The panel’s senior member, a quiet, block-faced man, gave a carefully written, flowery little speech that culminated in his raising his voice to an abrupt and unaccustomed shout as he called out the name of the first winner.
Pan Jun. His face, enlarged, detached from the other nine, floated to the top.
Well, Sam thought, still strong inside, he knew this. Ever since the day he and Uncle Jiang went to visit the Master of the Nets, when he saw Pan Jun and found out he was the son of the minister; ever since then it had been clear. He wet his lips. They were like paper.
Another flowery buildup, and then a second shout – Yao Weiguo. Yao’s face detached and rose to the top, taking its place beside Pan Jun’s.
Sam felt he was in a bubble of agonized silence. But I cooked a great meal. He stared at the screen. How could I lose? You loved it. All six of you. But then they cut away from the panel and went on with the news. Obviously, Yao’s meal had been better. That was it. Simple.
He turned away on his stool. The sound was lowered again. He took his glass and drained off what was left, grateful he was alone, grateful no one knew him. He paid the bartender. Now he just wanted to leave. He should go home.
Outside, the air cleared him somewhat. He stood staring over the dark water, hands in his pockets. He remembered the story he’d been told, how in past centuries young scholars who had failed the imperial examinations drowned themselves in this lake. Some people claimed to see their ghosts. Was it just his defeat and his dark imaginings, or could he feel them tonight? He stood quiet, watching, turned away from the voices and the sounds of laughter drifting from the string of lights and restaurants behind him, focusing on the water, which he imagined to be filled with souls. Was it real or only a feeling? He didn’t know, but he liked the fact that he felt these things here. Back home he had never had this sense of the past. Maybe it was natural. This was where half of him originated.
He felt a pang for his father and his uncles. He was in the river of life with them. It was time to talk. They were probably waiting for him to make the call. He took out his phone, dialing Uncle Jiang’s number. “First Uncle,” he said, when he heard Jiang’s voice.
“I know, my son, I heard,” said Jiang softly. “My heart is too bitter to bear words.”
“I thought I had a chance, truly.”
“You did!” said Jiang. “Come now. Here. Your Baba.” Sam waited while the phone was passed to Liang Yeh.
“I’m sorry,” his father said.
“Wo yiyang,” said Sam, Me too.
“I told your mother. She cried.”
This made Sam feel blanketed in sadness. “I wish you didn’t have to tell her,” he said, and even as the words slipped out he knew they were not really what he meant; he meant he wished he had not failed, that his father had had good news to give her.
“I tell her everything,” Liang Yeh said, surprised.
“I know, Baba. It’s okay.” It was not his father’s fault. He had lost, that was all. It had been between him and Yao, and Yao had won. Sam felt his head throbbing. Yao was a great cook. That was all there was to it.
“Ba,” he said, “listen, I want you and First and Second Uncle to put this from your mind. Enjoy the temple. You know how famous the food is, and you know you cannot enjoy it when you are tasting bitterness.”
“Yes, but,” said his father, “how can we put it from our minds when we know you will not?”
“I will, though,” Sam promised him. And then Jiang and Tan each got on the phone, and he assured them of the same thing, and told them to eat well. When he hung up he was glad they were away. It would be a relief to be by himself now.
Should he go home, then? The moon was narrow, waning, and later it would rise. One of the charms of his courtyard was that no one could see into it from anywhere outside. Would that be enough for him tonight? To lie outside on a wicker chaise, in drawstring pajamas, and listen to the leaves? That was what he had missed, not growing up in China. If he had been a child here he would have heard poetry recited on a night like this. No. If he had been a child here he would have suffered.
His head hurt.
I should go home, he thought. Yet he recognized inside him a concomitant need for the laughter and reassurance of a friend. Who? Because this was a naked moment.
He opened his phone and scanned the screen. Restaurant friends, drinking friends, friends who knew women. He had connected with a lot of people. A stranger in a faraway place had to know a lot of people. That was the cushion beneath him. But how well did he know them? There were few he felt like being with right now.
He came back to Maggie’s name, paused on it, cycled on. He had gotten to know her so quickly, it was hard to believe she had been here less than two weeks. Soon she would leave. Best to pull back now. He went farther down the list.
But she had been there. She had been at the banquet.
And anyway he had promised to tell her.
He went back to her name. She’s the one you want to talk to. He pressed the button and listened to it dial.
“Hello?”
“Maggie?”
“Sam?”
“It’s me,” he said. His gray tone was probably enough, but in case it wasn’t, he said the words. “I didn’t get it.”
“You didn’t? ” she said.
“I didn’t.”
He heard her long, shocked breath. “How can that be?”
He almost laughed. That’s why you called her. “Well, one spot went to Pan Jun, the son of the culture minister. Remember, I told you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The back door.”
“Very important concept; one of the keys to life here. So that left one spot, and we all more or less thought that one would come down to me and Yao Weiguo. Well, he got it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s an incredibly good cook. Sometimes he’s inspired.”
“I’m still sorry.”
He almost smiled. It was the sound of her voice. “Where are you?”
“In a restaurant. I just ordered.”
“What restaurant?”
She read him the name off the menu.
“I know the place.” He felt a click of decision inside him. “Wait for me. I’ll come over.”
“Really? You will?”
“Yes. Can you wait?”
“I’ll be here,” she said.
Maggie sat at her table in the bright-lit restaurant, wondering what kind of state he would be in when he got here. She so felt for him. He should have won. She had been there that night.
As she waited she decided she would think of things to say that would comfort him. She could begin now being his friend. The interview chapter was closed. The story had ended. She might not have technically finished the last paragraph, but she had written it in her mind. From the moment they hung up the phone, as she sat at this table waiting for him, she had composed the last sentence over and over.
When he came in she saw him first, and watched him loop his body through the tables, anxious, scanning for her. She lifted a hand and his eyes came to her, relaxing a notch. Then he stepped close to the table and saw her food still undisturbed. “Why didn’t you eat?”
“I was waiting,” she said.
He eased into a chair. She saw him favoring his body. He was holding himself oddly. “Never waste food.”
“It’s not wasted. I thought you might like some.”
He spoke slowly. “I don’t think I can eat right now.”
“You must feel so angry,” she said.
He made a weak shrug. “It’s my fate,” he said.