Nick began pointing out some of his favorite buildings to Rachel. “That’s the Broadway Mansions Hotel right across the bridge. I love its hulking, Gothic silhouette—so classic art deco. Did you know Shanghai has the largest concentration of art deco architecture in the world?”

“I had no idea! All the buildings around us are just jaw-dropping—I mean, look at that crazy skyline!” Rachel gestured excitedly to the intimidating expanse of skyscrapers on the other side of the river.

“And that’s just Pudong—it was all pretty much farmland, and none of those buildings even existed ten years ago. Now it’s a financial district that makes Wall Street look like a fishing village. That structure with the two huge round orbs is the Oriental Pearl Radio and TV Tower. Doesn’t it look like something out of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century?” Nick remarked.

“Buck Rogers?” Rachel gave him a blank look.

“It was a 1980s TV show set in the future, and all the buildings looked like some ten-year-old’s fantasy of another galaxy. You probably didn’t watch any of the bad eighties shows that came to Singapore years after they bombed in the U.S. Like Manimal. Do you remember that one? It was about this guy who could change into different types of animals. Like an eagle, a snake, or a jaguar.”

“And what was the point of that?”

“He was fighting the bad guys, of course. What else would he be doing?”

Rachel smiled, but Nick could tell that underneath their banter, she was getting more and more nervous as they got closer to their destination. Nick stared up at the moon for a moment and made a wish to the universe. He wished for the dinner to go smoothly. Rachel had waited all these years and come all this way to meet her family, and he hoped her dreams would be fulfilled tonight.

They soon reached Three on the Bund, an elegant post-Renaissance-style building crowned by a majestic cupola. Nick and Rachel took the elevator up to the fifth floor and found themselves in a dramatic crimson-walled foyer. A hostess stood in front of a gold inlaid fresco that depicted a beautiful maiden in flowing robes flanked by two gigantic prostrating warriors.

“Welcome to the Whampoa Club,” the woman said in English.

“Thank you. We are here for the Bao party,” Nick said.

“Of course. Please follow me.” The hostess, dressed in an impossibly tight yellow cheongsam, walked them past the main dining room packed with chic Shanghai families enjoying their meals and down a hallway lined with art deco club chairs and green glass lamps. Along one side of the hallway was another gold-and-silver carved fresco, and the hostess pushed open one of the wall panels to reveal a private dining room.

“Please make yourselves comfortable. You are the first ones to arrive,” she said.

“Oh, okay,” Rachel said. Nick wasn’t sure whether she sounded more surprised or relieved. The private room was luxuriously appointed with a grouping of armchairs upholstered in raw silk on one end and a large round table with lacquered rosewood chairs by the window. Rachel noted that the table was set for twelve. She wondered whom she would be meeting tonight. Aside from her father, his wife, Shaoyen, and her half brother, Carlton, what other relatives would be joining them?

“Isn’t it interesting that since we’ve arrived, practically everyone has addressed us in English instead of Mandarin?” Rachel commented.

“Not really. They can tell from the minute we walk in that we’re not native Chinese. You’re an Amazon compared to most of the women here, and everything else about us is different—we don’t dress like the locals, and we carry ourselves in a completely different way.”

“When I was teaching in Chengdu nine years ago, my students all knew I was an American, but they still spoke to me in Mandarin.”

“That was Chengdu. Shanghai has always been a sophisticated, international city, so they are much more used to seeing pseudo-Chinese like us here.”

“Well, we’re certainly not as dressed up as many of the locals I’ve seen today.”

“Yeah, these days we’re the bumpkins,” Nick joked.

As the minutes ticked by, Rachel sat on one of the sofas and began to flip through the tea menu. “It says here they have over fifty premium teas from across China, served in traditional ceremonies in their private tearooms.”

“Maybe we’ll get to sample some tonight,” Nick replied as he paced around the room, pretending to admire the contemporary Chinese art.

“Can you just sit down and chill? Your pacing is making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” Nick said. He took a seat across from her and started flipping through the tea menu too.

They sat in silence for another ten minutes, until Rachel could take it no more. “Something’s gone wrong. Do you think we’ve been stood up?”

“I’m sure they’re just stuck in traffic.” Nick tried to sound calm, although he was secretly fretting as well.

“I don’t know…I have a strange feeling about this. Why would my father book a room so early when no one’s showed up for more than half an hour?”

“In Hong Kong, people are notoriously late to everything. I’m thinking Shanghai must be the same. It’s a matter of face—no one wants to be the first to show up, in case they look too eager, so they try to outdo one another in lateness. The last one to arrive is deemed the most important.”

“That’s totally ridiculous!” Rachel snorted.

“You think? I feel a similar thing happens in New York, though it’s not quite as overt. At your department meetings, isn’t the dean or some star professor always the last to show up? Or the chancellor just ‘drops in’ at the tail end, because he’s too important to sit through the whole meeting?”

“That’s not the same.”

“It isn’t? Posturing is posturing. Hong Kongers have just elevated it to an art form,” Nick opined.

“Well, I can see that happening for a business lunch, but this is a family dinner. They are really quite late.”

“I was once at a dinner in Hong Kong with my relatives, and I ended up waiting over an hour before everyone else got there. Eddie was the last to arrive, of course. I think you’re getting paranoid a little too quickly. Don’t worry—they’ll be here.”

A few minutes later, the door slid open, and a man in a dark navy suit entered the room. “Mr. and Mrs. Young? I’m the manager. I have a message for you from Mr. Bao.”

Nick’s heart sank. What now?

Rachel looked at the manager anxiously, but before he had a chance to say anything, they were distracted by a commotion in the hallway. They poked their heads out of the doorway and saw someone surrounded by a crowd of gawkers. It was a girl in her early twenties, strikingly attired in a figure-hugging strapless white dress with an ornately sequined red matador cape flung casually over her milk-white shoulders. Two burly security guards and a woman with a faux-hawk hairstyle wearing a pinstriped suit attempted to clear the way, while proper teenage girls who had minutes before been enjoying polite, posh dinners with their families had suddenly transformed into shrieking fans taking pictures with their camera phones.

“Is she a movie star?” Nick asked the manager, staring at the girl as she posed glamorously with her fans. With long, voluminous raven hair piled up into a loose beehive, a perfectly sculpted ski-jump nose, and bee-stung lips, she seemed larger than life—like a Chinese Ava Gardner.

“No, that’s Colette Bing. She is famous for her clothes,” the manager explained.

Colette finished autographing some dinner napkins and headed straight toward them. “Ah, I’m glad I found you!” she said to Rachel as if she was greeting an old friend.

“Are you talking to me?” Rachel stared at her, utterly stunned.

“Of course! Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Um, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. We’re meeting some people for dinner here—” Rachel began.

“You’re Rachel, right? The Baos sent me—the plans have changed. Come with me and I’ll explain everything,” Colette said. She took Rachel by the arm and began walking her out of the room. The girls in the hallway started squealing again and taking more pictures.

“Where is your service elevator?” the woman with the faux-hawk demanded of the manager. Nick followed along, baffled by everything that was happening. They were shuffled into an elevator and then down another service corridor on the ground floor. But as soon as the doors opened onto Guangdong Road, they were met by the blinding flashbulbs from a pack of paparazzi.

Colette’s security guards tried to clear a path through the phalanx of photographers. “Back off! Back the fuck off!” they yelled at the jostling pack.

“This is nuts!” Nick said, almost colliding with an overzealous photographer who had jumped right in front of him.

The woman in the faux-hawk turned to him and said, “You must be Nick. I’m Roxanne Ma—Colette’s personal assistant.”

“Hi, Roxanne. Does this happen everywhere Colette goes?”

“Yes. But this is nothing—these were only photographers. You should see what happens when she walks down Nanjing West Road.”

“Why is she so famous?”

“Colette is one of China’s foremost fashion icons. Between Weibo and WeChat, she has more than thirty-five million followers.”