Year of the Tiger

The kid hands me his phone (a new iPhone, way cooler than mine). I quickly punch in Lao Zhang’s number.

‘Wei, ni hao.’ I talk in a low voice, as fast as I can. I’m hoping these guys are beginning Chinese students and won’t be able to understand me if I Beijing it up. ‘It’s me, Yili. I met two foreigners today,’ I continue in Chinese. ‘Americans. They asked a lot of questions about you.’

Then I’m not sure what to say.

‘Take care,’ I finally add. ‘Be careful.’

I hit the red button and hand the phone back.

‘Your accent is really good,’ Bob Marley T-shirt guy says.

They’re students, like I thought, just finishing their first semester at Beijing Language and Culture University. Mark and Jayson. ‘How long you been here?’ they want to know. ‘Where did you study Chinese?’ Before I know it, they’ve invited me to their dorm for a party tonight. What the hell, I think. Maybe I’ll go. It’s close to home, and I don’t know what else I’m going to do with myself.

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.’