I pedal toward the housing compound exit on my daily commute to the embassy.
The security guard’s cheer rings out, “Jia you! Jia you, Tao Xiansheng!” Wang Hao Ran’s daily encouragement never fails to earn a smile. I roll my 12-speed to a stop.
“Wang. Zenme yang?”
“Hao de. Ni ne?”
“Hen hao. Xie xie.” After exchanging traditional greetings, Wang and I move on to asking about each other’s families and the score of last night’s Lakers game, each of us trying to come up with a different question than we used yesterday. This daily ritual is often the best five minutes of my hectic workday in Beijing—a welcome social interaction before a schedule filled with formal meetings, diplomatic exchanges, and hours of penning classified reports. At first, I built my Wang talks into my schedule to improve my Mandarin skills, and because stopping to talk is part of who I am. Now I stop and talk because Wang’s my friend. His infectious optimism reminds me of my oldest daughter and her high school friends as they approach graduation —nothing is impossible.
In halting Chinese, I invite Wang to join me at a college basketball exhibition game in downtown Beijing the following week. His eyes widen. He repeats my question back to me as if he needs to clarify that I meant what I asked. I lift my hands from my bike and make a basketball shooting motion. “Swish!” I say, pointing first at Wang, then back to myself.
“Tai bang le! Hao de, hao de.” Wang’s hands tremble as he agrees. I haven’t even told him what day or time yet.
That evening of beer, basketball, and bonding cements a friendship that lasts the rest of my tour in Beijing. Whenever our family plans a hike on the outskirts of Beijing, we check in with Wang to see if he can get the time off. Since Wang’s family lives an hour south of China’s capital city, almost all the sites we visit with Wang are as novel to him as they are to us.
When we invite Wang to join us in exploring the Great Wall, he asks if he can bring his younger cousin, who has never seen the historic Chinese landmark. We agree, and by the end of the day, Wang’s new nickname is Da Wang (Big Wang), and his cousin’s is Xiao Wang (Little Wang). We’ve become close enough that we both laugh when Wang points out that ten-year-old Xiao Wang weighs about ten kilos more than Wang does. I ignore Wang’s suggestion that we change Xiao Wang’s nickname to Pang Wang (Fat Wang).
My wife, Linda, talks to Wang about his future. He hopes to attend college someday and study math so that he can become a teacher. When Wang asks what I will do after my tour in China is up, I tell him about my dream of retiring with the family to the mountains—buying a place with a view. We’re at different stages of our lives. I’m not surprised we share different dreams.
Wang knows of a fish place close to our house and invites us to dinner. I have a pretty good handle on how much he makes guarding our compound—less than a grand a month. I don’t want to embarrass him at the restaurant, so I spend two more days convincing him we’ll join him only if he respects our American custom (manufactured for this situation) requiring the person who lives closest to the restaurant to pay. Finally, he agrees. He warns us he has a big surprise.
Linda and I speculate about what Wang might have to share and agree it’s likely a new job. But when we arrive at the restaurant, all six children in tow, we find we’ve guessed wrong. The surprise is a fish, gasping for air on a platform that rises from the center of the table like an elevator, lips puckering in a rhythmic, terminal kiss. My kids freeze.
“This restaurant is famous for its fresh fish.” Wang beams, oblivious to our Western discomfort. As the fish struggles on the plate, I realize that for Wang, “fresh” means something different than it does for our family.
“Nice surprise,” I say.
“No, no,” Wang says. “This is not my surprise.” He pauses long enough that we feel as if he wants us to guess.
“Did you get a new job?” Linda says.
“No. I wish I had a new job. But I would miss you.”
He waits a beat and says, “My brother is getting married!”
We translate for the kids and begin congratulating Wang. He laughs and says, “But that’s not the surprise either. The surprise is that my brother and my parents want to invite you to the wedding next month!”
“Oh, wow!” I blink, looking from Wang to Linda, then back to Wang. “The whole family?”
Wang waves his hand around the table. “Everyone is invited!”
###
On the day of the wedding, the Torrens family of eight piles into our Toyota Sienna minivan—also known as The Golden Nugget—each of us wearing our own version of fancy. Wang’s village is just over an hour south of Beijing, and I call him when we’re ten minutes out.
Wang’s change in plans stretches the limits of my Mandarin. His instructions—which I roughly translate as, “Don’t go to my house; I’ll find you and put you in reverse”—finally click when he mentions a nearby school. He’s simply trying to navigate me to his home from the south.
