My mother is Chinese,she told him.This is the food of her people too.
A waiter soon appeared and, on seeing River, immediately broke into a wide smile, reaching over to kiss her on the cheek. When he stepped back, he dropped his arms from her shoulders and, still smiling, began to sign at her, his hands moving in a way that had become familiar, though was still largely incomprehensible, to Cohen. River replied to him, pointing to Cohen.I’m on a date,her hands must have said, because the waiter immediately glanced over at him, looking Cohen up and down with an open suspicion that instantly made him feel apprehensive. Apprehensive but also irrationally guilty; just how he always felt when at passport control, when walking through security barriers or during phone calls with his mother.
But he refused to be cowed, standing taller even while his ears flushed, trying to look like the truth he already knew in his heart: that he belonged next to this woman and was worthy of a place by her side.
The waiter, suitably chastised by Cohen’s refusal to be intimidated, backed away. Instead, he turned his attention back to River, gesturing for her to follow him up yet another flight of stairs, just as dingy, just as badly lit, but also filled with the promising aroma of garlic, onion and seared meat. Still, Cohen lagged, his steps heavy and uncertain, everything feeling out-of-place and yet all too familiar at once.
Just like home,he thought to himself bitterly.
But River must have felt his hesitation, because on the landing she turned, her hazel eyes wide, a hand reaching out to brush his brow in concern. Cohen caught her hand in his, turning it over to kiss the palm, before holding it to his cheek.
He sighed, closing his eyes momentarily and surrendering to the comfort River’s presence brought to him. Her hand was warm and soft and felt like heaven against him, and for a minute they stood, locked in a private moment of companionship, the smell of rice and garlic hanging heavy in the air. It was but a brief exchange of skin, but still Cohen’s heart beat just as quickly as it had during their kiss earlier.
This woman will be the death of me,he thought suddenly, a wry smile crossing his face.And quite frankly, he could think of no better way to die. In fact, forget ‘adversity is the parent of virtue’ and ‘a new voyage will lead to untold memories’ and all the other random, clichéd and misleading aphorisms found within fortune cookies. When he cracked open his cookie later tonight, all he wanted was for his fortune to read: ‘River will be your death’.
He’d have it dipped in gold, framed and hung in pride of place on his walls.
The top floor of the restaurant was full, and it didn’t take long for Cohen to realise that he and River were the only non-Chinese people there. The waiter seated them in the corner before pushing his notepad towards River, who scribbled upon it a slew of Chinese characters.
Cohen sat back, amazed, watching her with open-mouthed shock. Of course, he knew that Rushi was Chinese, but it had never occurred to him that she might have taught her deaf adopted daughter not only how to read and write English, but also how to read and write her own mother-tongue as well. But clearly she had, because River’s marks on the paper were quick and confident and easily understood by their waiter, who smiled and nodded as he read her words. He scribbled something back, handing the paper to River who laughed before taking up the pen again.
Cohen stared, suddenly not only amazed but also now incredibly turned on. River, he realised, was not only sexy, witty and caring, but also so damnably clever that it put half the management at Roberts-Canning LLC to shame. Cohen breathed hard, watching River’s hands grip her pen. Her fingers were long, lean and taut as she made easy strokes on the notepad, her tongue captured between her teeth while she thought between words. Cohen could hardly move, remembering the feel of her tongue in his mouth as she kissed him, hot and firm and probing. Abruptly, he straightened, realising he needed to pull the emergency brake on this particular train of thought before he lost all control in the darkened corner of The Shanghai Dragon.
The waiter left and River wrote something on her own notepad. She pushed a piece of paper over to Cohen to read.
So, this is my favourite Chinese restaurant in London,she told him.It’s on three levels; the bottom two floors are used for the tourists and the English. But this floor is what we call ‘off-menu’ and used for the locals. It’s authentic Chinese food, like you might get in China, but it’s also regional Chinese, because this chef is from Zhejiang in Eastern China. I’ve ordered one of the set menus, which I hope you’ll like. It’s vegetarian though, because I know you’re kosher.
Cohen paused. He reached for the pen, uncertain of how to reply. But this was River, and he couldn’t be anything other than completely honest with her.
I’m not kosher,he wrote down.My mother is the Jewish one.
River’s response was quick.But I thought Judaism was matrilineal?
It is. But I choose not to be.Suddenly he frowned, an idea springing to mind.Do you have a faith?
River grinned as she wrote.I follow the gods of good ice cream, good fortune and smiling children.
Cohen returned her smile.And how is that working out for you?
Well, I survived meningitis, I make amazing ice cream and I met you so pretty well so far, I’d say.
At that, Cohen’s grin got wider. In fact, it felt so permanent, he wasn’t certain he’d ever need to frown again. He sat, smiling like a Cheshire cat, until the waiter sauntered over to them, clutching a bottle of wine he unscrewed before pouring liberally into both of their glasses.
At which point, Cohen’s face fell so sharply he was certain his jaw hit the floor.
Because the wine … the wine was truly awful.
Horribly, terribly and offensively awful.
It was harsh against his tongue, while also – inexplicably and confusingly – being overwhelmingly sweet. It was so vile that if this had been the States, he’d have had the bottle sent back to the kitchen, the maker reported to the FDA and every vat ever made completely destroyed. But River smiled at him as she sipped her drink, and Cohen, unwilling to hurt her feelings – because she chose this God awful bottle after all – smiled back, drinking slowly, refusing to complain and ruin what had, so far, been the best night of his life. But God almighty, what was in this stuff? After just one glass he felt slightly fuzzy-headed, the soft lines of River’s body blurring gently before him. His cheeks felt warm and he reached out for her, stroking the soft skin of her shoulder until goosebumps prickled along both her skin and his.
Rice wine,River scribbled on her notepad, before showing him the words with her hands.Ricewas two movements just before the mouth, River’s fingers curved into a claw – though it was the sexiest claw Cohen had ever seen, and please God, could she sink hers into him a little further? Before he could beg her though, she showed him the sign for wine.Winewas different, a movement to the right of the mouth, a swirl of the fingers, which after the brutal movement forriceseemed soft and almost delicate. It was an entrancing sight, making Cohen’s blood run hot in a way entirely inappropriate way for the dining room of The Shanghai Dragon, right here in front of a cheap print of the Forbidden City and a sketch of the Great Wall of China.
He realised he’d never be able to think of China innocently again.
Cohen swallowed hard, restraining himself from pouncing on River’s fingers, keeping his lust in check by copying the movement for rice wine until River nodded with satisfaction.Rice wine,Cohen signed, again and again, until the waiter, passing a near table, saw him and smiled, giving him a thumbs up.
‘Very good, sir.’ He nodded,and with a sinking feeling, Cohen realised he’d just ordered another bottle of this sickly monstrosity. He’d have to drink it too, or risk looking like an idiot in front of River.
