"A tiger-eye always seemed a bit guai-yi," strange, or unusual, same first character as 'ghost', "and so I thought of your assumed name," he says.
"Thank you," I say. Chinese people do not usually give gifts in this way, they normally leave the gift and you look at it after they are gone. I am uncomfortable and so is Liu Wen.
Haibao says, "Let's go."
The hall is painfully light, and Haibao's eyes are too bright.
As if he was about to cry. But he moves quickly, excited. "Are we going to the new place?" he asks Liu Wen.
"If you want," Liu Wen says. "I don't care where we go."
"Somewhere where business is good," Haibao says, watching me and smiling. Liu Wen grins. I am still confused by the little ritual, I wonder if I should have had something. I search for something to say.
"Something I have wanted to ask," I say, hearing in my own voice the diffidence that Haibao teases me about.
Liu Wen cocks an eyebrow as if to say, 'Yes?'
"The last time we went out, why did we go to the tomb of Zhong Shan?"
Liu Wen grins again. "Did you think we were trying to tell you something?"
"I didn't know," I answer.
"No reason," Haibao says. "Truly. We often go to the park, but usually we walk down the Avenue of Stone Animals. Just once we were there it seemed fitting to go by the tomb."
"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Liu Wen asks.
"Go ahead," I say.
"Why do you ask people to call you just 'Zhang'?"
"If your first name were 'Zedong' would you want people to call you that?"
Liu Wen shakes his head, "I understand why you don't use Zhong Shan. But to just call you Zhang sounds… well, rude. If you know what I mean. Don't you have a nickname?" I know what he means, it sounds too short. Chinese people like names to come in two syllables.
"Rafael," I say.
"Shemma?"
"Rafael."
"Ur-ah-fa-"
They both try it. Mandarin has a different 'r' than the west, and they have difficulty ending with an 'l'. They keep wanting to end with a vowel, since Mandarin ends in a vowel, an 'n' or an 'ng'.
"Ur-ah-fa-eh-la," Haibao manages.
I shake my head, "Rafaela is a woman's name."
"So, Zhang," Liu Wen says heartily, "how do you like it here in China?"
"We can't call you Xiao Zhang," Haibao says. Xiao Zhang would be the diminutive, 'Young Zhang.' It's like saying 'Billy' for 'Bill.'
"'Lao Zhang'," Liu Wen laughs. Elder Zhang.
"Must be the suit," I say.
We eat a leisurely dinner. Pork and bamboo shoots, french fries, Sichuan (spicy) cabbage. I drink two beers, I know I shouldn't but it's always hard for me to eat spicy food without pijiu. We get down to the warehouse district. I assume that we are going to the same club, but Liu Wen leads us to a heavy red door-was the last door red? I cannot remember. Up the stairs we go into a red and gold place, full of rooms with two or three tables in each and gilt sitting platforms along the walls. Some of the tables have men and women at them, which surprises me. We wander through a maze.
Liu Wen buys Haibao a mao tai and I have a beer. Liu Wen says he'll be back. I gaze, mesmerized, at the gold light rising like mist off the tables.
"You have an unusual face," Haibao says.
I am not bad looking, I know. Not truly handsome, the way Liu Wen would be if he chose to be. I fancy I hear wistfullness in Haibao's voice, little does he know how much I envy him, a Chinese citizen, worldly and polished.
"Do you know where in China your family was from?" Haibao asks.
"My gene scan said that my mother's family was apparently Philippine huaqiao," I say. It didn't make any difference. Since I qualified by working on Baffin Island, I could still go to Nanjing University without having to qualify for a huaqiao seat. Competition for the waiguoren seats is fierce. Many candidates, few places.
If my genetic map is within tolerance, then I am Chinese, right?
Physically, if not culturally. I mean, they are obviously not concerned with the information in my files, that my mother is not Chinese. The University has to know. Someone at the University, at least.
"You are more yourself tonight," I say.
He looks thoughtful, "Truly?"
"Have you heard any more about your friend?" I ask.
"Let's not talk about it," he says. He puts his hand on my arm, looking off across the room, and then shudders.
Idiot, I shouldn't have said anything. I search for other topics. "How did you meet Liu Wen?" I ask.
"Through friends," he says. "I don't really know Liu Wen very well. I like him though, he has been good for me." He smiles sadly, "So have you, ghost."
"Have you been here before?" I ask, trying to push him away from this mood.
He nods.
Liu Wen comes back and I am relieved to see him. If we play, Haibao will be distracted. "We're at a table in the back," he says. A young girl with a smooth white face and painted eyebrows comes to lead us to our table. I watch the swing of her narrow hips in her imperial Chinese gown embroidered with cranes and realize suddenly, she is not a woman.
Fascinated and more than a little amazed I cannot take my eyes off the boy. He gestures with exaggerated grace, catching hold of one sleeve and pointing with the other hand. He keeps his eyes cast down, glancing up at me only as I pass him. He doesn't smile and his eyes flicker down.
Am I aroused? No, only curious. There is nothing in cross-dressing I find stimulating.