A Free Life

1

FOR ANOTHER YEAR Nan devoted himself to making money. The quality of his cooking was so good and the prices so affordable that the Gwinnett Gazette wrote about the Gold Wok, praising it as "the best bargain." Sometimes customers arrived groups and Niyan couldn't wait on so many of them, so Shubo, if available, would come in to help. The Wus had thought of hiring another waitress but decided not to, fearing business might flag again.

In the meantime, Pingping had cut as many household expenses as possible so as to pay off the mortgage. In the winter, during the day she wouldn't turn on the heat to warm the whole house and instead put a column radiator in the dining room, where Taotao did his homework. In the summer she shut off the wall registers in the living room and her own bedroom so that the air-conditioning would start up less frequently. She cooked as rarely as possible at home. If Taotao didn't go to the restaurant for dinner, she'd bring back something for him. He was allowed to stay home in the evenings, but he mustn't use his computer for more than one hour a day. Pingping also saved on taxes. She even filed their son as a part-time employee (the boy did do some kitchen chores) and claimed he had earned two thousand dollars the past year. Nan often joked with his wife, saying, "I'm a fork that rakes in money while you're a box that holds money. It doesn't matter much if the fork loses a tine, but it will be a disaster if the box has a hole."

She would say, "I scrimp and save for you, not for myself. Don't make fun of me." That was true; she had never bought a single item of new clothing for herself.

In December 1995, they sent Mr. Wolfe the final big check and asked for the title to their house, which the old man mailed them two weeks later. At last they had put their feet on the ground they could call their own. Confidence surged in Nan, who had finally earned the security for his family, and a kind of elation possessed him for a month or so. Now, even if the restaurant went under, his family would be safely sheltered. As long as he did some work, he could easily bring food home. This is freedom, he reasoned: not owing anybody a penny and having no fear of being fired.

But his joy was short-lived. Somehow he was puzzled by the home ownership, which he hadn't expected to come true in less than five years. He remembered A House for Mr. Biswas and still could feel for the protagonist, a small man whose lifetime struggle was to have his own roof. But here in Georgia, where land was cheap and realty in a buyer's market, he hadn't had a prolonged struggle for owning a home at all. In a way he wished this miracle had taken place in Boston or San Francisco or New York City, where one could claim success by owning a house. But here most people who worked hard could eventually become a home owner. Then his former neighbor Gerald came to mind, reminding him that there were a lot of losers even in Georgia and that he ought to be grateful.

Nevertheless, as time went by, a kind of disappointment sank into his heart. The struggle had ended so soon that he felt as though the whole notion of the American dream was shoddy, a hoax. In his mind he wrestled with the bewilderment that had begun to enervate him and made him work less hard than before. He tried to convince himself that the house was really theirs, and so were the van and the restaurant, that the realized dream wasn't merely an empty promise. If his family hadn't come to America, he couldn't have imagined owning these things, not in his wildest expectations. He was baffled, wondering what was wrong with him. Why couldn't he be as happy as his wife? Why couldn't he enjoy the fruits of their hard labor? He should feel successful. But somehow the success didn't mean as much to him as it should.

Gradually he figured out what had happened-in just a few years he'd gone through the journey that often took most immigrants a whole lifetime. Usually the first generation drudged to feed and shelter themselves and their families, and toward the end of their lives they might own a house or an apartment, and if they were more fortunate, a business. Their children, having grown on the bases the parents had built, would have different kinds of dreams and ambitions, going to college and becoming professionals and "real Americans." Most of them wouldn't repeat their parents' lives. In other words, the first generation was meant to be wasted, or sacrificed, for its children, like manure used to enrich the soil so that new seeds could sprout and grow.

But Nan was merely forty, and still had many years of life ahead. What should he do next? Work hard to acquire another business? Absolutely not. Of that he was certain. He didn't want to die a successful businessman.

Nan remembered the credo he had repeated to Danning six years before: Do something moneyed people cannot do. The memory occasioned a sudden pang in his heart. It seemed that he had forgotten his goal and gotten lost in making money. Why hadn't he devoted himself to writing poetry? Instead, all these years he had been working like a brainless machine. He tried to convince himself that this "detour" might be a necessary procedure, a step toward some achievement of higher order, since logically speaking, only after you were fed and sheltered could you mull over ideas and enjoy the leisure needed for creating arts. Yet his disappointment wouldn't abate, its heaviness weighing down his mind.

He couldn't help fulminating against himself mentally. "You've been living like a worm and exist only in the flesh. You're just a channel of food, a walking corpse." He was so irascible these days that his wife and son again avoided eating with him at the same table.

₂

SHUBO often came in to give Nan World Journal after he himself had read it. If the restaurant wasn't busy, the two of them would chat at length. One afternoon, Nan told his friend that he should have spent more time writing poetry, Shubo shook his balding head and said, "You're too impractical."

"Why should I be practical?" countered Nan. "The world has been created by impractical people."

"I mean, you shouldn't bite off more than you can chew."

"If you speak Chinese, you don't need to mix in English idioms. When did you learn that expression, yesterday?" Nan felt his temper rising.

"See, that's exactly your problem," Shubo said, and took a swallow of oolong tea.

"What are you getting at?"

"You're impatient and always talk and act as if your bottom were on fire."

Nan hated that expression and asked, "What do you mean by 'impatient'?"

"We're new here and cannot go a million miles in one life. Writing poetry can be a profession only for your grandchildren. For example, I don't think Taotao will write poetry. You want him to study science to earn a meal ticket, don't you?"

" Maybe, but that has nothing to do with my life. "

"Forget about your life. You're supposed to sacrifice yourself for your children, who are an extension of your life and who will do the same for their children. That's how we Chinese survive and multiply-each generation lives for the next."

"That's why children must be filial to their parents, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Guess what, I don't buy into that crap. Why should I sacrifice myself? I'm done sacrificing-I've had enough. Besides, 'sacrifice' is just an excuse for our cowardice and laziness. My son has his life and I must have mine." Nan wanted to remind Shubo that he didn't even have a child and was unqualified to talk about parental sacrifice, but he held back.

" Nan, you're too impatient. In your life span you want go through the course of three generations. You'll be better off if you scale down your ambition. If you really want to write, do it in Chinese. That will be more reasonable."

"I don't want to be reasonable," sneered Nan. "We're too often emasculated by reason and pragmatism."

"We shouldn't continue talking like this, going in circles. All I'm saying is that one must be financially secure first and then think about making arts or writing books. In other words, it takes generations for the immigrants to outgrow the material stage."

"That's a philistine mentality," said Nan.

"No, it's the American way. Remember, Ben Franklin's father forbade his son to be a poet, saying most verse makers were just beggars?"

"Then Franklin 's dad was a major American philistine," Nan said crossly, his long eyes glinting. "I don't believe artists starve in America. I've met many of them. They can be poor and wretched, but they don't starve. Take Dick Harrison for example, he's living a good life by being a poet."

" Nan, you're too stubborn. Dick's great-grandparents came to the States last century. Like I said, your grandchildren will be able to live Dick's kind of life, but that's not for us."

" So we have to compromise?"

"Do we have another choice?"

Niyan came over and put their checkbook in front of her husband, who was off work today. Their air conditioner had been struck by lightning the night before, and a technician was scheduled to come and look at it at three o'clock. Shubo rose and stretched up his arms, then rubbed the small of his back with both hands.

He'd suffered a backache recently, having to do a ten-hour shift six days a week at Grand Buddha. "We'll talk more about this next time," he told Nan, and thrust the checkbook into his pocket, ready to leave.

Nan grimaced without speaking.

₃

NAN decided to write poetry again. It seemed he couldn't get anywhere if he continued writing in Chinese. Obscure and unpublished, he was completely isolated from the Chinese writers' community, which was centered in New York. In Toronto there was also a group of novelists who, though having emigrated, were still writing in their mother tongue and sending their works back to China for publication, but their manuscripts were often censored there or rejected on the grounds that the subject matter wasn't right. In Nan 's case, it was clear that writing in Chinese would lead him to a dead end. Could he do it in English? The same old question again tormented him these days. He knew that to him Chinese meant the past and English the future, the identification with his son. He also understood that by adopting another language he might wander farther away from his Chinese heritage and have to endure more loneliness and run more risk; eventually he might have to estrange himself from his mother tongue, in which a writer of his situation, in fact all writers in the Chinese diaspora, would be marginalized. But to write poetry in English was like climbing a mountain with a summit he couldn't see or envision. It was very likely that he might mess up his life without getting anywhere. Still, was there another way if he was determined to write?

The following Thursday when Dick came for lunch, Nan asked his friend to give him a list of books of contemporary poetry in English that he should know. Without hesitation Dick wrote eleven titles on the notepad Nan had placed before him. They included:

Darker, Mark Strand

Scream! Sam Fisher

The Fortunate Traveller, Derek Walcott

Descending Figure, Louise Gluck

The Book of the Body, Frank Bidart

An Explanation of America, Robert Pinsky

North, Seamus Heaney

Elsewhere, Linda Dewit

The Ether Dome and Other Poems, Allen Grossman

Dien Cai Dau, Yusef Komunyakaa

An Appointment in the Afternoon, Richard Harrison

"Thanks, thanks," Nan said. He tore off the sheet and folded it carefully. "I've made up my mind to write in English." "Good. You've been dillydallying too long," Dick said. "Do you sink I can make it eventually?" "Depends on what you mean by 'make it.' "

"I mean whezzer I can become a decent poet in English eef I persevere."

"No doubt about that, Nan. You'll be a fine poet." "I may also mess up my life."

"That's common. I've already ruined a good part of mine." Dick laughed and blinked. "Why did you say zat?"

"My parents wanted me to be a lawyer. I even went to law school at Columbia for a year, then I quit. My dad was mad at me for wasting so much money. In my parents' eyes I was a loser."

"But you're a success now. You have an excellent jawb."

"I may lose it anytime. If Emory doesn't give me tenure, I don't know where I'll go. Look, you have your wife and kid and you have a home. That's already a success. I have nothing but myself. Most poets in America are worse off than I am. I knew a middle-aged poet who died of pneumonia because he had no health insurance and couldn't go to the doctor when he was ill. To tell the truth, in a way you're lucky, Nan. Whatever happens to you, your family will be with you and love you. To top it all, you have your own home and business, a solid base."

Dick's words surprised Nan. Never had he thought his family could play such a vital role in the writer's life he tried to imagine for himself. Indeed, even if he ruined himself totally, his wife and son would remain with him. Without question, to Dick he was a kind of success, at least domestically. This realization gave him some confidence, now that he knew he had little to lose. All he could do was try.

He drove to three local libraries and found seven of the eleven poetry books Dick had listed for him. To get the other four titles, he went to Borders at Gwinnett Mall and bought two of them. He also ordered Linda Dewit's Elsewhere at the bookstore. But they couldn't find Richard Harrison's An Appointment in the Afternoon. The young saleswoman searched in the computer, but to no avail. "Are you sure this is the right title?" she asked Nan, biting the corner of her mouth, beside which a pair of thin lines emerged. Nan wondered whether they were wrinkles or scars.

"Yes. Do you carry ozzer books by zis author?"

"No, I don't see any here." She kept her eyes on the monitor.

"Have you ever stocked zis title?"

"No, we haven't."

Nan didn't try further, since the nine poetry books already in his hands would occupy him for two or three months. Besides, he was sure that Dick had a copy he could borrow.

When Dick came to the Gold Wok the next time, Nan mentioned his inability to get hold of Richard Harrison's book. Dick reddened, lowering his eyes while slurping seaweed soup. "What's zer matter?" Nan asked. "Don't you have a volume of his poetry?"

"Of course I do. I wrote it."

"What? But your name is Dick, not Richard. Your new book has 'Dick Harrison' as zee author."

Dick laughed nervously, his face puckering a little. "You don't know Dick is a nickname for Richard."

"Oh, I really don't know. You mean it's like Bob for Robert or Bill for William?"

"Exactly. From now on I go by Dick for my author's name."

"My, I never thought you would be on zer list."

"Why? You think I'm unqualified?"

"No, I don't mean zat. We Chinese would never do that!"

"Do what?"

"To put down your own name on such a list. I didn't imagine it was you. Hey, I don't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm just telling zer truth."

"I'm not that fragile. But I have to assert myself, even to pat myself on the back. A lot of poets just write dreck, but still they have everything-fame, money, and women."

"So you write for those?" asked Nan, half joshingly.

"Why not? Poets are not saints. We have to make our way in the world too."

"But poetry seems useless to me."

"You have to take it as a matter of life or death if you want to write well," Dick said in earnest, and unconsciously put down his spoon.

Nan thought about his friend's words afterward, but he was unconvinced. He couldn't see how poetry could be used as a means of getting fortune and fame, much less women. In the Chinese tradition, poets often celebrated poverty, believing their art could improve and mature with hardship and impoverishment. On the other hand, Nan remembered that Wallace Stevens once said money could become poetry. Yet that statement was mainly about the time and energy the poet needed for writing; it didn't bear on the fortune and fame Dick had in mind. Nan didn't agree with his friend, and neither would he believe in the principle upheld by traditional Chinese poets who had ritualized poverty. He felt that too much hardship could dull a poet's sensibility and smother his talent, just as in his own case the hard work over the years had stunted his growth as a poet. Now he had to keep his mind alert and clear and find his way.

₄

IN MARCH, Mrs. Lodge bought eight ducklings, each already more than half a foot long, and kept them in the lake. They grew rapidly and in two months looked like adult ducks, waddling about with heavy asses. When swimming in the green water, they looked blaz-ingly white. Though they didn't fly away to other bodies of water, they took off occasionally, darting from one end of the lake to the other end and quacking gutturally. Because of their ability to fly, Nan often wondered whether they were a hybrid of some domestic and wild ducks. The eight of them always stayed together. When they paddled around, the largest drake would lead the flock, and together they resembled a miniature cruising fleet. Taotao called the head drake the bully, because the rascal would chase female ducks and even geese. If a goose was too large and too tall for it to tread, it would just sit on her back as she sailed around in the water, both of them shrieking like crazy.

