The next day, I wake up disoriented as a rosy glow lights my room. It’s coming from the round lamp on the nightstand. Blinking, I think about sitting up, but the soft nest of blankets and pillows is just too cozy. Since when was my hotel bed this comfortable?
That’s when I remember setting the wake-up time on my natural-light lamp . . . and why I have such a thing as a natural-light lamp in the first place.
I bolt upright on the bed. Gold silk curtains. Matching silk chairs. A dressing table with a mirror framed in lacquered rosewood. A walk-in, lighted closet—that’s where my small collection of clothes hangs on velvet hangers and flutters sadly in the cavernous depths.
So, this fairy-tale suite wasn’t a dream after all. I don’t even know how to reach Alyssa to thank her for this fantastic upgrade. I feel a little bad that I got so angry at her when we first met. But my chagrin doesn’t stop me from ordering a big breakfast from room service as I plan out my day of sightseeing on one of the plush couches in the sitting room.
Even though it isn’t on my food wish list, I order shi fan (soupy rice) in a fit of nostalgia. Dad makes shi fan, but plain, without the dizzying array of sides that are delivered to my hotel room. Diced pickled black turnips. Spicy cucumbers. Marinated tea eggs. Not at all like the shi fan Dad makes. He’s the only one in the family who eats shi fan plain. He calls it his comfort food, but my mom teasingly calls it “peasant food.” Whenever Mom says things like that, Dad smiles and fondly calls her “Gong zhu.” Princess.
Suddenly, the food in my mouth loses its flavor. My mother must have grown up in the kind of luxury that surrounds me now. What Alyssa has given me is a small part of what my mother lost. Guilt stabs me. How can I order room service and soak in a jetted tub when all these expensive gifts come from a family that has rejected my mother? My stomach turns as I push away the shi fan.
Then Mom’s dry voice comes into my head. “That’s perfectly good food. Don’t waste it!”
She’s right. Mom is, if nothing else, practical. Although I don’t enjoy it as much as I did a few minutes ago, I finish my breakfast.
Then I sit for a moment, looking at the empty plates and bowls. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I tell myself sternly. So what if my life’s a little complicated at the moment? I’m about to be all touristy and go sightseeing in a city teeming with culture and history.
Feeling a bit better, I find my steno pad and flip past the food wish list. Time to start a list of places I want to see in China. The Great Wall, of course. And equally important—Tiananmen Square.
A couple of months ago, my mother’s museum had an exhibit to commemorate the thirtieth anniversary of the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre—and the images still haunt me. A long line of tanks rolling into the square. Student protesters throwing stones at those tanks. Blood streaming from the faces of protesters as they’re carried out by their frightened comrades. Dead bodies among the smoke and rubble.
I couldn’t help but ask my parents if they had been there. June 4, 1989. They would have been around my age at the time. The age of the student protesters. Except that the thought of my middle-class, stodgy parents as youthful revolutionaries fighting against government control and censorship is laughable. There’s no way they were at the Tiananmen Square protests.
My mom confirmed this when she replied, “It wasn’t allowed.” That would be enough for my pragmatic mom to stay away from Tiananmen Square.
My dad also responded as expected—with his political science professor hat on. He actually tried to give me a lecture about the political function of Tiananmen Square . . . beginning in the Qing dynasty of the seventeenth century.
Luckily, Mom shut him down before he could really get going. She usually lets him ramble, but this time was different. “That’s enough, Delun,” she said sharply, and he stopped at once. I guess she could see that I wanted to take in the images in the exhibit without Dad’s professorial commentary.
But as much as I want to see Tiananmen Square in real time, I don’t feel that it should be my first stop. It would set a grim tone for a day that’s supposed to be fun and make me forget my worries. Luckily, Tiananmen Square is within walking distance of a place that would be a much better start to my day.
The Forbidden City.
