I stammered, No, thanks.
He picked his way to the kitchen and emerged with two green bottles of beer, one of which he held out to me. I shook my head, and he shrugged and deposited the spare on the plastic table. He pulled the box cutter from his pocket, extended the blade, and deftly popped off the bottle cap before taking a long swig.
I don’t want to take up too much of your time, I said, speaking loudly to drown out my thrashing heartbeat.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pointed the blade in my direction. I sucked in a breath.
You and Fang Wenyi—how long have you been working together?
What was the right answer? I said, Only a short while, but we’ve known each other for twenty years.
She’s very capable, he said, but it sounded like a question.
Yes, she seems to be good at her job.
He wagged the box cutter like a finger. Yes, too good.
I could not parse where this was going.
She got me in trouble with the big boss. He doesn’t like the price she bargained me down to. Make sure she knows it’s a onetime thing.
I’ll pass on your message, I said. I don’t make decisions, I follow instructions. I’m supposed to inspect the shipment now?
He stuck the box cutter in his back pocket, took another swig of beer, and belched softly.
So where are the bags? I asked. My keys tumbled onto the floor, and I bent to retrieve them.
He narrowed his eyes. Why so antsy? You’re in a rush?
The lie gushed out of me. Yes, actually. My family is here in Guangzhou. I’m meeting them for lunch, my husband and son.
Your husband, he’s American?
I knew what he meant. Yes.
What does he do?
He’s a surgeon.
How old is your son?
Twelve, I said, and then wondered why I’d bothered. I pictured Oli and my imaginary twelve-year-old crashing through the door to rescue me.
The man closed the distance between us, and like one giant muscle my entire body tensed. When his hand went for his back pocket, a cry rose in my throat.
He pulled out his phone. My son’s ten, he said. Almost as big as yours. He thumbed the screen and offered an image of a chubby boy spinning a basketball on one finger.
I could have collapsed onto the heap of garbage bags in relief. Very handsome, I said.
Show me yours.
I told him I didn’t have any pictures, and he looked incredulous.
It’s a new phone, I lied.
All right, all right, you’re in a hurry. He checked the notecards stapled to a trio of garbage bags in one corner. Here they are.
I knelt down and opened the first bag. The new-car smell hit me in the face. I inspected the tricolored chain straps, tested the zippers on the interior pockets, took pictures of each colorway from multiple angles.
The man watched, amused. Fang Wenyi must not trust you much if she makes you take all those pictures.
She has high standards, I said.
He drained the last of his beer and started on the second bottle. He said, My son wants to study in America when he’s big.
Good, I said. Will he play basketball?
The man frowned. Of course not. That’s just for fun. He’s not tall enough to compete with Americans.
Oh, I said.
He wants to study computers.
That’s great!
Your San Francisco is the place for that.
Sure, Silicon Valley. Google. Facebook. Steve Jobs.
Abruptly he stood, as though he’d had enough of my inane chatter. All right, then, he said. Are we done here?
My phone chimed and I checked the screen. Bags look good! Don’t mind Ah Seng. He talks too much, but he’s harmless.
This man, this Ah Seng, handed me an invoice, which I skimmed before signing my name. Once I’d paid for the bags from Winnie’s account, I shook his hand, and ran for the door.
Outside on the street, I replied to Winnie’s message. Her response was instantaneous. Good work! Went ahead and deposited your first installment.
I traced my way back to the peach-colored shopping center and checked the time. Fifteen minutes until my driver was due. I stepped into the building to escape the smog-filled air and found myself riding the escalator up to the Hermès boutique.
The same associate who’d helped me earlier was half-heartedly running a feather duster across the shelves. You’re back, she said in a bored voice.
The amethyst Kelly was right where I’d left it. I slid my hand through its handle and turned to my reflection in the mirror on the wall. The bag dangled from my wrist like a graceful appendage; it transformed my basic cardigan and jeans into minimalist masterpieces; it made my heart race, like really good drugs.
It suits you, the girl said in her trademark deadpan.
You think so?
Our workmanship is one of a kind.
Two of a kind, really. You and Hermès.
She didn’t crack a smile.
Eight thousand yuan is too much. I’ll give you five.
The girl sprang to life. Five? No way I can do five.
I put the bag back on the shelf. I felt invincible. Forget it, I said. I have to meet my driver anyway.
Six-thousand-five, said the girl.
Six.
Done.
Every cell in my body thrummed in triumph. I paid the girl with my phone, and she swaddled my handbag as carefully as if it were a newborn and sent me on my way.
By the time I got back to my aunt and uncle’s flat it was midafternoon. The curtains had been drawn shut against the harsh sun. On the sofa my aunt and uncle sat shell-shocked, my softly snoring son curled up like a puppy at their feet. He finally exhausted himself, they whispered, and they hadn’t dared to move him.
I had to beg my aunt and uncle to let me take them out to dinner that night to thank them for all they’d done. I chose a fancy seafood restaurant in Central that all the food blogs raved about and ordered the most costly items on the menu—wild clams, abalone, flower crabs—confident I could foot the bill this time around.
When my aunt asked what kind of tea I wanted, I said, Let’s get wine.
At the end of the meal, I discovered three missed calls from Oli, and then, right before I went to bed, a long email detailing how sorry he was.
I overreacted, I behaved horrendously. I hope you can forgive me.
He signed off with our inside joke: Ava, je t’aime beaucoup.
In the early days of our courtship, Oli had loved to poke fun at my textbook French—my perfect conjugations and musty vocabulary coupled with my complete inability to grasp the nuances of colloquial speech. A pair of expressions I found particularly infuriating: je t’aime and je t’aime beaucoup. It struck me as a somewhat barbed joke (on the part of the French) that contrary to the phrases’ literal translations, “je t’aime” meant “I love you,” while “je t’aime beaucoup” meant “I quite like you in a purely platonic way.” After an impassioned debate on whether French or Chinese was the more xenophobic language (which, we agreed, ended in a draw), Oli had leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose and said, Je t’aime beaucoup. It’s been our secret password ever since.
This message, right here, I saw as clear validation of my decision to go to Guangzhou. I was proud of my resourcefulness. I’d stood up to Oli, he’d backed down, and the seesaw of our love had once again swung into balance.
Home on Thursday at 11. I wrote back. Je t’aime beaucoup.