At first, Sam had been a bit disturbed by this. It seemed to echo the faint streak of sadism he saw in China’s past. Every country had its dark history, but in China there were certain convulsions, like the famine and the Cultural Revolution, that seemed needlessly cruel. And the privatized Chinese business world, right now, in the twenty-first century, was cruel too. Things ran on opportunity, not principle. No one thought in terms of win-win dealings but only about who would win and who would lose. Every man watched his back at all times. In the America of Sam’s youth, he had heard people say they lived in a “dog-eat-dog” society. Here in China, they said “man-eat-man.” That was the economic boom.
With each passing year in China, though, he saw that the true situation was more subtle. It was not so much that China was crueler than the West, only more honest. The frankness of life, even of death, was always in front of him here – certainly when it came to food. It was more honest to take home an animal and slaughter it than to buy its meat in a square, shrink-wrapped package, more honest to keep a fish alive and swimming until the moment you wished to devour it. His appetite stirred at the thought. He so loved the xian of fresh fish.
As for the business world, it had its treacheries but also a massive and marvelous saving grace: guanxi. Guanxi was connection, relationship, mutual indebtedness. It was the safety net of obligation and mutuality that held up society. The best opportunities and connections were kept for the family, the clan, the friends, in an outwardly rippling circle. You gave one thing to the world; you gave something higher to your own group. As an American, Sam had been put off at first by this, for all he could see in it was cronyism. Later, when he came to know it as a way of life, he saw its mercies as well.
He saw too that it was food – people eating together, whether at banquets or daily meals – that kept the engine of guanxi going. Perhaps this was why chefs in China had always been so important.
As he walked the last stretch from the subway stop and came to the early-morning edge of the lake, he was also thinking about texture. On his way back he had stopped by a dealer who sold all kinds of dried mushrooms and fungi and water weeds and flowers, just as the man was opening up. Sam had bought several varieties of mu-er, wood ear, so called because of the way it grew on trees. One bag was the delicate white ruffles called cloud ear; the others were the more common crisp brown flaps. When reconstituted they had a robust vegetarian crunch, one that no amount of cooking could soften. No taste beyond the faintest metallic sense, easily corrected by other ingredients. All texture. Whether added in slivers or pieces, they could transform many dishes.
He saw his own gray stone wall ahead, set back slightly from the sidewalk. It was noisy here on the street, busy, but inside his place it was quiet. Perfect for a restaurant. And out front was the long, thin tendril of lake. It was classic feng shui, and not in any obscure sense either, for no one could arrive or leave without taking pleasure in the sight of the lake.
This district had changed even just in the last few years. Once characterized by graceful, crumbling residences, moody water, and a few far-off shapes of pagodas and skyscrapers above the willows on the opposite shore, it had become a theatrical sightseeing spot. Young men pedaled tourists in rickshaws. For blocks at a time the sidewalks were crowded with cafés and bars, their doors flung open, Chinese pop blaring.
Nowhere else on this strip was there a restaurant like the one he was going to open, but that didn’t matter. Fate had put his family in this neighborhood. And he loved it. He loved the summer, with its repeating cicadas and hot, hazy air; the winter, when the sky was bright and cold and itinerant vendors sold hot meat skewers and char-fragrant roasted sweet potatoes. In fall the light turned golden and men sang their way along the lake’s edge, under the trees, offering fanned sticks of candied crab apple.
He unlocked his gate and brought the big brass joins together again behind him, carried his bags to the kitchen. He needed to put the food away and leave. It was time to go meet Jiang and Tan.
That morning Zinnia called and asked Maggie to meet her at a Shanghainese restaurant near the Calder Hayes office, even though it was too early for lunch. Maggie hurried there, hoping Zinnia would have the tickets. It had been almost two days. After leaving the chef ’s house on the lake the day before, she hadn’t done much except sit in the apartment thinking about Matt. She had been in the same apartment with him three years before, in the same rooms; he came easily to mind. Yes, they had liked being apart. And yes, they were happiest of all when they were first reunited again, in the golden space before questions and qualifiers started, once again, to resurface.
So they specialized in reunions, and in separations; that was all right. They came and went, living on takeout containers, his and hers, one side of the refrigerator and the other, experiencing their joy in cycles. Even on the downslope, when they’d started contracting back into their own agendas and dropping seeds of irritation, they were honest. She always felt she knew what was in his heart, good or bad.
And that was the problem that had kept her up late the night before, looking out at the still, shimmering city. Now there was this claim. So maybe she had no idea what was in his heart. Did you do it?
No.
Do you know this woman?
No.
Then how did this happen?
She sat on the couch throwing silent questions, imagining answers. She visualized his kind, big-jawed face and felt sure he was saying no: no, it was not true. She decided she believed him, as she always had; then she changed her mind and threw him out of her heart and ceased to accept his denial; then some hours later she took him back again. By the time the deep night had come and the street below had gone silent she was exhausted. She slept as if unconscious, without dreams, and when she awakened she felt tired, as if she’d barely slept at all.
She pushed open the door to the Shanghainese restaurant. Inside, the world changed. She felt pushed back in time. Around her were dark-wood walls and brass lamps, waitresses in old-fashioned side-slit gowns. Only the diners were modern, with their crisp clothes and multiple, faintly chiming electronic devices. Among them she saw Zinnia, who waved her over.
“Sit!” she commanded when Maggie reached the table. “How are you? Are you well?”
“Well enough. Did you hear anything about the tickets?”
Zinnia’s earnest smile evaporated for a second.