It’s called that because the walled, sprawling complex was the exclusive residence of royalty. A plebeian like myself (and the millions of tourists who visit it) would have been forbidden to enter in imperial times unless we were servants. Or performers. I smile and fantasize about being summoned to the Forbidden City for a performance.
Firmly, I jot down, “Forbidden City” in my steno pad. It’s decided, then. First the Forbidden City. And then Tiananmen Square.
One of the perks of my job is the use of the studio car, so I get dropped off at Zhongshan Park. The southern gate is the only entrance to the Forbidden City, but there are several ways to get there. My driver suggests that I walk along the moat in the park to avoid the crowds approaching the southern gate through Tiananmen Square.
I’m happy to take his advice. Especially when the scent of roses and peonies hits my body with a jolt of pure sweetness, which is better than a sugar rush. The fragrance unfurls the tense muscles down my spine as I walk along the tree-lined, still waters of the moat. I guess I’ve been pretty tightly wound, between the pressures of the movie, lying to my parents, meeting Alyssa, and missing Ken. Speaking of which . . .
I check the time and run the time difference in my head—it’s now seven on Friday night in LA. Maybe I’ll get lucky and actually reach Ken this time. I try calling him, but he doesn’t pick up. As I leave yet another voicemail, doubt zings through me. Why isn’t he answering his phone on a Friday night? Who’s he out with? And his emails have been pretty short. Maybe he’s just not good at emails?
I have to remind myself that this kind of jealousy is exactly why being non-exclusive is a good idea. Ken has every right to see whoever he wants. And I have every right to enjoy myself too. I take a few relaxing breaths and let the beauty of the park work its magic.
Unfortunately, the green quiet of the park comes to an abrupt end when I arrive at the southern gate a little while later. I thought I was here pretty early at ten on a Saturday morning, but the crowd at the gate is already about fifty people. Uneasily, I stand in line and adjust my oversize sunglasses. Memories of the bright flashes of cameras and the excited babble of voices flood me. So much for forgetting about Alyssa Chua today. My neck tenses back up, and my stomach twists. Relax, Gemma. No one’s going to think you’re Alyssa. Not in your off-the-rack capris and thrift-store tank top.
Still, I’m glad that there are two lines—one for local Chinese who already bought their tickets online, and another for foreigners to buy tickets. There’s less of a chance that other tourists or expats would even know who Alyssa is, so relief fills me as I join the latter in line. The line moves quickly, and no one spares a glance at me. There is one touchy moment when the ticket seller seems to stare at me a little longer than necessary, but I tell myself it’s just because I ask for the ticket in my accented Chinese. In any case, she gives me the same canned instructions in English that she gave the group before me. This southern gate is the only entrance point, and the northern gate is the only exit point. One way in, and one way out.
Once inside the complex, I’m separated from the other foreigners and open to the speculative gazes of local Chinese tourists. The heat is beating down on my head, making my scalp itch, and I’m wishing I’d brought a hat for more than one reason. I scan the courtyard for a quiet, shady place, but all I see is an immense expanse of gray brick and imposing red buildings in every direction. My face heats in prickling discomfort as people press around me. Is that girl with her phone out taking a picture of me? No, of course not. She’s taking a selfie. Duh. Because she’s in the Forbidden City. And so am I. So enjoy yourself! I take a deep breath and force my pulse to slow. I’m not going to let my paranoia distract me from the fact that I’m walking toward an actual imperial palace.
Yes, there are hundreds of people walking with me, but it’s still an imperial palace. Rising into the heavens with red pillars, a yellow curved roof, and broad stone stairs. A lump of awe and excitement congeals in my throat. I’m totally ready to bathe in thousands of years of culture—like the Forbidden City is some kind of renewal pool that will spit me out the northern gate somehow more authentically Chinese. Pretty corny—I know.
In modern times, the imperial palace houses a museum. My mom will probably never forgive me for coming to Beijing against her wishes . . . but she’ll really never forgive me if I come to Beijing and neglect to go to the Palace Museum, one of the most famous museums in all of China.
I wander around the museum for about half an hour in geeked-out bliss before I strike gold. It’s in a quiet room that whispers with green silk hangings, but unlike the other rooms full of calligraphy, jade ornaments, and other antiquities of the Qing dynasty, this is part of a temporary traveling exhibit of the Tang dynasty. The informational placard is in Chinese and English, so I can read the title of the exhibit: Empress Wu Zetian.
Excitement surges through me. Ever since I saw Fan Bingbing’s Empress of China, I’ve been obsessed with Wu Zetian, and here’s a chance to find out more. There isn’t much actual art in this exhibit—just some copies of Empress Wu’s poetry, modern-day imaginative renderings of her, and photographs of a large Buddha statue at the Longmen Grottoes in Henan Province that is said to be created in her image.
Mom would have said that the lack of art from Empress Wu’s reign wasn’t surprising—a lot of classical art and cultural artifacts were pillaged or destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. I can just picture Mom with her eyes lit up and her face flushed if she were here. She’d be even more excited by an exhibit about Wu Zetian than I am—and she definitely wouldn’t dismiss this art exhibit the way she did the TV show. Too bad I’ll never get to tell her about it.
The museum lighting is dim, so I push my sunglasses to the top of my head so I can more easily read the placard. The historical Wu Zetian—while probably just as fictionalized as she is in the show—is riveting. I already knew that she was rumored to have done many nefarious things. Like killing her own infant daughter to frame a court rival and creating a secret police force to terrorize her political enemies. What I didn’t know was that Wu Zetian was also a well-educated woman credited with advancing women in the arts and the position of women in general.
No wonder Fan Bingbing was so determined to star in a series based on Empress Wu’s life. My Chinese will never be good enough to star in a Chinese production, but if an English-language version of Wu Zetian’s life gets made, I’d kill to play her. She was not only a woman of many names—Wu Hou, Wu Mei Niang, Mei-Niang, Wu Zhao—but of many roles—concubine, consort, mother, friend, lover . . . empress. So, I wouldn’t play her as a scheming sadist or passive victim. I’d play her as a frustrated, intelligent woman who was both cruel and compassionate, as a woman must be to achieve the breathtaking transformations that Wu Zetian had in a world of men. I’d play Wu Zetian with the complexity and fullness she deserves.
The next item in the exhibit yields yet another piece of new information about Wu Zetian. It’s a family tree, showing Wu Zetian’s lineage and immediate descendants. She had four sons along with the daughter who was murdered as an infant—Princess Si of Anding. And one daughter who survived into adulthood—Princess Taiping. The Empress of China miniseries didn’t include Princess Taiping in its narrative, so my curiosity is roused as I read the informational placard about her.
Princess Taiping was said to resemble her mother both in appearance and intellect. By all accounts, she had a close relationship with Wu Zetian, who taught her the art of statecraft. After Empress Wu’s death, Princess Taiping tried to rule in her mother’s place but was defeated by her male relatives.
Thoroughly fascinated now, I search the exhibit for an image of Princess Taiping. It would be too much to expect that a portrait of the princess had survived from the Tang dynasty, but I hope to find something—even if it’s just a modern imagining of what the princess looked like. After making the rounds twice, I’m forced to conclude that there’s nothing of Princess Taiping in the exhibit. And of course there wouldn’t be anything of Princess Si of Anding, who didn’t survive long enough to have her portrait painted.
Then the whispers of the people nearby start to register.
Uh-oh. Not again. Too late, I realize that I’d lost my disguise when I absentmindedly shoved the sunglasses to the top of my head.
A young couple is staring at me, and another group of teens is whispering excitedly to each other. They’re staring at me too.
My forehead beads with sweat, and I slip the sunglasses back over my face. Instantly, I realize the mistake I’ve made. The whispers grow louder, and the teens start moving toward me. Dumb move, Gemma. Putting on sunglasses in the dark interior of the exhibit room has only made me more conspicuous.
