A Free Life

1

SPRING in Georgia was miserable for Nan and Pingping, both allergic to pollen. The air turned yellowish in daylight, and even the surfaces of roads changed color in the mornings, dusted with the powder from trees. Every day before going to work, Pingping would sweep their deck clean of the yellow dust. Once she couldn't find their car in the parking lot of Winn-Dixie, pollen having coated all the vehicles parked there and dulled their colors. Here the pollen season was much longer than in New England, usually from late February to mid-May. Whenever Pingping went out, she'd wear a mask, a nose piece, regardless of the attention it drew, whereas Nan wouldn't do that, so his nose had swollen to twice its normal size. How eagerly they looked forward to the next rain, which might cleanse the air for a few days so that they could walk outside again. To fight the allergies, Pingping made Taotao and Nan take tablets of bee pollen every day, which helped some, though Nan would have gastric pain if he swallowed them on an empty stomach. The Wus also took plenty of vitamins to build up their resistance to the allergies. Not until mid-May when a drought set in did they begin to feel better. Miraculously Taotao's allergy had subsided considerably this year. Back in Massachusetts pollen had tortured him, but now he could play in the open air without a runny nose or itchy eyes. Nan joked about him, saying the boy had acculturated so well, he would become a redneck eventually.

"I ain't a redneck!" his son protested, imitating some of his classmates, with an upswinging lilt on the last syllable "neck."

"Don't use that kinda language," his mother warned him.

"Yes, ma'am."

They all laughed. Actually, like Taotao, Nan and Pingping had begun to adapt to life here as well. Sometimes Pingping made grits for breakfast, and they often ate kale and collard and mustard greens. Nan and Taotao also liked pork rinds, boiled peanuts, fried okra, hush puppies, barbecue sauce. But the boy disliked the cheese here, which indeed had a dull taste compared with that in the Northeast. Corn bread had become a favorite of theirs, like a kind of pastry, and they'd buy it whenever it was on sale. Back in China, Pingping and Nan had lived on corn buns for many years, but that was a different kind, with no sugar or milk mixed into the cornmeal. It was pure corn, one hundred percent. One day Pingping cooked a few corn buns-the Chinese type-for Taotao, who had asked her for them several times, but the boy, after taking a bite, wouldn't touch it again. "Tastes like crap!" he said.

Unlike him, his parents each ate a whole bun with relish. They also brought one to Tammie. At the sight of it, the waitress got excited, but after having a morsel, she frowned and said, "You mainlanders always insist on the reunification with Taiwan, but I bet no Taiwanese wants to eat this stuff. You should eliminate this sort of corn buns before you talk about the reunification. This is absolutely not for human consumption."

Despite saying that, despite eating only a quarter of the bun with a piece of smoked herring as Pingping suggested, Tammie was pleased by the Wus' sharing it with her. She wrapped the remainder of the bun and took it home to show her roommates.

₂

FOR TWO YEARS Nan had often feared that his wife or son might fall ill, because they had no health insurance. Nan had once known a young man living in downtown Boston who was a Canadian citizen; the fellow had never bought any medical insurance, so if he had an illness, he'd go to Montreal to see his doctor. Nan wished his family could do that.

He talked with Jinsheng Yu, who had once served as a captain in the Chinese People's Liberation Army and was now a reputable insurance agent used by many Asians and Latinos in the Atlanta area. Jinsheng told him that it would cost $860 a month to get the standard health insurance for his family. There was no way the Wus could afford that. At the suggestion of Jinsheng, Nan bought only the emergency coverage for his family for about $90 a month. This was the best he could do. Such a minimum protection, however, did calm him down some. He knew that a lot of Asian immigrants had no medical insurance whatsoever. If they were ill, they'd first go to an herbal shop. With few exceptions, Chinese herbalists are also doctors and can treat ailments and prescribe herbs. Some of them in the Atlanta area had been professors in medical schools back in China, but they couldn't practice here because they specialized only in Chinese medicine and couldn't speak English, so were unable to pass the professional exams. Apprehensive of lawsuits, many of them avoided treating whites and blacks, to whom they sold only herbs and patent pills and boluses.

The Wus didn't believe in Chinese medicine despite its holistic approach, despite its emphasis on the balances between yin and yang and between hot and cold winds in the body, but their friend

Janet often asked Pingping about herbs. Janet had once been treated by an acupuncturist for her back injury, so she was fascinated by Chinese medicine. In addition, she also wanted to know if there was an herbal remedy for infertility, of which Pingping wasn't sure.

One afternoon, toward the end of May, Janet came to the Gold Wok, wearing pedal pushers and a thick ring on her second toe. Unlike other days, she overstayed her midafternoon break. She and Pingping were sitting in a corner booth, chitchatting and tittering while Tammie was wiping with a sponge the cruets and saltshakers on the dining tables, a basin of warm water on a stool beside her. On the wall beyond them pranced and frolicked the horses and foals in the mural painted a decade before. Putting her long-fingered hand on Pingping's forearm, Janet said, "I have something to ask you."

"What?"

"Would you like to have another baby?" "I love babies, but I can't."

"Why?"

"I must make money and help Nan and Taotao. Nan like to have a lotta kids, but we can't afford."

"What if somebody gives you money, lots of money?" "What you mean?"

"I mean, I'd love to pay you to have a baby for Dave and me." "I don't understand."

"Dave and I cannot have a baby no matter how hard we try. It's my problem, my eggs are no good." "How can I have baby for you?"

"There are two ways." Janet grew animated, her eyes fully open and glowing. "You and Nan have another baby for us, and we'll pay you ten thousand dollars. Or you and Dave have a baby, and we'll double that."

"That's disgusting. How can I have Dave's baby!" Pingping was blushing to the ears and felt insulted.

"Don't blow your top. You must've misunderstood me. Haven't you heard the term 'surrogate mother'?" Janet scratched her own freckled arm.

"I heard it on TV, but what it mean exactly?"

"The doctor can inseminate a woman's egg with a man's sperm, and then put it into her uterus. That'll make her pregnant." "Then what?"

"After the baby is born, the father has the right to it."

"So the mother can't see her own child again?"

"In most cases she can't. She has to abide by the agreement she signed with the man and his wife before she went through the artificial insemination. But biologically she's still the mother." Janet's face tensed up, as though she were holding back a smile. "If I could get pregnant like you, I'd have a small army of kids and let them populate a whole town."

"This is hard, Janet." Pingping crimped her brows, then muttered, "Why can't you adopt baby? Lots American couples have Chinese girls."

"We've thought of that, but ideally we'd love to have a baby from you."

"Why you give me such big problem? This is very hard for me."

"Look, Pingping, you're so pretty and healthy that we'd love to have your baby. You're just a year or two younger than me, but look at you-your skin and figure are like a young girl's. You can easily pass for twenty-five."

"You don't understand, Janet. Chinese women don't get old very quick like white women before we are fifty. Chinese girls grow up slow. I have my first period when I was sixteen. But after we're fifty, we suddenly become old woman, very, very old."

"Anybody's old after fifty."

"But after fifty, white woman get old very slow, because better nutrition, I guess. Look at Mrs. Lodge. She's eighty-nine and still do yard work and grow her vegetable garden."

"Okay, I see your point. Dave and I will be blessed if you can give us a baby."

"I can't do that, sorry."

"You see, usually a surrogate mother is paid ten thousand dollars. We're willing to double that. Cash. You won't have to pay tax for it. Dave loves Taotao, you know, and I can see that he dreams we can have a son like yours someday."

"Why not girl? I like girls."

"A girl will be great too. We'll be thrilled to have her." "I can't say yes, Janet. Maybe I should talk to my husband." "Sure, I understand. This ought to be a family decision. Talk to Nan, okay?" "All right."

Although reluctant to consider the offer, Pingping saw this as an opportunity to reduce their mortgage, which had agitated her all along. Never had she borrowed money before they bought the house. She had always dreaded debt and paid their bills promptly. What if their business took a downturn? Or Nan fell ill, unable to work for some time? Then they might lose everything. If they couldn't make their monthly payments, for sure Mr. Wolfe would come and take their home back just as banks would repossess houses and cars of insolvent mortgagors. The more she thought about this possibility, the more terrified she was. She felt they must pay off the mortgage as soon as possible.

That night, after Taotao went to bed, she talked to Nan about the Mitchells' offer. "No way," said Nan, whose eyes suddenly blazed. "You must be out of your mind. How can you think I'll let you be a surrogate mother, carrying another man's seed? I'm not that shameless. If you love babies so much, I can give you one. Do you really want one for ourselves?"

"That's not my point. We need money to reduce our debt, don't we?"

"But you mustn't use yourself that way. What will you say to Tao-tao if someday he asks you why you sold his brother or sister?"

"I don't mean to sell a baby. Only because Janet needs my help. She's a friend."

"But the fact is that you'll have to disown the child if you accept her money. How can you face Taotao if he asks you what happened to his sibling?"

This was more than Pingping could bear, and she burst into sobs, which startled Nan. He softened some and said, "Come, don't cry. I won't let you take that kind of risk."

" I know it will be hard and risky, but I can do it for you and Tao-tao. We must get rid of the mortgage as soon as possible. I'm so scared."

" Scared of what?"

"We may lose everything we have if misfortune strikes."

"Don't be a worrywart. Nothing will happen as long as we manage our business carefully. Look at Americans. Don't most of them have a mortgage? Do they fret like us? Many of them feel lucky if they can get a mortgage. We must shed our Chinese mind-set and learn to accept insecurity as a living condition." Despite saying that, he was touched by his wife's willingness to sacrifice, gratitude welling up in his chest.

She whimpered, "From now on we mustn't have sex too often. We don't have any real health insurance and can't afford to get sick or have a baby."

"All right, I'll try to control myself. Haven't I always slept in my own room?"

She grimaced, her lips wet. "Promise you'll never walk out on me and Taotao."

"How can you think of that? I won't leave you, all right? You two are all I have. Where could I go?"

Pingping told Janet about Nan 's objection the next afternoon. To her surprise, her friend accepted the explanation without any resentment and even said, "I knew it would be difficult. Let's forget it."

Afterward, Janet still came to the Gold Wok for lunch regularly. Pingping continued to help her assemble necklaces for five dollars apiece; she could finish half a dozen a week. They remained friends. Both Pingping and Nan were amazed by Dave and Janet's lack of resentment. If they had turned down such a request from a Chinese couple, the friendship might have ended automatically. Nan began to treat the Mitchells better than before and always picked a bigger red snapper for them when they ordered Five-Willow Fish, a deep-fried fish topped with five shredded vegetables.

Once Pingping asked Janet why she had not resented her refusal. Janet said, "If you agreed to give us a baby, we'd have to run away after it's born, so that you couldn't see us again. See, now I still have you as my friend."

₃

EVERY Monday morning Nan went to the Chinese bookstore in Asian Square to buy the Sunday World Journal, which, unlike English-language newspapers, wouldn't arrive until midafternoon every day. He couldn't get it on a daily basis, so once a week he'd drive ten miles to Doraville to buy the Sunday paper; this was his way to keep abreast of the news about China and the Chinese diaspora. Besides getting the newspaper, he'd also visit the stores and the supermarket there to check the prices of groceries. His Monday trip to the shopping center was a kind of diversion to him, a luxury, since he had never taken a day off except on major holidays when no customers would show up. One morning in late June he turned up at the Chinese bookstore again, which was owned by World Journal, whose regional editorial division occupied two rooms in the back of the store. Several editors and typists worked in there on the advertisements and the local news for the southeastern section of the newspaper. As usual, Nan picked up the Sunday paper, then looked through the new books on the two display tables and flipped through some of the journals and magazines on the shelves. Among all the publications he liked the Mirror Monthly best because it carried well-informed articles on cultural and current issues, mostly written by reputable authors and scholars living in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and North America.

He noticed a new book on American life entitled Under the Star-Spangled Banner, written by a recent visitor from mainland China to the United States. He disliked this sort of writing targeted to the readers who could never set foot in America, because the writers often told exotic tales that distorted the truth. He remembered that one author had even bragged that American wives were so understanding toward their husbands that whenever their men were about to travel, the women would pack condoms into their baggage, implying they wouldn't mind if their husbands had a brief fling away from home, as long as they didn't leave behind their hearts with other women. A novelist who was a political officer in the People's Liberation Army boasted that he had walked alone at night through Chinatown in New York without taking fright; in an interview, when asked what the American democracy was like, he replied, "A lot of paperwork and high taxes." A woman author claimed that she had increased her worth from $300 to $5 million after living in the United States for just six years, and that now she was a CEO of a textile company, her cargo containers always on the move, traveling all over the Pacific and the Atlantic. An upstart in Florida even bragged that his ambition was to own a few satellites in space.

Whenever Nan flipped through these books, his heart would sink-almost every person described in them was a paragon of success. Who will speak for the failures? he wondered. What's worse, these books were often crudely written, in a journalistic style, and many of them were a mere mishmash of articles, each of which the author could finish at one sitting. These writers rushed to report sensational news of petty triumphs before they had lived here long enough to develop genuine feelings for this lonesome, unfathomable, overwhelming land. Look at these titles on the shelf-Here Is a Real America, Conquering the United States, I Have Become a Successful Lawyer in the Bay Area, Chinese Celebrities in North America, Our Growth in the USA, A Boss on Wall Street, My Bite of the Big Apple.

As Nan opened the June issue of Harvest, a major literary bimonthly published in Shanghai, an author's name caught his eye- "Danning Meng" printed under a novella entitled Winds and Clouds at an Alaskan Seafood Cannery. Nan was astounded to see his friend's name in such a top-notch magazine. He turned to the first page of the story and skimmed several paragraphs. Without doubt the author was his friend Danning, since the story was set in America and even mentioned Boston. He bought that copy of Harvest.

On his drive back along Buford Highway, whenever he stopped at a red light, he'd pick up the magazine and look at the illustrations and the table of contents. Some of the authors' names were familiar to him, and some were not. At the intersection of Jimmy Carter Boulevard he almost bumped into a brand-new passenger van, which bore a silver Darwin fish and a large sticker with red letters: licensed to bitch! That frightened Nan, and he forced himself not to touch the magazine again until he reached the Gold Wok.

That day at work, whenever he had a free moment, he would read a page or two of Danning's novella. At home that night, he lay on his bed and resumed reading it. He didn't feel it was extraordinary; the writing was sloppy, though the story was interesting and enjoyable. It was told in the first person, in the form of a memoir, and it described how the owner of an Alaskan cannery exploited his workers, who were mostly recent immigrants from Vietnam, South Korea, China, Mexico, and Eastern Europe. The narrator, presented as Danning's doppelganger, was a graduate student specializing in agronomy at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and went to work in Alaska during the summer to make money for the next year's tuition. The cannery was depicted like a Chinese factory, where industrious workers often got into trouble, bad-mouthed by others, while slackers were trusted and rewarded for their clever words and deeds. Many dawdlers would clock in early and clock out late, but would slack off at work; some would find every excuse for staying on so as to get paid overtime. Furthermore, racial prejudice was widespread, the supervisors acted like little bullies, and most of the workers ate seafood whenever their foremen turned away. Fights broke out among them every day, and some girls were at one another's throats over a hunk, though there were decent people among the working hands. One man had previously been a lieutenant colonel in the Vietnamese army, and another a philosophy professor in Romania who could hardly speak any English. It was a dark story in spite of the narrator's breezy voice.

Turning off the light, Nan thought about the novella, which had somehow disquieted him. The story was believable, full of authentic details that brought the setting to life. Apparently Danning had done a lot of research and thinking, and Nan knew his friend had once been to Alaska, though he didn't believe Danning had ever worked in a cannery. What troubled him more was the insouciant style, full of misfired digs and riffs, which tried too hard to be funny and tantalize the reader. As a result, the humor felt forced and glib, not arising from within the drama, as if the narrator laughed before the audience, as if the author had become the victim of his own wisecracks. More troublesome, Danning had overused four-letter intensifiers, which appeared on every page. Still, Nan was happy for his friend, who had made a breakthrough in just two years after his return to China. Beyond question, his friend had become a literary figure of sorts. The fiction editor at Harvest called the readers' attention to Danning's novella in her introduction to this special issue devoted to "literature by students studying abroad." Indeed, the other four featured writers had all lived or were still living in foreign countries. Among the stories Danning's novella seemed to be the center, since the other pieces were much shorter, one just two and a half pages long.

Nan gave the magazine to Pingping, who read the cannery story during the next few days. She shared his view about the writing. "Danning didn't have to be that flippant and coarse," she told him. " He forgot to mention that among all workers the Chinese were the worst, much worse than the Vietnamese and the Mexicans." Pingping had once worked in a nursing home that hired many recent immigrants, among whom, she felt, the Korean women were the best workers.

