Chapter 15
Fifteen
First Snow
I drop my parcels off in my room and change out of my Western trousers into an old jade green qipao, printed with oversized coral peonies.
My insides are fluttery and nervous, which is a bit odd.
I hadn’t expected the prospect of a sunset to affect me this way.
Buttoning up the silk knots across my chest and up my neck is like donning armour.
The familiar motions soothe. I pull out my jade comb, the one I won off Gigi, and run my fingers across the luminous jade oval, the teardrop pearls that dangle from the ornate filigree across the top, and marvel yet again that this delicate beauty is mine.
I’d always admired it when Gigi wore it.
When I asked for one of my own, Horsey deemed such finery a waste – like playing a zither for a cow – since I refused to behave in a ladylike manner.
Just because I don’t have a fit if I show my neck or my knees, doesn’t mean I don’t like pretty things.
Most of the jewellery I own I won off Gigi.
I chuckle, remembering the intensity of the game – I even forgot about my midnight glass of blood.
Apprentices gathered to watch us play; the stakes were high.
Old Zao, that old gossip, let slip that I liked to paint; Gigi seized on the idea and bet her favourite comb against me painting her portrait.
The last thing I wanted was to spend hours capturing on paper all her ladylike perfections and reminding me of every one that I lacked.
When I drew the strip that completed my winning hand, my heart pittered in relief and joy.
Mr Lee sits at a table in the lobby. He looks up as I approach. His gaze is strangely intense. Grave.
I stop. ‘What’s wrong?’
He blinks as if coming back to himself. His face has gone pink. ‘Nothing,’ he says, though I can tell something must be wrong. Despite the care I took, did I still not dress properly?
I touch my neck, check I’ve done all my buttons, glance down at my legs to make sure my dress isn’t stuffed in my tap pants. There’s nothing out of place, and yet, Horsey’s remonstrations fill my mind.
‘I am not a cow,’ I say huffily and storm towards the revolving doors.
‘Wait, Lady Jing,’ Mr Lee says as his hand wraps around my arm.
I glare at where he touches me, and his fingers spring open like I’ve burned him.
‘I wanted to complement you, but was afraid you’d crush my head into brain porridge.’ He looks so sincere.
‘Cows can appreciate music,’ I say, annoyed.
He blinks at me, frowns in confusion, and after a moment nods slowly. ‘I’m sure they can.’ He produces a small fabric purse and holds it out to me. ‘Peace offering?’
Its surface is embroidered with shimmering silk, depicting a flower-strewn meadow where a small fox frolics with a yellow butterfly. It’s very pretty, though I’m disinclined to tell him so. When I take it, I’m surprised at how heavy it is.
‘Open it,’ he says.
I unclip the metal fastening, exposing its innards. The purse is filled to the brim with too see rolls and caramels. I laugh. This is the first gift I’ve ever received, and I feel somewhat sheepish at my outburst.
He holds his arm out, not waiting for an explanation or my thanks. ‘Time to see a sunset,’ he says.
When we exit the lift onto the roof, there are so many trees it feels like we’ve strolled into a forest. We sit at a round table beneath a canopy of leafy boughs, low enough to give a sense of privacy.
I tell Mr Lee to order whatever he likes for me.
The menu isn’t in Chinese so I can’t read it, and besides, the people-watching here is even better than the Cathay Hotel lobby.
Everyone is beautifully dressed, some Chinese, many foreigners, variations in skin tone like autumn trees, from the palest bark to the darkest leaves.
A deep red soup arrives; it looks like blood. Eagerly, I lift a spoonful to my lips, and grimace as the warm liquid slips down my throat.
‘Borscht,’ Mr Lee says. ‘Beets give it its colour and flavour.’ He studies my expression. ‘Do you not like it?’
‘It tastes like dirt. I thought it was blood.’
Mr Lee looks a little pained, but rallies with, ‘I ordered a little of everything so you could try. Hopefully you’ll find something you love.’
I certainly hope so. I drag my spoon through the not-blood dirt-soup. Mr Lee flags down a waiter who returns with a small bottle encased in a block of ice.
‘Russian vodka served the Russian way,’ Mr Lee says.
A shot of vodka clears the dirt-soup from my tongue.
More dishes follow, familiar-looking foods in unfamiliar combinations.
I try each one, exploring the new flavours and textures.
Some of the strange pairings are interesting.
Nothing as delicious as sea salt caramels or too see rolls, yet.
The food is heavy with cream and butter, rich and savoury, and goes nicely with the cold vodka.
