Dragon Hearts Page 4

  We forgot about our tofu tucked away on the bottom shelf of a nearby cart. Even Yo was full by the time we discovered it. “I eat too much when I’m exceptionally happy and when I’m unhappy,” he said. Together we lingered at the extremely happy end of his gluttony spectrum.

  We yawned simultaneously. It was time to go. You know when the right moment comes to end something – even when that something is perfect. I hope I feel that way when it’s my time to die.

  Yo paid the bill. Dinner was expensive. Hot pot meals are more expensive than regular meals, and our restaurant is famous. He spent too much money on me this month.

  We walked down the hallway looking for the exit. We zigged when we should have zagged and ended up in the kitchen. I laughed because things like this happen to me all the time in China. The master chef set us on the right path to the first-floor entrance.

  Yo stood alongside parked cars in the busy Beijing street. I watched him stretch out his long arm to one side and move his hand up and down in a mock wave to hail a taxi. When one pulled over he opened the front passenger door and began talking to the driver. I saw him shake his head back and forth and close the door. The taxi sped away. Yo had a disapproving look on his face when he joined me on the curb.

  “I didn’t like that guy,” he said. “I didn’t like the way he looked. When I saw his face I got the feeling he wasn’t trustful, so I told him you wouldn’t take his taxi.”

  Despite Yo’s gallant effort to protect me – which I really appreciated – I had to correct his English. “Trustworthy,” I said. “You had a feeling the driver wasn’t trustworthy.”

  “Yes,” he said, maintaining his concerned expression. I don’t think the correction registered. He turned back to the speeding cars. “I’ll get you a different taxi.”

  Eventually another taxi pulled out of the never-ending flow of Beijing traffic. Again Yo opened the front passenger door and spoke to the driver. He turned to me and said, “It’s all right. The driver is okay. I told him where to take you. He knows the way.” Yo opened the rear passenger door. I stood facing him before getting inside. “Thank you for everything,” I said. “I had a lovely time.”

  My impulse was to hug Yo. It is what my heart wanted to do, but how would he react to a public display of affection? Would he recoil? Yo is traditional, and for me to hug him in public would fly in the face of Chinese tradition. I didn’t want to compromise all the goodness of the evening. Too risky. Selfdiscipline kicked in. We smiled at one another, very aware of what great friends we have become. In the end we did not touch – not even my gloved hand upon his coat sleeve.

  “You are my true friend,” he said.

  That was better than a hug. His words had deep meaning. I smiled and began to back into the seat. Yo cushioned the top of the doorframe with his hand, so I wouldn’t bump my head. The simple protective gesture startled me. He closed the door and stepped aside. I twisted in my seat. We maintained eye contact as the taxi separated us. It was the proper way for the evening to end.

  November 29, 2009

  Like a pogo stick, individual moments bounce in and out of my life in steady succession. I find myself moving through each day focusing on the now. I am forever looking around, not wanting to miss a thing – not even a common magpie perched in a Ginkgo tree.

  Liz invited me to share a homemade pancake lunch with her and her American friend in our apartment. The stranger was friendly, but her conversation oozed cynicism and ridicule for China and Chinese ways. I felt defensive for my Chinese friends. Her words insulted me as they would have insulted them. The pancakes, eggs, and French press coffee were not as tasty as they should have been, for I tasted the woman’s bitter words in the mix.

  I’m learning how incredibly bright Yo is. When he was young he memorized what he calls “thin English books” in three days. OMGosh! I think I have a genius on my hands.

  Besides being brilliant, Yo is a born leader. I asked about his days at Inner Mongolia University. The majority of people in China are Han. There are fifty-six minorities. Han people and minority people don’t always trust one another. No surprise to us Americans. Look at our pathetic history of minority relations. Yo is Han. Both his Han and minority classmates chose him their class leader.

  There was an incident in which Han and minority students fought over a racial slur slung by a Han boy. Yo conducted an investigation and submitted his findings to university officials. All the students involved were expelled. No one faulted Yo, for he had been thorough in his investigation and truthful in reporting.

  “I’m a Communist,” Yo said one day. “I joined the Communist Party when I was at my university. I’m proud to be a member.”

  Yo, a Communist? How could that be? It was a surreal moment. My major in college was Government. In a Communism course, an American professor taught me that Communists were enemies of the United States. I took the course in the early 1970s when the Vietnam War was raging and Chairman Mao Zedong was the leader of the People’s Republic of China. The Cultural Revolution was running rampant during those years.

  I looked at my best friend standing in front of me – and smiled. Americans and Chinese have advanced light years since the Vietnam War and Cultural Revolution days – thank God! Neither Yo nor the Chinese people are enemies of the United States. I can’t speak for the Communist government, but I can speak from my experience with the common people.

  I think we must sift through everything we hear and read in life. We need to filter it through a fine screen comprised of our experience, intuition, common sense, inner knowledge, and wisdom. Only then do we have a chance of discerning the truth about anything.

  November 30, 2009

  It’s snowing in Beijing. Anna is the only person I know who welcomes dreary days – grey, gloomy, dismal days. It’s to her credit that she embraces the bleak along with the bright. I must learn this skill from her.

  At school Yo’s welcoming smile fluffed my spirit. It was a full-fledged, knock-your-socks-off grin, and it came straight from the heart.

  Yo will take the New Zealand teacher to the Great Wall this weekend. I invited myself along, but he “Nixed” the idea (pun intended). He began the bad news with “Carol, it’s like this.” He always prefaces bad news with these words. I have no idea why I can’t go. It must be a Chinese thing. I flip-flopped from disheartened to elated when he promised to take me – just me – to the Great Wall this summer. It’s freezing now. Infinitely better to walk the Great Wall with Yo in tropical fish weather rather than in polar bear weather.

  A forced change of plans. Liz and I intended to invite the teachers to our apartment on Sunday. Liz would make her now-famous pancakes, eggs, and coffee. I invited Wen Wen to join us, but she tattled to her uncle. He forbade the brunch. Apparently he thinks we would trash the place. Unwarranted assumption. We’re hardly on the wild side. How much havoc could responsible teachers wreak at lunchtime when the strongest beverage served is French press coffee? Liz and I are surprised and disappointed by what we consider an unreasonable restriction on the use of our home. Wen Wen apologized. Liz is still angry. I’m okay with it. We can do something else. I try to go with the Chinese flow.

  Students treated us teachers to a superb dinner and karaoke tonight. Our plush private room was replete with big screen televisions, our very own karaoke machine, large round dining tables filled with exotic foods, and a private bathroom – with soap, hot water, and toilet paper, no less. We partied first class.

  The food was sumptuous. The singing was – well – painful. At various points I furrowed my brow, scrunched up my face, cringed, and actually plugged my ears. Students with the worst voices sang loudest. Ouch! Attribute that to the beer and bijou (strong Chinese liquor). Even so, I admired them for singing without inhibition. I was too self-conscious to do the same. Sometimes my students are more courageous than I am. When the party ended they split the bill of 5,000 Yuan - about $815. I hope they have wealthy parents.

  Reminder to myself: I can
convert Chinese Yuan into American dollars by remembering that one American dollar is equivalent to approximately 6.13 Yuan – give or take. The currency exchange rate fluctuates daily.

  My days here flash by like comets across an indelible jet-black sky. I wish they would linger. I need time to catch my breath – and think.

  2

  CHRISTMASTIME

  December 4, 2009

  A miserable cold has descended upon me. I’m spending way too much time blowing my nose, swallowing Chinese medicine, and otherwise suffering from universal cold symptoms. To make matters worse, Yo is consumed by his horticulture classes. I miss him.

  Today I ate lunch with Jennifer and Mabel. Jennifer is my thirty-year-old fellow teacher. Mabel is twenty-four and the school administrative assistant. We engaged in girl talk, which is the same in Beijing as in any American city.

