outside and a neon sign. They went in and a bell tinkled as the door closed.
More than any restaurant back home, this place advertised its Chineseness. Limpet-shaped hats and idealised landscape paintings hung above a bamboo skirting, and pride of place went to a back-lit relief of a waterfall. Yet there were no clue as to which part of China the proprietors were from. It was very quiet, there wasn’t even any music playing, and the place was so dark Jian wondered if there had been a power outage. There was none of the boisterous vitality he looked for in a restaurant. There were ten or so tables, but only three were occupied. All the customers were white.Neither waitress was tall enough to be his daughter. No, she was not here, and again hope was cruelly extinguished.
A waitress approached, a slim Chinese girl in a red uniform with nails and lips painted to match. She said something in English, and he asked if she spoke Mandarin Chinese. She looked blankly back – she didn’t.
‘They’re Cantonese,’ said Song. ‘Like most Chinese people in this country. From Hong Kong originally, I expect. They won’t speak Mandarin. You won’t meet many Mandarin speakers here at all.’
He instructed her to inquire after his daughter, and opened the vanity book. Wei Wei posed by a balance beam in pink tracksuit, hair tied back, not much make-up. It was the homeliest of all the pictures, and the one he liked best. The inviting smile of the girl in red vanished and her face closed shut.
‘She says she doesn’t know her,’ said Song.
An old man stood at the back trying not to look like he was watching them. Like the girl he had a high forehead, full lips and a receding chin, and Jian guessed he was her father, and the owner. He said, ‘Let’s ask him.’
Jian pushed the vanity book across the counter. He thought of the Cantonese as cunning, but this old man was no actor. He looked at the picture, scratched his balding pate as if thinking, cast his eyes to the ceiling as if thinking some more, looked at the picture again from another angle, turned the page to look at another picture, then shook his head.
Song translated. ‘He says he’s very sorry, but he has no idea who that girl could be. He’s never met her.’
The old man looked as if he regretted terribly being unable to help. He closed the book and pushed it firmly back.
‘He wants to know who she is.’
‘Tell him some friends of hers need to talk to her, but they’re having trouble getting in touch. Don’t say I’m her father.’
The old man was trying hard not to look too curious.
‘He wants to know what it is about.’
‘Tell him it’s a love story – it’s about a boy, he’s looking for her, the parents don’t approve. Tell him the boy is right now on the other side of town doing other Chinese restaurants. Make sure he understands that, that someone is out doing other restaurants.’
‘He wants to know who we are.’
‘We’re concerned friends who want to see true love run its proper course. Tell him we’ll have a table for two.’
The mask slipped and the owner looked crestfallen, just for a moment. He escorted them with overdone courtesy to a table far from the counter.
The lighting was arranged so that patrons could see their own tables and little of the rest of the room. It was like going to eat in a cave. The menu was in English and Chinese. Jian read the names of all the dishes because it was good to see words he understood for a change. It was all southern stuff and staples.
‘Why did you make me lie to him?’ said Song. ‘I didn’t like it. I thought he was a nice old man.’
‘I wanted to test his reactions.’
‘Did you think he was lying?’
‘A policeman doesn’t think, he establishes facts.’ Which was rubbish, but the sort of reply that satisfied the public.
He was pleased to discover that they had Tsingtao beer, though at ten times the usual price. He was shocked when it turned up to see how small the
More than any restaurant back home, this place advertised its Chineseness. Limpet-shaped hats and idealised landscape paintings hung above a bamboo skirting, and pride of place went to a back-lit relief of a waterfall. Yet there were no clue as to which part of China the proprietors were from. It was very quiet, there wasn’t even any music playing, and the place was so dark Jian wondered if there had been a power outage. There was none of the boisterous vitality he looked for in a restaurant. There were ten or so tables, but only three were occupied. All the customers were white.Neither waitress was tall enough to be his daughter. No, she was not here, and again hope was cruelly extinguished.
A waitress approached, a slim Chinese girl in a red uniform with nails and lips painted to match. She said something in English, and he asked if she spoke Mandarin Chinese. She looked blankly back – she didn’t.
‘They’re Cantonese,’ said Song. ‘Like most Chinese people in this country. From Hong Kong originally, I expect. They won’t speak Mandarin. You won’t meet many Mandarin speakers here at all.’
He instructed her to inquire after his daughter, and opened the vanity book. Wei Wei posed by a balance beam in pink tracksuit, hair tied back, not much make-up. It was the homeliest of all the pictures, and the one he liked best. The inviting smile of the girl in red vanished and her face closed shut.
‘She says she doesn’t know her,’ said Song.
An old man stood at the back trying not to look like he was watching them. Like the girl he had a high forehead, full lips and a receding chin, and Jian guessed he was her father, and the owner. He said, ‘Let’s ask him.’
Jian pushed the vanity book across the counter. He thought of the Cantonese as cunning, but this old man was no actor. He looked at the picture, scratched his balding pate as if thinking, cast his eyes to the ceiling as if thinking some more, looked at the picture again from another angle, turned the page to look at another picture, then shook his head.
Song translated. ‘He says he’s very sorry, but he has no idea who that girl could be. He’s never met her.’
The old man looked as if he regretted terribly being unable to help. He closed the book and pushed it firmly back.
‘He wants to know who she is.’
‘Tell him some friends of hers need to talk to her, but they’re having trouble getting in touch. Don’t say I’m her father.’
The old man was trying hard not to look too curious.
‘He wants to know what it is about.’
‘Tell him it’s a love story – it’s about a boy, he’s looking for her, the parents don’t approve. Tell him the boy is right now on the other side of town doing other Chinese restaurants. Make sure he understands that, that someone is out doing other restaurants.’
‘He wants to know who we are.’
‘We’re concerned friends who want to see true love run its proper course. Tell him we’ll have a table for two.’
The mask slipped and the owner looked crestfallen, just for a moment. He escorted them with overdone courtesy to a table far from the counter.
The lighting was arranged so that patrons could see their own tables and little of the rest of the room. It was like going to eat in a cave. The menu was in English and Chinese. Jian read the names of all the dishes because it was good to see words he understood for a change. It was all southern stuff and staples.
‘Why did you make me lie to him?’ said Song. ‘I didn’t like it. I thought he was a nice old man.’
‘I wanted to test his reactions.’
‘Did you think he was lying?’
‘A policeman doesn’t think, he establishes facts.’ Which was rubbish, but the sort of reply that satisfied the public.
He was pleased to discover that they had Tsingtao beer, though at ten times the usual price. He was shocked when it turned up to see how small the
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