One morning in May, Nan and Taotao returned from the supermarket with the Sunday Atlanta Journal-Constitution. The moment they got out of the car, the boy caught sight of the bully duck perching near the gate to the backyard and shuddering in silence. Taotao went up to it, but the drake wouldn't move or make any noise. He pushed it with his foot; still it wouldn't budge, trembling without pause. Nan came over too. They saw blood on its head and feathers. "He must have been injured," Nan thought aloud in English.

The boy ran into the house, flapping his hands above his waist like a pair of penguin flippers. He shouted, "Mom, we have the bully duck in our yard. He won't go away."

Mother and son came out together while Nan held up the drake and saw that it had been mangled by fishing lines and hooks, its tongue hanging out, slashed by a large fishhook that had gone through it from underneath. Several pieces of fishing line were twined around its neck, choking it. One of its wings had collapsed, unable to move. Stroking its feathers, Nan found another hook stuck in its good wing. He managed to dislodge this one and some other hooks, but he couldn't take off the one on its tongue, which, when he tried to remove it, hurt the duck more and made its mouth bleed again. The poor creature was so damaged that it couldn't make any noise.

Pingping cut the fishing lines with scissors, but they couldn't get rid of the fishhook without further injuring the drake's tongue. She went back into the house and returned with a pair of pliers, her apron pocket stuffed with a bottle and cotton balls. With both hands Nan severed the hook so that the barb wouldn't cut the tongue again when he pulled the shank out. The steel of the fishhook was so hard that it had even dented the edges of the pliers. "Open his mouth," Pingping said to Nan while taking an aspirin tablet out of her apron pocket.

Father and son pried the duck's bill apart. Pingping, who had worked on a poultry farm for two years back in China and knew how to treat sick chickens, broke the aspirin in half and inserted one piece into the drake's mouth. It swallowed the medicine, and she rubbed its throat to ensure that the aspirin sank into its craw. Next, with a pair of sticks she picked off the maggots from its wounds. Then she gingerly rubbed the gashes with a cotton ball soaked with hydrogen peroxide; the wounds kept foaming while the drake's legs twitched fitfully. After the treatment, Taotao and Nan carried the creature to the lakeside and released it. It paddled away listlessly, hardly able to keep its head above the water.

For the rest of the day, Nan and Pingping talked about the bully duck, which must have stayed in their yard for a whole night. The drake had been the strongest of the brood, but when it was injured, it had been left to die alone and none of the flock had accompanied it. All the other ducks perched in the shady bushes on the other shore, sleeping, feeding, and mating as usual. Once in a while they'd get into the water, frolicking or catching fish or insects. Their life wasn't in the least disrupted by their ex-leader's absence. Pingping sighed, "It's just like human beings-when you're weak, you're left to die alone."

To their amazement, two days later, the bully drake led the flock swimming in the lake again, its head raised high, and it quacked as lustily as before. Again it would chase female waterfowl. These ducks and the mallards were very fond of the Wus' backyard. They'd bask in the sun on the shore and lay eggs in the clumps of monkey grass. The lake couldn't sustain too many of them, so Pingping left only ten of the duck eggs in the grass to be hatched. She took the rest home and salted them in a jar of brine.

₅

TAOTAO had been on a Scholars Bowl team, but his parents made him quit because he'd miss classes, having to travel frequently for the tournaments, and because when they stayed at a motel, two boys would share one bed, which Taotao disliked. Furthermore, he didn't learn much from the answers to the questions-to win, all you needed was a strong memory and quick response. Still, he was unhappy about leaving the team and often threw a fit at home, yelling at his father.

He wrote an essay about the injured drake for his English class and got an A for it. Mrs. Ashby, his teacher, put "Super!" on his homework, which pleased him and his parents. Nan also wrote about the incident, but he couldn't complete the poem, whose ending simply didn't work no matter how hard he tried. By chance Taotao saw a draft of the poem Nan had thrown away. Outraged, he told his father, "That's my story. You shouldn't steal from me."

His parents were stumped. Nan said, "W-what do you mean?"

"I wrote about the duck already. If you did the same, you committed plagiarism."

"What's that?" asked his mother.

"Stealing ozzers' ideas," Nan explained, then turned to his son. "It's our story. We all took part in rescuing zer duck. And I didn't use any of your ideas or sentences and my speaker is zer duck. How can you accuse me of plagiarism?"

"But I've already written about it. You can't use it again."

"Who says I can't?" Nan was losing his temper, his eyeballs throbbing.

"The law says."

"Give me a break! You're not a lawyer."

"Fuck you!" The boy dropped his cereal bowl on the dining table and stood up.

"Say that again!" Nan jumped to his feet and grabbed at his son. Then he stopped and withdrew his hand, just glaring at him.

Pingping intervened, "Taotao, you apologize to Daddy. You curse him first, you must apologize."

Ignoring her order, the boy hoisted his book bag over his shoulder and tore out the door for the bus stop. These days he was often annoyed by Nan, who would in secret search his drawers and book bag every two or three days to make sure he was drug-free, and who would read his e-mail messages whenever he forgot to shut off his account. How many times had he told him not to invade his privacy? But his father just wouldn't mend his ways, treating him as if he were a culprit on parole. What a stupid asshole.

As Taotao was striding away, his mother caught up with him. She grasped his upper arm and stopped him, saying, "You must apologize to Daddy."

"He started it. Ow! Don't break my humerus!" "I don't care who start. You curse him, you apologize." She was still clutching his arm. "No, I won't!"

"He's your father. In whole world, if you can find another man who is better to you than Daddy, you don't need apologize. If you cannot find such man, you must apologize to him."

Taotao looked at her with a knotted brow, then ambled back to the house. Yanking open the screen door, he shouted, "I'm sorry, Daddy, okay?"

"That's fine," said Nan.

Although the exchange with his son spoiled Nan 's desire to work on his poem about the injured duck, he was amazed that during the whole altercation none of them had spoken a single Chinese word. He went out to the deck and swept away the pollen and dust, pleased he had contained his temper this time.

On occasion Taotao still showed animosity toward Nan. One sentence he often hurled at him was "You were never there." Nan knew what he meant-the boy still resented Nan 's absence from his early childhood. Yet Nan would reply, "Who said I wasn't there? I was the first person who saw you coming out of your mahther. Your head appeared first, with sleek hair." That would exasperate his son more.

Without doubt, Taotao viewed Nan as a kind of rival in the household. Whenever possible, he'd strive to monopolize his mother's attention and love, interrupting Nan's conversations with Pingping or sitting between his parents, or pinning blame on Nan whenever something went awry. Nan told him to act his age. The boy was almost thirteen, five feet tall, but he wouldn't change. "You have Oedipus complex and may end up a mama's boy," Nan often told him. That would make matters worse. Enraged, Taotao would call him "douche bag." Nan didn't know this word, nor could he find it in his dictionaries. He assumed that it must be a slang neologism, too recent for lexicographers to pick up. He once asked his son how to spell it, but the boy wouldn't tell him.

Sometimes Nan wondered what it would have been like if he'd had a daughter instead of a son. Deep down, he'd have preferred a girl, who might have treated him with more affection and attachment, and who might have helped him more with the work at the restaurant-not like Taotao, who would feel ashamed of clearing tables in the presence of the kids he knew and would complain to his parents, "Haven't I been a servant boy long enough?" Nan wouldn't respond to that, though he felt Pingping had spoiled their son. If only they'd had a daughter.

₆

IN THE SPRING of 1996 Pingping found herself pregnant. The expectation of a new arrival in the family agitated everyone. Taotao was furious and said his parents were outrageous. "I'm almost thirteen. Am I going to be an uncle of the baby?" he blustered.

Nan countered, "Once you go to college, we need anozzer child at home."

"I don't want any siblings."

Pingping remained silent. The boy seemed afraid that the new arrival would become the center of the family. "Selfish brat," said his father. "Shut the hell up!"

Nan throttled his impulse to yell back at his son. In fact, he was the only one in the family who was happy about Pingping's pregnancy, because he imagined that the baby might provide a new focus for his life. He wouldn't mind spending the rest of his years raising the child if it was a girl.

Unlike him, Pingping was frightened, for she was already forty and might not be able to give birth easily. Also, this wasn't like in China, where her parents, both doctors, could help her. Here she was alone and couldn't rely on Nan, who wasn't good at taking care of others. More worrisome, the medical expenses would be enormous since their health insurance covered only emergencies. What if she died in childbirth? Then Taotao would be motherless and Nan would be wretched too. There were so many risks to consider that she had gotten restless. She told Nan about her fear, but he replied, "Don't worry. Everything will work out fine. We have some extra money now and can afford to raise another child."

An ultrasound at the Norcross Medical Center showed it was a healthy baby, though it was too early to find out its sex. Somehow both Nan and Pingping had no doubt that it was a girl. From a tiny black box like a camera a nurse let the Wus hear the baby's heartbeat, which raced rapidly like a bird flapping its wings. "Very strong," Nan said, beaming as thin creases grooved the skin under his eyes.

Stacy, the nurse, told them, "Actually, the pulse is rather shallow, but it will get stronger as the baby grows." Her chubby fingers kept pressing Pingping's belly, which hadn't bulged out yet. The baby was just two months old.

Despite paying $236 for the checkup, Nan was elated. During the following days he and Pingping began thinking what name they should give the baby. Whatever they came up with, Taotao would say it sounded silly. Ignoring the boy's grouchiness, Pingping and Nan settled on "May," which is phonetically identical with the Chinese characters beauty and plum blossoms. Indeed, such a name was commonplace, but the plainness might make the child easy to raise. Back in China, especially in the countryside, parents often purposely gave babies nondescript names, even calling them Doggy or Donkey or Dolly, or just Kiddo or Lassie, so that ghosts might not notice and snatch them away.

Gradually Taotao cooled down, willing to accept a sister as a new member of their family, though his mother was still anxious. Sometimes Pingping was an insomniac at night, tossing in bed and thinking about all the unpredictable things. What if the baby turns out to be retarded or has a congenital illness? I'm already forty-anything like that can happen. What if I die in childbirth? That'll destroy Tao-tao and devastate Nan -our family will collapse. I won't worry about Nan, who can get along without me. If I'm dead, he might find another woman soon and might even go back to China to look for Beina. Although he says he's too tired to love anyone, I know him better than he knows himself-he could forget me and marry another woman soon after I'm gone. But I wouldn't begrudge him that. He deserves to go on with his life, to form a new family. What I cannot set my mind at ease about is that Taotao will be motherless. Nan loves him, I'm sure, but he doesn't know how to take care of a child. Not to mention the baby, who will need nursing and looking after. Nan can be a good provider but can't be a true family man. He was born to be a writer and scholar, though he can be neither here. That's what makes him angry all the time. If only my parents were here! They could help me figure things out and make arrangements. With them around I wouldn't mind having two more babies. I love children; so does Nan. We should've had a large family. That would make him happy, and with a girl baby he'll definitely try to be a good, indulgent father. Well, I'm not so sure. It seems like he can't live without making himself and others suffer. Still, I love him. He's a good man for all his shortcomings, and he can't wait to see the new baby. Never is he worried about the difficulties I might get into. Always absentminded like that. You may be able to remove a mountain, but you can't change a man's nature. Stop thinking so many negative thoughts. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is Monday, and there'll be a lot of work for the buffet.

In the morning Pingping's face would be sickly and bloated. She also retched a lot, convulsing with the dry heaves. There were many things her stomach wouldn't digest, such as cheese, tofu, spinach, fish, chicken. Yet she got hungry so frequently that she ate seven or eight meals a day. "This baby is a monster," she kept saying.

Nan tried to calm her down. He wouldn't let her do any heavy work in the restaurant. All of a sudden his life seemed to have a purpose, a center, and he felt invigorated. He was grateful for a second opportunity, because he hadn't helped his wife much in raising Tao-tao. This time he was determined to be a better father.

₇

NAN wrote four short poems in English. He was pleased with them and wondered if he should show them to Dick. He decided not to for the time being; instead, he mailed them to Sam Fisher and Edward Neary, since both poets had told him to send them his work. He hoped they would comment on his poems and ideally help him publish one or two.

A few months earlier Dick had suggested that Nan write a memoir. Nan was bemused by the idea and shook his head, saying he had no such intention and couldn't imagine being a memoirist. To him, such a book should be written by someone who had experienced something extraordinary. But Dick said, "Your life can be a very interesting subject according to what I've heard." Still, Nan didn't want to attempt that. Besides, a book of prose would demand a lot of the author-a long-lasting concentration and total immersion in the writing. It meant he'd have to live as a full-time writer for a year or two, a luxury he couldn't afford. He'd better focus on poetry, which mainly needed short bursts of energy.

Now that the poems had been mailed out, he expected to hear from the two poets any day. But three weeks passed without a word from them. He was puzzled, wondering if he should write to them again, but his good sense got the better of him, so he waited patiently.

One afternoon Dick arrived at the Gold Wok with a sullen face and puffy eyes. He looked a few years older than the cheerful Dick that Nan had last seen. Nan drew up a chair upholstered with red vinyl and sat down at the table across from his friend. "What's eating you?" he asked, using the expression he had just learned from Shubo.

Dick uttered a long sigh. "My publisher is eating me. Oh, help!" His face contorted as he suddenly began sobbing. He stretched out his hand and held Nan 's forearm as though intending to stand up but unable to. Surprised, Nan handed him a paper napkin, which Dick took and used to blow his nose.

"They want you to sell more books?" asked Nan a moment later.

"No. They refused to publish Unexpected Gifts."

"Why? I wondered what happened to zer book. It should have come out long ago."

"First they postponed its publication, then they decided not to do it at all."

"How come?"

"They said my last book hadn't reached the sales standard. That's just an excuse. I know some books they published have done much worse than mine. They just wanted to get rid of me, probably because I quarreled with them about that cover."

"Don't you have a contract?"

"I signed the contract, but they've never sent me the cosigned copy. So the contract isn't valid."

