Astrid stared at him incredulously. “Are you actually trying to make me the bad person here?”
“Actions speak louder than words. You’re still standing here ranting at me, while upstairs there’s a child who’s been waiting all night for his mother to come home.”
Astrid left the room without another word and headed upstairs.
3
JINXIAN LU
SHANGHAI
A couple of hours after returning to Shanghai from their Paris trip, Carlton called Rachel at the Peninsula Hotel. “All settled in?”
“Yes, but now I’m jet-lagged all over again. Nick, of course, put his head on the pillow and immediately started snoring. It’s so unfair.” Rachel sighed.
“Er…think Nick would mind if I took you out to dinner? Just the two of us?” Carlton asked timidly.
“Of course not! Even if he wasn’t dead to the world for the next ten hours, he wouldn’t mind.”
That evening, Carlton drove Rachel (this time in a very sensible Mercedes G-Wagen) to Jinxian Lu, a narrow street lined with old shophouses in the French Concession. “Here’s the restaurant, but where to park—that is the question,” Carlton muttered. Rachel glanced at the modest storefront with pleated white curtains and noticed a row of luxury vehicles parked outside. They found a space halfway down the block and walked leisurely toward the restaurant, passing a few enticingly quaint bars, antique shops, and trendy boutiques along the way.
Arriving at their dining spot, Rachel discovered a tiny space with only five tables. It was a fluorescent-lit room completely devoid of decor save for a plastic rotating desk fan bolted to the dingy white wall, but it was packed with a decidedly posh crowd. “Looks like quite the foodie destination,” Rachel commented, eyeing an expensively dressed couple dining with two small kids still in their gray-and-white private-school uniforms, while at a table by the door sat two hipster Germans in their regulation plaids, wielding chopsticks as expertly as any locals.
A waiter in a white singlet and black trousers approached them. “Mr. Fung?” he asked Carlton in Mandarin.
“No, Bao—two people at seven thirty,” Carlton answered. The man nodded and gestured for them to enter. They navigated their way to the back of the room, where a woman with dripping-wet hands pointed toward a doorway. “Up the stairs! Don’t be shy!” she said. Rachel soon found herself climbing an extremely narrow, steep staircase whose wooden steps were so worn that they dipped in the center. Halfway up, she passed a small landing that had been converted into a cooking space. Two women crouched in front of sizzling woks, filling the whole staircase with a tantalizing smoky aroma.
At the top of the stairs was a room with a bed against one wall and a dresser piled high with neatly folded clothes on the opposite side. A small table had been placed in front of the bed along with a couple of chairs, and a small television set buzzed in the corner. “Are we actually eating in someone’s bedroom?” Rachel asked in astonishment.
Carlton grinned. “I was hoping we’d get to eat up here—it’s considered the best table in the house. Is it okay with you?”
“Are you kidding? This is the coolest restaurant I think I’ve ever been in!” Rachel said excitedly, looking out the window at the line of hanging laundry that stretched across to the other side of the street.
“This place is the definition of ‘hole-in-the-wall,’ but they are famous for preparing some of the most authentic home-style Shanghainese food in the city. There’s no menu—they just bring you whatever they’re cooking today, and everything’s always in season and very fresh,” Carlton explained.
“After our week in Paris, this is such a welcome change.”
“You take the place of honor on the bed,” Carlton offered. Rachel gleefully made herself comfortable on the mattress—it felt so strange and a little naughty to be eating on someone’s bed.
Soon two women entered the bedroom-cum-dining room and started placing a multitude of steaming-hot dishes onto the Formica table. Arrayed before them was hongshao rou—thick slices of fatty pork in a sweet marinade with green peppers; jiang ya—braised duck leg covered in thick, sweetened soy sauce; jiuyang caotou—seasonal vegetables stir-fried in fragrant wine; ganshao changyu—deep-fried whole pomfret; and yandu xian—a typical Shanghainese soup of bamboo shoots, pressed tofu, salted ham, and fresh pork.
“Sweet Jesus! How are we going to finish all this by ourselves?” Rachel laughed.
“Trust me, the food here is so good you’ll be eating more than you normally would.”
“Uh, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“We can wrap up whatever we don’t finish and Nick can enjoy a late-night snack,” Carlton suggested.
“He’s gonna love that.”
After clinking their bottles of ice-cold Tsingtao beer, they dove into the dishes without any ceremony, savoring the food in silence for the first few minutes.
After his first round of sweet fatty pork, Carlton looked earnestly at Rachel and said, “I wanted to take you to dinner tonight because I owe you an apology.”
“I understand. But you already apologized.”
“No, I didn’t. Not properly, anyway. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop, and I still feel horrible about what happened in Paris. Thank you for stepping in and doing what you did. It was rather stupid of me to think I could ever race Richie in the condition I was in.”
“I’m glad you see that.”
“I’m also sorry for everything I said to you. I was just so shocked—ashamed, really—that you found out about London, but it was bloody unfair of me to lash out at you like that. I wish I could take it all back.”
Rachel was silent for a moment. “I’m actually very grateful for what you told me. It’s given me some insight into a situation that’s been puzzling me since we arrived.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Look, I think I understand the position I’ve put your father in. I truly am sorry if I’ve caused your family any trouble. Especially your mother. I see now that it must be very hard on her—this whole situation is just something none of us could ever have prepared for. I really hope she doesn’t hate me for coming to China.”
“She doesn’t hate you—she doesn’t know you. Mum’s just had a tough year with my accident and all. Finding out about you—discovering this side of my father’s past—has just compounded that stress. She’s someone who’s used to a very orderly way of life, and she’s spent so many years planning things out perfectly. Like the company. And Dad’s career. She really has been the force behind his political rise, and now she’s trying to propel my future as well. My accident was a huge setback in her eyes, and she’s so afraid that any more scratches to that fa?ade will destroy everything she’s planned for me.”
“But what has she planned for you? Does she want you to get into politics too?”
“Ultimately, yes.”
“But is that even something you want?”
Carlton sighed. “I don’t know what I want.”
“That’s okay. You have time to figure it out.”
“Do I? Because sometimes I feel like everyone my age is ahead of the game and I’m just totally fucked. I thought I knew what I wanted, but then the accident changed everything. What were you doing when you were twenty-three?”
Rachel thought about it as she drank some of the pork and bamboo soup. She closed her eyes, momentarily transported by the subtle flavors.
“Good, isn’t it? They’re famous for this soup,” Carlton said.
“It’s amazing. I think I could drink the whole pot!” Rachel exclaimed.
“Go right ahead.”
Collecting herself, Rachel continued, “When I was twenty-three, I was in Chicago going to grad school at Northwestern. And I spent half the year in Ghana.”
“You were in Africa?”
“Yep. Doing field research for my dissertation about microlending.”
“Brilliant! I’ve always dreamed of going to this place in Namibia called the Skeleton Coast.”
“You should talk to Nick—he’s been there.”