Code Name Komiko (4 page)

“Of course,” Lian and her mother answered in unison.

As the taxi sped down Garden Road, her father detailed the guest list: a mixture of high-ranking Hong Kong officials, successful exporters, and wealthy foreign investors looking to diversify. Everyone who would be in that room tonight wanted a piece of Hong Kong, and he had to prove that he was the man who could get it for them at the right price and make the introductions that would lead to big windfalls for everybody.

But Lian tuned out the roll call and let her mind wander, gazing up at the HSBC Building, the Jardine House, the monolithic Bank of China Tower. Even at this hour, on a Sunday, more of the office windows were lit than not. The world of high finance and higher stakes—the world that her father had increasingly positioned himself in since their move from the mainland—took dedication, she knew. The work never stopped.

The cab turned a corner, their destination drifting into view—another in a sea of steel-and-glass towers, rimmed in color-shifting LED lights and flanked by bronze dragon statues thirteen feet high. Town cars and sporty European models amassed in front as parking valets dashed through the scene, coordinating the comings and goings of well-dressed patrons.

The opulence of it all felt oppressive. Just a few miles away, in the New Territories, there were people who had nothing—people who gazed across Victoria Harbor at the bright lights of Central District as if it were an alien city on some unreachable moon; people who could eat for a year on the food that would be scraped off plates into the trash after this dinner that Lian was about to smile through as best she could.

Again, she twisted in her seat, loud green neon splashing through the windows and shimmering against the gold accents on her dress. The lighting must have given her a sickly pallor, because her father’s eyes softened for a moment.

“Do not be nervous, Lian,” he said. “Just be yourself, and you will make me proud.”

Lian nodded, but she knew that
herself
was the last thing she could be tonight.

They got out at the curb, her father paying the fare and leaving a generous tip. As the cab pulled away and became a distant red dot in a city full of them, Lian felt a flutter of unease in her stomach.

No escape now.

The elevator operator gave a curt nod as they stepped inside. He pressed a few buttons, and the elevator rocketed to the twenty-sixth floor. With an elegant chime, the doors opened directly into the foyer of Fàn Xī, all dark wood and decorative red lanterns. Lian’s father strode to the host’s stand, past waiting couples and small groups who sipped at overpriced cocktails and adjusted their cuff links as they held out hope for an open table.

The maître d’ checked the night’s reservations, realized he was talking to the man who had rented out the banquet room for the evening, gave welcoming nods to Lian’s family, and led the three of them at an unhurried pace through the restaurant.

Lian caught the subtle signal the maître d’ flashed the bartender, and as they passed the bar, the first in a row of multicolored liquor shots burst into flame and then cascaded into the next glass, the bartender’s hands moving astonishingly quickly and finishing with a flourish, capping the final glass with half a lime to douse the fire.

The bar patrons gasped and gave polite applause, and even Lian flashed a genuine smile to the bartender as she passed. The spectacle, though, had been lost on her father, so focused on the impending dinner that he hadn’t broken his stride or turned his head.

The maître d’ led them past a decorative screen, hand-painted in delicate brushstrokes with a night garden scene, and into the Fàn Xī banquet room. Much as she didn’t want to be there, Lian was momentarily taken by the beauty and care with which the room had been arranged.

More red lanterns made a graceful arc across the ceiling, highlighting the fine gold filigree set into the trim on the walls and the backs of the chairs. Crimson tea candles on the table cast flickering spotlights on the half dozen black porcelain vases that served as centerpieces, each containing an intricate miniature tree crafted in glass, every one unique. Even the table itself seemed carved from a single perfect piece of rich dark wood, unbroken by seams.

Her father, naturally, had his place card at the table’s head: the zhōngwén characters, and below them, in copperplate pinyin, Hung Zhi-Kai. The seat to his right was marked for Lili—her mother. Lian looked to either side of these settings for her own name, but it wasn’t there.

The farther she walked from her parents’ chairs, the more resentful she grew until she eventually spotted her card—nearly all the way at the other end of the room.

Fantastic
. Marooned down here, away from the only people she knew, stuck next to some stranger named—she squinted and leaned in to read the place card—Matt Harrison.