"Zat's awful!" Despite saying that, Nan didn't fully understand why his friend was so heartbroken. He asked again, "Didn't they already cawpyedit it?"

"Yes, but the publisher changed his mind. I'm through, Nan. I'll never recover from this blow."

"Don't be so pessimistic. You can always look for anozzer publisher, can't you?"

"You don't get it, Nan. Once you've lost your publisher, you're ruined."

"How so?"

"You belong to a different category of poets now and few publishers will take your work seriously. It's like you've become homeless." "There's no room for negotiation?" "With whom?" "Zer publisher."

"No. The series editor was a sorry poet whose book I once reviewed negatively, because he'd lifted lines from others' poems. This made the whole thing worse. I knew that snot might stab me in the back, but I didn't expect he and the publisher would connive to destroy me. This got me right here." He pointed at his heart. By now he had stopped sobbing, though his eyes were still misty.

Still baffled, Nan said, "Zis shouldn't be zee end of the world. As long as you keep trying, there will be a way to get your book pahblished."

"You've no idea how the poetry world works. It will take me at least half a year to find another press willing to consider the manuscript, if I'm lucky. This winter I'll be up for the pretenure review. If I don't have a book accepted soon, Emory might fire me. If that happens, I'll be half dead as a poet and will have to start my career all over again."

At last Nan realized the enormity of his friend's setback. He asked, "Did zer series editor know zis would damage your career so much?"

"Of course he knew. He must be gloating over my suffering. Poets can be more vicious than politicians."

"It's disgusting."

"I may have to file for Chapter Eleven soon." "You mean zer bookstore in Decatur? How can Chapter Eleven help you?"

Dick broke out laughing, his eyes suddenly filled with sparkling tears. His laughter perplexed Nan. Dick explained, "To file for Chapter Eleven means to declare bankruptcy. You're such a funny guy, Nan."

"I see. But you reelly haven't lawst any capital. No need for Chapter Eleven. Just try and wait."

"Yes, I'm not dead yet." Dick thumped the table. "I have to pull myself together and put up a fight. I'll start looking for a new publisher right away."

Since it wasn't the busy hour yet, Nan asked Pingping to cook some noodles for Dick and himself. Together the two friends had a late lunch, with a plate of roast duck and Kung Pao Chicken between them. Dick cheered up a little as he was eating. He said he was going to ask Sam Fisher to help him. He had to get his manuscript accepted by the end of the year so that he could become ready for the pretenure review. Nan assured him that he'd definitely find a new publisher.

Dick's setback upset Nan. It offered him a glimpse of the strife in the poetry world. If Dick was this vulnerable, what about a budding poet like Nan himself, unconnected and unpublished? Still, uncertainty and lack of luck shouldn't be the excuse for him not to try. He must try and try harder.

Despite his tough-mindedness, he actually avoided using any spare moment to write, because his wife was pregnant and needed care. For several weeks he fussed over Pingping so much, even patting her belly or hooking his arm around her in the presence of others, that at times she'd shoo him away, though whenever he wanted to kiss her she'd tilt her face for him to peck.

₈

PINGPING was happy with Nan 's sudden transformation into a devoted husband. She reveled in his attention and small loving gestures. He loved their baby girl so much that he often smiled for no apparent reason, as if relishing something secret. She was still unsure if he loved her, but with this new baby she'd be able to keep him occupied for many years. She knew he might still miss Beina even though he wouldn't let on about it. A few days ago she had looked through some drafts of his poems, some of which were evidently addressed to his first love. She was still hurt by his feelings for that coldhearted woman, who had probably forgotten him long ago. Sometimes Pingping couldn't help but believe that Nan just imagined a lover in order to fill his soul with sorrow so that he could suffer more.

These days she felt out of sorts, her body lacking strength and her mind agitated. She'd be thirsty no matter how much water she drank. A checkup indicated that she suffered from type 2 diabetes. The diagnosis frightened Nan and Taotao. Having heard that some people died of the disease, the boy was afraid he might lose his mother. He cried and blamed his father for making her pregnant. "I hate you! I hate you!" he yelled at Nan.

Though also worried, Nan believed that Pingping's diabetes would probably be temporary. The nutritionist had said that many pregnant women were afflicted with this disease, especially Asians, whose diet contained too much starch, but most of them would recover soon after they gave birth.

Following the menu provided by the nutritionist, Pingping ate five meals a day, all of low carbohydrates and high protein. She didn't like the prescribed food but dared not eat what Nan cooked at the restaurant, fearful of messing up her blood sugar. Despite being careful about her diet, she was still ill, always exhausted and sleepy during the day. Her face was swollen and her eyes watery. Every night she got up many times to vomit into the toilet. She suffered so much that she claimed the baby meant to torture her and wear her down.

Nan often begged her to stay home in the afternoons. Shubo had lost his job at Grand Buddha, which had just folded, and could fill in for her. In fact, Shubo disliked bartending and preferred to be a chef, so he often came to the Gold Wok to learn how to cook from Nan. He was picking up the skill quickly and was delighted whenever Nan asked him to cook an order. "You're a born chef" Nan bantered one day.

"I shouldn't have acted on your advice, playing ducks and drakes with my money on the bartending school," said Shubo.

Whenever Nan asked him to come and help, he'd show up readily. Pingping often noticed Shubo caress his wife's arm or peck her on the cheek when they were alone. It would be more appropriate to say that he came to help Niyan rather than relieve Pingping. He'd seek every opportunity to be with his wife, as if the two were newlyweds. Pingping and Nan were amused, saying they were like a pair of mandarin ducks that always accompanied each other.

Shubo suggested that Nan get a karaoke machine, which might attract more customers and make the Gold Wok a lively spot where a lot of people would gather in the evenings, especially those professionals who, after speaking English all day long at work, needed to unwind some in a Chinese-language environment. "To make this place popular, you need to put an accent on atmosphere," he said to Nan.

"I don't want to turn this place into bedlam. I'm afraid of crowds, you know." Nan smiled and refilled Shubo's teacup.

"Then how can you attract more business?"

"We have enough customers."

"If more people come, you'll make more money."

"God, you're such a party animal," Nan said in English. Seeing his friend flummoxed, he added, "Never heard that expression, huh? Write it down in your notebook-a party animal."

"You're an awful man."

Shubo knew many people in the Chinese community here, most of whom were lonely souls and would have come in and sung the old-time songs and opera snatches with which they had grown up. But Nan wouldn't buy a karaoke machine, because most of his clientele were Americans who might dislike a noisy Gold Wok. Besides, he hated noise. Once he had dined in a Taiwanese restaurant where some well-dressed college students sang so loudly that his ears kept buzzing the next morning and he never set foot in that place again. In addition, he was reluctant to rub shoulders with the Chinese professionals here, some of whom might look down on him. In Nan 's eyes they were just clever snobs, full of themselves. Once they began singing at this restaurant, they might want to drag on into the small hours. He couldn't possibly keep this place open that late for them. He joked with Shubo that if he promised to come every night, he, Nan, would install a karaoke machine. That was impossible, since two nights a week Shubo had to go to a part-time job in Atlanta. Later, Nan explained to his friend that he ought not to create more work at the moment so that Pingping wouldn't be stressed. Shubo smiled, saying to Nan, "You're a model husband."

Niyan said, "Yes, you must learn from Nan."

Knowing about Pingping's pregnancy, Janet often came to the Gold Wok to see her. She also talked a good deal about Hailee, who could walk now. But Janet was worried: the child was pale and flaccid, as if shrinking. Sometimes Hailee cried wheezily as if in pain. Although Dave didn't come to the Gold Wok as often, the Wus had seen him holding Hailee in the jewelry store or walking with her in the plaza, always leading her by the hand and taking short and slow steps. Besides asking Pingping questions about parenting, Janet seemed afraid Hailee would grow up lonely. She said to Pingping, "When your daughter's old enough, can you let her play with Hailee?"

"Don't be silly," said Pingping. "We're friends. So they will be friends too. But I'm afraid my baby not healthy."

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know, I feel terrible these days."

"You'll be fine. Try to think positive. We all hear the patter of tiny feet."

Janet was puzzled when Pingping told her that Nan was eager to have a daughter, because she and Dave had thought Nan disliked babies, especially girls, which was why, they believed, he had refused to be Hailee's nominal father. Pingping couldn't explain Nan 's change either, but she felt it was probably because he was getting older and their life was relatively stable now.

₉

DICK phoned one evening in May and said to Nan in a cracked voice, "The old man died." He sounded drunk and hoarse.

"Who's dead?" asked Nan.

"Sam."

"Reelly! When did it happen?"

"Yesterday afternoon he had a heart attack and died soon after they rushed him to the hospital. I'm going to New York tomorrow to attend his funeral."

"Yes, you should go. Tell Min Niu I'm sorry about Sam."

"I may not see Min. Oh, didn't I tell you he was no longer Sam's boyfriend?"

"No, you didn't tell me. What happened?"

"He left Sam a few months ago to marry a woman, but nobody knows his whereabouts exactly. I heard he was teaching at a college in Hong Kong."

"I can't believe zis."

Though surprised that Min Niu was a bisexual, Nan made no further comment. He told Dick to have a safe trip and not to grieve too much since Sam had passed away without much suffering. After he hung up, he couldn't help but wonder if Min Niu had used Sam without genuine love for the poet. Without Sam's sponsorship and paying his tuition, Min couldn't possibly have come to America. Then after Min had earned his M.A. from NYU, he left Sam to start the kind of life he had probably desired all along. Nan suspected that Min could be that kind of schemer.

Sam's death grieved Nan in a peculiar way. He hadn't known the poet well enough to feel very attached to him, but the loss saddened him nevertheless. Sam, who could have helped him in his writing, had left a small hole in Nan 's life. His passing made Nan feel more isolated. He couldn't stop wondering whether Sam had read his poems before he died. Perhaps not.

Dick returned on Monday, having to teach the next morning. He came to the Gold Wok for a late lunch on Wednesday afternoon. He didn't look grief-stricken. His gray eyes radiated a soft light, and he kept smiling mysteriously. Nan went on gazing at his animated face as Dick talked about how Sam, prior to his death, had planned to buy an apartment in Brooklyn for his stepson and how he had still dreamed of visiting Tibet. When Niyan brought over his order, Bang Bang Chicken, Dick said to Nan, "My book was taken by a New York press, thanks to Sam."

"Congratulations!" Nan was happy for him. "How did this happen?"

"Sam called the president of Four Continents and sent him my manuscript personally. After reading it, the publisher told Sam he would print it. Now that Sam is dead, he's all the more eager to honor his word."

"A good deed. Sam gave you a big hand."

"It's a miracle. Four Continents runs a better poetry series than my former press."

"See, I said you would find a publisher soon. Now you won't have any problem wiz your pretenure review."

"Right."

Chewing a piece of chicken, Dick changed the subject and began talking about Bao Yuan, who had also attended Sam's funeral. Nan was excited to know that Bao was quite a success in the art world, having sold many of his paintings. Dick said with a grin, "He told me that he has a fiancee in China."

"He's engaged?"

"Yes, he went back for the engagement two months ago. He was very happy and invited you and me to visit his studio." "Did zer Chinese gahvernment let him go back?" "Obviously they did. I don't know how he worked that out." "So he remembered me?" "Yes, very fondly. He said you were brilliant."

"You're jahst pulling my leg." Nan laughed with some bitterness that misshaped his face into a sad expression, as if he had a sudden pain in his chest. He added, "A brilliant cook, maybe. Jahst now you said he has a studio-where's zat?"

"On a mountain in Tennessee."

"So he's a professional now?"

"Yes, and quite rich. His paintings are selling well."

Dick relayed that Bao had moved to Tennessee half a year before and begun teaching a small group of local amateur painters. One of them was a wealthy lawyer who owned a piece of land on the mountain, so the man had a studio built there for his teacher. Also, this way his fellow students could have a place to stay when they gathered to take lessons from Bao. Dick's explanation piqued Nan 's curiosity. Never had he thought Bao, formerly a mere sponger, would make it in America. Perhaps that fellow had changed; perhaps he had become a diligent artist.

Nan and Dick decided to visit Bao together. The Gold Wok didn't open until noon on Sundays, and there wouldn't be many customers until late in the afternoon. So Nan asked Shubo to stand in for him so that he could go to Tennessee with Dick the next weekend.

₁₀

DICK and Nan set out early on Sunday morning. It was a gorgeous day, cool and clear after a mist had lifted. Sunlight fell on the dew-drenched tree leaves, which flickered in the breeze. They drove along Route 575 for an hour and a half, took a break at Blue Ridge, then continued north. Half an hour later they crossed the Georgia border, and then after a few miles of hilly gravel road filled with doglegs, they found Bao's place on the mountain. To Nan 's amazement, Bao was cut off from the outside world, living like a recluse. No house was visible from his studio, which was a large, high-pitched wooden shack with broad windows. The fresh wood, not painted yet, was whitish and rough-hewn, giving off an intense pine scent. Behind the studio was parked a brown travel trailer in which Bao cooked his meals and slept at night. Beside the trailer sat a burgundy passenger van. Sometimes he'd drive to a Chinese restaurant in Postelle, a tiny town about five miles to the north, to have lunch or dinner. On weekdays he devoted himself to painting and would meet his students only on weekends.

Bao hugged both guests warmly. He was more like a middle-aged man now, wearing a crew cut and having gained about twenty pounds, but he was the picture of health. His bronzed face reminded Nan of a peasant who worked in the elements. Bao told them that he swam in a nearby man-made lake every day.

In the studio were lounging three students of his. One of them was Frank, a fortyish man wearing glasses. He was the lawyer who owned the land and the studio. The other two were in their mid-twenties, Brian and Tim. Tim was tall and thin, but muscular like a basketball player, with a reddish mustache; Brian was a Vietnamese American, born in Vietnam, with a handsome face that was rather Mongolian. Brian told Nan that his last name was Ho. His father had fled to the United States in the 1970s after Saigon fell, and a year later his mother, carrying him on her back, had come to America and joined his dad. Unlike these two hardy young fellows, Frank looked studious, skinny, and heavily myopic. The students' demeanor showed a good deal of respect for their teacher, though Bao was casual and often patted them on the shoulder and back. He was louder and happier than before. He spoke English as if yelling at someone and often added a high-pitched laugh after a sentence. Nan wondered when Bao had started to speak English like this, without hesitation.

Nan scanned the studio. Against the walls leaned about twenty paintings, mostly still lifes of fruits, flowers, trees, bowls of food, rocks, clumps of stars in the indigo sky. There were a few idyllic pieces of animals and young women, which were reminiscent of French impressionism.

"I work very hard these days," Bao said to the guests. "One day, one painting."

"So you must've made a lot of money," Dick said.

"I'm impressed," Nan admitted.

He noticed that these paintings differed palpably from Bao's former works. Most of them were bright and buoyant, full of life, sunlight, and exuberance, without any trace of the violent colors and tragic tones that used to suffuse his paintings. Evidently Bao's life in America had affected his art. These pieces had shed the depressive agitation, the jaundiced view of the world, and the dark despair; instead, they gave the feeling of warmth and contentment-there was light everywhere. Yet on second thought, Nan wasn't sure whether the change had stemmed from within the artist or from his effort to meet the needs of the American market. He could find little originality in these paintings.

"Each piece here is worth at least a thousand dollars," Tim told the visitors.

"So that's your price?" Dick asked Bao.

"Actually his Washington, D.C., series sold for more than forty thousand," Frank broke in, pushing up his glasses with his thumb.

"Here, I show you." Bao led the visitors to a long trestle table on which sat three bulky albums. He opened one of them and said, "Here's the series."

Nan and Dick looked at the photos of the paintings, which were indeed impressive, presenting the U.S. capital in a fresh, bright way, as if the city were a large park where woods gleamed in the morning sun and where shimmering cathedrals, half shaded, were massive like hills. "I just did one series," explained Bao. "My agent want me to do more, but I refuse."

"Why?" asked Dick.

"I don't want to repeat my work."

That answer puzzled Nan. By nature Bao was shrewd and pragmatic. Perhaps he meant to keep something unique in his repertoire so as to maintain and increase the value of his work. Nan didn't ask more and went on thumbing through the albums. They contained hundreds of photographs of Bao's paintings in different styles: landscapes that revealed the influence of traditional Chinese painting, avant-gardish pieces like advertisements, impressionistic gouaches and aquarelles, still lifes, portraits of girls and various kinds of artists. Among them Bao took great pride in the few he had painted with a palette knife. Indeed, these pieces of cityscape and waterside looked vigorous, striking, and primitively spontaneous. He said he himself had invented the technique, called "knife painting." Though impressed by the scope of Bao's works, Nan asked him, "Do you still write poetry?"

"Not anymore. I've found painting suits me better."

"How about your memoir?"

"I'm still working on it."

Nan realized Bao would never complete that book, which he must have scrapped.

A moment later Bao cut open a huge watermelon, and together they sat on the deck, conversing, drinking beer, and eating watermelon and grapes. Tim and Brian edited an art magazine called Blue Stars, which had just published a lengthy article on Bao and his works, praising him as "a master on the mountain." Tim was its author and prided himself on the writing.

Because of his poor English, Bao couldn't fully make out the elaborate sentences in the article, so he asked Nan to tell him what they meant. He insisted that Nan translate every word for him orally on the spot. Although aware of Brian's slightly ironic grin, Nan went ahead and explained the article sentence by sentence while Bao kept nodding and listening intently, his eyes blinking constantly. Nan felt his host was like a small boy, vain but in an innocent way. Somehow Bao differed remarkably from his former self, carefree and natural, though there was still a little edginess in his bearing and his face still betrayed a small bit of uncertainty. He laughed loudly whenever Nan rendered a flattering phrase into Chinese.

It took twenty-five minutes for Nan to finish translating the article. Then they resumed talking about the people they knew living in New York. Bao confessed he had fallen in love with a Chinese woman two years before, but her parents despised him and wouldn't let her marry him. In their eyes he was a ne'er-do-well, not a match for their daughter, who was now working on a Ph.D. in biology at Vanderbilt. He followed her to Nashville, though her mother had said to his face that he was merely a toad dreaming of nabbing a swan. "I give them ten my best paintings," he told the guests.

"They must be rich now," Dick said.

"I don't think so."

Brian put in, "They used his paintings as tablecloths, and one by one they ruined them. Then, last fall, they went to Bao's show in D.C. and were flabbergasted at the sight of the prices. They couldn't take their eyes off the price tags, man: six or seven thousand bucks apiece. The fact is that those paintings they destroyed were worth much more."

"That's old story," Bao said calmly. "It's over between she and I. We have no luck, no chance, no together. After she go away for another guy, I move to the mountain and work harder here. I'm stupid man, no luck with ladies."

Nan laughed, then checked himself. He remembered that Bao had once been a goatish fellow. How come this libertine had changed so much? Probably his success had given him more confidence and made him want to be a responsible man.

Bao let out a feeble sigh and said to Nan, "That relationship hurt me deeply. It changed me. All of a sudden I felt old, eager to settle down and start a family."

Nan thought about that and decided Bao might be a better man now.

Dick and Tim got up and went out to the trailer to use the toilet. Nan was curious about Bao's success, wondering why he would paint at such a pace, one piece a day, which must have made him work like a manufacturer. No artist should force himself to do such a thing. He ventured, "Why do you paint so fast?"

"There will be a show in Raleigh next month. I must give them ten pieces. "

"Do you really need to rush?"

"I ought to keep the momentum. My paintings have been selling very well in Hong Kong and Taiwan. People often ask, 'Who is this fellow, Bao Yuan?' They saw my work hang in the same halls as those done by some master painters." His tone of voice betrayed some complacence, which made Nan uneasy.

"To be honest, Bao," Nan said, "you shouldn't work at such a reckless pace. Slow down a little. Now it's time to consolidate your success. Don't rush."

Bao looked amazed, then said, "Tell me honestly what I should do, Nan. If truth be told, success can be nerve-racking. It frightens me sometimes. I just dabble a piece for an hour or two and it can sell for hundreds of dollars, sometimes even more than a thousand. This gives me the willies."

"Forget about making money. Remember your true ambition. Your rivals are not your contemporaries but some dead masters."

Bao's eyes sparkled. "That's a brilliant thing to say, Nan. I told Dick you're one of the most intelligent men I knew. Now I must say you're also wise. Very true, I should think of immortal work now. All wealth and fame are transitory and extrinsic, not an inherent part of myself." He stretched up his arms as if lifting a weight.

"Yes, we're already middle-aged and should plan our ambitions carefully." Nan sighed, remembering his own situation. He had written little in the last five years, always offering himself the excuse that his English wasn't sufficient.

" Yes, I must keep that in mind," agreed the host.

Then Bao told him that he was going to China to do some paintings, because his agent loved his Venice series so much that he wanted him to paint a Shanghai series to accompany it. Bao would leave for China after the Raleigh show. Also, he wanted to marry his fiancee in the fall if everything worked out in his favor. Nan asked, "So the Chinese government will let you go back? Didn't they arrest you two years ago?"

"I'm no longer a democracy activist, they know. I can return as a working artist anytime. Things have changed. Don't you want to go back and see your parents?"

"I do, but my situation is different-I'm not afraid of the government but the children of some top officials. There's some bad blood between them and me. Once I'm naturalized, I may go back for a visit." As they were conversing, Nan realized that his friend might have written a statement, as required by the Chinese government, declaring that he had quit political activities once and for all.

Brian came back from Postelle, the nearest town, with some cartons of Chinese food for lunch. While they were eating, Bao again talked to Nan about his bride-to-be.

" Where is she now?" asked Nan.

"She's in Guangzhou with her family."

"Why don't you bring her here?"

"I've been trying. That's why we'll get married as soon as possible. I've also applied for naturalization. Once I'm a citizen, she can immigrate."

"So before you're naturalized she can't come?"

"She can, but she's quite comfortable with her folks there. Her family owns a factory, is prosperous. I have to make a lot of money to let her live well here. I'm thinking of building a home in this area."

" You mean near your studio?"

"Correct. I can buy a piece of land from Frank."

"That's crazy. What makes you think your bride can stand this kind of isolation? You have your work, but what will she do here? Raise chickens and ducks? You can't treat her like that."

"Good, I need your advice."

" Maybe you should build a home in a city, Knoxville or Atlanta or

D.C., with a studio in the backyard. You can't let your bride live your kind of life. Besides, you'll have children. You have to take their schooling into consideration too."

Shaking his stubbly chin, Bao said, "You're such a wise man. Why don't you learn how to paint so that we can work as a team?"

"I have my own difficulties. I've been trying to write poetry."

"In English?" Bao asked matter-of-factly.

Nan realized he must have heard about this from Dick. "Yes, a big struggle," he admitted.

"But you're a brave man, determined to blaze your own path."

"Honestly I don't know what to do exactly. My wife is pregnant and we're going to have a baby girl. That's what I really care about now. I want to be a good, responsible father, a real family man."

"That's very meaningful too," Bao said thoughtfully. "Not many Chinese men of our generation are good fathers and considerate husbands. Some of us don't even know how to fend for ourselves. We're often possessed with ideals and ambitions, too high-minded, but in all candor many of us are just ignoramuses."

Nan was moved by Bao's words, but on second thought wondered whether his friend had spoken from his heart or merely rehashed someone else's remarks. Bao loosened his belt a notch, then bent forward a little. Although none of the others could understand Chinese, he said to Nan in a voice just above a whisper, "May I ask you a favor?"

" Sure. "

"Can you translate Tim's article for me? You don't have to do a thorough job, just make the meaning clear."

Tim heard his name mentioned and squinted at his teacher. Hesitantly Nan answered, "I can do that. I'll mail the translation to you." In spite of his agreement, he felt as uneasy as if he had been taken in. Bao jotted down his address on the back of his former business card. He used a post office box in Postelle.

After lunch, Frank left for Chattanooga to meet a client, and the rest of them went to a reservoir on the mountain to swim. On the low dam stood a small power plant, no longer in operation. They parked the van at the waterside and shed their T-shirts and pants. Brian, Tim, and Bao wore swimming trunks while the guests had on their briefs. As Nan put his wristwatch into his sneaker, he noticed Dick stealing glances at Brian's slender, muscular body, which was remarkably well proportioned and much more youthful than his face. With a loud, exhilarated whoop, Bao jumped into the cool water, and the others followed him. Their shouting and splashing echoed off the mountain while a few waterfowl glided slowly against the woods on the distant shore, crying softly.

Nan floated on his back in the shallows as the others rushed toward the middle of the reservoir. Dick swam freestyle while Tim and Brian did the breaststroke, puffing and gurgling like giant frogs. The water was clear, almost transparent, reminding Nan of his childhood when he had gone swimming with his pals in a pond surrounded by jagged rocks. The children had divided themselves into two teams and fought each other in the water, pulling and pressing their opponents down. Whenever a boy accidentally swallowed water, he'd curse his attacker without stopping. Laughter would surge in the afternoon air. What fun they had had! That was almost thirty years ago. Now, in this land, the water felt similar but people were different; so were the birds and the woods. This changed life was full of mysteries. Who could have predicted Nan would land here?

As he was swimming breaststroke toward the middle of the reservoir, lost in thought, suddenly a tiny triangular head rose above the water; then the creature, brownish and sinuous, swung aside, now tightening, now slithering on the surface of the water. "Snake!" he yelled, and turned around, crawl-stroking to the shore.

The others stopped to look in his direction, laughing and hollering from the center of the reservoir. Nan reached the beach and dropped on his knees, gasping for breath. His right calf had a cramp, so he held his big toe and stretched the leg as straight as possible, which did ease the muscle pain somewhat. He cried at the others, who were still treading and looking at him, "Hey, there's a snake in zer water, zis long." He stretched his hands over four feet apart.

"No big deal," shouted Tim. "Just a water snake. It won't bite." Beyond him, Brian was doing the butterfly, splashing the water rhythmically.

Nan dreaded snakes, both poisonous and harmless ones, so he didn't enter the water again. Finally Bao came ashore. He said to Nan, "Boy, I didn't know you were so scared of snakes. As long as you leave them alone, they won't come close to you."

"It dashed right to my face."

"Come on, it wouldn't attack you. Snakes are afraid of people, who are much more poisonous."

Nan sighed, "This is my problem in the South. I can't blend myself into the landscape. Always at odds with the flora and fauna here."

" I thought you were quite at home in Atlanta, much more adaptable than me."

"I'm weak in my own way."

"I guess we all are."

An hour later, on their way back to Atlanta, Dick couldn't stop talking about Brian and Tim. He hoped to see them again and make fun of each other some more. He was attracted to Brian, Nan knew. The moment they entered Georgia, a fine shower trickled down, washing everything clean. But the rain stopped abruptly fifteen minutes after they had come out of Blue Ridge. The sun had dispersed the clouds and shone softly on the blacktop, which had turned darker. Their wheels were rolling on the wet asphalt with a crisp sound. Ahead of them was a blue Volvo cruising with a small mist in its wake. As they were catching up with it, they saw a sticker on the car's rear, announcing published author aboard! "What a braggart!" said Nan.

"Let's see what the driver looks like." Dick floored the gas pedal. With a jolt his Mustang charged forward, passing the Volvo. He slowed down a little so that they could get a better look at the authorial driver. A stout woman with heavy makeup and a big bouffant hairdo was steering absentmindedly. Her head was bobbing and jerking, perhaps to music.

"Did you recognize her?" asked Nan when they had passed the car.

"No. She looks like a freak."

"Maybe the car is not hers."

"If she's an author, she must write romance novels."

They tipped their heads back and laughed. Dick said he should have a bumper sticker designed for his car, proclaiming published poet aboard! That might attract a lot of women.

Also men, Nan thought, but he didn't let that out.