Something that looks similar to dumplings catches my eye.
‘Jiaozi?’ I ask.
Mr Lee shakes his head smiling. ‘Pelmeni. Similar, but richer.’
I take a bite and try to identify the various flavours. Lamb, and onions, and herbs I’m not familiar with.
‘These are really yummy!’ I say through half-chewed pelmeni.
I shove another into my mouth, savouring the juicy deliciousness.
But there’s something that makes my tongue feel a little numb.
Not unlike Szechuan peppers. I rub at a tickle in my nose.
As I chew the flavour profiles become more distinct.
My tongue starts to feel strange, like it’s too big for my mouth.
The itch in my nose has spread to my throat.
My eyes water. There’s a flavour I should have noticed, hidden by all the others.
Garlic.
Double rotted turd-egg shit sticks.
In yin Shanghai either Old Zao cooks for me, or occasionally I’ll order from the Cathay Hotel kitchens.
Big Wang ensures my food never includes garlic.
I didn’t know garlic tastes completely different cooked.
My nose itches ferociously. I try to swallow my mouthful of food.
Tian, why did I have to be so greedy? Too late.
I sneeze, and the whole table, and some of Mr Lee, is sprayed with half-masticated bits of pelmeni.
But I’m not done. I sneeze and sneeze and sneeze.
I grab the tablecloth, try to hide my face as my entire body jerks with each violent sneeze.
Plates crash to the floor. Waiters descend on our table, whisking dishes and glasses to a safe distance.
I can’t catch my breath, and I’m wheezing at the same time and the noise is awful; soon there is nothing on our table, not even the tablecloth, because that’s crushed to my face.
Mr Lee hovers over me, as do a couple waiters, trying to help.
I can’t stop sneezing long enough to speak.
I need to get the taste out. If I drink I will simply spew the water out again.
In desperation, I grab Mr Lee by the neck and pull him towards me, burying my nose in the soft spot between his jaw and throat. He stiffens, but doesn’t fight.
His crisp clean scent, snowflakes falling over watermelon, wraps around me. My teeth slide out. Before I can stop myself, I press their sharp points to his throat. He stiffens.
A shiver quakes through me, followed quickly by shame.
Mr Lee has proven himself a friend. Friends don’t drain friends of their blood, I remind myself.
I tuck my chin in to keep my mouth away from his throat.
Instead, I focus on the rhythmic beat of his pulse.
Breath by breath, the scent of walnuts and persimmons slowly replaces the bite of garlic.
I’m able to suppress a few sneezes, though I grunt from the effort.
I claw much needed air into my lungs. My fingers twist in the fabric of Mr Lee’s changpao, which is still dotted with flecks of pelmeni.
I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring everything, and let the cool scent of fresh snow bathe my throat and nostrils and soothe the burn.
When the sneezing finally abates, I untangle my fingers from Mr Lee’s changpao and release him.
My breathing is fast and shallow, but at least I can breathe.
He doesn’t move immediately, so with the tablecloth still clutched in my hands I wipe off the worst of the pelmeni, but then he pulls away.
Concern deepens the lines between his brows.
I risk a glance around me – the entire restaurant is staring. I cringe at the attention.
‘Garlic,’ I whisper, accepting the glass of water from a waiter.
‘You’re allergic?’
I nod. ‘I’ve never eaten it before though.’
Mr Lee speaks rapidly to the waiter. The waiter’s eyes widen, and he prattles something very quickly before rushing off. I don’t understand a word.
‘French?’ I ask.
‘English,’ he says. ‘They’ll make sure your food has no garlic in it.’
I glance at the shards of plates that a young man is carefully sweeping away. The diners have mostly returned to their meals, though a few still glance at me from time to time. I shift my chair, so my back is to most of them.
Mr Lee slides into his own chair opposite. He seems to be mostly cleaned up. As the waiters throw new linen over the table and replace the cutlery and plates they salvaged, Mr Lee folds his hands on the table.
‘Were your teeth on me just now?’ he asks.
My face heats. It feels like a bonfire blazes on both my cheeks. ‘I—uh, yes. Sorry. But I didn’t bite,’ I hurry to clarify. I don’t want him thinking I’d take advantage of his kindness to feed on him.
He doesn’t say anything and I can’t read his expression.
He doesn’t seem mad, or scared, but he also doesn’t seem pleased.
There are no further garlic incidents. We eat in awkward silence, me staring at my food to avoid catching anyone else’s gaze, and to avoid looking at Mr Lee.
I want to sink into a hole and disappear.