A Loyal Character Dancer

motionless.
     
    Lu waved her away. “Come back later, Anna. I haven’t talked to my buddy for a long time.”
     
    “How is business?” Chen asked.
     
    “Not bad at all,” Lu beamed. “We’ve got a reputation for genuine Russian cuisine, and genuine Russian girls.”
     
    “Well known for both!”
     
    “Exactly. That’s why people come pouring in.”
     
    “So you’re really a successful Overseas Chinese now,” Chen said. “I appreciate what you have done for my mother.”
     
    “Come on. She is like my mother, too. She’s a bit lonely by herself, you know.”
     
    “Yes, I want her to move in with me, but she says she’s used to that old attic.”
     
    “She wants you to have the One-bedroom apartment for yourself.”
     
    Chen knew what Lu was driving at. There was no point in bringing it up in the presence of Inspector Rohn. So he said, “I consider myself lucky to have a one-bedroom apartment just for myself.”
     
    “You know what Ruru says? ‘Chief Inspector Chen belongs to an endangered species.’ Why? A shining key to a three-bedroom apartment would have been long since delivered by one of those upstarts to someone in your position,” Lu said with a low chuckle. “No offense, buddy. She cooks a good soup but does not understand how upright a cop you are. Oh, Gu Haiguang, of the Dynasty Club, came here yesterday, and he mentioned you.”
     
    “Really! Do you think he dropped in by chance?”
     
    “I don’t know. He has been here before, but yesterday he asked questions about you. I told him you helped me get started. It was like sending a poor friend charcoal in the depth of the winter.”
     
    “You don’t have to tell people that, Lu.”
     
    “Why not? Ruru and I are proud to have a friend like you. Come here every week. Let Little Zhou drive you. It’s only fifteen minutes. Your bureau canteen is an insult. Are you on an expense account today?”
     
    “No, I’m not on bureau business today. Catherine is a friend of mine. So I want her to have dinner at the best Russian restaurant in Shanghai.”
     
    “Thank you,” Lu said. “It’s a pity Ruru’s not here, or she would entertain you like at home. It is our treat today.”
     
    “No, I have to pay. You don’t want me to lose face in front of my American friend, do you?”
     
    “Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll have your face. And our best food.”
     
    Anna brought them a bilingual menu. Chen ordered a broiled veal chop. Catherine chose smoked trout with borscht. Standing between them, Lu kept suggesting the house specials like someone in a TV commercial.
     
    When they were finally left alone, Catherine asked Chen, “Is he an overseas Chinese?”
     
    “No, it’s his nickname.”
     
    “Does an overseas Chinese talk like he does?”
     
    “I don’t know. In some of our movies, overseas Chinese are shown as very excited to be coming back home, exaggerating a lot. Lu talks like that on the topic of food, but he got his nickname in a different way. During the Cultural Revolution, “Overseas Chinese” was a negative term, used to depict people as politically unreliable in connection with the Western world, or in association with an extravagant bourgeois life style. In high school, Lu took obstinate pride in cultivating his “decadent” tastes—brewing coffee, baking apple pie, tossing fruit salad, and of course, wearing a Western-style suit to dinner. So he got the nickname.”
     
    “Have you acquired all your epicurean knowledge from him?” she asked.
     
    “You could say that. Nowadays, ‘Overseas Chinese’ is a positive term, carrying the connotation of someone rich, successful in business, connected with the Western world. Lu has turned into a successful entrepreneur with his own restaurant. So now the name fits the reality.”
     
    She took a small sip of water, the ice cubes clinking pleasantly in the glass. “He asked you who was going to pay. Why?”
     
    “If I’m here on bureau business, on an expense account, he will charge me two or three times more. A common practice. Not just for our bureau, but for all state-run companies. The ‘socialist expense.’ “
     
    “But how come—I mean two or three times more?”
     
    “In China, most people work for state-run companies. The system calls for a sort of averaging. Theoretically, a general manager and a janitor should earn about the same salary. So the former uses company money for his own benefit—for dining and entertaining: