Within two years, Miya had turned into someone who had just stepped out of the pages of one of Qiongyao's novels: long straight hair, white skirt, sweet, and an avid admirer of her man. I met Miya several times. She was quiet most of the time, but when she spoke, it was always about Jia.
I asked Miya what books she loved to read; Miya said any books Jia has read. I asked Miya what food she loved to eat; Miya said any food Jia ate. I was put off. "Miya isn't one of us." My girlfriends all said that as well. But Jia enjoyed showing Miya off to his friends. His male friends all envied him so much that they wanted to follow in his matrimonial footsteps.
Inspired by his new love, Jia held a successful painting exhibition of his rose period works in the French embassy of Beijing.
Jia felt on top of the world until two months after the exhibition. One day he came home and found that Miya had disappeared. So had his paintings and the money in his bank account. Rumor had it that Miya had met a retired French diplomat at Jia's exhibition and had run away with him to Paris, along with Jia's paintings and money.
Of course, this should not have come as a surprise to Jia. After all, Miya wasn't the first wife to betray him. He had two other tribal wives before Miya, and the beginning and the ending were always the same: he found an innocent girl from a remote village and brought her to the city till one day she left him for another man, taking all his possessions with her.
"So why are you so fixated on these tribal girls?" I inquire.
"Their sexual and emotional innocence. I believe true love can only happen once in one's life. City women have too many chances to meet men. They aren't pure anymore. My three wives were all corrupted by the city," Jia states.
"He is certainly not into the brainy type, like Meryl Streep, or the sexy type, like Sophia Loren," CC murmurs to me.
No wonder he is into tribal girls; no sophisticated urban woman would buy his nonsense. I can't help but tease him: "I guess you played a major role in the process of corrupting them."
"But I didn't get a bad deal myself. I traded my paintings and money for years of being worshipped and served like a king! It at least pumped up my ego, which helps me paint. After all, how many people can live like a king in a people's republic?" Jia defends himself.
Here we go, I think, Jia's problem again is lack of confidence, like that of so many Chinese men.
CC, although fond of Jia's paintings, is dismayed by his male chauvinist comments. "Ha! You think you were some king," she snaps. "But this is the third time that your innocent queen ran off with your royal treasury for other men. I know what type of king you are: The King of Cuckolds."
CHUNJIE: Pure and clean, meaning innocent or innocence; used both as an adjective and as a noun.
40 Eating Ants
I am on a business trip to Guangzhou. One day, I receive a phone call from a state-owned beer company called Blue Boys. "Our President Gao would like to see you." On the other line, it is the voice of a female secretary. Who is President Gao? I am confused. I don't know many people in Guangzhou.
I soon find out that President Gao is the boy once known as High Mountain. We have been out of touch for almost ten years.
High Mountain was my secret admirer in middle school. At our school, the majority of the students came from high-ranking Communist Party cadre families. High Mountain 's snobbish schoolmates often teased him for his humble upbringing: his father was the secretary of the secretary of Beibei's grandfather, and a low-ranking bureaucrat. He liked me because he said I was the only girl in school that was nice to him. Before I left for the United States, he wrote me a farewell letter.
"I hope you will remain a patriotic Chinese girl and won't forget the duty of serving the Chinese people when you are in America. I hope you will not fall in love with a foreign devil, because it is not at all patriotic. An insider is an insider and an outsider should always be an outsider. I wanted to tell you how much I liked you, but I was so afraid that others will laugh at me for being a toad who wants the meat of a swan. I will demonstrate my love for you by putting my whole heart into building our country. High Mountain."
Today's High Mountain is no longer the little boy who suffered from low self-Estéem. He is President Gao. He drives a Cadillac to meet me.
After I get in his car, I start to look for the seat belt.
"Americans are so gutless. I'm not afraid of death. I never wear a seat belt," brags President Gao. I didn't expect my former admirer to greet me by abusing the States, but I soon realize that making fun of overseas returnees is a new fashion among locals. I don't mind President Gao having some sour feelings. After all, he was rejected back then, not only by me but by the American universities he applied to. I smile back politely, "A Cadillac can protect you well enough, I guess."
"So what car did you drive in the States?" President Gao asks me as he swerves in and out of traffic.
"A Honda," I reply while nervously holding on to my seat.
"I guessed as much. Japanese cars are more economical. I love the luxury of American cars. Who cares about gasoline? Everything I spend from gas to parking tickets is reimbursed by my company anyway." Says President Gao.
"So you are taking advantage of both the socialist and capitalist systems," I tease.
"Of course!" President Gao says triumphantly.
He drives through a red light and brags, "I bet you had to follow all those dumb traffic laws in the States. I never have to bother here. The sheriff at the police department is my buddy."
I notice that an old pedestrian at the crosswalk stops in fear as President Gao's big Cadillac surges into the traffic. It reminds me of something my New York Times friend Richard Bernstein wrote in his book The Ultimate Journey: Retracing the Path of an Ancient Buddhist Monk Who Crossed Asia in Search of Enlightenment: "The world is divided into two kinds of countries. There are countries where the cars stop for people and countries where the people stop for cars."
"Where do you feel like eating?" President Gao asks me.
"I don't have any particular preference."
"I'm so sick of shark fins and lobsters, I want to take you to a trendy new place, very up market, where all the CEOs go. That place has a delicacy that you won't find anywhere else. Don't worry about the money – it's on me. I've heard that overseas Chinese always go dutch. We locals don't do that."
I know the money President Gao is going to spend is not really his anyway. It is all gongkuan, public money.
"I guess you can afford anything in China," I say, thinking, "I will not give him the chance to buy me anything."
We arrive at an unnamed restaurant in Foshan, the city adjacent to Guangzhou. The owner, a beautiful young lady, greets President Gao in a seductive voice. "Gao Zong, the usual?"
"Yes, please," President Gao says, apparently enjoying being called Gao Zong. As they walk inside, President Gao says to me, "By the way, that bitch wants to be my third wife." In the next twenty minutes, he tries to impress me by eagerly telling me how many women admire him and his money.
When the dishes arrive, I almost faint. Scrambled eggs with ants, fried cockroaches, bat soup… I can't understand why these things are expensive in Guangzhou. In the United States, I saw young people eat this stuff on TV after they were paid $50 each. Apparently, it is not an exaggeration that people in Guangdong will eat anything that has legs except tables and anything that flies except airplanes.
"I can't eat this." I say.
"If you don't like Chinese food, why didn't you stay in America? I know – I bet it's because the white people treat us Asians as a second-class race! I bet you couldn't bear it anymore." President Gao sounds hurt.