But all that was just poetry. Prose required that the complaint be forwarded to the supplier, in China. Triple F actually purchased its Dutch potatoes from a different Dutch company, but they were still delivered directly from the Chinese port of Qingdao.
Nils had long suspected that the unscrupulous Asians had been pasting fake labels on their own low-grade potatoes, substituting them for the name-brand product, licensed and monitored by a European company, that they had been contracted to supply. Nils had already written his Dutch partner about the complaint. But today he decided to speak directly with the Chinese export manager, a guy named Ni Guan. This Ni Guan dealt with direct exports to Russia, apparently through that same company, Cold Plus. The Chinese sold frozen fish straight to the Russians, but their potatoes went through European packaging plants. Russia was the ultimate purchaser, and Ni also handled the potatoes accounts. And, really, they didn’t devote sufficient attention to the quality of their deliveries, figuring—based on their previous experience with the Russian consumer—that Russians weren’t picky and would eat anything. But the times were a-changing. The Russian purchasers were bringing their European partners to heel; in their turn the Europeans would have to train the Asians.
JASPER ROOT
The time difference between Qingdao and St. Petersburg is five hours. Between Qingdao and Drachten, seven hours. Ni Guan was about ready to leave work when the phone on his desk rang. The secretary reported that Peter Nils from the Frozen French Fries company was on the line, and she connected them.
His European customer had a complaint about potatoes; the official version had arrived by fax an hour before. Ni listened patiently without interrupting, taking notes on a scrap of paper, as the Dutch representative berated him. Ni promised that the problem would be solved to their satisfaction, and that in the future his company would pay special attention to the quality of goods being sent to the Netherlands.
Ni-Eddie hung up, gathered his cell phone, apartment keys, and wallet into a plastic bag and left the office. On the way down in the elevator, all he could think about was some hot rice or noodles. It had been another busy day at work; Eddie hadn’t even had time for lunch.
On the first floor, he was surprised to see his young colleague Tsin Chi—Cindy—waiting for him at the door to the elevator. Ni gave her a polite smile and bowed his head slightly to convey bye, see you tomorrow, poka. In addition to a couple of Chinese dialects, Ni also knew English well, could communicate tolerably in Russian, and had recently started learning German.
But Cindy blocked his way. She stared directly into her boss’s eyes and didn’t say a word.
“Comrade Tsin?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Did… you have something you wanted to ask me?”
“Yes, sir, I did. I wanted to ask why you’ve been avoiding me. Maybe I’m not pretty enough for you? Maybe you’re holding out for a supermodel off the cover of Playboy, and nothing less will do? Maybe I should sign up for a photo session and bring you a dirty magazine with my photos in it, so that you’ll notice me as a woman?”
Tsin’s voice was a little too loud for the lobby, and Ni glanced around uneasily. The elevator doors parted and a crowd of coworkers poured out. Comrade Luan, the department head, walked by. Ni bowed to him, and his boss gave a barely detectable nod in return.
“Let’s talk somewhere else. I’m starving—you must have seen that I didn’t have time for lunch. We can have dinner together. Follow me.”
Eddie made for the exit. Cindy waited a moment, then followed him out.
There were a number of restaurants around the business complex, but Eddie didn’t want to run into anyone from the company. Why fuel gossip? He crossed the street to the bus stop and boarded one headed for the entertainment district by the shore. Cindy got on after him. The bus started off and merged into the heavy traffic creeping out of town.
A half-hour later the high-tech buildings of the business district were behind them, and they found themselves in a little Chinese version of Europe, complete with red-tile-roofed houses and neatly kept gardens.
Qingdao, translated from Chinese, means “green island.” Indeed, this part of the city, viewed from the ocean side, looks like one big park, with German-style mansions scattered about. In 1898 China sold Qingdao to Germany, along with the right to build a railroad and develop mineral deposits within a fifteen-kilometer zone on both sides of the tracks. Coal-mining activity and the port spurred development, and the town grew and flourished. The Europeans introduced electricity and founded a university—the one where Ni Guan got his degree.
After the Germans left, history hurled Qingdao into chaos: The Japanese occupied the city, then Chinese revolutionaries took over, then the Japanese occupied it again, and then China again, the Kuomintang, and again Chinese revolutionaries.
With the Chinese industrial boom, Qingdao became the major shipping port of the eastern province of Shandun, with an annual turnover of over two hundred million tons. Skyscrapers rose and filled with businesses. In the free economic zone of Qingdao, capitalism began to develop at a fantastic pace, under sensitive supervision by communist warships with large-caliber weaponry: The port of Qingdao is the home base for the People’s Republic of China’s North Sea Fleet.
The German colonists were gone, but they left behind those red-tile-roofed mansions and the best beer in all of China: Qingdao (Tsingtao). Ni was giving this beer some serious consideration.
They got off the bus and went into a small establishment that served German food—that is to say, Bavarian sausages and Chinese beer. Ni and Tsin sat down and gave their order to a deferential young waiter, then lit up a couple of Great Wall cigarettes—made in China from Chinese tobacco at a factory licensed by a multinational corporation. Ni smoked the strong kind; Tsin’s were light, thin, menthol cigarettes, made for ladies.
The restaurant’s radio played gently in the background, Chinese pop. The song was about a girl’s love for her fiancé, a sailor who was heading out to sea. Despite the melancholy lyrics, the melody and rhythm were fairly upbeat, as though the girl had no real intention of pacing the shore in solitude while her betrothed plowed the briny depths.
Ni sat silently; only after he’d finished off a couple of sausages and a half liter of cold Qingdao did he finally speak:
“Tsin, for a long time now I have been wanting to tell you what a wonderful girl you are, and how much I like you, but…”
“But what? Is there someone else?”
Tsin hadn’t touched her sausages and had just been staring at Ni the whole time, which made it a little awkward for him to eat.
“No, I don’t have anyone else.”
“So, what, you’re gay?”
Ni nearly spit out his mouthful of beer. His face flushed bright red.
“Comrade Tsin! What are you talking about?”
“Don’t call me comrade, here. Here I’m just a girl who wants to find her way into your bed. So the question, given the circumstances, is perfectly normal.”
Her candor shocked Eddie. Though he himself had been wanting to have this conversation, in a sense.
“No, that’s not it. That is, it’s not that I’m gay… it’s something else… I’m not gay… shit!”