  Jennifer startled us with news. “I’m getting married next week.” The bride-to-be has been with Jeff for five years. They’ve been living together – not uncommon in Beijing these days. After registering in a government office, they will be legally married. Only the groom’s parents will witness the proceedings because Jennifer’s parents live in a faraway province. Both sets of parents will host a big wedding party in the spring or summer – usually within six months of the official marriage. The parents will decide the date and make all the arrangements. The bride and groom will simply show up. Imagine that!

  Jennifer wants to marry Jeff, but she’s nervous. She’s been teaching at Fanzhidu School for three months and spends most of her scarce free time preparing for classes. She admits spending only thirty minutes or so of quality time with her boyfriend on a typical work night. Unlike Jennifer, Jeff finishes work at 5:30 p.m. daily. He relaxes and watches television in their apartment while waiting for Jennifer. When she arrives they eat the simple dinner Jeff prepares. Afterward, she retreats into a small office and works until bedtime. Jeff complains. Not surprising.

  Jennifer loves teaching at Fanzhidu and doesn’t want to leave. After marriage she’ll be expected to take better care of her husband than she does her boyfriend, and she’ll have duties involving her husband’s parents. Poor Jennifer is suffering from PMS – pre-marital stress.

  “And what happens when a baby comes?” she moaned. “I don’t know anything about babies. How will I have time to take care of one? And what about the pregnancy? I don’t want to suffer for months and months.” Poor Jennifer is walking into a wildfire. We all make choices and live with consequences. I wouldn’t trade places with her for all the tea in China. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that.)

  Instead of brunch in our apartment, Liz and I treated colleagues to dinner. After school we took the subway to a restaurant known for its Western menu items, especially pizza and chicken wings. We ordered some of each and a pitcher of beer. Our mouths collectively dropped open when we saw the size of the pitcher – a yardstick tall. No way could we drink that much beer. We ordered a second pitcher a half hour later.

  Yo came to the pizza-and-chicken-wing dinner, but he sat at one end of the long table with the guys, and I sat at the opposite end with the girls. Marilyn had asked me to sit next to her. She honored me with the request. Sitting at her side is an easy and public way of showing my affection and respect for her.

  I only spoke to Yo once after our group first arrived at Wudaokou Subway Station. We stepped off the train together, and he asked if my bag was heavy. Before I could answer, he relieved me of the burden. While walking to the restaurant, I coughed and complained about my nasty sore throat. Babbling on, I indulged in a self-pity monologue. “I’m sick of being sick,” I whined in conclusion. Yo wants to help but is crunched for time. Practically speaking, he might as well be in Tibet. I only catch glimpses of him dashing from the horticulture classroom to his desk and back again. His teaching schedule is grueling. When the ordeal ends I expect him to utterly crash and burn.

  December 5, 2009

  I’m curious about Christmas decorations popping up in Beijing. China is an overwhelmingly non-Christian country. Not surprising, I haven’t seen a religious theme to any of the holiday displays. Some decorations are as gaudy as in the U.S. For example, a life-size stuffed Santa playing a saxophone stands inside the front entrance of Ito-Yokado.

  Most Christmas decorations and carols are in retail stores. The profit motive is booming in Beijing – as is about everything else. Beijing is a moving, grooving, burgeoning city. The same is true of other large cities in China. This country impresses me no end.

  This morning construction workers were tearing down buildings next to Ito-Yokado. Businesses were up-and-running yesterday – literally gone today. I’m curious about vigilant Chinese men and women with small bicycle carts at the construction site. They are allowed to haul away what I consider worthless rubble. Everything has value to somebody – especially in China.

  The Chinese cherish children. I find it heartwarming to see parents and grandparents doting over babies and young children. The indisputable center of attention, the young ones are extremely well-behaved. I’ve seen too many parents in the United States ignore their children, scream at them, or drag them around the local Walmart. No such scenes in Beijing.

  I locked eyes with a tot on the bus. I waved at him – a tiny child’s wave. His mother and grandmother smiled at me. Using body language, I asked for permission to photograph them. Both women nodded approval. As soon as the toddler saw my camera, he went spastically shy, spun around, and squirmed every which way trying to crawl under the seat. Later, I walked by him on my way to the door. He looked intently into my face and shouted, “Bye!” in a loud, high-pitched, baby’s voice. Wow, what a finale!

