Featured author Rianka Mohan delivers a tale of Beijing noir: In a corner of a French café in Shunyi, Willa arrives early to her meeting with a private detective, and now all that stands between her and the answers is a long wait . . . Following the story, don’t miss Jennifer Fossenbell’s interview with the author.
The Bitter Beijing Blues
If you turn right from the Vanilla Valley compound and walk along a phlegm-freckled street for about a mile, you come upon a small path on the left. Take the path covered with gravel that crunches underfoot, and it leads you through towering trees onto an enclave of dusty one-roomed houses, in front of which dozes a different mongrel depending on the day. Walk further—it takes about twenty minutes in lonely silence—and you come upon a small building, which at first you might be forgiven for considering abandoned. Walk closer and you will see that it is, in fact, occupied; that it has storefronts, with peeling paint and indifferent salespeople; that it is meant to be a community mall with a few cars parked haphazardly about, and a broken bike along a neglected wall. Within, there is a small grocery store, carrying bottles of imported shampoo. A tailor’s store, crowded with old fabrics and outdated prints. An oily noodle restaurant in the back, with neon lights falling off its doors. A shoe repair shop. And a French café.
The café hugs a corner and is bereft of customers. Attempts have been made to make it look presentable. Chalkboard walls and chequered floors, round tables and rounded chairs, a few bedraggled booths. A lone counter stands in front of a wall decorated with a large sign, white chalk in cursive—Bienvenue en France! Beside the sign is drawn a caricature of a French waiter in side profile, a not insignificant moustache curling away from his pouting upper lip. His eyes are closed. To Willa, he seemed to be sniffing at the surroundings in which he found himself. She and him, both.
Straight backed with a sharp jaw line, wearing a powder-blue cashmere sweater over camel-coloured slacks, she sat in the furthest booth from the door. There were flies in her corner of France. They buzzed about her cappuccino. She looked over at the Chinese woman in a hairnet hunched behind the counter. Willa watched as she placed a tray of croissants on the shelf, straightened herself, and scratched at the hairnet. She wondered if she should complain about the flies but the woman spoke no English. Perhaps this café is like present-day Paris, she thought, where no one speaks French any more.
She thought of the private detective she was here to meet. That he existed in Beijing at all surprised her; and further, that he worked near where she lived—in what she termed the nosebleed section of Beijing—was absurd. It was Adeline who had ferreted him out. Adeline with her connections and her way of making herself at home wherever she went.
“He’s efficient. Finds the fucker with his hands right in the cookie jar!” Willa had gotten lost in the details—Adeline’s husband had been fooling around with his tennis coach or his yoga instructor or someone. Adeline, after long and painfully drawn-out scenes over multiple glasses of whiskey and wine, had forgiven him. It was water under the bridge between them now and life had inched on, as it did in the Shunyi suburbs where Willa felt out of her element. Post affair, Adeline had created a WeChat group of women—Adeline’s Anchors—and she had sent them many messages, declaring that she couldn’t have done it without them and the others had coordinated a night out in town for her, and pooled money to buy her a gift. Multiple messages of love and support followed, like they were Oprah’s team of writers. Someone sent her a Gloria Raynor gif; yet another a Beyoncé gif . . . where were they finding this shit? Willa had finally succumbed and sent a series of emojis—a heart, followed by a muscle for good measure.
What stayed with Willa was the contact information of the detective that Adeline had, unsolicited, shared in the group with the words, “Hope you never have to use him but you know what men are. Girl power!” Which had prompted a cyber high-five from Kavitha. Telling no one, Willa had contacted him. How did she, former Director of Deutsche Bank, former Board member of the New York Historical Society come to be here? To be this? A paranoid spouse making clandestine arrangements like a floozy in a two-bit potboiler? But she had to know. If only to sleep at night. Rather than routinely waking to an empty bed and an unforgiving clock. 2 a.m. it declared. A sigh and a sleeping pill usually did the trick.
The mornings were hard to bear. His frame lumbering over to the bathroom while hers feigned sleep. Hearing him gargle, wanting to scream. “Where were you, you lying sack of shit? Who is she?” But they didn’t roll that way. He said he’d be late, don’t wait up. And she replied ok, honey, don’t work too hard, and both retreated into their separate worlds and tried not to read between the lines.
She remembered when Adeline had first told her about her own husband’s affair. She had commiserated, had held her hand and then, she had had to ask, “How did you find out?” Adeline had twisted her favourite pearl bracelet around her wrist and had told her about the detective. Willa was stunned. “Here? In China?” “They have detectives here, you know!” Adeline had sniffed. “No, of course, but I didn’t think they’d work for us foreigners. Aren’t you afraid his company might find out? You might cause a scandal, be deported.”
Adeline had sounded defiant. “Fuck it! I’ve reached the end of my tether.”
That’s how Willa felt now. The end of her tether. That was Beijing. It was as far from New York as she could’ve landed. Her neck ached. Too much tension, her masseuse would say if he spoke English. But he spoke none and they interacted in silence twice a week. She caught a reflection of herself in a mirror on the café wall. The expression on her face was hard to read. Or maybe it was just that she no longer knew herself.
Bill’s work had brought them to Beijing six months ago. She had been terrified of leaving but he had convinced her. “New York’s dead. Beijing’s where it’s at.” They had uprooted themselves and decided to try suburban living in China. Bill, buoyant and beaming as he thrived in the unfamiliarity, taking Mandarin lessons and walking tours in the hutongs; Willa, bored and bewildered, as she grappled with apps and cabs. The city stretched out like many of the faces of the expat women in the compound she now called home. Her identity—independent working woman—she had packed into a suitcase and brought across the planet to place in mothballs, as she took on a new one—trailing spouse. Trailing carried such truth to it.
Her eyes caught a small glass cut-out of the Eiffel Tower perched on the edge of the long counter. She felt like screaming, “France, the country of Sartre, is more than this, you know! It’s not just the effing Eiffel Tower, a withering waiter, and dessert!” But what would be the use? The café was deserted but for the woman behind the counter who would think that she had lost her mind. Losing your temper in Asia was to lose face. And right now, her face needed to be as unrecognisable to others as it was to herself.
He wasn’t late, this detective. She was early. She had told him to meet her at eleven. She had eaten a light breakfast at nine. Then, terrified of facing the desert of the day, she had walked over at nine thirty. The clock on the wall had ticked itself to fifteen past ten. How slowly time passes. Tick, tick, tick. And one day, you find yourself, fifty and marooned. She took a deep breath, and sipped her cappuccino long since gone cold.
She had prepared what she would say to the detective. Keep it simple. Keep your dignity. Knowing well that there was nothing dignified about infidelity. She had spent so many days imagining sweaty nights and wondered how her husband of ten years still had the stamina for it. Perhaps men and women are built differently she thought. Immediately, the Willa of New York rose and slapped the Willa of Beijing. Get a grip and confront him! With what? Vague fears like the helpless wife of magazine sob stories? She needed proof. Proof would be the best argument.
So, she imagined being seated across from her husband, at dinner perhaps on a weekend night and passing him a photograph. It would be grainy and taken at a distance with a zoom lens, like in the movies. Words would be unnecessary. The proof would be incontrovertible. And then, they would get a divorce. She would move back to New York. She would get an apartment on the Upper East Side. Her friends would rally round but no emojis would be traded. They would be too busy, each as career-driven as the next. They would tell her to take it in stride. Which she would. There would be no tears, no mess. She would find work again. She would find happiness again. She would be home again. She imagined herself pulling the collar up on a genuine Moncler and stepping down the porch steps of her brownstone near Central Park, the air cool and crisp, her face full of purpose, and the signs all in English. She sighed and for a second, a feeling resembling serenity settled on her unsettled shoulders.
He wore a blazer over jeans and a t-shirt that stated ‘Life’s a beach’ with an umbrella against a smiling sun. She had hoped for more sobriety. He spoke softly. “I trailed him for five days as you requested.” He began, “He left his home at 6 a.m. and arrived at his office at 7 a.m. on Monday, the 20th of September—address,” and he showed her a location pin on his phone—it corresponded with Bill’s office. “He left at 12 p.m. to go . . . to Lao Shi Xue Jiao . . . I mean, Mr. Shi’s Dumplings for lunch. Alone. The address,” and he scrolled through his phone. She felt incapable of speech but she forced herself to interrupt him, “You do not have to go into all the boring details. Only . . .” She was unable to say more. He glanced up at her and nodded. He pulled out three envelopes from his backpack. The first, he opened and placed a sheaf of typed notes in front of her. She picked up the first page and it was a detailed summary of Bill’s day. There were five pages in all and each seemed to repeat itself. She looked at the detective blankly. He assumed that speech was required. “On Tuesday, he went to lunch with two men and two women. They arrived at Fat Burger at 1 p.m. and left at 2:14 p.m. The men went to the United Nations building—address” and this time, he pulled the page for Tuesday and pointed to the address in the column. “The women returned to the office.” Willa felt her jaw clench. “Did he leave the building in the evening at all?” The detective mulled it over. Then he reached out to pick up a page from under the others. “He left on Thursday to get a tall espresso from Starbucks at 7:15 p.m.” Willa ground her teeth.
Then the detective opened the other thicker envelope and laid out on the table, photographs. The progress of the day caught on camera. Grainy and taken at a distance with a zoom lens, like in the movies. There was her husband grinning with Fred, his colleague, outside Starbucks. There he was waiting in line at Mr. Shi’s Dumplings. Bill emerging from the office building, heading to Starbucks again. The red timestamp in the corner 4:05 p.m. 22/09/2019. She sifted through the images. 8:30 p.m., Bill exiting the building with a group. She recognised Yan, his boss and Qiu, his director. There was Evan, his intern. They all looked fatigued, their smiles wearing them. She turned to the next one. The same group re-entering the building. 12:05 a.m. a window shot; a figure caught mid-pace. Her husband. 3:04 a.m., a solitary, crumpled man illuminated by the light of his own phone standing by the entrance of his office building. Every day of the week ending in the early hours, always the last photograph of him emerging from a Didi waving at an unseen driver in front of their house.
She looked back at the detective, who she realized with horror was trying to stifle a yawn. She started to say something but stopped herself. He opened the last envelope and pulled out one final document, placing it over the photographs and the pages. The bill. She glanced down and involuntarily shut her eyes.
“Do you take instalments?” she asked in a voice that did not sound like her own.
He stared at her, momentarily confused. She tried again, “Do you . . . I mean, could I pay some now, some later?”
“You pay this. Now.” And he placed his finger on the paper above the final figure. “WeChat or cash.”
She nodded, defeated. Frank Sinatra was warbling over the scratchy speakers of the café. “These little town blues are melting away. I’ll make a brand-new start of it. In old New York.” But the song was ending and soon, it would be no more. It already felt so faint and distant. Another life away.
Interview With the Author
I had the pleasure of having an email conversation with Rianka Mohan about her story “The Bitter Beijing Blues.” From detective noir to jazz, Rianka shared more about the thematic and aesthetic underpinnings of the story. We also ventured into personal backgrounds and how she was inspired by some of her own experiences of suburban Beijing living and the pseudo-surreal experience of being an outsider in that environment. Be sure to play her suggested playlist of songs to accompany your reading of the story!—Jennifer Fossenbell
Jennifer Fossenbell: On the surface, this is a story where not very much happens. Yet there’s this complex and tumultuous inner world of the protagonist, including the historical flashbacks that we glimpse. Was it a deliberate choice for you to make the character and setting more prominent in the story than the plot?
Rianka Mohan: I wrote “The Bitter Beijing Blues” when I first moved here. I felt unmoored, and vacillated between excitement and frustration at the newness. I brought a bit of that into the fiction—that muddled up feeling of not knowing where the story would go. And since my ambivalence was making me fall slowly, and madly, in love with the city, the setting chose itself.
Back then, I found myself escaping into fiction, and specifically, detective noir fiction, grateful for a story that starts out unsolvable, and ends with its loose ends neatly tied up. Which made me begin to consider the contrary: What if the story didn’t offer gratification? What if it led you down a path with the promise of intrigue, but instead, made you face reality, in its mundane colours, to make of it what you would?
So, I left the plot in the hands of my protagonist and let it meander through her perspective. She is yearning for change and drama that will give her back control over her life, so much so that she, in a sense, is creating fiction within fiction.
JF: Yes, detective noir is exactly the vibe I got from your story. Except, as you said, the result of the investigation falls flat at the end, so there’s an interesting sense of being let down somehow. So I was thinking about how the genre is a kind of betrayal, perhaps another layer of one of the central themes of the story. Say something about the ways betrayal operates in the story—who is being betrayed, and by whom or by what?
RM: I wish we were having this conversation in person because it can be taken in so many directions. Betrayal operates on a few levels here. There is the obvious one—a wife who thinks her husband is having an affair but, on another level, his decision to uproot their lives and bring her across the planet is, in her mind, a form of betrayal. Their silent mornings, his ability to fit in and love it, her loneliness—she is in that café looking for recompense for it all.
Then there is the use of this specific genre. And the use of language. Crime is often cleanly written—the cynical detective with one-liners and a Colt .38 always at hand. The rational irons out the emotional and permits us to indulge in something that in real life we would run in terror from. She’s in her crisp clothes well ahead of time with a plan, and her methodical manner masks the mess within. I wanted to have that for this story, that cloak as well as the anticipation of a climax. Which leads to both the protagonist and the audience being denied.
Also, setting the story in a musty and abandoned part of Shunyi, when, in fact, it is one of the richest areas of China, was to express the notion that all is not as it first appears, and Willa, with her turned up nose, had gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick.
JF: Editorial disclosure: I myself was a trailing spouse who lived in Shunyi for one year, and I am disturbed (and delighted) by how much of this I could immediately relate to, and how vividly you captured the details of that world, from WeChat groups to suburban edges that seem to reach to nowhere. The backdrop of Shunyi seems very significant to the mood of the story and themes of distance and removal. Did you personally live in this world? Did you witness incidents or situations like those described? Say more about the inspiration for the piece.
