Your Chinese is excellent, she says. Where did you learn it?
Wudeng, in Hunan, on the north shore of the Yangtze. And where are you from?
Shaoxing. But I met Willard in Shanghai. And where is your family now?
Out of town.
But you live in Baltimore? How does your wife stand it?
What do you mean?
The Chinese families here are so provincial. She wrinkles her nose. No one speaks Chinese to their kids. All they care about is soccer and getting into the right private school. We bought my parents an apartment in Shanghai, and we’re there nearly half the year.
Noreen Phillips appears out of nowhere — it helps that she’s no more than five-two — takes her arm, and says, sorry, Kelly, but I’m going to be rude and steal Shen away for a moment.
Not at all, I say, grateful not to have to come up with a reply. And they leave me there, no drink in hand, temporarily unable to move, staring up at an enormous African mask mounted to the walclass="underline" a man’s face, with upraised eyes, his chin sticking out, mouth open, as if he’s trying to swallow raindrops.
The morning of the accident, Meimei was playing with a red boa from her dress-up bin, tying it around herself and twirling through the house, scattering downy feathers everywhere. When I finally returned from the funeral home, after making all the arrangements, it was mid-morning the following day; I’d been up all night in the chaplain’s office at the hospital, waiting for the bodies to be transferred, signing paperwork and trying not to fall asleep. My parents had arrived after midnight. They brought me into the house, all but holding me up at the elbows, and the feathers were everywhere, like a trail of rose petals. We tended to leave her messes till the evening, when we had time to get out the vacuum and clean up. My mother disappeared into the kitchen and brought out a broom, and I said, no. Leave them there. And they stayed for weeks, blowing into clumps, gathering lint.
I had no interest in the future. The future was erased. When you have a young child your world is their world: Meimei’s friends’ parents became our friends; Meimei’s school was the hub of our social life; Meimei’s needs were our needs; all with the promise that this is a full and justifiable life, this is a rationale for staying alive, a bridge to the future, and the arguments and complaining and sorting and competing — speak only Chinese at home? Speak Chinese with Mom and English with Dad? Buy an apartment in the city, or a house in the suburbs? Settle in Boston, or move somewhere with an actual community, like Flushing, or Vancouver, or L.A.? — were just the pulsing blood of that life. Without it, then, now, I’m a dry sponge, I’m thinking with a kind of muted, helpless rage, I’m like this guy, waiting for rain that never comes.
Deep in my pocket, now, against my thigh, my phone comes to life, actual life, with three short buzzes.
Where are you? Didnt leave, did you? Were in the back, come join. M
—
Beyond the pool, the outdoor bar, and the second buffet, at the far edge of an amoeba-shaped patch of grass, I find Martin in a teak easy chair, his legs up, like a mogul, one hand thrown easily over a half-drunk vodka, the other toying with his phone. Robin is gone. How did he do it? I wonder. How did she allow him to disappear so ostentatiously, to sit and — to all appearances — sulk in a corner?
Sit, he says, and slings his feet to one side, giving me a square foot of the end of the chair. Where the heck were you? I thought maybe you’d gotten cold feet or something. I wouldn’t want to be you at this party. Always hate having to go where I’m constantly introducing myself on a Friday night. It’s too much like work.
This is work for me.
Well, okay. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time. I should have had you more under my wing, had you meeting people. That would have been the polite thing, right? But I figured it would be just as good to have you be a fly on the wall. You’re the writer. You have to have your own point of view.
I’d be an outsider no matter what.
You sound offended. Isn’t that the whole point?
No, I say. Look, I’m not offended. Just a little tired. A little overwhelmed. All this double vision. This double life. You’re used to it. You chose it. I’m just a visitor here.
He gazes at me for a second.
Like on Seinfeld, he says, that one where Kramer gets an intern. You know what I’m talking about? Kramerica Industries. You get to live inside my craziness. Well, no worries. It won’t last forever. You’ve got your finger on the button, frankly. You’re the one who has to write it all up.
My mouth hangs open for a moment, and then I start to laugh. Sorry, I say. It’s just the last comparison I was expect—
You’re forgetting how much of the Nineties I spent inside. In that crap-ass old house turned crash pad. I watched so much TV it would make your eyes bleed. Kept it on during the day, while I was answering calls and fiddling on the computer. It’s an easy way to neutralize bugs and wiretaps. Damn, I must have watched every episode of Seinfeld and Friends six or seven times. I’m a walking encyclopedia of about six years of pop-culture detritus. JonBenét Ramsey? Monica Lewinsky and Linda Tripp? The O.J. trial? I watched every minute of the O.J. trial on Court TV. What I wouldn’t give to expunge all that nonsense from my brain. While you were in college becoming fluent in — how many? five? — languages, I was at home selling drugs and watching Oprah.
This last line booms out across the pool, and I look up, wondering if anyone is paying attention. The crowd is beginning to thin out; I can see a couple inside through the French doors, the woman jingling her keys, wishing Paul and Noreen into view so they can say a quick goodbye.
Martin, I say, are you afraid, at all, of what’s going to happen? Of — losing this? Has it even crossed your mind?
Because what? People won’t talk to me once they know?
You think they will?
Frankly? It’s immaterial. We won’t be able to stay here for long. We’ll have to relocate to someplace with more privacy. Once the payouts start coming in we’ll get a place in L.A. or New York. Maybe one of those towns in Westchester or North Jersey or Connecticut. There’s going to be paparazzi. At least for a while. Sherry and Tamika will go to prep school. Maybe Europe. Or, ideally, Asia. Someplace that teaches Mandarin and has tight security.
That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?
Well, okay. Presumptuous, anyhow. First I have to convince Robin that it’s all okay. You’re not wrong, you know. I’m concerned about it. I need her on my side. Publicly and privately. I’ve got to strategize that part. But that’s my concern, nothing for you to worry about. You’ll get paid no matter what. As long as this is a viable operation, you’ll get paid.
Speaking of which, I say, I’ve been thinking that after we get back from Bangkok I’m going to want to spend some time on my own. Getting my thoughts together. Writing the manuscript.
Where do you want to be? Where does a writer like to be a writer these days? Want me to rent you a studio in Brooklyn? Or Paris? Short-term apartments are a breeze in Paris. Though if I were you I’d stay in Thailand. Get a house on the beach in Pattaya, or Krabi. For what you’d pay for a studio in Park Slope you could have your own beach house in Pattaya with a staff of six.