₁₁

FINALLY Edward Neary wrote back to Nan, saying he liked his poems, particularly the one entitled "Pomegranates." But the poems were unfinished yet and needed "some tightening." He didn't return the poems and instead said he'd like to discuss them with Nan in person. In September he was going to conduct a workshop at Key West, so he hoped Nan could attend his class there. He had enclosed a brochure that described the Key West seminars taught regularly by distinguished writers.

At first Nan was excited by the personal attention the poet had paid to him. Then, reading the letter again, he found something strange between the lines. At one point Mr. Neary wrote: "I vividly remember the night we spent at the bar outside Emory. Your sweet smile impressed me greatly. In fact, it comes to mind from time to time. Please go to Key West, where we can meet and talk about your work. Clearly you have a good deal of talent, but you need tutoring. You're still a diamond in the rough. So do make the best use of this opportunity. I wish to know you better."

Nan wondered if Edward Neary was making a pass. In the Gold Wok's bathroom he observed himself in the mirror and found his face quite masculine, with a squarish chin, a broad nose, and wide-spaced, shining eyes. He couldn't see how he could be attractive to men. Yet several times in the bank and bookstores he had caught men's furtive glances shot at him. This had never happened in China and was troublesome to him. If only those stealthy eyes had belonged to women. That would have boosted his confidence considerably. Now Mr. Neary's suggestion perplexed Nan, who was uncertain whether he should go to Key West. Probably he shouldn't even think about it, because Pingping would enter the third trimester of her pregnancy in September and he must be around. Also, he couldn't afford to be away from his business for more than two days, let alone an entire week. Still, it was extraordinary to have such an offer from a famous poet, and Nan couldn't stop musing on the invitation.

When Dick came the next time, Nan showed him Neary's letter. After reading it, Dick put it on the table and grinned mischievously. "What?" Nan asked. "What do you make of it?" "I think he's an old lech." "You mean he's gay?"

"No, everybody knows Neary is an inveterate womanizer." "Zen why did you smile like zat?"

"He remembered you wrong and took you for another person." "I don't get it."

"Remember Emily Choi, the Korean girl at the bar? He must've gotten you and her mixed up."

Blushing, Nan muttered, "Zat's ridiculous." He recalled the young woman, who had indeed had a sweet face and also bright, smiling eyes.

"Look, your name Nan must have suggested to him a female, like Nancy and Nanny and Nanette. As a matter of fact, Nan is a diminutive of Anne and Anna."

"Actually, Nan means 'male.' My name means 'martial man.' "

"But Neary doesn't know Chinese."

"I see. He just wants to sleep wiz me, right?" Nan burst out laughing hysterically.

Dick looked startled, staring at his friend, whose face was distorted by the laugh. When Nan had stopped, Dick said, "Forget about this letter, okay? You can always show me your poems, and I'll tell you what I think honestly."

"I will do zat, sanks." Nan felt better, though his cheeks were still twitching. He remembered that when he was at Brandeis, he had once received a small package containing a pair of tampons mailed to him as a target consumer. Over the years he had run into many Chinese who had transformed themselves into Barry, or Harry, or

Mary, or Larry, or Carrie, and he had wondered whether he should have changed his name too, but he had always chosen not to.

Having translated the Blue Stars article on Bao, Nan mailed it to his friend. To his surprise, Cathay Herald, a Chinese-language newspaper circulating in Tennessee, Georgia, and Florida, published the article two weeks later. The translator's name wasn't given; that bothered Nan a little. He was also annoyed by the author's new tone, which had been altered quite a bit from the English, more formal and more authoritative now. Evidently, either Bao or the editor had tampered with his translation. In the space of a month the same piece was reprinted in a magazine called Art World. Obviously Bao had been busy promoting himself. Why did he take his student's article so seriously? The original publication was only in a new, obscure journal. Why should Bao be so obsessed with such an amateur piece of writing? He was too vain. No wonder he couldn't concentrate on real work.

Then Nan realized that in this case his friend had indulged his fraudulence more than his vanity. Bao tried to utilize the gap between the two languages-since few Chinese were familiar with the journal Blue Stars and Tim's writings, they could be misled into believing that it was a magazine as reputable as any major Chinese-language publication and that Tim Dullington must be an established art critic. Art World is a top-quality magazine printed outside China, so the transferring of the original article into such a major publication would present Bao in a different light, as if he were already a celebrity in America. In short, the whole misleading process helped to raise Bao's image to a higher level to the Chinese audience.

It was clever chicanery. Bao would have been better off, Nan thought, if he had spent the time working on his art.

A few days later Nan received a painting from Bao, a bizarre piece in which Sakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism, was riding a white horse and leading a batch of his disciples. It was signed as a gift for Nan. Nan didn't like it because it looked dark and muddy, lacking in life. Without his friend's explanation in the note, he could hardly have figured out what it was about. Still, the piece was an accomplished painter's work, so he was glad to have it. Then the thought came to him that Bao must have meant to pay him for his translation with this painting and wanted him to keep mum about the original article. This realization further dimmed his interest in the gift, and he didn't even bother to write back to thank Bao.

₁₂

PINGPING'S diabetes was under control through her low-carb diet. By late June she had been pregnant for five months. Dr. Walker, her obstetrician at the Norcross Medical Center, suggested that Pingping go to the headquarters of their medical group in Dunwoody to be examined regularly, since that clinic had more advanced equipment and eventually the baby would be delivered there. It would be better for the Wus to acquaint themselves with the people at that place. Nan phoned the clinic and made an appointment with Dr. Smith.

On Friday morning Nan and Pingping arrived at Dunwoody Circle at nine. The clinic was almost like a small hospital and occupied an entire four-story building. Before meeting with the doctor, Pingping was to go through a comprehensive checkup, including an ultrasound, a urine test, and a blood test. Accompanied by Nan, she was ushered into a dim room with a single window covered by teal curtains. She lay down on a sloping bed, as she was told.

A tall nurse with blond hair stepped in and said to Pingping, "I'm going to do an ultrasound for you, okay?"

"Sure."

"Happy about having a baby again?" "Yes." Pingping smiled faintly.

Nan was sitting on a low-backed chair in a corner and watched the nurse putting on a pair of latex gloves. She then rubbed a bit of gel on Pingping's abdomen and began massaging the lubricated area with the black transducer, turning the thing slowly clockwise. As she proceeded, her mouth fell ajar. Nan gazed at the sonogram and saw the shape of the tiny baby but not the twinkling star they had last seen at the Norcross Medical Center.

"I can't find the baby's heartbeat," said the nurse. A mournful expression widened her face as her eyes dropped. Silence filled the room.

Nan was staggered, choking and motionless, his eyes still fastened on the dark screen. A few seconds later the woman asked Pingping, "D'you understand what I mean?"

Pingping nodded without a word. Nan 's heart contracted as if a hand were tugging and twisting it. He finally stood up but still didn't know what to say.

"I'm so sorry," said the nurse. "You should go see Dr. Smith right away."

So they skipped the urine and blood tests and went to the doctor's office. Dr. Smith, a portly black man with an amiable face and a graying mustache, said to Pingping in a soft voice, "I'm sorry about the loss. This often happens with women your age. It's hard to explain why nature does this."

Nan felt sobs rising in his throat but he choked them down. He glanced at his wife, who somehow looked emotionless, though more pallid than a moment before. She seemed too benumbed to say anything and just nodded at Dr. Smith as he was telling her to go home and wait for her obstetrician to call. "Dr. Walker will let you know what to do next," he said.

The Wus thanked him and left for the garage.

On the way back they were silent, their car zooming down the bypass. In the blue and cloudless sky, a blimp was sailing, dragging along a Coca-Cola ad. Nan was stunned by the sudden descent of death in the family. Now and again he felt a wave of nausea surging in his chest, but he was driving carefully, his hands in the ten and two positions on the steering wheel. His mind couldn't focus on any thought, yet he tried to remain calm and avoid saying anything that might trigger an outburst from his grieving wife. Meanwhile, Ping-ping looked distant, her face stony, as though she were oblivious to things around her. Before they reached the junction of I-85, she said finally, "Let's go to the Korean supermarket."

"Why?" He was amazed she felt up to doing some shopping.

"I promised Taotao to get garlic stems for him."

Nan got off I-85 and pulled onto Buford Highway. In the half-filled parking lot before the store, a pigeon dropped a load on the door of their van, and Nan didn't bother to wipe off the two white stains. As he and his wife headed for the entrance, he wanted to hold her arm to support her, but he couldn't do that, hardly able to lift his own hands. His legs were so weary that he was afraid they might give way at any moment. He had to exert himself to follow her.

₁₃

ONCE HOME, Pingping broke down, sobbing wretchedly and blaming herself for the loss of the child. She went on saying, "Our baby sacrificed herself for me, because she was afraid I couldn't survive the childbirth. She didn't want to put my life in danger." The more she raved, the harder she cried.

Nan could no longer control himself either and wept too. He felt a numbing pain sinking deeper and deeper in him and squeezing every ounce of his strength out of him. If only he had thought of the possibility of such a loss. If only he hadn't raised his hopes. Now his world was upside down.

Pingping lit two squat white candles and placed them on the bar table in the living room, on either side of a large yellow chrysanthemum stuck in a cylindrical vase. Not absolutely sure of the result of the sonogram, Nan phoned Dr. Walker at the medical center. The bad news had already reached there, and the obstetrician wanted Pingping to come that very afternoon for another checkup, but he told Nan that the accuracy rate of the ultrasound was more than ninety-nine percent. Nan called the Gold Wok and asked Niyan and Shubo to tend the restaurant for the rest of the day. In the afternoon he took his wife to see Dr. Walker. The result of the reexamination was the same. Now that it was beyond any doubt that the baby was lost, the dead fetus would have to be aborted soon, for which Nan agreed to take his wife to Northlake Hospital three days later, on Monday morning.

Although she sauteed the garlic stems with slivers of pork for Taotao, Pingping couldn't help lashing out at the boy at dinner. She declared that only Nan had been good to the baby and that both Taotao and she herself had been heartless and selfish. She said to her son, "You never want baby sister. Now we lost her, you're happy." "Mom, I'm sad too," Taotao wailed.

Nan intervened, "We shouldn't blame each ahther. We have to live on, zat's what our baby wants us to do."

That evening Janet came. She had heard the bad news from Niyan. She embraced Pingping and wiped away tears from her own cheeks. "This is too cruel," she said, shaking her roundish chin. Pingping took her friend into her bedroom and showed her the clothes she had made for the baby: a miniature jacket, two bibs, a pair of woolen socks, a silk quilt, and a cotton mattress that was yet unfinished. Janet stayed until ten o'clock.

Nan wanted to inter their child in their backyard; so did Pingping. He planned to lay her down beside the large Russian swan that had died two years ago in the lake, buried under the tallest sweet gum. He had marked the spot with a brown boulder. Now they must bring their baby home after the abortion. But how? They were unsure whether there was a coffin made for such a tiny body. It was already the weekend, and the funeral home on Lawrenceville Highway was closed. Nan went to the Korean supermarket again and bought a large jewelry box. He dismantled its tiny drawers and made it empty, like a casket. He planned to take their daughter home in it, and when the funeral home was open the next week, he'd go buy a real coffin for her, which should be large enough to contain this makeshift pall. Meantime, Pingping finished sewing the little cotton mattress. She made the bed for the baby inside the box with the clothing she had prepared. In a way, the interior of the container resembled a tiny, comfortable cradle.

₁₄

ON MONDAY MORNING Pingping didn't eat breakfast, as the doctor had instructed. The Wus arrived at Northlake Hospital before nine o'clock. Dr. Walker wasn't there yet, but a Filipino nurse in scrubs led Pingping into a curtained area in a large room. Pingping undressed and lay down on a gurney; then the nurse covered her with a sheet, checked her vital signs, and gave her an IV. An anesthesiologist came and began administering an anesthetic to her. He said to Nan, "My wife lost a baby last year too. It was hard. I know how you feel." As he spoke, his large Adam's apple was joggling.

Nan said, "Doctor, we would like to take our baby home."

The stumpy man looked surprised, but told him, "You should talk to her obstetrician. To my knowledge, this hasn't been done before."

Pingping said in a frightened voice, "We want her stay with us forever."

"I understand."

The man's eyes dimmed, and he turned and hurried out. Nan kissed Pingping and said, "Don't be scared. Everything will be all right."

She nodded, smiling a little. Then the nurse unlocked the wheels of the gurney with her toe, pulled it into the hallway, turned it around, and pushed it away. As they were moving toward the operating room, Pingping still fastened her eyes on Nan as if eager to pull him along. His stomach lurched, though he forced a smile, waving to assure her that she'd be fine.

Nan was pacing up and down along a wall in the lobby with a canvas bag containing the casket slung over his shoulder. He was worried about his wife and prayed that she would come out of the operation safely. At last the warty-faced Dr. Walker appeared and hurried up to Nan. He said in an adenoidal voice, "We have everything in place. Pingping will be all right." But when Nan said he wanted to take the baby's body home, the obstetrician looked away. His blue eyes were downcast, but then they turned back to look at Nan. Dr. Walker told him, "I can feel your pain, but the baby would look very messy, an awful sight." "Can you let us have her?"

"I have no objection to that, only because people usually don't do this. In any case, don't worry about the baby. We have to focus on the mother now."

That was true, so Nan didn't press further. Dr. Walker headed away and disappeared past the red-brown door to the operating section.

Nan resumed pacing the floor while thinking about the obstetrician's words. The thought grew clear to him that the baby would be shapeless, maybe torn to pieces in the operation. That might be why people didn't take the fetus home after an abortion. All the same, he hoped Dr. Walker could let him keep his daughter's body, broken or intact. If only Nan had given him the casket. Yet he didn't blame himself for not having handed it to Dr. Walker, who might have refused to take it even if Nan had insisted. The doctor was right- what was at stake now was Pingping's safety. Her life might indeed be in danger. That thought frightened Nan. He tried to imagine how she was suffering on the operating table. Were the doctors using all the blunt metal instruments to open her and tear out the dead fetus? Could the anesthetic they'd given her suppress all the pain? That was unlikely. However effective the drug was, she must have felt she was being butchered.