Entering the village, the economic gap between the capital and the countryside turns stark. This is no affluent suburb, but a grid of flaking tan stucco and dirt roads where three-wheeled tuk-tuks far outnumber cars. Every wall displays stenciled cell phone numbers offering a home for sale or rent.
My youngest sons, Matthew and Joshua, press their faces to the glass and wave as we spot Wang on the corner. When I pull over, he gestures toward a waiting convoy of vehicles, ready at last to “put me in reverse.”
“This is the line of vehicles that drive to the wedding.” He points to the out-of-place silver Mercedes in the lead, decorated with red flags, a hood wreath, and paper roses. “This is the car my brother will be in. First, we drive to the bride’s house and pick her up. Then we drive to the ceremony hall.”
“You have us on the wrong end, Wang,” I say. “Do you want me to reverse around the corner so your brother’s car can get by?”
Wang looks at me as if I have an appendage growing from my forehead. “Tao Xiansheng, you must back your car toward my brother’s. You are the lead vehicle for the wedding party. I will ride with you to show you the way to the bride’s house.”
Linda knows enough Mandarin to understand what’s happening. “They want a five-year-old minivan in front?” she asks under her breath.
I check my rearview mirror. Three people huddle near the back of the van, the tallest pointing at the bumper. Wang waves them away and tells them I’m backing up.
“It’s the license plate,” I whisper to Linda. “The diplomatic plates. So much for being invited just as friends.”
“You’re still friends,” Linda says. “It’s a big deal for Wang.”
“The Golden Nugget is Wang’s Golden Ticket,” my oldest daughter, Natasha, says.
“Hey, guys,” I call to the kids. “Behave yourself today. We’re leading the wedding party.”
“I gotta pee,” my fourteen-year-old son, Jake, calls from the rear seat. “Like a racehorse.”
I back my vehicle into the lead spot. Our family spills out of the van for introductions. Wang herds Jake inside to use the bathroom, while Wang’s brother introduces us to his mother and father. Mrs. Wang gives a slight bow of her head and latches onto my arm as Wang’s brother moves us on to the cousins and friends.
Jake returns after using the facilities, his warning to his sisters loud enough for me to hear, “Squattie pottie! I’d just try to hold it if I were you.” I turn to give the dad-glare but no one is paying attention to Jake. Instead, the wedding crowd has our three adopted Chinese children surrounded, peppering them with questions about where they were born and why they are with an American family. Our oldest tries her best to keep our kids smiling since none of them understands the questions.
Little Wang from our Great Wall trip runs up to us shouting a stream of unintelligible Mandarin before dragging our son Max away to help with the fireworks. We mingle with the wedding party for twenty minutes, trying to deflect some of the attention back to the groom. Wang gives the signal to the wedding party to load up and guides us to the Golden Nugget. Natasha puts Joshua on her lap, and Linda gives up the front passenger seat so Wang can guide us to the bride’s home.
As soon as our van pulls to a stop, Wang is out of the car, herding the spectators into a gauntlet at the front door. Wang’s brother grabs a bouquet from his father and disappears inside. Minutes later, the crowd cheers as the groom steps into the street, bride in his arms, bouquet in her hand. While he positions her in the back seat of the Mercedes, Wang nods toward our van, and we resume our convoy lead duties.
The ceremony is the quickest event of the day. The bride and groom stand before a black-suited official who reads a minute-long speech I can barely understand—a soliloquy laced with legal terms and names, and wishes for prosperity and fortune. After he tells the groom he may kiss the bride, the crowd claps and calls out congratulations.
The couple follows the official to another room. The audience about-faces toward the exit. I turn to Wang, and he guides us behind the departing crowd. “We go outside to cheer and throw paper,” he says, handing us small canisters wrapped with pictures of confetti.
I cup my hand to Wang’s ear. “In America, we throw rice when the married couple comes out.”
“Rice?” Wang looks me straight in the eyes—long enough to show his respect by listening to me, but short enough for me to realize he’s too busy for me to distract him with a lesson on American customs—before he turns back to organize the crowd outside.
Little Wang hands two cans of silly string to my two oldest children before grabbing Max again for a mid-street fireworks display. When the wedding couple exits, we shower them with confetti and celebratory calls of “Gongxi! Gongxi!”
We lead the convoy to the post-wedding feast at a local community center. Wang’s parents and Linda and I sit together at an eight-person circular table, and we encourage our children to join Little Wang and a friend at another table.