My hands now clammy with nerves, I turn and try to saunter casually out of the exhibit room. The bright sun of the courtyard makes me blink, even with my eyes protected by sunglasses, and I feel way too exposed out here with no dark corners to hide. Now that I’m trailed by a gaggle of teens, glances are turning toward me. And they’re not looking away. It’s so sunny that there are no flashes this time, but everywhere I turn, I’m greeted by an upheld phone. The clicking of cameras crawls along my skin, and my breath quickens. One way in, and one way out, the ticket seller said.
The northern gate. That’s my exit—but which way is north? I pivot in a panic, looking for the exit, and three girls my age come running up to me. They’re all screeching something, and I know I should be able to understand what they’re saying, but they’re speaking too fast in Chinese, and I can’t make out anything but Alyssa Chua.
“I’m not Alyssa Chua,” I say desperately, but that just whips up the girls’ frenzy. I take a step backward, and the girls press closer. They’re not the only ones. Other people are jostling each other to get closer to me. It’s the Beijing airport all over again. My lungs constrict as if all these people are sucking the air out of me. Even if I do get to the northern gate ahead of this stampede, there will probably be a long exit line. People in the courtyard are coming toward me to find out what all the excitement is about. Someone screams in my ear, making me wince.
“I’m not Alyssa Chua!” This time I shout it, but the swarm of people doesn’t magically part for me. I try saying it in Chinese, hoping my American accent will convince them, but even that doesn’t work. My heart pounding crazy fast, I try to edge my way through the crowd yelling “my” name, but the solid wall of shrieking fans won’t budge. Great. I’m about to be trampled by groupies in the Forbidden City. And the worst thing? They’re not even my groupies.
So far, no one tries to touch me on purpose, though I’m jostled plenty as people try to take selfies with me.
All that changes when a hand clamps down on my shoulder, sending a jolt of adrenaline racing through my body. My heart jumps about a mile as I instinctively twist away and chop down at the offending hand.
A young Chinese guy in a suit snatches his hand away and utters a swear word—at least I’m pretty sure it’s a swear word since I don’t know any profanity in Chinese. But it’s a safe bet, given that he’s rubbing his hand with an outraged scowl on his face. He switches to a light-Chinese-accented English. “What the hell, Alyssa!”
A rapid succession of thoughts run through my head. He must know Alyssa. His English is good, but why isn’t he speaking in Chinese? He’s cute—clean-cut in a suit isn’t usually my type, but damn if he doesn’t make it work. And why am I checking out a strange guy in the middle of a mob?!
“Sorry.” Insincerity drips through my voice. After all, he’s the one who came out of nowhere and grabbed my arm.
He sighs. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” He takes my arm more gingerly this time, but I pull back until another excited squeal from a fan makes my ears ring. Abandoning all dignity, I duck my head and let this bristly guy hustle me through the crowd.
Authoritatively, he pushes through the crowd, which is getting louder now that they sense their prey is escaping. He calls out in Chinese for people to move out of the way, and something in his tone makes people grumble and shift the few inches needed for us to move forward.
We’re making good headway, but then I realize he’s not steering us toward the northern gate. My steps falter. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“Keep moving,” he grunts.
Who is this guy and why does he think he can boss me around? But he seems to have a plan, so I start walking again, because my only other option is to risk the mob at my back. He’s steering us to one of the outer walls of the compound, and paranoid visions of being pinned to the wall by rabid fans dances through my head. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer, just propels me forward until we get to a small side exit. There’s a guard there, and my mysterious escort slips a colorful bill to him, muttering something in Chinese that’s too low for me to catch. The guard smiles broadly and opens the door for us while blocking the determined fans still trying to get to me.
Suddenly we’re outside the Forbidden City. I gulp in deep breaths of relief . . . or I would be relieved if it weren’t for the fact that I’m alone with a stranger. A stranger who’s glaring at me as if my very existence were a personal affront to him.