Sam had tried, but here he truly was held back by being a foreigner. He had been born, raised, and educated in America. He lacked the dizzying welter of references and touchpoints that would have been his if he had grown up here. He had only his uncles. They had done their best to fill him in on five thousand years of culture, starting the moment he arrived. For this he not only accepted their abuse, he was grateful for it.
In another taxi they sailed back up the road toward the lake and the hotels. It was time now. He needed to get on to his uncle’s.
He had called. He was told Xie had been carried down to the kitchen and was waiting for him. His wife, Wang Ling, was there beside him, and since yesterday all four children had been home – three daughters and a son. Only one of the daughters, Songling, still lived in Hangzhou; she managed another venerable restaurant called Shan Wai Shan. She was the only one of the Xie children who had followed her father into the world of cuisine. The other two daughters, Songan and Songzhe, and the son, Songzhao, all had professional careers and families in Shanghai. They were Sam’s generation, and he thought of them as one thinks of far-off cousins, rarely seen but always spoken of with fondness. When they were born, their father had insisted upon using the traditional generation name, so that their given names all shared the same first syllable. By then, in the 1950s, this was hardly ever done – but that was Third Uncle, a stubborn reprobate, still using the generation name even after his own father had died in prison for being an imperial cook.
The old man had used the same iron will on Sam. No one was harder on Sam than Xie. None had used harsher names. Xie had called him a worthless lump of mud and a motherless turtle. He told him he didn’t deserve to be a Liang. More times than Sam could bear to remember he had taken away what Sam was in the middle of cooking and dumped it out. “Zai kaishi yixia,” Uncle would order, slamming the clean wok back down in front of him, Start again. And Sam would swallow back the humiliation and know that Uncle would not be teaching him if he didn’t believe he could learn it, could do it. Each time Sam would resolve to keep trying.
And now Uncle was slipping away from the earth, and all Sam wanted was to get to him, quickly, and be with him once again, while he lived.
She turned to him in the back seat. “If you can just tell me a good place to eat tonight. Near my hotel.”
“By yourself?”
“Of course by myself.”
“You can’t eat alone,” he said, and even as he spoke he asked himself what he was doing. Why not just say goodbye? It was time for him to go to Uncle’s. “I told you, that’s one of the important things about Chinese food. Maybe the most important thing. It’s about community.”
“I’m okay eating by myself. I always eat alone on the road, and always always since Matt died.”
“That’s bad luck. I might have to try and change you.”
“You can’t change me,” she informed him.
“But to eat alone is anti-Chinese.”
“I’m not Chinese. Look, Sam, you’re being so nice and you really don’t have to be. It’s just, I’m here. I don’t want to waste a meal. Tonight I want to go someplace good. Just tell me. That’s all.”
“I could easily give you a place. But the thing you should really do is come with me. Eat with the Xie family. Then I will bring you back here.”
“I don’t want to get in between you and your family.”
“You won’t. You’ll be watching a lot. I’ll be the only person you can talk to, and I might be occupied. You okay with that?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m a writer. I love to observe. But this is your family. It’s a sensitive time.”
“But I would like you to come.”
“Okay,” she said after a minute.
He felt himself smile. He was relaxed with her, which he hadn’t felt in so long. She was a friend. Nothing wrong with it.
They had reached her hotel parking lot. She slid out the door and pulled her bag behind her. “Will you wait for me a moment? Just let me put this stuff in the room. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” he said.
Maggie closed the door and trotted away from him to the entrance. She was aware that he was watching her from behind. When she was younger she would have worried about whether her shape was pleasing or not, but not now. She was old, forty, and besides, he was not interested. Still, she was glad she was going along. She felt a pull to him. Maybe they’d be friends after all.
She ran upstairs and put her things in the room and then came back down. Another thing: it would be a blessing to have company tonight, not to be alone. She had done it, got the sample, sent it off, and there was always that sense of letdown when a difficult task was finished. There was also the sadness, the finality; if Shuying wasn’t Matt’s, then she, Maggie, would never see his face in any living form, ever again. In time she might even forget his face. She would remember it only the way it had been captured in pictures. She was going to see herself get old in the mirror, and never remember him any other way but young.
“You okay?” said Sam when she got in the car.
“I am,” she said, and she closed the door behind her.
Xie must have fallen asleep because he awoke to the sound of the car door. Then a second door. Voices. A woman. His shaggy brows lifted. Finally, after all this time, the boy had brought a woman here! An instant web of thoughts bloomed and branched out in his mind as he heard their steps coming up to the door.
“Men kai-de!” he called. Door’s open!
The door pushed open and in came Nephew, smiling, wet-eyed, and behind him an outside woman with large, dark eyes and unruly hair.
Nephew dropped beside him and held him in the Western way as he murmured to him in Chinese. Then he said, “Uncle, this is Maggie McElroy,” and raised a hand to the girl. Xie did his best to give her a smile. She was pleasing in spite of her face, which was too sharp. Of course she could have looked like a dog and he would have been happy, considering that she was a woman and Nephew was bringing her. “Huanying, huanying,” Xie said.
“He says welcome.”
“My pleasure to meet you,” said Maggie.
“Ta hen gaoxing renshi ni,” said Sam.
Xie had been watching her eyes. He could always tell when someone understood. “She can’t talk?” he said abruptly in Chinese.
“No, Uncle, not a word.”
“Too bad.”
“No! No, Uncle, it’s not like that. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a writer, she’s doing an article about the competition. It’s no more than that.”
“Did I say something?” Xie demanded. “Did this worthless old lump say anything to her but welcome?”
“No. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll run her back to her hotel after dinner.”
“She is your good friend, she is welcome.”
“She’s not – oh, never mind.” Besides, she was his friend, in a way.
Uncle Xie was looking sternly at him. “Enough.” The old voice was imperious. “Show me your wrists!”
Sam unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them back. He knew he wasn’t going to have enough new scars to please Uncle. Serious Chinese cooks always had a signature pattern of mottle-burns. These burns could extend past the wrists all the way up the forearms. Just reaching across the stove, a chef could be burned by spattering oil, and the burns left their own special marks. Even American immigration officers checking incoming Chinese chefs with work visas knew to check the wrists and forearms for the spatter-pattern of scars.