“Congratulations,” I say to Mr. and Mrs. Wang. “It was a beautiful ceremony. You must be very proud of your son.”
“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Wang says. “You bring great honor to our son’s wedding.”
“We appreciate the honor of your invitation.”
Mrs. Wang turns to me and points across the table to my friend, Wang. “And we are very proud of this son too.”
“He’s a hard worker,” I say. “And a good friend.”
“Thank you for what you are doing for him. We will never forget it.”
I laugh, partly because I’m not used to being thanked for being friends with someone else, and partly in relief that my limited Mandarin can keep up so far in the conversation. “Our friendship? You don’t have to thank me, Mrs. Wang. I like Wang Hao Ran very much.”
Mrs. Wang laughs too. “No, no. I thank you for the job you will find for him. For him going to America.”
I maintain a smile, but inside I’m reviewing my Chinese vocabulary to make sure I heard Mrs. Wang correctly. Job? America? I glance at Linda, but she’s practicing her own Mandarin with Mr. Wang. Across the table, Wang meets my eyes with a wide grin, nodding. He’s heard everything his mother said.
“Your son is very talented,” I say. “I’m sure he will get an excellent job. And if he ever does have the opportunity to travel to America, he will certainly be welcome as a guest in our home.”
Mrs. Wang nods and gives me a look like she knows that I’m saying one thing but meaning another. In the United States, the look would have been followed by a wink.
“What did your mother mean, Wang?” I say, after dinner is complete and we’re watching the wedding photo choreography. “That part about me getting you a job. And going to America? I never said those things to you.”
Wang laughs and lays his hand on my forearm. “Tao Xiansheng, it was so funny to see your face. I could see that you thought my mother was talking about these things as if they would happen right away. That is not what she meant. She was talking about the future.”
“But we haven’t—”
Wang interrupts. “When you said that we were friends, I knew that we didn’t have to discuss these things. You aren’t in a position here in my country to help me. But when you return to America? Then we should talk about these things.”
I’m unwilling to rock the boat on such an important milestone for my friend and his family, but this revelation about his view of our friendship bothers me for the remainder of the day.
On the drive home, while Ice Age holds the kids rapt on the Golden Nugget’s video cassette player, I tell Linda about my conversation with Mrs. Wang and the following one with Wang himself.
“I never promised him those things.”
“Cam, come on. They talked about this in the cultural classes before we moved here. Or at least they did in the spouse classes.”
“About what to do when asked for favors?”
“No. About how friendship in Eastern cultures is often viewed as transactional. Like if you have a relationship with the town doctor, then you don’t have to make an appointment. Or maybe you don’t pay as much. They had a word for that—these relationships.”
“Guanxi,” I say. “Using relationships as a kind of power.”
“Why do you think they put us in the front of the wedding party? Sat us with the parents?” Linda says. She pats the Golden Nugget’s dash. “It wasn’t our fancy wheels. Probably not your sparkling personality, either.”
“It makes sense when you say it out loud. Before today, I really thought Wang and I were just hanging out. Not like bros, but you know, maybe old guy-young guy? Father-son?” I glance in my rearview mirror to see if any of the kids are paying attention to us. Their glazed eyes focus only on the screen.
“You know,” Linda says. “Both things can be true. You can still be friends. He can be friends with you and assume it’s like any Chinese friendship. You can be friends with him and assume it’s like an American friendship.”
“A job? America?”
“Think about it. You will be just another retired guy when we get back to the States. If Wang sends you a resume, then send it out. If Wang travels back to the US, then of course we’ll let him stay with us. I’m not saying he can move in, but it’s not like you’re risking much by letting him assume we would help him. Of course, we would.”
Not for the first time, my wife reasons me off the edge of a self-constructed cliff. By the time we arrive at the Beijing compound, I’m fine with us staying friends.
Several months later, Wang leaves his job guarding our compound and returns to his village to pursue a better-paying opportunity with his brother. We stay in touch through text messages. My family and I move back to Virginia when my embassy tour concludes, and Wang and I trade emails once a month until the Chinese Army enlists him. He sends me an email every week during basic training, telling me how he hates the Army and can’t wait until his two-year tour is up. I can relate to the “hating basic training” concept. At the end of his training, the emails stop. I try texting his Chinese cell number, but I never get a reply.
When I reflect on our brief friendship, I often do it with an adult beverage on the back porch of my house in the mountains. I picture Wang as a college graduate, teaching math in a Chinese village similar to the one where he grew up.
But I haven’t heard from Wang in ten years.