  Cali is the student who took me to Lama Temple in the snowstorm. He’s such a character. I can’t stop snapping pictures of him doing goofy things. Yesterday he wore a traditional Chinese formal coat to class. “Armani,” he said. His face was serious, sphinxlike. “Fake,” he added, then smiled broadly. The coat only cost 160 Yuan ($26.00). A real Armani would run around 7,000 Yuan. Wen Wen is right. You can find fake anything in Beijing.

  I missed my Shilipu bus stop twice this week during nightly commutes home. A man riding the bus distracted me the first time. He sat a distance in front of me (thank goodness) but was still in plain view. Picking his nose. That’s what he was doing. He was very out-of-the-closet about it – not the least bit self-conscious as he dug deeply and carefully examined the excavated material. I looked away, not wanting to see what he did with the mined matter. Later, my eyes crept back to him. He was cleaning dirty fingernails with other dirty fingernails. Then he picked a pimple on his left cheek and wiped guck out of each eye with the same fingertip. That was enough. I turned toward the window.

  Nothing outside looked familiar. It was dark and late. I was tired and sick. Now I was lost. A bus worker announced stops in Chinese. Pointing toward the front of the bus, I said, “Shilipu?” He shook his head no. I grimaced, pointed behind the bus, and said, “Shilipu?” He nodded yes. Ugh! I got off the bus at the next stop and took stock. The major street I was standing in was torn up from construction. Rush hour traffic was rampant. I was disoriented. What should I do? Call Wen Wen? Call Yo?

  Taxi, I thought. I’ll take a taxi. Thank God for answers that just pop into my head sometimes. I dug into my purse and found a piece of paper with my address on it – in Chinese. Wen Wen had written it for just such an emergency. I hailed a taxi, slid into the front seat, and handed the paper to the driver. He smiled, nodded, said something in Chinese, and drove me to my apartment building. I love extracting myself from predicaments – a rare achievement in China.

  I missed my stop the next day because of falling asleep on the bus. Chinese medicine made me drowsy. I overshot my mark again. Jumping off the bus in daylight, I walked in the direction of home and discovered new shops and restaurants along the way. In fact, I’m taking Liz to one of the restaurants for dinner. She often cooks for me, so tonight is a payback dinner. We’re heading
out the door now.

  December 6, 2009

  If I were back home, my Christmas would be evolving in a traditional American way. Some things in life should be familiar and predictable. The Christmas ritual is one of them. Details change from year to year, but I find comfort in a familiar framework. This year I must rely on traditional celebrations of family and friends at home to keep me grounded in the season.

  Wen Wen is coming over tonight. We’ll watch a movie – probably Australia. She loves a good love story. What woman doesn’t? She promised to cook dinner. I have serious doubts about that. I’ve never seen Wen Wen cook a meal. I’ve only known her to boil what she calls “pop noodles.” It’s the Chinese version of Hamburger Helper.

  December 7, 2009

  This story cracks me up. Wen Wen and I had manicures. When my nail polish started chipping she bought me some polish remover. It was orange and in a small plastic bottle with a picture of two oranges on the label. She unscrewed the cap and let me sniff. Whew, it could revive a museum mastodon. The potent liquid worked wonders on cotton balls to remove the polish. I’m surprised it didn’t dissolve my fingernails in the process. After tossing the used cotton balls into the kitchen wastebasket, I went to my study to work.

  In a few minutes I heard a short, sharp, screeching sound that started, then stopped. Always quick to deny trouble in my household, I refocused on work, hoping it was a one-time glitch. The screeching sound pierced my ears a second time. I remained in steadfast denial. A third episode compelled me to investigate.

  The shrill sound led me to the kitchen. The smoke alarm was wailing, and the pungent odor of chemicals filled the room. Whew! Could the polish remover fumes have triggered the alarm? I set the wastebasket outside my apartment door and opened windows to air out the place. Never heard a peep after that. I wonder what explosive is in that stuff. Glad I didn’t light a match – or drink it thinking it was orange juice.