"Danning must be doing quite well," Nan said. "He's clever and knows how to sell. But don't take his novella too seriously."

"Look, this is Harvest."

"So? If you tried, you could write better. At least you won't use that many double exclamation marks." "Are you jealous of him?"

"I never want to be a writer-why should I be jealous? Trust me, you can do a better job."

"Heavens, you're so arrogant."

" He tried too hard to please the reader. Also, this kind of writing might mislead the Chinese who have never been to America."

For some reason Pingping simply wouldn't praise Danning's accomplishment. Why did she judge the novella that way? Nan pondered her remarks and concluded that he agreed with her. He couldn't accept Danning's fiction as literature either. It was at most a piece of creative reportage written by an experienced hack. Yet obviously his friend was making headway in a direction totally different from his own. Maybe someday Danning might grow into a literary figure in China, where the vicissitudes of celebrity defied logic. Nan decided to write to his friend.

₄

NAN didn't write to Danning immediately. For several days he'd been experimenting with moo shu, a Mandarin dish he hadn't cooked before. But in his childhood he'd had spring pancakes once a year, which were prepared and eaten in the same way as moo shu except that his mother had used soy paste in place of hoisin sauce. In China the term "moo shu" referred to dishes whose main ingredient was wood ears, sauteed with eggs or pork or shrimp, and they had little resemblance to the Americanized moo shu. Nan realized that the beauty of this dish consisted in the flexible choice of its ingredients. You could saute meat, seafood, eggs, and vegetables individually, so you were free to make the dish in your own way. This also meant moo shu could be various kinds, sumptuous, or simple and light, or even vegetarian. What's better, Nan could use high-quality tortillas instead of pancakes and serve them after warming them up in the microwave; this would save a lot of work. So he resolved to add moo shu to their menu, not as a regular offer but as a house specialty.

He put a plate of moo shu he had wrapped and cut on a table and asked his wife and Tammie to try it.

"Mmm, it's great!" said Pingping, chewing with relish.

Tammie loved it too. She strode to the storage room and shouted, "Hey, Taotao, come out and have some moo shu."

The boy had just gotten off the school bus and was paring carrots with a scraping knife. After washing his hands, he came out, rubbing his eyes, and yawned. He took a bite of a piece of the tortilla wrapped around bean sprouts and slivers of lean pork. "Is this a taco or something?" he asked.

"No, it's moo shu," Nan said.

"Oh, I remember it!" Taotao's eyes gleamed as he was chewing. "My grandpa cooked this too, but he put chives into it. It tasted much better than this."

"We cannot offer sauteed chives to our cahstomers, who won't like zat," said his father. "Also, zat's too expensive. Maybe we can use chives for ourselves once in a while."

In fact Nan seldom cooked moo shu for themselves. The Wus ate at the restaurant most of the time, just whatever was available. There were choices for Taotao anyway, so the boy wouldn't complain.

When Nan finally had spare time, he wrote a letter to Danning. It read:

August 3, 1992

Dear Danning,

I cannot say how amazed I was to find your novella in the last issue of Harvest. Congratulations! I am impressed and can see that you are on your way to an illustrious career. I wish you all the good luck and keep my fingers crossed for you.

I assume that you are married by now. If so, give your wife my regards. My family is well, and we moved to Georgia last summer. Now we live in a northeastern suburb of Atlanta, where I run a small restaurant. The work is hard and weary; most of the time Pingping and I have to put in more than twelve hours a day. But so far we have managed to survive. In truth, we have prospered to some extent. We bought a house nearby, which has a lake, about twenty acres large, in the backyard. You see, I am a laborer now, a professional cook, but I won't complain. Frankly, I feel rather content with our situation. At length we have settled down in a corner of land we can call home.

The other day when I was reading your story, I felt as if we had been separated for a lifetime. You must be a different man now, but I'm sure that with this publication your life must have changed, opened to great expectations.

Please keep me posted about your new publications. There is a decent Chinese bookstore here that carries some magazines published in China, and I can follow your success from this side of the earth. Work hard and write with more heart and vision. Your friend,

Nan Wu

He thought about expressing his view on the novella candidly in a postscript, but changed his mind, unwilling to let Danning suspect he was jealous. He didn't know Danning's current address, so he sent the letter in care of the editorial department of Harvest, trusting they'd forward it to him.

In front of the Dollar Store at Beaver Hill Plaza stood a mailbox. Nan went out to drop the letter. It was muggy and hot outside, a mass of heat rubbing his face, but two adolescent boys were biking around in the parking lot, crying at each other happily and from time to time letting go of the handlebars of their bicycles while their legs kept pumping away. The heat didn't seem to bother them at all. These days it was so humid that when Nan drove on the street, he often saw waves of water ahead of his car. He had thought he might be losing his mind, seeing things, but Pingping told him she had also seen such puddles on the asphalt. Overhearing them, Tammie giggled and said, "That's just a mirage. It always appears on roads in the summer, even in the North too." Tammie had once lived in upstate New York for a year and had dreaded the winter there.

"That's true," agreed Pingping, "but you see it here more often."

Nan had never seen such shadowy water on the roads in Massachusetts, but again, he could have been too absentminded to notice it. How he hated the Georgia summer, when the damp heat reduced people's appetite, causing his business to flag, its clientele dwindling. Mr. Wang assured him that this was normal and that business would pick up after mid-September.

₅

JANET and Dave Mitchell came to dine at the Gold Wok one evening. Dave was six foot one and seemed to have gained weight recently, weighing at least 240 pounds. He was a little bald and wore glasses that barely shielded his large gentle eyes. Both Nan and Ping-ping liked this reticent man, who never raised his voice and always smiled like a young boy when Tammie brought him and his wife their order, to which Nan would add something extra, a plate of teriyaki beef or a bowl of Peking ravioli. Dave would wave at Nan and say in a thin voice, "Thanks!" When he lifted a teacup, it would almost disappear in his huge hand, whose skin was as fair and hairless as his face.

Dave had once told Nan that he was a Republican, though he had grown up in a housing project in Camden, New Jersey, raised by his mother alone. Nan wasn't a citizen yet and couldn't vote, or he'd have argued more often with Dave over politics and the upcoming presidential election. He couldn't understand why Dave, a beneficiary of the welfare system, was adamantly against it. Once he asked him about this, and Dave replied, "I don't want to pay too much income tax and I hate a big government. If the Democrats win the election, they'll jack up taxes again."

"But you don't have to be a Republican to oppose a big gahvern-ment," Nan said.

"No. I may join the Libertarian Party anytime."

"Why not be a Democrat?"

"The Democratic Party is anti-white males."

Nan didn't know what to make of that.

This evening the Mitchells had come later than usual. There were so many customers that Pingping couldn't chat with Janet and Nan had to stay in the kitchen, cooking constantly. But the Mitchells seemed purposely to outstay the other customers, and when the room had finally quieted down, Janet beckoned Pingping, wiggling her forefinger. Pingping went up to her and said, "Don't do that." "Do what?"

"Move your fingers that way. It make me feel like slave or servant, like you can pull me around just by move your finger."

"All right." Janet smiled, her high cheeks coloring. "Golly, you're so sensitive. I won't do that again. Listen, I want to ask you something."

"Sure." Pingping sat down, hoping this was not about the surrogacy again.

"Have you been to Nanjing?" Janet asked. "Where?"

" Nanjing, the big city on the Yangtze River." "Ah, I see. No, I never be there, but my father's family is from somewhere near that city. You want to visit China?"

"I'm not sure. Dave and I have been thinking of adopting a baby girl."

"That's wonderful. But are you sure you want to raise Chinese kid?"

"Not one hundred percent sure yet. Tell me what you think." "Everybody can see she's not your daughter." "Dave and I thought about that too. We won't mind. As a matter of fact, we like Chinese babies."

"Why not adopt American baby?"

"That'll be very hard. You don't have a choice here. It's the biological mother who chooses the adoptive parents. Besides, you have to wait a long time, sometimes several years. And you have to hire a lawyer. It's outrageously complicated and expensive. That's why a lot of people go to other countries to adopt babies. Dave and I have met some couples who have Chinese baby girls. They're all happy." "Why do the Chinese abandon girl babies?" Dave said. "People in countryside need boys to work in fields, so they don't want girls," replied Pingping.

"Why won't some Chinese families adopt them?" asked Janet. "I guess because each family can have one baby only."

By now Nan had joined them, standing by listening to their conversation. He put in, "Zer one-child policy has a lot to do wiz it. If you already have a baby, you cannot have anozzer. So some families throw away girl babies to save zer quota for a boy. Feudalistic mentality, you know."

"Are the babies healthy?" Janet went on.

"Don't worry about that," answered Pingping. "Very few Chinese in countryside eat drugs. Many people can't afford food, no money for drugs and alcohol. The parents are young, healthy, and clean, but some of them can't read and write."

"We're not worried about that," Janet said. "We can give a good education to the child we raise."

Pingping had meant to say that although the babies were healthy, you couldn't know anything about their parents' education and intelligence. She didn't explain and asked Janet instead, "You really think adoption?"

"We've contacted an orphanage in Nanjing. Once we hear from them, I'll let you know. We'll need your advice."

"Sure. Nanjing is famous for beautiful girls."

Nan added, "Women there usually have smoos skin and fine figures. It's a majar city, and I went there once for a conference."

"That's good to know. Dave and I may go to the orphanage if we decide to adopt."

As the conversation continued, Nan left quietly to tidy up the kitchen. He was glad that the Mitchells were thinking of adoption, which meant they might not bring up the subject of surrogacy again.

₆

NAN didn't expect Danning would write back within a month. Usually a first-class letter traveled more than ten days from the United States to China. In this case, Nan 's letter had reached his friend via the magazine; the detour must have taken an extra few days. Dan-ning wrote in a loopy, cloudy hand:

August 29, 1992

Dear Nan Wu,

What a thrill it was to hear from you. How time has been speeding by! Yes, Sirong and I married last year, and we are living in Beijing now. I didn't go to the People's University to teach. Instead, I have stayed home, writing fiction and freelancing for magazines. But I cannot continue living like this and will soon look for a stable job. Probably I will work for the Writers' Association, which is interested in me because I can speak English.

To be honest, I am not satisfied with my Alaskan novella. The editor cut too much from the story, and as a result the prose feels choppy and crude. She also put in many sentences of her own, which are out of place. Some of them are plainly jarring. The magazine was eager to cater to the readers' interest in the exotic, so the editorial department demanded that all the stories be set in foreign countries, and we were supposed to make them as outlandish as possible. I had no choice but to concede, otherwise they would not have printed the piece. Well, you see this is China, where nothing has changed much. I often feel I'm living in a net, having to navigate through many invisible holes. Sometimes I miss my old days in Cambridge, MA, where I was left alone and could dream alone, lolling on a bench outside my apartment, basking in a sunny indolence, and watching the scudding clouds.

I have been working hard on two novels, both set in the United States. Stories about American life are hot nowadays. Have you seen the book Manhattan 's China Lady? It's a runaway best seller here. My publisher is eager to have a blockbuster like that and has pressed me for the manuscripts several times. I have to finish my books soon, but I don't know how to write popular stuff and may disappoint my publisher.

Give my regards to Pingping and Taotao. Talk to you later.

Shake hands,

Danning Meng

Nan remembered the time when Danning had lived in Cambridge, but in reality his friend hadn't always had the kind of leisure described in the letter. Danning had once taken three days off from his lab, able to lounge around, but only because a tick had stuck to the top of his ear and given him a low fever and painful joints. After that letter, Nan and his friend kept up a correspondence, though they didn't write frequently, four or five exchanges of letters a year. Nan would follow the noise Danning went on making in China. Gradually Danning became a well-known author, though he never wrote anything better than his Alaskan cannery story.

Once Danning claimed that he was going to write his "great Chinese novel," which would exhaust the genre of the novel technically. Nan couldn't imagine such a monumental masterpiece and thought of asking him to define his vision, but he refrained, feeling that his friend had become a glib man, if not a blabbermouth. He mentioned Danning's ambition to Pingping, who smiled and said it might just be a boast. She simply couldn't enjoy that man's writings no matter how hard she tried.

₇

WHEN it got cooler in late September, business began to come back at the Gold Wok, but Nan and Pingping couldn't feel relieved. Many people were still out of work, and about a third of the suites at Beaver Hill Plaza remained vacant, though the economy was reported to be improving. The large hall left by A amp;P had been filled by a Goodwill store, and the parking lot was again half full in the daytime.

One afternoon Nan sat slouching at the counter and reading his Oxford Advanced Learner's Dictionary. Beside his elbow, toward the wall, was a small aquarium in which a pair of angelfish was gliding. A string of bubbles kept spiraling up from the pebbles at the bottom of the water. As Nan was perusing the verbal idioms listed under the headword point, in came a tall man with dark hair; his ruddy face looked familiar, but Nan didn't recognize him. The man, wearing a black T-shirt, smiled and nodded at him, then stretched out his hand. "Hey, Nan Wu, don't you remember me? Dick Harrison," he said in a mellifluous voice.

Now Nan recognized him-the young poet, Sam Fisher's friend, whom he had met several times in New York. Delightedly Nan shook his hand. "What brought you here, Dick? I didn't recognize you because your hair is short now. You look so young zat I thought you were a student."

"Thanks. I took a job at Emory." Dick rested his elbows on the counter.

"What kind of jawb? Teaching?"

"Yes, poet in residence."

"You teach how to write poetry?"

"Yes, plus literature. Sam told me you had opened a restaurant in an eastern suburb of Atlanta, so whenever I saw a Chinese restaurant, I'd pop in to see if I could run into you."

"Sanks for looking for me."

"I'm so happy to find you."

After introducing Dick to Pingping, Nan led him to a booth and they both sat down. He asked his wife to make some appetizers and Tammie to bring over a pot of Dragon Well tea, a delicate green tea, not the red stuff offered to their customers. By now Pingping could cook as well as Nan, though she usually worked at the counter as the hostess and cashier. The two friends resumed conversing. Now and again they looked at each other and tipped their heads back laughing as if someone had cracked a joke nobody but they two had caught.

"How's Sam?" asked Nan.

"He's okay, but he drinks too much."

"I didn't know he was bibulous."

"Come again?"

"He's bibulous."

"Oh, yes, he's fond of alcohol."

"How about his boyfriend, Min Niu?"

"Min doesn't drink much. They had a big row the other day. Min moved out, then Sam apologized and Min went back." "So they're still a cahple?" "Of course, Sam depends on Min."

Nan was surprised that Min Niu had dared to quarrel with Sam Fisher, the famous poet.

"How about you?" Dick went on.

"I'm doing all right. We bought a house nearby and also zis business."

"This is impressive. I can see that you're becoming an American capitalist."

"Come on, I still have a mortgage to pay. How can you call me zat?" "Okay, you're not rich yet, but you're on your way to realizing your American dream, aren't you?" "I just want to be independent."

Tammie came and put the teapot and two cups on the table. Dick tilted his full head of hair and said to her in his one-toned Mandarin, "How do you do?"

She didn't reply and instead tittered. She stared at him, her round eyes intense and widened; her lips parted, then twitched a little. Still she didn't say a word. Dick lifted the cup of tea Nan had poured, and sipped. "Hmmm, excellent tea. Thank you!" he said to her.

She giggled and glanced at his pointy chin and hairy neck. "It's Dragon Well, this year's fresh leaves," she told him.

Pingping called to Tammie from the kitchen, so the waitress turned away. The two men went on talking about Emory, which Nan had heard was called "the Harvard of the South." Dick said the university had received a lot of funding from Coca-Cola and paid him well. He also mentioned that the previous year he'd had a book of poems published, his second, which had garnered numerous positive reviews. That was why another college had also made him a job offer. Nan was impressed, glad Dick had moved here.

Tammie came again with two plates, one loaded with spring and egg rolls and the other with fried fantail shrimp. The moment she placed them on the table, Dick picked up a spring roll and took a bite. "This is delicious, Nan. I've heard you're an excellent chef. I'll come and eat here every once in a while."

"You're always welcome. Bring your friends too."

Dick went on to tell him about his move to Atlanta. He had already settled down, having bought an apartment in the Buckhead area. Today he had gone to Lake Lanier, and on his way back got off the interstate and drove through the suburbs. He was lucky to come into the Gold Wok, though he didn't expect to find Nan so easily. He said, "What a miracle. I thought I'd be a total stranger in this redneck country."

"Now you have me here. In fact, Atlanta is not a bad place. Many people from southern China feel more at home here zan in New England."

"You're kidding me-why?"

"Zer climate is very similah to their home provinces, and houses are not expensive."

"I can see that. To be honest, this is the first time in my life that I can afford a condo. There are lots of restaurants and shops in Atlanta. Quite a convenient place to live."

"Have you been to a farmers' market yet? I never saw so many fruits and vegetables before."

"No, I haven't."

