We say our ‘nice meeting you’s’ and ‘later, dude’s,’ and I exit onto Jianguomen Road, heading toward the subway station. Maybe I’ll go to the Ancient Observatory. Climb up to the flat roof, pretend I can’t see the gaudy high-rises and ugly apart-ment blocks, and try to imagine what it was like when the Ancient Observatory was the tallest building around, looking out over a sea of peaked gray tile roofs. When you’d hear donkey bells and peddlers’ cries instead of car horns and screeching brakes.
I try to imagine it, but I can’t.
Jayson and Bob Marley T-Shirt guy’s party is pretty standard for a party in a foreign students’ dorm: loud music, tubs of Yanjing beer, people spilling out of one room into the hall and flowing into another. I catch the scent of hash, no doubt supplied by the local Kazak dealers, and over the din of the music make out English, Korean, German, and attempts at Chinese. I see a few people here close to my age, grad-student types, and I tell myself I don’t look that out of place.
I’m bored the moment I arrive.
I grab a beer, open it, find a clear space along the wall, and lean against it, wondering if I could find some of that hash I’m smelling. Kids bump past me, laughing, stumbling. I don’t even see Jayson or Marley T-shirt guy.
This is stupid, I think. Why did I come? No one’s going to talk to me, and I don’t feel like talking to anyone. It’s like there are these black waves rolling out from me, warning everybody off. Stay away. Don’t fucking talk to me.
‘Hello!’
I look up. Standing in front of me is a Chinese guy, thirtyish, wearing a cheap leather jacket and a faded Beijing Olympics T-shirt, the one with the slogan ‘One World, One Dream.’
‘So sorry to bother,’ he continues. ‘You are American, right?’
‘No. I’m Icelandic.’
‘Ice … ?’ he stammers.
For whatever reason, I suddenly feel sorry for the guy. He’s not bad-looking; he’s got that near-babyfaced handsomeness like Chow Yun Fat did when he was young, but he also has a slight stutter and this sort of clueless vibe, like he doesn’t know what to make of me messing with him.
‘Yes, I’m an American,’ I allow. ‘And you’re … Chinese, maybe?’
He grins broadly, revealing slightly crooked but very clean teeth. ‘Why do you say that?’ he replies, joking back. Maybe he’s not so clueless.
‘Just guessing.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, Chinese. I am even a Beijing native.’
I snort. Everyone claims to be a native Beijinger. ‘Right. And you were probably born just next to the Temple of Heaven.’
He gives me his squinty-eyed, puzzled look again. ‘No. Close to Da Zhong Si. You know Da Zhong Si? That Great Bell Temple?’
‘Heard of it,’ I say noncommittally. I’ve been there before, actually. It’s no longer an active temple, but instead a bell museum, with bells from all around China and the entire world. Cool place, if you’re into bells.
‘That Great Bell was once biggest in the world,’ the guy says, seeming enthused about playing Beijing tour guide. ‘But now no longer. Now is Zhonghua Shiji Tan. Century Altar.’ He speaks English carefully, laying peculiar stress on the first syllables of the words. ‘Made in 1999, for the, the … the new …’
‘Millennium?’ I guess.
‘Yes,’ he says eagerly. ‘Yes, millennium.’
He extends his hand. ‘I am John.’
I can feel the tendons and muscles as his hand lightly closes around mine. He gives my hand a quick, awkward shake and lets go.
‘Yili,’ I reply.
John beams. ‘Oh, I think you speak Chinese. Am I right? Are you a student here, Yili?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘This is my, my … alma mater. I still come back at times. I enjoy to meet foreign students. So that I can practice. My English.’
‘Your English is very good,’ I say, because it’s what you’re supposed to say, and I’m sure his English is better than my Chinese.
‘No, no, my English is very poor.’ He stares at me for a moment. There’s not a lot of light in the hall, and it’s hard for me to make out his expression.
Then he blinks and ducks his head. ‘Yili, can I fetch you another beer?’
I should say no. I should leave, go back to the apartment. Spend some time thinking about what I’m going to do with my life after Trey divorces me and leaves the country and my visa runs out.
I should think about going home.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
Like I want to think about any of that.
In no time at all, John has returned with two cold Yanjings. He hands one to me with a small flourish, then holds up his bottle.
‘Ganbei,’ he says with a grin. Drink it dry.
We clink bottles and drink.
‘So, Yili, are you married? Do you have children?’
I try not to roll my eyes. Just about every Chinese person I meet asks me these questions.
‘Aren’t you gonna ask how old I am?’ I reply, as this is the inevitable third question in the ‘Way Too Personal’ trifecta.
John waves a hand. ‘Oh, no. I can see you are still very young. Maybe … not thirty?’
Actually, I’m twenty-six. ‘Just about.’
‘But no husband or children?’
‘No kids. Yes on the husband. But we’re separated.’
John shakes his head sadly. ‘This is the nature of the modern times, I think. The family life always suffers.’
‘Are you married, John?’
‘Me?’ For a moment, John looks uncomfortable. ‘No.’
‘Are your parents upset?’
Because if there’s one thing a Chinese son is supposed to do, it’s get married and have kids.
‘I just tell them to have patience,’ John says dismissively. ‘I am still the young man. I have … I have … benchmarks.’
‘Benchmarks?’
‘Of accomplishment. Before I am to have children. I have not achieved these yet, but I achieve them soon, I think.’
‘Oh,’ I say, and wipe my forehead. I’m already feeling a little buzzed. Not surprising, considering all I’ve had to eat today is a couple bites of spaghetti.
‘You see, it is hard if you are a young man in China and you are not rich,’ John continues, warming to his topic. ‘Because the Chinese women, they want a successful man. And they can choose who they want, because we have more men than women.’
He leans in closer to me. ‘Some Chinese women, they have second husband. Do you understand my meaning?’
‘Ummm …’ I think about it. Take another swallow of beer. ‘More than one?’
‘Not real husband,’ John confides. ‘More like … boyfriend. But these women, they have money. So they take care of boyfriend. Like concubine. You know that word?’
‘Sure,’ I say, finishing my beer. ‘My husband has one of those.’
‘Oh.’ I can see comprehension slowly dawning. ‘Your husband … he has …’ And here John ducks his head and sneaks a little grin. ‘The yellow