Just as I begin to dial the shopping phone number, the telephone in the penthouse rings a few times. Then Uncle Dai’s phone buzzes. I ignore it. The phone rings again. It seems incredibly urgent. Luckily, my no-self-control itch is interrupted when I finally decide to pick up.
“This is the front desk,” a woman says in lightly accented English. “Miss Wang, you are needed in the conference room on the third floor immediately. Everyone is waiting.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Who’s waiting?”
“Please hurry,” she says.
Sighing, I rush outside the apartment and head to the elevator.
In the open-window conference room, there are exactly ten young people dressed in boring black suits and clutching briefcases and what look to be fat résumés. Panting and pacing like nervous hamsters in a cage, they appear to be college students who are applying for a first-time internship at a bank. One of them freezes when he sees me. Another one stares with zero embarrassment. A girl with thick glasses frowns at me. Then the entire group pauses; someone, pop-eyed, quickly looks down at the floor. What’s wrong now? Do I have food stains like chicken pox on my face? Is there lunchtime dumpling meat stuck between my teeth?
I smile awkwardly. Then I hear someone laughing; there’s a dude, relaxing on one of the fancy conference room sofas. Everyone else is standing except for him. I would have missed him, since unlike the others, he’s wearing a navy-blue grandpa-cardigan, the same color as the couch upholstery. While everyone else appears nervous, he looks comfortable and supremely confident in a quiet way. He has one arm draped casually around the back of the couch, a folder on his lap.
Upon closer inspection, the dude has a broad, distinctive face, unbelievably high cheekbones as if he’s wearing highlighter, and the most sculpted nose that I have ever seen. I can’t stop staring. It looks like he should be auditioning for a reality television show instead of a corporate job. He’s movie-star handsome! He catches my eye again and tries to suppress his amusement. Confused, I stare at him. Why is he laughing at me?
Before I can say anything else, Uncle Dai rushes into the room and beelines over to me, beaming.
“You sleeping, huh, Weijun?” he asks. “That is why no one pick up the phone?”
“Huh?” I say, confused.
“You taking nap? The jet lag?” he asks.
“No,” I say, astonished.
He gestures at my outfit. Then, with a shock of embarrassment, I realize that I’m still wearing a fluffy pink house robe and Hello Kitty slippers. And I’m not wearing anything underneath! I still have my clay face mask on! I forgot to get changed. I forgot to wash off my face. Luckily, the robe is large and long and thick enough to cover me. I flush deeply, but no one can see my inflamed face under the concrete superhero mask of horsehair.
Is this a group job interview?
Are these all of Uncle Dai’s aspiring interns?
Do they all want to be like him in some capacity? This must be some sort of board meeting, and I have been accidentally summoned to participate. Before I can ask to be excused to go back to the suite to change, he indicates the conference table.
“Interview now,” he says.
“For what?” I say. “Am I being considered for a job?”
He bursts out laughing. “Helper for you,” he says.
I’m even more confused.
Everyone quickly takes a seat around the conference table, and it slowly becomes apparent that Uncle Dai is hiring someone. A thick stack of résumés and folders is in front of him.
“This is my niece, Wang Weijun. All the way from America. She need the help.”
The group of students politely applaud.
Uncle Dai whispers at me, “Chinese business manner. You have to clap back.”
Awkwardly, I clap and smile at them.
“Louder,” Uncle Dai says.
I clap a few more times, like I’m a teacher trying to get a kindergarten class’s attention.
As if we’re playing some kind of game of Uncle Dai Says, they all applaud again. But this time, the clapping is much louder, as if I’m a prima ballerina or even a dancing bear performing at the circus and this is my final encore.
I’m slightly flabbergasted.
No one has ever clapped for me before. Is this applause because I am Uncle Dai’s niece? Am I going to be given a personal assistant/shopper/servant? I sit up instantly, almost forgetting that I’m in a neon-pink housecoat and I have clay and horsehair smudged all over my face like toothpaste. I have always known that I was worthy of someone to fetch me low-fat lattes and answer my emails.
He points at the first person on the right of him, a nervous-looking boy with a sweating problem. “Zhao-Ru,” Uncle Dai barks. “You are number six in class from Fudan University. What can you teach Wang Weijun?”
The boy nods. He jumps out of his chair, knocking it over as he attempts to bow awkwardly. “I can help her find success with mathematics and statistics.”
The boy glances at me and bows, hands clasped in front of him.
Should I stand up and bow back? Just like the clapping?
It seems as if everyone is waiting for me to say or do something, but I can’t be sure. How does a hiring manager behave in Beijing?
When in doubt, isn’t it best to imitate the behavior of those around me?
Isn’t life just a fun game of charades?
Jumping up, I attempt to bow back, but as I lean over, I realize my house robe has come undone. The nervous boy reddens. Shit! I knew I should have shaved this morning.
Quickly, I attempt to hide myself and luckily, no one else seems to notice because they’ve all averted their eyes. To cover my stumble, I attempt to curtsy, but I have never curtsied before except when I was four years old and my dad enrolled me with him in a preschool parent-and-baby tap dance. In my fumbling attempt to cross my legs and half curtsy, I almost lose my balance and fall on my face.
“Weijun, sit down now, we have next person,” Uncle Dai says, looking confused.
I scramble to take my seat, nearly knocking over a pitcher of water in my hurry.
Uncle Dai continues on to the girl with the glasses. “Tingwei. Number three at Peking University. You study psychology? Very good. Why you want to teach Weijun?”
“This will be a good learning experience for me,” the girl says, examining the ground. “I want to be a teacher.”
“Why teacher?” Uncle Dai says, sounding perplexed. “Teacher is very poor. You should get MBA at Stanford.”
The girl flushes and agrees with him without hesitation.
It becomes apparent that this is not a position for my personal assistant.
When my parents were hiring me tutors, we looked on Craigslist. We asked friends who recommended reputable teachers or smart older siblings. We checked the advertisements in the Bradley Gardens local paper. In China, it appears that hiring a personal tutor requires fancy business suits, three-page résumés printed on embroidered paper, and a formal group interview.
“Okay, next question, Yurao of Peking University.” He points at a baby-faced kid with acne and a humongous nose. “What is life goal after Bachelor of Engineering degree?”
“I want to get to an MBA at Stanford!” the kid exclaims eagerly. “I want to be a CEO like you, Mr. Feng.”