Page 24

"Well…" I lean toward him again, putting down the menu. "I would love to explore this city. Get some street food, you know. Wander inconspicuously. But I'm in a bubble." I motion to the windows behind us—a perfect metaphor of the fish bowl I'm living in.

He nods. "Yes, I can see how that would be frustrating. There are no paparazzi right now, though,” he points out.

"Yes…but you're here." I give him a wink.

He leans toward me, and I get a whiff of cologne—Calvin Klein, I think. Something floral and spicy, very gender neutral. "Would you like me to take you out to some street vendors now?”

My eyes widen. "I would freaking love that."

Sing smiles and nods, grabbing his recorder and starting to wrap it up.

We leave the air-conditioned, rarified interior of the hotel. On the street, it’s sweltering, dense with traffic and people. The odor of diesel and exhaust thicken the air. Sing turns left, and I follow. This is the first time since landing in China that I've walked on a city street. Usually I go from venue to venue in the back of a car.

"There is a great market not far from here," Sing says, glancing over at me.

"I'm good to walk," I say, even as sweat begins to break out on my back. I don't care if it seeps through my white blouse.

He grins. "So this is your first time in China?"

"Yes," I laugh. "First time for a lot of places. I didn't grow up traveling but always wanted to."

"Tell me about your hometown." He pulls out his phone and holds it between us as we weave through pedestrian traffic. I glance at it for a moment and then begin to launch into my spiel. Small-town America, family farm and working, loving parents who died in a car accident when I was ten. My maternal grandmother raising me. The high school plays. A modeling contract at sixteen. Acting gigs. And now a starring role in a famous director’s final film.

We arrive at the market, and Sing stashes his phone to point out my options. The fragrance of roasting meat and foreign spices is intoxicating. "This stall makes the most amazing noodles," Sing tells me, pointing to where a white-haired woman hunkers behind several silver pots. "The chicken stew there"—he points at a younger man with more steaming pots in front of him—"is very spicy. Really special spicy, though. It starts with a buttery texture and then the spice hits you. The only way to ease the burn is to eat more."

"That's a pretty brilliant recipe," I say.

Sing laughs. "Yes, very good. You want to try?”

"After that description, how could I resist?"

We approach the stall and Sing orders two bowls. The young man opens one of his pots, revealing a creamy-looking stew filled with colorful vegetables and hot peppers. He ladles it into two bowls and puts them on a tray. Sing pays and carries them over to one of the small tables set up on the sidewalk. We sit on the low stools, my knees coming up to my waist, and Sing puts a bowl in front of me along with a spoon and a pair of chopsticks.

The aromatic steam from the soup mixes with the rest of the hot air around me, creating a heady perfume. "Thank you," I say to Sing. "It's so great to get out of the bubble."

"Very glad to help."

I taste the soup—he's right, it's buttery, and there is more to it as well, an entire world of spices. The flavor is deep, layered. I close my eyes, just tasting. Then the heat starts. It begins in my belly and climbs slowly up my throat, finally reaching my tongue and igniting it. It's so hot my mouth goes almost numb. "Wow," I say, opening my eyes.

"Take another spoonful," Sing advises. I do, and start the whole process over again.

By the time my bowl is empty, I'm sweating profusely, the heat of the day and the cooking around me, combined with the spice of the soup, leaving me a puddle of sensations. I gulp the last of my water, and Sing waves to another stall. A kid, about eight or nine, hurries over with a big bottle of beer and two plastic cups. There is condensation dripping off the beer bottle even faster than sweat is trickling over my brow. "A cold beer is the best thing for this kind of heat," Sing explains, pouring us each a small, frothy serving.

It looks so good…"I can't," I say. "I have so much more to do today. If I drink that, I'll just need a nap."

"A little won't hurt," Sing advises. "And it will help with the burning."

My mouth is on fire. And the air is so hot. And that beer is frosting the freaking plastic glass. No one could refuse it.

I pick it up, and Sing raises his cup. "To escaping the bubble," he says.

I click my glass against his.

It's good.So good.I smack my lips, and Sing laughs. "You really enjoy food and drink."

"I try to enjoy everything," I say. "We only live once."

Sing gets serious, leaning toward me over the tiny plastic table and empty bowls. "What did you think when you heard about Jack Axelrod's passing?"