A full hour passed, and still there was no word about Pingping. Nan asked the old woman at the information desk how his wife was doing, but she had heard nothing from the operating room yet. He got so tensed up that he couldn't stop walking back and forth at the end of the waiting lounge. People sitting in the scooped plastic seats glanced at him from time to time. Something stirred in his gorge and set him hiccupping. He pressed his fist against his solar plexus, but the visceral spasms wouldn't stop. If only his parents-in-law were here. That would have made Pingping feel protected. When she had given birth to Taotao, her parents, both retired then, had taken care of her during her two months' maternity leave because Nan had to stay at school attending seminars. Her father, a skinny chain-smoker despite his hacking cough, cooked special meals for her every day so that she could have enough milk for Taotao. Her parents nursed her so well that most of her small illnesses, such as a weak bladder and occasional light-headedness, were cured when her leave was over. In addition, her hair had grown thick and abundant. Never had she felt so healthy as when she rejoined her husband in Harbin. Recently Pingping and Nan had talked about asking her parents to come and stay a few months, but they dared not invite them, afraid Nan 's parents would be jealous and make trouble, at least wanting to come as well. It would be impossible for Pingping to get along with Nan 's mother, who was too manipulative and would boss her around.

As Nan was pacing up and down the floor, the old woman at the information desk came up to him and said, "Hey, your wife's coming out of the operation momentarily. Go to the front door of the medical building and pick her up there."

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's doing all right. Bring your car there quickly."

Before Nan could leave, Dr. Walker appeared, his eyes shifty: he looked rather shaken. He told Nan that Pingping was safe, but the operation had taken longer than anticipated. He didn't mention the baby's body and Nan was so worried about his wife that he forgot to ask about the aborted fetus. Handing him his card, the obstetrician said, "Feel free to call anytime you need me. I'll call this afternoon to check on Pingping."

The instant Nan took the card, Dr. Walker turned around and strode away.

Nan rushed out of the lobby through the side door. He gave the numbered brass tag to a gangly black valet, who hurried away to fetch his car. Several people were waiting for their vehicles at the side entrance too. A bony middle-aged man told everybody excitedly that his wife had just given birth to a healthy boy. He turned to Nan and beamed. Nan managed to say, "Congratulations."

"How about you? Gonna be a father?" the man asked. "We just lawst a baby girl."

"I'm sorry, really sorry." The man looked a bit abashed. He turned away and gave a tip to a short black fellow who handed over his key. "Thank you, sir," the valet said cheerfully.

A moment later Nan got his car key from the other valet and tipped him a dollar. He drove to the front entrance of the medical building, where Pingping was sitting in a wheelchair, a young nurse standing behind her with both hands on the back of the chair. Seeing his wife empty-handed, Nan knew Dr. Walker hadn't let her have their baby's body, but he didn't ask her about it. He opened his car door and helped her get in. "She's very weak. Be careful," said the nurse, still wearing a pale blue cap.

Pingping seemed half paralyzed and could hardly move her head and limbs. Nan buckled her up. Without delay he pulled out of the driveway, as there were many cars waiting behind to pick up other patients. He drove out of the hospital and got onto I-285. On the way home he observed his wife now and again. Her eyes were closed, the lids twitching. Apparently she hadn't fully come out of the anesthesia yet. Her cheeks were swollen with a ghastly pallor and her mouth seemed flabby, reminding him of rising dough. Yet the expression of pain and suffering on her face touched him and made him want to weep. He kept taking his eyes off the road and peering at her. He felt a sudden onrush of emotion, his heart aching. Never had he found her face so ugly yet so moving; he was sure her sorrowful features would be embedded in his mind as one of those images that could always unloose a flood of tenderness and compassion in his heart. He remained silent for a long while lest he might let out the sobs gathering in his throat.

Having turned onto I-85, he finally asked her, "How do you feel, dear?"

"I almost died. I've never felt so awful, so like death."

"Did they let you have our baby's body?"

"I don't remember anything. The drug knocked me out."

"I asked Dr. Walker before the operation. He said he'd see to it."

"They just tried to keep me alive, I guess."

Now Nan understood why the obstetrician had looked so nervous when he handed Nan his card.

That afternoon Dr. Walker called and asked if Pingping was still bleeding. Nan told him she was not. "Thank God, she's strong. She lost a lot of blood," said the doctor. He ordered her to eat a lot of chicken soup and rest in bed for at least two days.

₁₅

THE WUS kept candles burning on the bar table in the living room for a whole month. A bunch of flowers, mums or roses or daisies, constantly stood in the vase between the two tiny halos of candle flames. Physically, Pingping was recovering rapidly, but she often looked absentminded. Sometimes she heard their baby calling her in a cry, "Mommy, Mommy, take me home." When she stood at the glass door of the living room, she often caught sight of a red-cheeked girl toddling on the deck, as if her daughter, May, were frolicking there. Even the flickering of the surface of the lake in the sunlight would remind her of the blinking star, the baby's heartbeat in the sonogram. Every night she'd sleep with the empty casket beside her pillow, and at times she woke up hearing the baby prattle to her mysteriously. It would take more than two years for her to outgrow most of the grief and to stop talking to her husband about the child.

Nan grieved in his own way. He didn't hear any voices or see any images, but he was depressed. For months after the loss of the baby, he couldn't pull himself together to do anything other than run the restaurant. A numbing pain was sinking deeper and deeper in him. He felt deceived by fate. Originally he had thought that the arrival of his daughter would bring him a lot of joy and solace and would open a new page of his life. Even though his life had been truncated and enervated by the immigration, even though he had accomplished nothing here, even though he was a total failure in others' eyes, he'd still have a lovely daughter to raise, to love, and to be proud of. How often he had pictured the girl as good-looking as her mother. He imagined teaching her how to read and write, how to ride a bike, and how to drive, then seeing her dress up for her high school prom, taking her to college, and eventually walking her down the aisle and handing her to a fine young man. Having her would have made his life more bearable and lessened his misery and loneliness in this place. She could have become his American dream.

Now all the figments of his imagination were gone and he was thrown back to the hard reality again. He realized that he had been selfish in a way, eager to make his daughter's life a part of his own; that's to say he wanted her to come into this world for his sake, so that he wouldn't have to live his life fully or wage the fight against adversity. In other words, subconsciously he wished to use her as a pretext for wasting his life. The truth was that he had been frightened by the overwhelming odds against writing in English artistically, against claiming his existence in this new land, and against becoming a truly independent man who followed nothing but his own heart. To date he had tried every way to wriggle out of the struggle. For several years he had devoted all his energy and passion to the restaurant business and gotten the mortgage paid, but the disappearance of the debt had also ended his excuse for not writing, for not doing something his heart desired. Then he was obsessed with his unborn daughter so as to have his energy and life consumed in another way. Not until now did he understand his mind-set. What a shirker he had been! How disgusted he was with himself!

His self-hatred paralyzed his will to do anything other than his routine business. For months he was in despair and acted like a robot moving between the Gold Wok and his house. At times he felt the urge to write something, but whenever he took up his pen, his mind remained numb and vacant, a coldness still permeating his being. He knew he had to get out of this lethargic state before long. No matter what kind of destiny awaited him, he'd have to put up a fight. He must resume working on his poetry. By now it was clear that he should write exclusively in English, which was the only way to go. He had been shilly-shallying for too long; it was the radical beginning that had intimidated him. This realization made him loathe himself more, but it still couldn't motivate him enough for a wholehearted start. These days he thought a lot about writing as if it were a new subject to him.

"Have you read the novella Good-bye, My American Boss?" Niyan asked Nan one afternoon. The waitress liked reading popular magazines, and her husband would write short articles for some Chinese-language newspapers every now and then. "No, who wrote it?" asked Nan.

"Danning Meng. It's a very interesting story that shows how badly some Americans treated the Chinese in Philadelphia. You should read it. It's in the last issue of October Quarterly."

"I know the author. We're friends."

"Really? He's famous."

"I got a letter from him two weeks ago."

Nan had noticed several new titles by Danning in the World Bookstore. He had read two of them, but was underwhelmed. Danning, despite his fame as the leading figure in the overseas student literature, pandered too much to the Chinese readers' taste and depended too heavily on exotic details and on nationalistic sentiment to make his stories work. That in effect made his fiction simplistic, glib, and even clunky in places. Nan didn't mention to Niyan that he disliked his friend's work. If he went on to write, he'd emphasize similarity instead of difference. He imagined a kind of poetry that could speak directly to the readers' hearts regardless of their cultural and ethnic backgrounds. Above all, his work should possess more strength than beauty, which he believed often belied truth. He wanted to produce literature, or else he ought never to bother about writing at all.

₁₆

THE WUS didn't go to the Olympic games because of the traffic in downtown Atlanta, but they watched TV and followed the news. It was so hot that some athletes fainted during competitions. The local Chinese-language newspapers carried articles on how the American staff at the Olympic Village based at Georgia Tech had inconvenienced the Chinese athletes to ensure they couldn't perform at their best. One night the fire alarm in the dorm building housing the Chinese women swimmers went off, and the police came and ordered everybody out. The athletes stayed in the damp night air a whole hour, and few of them could sleep well afterward. As a result, they did poorly in the events the following day. What's worse, the schedules and maps provided by the Olympic Headquarters were often inaccurate, and some people missed their events or arrived so late that they had to forfeit their games. The Chinese officials lodged a complaint; so did some other countries.

The Wus half believed those reports, but Shubo and Niyan were convinced of them all. There was also a long protest letter in the local newspapers, condemning the NBC commentator's remarks on China at the opening ceremony. The protesters were soliciting more signatures. True, the commentator had criticized China 's human rights record, its military threat to Taiwan, its athletes' doping, and its tolerance of counterfeiting intellectual property. Many Chinese here resented his comments, believing this was another case of China-bashing. These days torrents of angry words had poured in to the Olympic Headquarters, demanding an apology from NBC and from Robert Coleman, the commentator. Some Chinese students urged people to fax more letters to the media company so as to "jam their machines." Funds were being raised for a full-page protest in the New York Times.

Nan said to Shubo, "If China is so sensitive to criticism and public opinion, why doesn't it apologize to its people for the Tiananmen massacre? Compared with the Chinese government, this NBC man is completely innocent. I don't see why people are so furious and even want to have him fired."

"This isn't just politics. It's about national pride," said Shubo. He had come in to watch the games on the TV hung in the corner, which had a larger screen than the one in his home.

"National pride, my butt," Nan said. "What can the Chinese be proud of nowadays? The largest population and cheap labor?"

"Still, that anchorman had no right to condemn China at the opening ceremony."

"How come? Only because he's an American, not entitled to criticize China? I don't understand why the Chinese here also believe that domestic shame mustn't be made public."

"Our athletes were guests of the United States. You can't invite them over and then humiliate them publicly. It's the host's responsibility to make the guests feel welcome.'"

" The reason every country is here is to win medals. Who cares about friendship or politeness or hospitality? That's just Chinese idiosyncrasy and hypocrisy."

"You have a heck of a mouth, Nan. So hard to please."

Shubo held a full-time job in a marble quarry now, so he could no longer always fill in for Nan when his help was needed. Nan found an old chef, Mr. Mu, who was good at Hunan cuisine but didn't have a work permit, so Nan couldn't use this sleepy-eyed man regularly. If the INS caught Mr. Mu working they could fine Nan $5,000. These days Shubo would come in the evenings, mainly to watch TV. Also, he wanted to keep his wife company whenever he could. Pingping often said to Niyan, "I wish Nan were as sticky as Shubo." By "sticky" she meant "attached." Niyan would smile without speaking.

Then one day the same woman who had solicited a donation for the flood victims in China from the Wus four years earlier turned up at the Gold Wok again. Nan remembered her name, Mei Hong. This time she said pleasantly to him while patting his forearm, " Nan Wu, we need you to help feed the Chinese athletes."

"We don't donate anything," he said as his wife stepped closer.

"I'm not asking for donations. We'll pay you for the food. Only because you're a Chinese, we can trust you."

"That's why you came here?" He was nonplussed.

" Yes, the other Chinese restaurants have offered their help too. We dare not get food from foreigners."

"Why can't the athletes eat inside the Olympic Village? There are cafeterias in there. I saw them on TV."

"They can't stand American food-cheese, hamburgers, French fries, sandwiches, hot dogs. Yuck, the stuff makes you heavy and sick."

"How about Tyson chicken? That's as good as any Chinese-style chicken, braised or roasted."

She made no reply, apparently unfamiliar with that brand. What she wanted from the Gold Wok was five helpings of plain rice and shrimp sauteed with vegetables every day for two weeks. She would come toward midday to pick up the food and pay thirty dollars for it. The lunch was only for the athletes who were going to have events in the afternoon, a kind of treat. Nan prepared the rice and the dish as well as he could and was generous with the portions. Mei Hong would come to collect it and then drive all the way to a gas station outside Georgia Tech, since she didn't have a pass for the Olympic Village. A Chinese official would meet her there to receive the food. The Olympics had suddenly activated many local Chinese and united their minds and energies.

Although Nan said they were all being ridiculous, he couldn't help feeling delighted whenever he saw the Chinese national flag rising in the stadium. When he opened a newspaper, he'd check to see how many medals China had won. Sometimes even a Chinese face on TV would attract his attention in a peculiar way, as if he knew that person. He realized that emotionally he couldn't separate himself from those people completely. This realization troubled him, and for days he was cranky. His mind remained confused until he saw a performance on the pommel horse by a stolid-faced man named

Donghua Li, a former Chinese gymnast but a Swiss citizen now. That performance moved Nan and threw him deep into thought. Li had quit China 's national team in order to marry a Swiss woman. He left his native country in 1988, but couldn't compete in international events because he had to wait five years to be naturalized. Now, at age twenty-nine, he was here in Atlanta representing Switzerland alone in gymnastics. While the other athletes loosened up for the pommel horse competition, he was napping in a corner with an opened magazine over his face and with his shoes stacked together as a pillow under his head. Few people took notice of him. Not until it was his turn to perform did he get up from the floor. The commentator joked, "He's woken up finally."