"Go to zer Dekalb Farmers' Market. It's absolutely fantastic."

"Oh, I love this shrimp. Thank you, Mrs. Wu." He waved at Ping-ping, who was clipping coupons at the counter.

She replied, "I'm glad you like it. Just call me Pingping. I didn't change last name after we marry."

"Sure. Thank you, Pingping," Dick said loudly.

They all laughed, Tammie included, and then the two friends resumed their conversation. They talked about Bao Yuan, the painter-poet and editor of the journal New Lines, which was defunct now. Dick said Bao was thinking of leaving New York, though his paintings had begun to sell. Actually, he had just held a one-man show in a gallery in Soho, which turned out quite successful and sold many pieces of his work. Still, Bao felt he couldn't continue living in New York and had been looking for a job elsewhere. Nan knew that would be difficult, since that fellow spoke little English and would make no effort to learn it. It was a shame that he had lived with Wendy for almost a year and still couldn't speak a correct sentence. As people believed, the best way to learn English was to do it in bed with a native speaker, but Bao had simply wasted the opportunity. If he refused to change, there would be no way he could survive in America. "He's too smart," Nan told Dick.

"How do you mean?"

"He had good opportunities, but his mind couldn't focus. He depends too mahch on cleverness and doesn't work hard."

Dick agreed. Then, as if remembering something, he said, "Sam told me you were still writing poetry. How's it going?"

"Oh, I haven't done mahch lately, but I've kept lawts of notes. I'm still trying to figure out how to use zem."

"Do you write in Chinese or English?"

"I haven't written a lawt since I came here, to be honest."

"I remember Sam once urged you to write in English. You should try. Your English is excellent."

"I don't think I can." "Why can't you?"

"I don't know anybody who has written significant poetry in an adawpted language."

"That's not true. How about Charles Simic? He came to this country in his teens and became a marvelous poet."

"Who?"

"Charles Simic."

"I have never heard of him, but I'm going to look at his work."

" Nan, you should be bolder. Fuck the bunk that says you can't write poetry in your stepmother tongue. If nobody can, then you'd better try harder. That will put you in a unique position, to make yourself original. To tell the truth, I was quite amazed that your English has improved so much. You speak more fluently than before."

"Sanks for your advice. By zer way, what's 'bunk'?"

Dick gave a belly laugh. "You're so earnest. It means 'nonsense,' the abridged form of 'bunkum.' "

"I see," Nan said, not knowing that word either. His lips stirred as if he were tasting his own words and reluctant to let them out.

After three o'clock some customers came in, so Dick took his leave. He and Nan exchanged phone numbers, and he promised to come again.

₈

DICK'S presence changed Nan 's life somewhat. Every week the poet would come to eat at the Gold Wok at least once. Nan always did his best in cooking whatever he ordered, and together they'd talk about news, poetry, books, movies, and Buddhism. Nan didn't know much about the religion, while Dick had been studying a bilingual volume of the Lotus Sutra. He would bring along the book and ask Nan about the meanings of some Chinese phrases that he suspected might have been corrupted through the translation, though he respected the group of translators named Silent Tongues.

Nan was happy whenever Dick came. He admired his carefree manner, his devotion to poetry, and his seriousness about meditation. But Nan wouldn't try to write in English as Dick had advised, mainly because he was exhausted by his daily work, unable to gather his strength for such an endeavor. He was still unnerved by the lingering impact of the recession, which had lately forced another shop at the plaza out of business. The past summer his restaurant had made only $1,000 a month, and the Wus had had to withdraw money from their savings account to pay bills. Tammie had made much less than before too and complained a lot. Nan encouraged her to look for a more lucrative job elsewhere if she wanted, but she said things would come around, and she stayed. For that he was grateful. Although more people came to eat after the summer, the business wasn't as good as it should have been. Pingping had asked Janet to let her make more necklaces and earrings, but the jewelry store was faltering too and couldn't stock more inventory at the moment. What disconcerted the Wus most was that if someday they couldn't come up with $1,000 for Mr. Wolfe at the end of a month, they might lose their home. The fear made them more determined to pay off the mortgage as early as possible. After that, even if their restaurant didn't make enough, they could still have their home intact and manage to tide themselves over. Nan regretted having mailed Mr. Wolfe $1,500 a month for half a year. From now on he would send him exactly $1,000 each month and deposit more money in the bank. Once they saved enough cash, they would clear the mortgage with a lump sum. This way he could always have some savings for a rainy day.

Whenever Dick was around, Tammie was noticeably excited. She seemed very fond of him. Usually she was reticent, but with Dick she'd become voluble, explaining to him how the dishes were made and plying him with questions about his family, his students, and his writing. Dick would take the opportunity to learn some Chinese words from her. He'd laugh casually even though he was aware of her glad eyes. Seeing the change in Tammie, Pingping would shake her head, believing the waitress was too easily smitten with that man. But she didn't know how to broach the subject with Tammie, who sometimes still avoided speaking to her.

After Dick left, Tammie would ask Nan questions about that red-faced man. How did they meet? Where did his folks live? Had he had a lot of friends in New York? Had he always been so funny and upbeat? Wasn't it amazing that he had already become a big professor and published two books even though he couldn't be older than thirty-five?

Nan felt for Tammie, knowing what it was like when you fell for somebody, which often made you silly and act out of character. Love could be an addiction, if not a sickness. Nan and Pingping talked between themselves about Tammie's infatuation and knew the poor woman might get hurt. So one day Nan told her bluntly, "Actually Dick is gay."

"You mean, he doesn't like women?" She looked at him in disbelief, her large eyes glittering.

"Yes. I saw him wiz some men in New York. Most of his friends were gay."

"That's awful!"

"I'm afraid he may catch diseases if he isn't careful wiz too many boyfriends."

"He looks very healthy, though."

"Yes, I was just sinking aloud. He knows how to protect himself. Don't make too much of what I said."

For the rest of the day Tammie looked absentminded and remained quiet. Nan felt sorry for her, but it was better to stop her from daydreaming before she got hurt. Afterward, when Dick showed up, Tammie was no longer as vivacious as before.

₉

"MOM, can you drive me to school tomorrow morning?" asked Taotao one afternoon the moment he stepped into the restaurant, carrying his heavy book bag on his back. Today he should have gotten off at Marsh Drive and stayed home, doing his homework.

"Why can't you take the bus?" his mother said.

"I don't want to."

"How come?"

"I don't like the bus anymore."

His parents knew there must be some reason he wouldn't say, so they demanded that he be forthcoming about it. Pressed time and again, Taotao confessed that he was afraid of two boys, Sean and Matt, who would twist his ears and pull his nose whenever they saw him on the school bus.

"Why do they do that?" asked his father.

"They're just assholes and won't stop bugging others."

"Then why not ignore them?"

"No," his mother interrupted. "He can't let others bully him like that."

"Mom, they do it to everyone." "Then why aren't the others scared?" "I'm new here."

"That's not an excuse. You have taken that bus for more than a year. I won't drive you, and you must help yourself."

The boy looked crushed, his mouth compressed and his eyes brimming with tears. His father told him, "You have to fight back by yourself."

His mother went on, "Do you want me to go with you on the bus tomorrow? I'll question the squirts and find out why they keep picking on you."

"No, Mom! I don't want you to do that. You'll make me look like a crybaby. "

"Then you'll have to confront them by yourself. From tomorrow on, when they pull your ears, you do the same to them."

"But you mustn't fight with them," added his father. "Just show them that you're not afraid. Understood?"

The boy didn't reply and began sniveling. Tammie came over, patted Pingping's upper arm, and pointed at two customers waiting at the counter. Pingping went up to them while Nan returned to the kitchen to cook the takeout they ordered.

Tammie stroked the boy's hair. "What's wrong, Taotao?" she asked.

"Everybody's so mean to me."

"Your parents just want to help you. Your mommy teaches you every day. Whose mommy does that? Come, be a big boy and stop crying."

Taotao made no reply. Tammie had overheard their exchange just now, so she went on, "You should listen to your parents. If you're afraid of those hoodlums, they'll bully you without a stop."

The next morning, on the school bus, Sean, whose father had just walked out on his mother, sat next to Taotao. Sean elbowed him whenever the bus turned, then flashed a grin fortified by a mouthful of braces, but Taotao ignored him and kept looking at his own new Velcro sneakers his mother had just bought for him at a rummage sale. Then Sean grabbed hold of Taotao's earlobe and twisted it. "Cute little thing," he said, pulling hard.

"Knock it off!" Taotao gave him a shove in the chest.

"Have a problem, munchkin?" Sean pushed him back and again cracked a metallic grin.

At that word Taotao was suddenly possessed by a fit of rage. "Don't call me that!" He punched Sean squarely in the cheek.

"Ow! You smashed my face, man! You made my gums bleed." Sean bent over and muffled his voice with his palm, and bloody saliva was oozing out between his fingers.

Matt, a red-haired fifth grader, jumped in, "Taotao, you crazy jerk! He was just having a bit of fun with you." "I've had enough of his shit!"

In fact, Taotao hadn't hit Sean that hard, but the braces had stabbed his cheek from inside and made it bleed. At the sight of the bloody drool, Taotao shivered, his heart kicking.

Mrs. Dunton stopped the bus and came over. "You did this to him?" she asked Taotao in a severe voice, her lipless mouth displaying her tiny teeth.

"He twisted my ears every day. Just now he called me names."

"I just said 'munchkin,' " Sean wailed, sniffing back some snot.

"But you pulled my ear."

Indeed, Taotao's earlobe was still red. Knowing Sean was a troublemaker, Mrs. Dunton just fished out a piece of tissue and handed it to him. "Here, wipe your face. You two will have a lot of explaining to do in the principal's office."

Taotao was criticized by the vice principal, the bearded Mr. Haber-man, who also wrote a letter to his parents, urging them to talk to their son and take steps to stop this kind of violence. Nan was disturbed and promptly wrote back to apologize and assure the school that Taotao wouldn't commit such an act again. He also agreed to let the boy meet with Mrs. Benson, a counselor at school, whom Sean must see as well. Nan blamed Pingping for encouraging their son to fight, but she wouldn't listen to him, saying, "I'm already a frightened mouse in this country. We don't need another wimp in our family. I'd rather disown him than have him intimidated by those little bullies."

Nan didn't argue with her, knowing he couldn't make her change her mind, but he talked with their son, who promised not to fight with his hands again.

In reality there was no need for Taotao to keep his word-Sean and Matt left him alone thereafter. For several days smaller boys dared not sit close to Taotao, who was known as a tough kid. But soon they forgot about the fight and accepted him as one of them.

Despite her hard words, Pingping had been worried about the incident. She told Janet about Taotao's violent act. To her surprise, her friend assured her, "No big deal. As long as they don't bother him again, this is over. In a way, Taotao did the right thing. What else could he do to stop them? You should be proud of him. My brother once was bullied by a bigger boy in our neighborhood, and my mother wouldn't let him in unless he went to fight with the boy on the street."

"How is your brother now?"

"He's doing fine. He's a financial planner in North Carolina, making tons of money." Janet smiled, her upper lip shaded by blond fuzz.

Pingping didn't reveal Janet's opinion to her husband, unsure whether Janet was just partial to Taotao. She knew the Mitchells adored the boy.

₁₀

AFTER mid-October business turned brisk at the Gold Wok. Because Pingping no longer had time to go home and check on Tao-tao in the evenings, she made him stay in the restaurant after dinner, doing homework and waiting for his parents to close up. At school, his classmates had been talking about Halloween. He was quiet about it, knowing he wouldn't be able to go trick-or-treating as he had done back in Massachusetts. His parents did ask him whether he wanted a costume, but he said he wasn't interested.

Pingping bought two large pumpkins and placed them at the front door of their house. Taotao hollowed them out and carved the jack-o'-lanterns, but didn't put a candle inside. Across the street, in Alan's yard, a pear tree was laden with dozens of tiny pumpkins, all made of plush and wearing a painted smile. Whenever a breeze blew, those orange-yellow fruit, resembling giant apples, would jerk and bob incessantly.

On Halloween Eve, just after dark, Pingping and Taotao returned home, carried out a folding table, and set it up in their driveway, near the carport. On it they put a lamp and three baskets of candies: peanut butter cups, toffees, and egg-shaped chocolates. Since they had to go back to the restaurant, they Scotch-taped to the tabletop a sign, an oblong of cardboard, which said PLEASE LEAVE SOME FOR OTHERS!

There were a lot of customers at the Gold Wok that evening, and Taotao looked unhappy and restless, even though his parents allowed him to watch TV in the storage room. Toward nine o'clock, Janet came and said to Pingping, "I waited for Taotao at home, but he didn't show up. We prepared lots of goodies for kids. You should've let him join others to trick-or-treat in our neighborhood."

"Your house is too far away," said Pingping.

"Fiddlesticks, it's just a five-minute drive."

"Taotao has homework to do."

"Oh, Pingping, it's Halloween. Let him go out and have some fun."

"He can't go by himself. We are busy now."

"I can take him around to get some candies. Do you mind?"

"Of course not, but is not late?"

"Not really."

Pingping went to the storage room and called to Taotao. The boy was more than happy to leave with Janet, but he needed a getup. "I can't wear this," he said to his mother, pointing at his green V-neck.

"I ask whether you want special clothing, you said no. You can't blame me now."

"Don't worry," Janet stepped in. "We have a vampire mask at home. You can use that."

"I love that humongous thing!" The boy had seen that grotesque face hanging in the Mitchells' game room.

"Oh yeah?" Janet said. "You can wear that. I'll figure out what to put on myself."

Nan told his son to come home soon, which Taotao promised to do. After Janet and the boy left, Nan, Pingping, and Tammie went about wiping the tables and mopping the floor, though there were still six customers eating in the room.

When they had closed up, they set out for home without delay. It was a clear night, and the stars seemed less distant than usual. In the air lingered a smell of burned grass and wood. On the street across the lake, flashlights were flickering, and groups of children in ghostly garb were still walking back and forth, some accompanied by dogs and grown-ups. There was also a lantern bobbing in the distance like a will-o'-the-wisp. Merry cries and laughter surged up now and again.

In the Wus' driveway the lamp was still on. To Pingping and Nan 's surprise, none of the baskets on the table was empty, all still half full. Into the original chocolates, toffees, and peanut butter cups were mixed some other kinds of goodies-3 Musketeers, gumballs, peppermint patties, jellybeans, M amp;M's. There was also a red apple half buried in the candies. Both Nan and Pingping burst into laughter, amazed that the children were so innocent that they'd thought the sign begged them to leave some of their own spoils for others. The Wus were touched. Nan said thoughtfully, "If this were in China, the lamp, the extension cord, the baskets, the pumpkins, and even the table would be gone, much less the sweets." "That's true," agreed Pingping.

As they were speaking, a bunch of Ninja Turtles, each wearing a plastic carapace, appeared down the street, jabbering and capering. Nan cupped his hands around his mouth and cried at them, "Hey, do you want more candies?"

"Sure we do," a girl trilled back.

Immediately Pingping removed one of the baskets and placed it under their Ford parked in the carport. She wanted to save it for Tao-tao. The children raced over, brandishing their rubber swords, their capes fluttering.

A boy asked the Wus, "How many can we have?"

"As many you want," said Pingping.

In no time the children pocketed and bagged all the goodies from the two baskets, then headed away for the next lighted house.

Nan turned, enfolded Pingping with one arm, and kissed her on the cheek. Surprised, she asked with a smile, "What's that about?"

"I'm happy. If only we had once lived like those kids."

₁₁

EVER SINCE they'd bought the restaurant, Nan and Pingping had been thinking of finding a legal guardian for Taotao. If they both died, they wanted their son to be safe and raised with care and love. They thought about a few Chinese couples they had known in the North, but none of them were suitable, mainly because those people already had children and might not treat Taotao like their own. If only they had a family member or relative in America. After long consideration, they decided to ask the Mitchells to be Taotao's guardians in case they both departed this life. Dave and Janet were good-hearted and financially secure. More important, they were fond of children and could give Taotao a loving home.

When Nan and Pingping mentioned this to Janet, Janet was amazed, her eyes aglow. She said, "We'll be more than happy to be his guardians."

"What we do and make this legal?" asked Pingping.

"We should see an attorney perhaps, if you want to spell it out on paper. Dave will be thrilled to hear this."

So on the first Monday morning of December the two couples arrived at the Shang Law Office in Chinatown. Mr. Shang had just undergone eye surgery and was wearing a green eyeshade, which somehow reminded Nan of a photograph of James Joyce. The Wus reiterated to him their intention-they wanted the Mitchells to keep their son and property if they both died. Mr. Shang said, "That's a good idea. You belong to the propertied class now." Three days earlier Nan had called and given him all the names and information needed for the agreement, so he assumed that the paperwork was already done.

