Kitchen Chinese by Ann Mah Page A

Eastern Europe covering the Violet Revolution—which was challenging, but very rewarding,” he inserts hastily, seeing a look of dismay cross my face, “it was a little easier to go back to see my friends, but since moving to Beijing, it’s been more difficult.”
    “Do you think you’ll ever live in France again?”
    “I hope so. But how can I complain? Beijing is one of the most exciting places in the world right now—at least according to the front page of the New York Times. ” His mouth twists into an ironic grin. “The truth is, aside from all the superpower hype, I’ve always been interested in China. I studied in Shanghai one summer in college and I always wanted to come back. But what about you?” He leans forward slightly and I brace myself for the same old question, the one that everyone asks: How does it feel to be back in your homeland? I take a sip of wine and stifle my annoyance, but he surprises me. “Have you ever been to France?” he asks.
    “Oh! France! No…but I would love to travel there. I really feel like I have an inner French girl—” I’m interrupted by an insistent ring that grows louder as Charlie reaches into his suit jacket and extracts a cell phone.
    “Excuse me,” he says, glancing at the number. “I think it’s the embassy. Do you mind if I take this?” He offers an apologetic smile and leaves the table.
    I sip my glass of wine and feel its warmth spread through me. Charlie’s wineglass stands too close to the edge of the table and I move it, imagining his long fingers along the stem, or brushing across my hand, or neck. A smile creeps across my lips and the knot in my neck starts to loosen as he returns to the table.
    One glance at his face and I know something is wrong.
    “Isabelle,” he says, “I feel awful about this, but I have to cut our evening short.”
    “Oh!” I search his face for clues, but his expression is guarded, as if he’s afraid to reveal too much. “Is everything all right?”
    “Something has come up and I have to be at a meeting in half an hour.” He signals for the check and turns to meet my eyes. “I feel terrible. A car is coming to get take me to the embassy, but it can take you home after.”
    “That’s okay. I can just take a taxi.”
    “No. I insist.” Too hurried to wait for the bill, he lays down a few hundred kuai notes. I stare at their garish pink color against the white tablecloth. “We have to go.”
    “The car is here already?” I stand up shakily, a bit light-headed from the wine.
    “They sent it before they called.” He smiles ruefully. “That’s what I get for asking my secretary to make my dinner reservations.”
    We head into the warm night, and sure enough, at the restaurant’s door stands a dark sedan with black license plates that are stamped red with the character shi for embassy. A driver climbs out of the car and rushes to open the back doors. I climb in on the right side and reach to pull the door shut. To my surprise, the driver holds the door and motions for me to slide to the left.
    “You can’t sit there,” he says.
    “Meiyou wenti,” Charlie inserts quickly. “It’s no problem. I’ll just sit on the other side.” He walks around the back of the car.
    “That’s so odd,” I remark once he’s settled himself. “Why didn’t the driver want me to sit on this side?”
    “Oh, there’s some silly protocol rule,” he says vaguely. His phone rings again. “Yes,” he barks. And then, “I’m in the car. I should be there in fifteen minutes…Yes. I reviewed the talking points this afternoon…It’s probably going to be a long night…Okay, see you in a few minutes.” He ends the call. The car glides through streets filled with chattering, laughing people, but inside we are silent. Charlie crosses his arms and presses his lips together; he seems intensely focused, as if he’s trying to speed through traffic using sheer force of will.
    But the brake lights flash like neon as we creep