He was already there, his back to her as he gazed out the window wall. His suit looked expensive. Mingmei would have known the designer at a glance, no doubt. Messy blond hair curled over his collar, and he was shifting uncomfortably, tugging at his shirt collar to loosen his tie. Lian softened at the sight; maybe he was just as uncomfortable here as she was. It might give them something to chat about.

She pulled out her chair, and he turned in his. His eyes were a striking green, and his tan would have made Mingmei jealous. Taking a deep breath, she put on a smile and was about to introduce herself when he spoke first.

“Excellent,” he said, his accent American. “I’ll have a Diet Coke, please. Um . . . ” He made a show of searching for the right Cantonese word. “Mh’goi.”

She drew back, jerking her arm away from his hand.

“I am
not
your waitress,” she said in English, picking up her place card and waving it at him.

The boy’s cheeks flushed as red as the lanterns. “Oh. Oh, man. I’m so sorry. I just, I saw your dress, and I guess I thought . . . wow. Sorry.” His turn now to squint at her name. “Sorry, Hung.”

She gave him a withering look and sat down next to him. True, the cheongsam was overly traditional looking; true, the waitresses she’d noticed in the restaurant were wearing dresses very much like it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel offended.

“Hung is my
family
name,” she corrected him, replacing her card. “Family first, then given name.” It was such basic knowledge, but Westerners always got it wrong.

“Sorry . . . Zee-ow Lee-an,” he said, taking a stab. Her name sounded like rotten cabbage in his mouth. She shook her head sadly.

“Lian,” she said, pronouncing it like she was tutoring a slow child. “Just call me Lian.”

“Lian,” he repeated dutifully. “Nice to meet you. I’m . . .” He paused. “I guess to you I’d be Harrison Matthew-Chase. Or just Matt.”

He held out his hand. She gave it a light, cursory shake—after all, she was supposed to be on her “best behavior”—and then quickly busied herself with unfolding her napkin.

There had been eight or nine people in the room when they’d arrived, and now other guests were being led in by the maître d’. It was a mix of well-dressed locals, a handful of Europeans, a boisterous Australian quartet, and about half a dozen Americans. Lian watched her father greet each newcomer, make introductions among the guests, and nod to their places at the table. She had no doubt that he’d carefully seated everyone to optimize dinner conversation and facilitate deal making.

Everyone but her and this Matt kid.

He looked to be about her age, and he was admittedly pretty nice to look at—as well as the wavy blond hair and jade green eyes, he looked athletic, with broad shoulders. His teeth, she couldn’t help but notice, were movie-star white. The only asymmetry was a dimple in just one cheek when he smiled. If she had seen him on a billboard or a mall marquee, she probably would have stopped to see what he was selling. Probably toothpaste.

But in person, he was losing points with her fast. He sniffed at the tea that the actual waitress—in her tight red dress with gold trim, Lian grudgingly acknowledged—brought out, then pushed it away in revulsion, splashing a few drops on the centerpiece. As the guests took their seats and the appetizers arrived, he poked at his food with a curious finger.

“What the hell is this stuff?” he whispered to Lian.

“Octopus carpaccio,” she whispered back, swiftly moving the bite to her mouth with her chopsticks. “It’s delicious.”

Matt made a face. “No, thanks.”

The salmon skin salad brought a similar response. Lian ate her delicate portion as she stole sidelong glances at the American boy as he fumbled with his chopsticks, trying to push aside the salmon and just nab a few daikon sprouts, spilling fish and onion on the table and into his lap.

Finally, he gave up, dropping the chopsticks rather noisily and flagging a waitress over.

“Look,” he said in a hushed, earnest tone. “I’m sure this stuff is great, but is there any way you guys could whip me up some . . . you know . . . a bacon cheeseburger, some nachos? Anything I can eat with my hands would be killer.”

Lian couldn’t look at him. She hid her face behind her hand, not sure whether she was about to burst out laughing or berate him for his sad, dull palate. A cheeseburger? What an idiot.

The waitress frowned and left wordlessly. Matt picked up one chopstick and began doodling lazy curlicues around the edge of his salad plate.

“I don’t think I’m getting nachos,” he said after a moment. He flashed Lian a smile that was probably supposed to be charming.

“Yeah,” she said. “Good guess. The next course is crispy pig throat, so I imagine you’ll be sitting that one out, too.”

“Are you kidding me?” he choked.

“It comes with rice. Can you eat rice?”

“That depends,” he said. “Can I have a fork?”

This time she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “There is literally nothing easier than chopsticks.
Infants
use them.” She held hers up and demonstrated their operation. “This one stays still. This one does all the moving. Two pieces working in harmony, see?”

“Only one piece to a fork,” Matt muttered.

“It is an
honor
,” she said sarcastically, “to meet the first person who ever died of starvation while sitting at a banquet table. Congratulations, Matt Harrison.”

“Hey, look, Chinese food just isn’t for me, okay?”

Lian did her best not to sneer, but she wasn’t sure she succeeded. “Yes, well. . . . Here, we just call it ‘food.’”

“So this is really what you guys eat? Like, on a regular basis? It’s like you found the weirdest possible things to put in your mouth, and the least convenient utensils to get them there.”

She was incredulous. “Do you realize that, in one sentence, you just dumped on thousands of years of culture?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t mean—”

“And that, rather than trying to assimilate, you have arrogantly suggested that we should be bending over backward to suit you? How typically Western.”

“Hey, now, hang on a second, Lian. I’m not trying to start an international incident. But you’re used to this type of food. I mean, you’ve lived on this island all your life, I bet.”

She deftly maneuvered her last bit of salmon to her mouth and shook her head. “Not exactly. We lived on the mainland for most of my life. Our move here was relatively recent.”

“Oh,” he said with some concern. “So . . . I guess . . . you guys used to be poor?”

Lian almost spat out the tea she was sipping. “Did you seriously just say that?”

Matt backpedaled. “No, I just . . . I mean, I did a little reading on the Internet before we moved here, just so I’d know what to expect. I was under the impression that the mainland was . . . you know . . .”

Lian spun a chopstick in her fingers, fighting the urge to jab it into his thigh. “You’re from America, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, smoothing his napkin over his lap. “Colorado.”

“So, how was it, riding a horse to school?”

“What?”

“And I assume that you owned several automatic weapons, to protect your stashes of drugs and pornography and burritos. Right?”

He shook his head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Because that’s what
I
read on the Internet,” she said. “And it must be true. Everything I’ve ever heard about how Americans are lazy, violent, and morbidly obese must be true. Right?”

“Um,” he said, still fidgeting with his napkin. “Well, I do like burritos.”

The waitress came to collect their salad plates, and Lian took the opportunity to break from her conversation with Matt and speak to someone she didn’t want to assault with a pair of chopsticks. The older gentleman to her left was engaged in an intense discussion of excise taxes; no joy there. Across the table, two of the Australian businessmen were leaning across one another to make their excited points to a local finance mogul. There wasn’t much for Lian to contribute on that topic, either.

She cast a glance down the length of the table to her parents, who were chatting with a handsome man, whose gesticulations were as broad as his American accent. In a brief lull while the Australians whispered among themselves, Lian heard her father’s voice, speaking flawless and deferential English.

“No need to apologize, I assure you.”

The American man looked relieved. “Xie xie,” he said, butchering his thanks. “I know just enough Chinese to order dim sum or find a restroom, but I’m sure I’m mangling every syllable.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Harrison. We can speak in English . . . at least until you need a restroom.”

The two men laughed at this, and then they dropped their voices to talk business.

“That’s your father, down there?” Lian asked Matt.

He nodded. “Rand Harrison. The man, the myth, the legend.” His tone suggested that at least two of those might be overstatements.

“He made his millions in burrito sales, I take it?”

This got a smile from Matt. “Clothing manufacture, actually. He owns a whole series of factories. I think he’s up to nine now. Used to be headquartered out of Colorado Springs, but then he discovered Hong Kong outsourcing, and he never looked back.” He tried a sip of his tea and grimaced. “Because, you know, you can pay people so much less here, obviously.”