"Welcome!" a roly-poly man cried at them. Obviously the host, he was wearing a herringbone suit and shiny oxfords. He showed them to a table in a corner where five men were already seated. At the sight of Danning, they all got up and stretched out their hands, which Danning shook one by one.
With pride he introduced Nan to them as his American friend.
They were all pleased to see Nan. On the table were two saucers containing condensed milk and a bamboo basket holding tiny steamed buns, both serving as an appetizer. They went on gossiping about some recent events in Beijing's literary circles: the nominations for this year's major prizes and what offices were involved; which one of the pretty young women writers had outsold the others; the two poets who had just been offered a trip to Paris the next spring; an editor who had been fired last week for publishing a book offensive to the authorities, which had changed the policy, punishing editors in place of authors; how there was going to be a conference on a first novel by a young man whose father was a high-ranking official in the State Council. Nan knew nothing about their world and just listened.
Mengfei, the loudest among them, was a lieutenant colonel in the air force and a well-known fiction writer. It was this fleshy-faced man with a bull's neck and shoulders who had sent the Audi to fetch Danning. Sometimes he taught literary theory and modern fiction at the Arts Institute of the People's Liberation Army. He had just published a novella in Flower City, a top-notch magazine, so he had gathered his writer friends here to celebrate. Among them there was another officer, a captain who was a poet, and the rest were all civilians. Nan vaguely remembered seeing in a newspaper the photograph of the bald man sitting across from him. The man had introduced himself as Fanlong, an editor in the Writers' Publishing House. Seated next to the colonel was a spare man who was a journalist specializing in reportage literature, but he didn't speak much because he'd stutter whenever he opened his mouth. Unlike them, Nan didn't touch the Luzhou whiskey, which was too strong for him; instead, he sipped Five Star beer from a tall glass.
A waitress came and handed them the menu. Nan was puzzled by the names of the dishes. There were so many unfamiliar items that he wasn't sure what to order. He asked Danning, "What is this- 'Parents and Children'?"
His friend grinned. "It's just pickled soybeans and soy sprouts."
"Then I won't eat the whole family." Nan chuckled but didn't ask about the other fancy names. The rest of the men didn't bother to open the menu and instead let Fanlong order for them. The man, well known for his ability to plan parties and dinners, mentioned a dozen dishes to the waitress and also asked for more liquor and beer for everyone.
"Nan, what are the hot novels published in the United States recently?" asked Mengfei, who seemed quite knowledgeable about contemporary American fiction. As a matter of fact, he had been to the States as a visiting scholar at Stanford, and in their conversation he often trotted out the phrase "when I was in America," which Dan-ning told him not to use just for this occasion, at which there was no need for him to impress others.
"A novel called Cold Mountain is very popular at the moment," Nan told Mengfei.
"Who wrote it?"
"A new writer named Charles Frazier, but I haven't read the book yet." Nan paused, then added, "I brought back a copy of American Pastoral for Danning."
The spare man with slanting eyebrows seated next to Mengfei spoke in a shrill voice. "Th-that's Philip Roth's ne-new novel!"
" Yes," Nan said.
Fanlong butted in, "I like Roth a lot, especially his Ghost Writer."
" I think Saul Bellow is better," mumbled the bespectacled man sitting next to Danning.
" Ah, Bellow is smart and funny," Mengfei said, and smacked his lips as if tasting his own words.
In addition to parading their knowledge of American literature, they also talked about Calvino, Kundera, and Duras, none of whom was familiar to Nan, though at present they were popular here. So when Mengfei asked his opinion, Nan said, "I don't read fiction very often. I read more poetry."
" Wonderful," the bright-eyed captain put in.
Fanlong added, "We just bought Derek Walcott's new book."
Nan was startled and realized that these men might be bureaucrats in the Chinese literary world. Now he should be more careful about what he was going to say. Probably they did indeed know a lot about American authors through translations.
The dishes came, loaded on a serving cart. Two young waitresses in pea green aprons began placing the courses on the table. "This is 'Trotting on a Country Path,'" declared one of them. Nan batted his eyes to look at the dish closely. Heavens, it was just braised pig trotters garnished with a few sprigs of parsley! Despite his bewilderment, he said nothing. Then together the waitresses lifted a large platter containing a fried flounder. There were also several cold cuts and sauteed vegetables. Finally the taller woman put the last plate on the table with both hands and said, "Here's your 'Whispers.'" Nan tried hard to stifle his laughter on looking at the dish, which was nothing but smoked beef tongues lying in aspic.
The waitresses had scarcely pulled the cart away when Nan burst out laughing, a bubbling sound in his nose. He said to the others, "Let's whisper, let's whisper." They got the joke and all cracked up.
"Lucky we still have our tongues," said Mengfei with a straight face.
They laughed more. As they were eating and chatting, more people appeared in the restaurant and most of the seats were taken. There were several gatherings in the room, but each group of diners paid little attention to the other tables. Nan liked the fish and ate several pieces of it. Everything else, though, tasted mediocre, but he tried to show his appreciation. By now he realized this place must be a kind of club for officials, businesspeople, and the cultural elite.
A moment later Nan mentioned to Fanlong, the senior editor, Dick Harrison's new book, Unexpected Gifts. The man looked blank, blinking his baggy eyes and saying, "I don't know enough about contemporary American poetry. Tell me more about this poet."
Without mentioning his friendship with Dick, Nan described him as a rising star in American poetry. He even recited the final stanza of Dick's poem "A Son's Reason," and they all laughed at the last lines-"Mother, I love you / only from far away."
"Dick Harrison just started teaching at the Iowa Writers' Workshop," Nan told Fanlong.
That soaked in. They all knew that workshop and the Iowa International Writing Program. The latter would admit two or three Chinese writers a year. The competition for such an opportunity was especially fierce among poets, because it was also a way to get a bit of money. After spending a semester at the University of Iowa, one could save $2,000 or $3,000 besides having the honor of attending such a prestigious program.
Danning declared to them, "In fact, Dick Harrison is a close friend of Nan 's."
The faces at the table changed visibly. Fanlong, who was also a published poet, began to listen to Nan more closely and went on asking questions about American poetry. He even said to Nan in an orotund voice, "I hope I can visit you in Georgia one of these days. Atlanta must be a big international city."
"Sure, you're always welcome." Nan felt like a fake, uncertain whether Pingping would like that. But he had to appear friendly.
Some people at the tables near a low platform started singing a song, following the karaoke machine that had just come on. Mengfei stood up and said, "Let's go have some fun." They all went over to watch the crowd.
Several young women who must have been on the waitstaff were among the singers. A moment before, everyone had been quiet and subdued, but all of a sudden the men and women were so clamorous that Nan wondered whether they were all depressed and desperate to vent their frustrations through singing. They belted out song after song-sometimes only one man and one woman sang together, and sometimes a number of people chorused at the top of their lungs. Fanlong went to the front and began to sing an old folk song with a woman with a bleached blond pageboy who wore a red cheongsam. They were singing: