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 – likeplaying 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.
‘Cowscanappreciate 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 withtoo seerolls 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 ortoo seerolls, 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.