Mr. Shang switched to Mandarin and asked Nan with a scratchy accent, "You want them to have your restaurant and home too?" His good eye glanced sideways at the Mitchells sitting on a sofa near his desk while his mouth went awry, revealing a gold-capped tooth. Dave was gazing at the attorney, his top lip twitching, as if he was irritated by being excluded.

"Yes. If they take care of our son, they should inherit everything we have," said Nan.

Mr. Shang reverted to English. "I understand. Just double-check."

"They're good couple," Pingping put in. "We know them long time. They're our friend."

"I'm not sure you've known them long enough." Mr. Shang wagged his head.

"We don't have any family or relative in America," Nan explained.

"You don't have a Chinese friend you can trust your boy to?" "Not really."

"How sad! You're truly a marginal man. It seems to me that your white friends may not be suitable for your son. Everybody can tell he's adopted by them, not their own."

"We don't mind that."

"All right, all right, I'll do what you want. I just meant to make sure you were fully aware of all the consequences." Mr. Shang turned away to prepare the agreement on a computer below a small window. He had already written a draft and was typing it out. The gray screen of the monitor was flickering as he punched away at the keyboard. From time to time he combed his thin hair with his slim fingers. Beside the computer stood a can of Sprite, which he lifted to his mouth time and again. The Wus were seated on the sofa across from the Mitchells. Nan felt embarrassed that the lawyer had spoken Chinese with them just now, so he explained in a low voice to their friends what they had talked about. He said that Mr. Shang thought people would easily tell that Taotao was an adopted child if he ended up in Janet and Dave's care, but Nan and Pingping had told the lawyer they wouldn't mind that because the Mitchells were their friends and very fond of their son.

As the conversation went on, the four of them talked about where Taotao should go to college when he grew up. "MIT is the best," Dave claimed firmly.

Nan didn't argue, but he'd prefer his son to have a liberal arts education.

From college they switched to the topic of life insurance, which Nan and Pingping didn't know how to buy. Neither did they see why they should get it. What was the point in having a lot of money if one of them died? Money, if you couldn't enjoy spending it, wouldn't buy you happiness. Unlike them, Janet had bought some insurance on Dave.

Mr. Shang returned to his desk, holding two printed sheets. He handed the couples each a copy, saying, "You should all read this." Nan looked through the paper, which stated:

We, Nan Wu and Pingping Liu, of 568 Marsh Drive, Lilburn, Gwinnett County, Georgia, hereby agree to let Janet and David Mitchell, of 52 Breezewood Circle, Lilburn, Gwinnett County, Georgia, be our son Taotao Wu's legal guardians if we both shall die before Taotao Wu reaches the age of eighteen. We nominate Janet and David Mitchell to be our Executor and Executrix. We direct them to pay our legal debts, funeral expenses, and the expenses of administering our estate after our decease and to charge said expenses to the residue. We give Janet and David Mitchell all the rest and remainder of our estate, both real and personal, of whatever name, kind and nature, provided they remain a married couple. The Mitchells shall be obligated to raise Taotao Wu with love and care and to finance his college education.

This agreement is composed in the presence of both parties and cosigned by both willingly. It shall not take effect unless the decease of Nan Wu and Pingping Liu occurs before Taotao Wu is eighteen.

"It's pretty good," Nan said, then handed it to Pingping. Meanwhile, the Mitchells were reading their copy too. Both couples agreed about the wording, so they all signed on the agreement in the presence of two young women Mr. Shang had called in from the store as witnesses.

With some deliberation the attorney unscrewed the cap of his chunky fountain pen and with a flourish wrote out his name on all the three copies, then notarized them. He said to Nan, "Eighty dollars."

Nan gave him four twenties. Mr. Shang handed a page to the Mitchells and another to the Wus, and kept one for his records. "Well, I hope nobody will ever use this piece of paper," he said, and screwed up his good eye.

"We do too," Dave said, then laughed, tapping his balding crown with his fingertips. His wife and the Wus all smiled.

Once they stepped out of the office, Janet asked Pingping, "Why is the procedure so simple?"

"What you mean?"

"If you went to an American attorney, he'd spend hours going through many things with you and would charge you hundreds of dollars."

"That's why I said we go to Mr. Shang. He isn't good man, but he always make things simple for people and give what you want."

Nan put in, "Actually, he's an American lawyer and graduated from a law school in L.A. But he often does business in zer Chinese way. Besides, he doesn't charge a lot."

"Well," Janet said, "he certainly doesn't write like an attorney- I mean, his English isn't full of gobbledygook, like lots of 'thereofs' or 'theretos.' "

"He has to make zer language simple enough for his Chinese cah-stomers to understand."

"Are lawyers in China like him?"

Pingping answered, "Before we come to America, we never use lawyer. I never knew lawyer in my life." "True, me eizer," Nan chimed in. "You mean, people don't sue each other?"

"Very rarely they went to court," Nan said. "Zer Party leaders, awf-ficials, and street committees controlled your life, so you didn't need a lawyer."

"How about now? Are things the same?" Dave piped up. "I heard there are some lawyers, but they can't reelly be independent of politics. Zer law often changes."

Dave observed thoughtfully, "I'm amazed that Mr. Shang doesn't even use a secretary."

"He has one, but she works only part-time," Nan said.

After their visit to the attorney, Janet and Pingping grew closer, though Dave came to the Gold Wok less often, having to put in more hours at work. The Mitchells bought Taotao a joystick to go with his computer, which enabled him to play more games. Nan felt rather relieved, certain that Taotao would be happy and safe with Dave and Janet if Pingping and he both died.

₁₂

NAN honestly thought Dick was a homosexual, but one evening in mid-January his friend came with a young blonde who looked like a graduate student. Dick introduced her to Nan and Pingping, saying, "This is Eleanor."

The woman, wearing jeans, was tall and quite masculine, with a long waist. In a southern drawl she said to Nan, "Dick talks a lot about you. He said you're a fabulous chef." She smiled, the beauty mark above the corner of her mouth moving sideways.

"Welcahm." Nan was glad that his friend had mentioned him that way.

After they sat down, Tammie came over and plunked a stainless-steel teapot on the table. "What do you want to order?" she asked in a disgruntled voice. Pingping took alarm and glanced at her from the counter.

"How are you doing today?" Dick grinned, then pointed at Eleanor while saying in his toneless Mandarin, "She's my girlfriend."

"Do you want to order now?" Tammie asked without raising her eyes.

Though discomfited by the waitress's sudden temper, Dick turned to Eleanor. "What would you like?" "How about moo shu?" "It's great, but it'll take a long time to make." "Shoot, I have to be at the Manleys' at eight." "Then let's have something else."

"You said they served shark here. Why isn't it on the menu?" " Nan cooks it only for friends."

"Can we have that? I've eaten shark only once in my entire life." "Tammie, do you know if Nan can make that for us?" "I'm not sure."

"Then I'll go ask him." Dick also ordered fried wontons for an appetizer, watercress soup, and Five-Spice Beef. In addition, they each wanted a beer, he a Tsingtao and Eleanor a Miller Lite.

Nan had learned how to stir-fry and steam shark from Mr. Wang, though he hadn't printed this dish on the menu for fear that some children, if they knew the restaurant offered shark, might dissuade their parents from dining there. In fact, Mr. Wang had once included this specialty on his menu, but several kids talked to him about all the virtues of the fish, and still the old man wouldn't give up serving the dish. As a consequence, the kids made some people boycott the shark-serving Gold Wok. Soon Mr. Wang stopped offering this dish and mailed his new sharkless menu to hundreds of households in the area.

Dick went into the kitchen and asked Nan, "Can you cook shark for us today?"

"Sure, we have some fresh steaks. Boy, you're quick-you got a girlfriend the moment you started teaching here."

"I should learn more about southern women, shouldn't I? Actually, Eleanor is a Ph.D. student in my department."

"Well, zat's not very professional. You're not supposed to date your student." Nan winked at him while tossing bok choy and shrimp in a wok.

"That's why I should make her happy. Cook a big shark for us, will you?"

"Stir-fry or steam?" "Stir-fry."

"I'll get it ready in fifteen minutes."

As soon as Dick went out of the kitchen, Pingping came in and talked with Nan about the way Tammie was treating the couple. They guessed the waitress might be jealous; still, she shouldn't have been rude to the customers. To forestall trouble, Nan suggested that Pingping take over that table. If Dick had been here alone, he could have smoothed things over by chatting with him himself every now and again, but today Dick had a lady friend with him. Eleanor seemed at ease and even swigged beer directly from Dick's bottle. They must already have shared a lot together, so Nan wouldn't go over and interrupt them.

He felt relieved that Tammie was pleased with Pingping's help; she already had her hands full, waiting on the other tables and booths. Yet the waitress couldn't stop throwing glances in the direction of Dick and Eleanor. Her eyes were shining and her face flushed.

Done with dinner, Dick left a five for tip, which Pingping let Tam-mie take. When they were cleaning up before they closed, Nan said to the waitress, "Tammie, why do you look so unhappy today?" He spoke just as a way to start conversation, as he assumed he knew the reason for her sullenness.

"I dunno," she said.

"You should have tritted Dick and his girlfriend better."

She glared at him and asked, "Why did you say he was gay?"

Nan was taken aback as he remembered their conversation from long ago. He still believed Dick might be a homosexual, but was unsure how to explain, so he said, "I had no idea he had a girlfriend. I asked him just now, and he said he wanted to know more about souzzern women."

"Then how could he be gay?"

"Zis is beyond me too."

"I know you think I'm cheap and silly. You too, Pingping, always take me to be a fool."

"Not true, we never think that way," Pingping protested. "Don't deny it! If not, why did Nan lie to me?" "I didn't lie to you," said Nan. "You told me Dick was gay."

"I saw him wiz some men in New York. I still sink he might be a homosexual."

"Then why was he with that snake-hipped woman?"

"Maybe he likes women too. How can I tell? I didn't know him zat well before he came to Atlanta."

"You lied to me, because you thought I lost my head about him. Let me tell you, I don't care a damn about what he is. I just have enough of your tricks."

"Please, Tammie, don't explode like zis. You reelly misunderstood my intention."

"Good night." She plopped the mop behind the kitchen door and picked up her shoulder bag. Without turning her fluffy head she tore out toward her car.

The next day Tammie didn't show up. Nan and Pingping were worried and called her, but nobody picked up the phone. She didn't have an answering machine. The Wus were at a loss. There wasn't a lot of business at the moment, and even without Tammie they could manage. But the understaffed situation mustn't continue, because Pingping couldn't possibly work as both the cashier and waitress for long. A few days in a row Nan called Tammie, to no avail. If he had known where she lived, he would have gone to her apartment and begged her to return, but there was simply no way to get hold of her. Once her roommate answered the phone and promised to pass Nan 's message on to her, but Tammie never called back.

₁₃

TAMMIE'S walkout upset Nan and Pingping. A week later they heard that she had started waitressing at Grand Buddha in Decatur; obviously she was making more money there. That Chinese restaurant was owned by a Korean family and had a full bar and more than forty tables. Now that Tammie was gone for good, Nan began looking for a new waitress. A few women showed interest, but he didn't hire any of them because they were all college students and might not stay long. He couldn't afford to have a disruption again and preferred to use someone who depended more on such a job.

Then the idea came to him that he could call Ding's Dumplings in New York and see whether somebody there might be willing to come to Atlanta and work for him. He knew that many Chinese had left the Northeast for the South because life here was comfortable and more affordable. Also, the staff at Ding's Dumplings viewed that restaurant as a transit place and would move elsewhere once they had enough work experience. Nan called New York one afternoon, and Yafang Gao happened to answer the phone. "How have you been?" he asked her. "I thought you had left Ding's Dumplings."

"I'm fine. I'm the hostess now."

"Congratulations! You're in charge there?"

"Basically."

Nan went on to describe his need for a waitress and the kind of money that person could make at the Gold Wok, at least two hundred dollars a week, cash, if the business was good. He told her that rent here was very low compared with New York.

"Maybe I should come," Yafang said in a joking voice, which surprised Nan.

"No, I can't pay the kind of wages you're pulling in." He knew that as the hostess she was paid by the hour. Besides, her work at Ding's Dumplings was less demanding.

"Here's the deal-I'll come if you divorce your wife." She giggled.

She sounded like a different person now, flirtatious and carefree, no longer the timid young woman tricked into an adult movie theater and then into bed by Heng Chen, that desperate man. She must be a capable hostess at Ding's Dumplings.

It happened that Yafang had a distant cousin studying somewhere in Georgia (she wasn't sure at which school), whose wife had just come to America from Jiangsu Province. Yafang wondered if his wife might be interested in the job, and gave Nan the phone number.

Then Nan inquired about his former fellow workers and acquaintances in New York. Yafang told him that David Kellman and Maiyu had married last spring, that Chinchin had gone to nursing school at the University of Connecticut, and that Aimin had started a snack shop with her cousin in Flushing.

"How about Heng Chen?" Nan paused. "Sorry, I shouldn't have brought up his name."

"That wretch has returned to China." She sounded flat and unemotional.

"Really? What happened to him?"

"He couldn't make it here. Such a loser."

"He got into trouble?"

"No, he had to go back. Maiyu said he was sick of America and he had come just to make money."

"He must've taken back a fortune with him."

"Not at all. He didn't even have enough money to buy gifts for his parents and relatives, so he sold a kidney."

"What? Is that true?"

"Why should I lie to you?" She sounded a little cheerful now. " How much did he get for his kidney?" "Twenty-five thousand dollars."

"I knew his parents often demanded he send them remittances, but I couldn't imagine he'd sell his own organ."

"He's a typical 'small man' and couldn't survive in America. A born coward."

"Still, it must've taken a lot of guts to sell a kidney." Yafang cackled. " Nan, you haven't lost your sense of deadpan humor."

Her remark puzzled Nan, who hadn't meant to be funny at all. In fact, the conversation saddened him. However, the relative she had mentioned turned out to be helpful. Yafang's cousin, Shubo Gao, happened to be a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Georgia and lived near Lawrenceville. He answered Nan's call and let his wife, Niyan, speak with Nan. She was very eager to take the job and said she was tired of living idly at home. The next day she came to the Gold Wok, accompanied by her husband. Pingping liked Niyan, who was in her late twenties and quite good-looking, with a button nose, long-lashed eyes, and an oval face. So the Wus hired her and she started to work two days later. Niyan knew English, though she sounded as if she were giving a spiel when she spoke to customers, making little distinction between the long and the short vowels. But the Wus were pleased to have her, and things were normal again at the Gold Wok.

For days Nan thought about the phrase Yafang had used on the phone-"small man"-which was a faddish term that appeared in the Chinese-language newspapers and magazines published in the diaspora. It had been coined a few months earlier by a woman in a scathing article entitled "Let Us Condemn Small Men." She criticized some male Chinese immigrants who, having encased themselves in the past, made no effort to blend into American society. According to her, these "spineless men," unable to adapt to the life here, would vent their spleen on their wives and girlfriends and blame America for their own failure. Under the pretext of patriotism and preserving Chinese culture, they'd refuse to learn anything from other cultures. To them, even American salt was not as salty as Chinese salt. All they knew about America was strip bars, casinos, prostitutes, MBAs, CEOs; they had no friends of other races and refused to learn English. They were like crabs trapped in a vat, striving against one another, but none could get out of it. Some of them, who had lived in this country for more than a decade, still couldn't understand movies like Rain Man, Dances with Wolves, and Peter Pan. They had never visited a museum, and neither would they travel to see Europe or Latin America. They didn't know how many innings a baseball game had. They had no idea who Elvis Presley was, not to mention an appreciation of his music; they couldn't tell jazz from rock, or country from gospel; whenever they got homesick, they'd sing revolutionary songs, and their number one choice was "The Internationale." Still, they believed they were geniuses hamstrung by misfortunes and stunted by the emigration, as if there were no other people in the world who suffered more than they. By nature most Chinese women in America didn't aspire to be strong women, but their small men forced them to be more responsible and play the role of both wife and husband. It was common sense that when yang was weak, yin would have to grow stronger and prevail. "These small men can be a scourge of your bodies and minds," the author concluded. "Sisters, let us shun them if we cannot change or get rid of them."

Since the publication of that vociferous article in the Global Weekly, there had been heated discussion of the topic. A lot of men were outraged, saying the author, as a compatriot of theirs, should at least have some sympathy for them. They had already been mentally dwarfed and socially handicapped by living in America and by the tremendous struggle they had to wage for survival, so they didn't need her sort of twaddle, which just gave them more stress. Several meetings were held in American and Australian cities to debate the author's views. Many men wrote articles condemning her as a traitor, "a mere banana"-yellow on the outside and white on the inside.