Li performed on the horse with aplomb, keeping his feet pointed while his legs swung high, nimbly executing the scissors movement, as if they had no weight. Then with ease he circled above the horse, keeping his feet together and his legs straight at a right angle to his upper body. He obviously was superior to all the other competitors. Throughout his program, never did his pants touch the horse. Nan watched closely. Despite the lightness of his movement, Li's facial muscles were all knotted, and sweat was glistening on his forehead. Swinging up his legs, he made a flank vault and landed stock-still. Applause burst out all around. He earned 9.875, high enough for the gold. After the event, he blew a kiss to his wife sitting among the audience, but he refused to be interviewed by the Chinese reporters following him. Instead, he turned to shake hands with the leading Russian gymnast, Aleksei Nemov, and gave him a thumbs-up. Nan was eager to see this fellow again in other events and to root for him, but Li never reappeared on the screen.

Another scene, however, troubled Nan. It took place in the women's soccer game between China and the United States. The TV showed several signs bearing Chinese characters being flaunted in the audience. A long horizontal one, held by two men, declared

MARCH FORWARD, MARCH FORWARD! BRAVE SISTERS, YOU MUST

WIN FOR YOUR BROTHERS WHO ARE FULL OF HATRED.

An American woman reporter asked the men what the sign said, but they shook their heads, grinning and pretending they didn't understand her.

Those words were a parody of the beginning of the theme song in the revolutionary ballet The Red Women Detachment. The reporter had some inkling of the message, but she couldn't get the men to level with her. The sign bothered Nan and Pingping; they surmised that the two men had probably failed to find a decent job here or get a green card.

₁₇

ONE MORNING Mei Hong came and said to Nan, "We need some mung-bean soup. This Atlanta heat is too much for our athletes. Some of them have had sunstroke. We must help them relieve the heat."

"We don't offer mung-bean soup," Nan told her. "No place does. That's why I came to you." " What do you want me to do?"

"Boil a large pot of the soup and I'll personally take it to them."

Nan wanted to ask her how much she'd pay him, but seeing her earnest face filmed with perspiration, he didn't mention money. Mung beans weren't expensive-two pounds, enough for a pot of the soup, cost just over a dollar.

The next morning he boiled the soup in a cauldron and ladled it into a tall stainless-steel pot. Mei Hong came and sealed the lid of the pot with duct tape. Nan helped her load it into the back of her SUV. Having promised to return the pot that very day, she drove away.

Pingping disliked Mei Hong, saying that she was like a village leader or a Party secretary of a small work unit. "She acts as if she runs our life," Pingping complained.

The pot didn't come back that evening. Two days passed without any trace of it. When Mei Hong arrived to get the shrimp and rice, Nan asked her where it was. At first she dodged the question and just promised to bring it back, but then admitted she didn't know its whereabouts either. She explained, "I told them it was mung-bean soup, but they wouldn't let the athletes drink it. They were afraid the soup might affect their urine tests."

"What?" Nan couldn't believe his ears. "It had nothing in it but a few beans. I didn't even dare to put in sugar."

"I know. They wouldn't listen to me, because their higher-ups had ordered them not to accept any drinks from outside. So they wanted ice instead of mung-bean soup. We used the pot to carry ice into the Olympic Village."

"What happened to the pot? Why didn't you bring it back?"

"I tried to personally take the pot filled with ice into the compound, but the guards blocked me. One of them shouted, 'No taggy, no entry, Mama-san.' Damn that camel! Do I look like an old Korean woman?"

Nan quenched his impulse to laugh. "So you dumped the soup, didn't you?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I couldn't follow the pot."

"I want it back. I spent nineteen dollars for it."

"I'll see what I can do."

After that conversation, Mei Hong stopped coming to fetch food, so Nan gave up cooking lunch for the athletes. The Wus were glad that finally the woman seemed to have disappeared from their lives.

₁₈

DICK'S book, Unexpected Gifts, came out in August and was well received. These days he was busy reading at colleges and libraries and seldom came to the Gold Wok. Nan saw a brief but positive review of the book in the Sunday New York Times, which he often bought at Kroger. He could tell that Dick was now taken more seriously by critics. He phoned his friend, who was not in, so he left a congratulatory message. Dick didn't return his call. He was traveling a lot lately.

Nan wondered whether his friend had abandoned him. Then one afternoon Dick showed up, the same disheveled man in an unbuttoned denim jacket. He didn't look happy and told Nan, "My book is doing well, but the press won't reprint it."

"Why? Don't zey want to sell more books?"

"I don't know. They've never planned to make money from poetry. Once a book has sold out, it's dead." "Dead in just two mons?"

"Well, not yet. They still have three hundred copies in stock, but once those are gone the book will be out of print." He let out a sigh. "Zat's terrible."

"See, whenever I finish a book, I'll go through a big crisis, not knowing who will publish it. Whenever my book is doing well, it will create another crisis, because it means the book will be gone soon. It's very hard to keep a book of poetry in print for up to three years."

"Man, you have depressed me," Nan said gravely.

"Don't get upset. We write poetry because we love it. To tell the truth, if I didn't write, I don't know if I could have lived so long. I don't regret doing it."

That baffled Nan, who felt Dick could easily live without making poems. Dick might just have wanted to sound theatrical. Look at Nan himself-he hadn't written anything for a long time, and still he was breathing normally, in the pink, as it were. So he had his doubts about Dick's confession. Not until several years later did he fully understand the truth of his friend's words.

19

THE BERNSTEIN GALLERY in Atlanta was going to hold its fall show, at which some painters in the Southeast would be featured. Bao mailed Nan a card that bore a painting from his Shanghai series and the information on the exhibition. He wrote that he hoped to see Nan there and that he had invited Dick as well. Nan knew Dick wouldn't be there, for these days his friend was always out of town giving readings, except when he had to come back and teach.

Nan managed to go to the show on the opening day. He arrived ahead of the crowd in the afternoon, as he'd have to leave early before the busy hours started at the restaurant. Bao wasn't there yet, so Nan was able to walk around and look carefully at the works by all twenty-three artists. He found only a few of them remarkable. He noticed the prices for the paintings were not as high as he had expected; the most expensive piece was marked for $6,000. Among these paintings, Bao's didn't stand out at all. Most of his works were priced around $3,000; evidently Tim and Brian had overstated the case when Nan had met them. He wasn't impressed by Bao's new works either. The whole Shanghai series looked like an imitation of van Gogh, dull and even clotty in places, without the master's brightness and vibrations. The Hunagpu Bund was presented like a streetscape; without the title, few people could have related it to the Shanghai waterside. The view of a thoroughfare in one painting lacked specifics, as if it were a scene of nineteenth-century Paris. Below Bao's central piece sat a large bin containing numerous smaller objets d'art made by him: a still life of chrysanthemums, a pencil drawing of a Himalayan cat, a gouache of a dancing girl, a miniature seascape. These were priced between $150 and $300.

They reminded Nan of a Chinese buffet that offered numerous choices, none of which was refined or sumptuous. Obviously Bao, cashing in on his success, had diffused his energy and lost his creative center. This troubled Nan.

Ian Bernstein, a thickset, swarthy man and the owner of the gallery, greeted the early arrivals with a tumbler of mimosa in his large, veined hand. Nan talked with him while they stood in front of his friend's works. "What do you sink of Bao's new paintings?" he asked Mr. Bernstein, who was also Bao's agent.

"I'm not bowled over by them." The host screwed up his left eye.

"Not as good as his Venice series, right?"

"Who would buy these? They don't have enough life in them. Even the colors are too dull for me." "I agree."

Bao appeared in the entryway. Mr. Bernstein went up to him and they hugged warmly. Then Bao came over and shook hands with Nan. He was fatter than five months before and looked stiff and rustic in his dark green three-piece suit and canary yellow necktie. Nan was determined not to praise his new works, so he asked about his health and his family. Bao was not only married but also an expectant father; his wife was due the next spring. After the birth of their baby, mother and child would come to join him here. "I'm going to buy a piece of land in a suburb of Atlanta and build my home on it," Bao told Nan proudly.

"That's great. Have you decided in what area yet?"

"Probably somewhere in Cobb County."

"It has a good school system."

"So I have heard."

Frank, Bao's lawyer student, emerged from behind. He had brought along his family, his wife and two sons. Bao turned away to greet them.

Seizing this opportunity, Nan disengaged himself. He was afraid his friend would ask him to comment on the Shanghai series. Part of him wanted to tell Bao the truth, which would have been embarrassing to both of them. He moved around to look some more and came upon a set of landscapes by a Floridian painter named Kent Philips. Unlike the other artists, who each had at least half a dozen paintings on show, this man had only three pieces here, none of which was fancy. But Nan liked them very much, fascinated by their dark, luminous quality. In these landscapes, every stream, every tree, every animal, every rock possessed a shimmering spirit that seemed transcendental and mysterious. The paintings had depth and a kind of darkness that reminded Nan of the forests in New England. Nan greeted the short, pudgy artist who stood beside his works as if unable to mingle with others, though his three pieces were all priced above $5,000.

"I love your work," Nan said sincerely.

"Thanks. That means a lot."

"Is zis someplace in Florida?" He pointed at the middle piece. "No, I painted them in Montana."

"No wonder zer vegetation wasn't lush. So no everglades and gators, huh?"

"No." Kent Philips chuckled, rather shy. "I wanted to make the landscape sparse but infused with light."

"Zat's clear. These pieces don't blaze but shimmer. Zat's what I like most about zem. Zey're full of a quiet dignity."

"Thanks! Do you paint?" Obviously he regarded Nan as a fellow artist.

"I write," Nan said reluctantly. "What kind of work do you write?" "Poetry."

"Wow, I can't imagine doing that, although I like poetry too. You must give me the titles of your books so I can get a copy at the bookstore in my town."

"I haven't pahblished a book yet." Nan was slightly embarrassed.

"I know poetry is hard, but don't give up. When you reach a certain point, good things will happen, as long as you persevere."

"I'll remember zat."

A young waiter came over holding a tray of green olives stuffed with pimento, which they both passed up. Kent gave Nan his card and invited him to come visit if he was ever in Florida. Nan was pleased and felt a kind of warmth rising in him, though he knew it was unlikely he'd see this man again. It was odd that he felt so uncomfortable to be with Bao despite having known him for years, whereas with Kent Philips, a stranger, he was at ease, not having to weigh his words or resort to social rhetoric.

Before leaving the show, Nan looked around for Bao to say goodbye. In the section of handcrafted works, he saw his friend conversing with a delicate black woman dressed in red silk and holding a flute of champagne. She was the artist who had made the gorgeous, menacing masks hanging on the wall behind her. As Nan approached them, he overheard Bao praise the lady's work, "Beautiful hand-job, very special."

"Handiwork!" she corrected.

"Yes, I mean everything done by hand."

Nan edged away while fighting down the laugh rising in his throat. He slipped into an anteroom and went out of the gallery. A chilly wind swept up a few dead leaves, which were rattling and scuttling before a Dumpster on which perched half a dozen crows. The moon looked bloody, like a giant rotten orange. Nan sank into thought on his drive back, and wondered if Bao would be displeased by his French leave. For the rest of the evening in the kitchen he couldn't stop imagining a kind of dark poetry that possessed a luminosity similar to that in Kent Philips's paintings.

₂₀

THESE DAYS Nan and Pingping were priming Taotao for the SATs. The boy was just an eighth grader, but he had been selected to join in a talent survey, whose participants were to take the regular SATs in November. Nan gave his son a clothbound Oxford American Dictionary and asked him to highlight all the word entries he didn't know and then review them later on. Once Taotao finished the whole book, Nan would pay him a hundred dollars. The boy was reluctant, but his father convinced him that this would increase his verbal score considerably. More important, he would learn many new words. Even if he couldn't finish reading the dictionary before sitting for the SATs, he could continue to work on it afterward and earn the promised money. Taotao was eager to use the cash for a sound card for his computer, so he agreed to do the work. As for math, Pingping took care of that. In fact, she hardly needed to do anything, already having taught him a great deal.

"I know I'm going to blow it," Taotao complained to his parents. "I'm going to make a fool of myself. Nobody in my grade will take the SATs this year. This is silly and outrageous. And if I come out all right, people will think of me as a whiz kid. I don't want to be a whiz kid who's just a parrot. I want to be like everybody else."

"It's an honor to be a part of zer talent search," Nan said.

"I have no talent and don't want the honor. Let them experiment with other rare birds, not me. I won't take the tests."

"You just scared," Pingping put in. "If you don't do it, I won't teach you anymore. You can decide yourself."

"Mom, you're so cruel!"

Despite his protests, Taotao did sit for the SATs on the last Saturday in November. He wasn't sure if he had done well. His parents told him not to worry since there'd still be three years before he took the real tests for college. Four weeks later the scores came: math 710 and verbal 580. His parents were very pleased. For years Nan had worried about how to pay his son's college tuition; now it was clear that the boy would be able to get a scholarship from a decent school provided Taotao became an American citizen. Nan felt relieved and urged his son to continue to read the dictionary, of which Taotao had covered merely 350 pages, less than half the book. The SAT results got Taotao qualified for the summer programs for gifted kids at both Duke and Johns Hopkins, but he wouldn't be able to attend either of them because his parents didn't believe in them and couldn't afford the tuition. There was a chance that he could get a scholarship for the programs, but he preferred to stay home in the summertime.

