Annie Wang - The People’s Republic of Desire

I was so flattered by his words that ever since I have worked hard to demonstrate the diligence of a Chinese and the defiance of an American.

My two bosses' jobs are dream jobs and the competition is fierce. Normally, to become a bureau chief in a foreign country, one has to work at home for many years to pay one's dues before being posted abroad. Being a correspondent posted to a large city like Beijing, Moscow, or Paris is a sign of status and success.

Sean and Hugh both earn over $150,000 per year. They each have a company-subsidized apartment, a maid, a driver, a travel allowance, and a generous expense account. And they get both Chinese and English public holidays. Compared to the middle classes in most developed countries, they live like kings.

Sean, age thirty-seven, studied politics at Oxford University. He speaks fluent Mandarin, and whether he is speaking English or Mandarin, he likes to swear. In his Oxford accent, his speech is peppered with references to sex, genitalia, and mothers.

Sean is a workaholic. He is short-tempered and quick-thinking, and few people can keep up with him. Every day Sean arrives at the office at eight o'clock, and often works late into the night. He wants every article to leave people struck with admiration. But he is extremely circumspect and serious. Compared to the other foreigners in China, who enjoy chasing women, the handsome Sean never has any interesting sidelights. It seems that, apart from work, there is nothing else in his life. Even when he is eating out with friends, all he ever speaks about are current affairs and Sino-U.S. relations.

As his subordinate, I have never spoken with him about anything other than work. Except once. I went out at lunchtime to buy ice cream at the Häagen-Dazs next to the International Club Hotel, and I saw Sean sitting by himself on a bright yellow bench, eating a coffee-flavored Häagen-Dazs ice cream with gusto. A grown man, totally absorbed in his sickly sweet ice cream, sitting in front of the purple Häagen-Dazs sign. As I watched, I thought it was funny. I greeted Sean. He smiled at me for the first time, showing a mouthful of white teeth. "I love sweets. The sweeter the better. Especially ice cream."

My other boss, Hugh, tends to speak more outside work. Hugh studied history at Stanford and is a Fulbright Scholar. Because we both lived in the Bay Area for a while, we have more in common. Hugh and Sean are both tall and handsome but have different styles. Sean is domineering and enjoys the limelight, whereas Hugh is relaxed and refined. He once said that he was a dreamer and came to China in order to find meaning in life. He meditates and practices yoga every day. He's what people call "an egg," white on the outside, yellow on the inside.

One of the things I like about my journalist job is not having to spend all day in my office. This has allowed me to stay out of office politics and maintain a good relationship with most of my colleagues. But I have never imagined those relations are as good as they seem today.

I walk into my office building and board the elevator. The three people already in the elevator all greet me with exceptional warmth. There is a chorus of enthusiastic good mornings. I am a little surprised, but I try to respond in a similar manner.

"How was your weekend, Niuniu," says Mr. Lai.

"Fine, thanks," I say.

Then Mr. Lai winks at me.

The wink seems forced. Not insincere, but practiced. Almost as though Mr. Lai had been holding that wink in his pocket all morning just waiting to spring it on me. Was this a "How do you do?" wink? No, I didn't think so. This was almost certainly a "Thanks for last night" wink.

I smile awkwardly and face the front of the elevator. When the door opens, I step out and head toward my office, Mr. Lai's eyes burning into my back.

I walk to my desk, put down my belongings, and pick up my cup. I walk to the kitchen to get some hot water when in walks Linda, a New Zealander. I have gone to lunch with Linda on several occasions and am rather fond of her.

"I, I can't believe this!" Linda says, walking up closely behind me. "You had me totally fooled. I'm so glad you had the courage to tell me. I don't think I would have felt comfortable approaching you."

"Oh, um… Linda, I'm sorry. I'm a bit confused."

"Oh, please don't worry about it," says Linda. "I totally understand. I was the same way. Listen, this isn't the time or place to talk, but let's have lunch, okay?"

And then Linda is gone.

On the way back to my desk, I encounter Mr. Chun, who on several occasions has asked inappropriate questions about my personal life. I have learned to steer away from him at all cost. This time, he stands in my path holding a pile of color-coded files and a box of paper clips. But he doesn't say anything to me. He just stands there smiling, bobbing his head up and down with all the apparent satisfaction of a man who can finally say, "I told you so."

"What was happening?" I think. If ever there was a day I ought to go out in the field to gather a story, this was it. I suddenly feel extremely self-conscious. Just thinking of this sequence of events causes me to shudder.

Whisking by Mr. Chun, I return to my desk hoping to quickly check my e-mail before heading out.

I see that I've got sixty-seven new messages: a surprisingly high number for a late Friday morning. But even more strange is that most of them are titled "Re: I Love You."

"Another chain letter?" I wonder.

I haven't received so many e-mails on one topic since I responded to the Internet hoax about the little girl who needed a liver transplant and had been promised a donation of $1 for every person I contacted by e-mail from the McDonald's Corporation.

I open the first e-mail, the one from Sean. It reads: "I appreciate your candor, but I am involved with someone else. I have a great deal of respect for you. Please, let's not mix business with pleasure."

Then comes one from Mr. Chun: "My wife is visiting her parents this week. Please meet me after work in the parking lot. I know a place where we can be discreet. P.S. Have you ever fantasized about us doing it on your desk at work? I have!"

Then one from my cousin: "I think you know that I love you, too. We have always had something special between us. But this kind of love is forbidden, and I think it is best we do not pursue it. It burns me that we will never be able to be together. I don't think our families would accept it."

The last e-mail is from Hugh: "Hi, Niuniu, I have to say I was quite surprised by your e-mail, it didn't seem like you at all. I'm flattered to hear that you are interested in me, but I don't think this is the right time for either of us."

Below this message, I read the text of the e-mail to which he responded. In a very convincing and eloquent manner, the message makes a brief plea for love at my request.

I have become the most recent victim of the I Love You computer virus. The virus affects Microsoft Outlook users and sends out a sweet note of passion to everyone listed in its victim's address book.

Several hours later the news of this virus becomes widespread throughout the media, at which point countless e-mails fill my mailbox from people begging me to disregard their previous correspondence.

All except one, from Mr. Chun, which reads: "Well, I'm still game if you are."

Is Chile ma? – Have you eaten yet? – the most popular greeting in China? It used to be.

Recently, Lile ma – have you divorced yet? – has taken its place among young and middle-aged Chinese, especially in big cities where the divorce rate has risen to double digits.