I sure hope they have booze.
Yeah, the whole place is gorgeous and expensive: ancient wood, hand-crafted furniture, mood lighting, a Buddha statue here and there, perfectly placed paintings-calligraphy mostly. The patrons also look like money. It’s quiet, unlike most Chinese restaurants, the kind I go to anyway, with some traditional music plinking in the background.
The hostess leads us to a private room.
A low, round table. Seated at its head are Tiantian and Mrs. Tiantian, Dao Ming. Tiantian’s wearing another expensive jacket with a mandarin collar that doesn’t quite fit right over his dumpy frame, Dao Ming some Gucci/Pucci/whatever dress. She smiles tightly in my general direction, which I guess is an improvement over calling me a bitch. To their left sits the older guy from the party with the sad eyes and the sharp suit, the one who led Dao Ming out when she had her little meltdown. I can’t remember his name. She called him “Uncle,” I think.
To the right, Meimei. Tonight her hair is loose instead of slicked back, and she’s wearing a silk outfit, an embroidered red robe and flowing pants, that looks like something from a Chinese historical soap opera. “Oh,” she says, “you’ve brought a friend.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I… uh, mentioned it to Vicky when she called to set this up. That John would be coming. This is John. Zhou Zheng’an.”
John steps forward. “Hen gaoxing renshi nimen.” Very pleased to meet you all. Which I’m pretty sure he’s not.
I look at him, and he has a smile on his face and a sort of glitter in his dark eyes.
Strike that, he’s probably really looking forward to opening up a whole can of whoop-ass on one or more Caos.
Speaking of, no sign of Gugu.
Tiantian makes a sweeping gesture at the empty chairs across from him. “Qing zuo.” Please sit. “I have ordered some special tea to start our dinner.”
Oh, great. Fucking tea.
We sit. I try to turn the grimace on my face that comes from the pain in my leg as I get down on that low chair into a smile.
I’m next to Meimei. John’s next to me. There are two more empty chairs to his left.
Introductions are made. John smiles and nods politely. The last to introduce himself is Uncle.
“Yang Junmin,” he says.
There’s the slightest flicker of recognition on John’s face, quickly covered up by a polite smile.
“John’s a consultant,” I say.
John nods vigorously. “Yes.”
“Really?” Meimei says. “On what kinds of projects?” She seems amused.
“Various kinds. I work with relevant government departments. To help obtain necessary permissions.”
At that, Uncle Yang’s eyes narrow, and I hear this tiny snort. And I get this sudden flash: Celine at the party, telling me how Dao Ming is hong er dai, “second-generation red.”
And this guy is her “uncle.”
There were all kinds of government officials at that party, I’m pretty sure.
I get that creepy-crawly feeling, like a spider’s walking up my spine.
What are the odds that this guy’s someone pretty high up?
Meanwhile John’s continuing his earnest, slightly clueless routine. It doesn’t fool me anymore, but objectively it’s a pretty good act.
“I think this project, it is very exciting,” he says. “And a way to make China shine on the world stage.”
Tiantian leans forward. He likes this idea, I can tell. “In what way?”
“There are many valuable and important works in your father’s collection. If you can build a first-class museum for them, it can help show China is a world cultural power.”
Tiantian slowly nods. “Though it is better to emphasize Chinese works. Chinese traditions. Create a showcase for our own culture.”
So is Tiantian actually interested in the museum project? And is that a good thing? Because it’s not like I actually want to do any of this.
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “But first we need to deal with the collection that’s already there. Right?”
“Of course.”
“Is the tea coming?” Dao Ming asks abruptly.
Dao Ming has her forehead resting on three tense fingers, her thumb tucked under her cheekbone. Her fingers are long and skinny and white, like ivory.
Uncle Yang nods. “Yes. Just wait a moment.” He lifts a hand. “Fuwuyuan.” It’s funny, he hardly raises his voice. But immediately a waitress hustles into our private room. “Women xianzai yao he cha.”
We want to drink our tea now.
The tea is all fancy. It’s Tieguanyin, which I’m pretty sure is Chinese for “really fucking expensive.”
“Name means ‘Iron Goddess of Mercy,’” the waitress explains to me in English. “Is one of very best oolong tea.”
She goes through this whole big production: First we have to look at the tea and say how pretty it is and how nice it smells. I mostly nod and leave that to the others. Then she puts the tea in a pot and “rinses” it with hot water that she pours out of a brass kettle with a long, skinny spout. She pours from a couple feet off the table, so the water splashes everywhere. This is normal, I guess. Then she pours it into our cups, but we’re not supposed to drink that. She pours more hot water into the teapot, this time from a normal height. Our cups get emptied onto the outside of the teapot. Finally she pours the tea into these tiny porcelain cups: not to drink, to smell. And you’re supposed to put your larger, drinking teacup over that to capture the smell.
“Long feng cheng xiang,” Tiantian says, intoning this with his eyes half closed like it’s some kind of blessing.
“This means ‘dragon and phoenix in fortunate union,’” the waitress explains.
Somebody bring me a beer.
Well, okay, for tea it tastes pretty good. Kind of smoky and smooth in a way that rolls off my tongue and slides down my throat.
“The purpose of tea ceremony is to encourage relaxation. And pleasant discussion.” Tiantian wags his finger at me. “It does not matter in a teahouse who is rich and who is poor. All can speak frankly together.”
I’d be on the “poor” end of this equation. Thanks for rubbing my nose in it, asshole.
“Huh,” I say. “That’s very interesting.”
A sudden movement from Dao Ming catches my eye. She’s tossing back her cup of tea like it’s a shot of tequila. “We should order,” she says in Tiantian’s general direction. “Otherwise we could wait for Gugu all night.”
“We can wait a while longer. The Tieguanyin is good for several more pots.”
“Our guests are hungry,” she hisses.
“Perhaps some dianxin,” Uncle Yang murmurs. Which is Mandarin for dim sum.
Tiantian’s hand thrusts up. “Fuwuyuan,” he calls out.
It’s Uncle Yang who’s the big dog here, I’m pretty sure.
Halfway through our appetizers, Gugu stumbles in. Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s blasted. Marsh is at his side, a steadying hand on his back.
“Sorry I came late,” Gugu mutters, landing on the chair next to John.
Tiantian’s mouth tightens; he sits up in his chair, and I think he’s going to start something with Gugu.
Instead he pulls back and says, “We are just about to order dinner.”
Gugu’s eyes are swollen, and he leans back in his chair like it’s the only thing holding him up. “Let’s get some wine.” He raises his hand. “Fuwuyuan!”
The waitress rushes over.
“A couple bottles of Bordeaux.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t care,” Gugu snaps. “Something good. Just bring it.” He closes his eyes.
John bobs his head. “Ni hao. I’m Zhou Zheng’an. I am Yili’s friend.”
Gugu forces his eyes open to look at John. He manages a nod. “Nice to meet you.”