Nan had seen that some of the men had indeed grown feeble and trivial, yet they were all the more megalomaniac. As for himself, he felt he was a better man than before. On the other hand, he knew that most of the labeled men were lonely souls who suffered intensely here. It was said that if a foreigner or immigrant lived in America for five years without family or close friends, the person would develop emotional problems. If one lived here for ten years isolated like that, one would have a mental disorder.

Nowadays it was commonplace for a woman to insult a Chinese man by calling him a "small man." That meant the fellow was a hopeless loser all women should hold in contempt.

₁₄

JANET came and told Pingping that Dave and she had decided to adopt a baby, but that they'd have to wait three or four months before they could get a definite answer from the orphanage in Nanjing. The waiting list was long because lately a lot of American couples had begun to adopt Chinese babies and thus overwhelmed the adoption system there. In the Mitchells' case, Janet and Dave weren't sure whether they should continue to work with their agent or find another way to get a baby sooner. Janet asked Pingping, "Do you have a friend or relative who lives in Nanjing or nearby?"

"I have a cousin in Nantong, in same province. But we are never close because he betray my father in Cultural Revolution to protect himself. He just want to join Communist Party. Why you ask?"

"Dave and I wonder if we can find someone in China who can help us adopt a baby quickly. The regular process will take forever."

"I can ask my cousin, but I don't trust him. Let Nan and I think about this, okay?"

"Sure. If you can help us find some inside connections, that'll make the whole thing easier."

Nan put in, "How much does an agent cawst?"

"Ten thousand at most. We paid three thousand up front."

"If I were you, I'd use zee agent instead of depending on personal pull, as long as your agent has a good reputation."

"Why? Don't most people use personal connections to get things done in China?"

"Yes, but you may end up paying more zan you pay zee agent, and there will be endless anxiety. Any petty awfficial can interfere and create trahble for you. Zee awfficial world in China is like a black hole, and few people can keep their bearings once they're sucked into it. Besides, your connections in China will have to bribe awffi-cials at every turn. You will pay for zer horrendous bribes, right?"

"I guess so. But we've been thinking of doing this both ways, using our agent and the inside connections at the same time."

"No, you should rely on your agent only."

" Nan has point," Pingping said. "There's a lotta trouble if you involve officials."

So the Mitchells continued working with a Chinese American woman based in San Francisco, who had successfully helped dozens of families adopt babies. Janet showed the agency's literature to Pingping and Nan, who both felt the woman was trustworthy. Ping-ping even talked to her on behalf of the Mitchells, saying they had been her friends for a long time and were a reliable, loving couple, who had just built their dream home, a big Victorian house in an affluent neighborhood. She also mentioned they would become Tao-tao's guardians should she and her husband die by accident. The agent, named Ruhua, was impressed and said in her Mandarin roughened by Cantonese, "Thank you for the information. That's very helpful. I'm going to schedule a home study of the Mitchells."

"You mean you'll come here?"

"Oh no, I'll contact a local person, a certified social worker, who will go interview Dave and Janet and make sure they're a responsible couple and financially capable of supporting a child. Also, they must have no history of child abuse and substance abuse. Both the INS and the Chinese side demand the information."

"I see."

Ruhua promised to try her best to help the Mitchells. At the request of Janet, Pingping wrote a reference letter for her and Dave, stating that they were virtuous, dependable, and compassionate. Nan put it into English because Ruhua wanted the translation attached to the original. Even though she could speak Mandarin fluently, the agent couldn't read the written characters. The Mitchells needed two more letters, and Janet asked another friend of hers and Susie, the salesgirl working at her jewelry store, to provide the other references.

₁₅

THE SURFACE of the lake was glittering in the morning sunshine. In spite of the wintry weather, a flock of mallards was paddling in the water, which had grown drab due to the absence of green foliage. Nan had once liked observing the Canada geese, but he couldn't tolerate them anymore. To him they were robbers and gluttons. Whenever they came into the yard, they'd graze on the grass, each guarding an area for itself. If one of them wandered into another's territory, the other goose or gander would lunge at the trespasser with flapping wings, a stretched neck, and an open beak emitting ugly hisses. The lakeside was already naked, the grass eaten up by the waterfowl. Since the fall, the Wus' back lawn had been dwindling. The geese would browse closer and closer to the house. Sometimes they would even come below the deck, pulling and jabbing at the grass without pause. Pingping would chase them away whenever she saw them coming too close, but they'd soon return and resume grazing on the sward, always tearing the tender shoots first.

At the beginning of the previous spring, Pingping had planted some garlic and scallions in the semicircles formed by the monkey grass, but a few days after the sprouts pierced the loam, the geese had pulled them up and eaten them all. The backyard could have been cultivated into a vegetable garden, but the piggish waterfowl would have devoured all the seedlings.

To Nan 's amazement, when the sweltering summer set in, the geese didn't leave for the North as they were supposed to do. Instead, they perched in the shady bushes on the other shore and came out only in the evenings and early mornings. The families living on the lake fed them, mostly bread and popcorn, so there was always plenty of food for them. Nan realized that these Canada geese had grown fat, lazy, and comfortable, no longer possessed of the instinct for migration.

That thought irked him, and a trace of disdain crept over his face. Just for easy food, the geese had chosen to live a riskless, stranded life. Nan noticed that seldom would they fly off to another body of water nearby. To the north, just ten miles away, there spread Lake Lanier, which abounded in fish and algae. It was reported that a catfish named Little Bobbie, weighing at least eight hundred pounds, lived in there, and every fall the radio would urge people to go catch him so that the captor could win a million dollars at the catfish derby. What's more, that lake's water was clean and vast, but these Canada geese wouldn't go there and confined themselves to this pond as long as food was offered to them. They had grown heavy and clumsy, yet their appetite remained gluttonous, as if they were no longer wild birds that were supposed to spend a part of their lives in the air.

"What losers! These geese live like millionaires," Nan would say to his wife whenever he saw them paddling in the water.

Pingping would smile, saying he was just an angry man. Why couldn't he let the birds have an easy life? What was wrong with their inhabiting this lake?

"Nobody should feed them from now on," Nan continued. "Totally spoiled, they've lost their animal instinct. No wonder they're so fat."

"By nature, who doesn't like comfort and ease?" asked his wife.

"But they've lost their wild spirit."

"Why are you so serious about them?"

"They're not supposed to live like domestic fowls."

"You act as if they're humans. Bear in mind that they're just geese. "

"We mustn't feed them anymore."

In spite of his complaints and disdain, he still brought back leftovers for the waterfowl. The geese and mallards liked the Wus' backyard so much that a few ducks even nested in the thick monkey grass near the waterside.

Over the railing of the deck a bird feeder, caged in steel wire, hung on a goosenecked steel bar. The Wus had once used another feeder made of a white plastic tube, a gift Janet had given Taotao the spring before. The Mitchells also loved birds, and they had six feeders around their house. In the summer the Wus had often brought home leftover rice and noodles for the waterfowl and birds. All species of them would come: blackbirds, jays, cardinals, robins, golden finches, orioles, and even crows. Sometimes so many of them landed in the lawn that the grass changed color, and the Wus' deck was always scattered with bird droppings. Among the birds, cardinals seemed the most stupid, especially the females, who often merely searched the ground for seeds dropped by the males eating at the feeder. In the oak trees in the backyard lived two families of squirrels. Acorns were plentiful, so there was no need to feed them; yet the squirrels would come to steal the bird feed.

On this winter day, before Nan set out for work, he refilled the bird feeder with sunflower seeds. He liked songbirds, which would delight his heart whenever he saw them perch on the feeder, pecking at the seeds. At first he'd treated the birds like little visitors; feeding them had given him a kind of satisfaction, like playing the role of a friendly host. But he hadn't had that frame of mind for long and had stopped feeding them for several months when it was still warm. In the beginning, he had bought seeds mixed especially for mead-owlarks, finches, warblers, tufted titmice, but every day they'd eat up a whole tube of the feed. He was baffled by their voracious appetite and switched to sunflower seeds, which were cheaper-for six dollars he could buy twenty-five pounds at Wal-Mart. Still, every morning he found the feeder empty. One day he saw a squirrel stretch upside down on the white tube, eating the seeds from the holes. He shooed it away, but the squirrels would come to attack the feeder when nobody was around. Soon the holes on the tube were ripped wider, as if the rodents had intended to eat the plastic as well. Nan bought a new feeder caged in steel wire, which the ad claimed was "indestructible by squirrels."

To his bewilderment, even this feeder still couldn't keep the seeds from disappearing at night. True, the squirrels could use their tiny hands to scoop out seeds and drop them to the ground so that they could pick them up during the day, but how could they eat so much? Every night a good four pounds of sunflower seeds would be gone.

Nan talked with Dave about this, who was also perplexed, having run into the same problem. Dave called the squirrels on his property "a pain in the ass" and had trapped a number of them and released them in the woods three miles away near Snellville (one of the critters had even managed to return to the Mitchells', according to Dave); but for Nan that was too much because he could see no point in robbing the rodents of their current habitats. Besides, there were only four of them living in his backyard. Another family of three nested in Gerald's roof, and sometimes they also came to steal bird feed.

Then one night, as Nan was reading Tu Fu's poetry, suddenly a racket broke out on the deck as if some animals were tussling with one another. He went over to take a look, but it was too dark for him to see anything nearby. Only a car was flitting noiselessly behind the trees on the opposite shore. Nan flicked on the lamp under the back eaves and found a fat raccoon crouching on the top bar of the railing. Regardless of the light, the animal went on pulling and twisting the feeder, tossing the sunflower seeds helter-skelter. Nan knocked the glass back door with his knuckles, yet the rascal wouldn't scare, its bushy ringed tail flapping and swaying while its jaws clamped the cage and kept rocking it. Nan slapped the door pane; still it wouldn't pause. Not until he rushed out with a broom did the raccoon jump off the deck and vanish into the darkness.

From that day on, Nan would bring in the feeder every night and hang it out in the morning. A tube of seeds would last three or four days now, and a lot of birds gathered on the deck and around the feeder in the daytime. Even when it rained, some of them would stay around. Nan was not pleased that they had grown lazy and plump and taken the deck as a habitat of sorts, but he still fed them.

When he mowed the lawn in the backyard he noticed that there seemed to be more and more insects jumping out and darting away, and there were also more toads, frogs, and lizards in the grass. Then one day he was frightened to see a green snake, about three feet long, slithering away to the lakeside while the lawn mower was snarling and flinging bits of grass aside. He wasn't sure if it was poisonous, but he was positive it had come into the yard to hunt for toads and lizards. The thought came to him that lizards, frogs, and toads must have gathered here because insects were teeming in the yard. The insect proliferation must have been due to the fact that the birds he fed had quit searching for food in nature and let insects multiply in the grass. As a result, more frogs and lizards frequented here, and they in turn attracted snakes.

This realization made Nan stop feeding the birds. He didn't want snakes to lurk and crawl in the backyard, even if most of them were nonpoisonous. The birds would have to catch insects from now on. As the number of toads and lizards decreased in the grass, fewer snakes came around, although sometimes Nan saw them zigzagging in the lake, their tiny heads raised above the water. They probably lived among the rocks under the short bridge in the east.

In the winter the birds had to be starving, so Nan resumed feeding them. To his dismay, not many of them showed up now; still, he kept the feeder full every day and took it back in at night.

₁₆

ONE MORNING Mrs. Wang called and begged Nan to come to her house immediately. Her husband had suffered a heart attack and had to be rushed to Gwinnett Hospital. She asked Nan to accompany her there because she wouldn't be able to understand some of the medical terms the doctors and nurses used. Nan set out after telling Pingping that if she and Niyan couldn't handle the business by themselves, they should close up for a few hours until he came back. As he was approaching the Wangs', an ambulance pulled into their driveway and two paramedics hopped out. Nan hastened his pace and caught up with the men. Mrs. Wang let the three of them in. Her husband was lying in bed, his eyes closed and his papery hand resting on his abdomen. But he was aware of the people around him and nodded as his wife told him that they were taking him to the hospital. Somehow Mr. Wang had lost his English and murmured Chinese in response to the paramedic who spoke to him while carrying him out.

In the ambulance Nan sat next to Mr. Wang, whose face was colorless and shriveled. The old man kept saying to his wife, "I'm bone tired." His lips were bluish and his white hair wet and mussed up.

Finally his wife gave way to her emotion, begging him not to leave her so suddenly. He opened his puffy eyes and murmured, "I want to go back."

" Where do you want to go?"

"Home."

"We'llgo home soon."

His mouth stirred as he tried to smile, obviously tormented by angina. He began gasping for breath again, a gurgling sound in his throat. One of the paramedics, a stocky fellow, put an oxygen mask on his face, which eased the patient's breathing within a minute. Nan wasn't sure whether by "home" the old man was referring to their house here or to Taiwan or Fujian, his native province on the mainland.

Mr. Wang was rushed into a trauma room in the ER. His wife and Nan waited outside, sitting on orange chairs. Nan told Mrs. Wang to take a nap, since she might have to stay here a whole day and should rest some now. Soon she dozed off in spite of all the activity in the lounge. Meanwhile, Nan paced the floor and regretted not having brought along a book. He inserted two nickels into a pay phone and called the Gold Wok to check on Pingping and tell her about Mr. Wang's condition, which seemed critical. His wife couldn't talk with him for long because she and Niyan were overwhelmed with work there.

About half an hour later, a young doctor with tired eyes and curly sideburns stepped out of the trauma room and said to Mrs. Wang, "He isn't doing too well."

"Please save him!" she begged.

"We're doing our best." The doctor handed his half-drained coffee cup to a nurse and returned to the patient.

"Is he on Medicare?" the nurse asked Mrs. Wang.

"Yes, here's his card." The old woman took the card out of her purse and handed it to her. The nurse gave her two forms clasped to a clipboard. Mrs. Wang didn't know how to complete them, so Nan filled them out for her.

Again she closed her eyes and tried to drop off while Nan sat there watching people milling around. His head was numb and couldn't focus on any thought, partly because he had drunk two mugs of coffee that morning to gear himself up to the work in the kitchen. An hour later, a tall nurse wearing a laminated ID badge around her neck came out and said that Mrs. Wang could now go in and see her husband. The old woman and Nan followed her into the trauma room. At the sight of them, the young doctor smiled, his eyes sparkling and his bulky nose filmed with perspiration. "Well, he's stable now," he told them. "We're going to move him into another room for observation. He can check out tomorrow if he's still stable by then. The nurse will let you know how to take care of him at home."

"Thank you, doctor," said Mrs. Wang.

"Sure. I'm going to put him on medication before we decide if he needs an angioplasty. That's a minor operation using a little balloon to clear the narrowed artery." The doctor also said he wanted Mrs. Wang to bring her husband back regularly so that he could see him on an outpatient basis.

Nan translated the doctor's words to Mrs. Wang while she nodded agreement. He was surprised that they wouldn't keep the old man in the hospital for a few days. He remembered that Uncle Zhao, his father's painter friend in China, had once suffered a minor heart attack and had been hospitalized for a good month.

Mr. Wang was lying on the bed and lifted his withered hand to wave at his wife and Nan. Color had returned to his face, and his eyes were animated again. A thin hose was still attached to his arm, and a yellow defibrillator perched beside the bed. He said almost naughtily to his tearful wife, "I thought I couldn't make it this time. Thank heaven, they brought me back."

A nurse pulled over a gurney. They moved Mr. Wang onto it and pushed him away. Nan didn't follow them to the ward, and instead told Mrs. Wang that he must go back to help Pingping and that she should call him when the old man was discharged so that he could come and drive them home. She looked a touch dismayed but didn't ask him to stay. Nan hailed a taxi and headed back to the Gold Wok.

Hearing that Mr. Wang had survived the heart attack, Pingping felt relieved. She was pleased that Nan had come back before midafter-noon; otherwise she'd have had to put Taotao, who was just ten, to work at the counter as the cashier.

Although Mr. Wang could walk around afterward, the Wangs had been shaken by his heart attack and decided to move back to Taiwan, where free medical care was available to everyone. They had thought of joining their daughter in Seattle, but her airline job there was temporary and she might be transferred elsewhere. Soon they put their house on the market, selling it for $145,000. The price had been drastically reduced, so a lot of people stopped by to look at the brick bungalow. Niyan and Shubo went there to see the property too. They loved it, especially its convenient location, but the price was still too steep for them. What's more, Shubo Gao hadn't defended his dissertation yet and might go elsewhere to take a job. Nonetheless, his wife said to Mrs. Wang, "We'll buy your house if you lop twenty thousand off the price."

"No way." The old woman shook her full head of gray hair. "We've already underpriced it for a quick sale. Ask Nan and Pingping whether we offered them the home for a hundred and fifty. That was two years ago."

Niyan and Shubo did ask Pingping, who proved that was true, so they gave up coveting the bungalow. A week later a retired couple from Illinois bought the house, and within a few days the Wangs left for good.

Their departure was a quiet affair that few people in the neighborhood noticed, but it saddened Nan and Pingping. The Wangs didn't like Taiwan that much; still, they could return to it. By contrast, the Wus, having no recourse to a place they could call home, had to put down roots here. They liked Georgia, yet they could see that life might be lonely and miserable here when they were old. They often talked to Niyan about the isolation the Wangs had experienced, but Niyan thought the old couple had asked for that kind of life, saying they could always have joined a community. Niyan said in a crisp voice, "They should have gone to a church. That could've made them feel more or less at home here. If they didn't think Taiwan was a safe place, they should never have gone back to it. Your homeland is where you live and die."

Niyan's words made Nan and Pingping think a good deal. Husband and wife talked between themselves about joining a church, but decided not to rush. By any means they mustn't make light of the matter of religion, and neither should they go to God's house just for human companionship. Nevertheless, isolation and loneliness often made Nan ill at ease. Unlike him, Pingping was unusually calm, saying they wouldn't need others as long as their family stayed together. "Who has many friends?" she said to him. "Most people only have associates. We have no need for lots of friends."

Nan was abashed as he realized she was much more enduring and solitary than he was. She didn't even miss her parents and siblings that much, although she'd write them regularly. He wasn't attached to his parents either, but he was unaccustomed to an isolated life and couldn't yet differentiate loneliness from solitude. By nature he was gregarious and had liked noisy, bustling crowds, but life had placed him at a spot where he had to exist as an individual completely on his own. How lucky he felt to have Pingping with him.

₁₇

NAN also felt fortunate to have Dick Harrison as his friend, whose presence in his life had intensified his interest in poetry. One day Dick invited Nan to a reading given by a famous poet. At first Nan was reluctant to go, because whenever he was away, he'd have to ask Shubo to help at the restaurant. Shubo had been writing his dissertation in sociology at home, so he was available most times when the Gold Wok needed him. Still, Pingping would be unhappy about Nan 's absence, which would cost them six dollars an hour to Shubo, who would work at the counter. This also meant Pingping would have to cook in the kitchen. Yet fascinated by Dick's praise of the poet, Edward Neary, Nan begged his wife to let him attend the reading at Emory University. Pingping didn't want him to go at first, but she later yielded.

The reading was held in White Hall on campus, where many buildings had marble exteriors and roofs of red ceramic tiles. At the entrance to the auditorium stood two folding tables, on one of which were stacked Edward Neary's books for sale, the table manned by a strapping man from the university's bookstore. Nan, in a double-breasted blazer, went into the auditorium, which had already filled up with students, faculty, and people from the city. The crowd overflowed onto the steps alongside the walls. There were more women than men among the audience. Unable to find a seat, Nan stayed in the back and leaned against the steel banister of the stairs that led up to the projection booth.

Around eight o'clock the poet arrived, accompanied by Dick and several other faculty members. Mr. Neary was a lanky man with a short neck and a web of wrinkles on his face, but he must have been quite handsome when he was young, as his Roman nose and pale green eyes suggested. They all sat down in the front row, which had been reserved for them. A moment later Dick went over to the podium. He introduced Mr. Neary briefly, enumerating the awards and grants the poet had garnered and calling him "a major poetic voice of our time."

Then Edward Neary took the microphone and began reading a long poem, "An Interpretation of Happiness," which he said he was still working on. His tone was languid and casual, as if he were talking to a few friends in a small room, but the audience was attentive. Now and then somebody would "huh" or "hah" in response to a playful line or a clever turn of phrase. Neary kept reading without lifting his head and seemed to have some difficulty concentrating, shifting his weight from leg to leg. His right hand rubbed his chin time and again. Whenever he did this, he'd muffle his voice a little.

Nan couldn't understand everything Neary was uttering. Soon he grew absentminded, looking around at the audience and noticing that some others were bored too. It took the poet at least twenty-five minutes to finish the poem. As he was flipping through a book, searching for another piece to read, a female student cried out, "Let us hear 'Tonight It's the Same Moon.' "

"Yes, read that, please," chimed in another young woman.

"All right," the poet said. "It's a love poem I wrote many years ago, for a girlfriend of mine whose name I've forgotten." The audience laughed while Mr. Neary grinned, running his fingers through his grizzled flaxen hair. "I guess I'm too old to write this kind of poetry anymore, but I'm going to read it anyway. Here it is." He lifted the book with one hand and began reading the poem with some emotion. Nan liked it very much. It was an elegy spoken by a young widow in memory of her late husband, lost in a recent plane crash. The cadence was supple and tender, in keeping with the pathos.

After that, Neary read seven or eight poems from different volumes. Then unhurriedly, he stacked his books together, indicating he was done. Dick stood up, clapping his hands. After a burst of applause, he announced, "Let's adjourn to the reception in the lobby, and Mr. Neary will be happy to autograph his books. Please join us for a glass of wine. Also, don't forget the colloquium Mr. Neary will give tomorrow afternoon, at three, in this room."

In the lobby Nan drank a cup of punch and ate a piece of cauliflower and a few squares of honeydew. Though Dick had announced there was wine, only some soft drinks were on the tables. Nan felt out of place here because he didn't know anybody except Dick, who was busy taking care of the poet's needs while talking with some people standing in line to get their books signed. Nan went up to him and said, "I'd better go."

"Don't you want to join us after this?" asked Dick.

"For what?"

"We'll have a drink somewhere. Come with me-we'll spend some time with Ed."

Nan agreed. He was curious about the poet, who seemed passionless, carefree, and a bit cynical, remarkably different from the ardent Sam Fisher. He went over to a table and picked up a small bunch of red grapes and stepped aside, waiting in a corner.

When the reception was over, Dick and a group of young women took Edward Neary to a bar just outside the campus. Nan tagged along and accompanied the poet all the way while Dick was talking and laughing with the five women walking ahead of them. Mr. Neary walked with a shuffling gait. He had been to China a few years before and talked to Nan about how hot it was in Beijing in August. He remembered fondly a young woman assigned by China 's Ministry of Culture to serve as his interpreter.

Then he asked Nan, "Do you happen to know Bao Yuan, an exiled Chinese poet living in New York?"

"Of coss I know him! We were a kind of friends and once worked togezzer at a journal."

"He's an interesting guy. He's been translating some of my poems."

"Reelly?"

"He also interviewed me." "Does he speak English now?"

"He had a young lady interpreting for us. He can read English but cannot speak it well."

Nan couldn't believe that Bao, despite his deplorable English, would attempt to translate Neary's poetry. He must have relied on someone to produce the notes first, from which he might be able to do the translation. "Where is he going to send zer poems? I mean, to which Chinese magazine?" Nan asked.

"He had six of them published in a journal called Foreign Letters."

"That's a prestigious monsly, very literary."

"So I've heard."

"I'm glad Bao is still writing poetry. He's also a painter."

"Yes, he showed me some of his work, very impressive. He has fine sensibility and a lot of talent. But the exile must have stunted his development considerably. He said he never had time to write the work he planned to do."

As they passed the side entrance of the university, Mr. Neary asked Nan about the average price of the houses in the Emory neighborhood, which he had seen on his way to the campus that afternoon. Many of them looked grand, built entirely of bricks. Though uncertain of the price, Nan ventured a figure, guessing upward of $400,000, but that didn't impress the poet. Mr. Neary said he owned a larger house than these in Newport, Rhode Island. Nan was surprised, because to his mind most poets were struggling artists without that kind of money.

In the bar Mr. Neary ordered beer, wine, chicken nuggets, and nachos sprinkled with cheddar cheese and bits of jalapeno. The young women were effervescent; apparently they all admired Neary's poetry. Laura, the tallest of them, with cloisonne bracelets on both wrists, smiled at the poet all the while, her eyes flashing. Emily, the only Asian woman among them, seemed shy, though she giggled happily and nudged her friends now and again. Her sweet face resembled a teenager's. Mr. Neary liked her and asked about her life in Atlanta and her family. Her parents had immigrated from Korea, but she was born and raised in Missouri. She had moved to Georgia three years earlier and liked it here. Mr. Neary thought she was Chinese, but she said her last name was Choi and considered herself Korean American.

The shortest of them, Anita, was a budding poet and middle school teacher. She could even quote Mr. Neary's lines with ease, which pleased the author greatly. The other two women, also fans of the poet, worked at Barnes amp; Noble. The five of them belonged to a poetry group and met regularly to read and discuss one another's poems. Nan said little and just listened to them.

As they were chatting and drinking, Mr. Neary grew louder and more talkative. He said he had been editing an anthology of poetry by young poets for a New York publisher, whose name he wouldn't disclose. He squinted at Dick, who smiled knowingly. Then he told the women, "My babysitter has been helping me sort out the poems. Without her I don't know how I could do it. I don't have time to read all the books and journals people send in. You should all show me your work. Nan, you should send me your poems too."

"I will do zat when I have somesing finished," Nan replied in earnest. But none of the women responded to the invitation enthusiastically. He wondered why they wouldn't jump at such an opportunity, since they were all writing poetry and must have been struggling to get published.

Laura asked the poet casually, "Does your babysitter write poems too?"

"No, not now. She might have in her teens."

The women glanced at one another. The short Anita smirked, then covered her mouth with a napkin. Mr. Neary said to them again, "Feel free to send me your work. I'm a maker and breaker of poets. I'm a powerful man, you know."

Nan could see that the poet was tipsy. He caught a dubious expression flitting across Dick's face. Mr. Neary smiled to himself as if to recall something, his hand holding a barbecued chicken nugget. Then he lifted his head and asked the women, "So you don't believe me? You think I'm just an old loony?"

Emily Choi said, "You're not old. Your poems are wonderful and powerful."

"I'm also a rich man, you know," Mr. Neary went on. "Imagine, a poet paid sixty thousand dollars for federal tax last year. This is indeed a great country where even a poet can become a millionaire."

"Amazing," Emily mumbled, lowering her eyes.

Anita put in, "So Canada is no longer your homeland?"

"No. I'm an American."

Dick winked at Nan, who was bemused, knowing Neary had been born in Ontario and had come to the United States in his early thirties. He wondered why the poet would talk so much about power and money. How did those bear on his poetry? Why was he acting more like a business magnate?

A waitress came and placed the bill on the table, which Mr. Neary picked up. Nan noticed that it was more than eighty dollars. The young women looked at one another. Anita said, "Mr. Neary, let us take care of it. We're taking you out."

"No, no." The poet waved, licking his upper teeth. "This is on me. But I'm open to another drink with you at another place, individually or collectively." He laughed and screwed up his eye as he folded the receipt and placed five twenties in the bill sleeve.

The women said no more. They all got up, ready to leave. The bar was closing, and together they made for the door.

Outside, the night was clear, the street shimmering in the whitish moonlight. A breeze came, shaking the sprouting aspens a little. The traffic was still droning in the distance. The women said good-bye to Mr. Neary and presently faded into the darkness beyond North Decatur Road. Dick was going to walk his guest all the way back to the Emory Inn, which was about half a mile to the north. Nan kept them company for about two hundred yards, then parted from them and veered toward the garage behind the university's main library, where he had parked. He turned his head to look at them while walking away.

He overheard Mr. Neary say, "Let me give you the receipt for tonight."

"Sure." Dick took the slip from the poet.

₁₈

DURING the next few days Nan thought a lot about his meeting with Edward Neary, about what the poet had said at the bar. When Dick came to the restaurant on Friday afternoon, Nan asked him what Mr. Neary had meant by being "a maker and breaker of poets." Dick explained that generally speaking, the inclusion of a young poet's work in a significant anthology could help establish the poet. As the editor, Edward Neary decided whom to include, so he was a maker of poets. Conversely, he'd have to exclude some people from the book-those poets, once left out, would suffer a setback in their careers. Therefore he was also a breaker of poets.

"Do you sink he'll leave someone out on purpose?"

"Sure, everyone does that to his enemies and people he doesn't like."

Nan was surprised that poets could be so vindictive and malevolent. "Is he reelly so well endowed as he bragged?" he asked again.

"Ha ha ha!" Dick laughed. "You're so funny. I don't know if Ed has a big penis, but he's a MacArthur fellow."

"What's that? He's related to General MacArthur's family?"

"No, no, it's a foundation that gives huge fellowships to talented individuals, at least three hundred thousand dollars. For Ed's age, it must be worth more than that, because the older a fellow is, the more money he gets."

"I never imagined a poet could be zat rich."

"Some poets live like a prince or princess."

"How about Sam?"

"He makes a lot too."

Nan thought it rather absurd that Mr. Neary was so powerful that he could decide the fates of some young poets. "Will he include your poems in his anthology?" he asked Dick.

"You bet, or I wouldn't have had him invited over and paid three thousand dollars."

"Reelly! He made mahney so easily? He just worked two or three hours and made more zan Pingping and I can make in a month."

"Life's unfair, isn't it? But that's the price for poets of his stature."

"How about you?"

"I'll be lucky if a school invites me just to read. Occasionally I get five hundred dollars for a visit." "Zat's not bad."

"No, I can't complain. I can't think of money and power at this point in my career."

"You're right," Nan said sincerely. "If you reelly like power, you should run for zer governor."

Dick chortled. "I'll remember that." He turned his fork to twist some noodles into a bundle, then added, "Because what's at stake is so piddling in the poetry world, the competition is all the more fierce. In fact, it's a rough-and-tumble territory. Also, most poets live in cliques, otherwise it would be hard for us to survive. The network is essential."

"So you belong to Sam's group?"

"You can say that."

To some extent Nan was disillusioned by what Dick said. To him the poetry world should be relatively pure, and genuine poets free spirits, passionate but disinterested. Yet according to Dick, many of them were territorial and xenophobic. Could someone like himself ever belong to a coterie? Unlikely. He couldn't imagine being accepted by any clique. Besides, above all, he wanted to become a self-sufficient individual.

Dick lifted the teacup and took a swallow. He grinned at Nan while dipping his pointed chin. He looked secretive and leaned forward, whispering, "I want to show you something, Nan." He fished out of his hip pocket two small tubers like shriveled ginger roots, dried thoroughly. They looked familiar to Nan, but he couldn't remember what they were called. Dick asked, "Do you use this herb too?"

"What are these?"

"Dong quai, a kind of aphrodisiac. I thought you Chinese all used it."

Nan broke into laughter, which baffled his friend. "What's so funny?" Dick said.

Instead of answering, Nan asked, "You have used Tiger Balm for sex too?"

"Sure, but that's not as good as Indian God Lotion and burns your skin like hell."

Nan cracked up again, his eyes squeezed shut. "To tell zer truth, in China women use dong quai to regulate menstruation. It nurtures zer yin in your body, not zer yang. I've never heard zat any man eats zis herb to strengthen a dick."

Dick was amazed, then grinned. " Nan, you're a poet."

"How so?"

"You just made a pun with my name."

"Oh yes." Nan was surprised by his unintended feat.

"To be fair, this is powerful stuff," Dick went on. "I've used it for a while and it has really improved my performance and made me feel strong. It helps my writing too. As for Tiger Balm, I've removed it from my medicine cabinet."

"People in China mainly rub zer balm on zeir foreheads to prevent sunstroke, or on their temples to sooze headaches. Even kids use it too. We call it 'fresh and cool ointment.' Nobody trits it as somesing zat can increase sexual pleasure."

"Ah, this is a case of significant misunderstanding in cultural exchange, don't you think?"

"Of coss it's meaningful. It reflects zer core of American culture zat's obsessed with two s's."

"Two s's? What are they?"

"Self and sex."

"Very true." Dick's eyes lit up as he gave a hearty laugh. "Where did you get this idea? Is there an article or book on this?" "No, just my personal impression." "That's excellent."

After that conversation, Dick came to the restaurant more often, though Eleanor rarely accompanied him. He seemed fascinated by Nan, by the kind of off-kilter humor Nan had. Also, Nan always offered him something free along with his order-a couple of steamed dumplings, or a pair of egg rolls, or a scallion pancake. Ping-ping once asked Dick why Eleanor hadn't come with him. He shook his head and said, "She wants to play the field."

Pingping didn't understand that idiom. When she asked Nan, he said, "Eleanor wants to see as many men as possible."

"No wonder Dick has such a sad face these days," she said thoughtfully.

"He's lonely, I guess. He said I was his only friend here." Nan was surprised by his own words, because he had never believed Dick felt isolated in Atlanta.

"I don't think that's true. He has a lot of colleagues at Emory."

"But that doesn't mean they're his friends."

"He's just a big boy, inside weak."

"Anyway he's my friend." Nan looked at Pingping, who smiled at him quizzically. "What?" he asked.

She said nothing. Nan took hold of her ear, tweaking it, and ordered, "Confess."

"Let go!" she shrieked.

The instant he released her, she grabbed a flyswatter from the counter and set out to chase him. Nan was running around the table in the middle of the room, clockwise or counterclockwise, opposite the direction she moved in. Both of them seemed to have forgotten what had caused the pursuit, and despite their panting and red faces, they looked happy. Niyan laughed and watched them while shaking her head.

₁₉

PINGPING felt uneasy about Nan 's going out with Dick, though he generally did so at most once a month. Together they had gone to a Shakespearean play, a puppet show, and a reading given by John Updike. She understood that Nan needed some diversion once in a while, but the work at the Gold Wok would get hectic without him around. Shubo could cook a few things now, but Pingping would have to bustle about in the kitchen most of the time when Nan wasn't there. What's worse, Nan 's absence would make her fidgety and make the place feel as strange as if it belonged to someone else. Why does he have to spend so much time with that frivolous Dick? she often wondered. Will they go elsewhere after the reading? Will they be alone, just the two of them? I really don't mind that they're friends, but I want Nan to stay here. He shouldn't act like a bachelor and ought to pay more attention to our family. He should spend more time with Taotao.

Whenever Pingping complained about Nan, Niyan sympathized with her. One day Niyan said to her, "Why don't Nan and you go to church on Sundays? You can meet lots of interesting people there and have fun too. You won't feel isolated or insecure once you belong to a church."

"In fact," Pingping said, "a number of people have shown up on our doorstep to invite us to join their churches, but we're not Christians, so we don't go."

"Aiya, why have only a one-track mind? You don't have to be a Christian to attend Sunday services." Niyan fingered her drop earring while biting her bottom lip. Her eyes, slightly bulging, were fixed on Pingping.

"We don't believe in Jesus Christ yet," Pingping said.

" Why so serious about that? How many of us are real believers? The church is a place where you can meet people and make friends. It has night schools and dance parties for singles. It can make you feel better with so many Chinese around."

"We're not singles."

"All I'm saying is that once you join a church, people will help you and your life will be safer and easier." "Do you really feel that way?" "Of course, why should I lie to you?" "All right, I'll talk to Nan about this."

"Tell him that Shubo and I have had a great time in our church. You can attend the sermons on Sunday mornings. That will make you feel good, calm inside."

Pingping agreed to persuade Nan, mainly because she had something else on her mind. Dick Harrison had just broken up with his girlfriend, and Pingping was afraid he might be a bisexual and start an affair with Nan. She couldn't understand why Nan was so attached to that flighty man. There must have been some mutual attraction between them. To prevent her husband from turning gay, she even gave him several vitamins every day, since she had read in an outdated book that many cases of homosexuality were due to vitamin deficiency. She dared not express her concerns explicitly to Nan, who just swallowed whatever pills she gave him, never raising any question about them.

On their way to the Gold Wok the next morning Pingping brought up to Nan the subject of attending church. It was mizzling, and all trees and houses blurred. She and Nan shared a large candy-striped umbrella. She was shivering a little from the damp wind. Nan wrapped an arm around her shoulders to give her some body warmth. He said, "We mustn't be lighthearted about this matter. If we go to church, we ought to believe in God. A church is a place for worship."

"If you don't ever attend the service, how can you understand Christianity?"

"At this point of my life, I don't feel like joining any religious group. I want to be independent. Also, I can take poetry as my religion if I need one. If you want to go to church, feel free to do that."

"Why can't we be more flexible? As a matter of fact, we may get some business from Niyan's parish." Lately Pingping had noticed some customers greeting the waitress like a friend. Niyan told her that they belonged to her congregation in Lawrenceville.

"No, the church is a sacred place, a house of God," Nan said. "If I'm not a Christian, I won't feel comfortable there."

A few days ago he had said similar words to a craggy-faced black seminarian who had come to their home to read a few passages from the New Testament.

Pingping said no more, knowing she couldn't bring him around. Besides, she agreed with him in a way. It was better to be yourself. Here nobody could really help you, and only you could save yourself. In addition, she didn't want to be a fake, as she had tried to be back in China, where people had to lie to get things done and to keep themselves from danger. When she had come to the States six and a half years before, she hadn't been able to speak comfortably for months because she didn't know how to talk without lying. As a result, she would remain taciturn most of the time. It took more than half a year for her to get used to speaking her mind. Now she wanted to live and act honestly, just as Nan insisted.

₂₀

PINGPING told Nan that the adoption agent had mailed Janet and Dave the photographs of two girl babies and asked them to choose one. Obviously Ruhua, the agent, had meant to do the Mitchells a favor, but this threw them into a terrible dilemma. How could they keep one child while abandoning the other? Janet called Ruhua and implored her to let them have both children, who would make perfect sisters, but the agent disallowed her appeal, saying all the paperwork had been filed for only one baby and it would be too difficult to restart the whole thing, and besides, there were many people desperate to adopt. The Mitchells were distressed and wanted to discuss the matter with the Wus that very day. Since the restaurant wasn't a suitable place for such a conversation, Pingping told Janet to come to their house around ten-thirty p.m.

Both Nan and Pingping were exhausted when they arrived home. Taotao was at his computer, playing the game Mortal Kombat. "Turn it off," his mother told him. "Time for bed."

"Let me finish this round, all right?"

"Remember to brush your teeth."

As soon as Nan had taken a shower, the Mitchells came. They showed the Wus the photos and wanted them to suggest which one of the babies they should keep. Dave lounged on the sofa and looked upset, now and then letting out a feeble sigh. He asked for coffee since he and his wife would have to stay up late to make the decision. Nan put a kettle on the stove.

"What kinda daughter you have in your mind, Janet?" asked Pingping.

"I don't know."

"How about you, Dave?"

"Both of them look good to me. God, I've never felt it so heart-wrenching to decide on something." He was obviously in pain, and his deep-set eyes dimmed.

"It's my fault," Pingping said. "I shouldn't ask Ruhua to do you special favor."

"No," Janet put in. "We appreciate your help, Pingping. But now we're stuck with this two-baby problem. What should we do? Help us decide."

Nan dropped a bit of hazelnut extract into each cup of the instant coffee he made for the Mitchells, and then joined Pingping in observing the photos. The babies looked quite similar, with little cute noses and almond eyes, though one's face was broader than the other's. Nan sighed, "Zis is beyond me. I don't know what to say. How could I tell which of zem will turn out to be a better daughter for you?"

"That's not really our concern," Dave said, putting down his cup on a straw coaster on the coffee table. "Our main problem is that it will be hard for us to handle the guilt. The two girls are in different orphanages. If the one we leave behind is adopted by a good family, that will be okay with me. But what if she ends up in a bad family or remains an orphan?"

"Yes, that's the hardest part," Janet agreed.

Nan was amazed. Then to the Wus' astonishment, Dave broke into sobs, wiping his lumpy face with a tissue. "I'm sorry. It's too painful to choose."

Both Nan and Pingping were touched. Nan knew the Mitchells often went to church on Sunday mornings. Probably it was their Christian faith that had instilled in them the sense of guilt and enabled them to commiserate with the babies more than they-the Wus-could. Nan had never thought about the fate of the child the Mitchells would have to give up. He surmised that the Mitchells' minds must have another dimension that was absent from his.

Pingping said, "Think this way, Janet. When you saw the photos, which one of them you suddenly feel grab your heart?"

"This one." Janet lifted the one with a wider face from the coffee table. "I felt a jolt at the sight of her."

"How about you, Dave?" Pingping asked. "To me, it was the other one."

"Heavens, no way we can help you!" Pingping raised her hand in defeat.

Nan stepped in, "I feel you two have to do some soul-searching and figure out a solution by yourselves. When will you let zee agent know your decision?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," replied Janet.

"Sorry," Nan said. "We reelly can't help you, not because we don't want to share zer guilt. If only there were more information. On zee other hand, even if we had enough information, you would still feel guilty if you adawpt just one of zem, right?"

"I guess so," said Dave.

Despite the impasse, the Mitchells stayed late into the night, talking about their plan to travel to China and bring back their daughter. Not until twelve-thirty did they take their leave.

₂₁

TWO DAYS LATER, Janet told the Wus that Dave had gone with her choice of the baby with the wider face, since it was she who had first thought of adoption. They had gotten more information on the child and were going to contact the INS to apply for a green card for her. From now on they must wait patiently for the time they could go to Nanjing and pick up their baby. They were sort of surprised that the process wasn't as intimidating and tedious as they had thought.

For days, Nan, moved by Dave's sobbing of the other night, had been pondering the Mitchells' sense of guilt, which made him change his mind about going to church. He began to think that any religion might improve humanity, at least be able to make people more compassionate and more humble. So he decided to visit the Chinese Christian Church in Duluth, a nearby town to the north, just to see if he liked it. Pingping planned to go with him, but on Sunday morning she felt under the weather, having sore shoulders, and stayed home. Before Nan set out, he gave her a back massage, which eased her pain considerably.

The church was in a modern stuccoed building sitting atop a gentle rise planted with cypress saplings. It was a hot day, and the heat was rising from the newly paved parking lot, flickering like purple smoke. As Nan entered the church, some people were standing around exchanging pleasantries in the foyer, which resembled the lobby of a hotel or theater. He saw a few familiar faces, but didn't know anyone except the woman who had once come to the Gold Wok to solicit donations for flood victims. He remembered her name, Mei Hong, and was sure she recognized him; yet for some reason she turned away after giving him a once-over. Nan went into the nave, sat down in a back pew, and picked up a hymnal. Hundreds of people were already sitting in there, and on the wide chancel platform were seated two men wearing dark blue suits and crimson neckties, both bespectacled. A potbellied vase holding a large mixed bouquet stood on the floor, in front of the lectern.

The service started, and the younger clergyman on the chancel went to the microphone and called for the people to rise. Together they started singing a hymn, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," accompanied by a huge piano played by a mousy woman in a corner. Next, they bowed and meditated for a moment. The hall turned quiet while Nan glanced right and left and noticed an old woman in front of him thumbing through a Bible rested atop the back of the pew before her. A baby let out a cry but was stopped immediately by its parent. Then a choir, eight women and six men in scarlet-collared gowns, went onto the chancel steps and sang "Sweet Hours of Prayer." Their singing was passionate but serene, swelling and ebbing as if they were leading the piano. After that, the pastor wearing tinted glasses, surnamed Bian, took the lectern and began preaching the sermon, entitled " New Hope." His voice was soft most of the time, but now and then it grew strong, fervent and exultant. He spoke about Paul, the apostle, as a model follower of the Lord and an ideal man. He quoted from the New Testament to illustrate that Paul was originally a sinner and a persecutor of Christians, but then changed into a man with a big heart. Paul never lost hope and always remained modest, not taking pride in his own accomplishments and praising only the Lord. He loved his siblings despite their tricks against him, despite their transgressions and sins, because he could forget the past and look ahead only. "Think about the sprinters at the Olympic Games," the preacher announced in Mandarin softened by his Fujian accent. "How can they run that fast? Do they look back when they're dashing toward the finish line? Of course not. Brothers and sisters, we have to lay aside our old disputes and animosity and look forward and think about the future, where our hopes are. Otherwise, how could we see any light?… "

Nan 's eyes were glued to the pastor's long, heavy-chinned face. He believed he had seen him before. But where? He couldn't remember. He was positive this man had come from mainland China.

Pastor Bian now was speaking about how to get rid of one's sins. He said, "If you have a glass of water mixed with soy sauce, how can you get the water clean again? Very simple. You keep pouring pure water into the glass until the soy sauce is washed away. Brothers and sisters, our Lord is the most abundant fountain of pure water. Tap into that divine source and you will be cleansed, clean like a newborn baby and bountiful with love."

Then he went on to talk about the necessity of accumulating one's rewards in heaven by doing good deeds on earth. He even claimed that he couldn't wait to meet God and collect the rewards he had deposited in God's bank up there.

Nan was fascinated by the analogies the pastor hurled, though he wasn't fully convinced by his eloquence. He remembered that his friend Danning Meng had told him that he couldn't stop weeping once at a Sunday service. In Massachusetts, Danning had gone to a Catholic church in Watertown at least once a month. In contrast, Nan now felt calm and detached. When the sermon was over, the choir again went to the front and belted out "Take My Life and Let It Be." After the singing, the pastor announced the birth of a baby to a couple in the congregation; it weighed seven pounds and five ounces, and mother and child were both safe and well. He also spoke about the amount of donations the church had received lately and urged people to give more so that they could reach the annual goal of collecting $50,000. After the announcements, the younger clergyman called everybody to rise again, and together they sang the final hymn, "I Praise My Lord Only," following the lines projected on the wall beside the chancel.

The moment they finished singing, the young clergyman said, "Please receive Brother Shiming Bian's benediction." People sat down and bowed their heads while the pastor raised both hands to deliver his final words: "Precious God, we thank you for making this church flourish and prosper. We ask for your blessing on every member of our community. Please make us strong and humble, brave and meek, righteous and compassionate. Please grant us the eyes that can see far and deep. Please grant us the ears that can hear your voice and the unpronounced truth. May your light and love guide our everyday existence so that we can forever remain yours-"

"Amen!" the hall cried.

Nan hadn't lowered his head during the benediction, because at the mention of the pastor's name, he had realized that the man was an exiled dissident who had once been a preeminent journalist in China, famous for his reportage that exposed official corruption and power abuse. Each year photographs of this man would appear a few times in Chinese-language newspapers and magazines, and there was a famous saying attributed to him: "We have gained the freedom of the sky but lost the gravity of the earth," which described the existential condition of the Chinese exiles living in North America. No wonder his face looked so familiar. After the benediction, instead of filing out with others, Nan went up to the pastor and introduced himself as a local businessman. He told Mr. Bian that he admired his articles and was happy to meet him in person. He handed him his card and said, "Please stop by at my restaurant whenever you like. Your friends are welcome too."

Mr. Bian glanced at the card. " Nan Wu, I know of you," he said in surprise. "I liked the poems you published in New Lines, especially the one called 'This Is Just Another Day.' Are you still editing the magazine?"

"No, I'm a chef now."

"That's good. I too have put my feet on the ground finally, working to earn my keep. By the way, you know Mr. Manping Liu, don't you?"

"Of course, I visited him in New York."

"He's going to speak here next Tuesday evening."

"Really? On what?"

"On the relationship between Taiwan and mainland China. I hope you can join us. He'll be delighted to see you."

Then Mr. Bian went on to tell Nan that the talk would be given at the public library in Alpharetta, an affluent town full of brick mansions, about ten miles northwest of Lilburn. Nan promised to attend the meeting.

₂₂

NAN was excited, not having seen Mr. Liu for almost three years. At work that day he even called him in New York and invited him to stay at his home. The old man was pleased, but said his friends in Atlanta had already made arrangements for his lodging and board. He sounded glad to hear from Nan, saying he looked forward to seeing him on Tuesday evening. Nan promised to attend his talk, though he hadn't mentioned it to Pingping yet.

When he brought it up, Pingping was reluctant to let him go, but later Nan persuaded her. On Tuesday evening, after eight-thirty, when the busiest time had passed at the Gold Wok, he arrived at the library, where the talk was already under way. He took a seat in the back corner. Mr. Liu had aged considerably, his mouth more sunken, but his voice was still metallic and ardent. He was speaking about the necessity for Taiwan to be reunified with mainland China, because if it went independent, China would lose its gateway to the Pacific Ocean, and Japan, in addition to the United States, would control the China Sea entirely. Nan was amazed that Mr. Liu's view dovetailed with the Chinese government's. It was as if all the years' exile hadn't changed the old man's mind-set one bit.

After the talk, the audience raised questions for the speaker, and some of them also stood up to add their opinions to Mr. Liu's answers. A young man who must have come from Taiwan asked, "Mr. Liu, you're one of the foremost figures in the Chinese democracy movement and may hold an important office in the Chinese government someday. If you become China 's president, what will you do if Taiwan declares independence?"

Mr. Liu remained silent for a moment, then replied, "First of all, I can never become a national leader. But if I were the president, I might have to order the People's Liberation Army to attack Taiwan. There isn't another way out of this. China must protect its territorial integrity. Whoever loses Taiwan will be recorded by history as a criminal of the Chinese nation."

Some people applauded. Liu's words surprised Nan, who raised his hand and was allowed to speak. With his legs shaking, Nan said in a calm voice, "Mr. Liu, I can see the political logic of your argument. But if we look at this issue in a different light, that is, from the viewpoint of humanity, we may reach another conclusion. For the individual human being, what is a country? It's just an idea that binds people together emotionally. But if the country cannot offer the individual a better life, if the country is detrimental to the individual's existence, doesn't the individual have the right to give up the country, to say no to it? By the same token, all the regions in China are like members of the Chinese family-if one of the brothers wants to live separately, isn't it barbaric to go smash his home and beat him up?"

The audience was thrown into a tumult, with many eyes glowering at Nan, who forced himself not to wince. Mr. Liu smiled and said, " Nan Wu, my friend, I see your point. I can sympathize with your concern for humanity, but your argument is infeasible and too naive. If China doesn't get Taiwan back, another country will take it and set up military bases there to threaten China. Sometimes a nation must sacrifice to survive."

Mei Hong, the short, bony-faced woman, stood up and spoke in a shrill voice. "I totally agree with Mr. Liu. John F. Kennedy said, 'Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.' Even Americans put their national interests before the individual's interests. Without Taiwan, our shoreline will be cut in half. Also, if Taiwan goes independent, then how about Tibet, Inner Mongolia, and Sinkiang Uighur? If we let this happen, China would break into numerous small warring states. Then chaos will rule our homeland, millions and millions of people will be homeless and die of famine, and the world will be swarmed with refugees."

Nan challenged, "You're a Christian. Does your religion teach you to kill? Are there not enough crimes committed on the pretext of patriotism in this century?"

Shiming Bian, the pastor, broke in, "Christianity doesn't tolerate evil. Anyone who wants to destroy China deserves his own destruction. Nan Wu, you're too emotional to think coherently. Even a democratic country like the United States fought the Civil War to keep the country from going separate."

Nan cried, "Isn't the current Chinese government an evil power that banished you? Why do you see eye to eye with it?"

Mr. Liu put in, "We must differentiate the government from our country and people. The government can be evil, but both our people and our country are good. I'm optimistic because I cannot afford to lose hope for our nation. The world already has too many pessimists, a dollar a dozen, so we ought to take heart."

That shut Nan up, but he wasn't persuaded. He thought of retorting with the aphorism Mr. Liu had often quoted from Hegel, "the nature of a people determines the nature of their government," but he sat down and remained silent. The question-and-answer period continued.

Nan left the meeting before it was over. The next morning he phoned Pastor Bian's residence, where Mr. Liu was staying, and left a message on the machine: he invited both of them to dinner at the Gold Wok. But they didn't return his call. Nan was disappointed by both Mr. Liu and the pastor, so for a long time he didn't set foot in that church again.

₂₃

THERE WERE hundreds of Tibetans living in the Atlanta area, some of whom were graduate students. They gathered in a lecture room at Emory University on weekends to meditate and listen to a monk preach on Buddhist scriptures. Dick was involved with this group and often urged Nan and Pingping to join them, but the Wus couldn't, having to work on weekends. They had noticed that whenever they slackened their efforts at the Gold Wok, problems would crop up and customers would complain. They had to do their utmost to maintain the quality of their offerings, keep the restaurant clean and orderly, and see to it that every part of the business went without a hitch.

A few days after Mr. Liu's talk at the public library, Dick told Nan excitedly that the Dalai Lama was going to speak at Emory that week. Both Nan and Pingping were interested in hearing the holy man's speech and asked Dick to get tickets for them. Dick promised to help.

The next morning he called and said all three thousand tickets were already gone. Nan and Pingping were not overly disappointed, since it would have been difficult for both of them to leave the restaurant at the same time. They had seen the Dalai Lama on TV recently and respected him. He had a natural demeanor that belied his role of a dignitary. At a conference broadcast on TV, a reporter asked him what the major events of the next year would be, and he laughed and said, "What a question you gave me, Ted! I don't even know what I'm going to eat for dinner. How can I predict anything about next year?" The audience exploded in laughter.

Later that night Dick phoned to inform Nan that the Dalai Lama would meet with a group of Chinese students at the Ritz-Carlton hotel at two p.m. the next day. "If I were you, I would go," he told Nan. "This is a rare opportunity."

Then Dick described to him the public speech the Dalai Lama had delivered in the university's stadium two hours before. It had gone well at first, and His Holiness had spoken about forgiveness, benevolence, love, happiness. People were captivated by his humor and candor. But as soon as the Dalai Lama finished speaking, a stout politician took the podium and began condemning China for occupying Tibet, for starting the Korean War and the Vietnam War, for the genocide committed by the Khmer Rouge sponsored by the Chinese Communists, for oppressing the minorities and dissidents, for supporting the dictatorial regimes like Cuba and North Korea. He went so far as to claim that the Chinese national leaders should be grateful to the United States for the very fact that every morning they woke up to find Taiwan still a part of China. As the result of his diatribe, the spiritual gathering suddenly turned into a political battle. Some Chinese students shouted at the speaker from the back of the stadium, "Stop insulting China!" "Get off the stage!" "Stop China-bashing!" The meeting was chaotic until the politician was done.

The next day Nan and Pingping drove to Lenox Square in Buck-head. The timing was good, since Niyan and Shubo could manage without them in the early afternoon. When Nan and Pingping stepped into the hotel, the lobby was swarmed with people trooping out of a large auditorium. In the hall the Dalai Lama was standing on the stage and shaking hands with a few officials; he had just given a talk to four hundred local community leaders, two pieces of white silk still draped around his neck. There were so many people pouring out of the entrance that the Wus couldn't get closer to look at the holy man. Seeing some Chinese students heading down the hallway, Nan and Pingping followed them, pretending they were graduate students too. One man wearing thick glasses said in English, "I'm going to ask His Holiness how often he jerks off."

Pingping didn't understand the expression, but Nan was shocked. Then a pallid young woman said, "Yes, we must grill him."

Following them, the Wus entered a room in which a dozen rows of folding chairs occupied almost half of its space. About seventy Chinese students and scholars were already seated in there. At the front stood a small table and two wing chairs. A few moments after Nan and Pingping had sat down, the Dalai Lama stepped in, accompanied by a thickset man who had a broad, weather-beaten face. His Holiness bowed a little with his palms pressed together before his chest. The audience stood up. The Dalai Lama shook hands with some people at the front. "Sit down, please sit down," he said in standard Mandarin.

He and his interpreter sat down on the chairs. He looked rather tired, without the beaming smile he had worn a moment before. "I'm very glad to meet all of you here," he said in halting English. "It's important for us to communicate with each other. I always tell Tibetans, let us talk with Chinese people. Try to make friends with them. Now here we are."

A short, squinty fellow with a crew cut stood up and asked, "Since you left China in 1959, you have attempted to create an independent Tibet, but in vain. Where do you see your movement leading you?"

The interpreter translated the question. The Dalai Lama said solemnly, "There's some misunderstanding here. I have never asked for an independent Tibet. Check my record. You will see I never seek independence from China."

"What do you want, then?" the fellow pressed on in English.

"More autonomy and more freedom for my people so we can protect Tibetan life and culture. We need the Chinese government to help us achieve this goal. The Tibetans are entitled to a better livelihood."

Nan was surprised by the modest but dignified answer. Prior to this occasion he too had assumed that His Holiness demanded nothing but the complete independence of Tibet.

A female graduate student got up and asked, "As a political leader, you can represent the Tibetans in India and elsewhere, but who gave you the right to represent the Tibetans in China?"

A dark shadow crossed His Holiness's face. He replied, "I'm not a political leader, not interested in politics at all. But as a Tibetan, I am obligated to help my people, spiritually and materially. I have to speak for those who are not listened to."

Then a tall man raised his hand. He asked in a thin, funny voice, "What do you think of the slave system in Tibet before 1959?"

His Holiness answered without showing any emotion, "We always had our problems and backwardness. To be honest, I planned to abolish the slave system myself. Like any society, ours was never perfect."

Someone in the back stood up and spoke huskily. "For centuries Tibet has been part of China, and your predecessors used to be the spiritual fathers of the Chinese people. You're wise not to pursue an independent Tibet, which China will never allow, because China has to maintain its territorial integrity. Truth be told, Tibet can never be a vacuum of external power. If it weren't part of China, other countries would occupy it and pose an immediate threat to China…" The voice sounded familiar to Nan. He turned around and to his astonishment found Mr. Liu standing there and speaking. He'd thought the old man had left Atlanta.

The Dalai Lama didn't respond to Mr. Liu directly and said only, "I've heard the same argument before, but it is not based on justice. It's not difficult to rationalize injustice."

Some of the Chinese here were so belligerent, so devoid of empathy, that Nan and Pingping felt embarrassed. Nan could see that the Dalai Lama was miserable and at moments cornered by the questions. His Holiness was obviously a suffering man, totally different from his public image. Nan had come to see his beatific face, but ever since the conversation started, not even once had His Holiness smiled.

A stocky male student asked sharply, "Can you tell us what kind of life you lived before you fled to India?"

Some eyes turned to glare at him and a few voices tried to shush him, but the short fellow seemed impervious to the resentment from the audience, some of whom felt the question was frivolous. The holy man answered calmly, "I lived like my predecessors, well clothed and well fed, but I also worked hard to manage things and earn my food and shelter. Sometimes it can be exhausting to be the Dalai Lama."

Some people laughed; so did His Holiness. The intense atmosphere lightened some.

Then an older man, who looked dyspeptic and professorial, rose and said, "I've always sympathized with you Tibetans, although I'm from China originally. Can you tell us how much Tibetan culture has been lost under the Communist rule?" Many eyes stared at the man, who obviously hated the current Chinese government.

The Dalai Lama sighed. "Some Tibetans just came out and told me, a lot of people don't eat barley and buttered tea anymore. They eat steamed bread-mantou-and rice porridge. Even children curse each other in Mandarin now, and many young people can write only the Chinese characters, not the Tibetan script."

From this point on, the meeting turned lively, and His Holiness laughed time and again. So did the audience. His humble manner and witty words were infectious. Most of the audience could feel the generosity and kindness emanating from him. When the last question was answered, His Holiness said, "Please forgive my old, slow English because the Dalai Lama is old too."

The audience broke into laughter again. Then they all went to the front to take photos with His Holiness. Nan and Pingping stepped forward and stretched out their hands; to Nan's surprise, His Holiness, after shaking their hands, put his left palm on Nan 's shoulder while signing a book a girl held open before him. A crushing force suddenly possessed Nan, as though he were going to collapse under that powerful hand. He was trembling speechlessly. When the hand released him, he still stood there, spellbound. The holy man kept nodding as numerous people surrounded him for a photo opportunity. The crowd pushed the Wus aside.

Mr. Liu came up to Nan and said he appreciated his invitation, but couldn't come to the Gold Wok because he was leaving that very evening. Then he said about the Dalai Lama, "He's quite shrewd."

"But he's a great man, isn't he?" Nan said.

"You're always naive, Nan Wu. With an M.A. in political science, how come you still don't understand politics?" "That's why I quit my Ph.D. candidacy."

Mr. Liu slapped Nan on the shoulder and laughed, saying, "You should be a poet indeed." They shook hands again, for the last time, and said good-bye.

"Let's go." Pingping tugged Nan 's sleeve.

Arm in arm they headed for the garage. "I'm disgusted with some of them," Nan said, referring to the audience at the meeting. "Yes, they're malicious."

"We'd better avoid them." Nan jutted his thumb backward.

"They take pleasure in torturing others."

"They seem to know everything but humility and compassion."

Touched by his meeting with the holy man, for several days Nan felt almost ill, as if running a temperature. What moved him most was that the Dalai Lama had never shown any anger while talking with those bellicose Chinese. He was sweet and strong, probably because he was beyond destructive emotions, though Nan believed that deep inside, His Holiness also suffered like a regular man, and was perhaps even more miserable than most.

₂₄

THE WEEK AFTER the meeting with the Dalai Lama, Nan went to Borders in Snellville to buy a book by His Holiness. There were several volumes on the shelf, and he picked the most recent one, Ocean of Wisdom: Guidelines for Living. It gave him pure pleasure to visit the bookstore, where he'd stay an hour or two whenever he was there. Today he went through books on some shelves, especially the poetry section, to see what books had come out recently. He found Sam Fisher had published a new volume, All the Sandwiches and Other Poems. He bought that book too.

On his drive back, he couldn't help touching his purchases in the passenger seat from time to time. The minute he stepped into the Gold Wok, Pingping handed him a letter and said, "From your dad." Eyes rolling, she stepped away.

On the envelope was a stamp of a red rooster stuck askew. Nan took out the two sheets, pressed them on the counter, and began to read. The old man had written with a brush and in India ink:

August 22, 1993

Nan:

Not having heard from you, your mother is deeply worried. Write us more often from now on. Let Taotao write a few words too.

Recently I read several articles on the Chinese dissidents in the United States. Beyond question those are devious people, whom you must shun. Nobody can be a good human being without loving his country and people, and nobody can thrive for long by selling his motherland. Some of the dissidents are just traitors and beggars, shamelessly depending on the money proffered to them by the American capitalists and the reactionary overseas Chinese. Do not get embroiled with them. Do not do anything that may sully the image of our country. Always keep in mind that you are a Chinese. Even if you were smashed to smithereens, every piece of you would remain Chinese. Do you understand?

I'm also writing on behalf of Uncle Zhao. He has finished a large series of paintings lately. He wants you to help him hold a show in America. Nan, Uncle Zhao has been my bosom friend for more than three decades. He had a tough childhood and is an autodi-dact. For that people think highly of him. When you were leaving for America eight years ago, he presented you with four pieces of his best work. You must not forget his generosity and kindness. Now it's time to do something in return. Please find a gallery or university willing to sponsor his visit to the United States. It goes without saying that the sponsor of the show should cover his travel expenses. Also, try to explore the possibility of having him invited as an artist in residence so that he can stay there a year. He is already sixty and this may be his only chance to have an international exhibition. He told me that his visit to America would automatically eclipse all his rivals and enemies here. So do your utmost to help him.

Blessings from far away,

Words of your father No need for my signature

Nan sighed, then said to Pingping, "What is this? He thinks I'm a curator of a museum or a college president? I told him on the phone that I couldn't help Uncle Zhao hold a show here. I'm nobody."

"Your dad still treats you like a teenager. You're already thirty-seven. "

"This is sick. I won't write back."

"We have to respond to his letter one way or another."

"You write him."

"What should I say?"

"Tell him I regret having accepted Uncle Zhao's paintings. Tell him we're working like coolies every day and have nothing to do with the art world. Tell him he and my mother should know we're merely menial laborers at the bottom of America -we're useless to them."

"He'll be mad at you."

" Let him. The old fogey is full of crap, as if he owns me forever. He's too idle and has too much time on his hands. He just wants to use me. If our business goes under, we'll lose our home and everything. Can my parents help us? They'll continue to ask for money every year. They'll never understand what life is like here. They still believe I'm heading for a professorship, even though they know I'm working my ass off in a restaurant. They're just selfish. Damn them, let them disown me! I couldn't care less."

"They'll never do that," Pingping said cheerfully.

"Sure, they think we're making tons of money here, eating nutritious food, drinking quality wine, and living like gods."

The more Nan spoke, the more vehement he became, so Pingping left him alone and went to the storage room with a bundle of towels to wash.

Indeed, Uncle Zhao had presented Nan with four paintings, but two of them had fallen apart on account of the shoddy mounting. The other two had gone to Professor Peterson and Heidi Masefield respectively many years before. Nan had wondered why Uncle Zhao had mounted those paintings with such cheap materials that just a little damp air could warp them. The two broken pieces, still in the closet of Pingping's bedroom, were absolutely unpresentable, and he didn't know what to do with them, unwilling to spends hundreds of dollars to have them framed.

After the letter from his father, Nan never wrote to his parents again. He felt they couldn't possibly understand or believe what he told them. Taotao didn't write to his grandparents either, because he had lost most of his characters, which he had been able to inscribe when he came to America four years before. These days, despite his protests, Pingping and Nan made him copy some ideograms every day, but he had been forgetting more of them than he learned. Evidently he'd never be really bilingual, as most Chinese parents here hoped their children would become. He could speak Mandarin but might never be able to read and write the characters.

Every time a letter from Nan 's parents arrived, Pingping would reply. She didn't complain about this, since Nan devoted himself entirely to their business. In a way she relished handling the correspondence, because after they married, Nan 's mother had often bragged to Pingping, "A monkey is smart enough to ride a sheep and supervise her." Nan was born in the year of monkey, whereas Ping-ping was a sheep, so according to his mother, he was supposed to keep her under control. Now, her writing letters to his parents would show that the relationship between Nan and her was reversed. That surely wouldn't please her mother-in-law, that control freak, and Pingping secretly gloated over the old woman's irritation.

Recently Nan had reorganized the service at the Gold Wok, which now offered a lunch buffet on weekdays and the regular menu at dinner. This change improved the business considerably. A lot of people working in the area would come in for lunch, which consisted of two soups, four appetizers, and ten dishes, all for $4.75. Nan and Pingping would arrive at work before eight a.m. and cook the food and get everything ready by eleven-thirty. After they closed up at night, he'd stay a little longer preparing the meats and vegetables for the following day. This made him busier, but the restaurant fetched ten percent more profit than before, and even Niyan got extra tips. The Wus were determined to pay off their mortgage in the near future.