RM: You’re right, I found myself living close to Shunyi as a trailing spouse. More than the culture shock of China, it was the culture shock of suburbia that hit me hard. I was resistant to most of it, yet also fascinated by its markers and its members. I began to concoct a character based on what I saw, and to include details and see them through her coloured judgement. When I was done, I realised I’d been quite vicious with her person. It felt cathartic but also left me uneasy.
Because of some of these details, one of my readers thought it was autobiographical, which greatly amused my husband. In many ways, I took the opposite approach to settling here. I couldn’t get enough of being the eternal outsider because I was forced to retreat into silence, into what’s around me, and into stories. Which is the perfect world for a writer.
JF: I’m intrigued by your choice of words. In what way were you “vicious” with Willa? I might guess it has something to do with her failed divorce fantasy, or her somewhat reduced social/economic position as trailing spouse. But say more about your feelings around Willa. Is she a hero in any way, an anti-hero, or something else?
RM: I, myself, am unsure about how I feel about her. It’s marvelous when characters come to mind fully fleshed, but then I began to wonder why I picked this character to hang this story on—a woman, straight-backed and blonde at that, of a certain sort of privilege. Most of the story happens in her head, which is a judgmental one. And from the get-go, the story subtly takes aim at it. Even when her fears are revealed to be unfounded, rather than bring relief, it costs her dearly. I don’t know what she will do once the song ends.
JF: This is an incredibly cinematic story: The setting and visual images are captured with such rich detail that I could see the whole thing in my head, as in scenes from a film. This prompted me to wonder about the element of sound. If you were to pick three songs that served as a “soundtrack” to the story, what would they be? Can you provide a mini-playlist to accompany the events and moments described?
RM: Thank you for your kind words and what a fantastic question! I don’t know that I have songs for each scene in sequence but these would be my go-to for when I think of this story. The first would be “L’assassinat de Carala” by Miles Davis. It’s on one of my favourite albums of his and this particular piece is somber and mysterious and the song title resonates with what I feel I’ve done in this story.
Beijing’s a funny city in the way that it makes you work for its affection. Visitors get its grandeur but its soul, its hidden haunts, its secret spaces, it keeps for its faithful. Given the title, I wish I could pick a Beijing-based song for the story but I’m still in search of the perfect one. For now, I’ll add Chet Baker’s “Almost Blue.” It has that rainy, grainy quality of someone lost and lonely.
And, I absolutely have to include Sinatra’s “New York.” I sort of see his lyrics as the articulation of the protagonist’s deepest desire and the continuation of the story line. She feels she’s in a little town. But she doesn’t account for Beijing. How, just when you think you’re all that, it can coolly kick you to the curb.
JF: My favorite line in the story, as Willa is in the cafe preparing to meet the detective: “And right now, her face needed to be as unrecognisable to others as it was to herself.” I love this concept of inscrutability and foreignness to oneself. What’s your favorite idea or aspect of this story that you’ll carry with you into your future writing? And what are you working on now, or what do you hope to write next?
RM: Thank you! With that line and the one that came before it, I tried to connect the idea of losing face—the Eastern and Western notions of it. In China, it’s tied to social acceptability. Willa is keen to disguise herself to meet the detective but overall, she fears losing her identity. She’s fighting to hold onto what she thinks is the superior version of herself. Her disdain is her armour, and the detective’s yawn shows it up.
It’s one of the first stories I wrote about Beijing, which came before the tale I’m trying to tell of it now and it’s nice that time hasn’t changed the feelings underpinning both. This process also makes me want to write more fiction centred around identity, not just the expatriate experience but the experience of being a woman and the experience of ageing. There is something deep and sensual about taking the reins on the whole process. The Furies of the Forties—I’m taking copious notes.
I’m currently procrastinating over two pieces of longer fiction. It’s been a long year of leaning into hands behind my head and watching rather than working on them. But it’s winter in Beijing, which is the perfect excuse to hunker down with teas of all varieties and books of all bindings and finally finish!
Oct.–Nov. 2023
Rianka Mohan’s poem ‘Vishvam’ was included in the Proverse Poetry Prize 2021 anthology and her work has been featured at The Glass House Festival, Lens of Passion, Spittoon podcast, and Republic of Brown. She has moderated panels at the EU-China Literature Festivals, the Neilson Hays Literature Festival, CultureConnect, and the Bookworm Literary Festival. Before moving to China, she spent three years in Bangkok where she was the Arts & Culture Editor for The Expat Life magazine and wrote a monthly column on music for Bangkok 101. Prior to that, she was in New York, working as an investment banker for JPMorgan and Credit Suisse. From India, she grew up in Oman, and with her husband and two children, currently calls Beijing home.
Interview conducted by Jennifer Fossenbell
Editorial support by Abigail Weathers & Deva Eveland
Cover art by David Huntington