The Purchase
The hotel wasn’t bad as far as Chinese hotels go, but it was in the city of Jiaozuo in Henan province, far enough west of the modern, eastern coast of China that everything was just a little backward, slightly thread worn, and old. But it was way nicer than my “Presidential Suite” in Shaanxi province even farther west. The room there had been given the impressive title due to its unique indoor plumbing; unfortunately, the outdoor facilities were right outside my window.
I had been working in Shaanxi, pronounced Shănxī, but not to be confused with the neighboring province of Shănxī, on and off for months. I was trying to close a deal to provide engineering services to a gigantic power plant complex being built in the stunningly beautiful mountains of the region. The trip to Jiaozuo had been grueling, as most are in that part of China. It began with a long overland leg, first in a big new Mercedes then on a train with wood sash windows and a view of the tracks though cracks in the floor — a far cry from the high-speed mag-lev in Shanghai. The last leg was a flight in an old Tupolev 134, a Russian rip-off of the Boeing 707. It had a seating layout that was impossibly small for a westerner, but the seat in front of me was empty and folded down into a small table. This allowed me to sit, my seat touching my calves, the seat in front touching my shins, and my knees pushed way forward over the clever table. If the seat in front of me had been occupied, I suppose I would have needed to stand.
My contact in the Ministry of Chemical Industry had tipped me off to the opportunity in Jiaozuo. All the good leads in China come from your friends and business associates there. We had set up the appointment with exchanged fax messages, the better for the client to get them translated, but there had still been some sort of mix-up — there is always a mix-up.
I had arrived in Jiaozuo two days early. Communications with potential clients in China is usually confusing and somehow I arrived at a time when the customer’s decision maker, the big boss — the dà lăobăn — was out of town. In China, only the top guy seems capable of making a decision so I was stranded, waiting for the big boss to return from Beijing. My other business was on hold; I couldn’t get an e-mail out without paying an exorbitant hotel rate and the printer in the business center was an artifact from the nineteen eighties. All I could do was wait for the decision maker, the guy we call ‘the George’ back home, to get back from meeting with the dà dà lăobăn — the really big boss — in Beijing. The good news was that the dà dà lăobăn was my contact in Chemical Industry. I had very little else to do but wait. So I spent my afternoons in the hotel lobby bar.
In Asia, big business is conducted in the luxurious lobbies of five-star hotels. It is a custom left over from a time when the big hotels were the center of expatriate life. The lobby of the hotel where I was staying in Jiaozuo was not one of these; it was small and Spartan, with a few sofas scattered about on the shiny, white marble floor. But there was a little girl — xiăojie — tending the bar in the meager lobby who made it grand. She had just turned twenty-one and was sweet as a peach. There are always dozens of xiăojie flitting around the lobbies of Chinese hotels — busy with their jobs, eager to help. At this hotel they wore blue suits, long skirts and vests, with white long-sleeved shirts and giant blue scarves tied into bows around their necks. The xiăojie behind the bar dressed like bartenders everywhere — black pants and vest with a white shirt. She also wore a black bow-tie. The tie looked cute below her pretty face, but she tugged at it surreptitiously when not otherwise occupied.
After catching up on my corporate paperwork — expense reports with spending in multiple currencies is a nightmare — I would go downstairs to the lobby bar to pass a few bored and lonely hours in long conversations with the young bartender. This was a challenge because of my inadequate Mandarin and her insignificant English, but we managed to have some good conversations and I learned as much Mandarin as she learned English.
It was great fun drinking the locally brewed beer and flirting with a cute bartender, learning some handy Mandarin along the way: for me — beer = peíjiŭ, toilet = cèsŭo, pretty = piàoliang; for her — jiéhūn = marriage, tàitai = wife. I lost control of that lesson. But when we attempted to discuss a subject with a little more depth or a concept that depended on our cultural backgrounds, we usually got stuck. When we stumbled into trouble and couldn’t come up with a word, she would walk across the lobby to a small book kiosk near the front desk to borrow a Chinese to English dictionary.
I had noticed the book stand several times since checking in. It was really nothing more than a round wire rack with a few books and paper road maps carefully placed to make it seem full. There was a female attendant who stood next to the rack all day. She never strayed far from her tiny corner of the room and she did not wear the blue-suit-uniform of the hotel girls. I realized later that the book kiosk must have been a small business and not part of the hotel. She stood stoically in front of her small selection of books, her toddler son — nánhái — her constant companion. Always quiet and well behaved, he was easy not to notice. He played on the cold polished floor of the lobby; tiny indistinguishable toys keeping him occupied for hours. I don’t remember ever seeing him cry or the mom sell a book.
Late on my second long afternoon in the quiet lobby, the bartender and I were once again at an impasse linguistically. At first I insisted that she borrow the dictionary again, but then I got the bright idea that I should buy it for her. It was 33 Rénmínbì — people’s money. A little over five bucks. The young bartender’s eyes grew moist and I thought she was about to cry. Wow, I thought, it’s only a book. But she seemed nearly overcome with gratitude and took my hand across the bar for a moment — a very personal thing for her to do.
But my wonder at the bartender’s touch was quickly replaced by my interest in an unfolding drama across the lobby at the book kiosk. As soon as the bartender handed the young mother the payment for the book she seemed to go a little nuts. She swept up her kid, took three of four steps toward the exit, stopped, looked back, returned to her book rack, put the boy back down, and began spinning the rack slowly, moving a few books to fill the gap made by my purchase, her eyes darting around her nervously. Then, apparently thinking clearer, she moved to the front desk and called over the xiăojie working there. The mom gestured to the books and the desk clerk nodded her agreement. Her tiny business safe, she sped out through the double glass doors of the hotel, her quiet nánhái big and heavy-looking on her hip.
After a few minutes they returned to the lobby, a clear plastic bag of soup hanging heavily from the mom’s wrist. The bartender saw me watching and said simply, “Tāmen hĕn è.” She said it in Chinese, but I understood every word — “They’re very hungry.”
I realized that they hadn’t eaten all day, and wouldn’t eat until she had made a sale. I’m embarrassed to remember how many times I complained about the difficulty of my own sales job. That dictionary is the most gratifying purchase I have ever made.
Hĕn mănyi de — very gratifying.