21

NAN had applied for U.S. citizenship three months earlier. The naturalization would take at least half a year to complete. Only after he became an American citizen could Taotao and Pingping begin their naturalization. Nan hadn't applied for the citizenship with a light heart, but this was the only sensible thing to do. Besides the need for Taotao to become an American, Nan felt he had been disowned by China long ago. There wasn't another place where he and his family could and wanted to live. His home and livelihood were here. The previous spring he had read an article by Yong Chu, the old poet teaching Chinese at a college in Rhode Island, whom Nan had seen six years earlier at the memorial meeting for those killed in the Tiananmen massacre. In his article, "Why I Don't Want to Be an American Citizen," Mr. Chu wrote candidly that he was unsure which side he would take if the United States went to war with China. The citizenship would require him to be willing to bear arms to defend the U.S. Constitution and fight any foreign enemy, at least participating in noncombatant service in wartime. Chu stated that his heart wouldn't allow him to side against his motherland and that he wanted to live honestly, so he wouldn't get naturalized. Now Nan wasn't certain which side he'd take if a war broke out between China and the United States. This uncertainty tormented him, but he also knew that once he swore his allegiance at the oath ceremony, he'd have to abide by his word. To him, a promise should weigh more than a country.

He thought of a pair of metaphors, comparing China to his mother and the United States to the woman he loved. He was sure that someone else had used this trite analogy before; nonetheless, it helped him sort out his emotions. As a grown man he couldn't live with his mother forever and must choose to join the woman of his heart. Certainly he wouldn't taunt or beat his mother if there was a fight between the old lady and his beloved. All he could do was help them understand each other even though they might never see eye to eye. It was with this intention that he went to a meeting held in the community center in Chinatown.

Recently two young journalists in mainland China had published a book entitled China Can Say No, which vehemently condemned the United States as China 's archenemy. The book was poorly written and full of errors and distortions, but it had gone through many reprints. The authors went so far as to claim that China would "incinerate Hollywood " and "let the United States suffer the ax of war." Clearly some top officials had endorsed the publication of this book, using hatred and fear to unify the populace. The book caused quite a stir in the Chinese diaspora as well, so the Chinese community in Atlanta had invited scholars, writers, students, and people of various walks to discuss it on a Saturday afternoon in early January.

The conference room at the community center was packed, some people standing along the walls. Nan was sitting on a folding chair close to the front, having arrived ten minutes early. Two men and one woman were seated at the table facing the audience. Since many of the attendees didn't know English, the discussion was to be conducted only in Chinese. After the moderator introduced the speakers, the older man, a historian wearing horn-rimmed glasses, harrumphed, then began to speak in a squeaky voice. He criticized the book, saying it merely echoed "the Boxers' sentiment and cheap jingoism." Also, its main points, mostly supported by wrong information and inaccurate statistics, were shaped to serve current politics in China and had nothing to do with real scholarship. While speaking, he grew more animated, his glasses flashing. He stressed that the United States had never robbed China like other foreign powers had, and that it was Japan and Russia that China should condemn and worry about. Anyone with some knowledge of modern history could see this plainly. In short, the book was superficial, unprofessional, irresponsible, and shouldn't be taken seriously. He went on to recommend several titles that could inform people better about the relationship between China and the United States. As he spoke, grumbles were rising from the audience.

Nan agreed with the speaker's views, but he didn't like the old man's jarring voice and supercilious manner, especially his use of his thick index finger to point at the listeners as if they were his students.

The second speaker was a younger man with large weary eyes, a political scientist at Georgia Tech. He believed the book was too emotional, but he could see two causes for the desperate emotions the authors manifested. First, the Chinese government had ruined its image with the Tiananmen tragedy, and people in the West had begun to view China as a totalitarian state; for this the Communist leaders had to be responsible. Second, the U.S. policy toward China had lacked consistency in recent years. That hurt the self-respect of the Chinese people. For example, in May 1995 the American government had allowed Denghui Li, the former president of Taiwan, to visit the United States and thus deviated from its one-China policy and accelerated the crisis over Taiwan Strait.

"Shut up!" a spindly man yelled, and he stood up in the back. "You're talking dog crap and trying to please the Nationalists from Taiwan who control this community. Why do you want to shoot down the authors of this book just because they're young and emotional? We Chinese must have our pride and must stand up to Americans. I've been here for two years. How much bitterness have I swallowed? I was a doctor back in Tianjin City, but here I'm a custodian wiping windows and toilets. Who can relate to me? Who will speak for me? Who can know how a Chinese actually feels here? Why do you defend Americans instead of your own compatriots?" The man broke out sobbing and couldn't speak anymore. He sat down and covered his face with both hands. Someone in the front howled with laughter.

For a moment silence fell on the room. Then people began jabbering, either condemning the U.S. government or denouncing the authors of the book. Nan turned around to look at that vociferous man in the back, who was still weeping. The moon-faced moderator waved to quiet the audience down and then let the woman on the panel, a Taiwanese essayist, speak.

The middle-aged writer moved the microphone closer and leaned forward a little. She said, "I want to cry. Such a vulgar, mindless book has become a best seller. This shows the deteriorating mental state the people on the mainland have sunk into. How could the authors use such obscene language to describe Taiwan? I didn't understand the word 'sichu,' so I looked it up in a dictionary. How dare they say Taiwan is China 's 'private parts' that no foreign power can touch! The authors were crass and foolish if not demented. They don't think of the Taiwanese as human beings. All they care about is the so-called Chinese nation, the great China. They made me want to puke! They went so far as to claim Taiwan was China 's testicles, grabbed by the United States now. How ignorant and shameless they are! In the postscript they even say New York 's highways are inferior to China 's highways, and that New York has no new architecture. You have all seen America and can form your own opinion. If you're not blind, you can judge for yourselves."

She became too emotional to continue. Then a lynx-eyed man, perhaps a visiting scholar, seized the microphone in the audience and shouted: "Compatriots and friends, to the vacillation of the U.S. foreign policy toward Taiwan we must say no!"

People applauded.

He boomed again, "To the Japanese anti-China activities we must say no!"

Again applause broke out.

"To the U.S. Congress's China-bashing we must say no!" More people clapped their hands.

"To American imperialism and hegemony we must say no!" Applause thundered again.

" To all those who are hostile to our Chinese nation we must say no!"

Some of the audience stood up applauding. Then the man spoke calmly as if clarifying his points. He told the audience, "Even as we say no, we must be rational and base our ideas and judgments on accurate information and facts. Otherwise we might make disastrous mistakes. While we blame others for being prejudiced and for double-dealing, we ought to prevent ourselves from getting too hotheaded." He was certain that the twenty-first century would belong to China, meaning that the country would grow into the number one world power, so the Chinese, he said, should be confident and mustn't follow American ways.

Nan was bewildered by this man's performance, wondering which side he was actually on. The man spoke like a seasoned official, manipulating the emotions of the audience, some of whom kept nodding approval.

Then a skinny woman in a coffee-colored woolen sweater took the microphone. She was wearing at her waist a small thermos made of stainless steel. Despite her new hairdo, Nan recognized her-Mei Hong. "I have to take issue with you notables on the panel," she said emphatically. "You say the authors are young, emotional, and ignorant. Do you know that being young is not necessarily being wrong? Napoleon started conquering Europe when he was a young man. You say they're too emotional. What can be accomplished without deep, sincere emotion? A few years ago I went to visit the Yuan Ming Park outside Beijing that was burned by the Eight-Power Allied Forces last century. Seeing those felled stone pillars and charred beams, I couldn't hold back my tears. My heart was aching and bleeding. How could I not be emotional? You say the authors are ignorant, but they plucked up courage to confront the American imperialists. Even if you have a great deal of knowledge and professional training, why haven't you done anything to expose the conspiracy against China? Why do you talk like running dogs employed by the U.S. government? Shame on you!"

A smattering of applause rippled across the audience. The three panelists looked astonished. The woman writer sighed, now shaking her head, now pinching the bridge of her nose.

Mei Hong continued, "The other day my daughter told me that a Korean boy in her class broke into tears because some students called him 'Chinese.' That made me remember that once a homeless bum had yelled 'Chinese' at me simply because I didn't respond to his panhandling. He didn't know my ethnicity for sure, but why did he call me that? And why did the Korean boy feel so humiliated by the word 'Chinese'? I did some research on this, and here, let me share my discovery with you." She pulled out a square of paper from her pants pocket, unfolded it, and went on to explain, "In English the suffix '-ese' suggests 'inferior, insignificant, weak, weird, and diminutive.' You all know what ' China ' means. It means 'hardened clay or dirt.' So combining the two parts together, 'Chinese' means 'tiny, petty, and odd stuff made of dirt or clay.' After looking up the verbal roots in The Oxford English Dictionary, I finally understood that 'Chinese' was a racial slur, originally used by the British imperialists to put down our people and break our spirit. Not only us, but also other races, such as Japanese and Vietnamese, as if we were all peewee peoples, lightweights. By comparison, the suffix '-an' designates people of 'superior' races, for example, Roman, American, and German. This discrepancy in naming different peoples means that racial prejudice is already coded in the English language. Germany produces sausages-why not call its people Sausagese? Italy is known for pizzas-why not call Italians Pizzese? England used to export woolen textiles-why not call the British Woolese? America yields a lot of corn-why not call the people here Cornese? Or the Swiss, Cheesese?" Many people hooted with laughter while Mei Hong looked around, her face taut and her chest heaving, as if she were a stern teacher in front of a noisy class.

As the audience quieted down some, she went on, "Obviously the English language is meant to discriminate against us and other colored races. Now I can see why so many people from our homeland call themselves Asians,' because they've intuitively sensed that words like 'Chinese,' 'Vietnamese,' and 'Japanese' were coined to diminish them. Therefore we, people from the ' Central Kingdom,' must refuse to be called Chinese, just like the blacks refuse to be called 'niggers.' "

Her tirade made her short of breath. She sat down, her cheeks red and puffy. The audience was puzzled, so most of them remained silent. A few were snickering.

Nan rose and took the microphone. He said, "I don't want to dispute the accuracy of Mei Hong's linguistic research, since I haven't touched the OED for ages. Let me just appeal to your common sense. We're all human beings and should be reasonable. The great poet

Czeslaw Milosz said, 'Human reason is beautiful and invincible,' so let us rely on nothing but our own intelligence. America didn't force us to come here, did it? China is our native land, while America is the land of our children-that's to say, a place of our future. If a war breaks out between China and the United States, how can any one of us here benefit from it?"

"What's your point? Out with it!" a female voice burst out from the back.

"My point is that we must stop stoking animosity and must remember that the authors of this mean book don't speak on our behalf. They're just hate-mongers. We have different interests from them because we don't live in China anymore. We mustn't follow them in railing against the United States blindly."

Mei Hong cried sharply, "That's outside the parameters of my subject."

Her overbearing tone of voice enraged Nan. He exploded, "You haven't returned my soup pot yet! You promised to do that five months ago-why haven't you kept your promise? I can never trust you again. You talk so much about national pride and honor, but why wouldn't you honor your own word? Why can't you be more decent as a human being?" To his surprise, his questions shut her up. Mei Hong dropped her eyes, her face dark. Several people cackled.

Then a young woman stood up and challenged Nan, "Are you a Chinese or not?"

" I was born in China and -"

"Give us a simple yes or no answer!"

"I'm going to be a U.S. citizen. I believe most of you will-"

"Get out of here, you shameless American!" shouted a male voice.

"Let him speak," a man interrupted. "I'm going to be a citizen too."

"Americans out! Americans out!" a few voices cried in unison.

" This is a free country and I have the right of free speech," Nan said.

"We don't want to listen to you." "Yes, get out of here!" "Let him finish." "Achoo!"

"Listen," Nan went on. "You people always talk about your nation, your China, as if every one of you were a kingpin of that country. Has it ever occurred to you that this obsession is dangerous? I mean to let a country dominate an individual's life and outweigh everything else. What's the definition of fascism? Do you know?"

A hush fell over them.

Then someone brought out, "Don't give us another lie."

Nan replied calmly, "The first principle of fascism is to exalt country and race above the individual. If you don't believe me, look it up in Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, the tenth edition. If we don't stop this nonsense of China 's pride, we may end up ruining our own lives here."

"You never cease to amaze me." Mei Hong stood up. "A madman is what you are. Let me tell you, you're also a banana!" She jabbed her finger at Nan. "You always despise China and our language. That's why you've been writing in English and dreaming of becoming another Conrad or Nabokov. Let me tell you, you're just making a buffoon of yourself! Get real-stop fancying yourself a great poet!"

Flustered, Nan felt his throat congesting. But he scrambled to answer, "To write in English is my personal choice. Unlike you, I prefer to be a real individual."

"Yeah, to be a lone wolf," scoffed Mei Hong.

"Exactly!"

That somehow gagged her, and some people giggled. Nan said to the audience, "All I'm saying is that we ought to be decent human beings first, to be fair and upright to others and to ourselves."

The moderator rapped the table with her pen, but nobody took heed of her. "Stop bickering!" she begged, yet more people were jabbering now. The room was in a tumult. Many of the audience stood up, watching or whooping. The three panelists rose too, gathering their materials and about to leave. The scraping of chairs and shuffling of feet filled the room.

A few pairs of eyes were glowering at Nan, who pretended not to notice them. If only he had listened to Pingping and stayed at the restaurant. He shouldn't have come to this pandemonium to seek unhappiness. There was no way to reason with some people in this crowd, to which he felt he no longer belonged. Their ilk had the herd mentality that assumed the fulfillment of one's selfhood depended on the rise and growth of a tribe. Nan wondered whether he should go up to the old historian on the panel and talk with him for a while, but he decided not to. He preferred to stand alone.

₂₂

WHILE Nan was at the meeting, Pingping and Niyan were diligently preparing for the evening. It was Saturday, so they'd be busy after three o'clock. Nan had promised to come back before three-thirty. Pingping took out of the freezer the beef and chicken Nan had cut the previous night and let them thaw. She planned to wrap some egg rolls after putting a new ribbon of paper into the cash register. She hadn't fully recovered from the abortion yet, and though most of her diabetic symptoms were gone, a numbing pain still tightened her lower back from time to time. In the dining room Niyan was chasing a fly with a long plastic swatter. She had been placing silverware and paper napkins on the tables.

As they were working, a shaggy man in a maroon windbreaker came in with a half-empty bottle under his arm. He lurched directly to the counter, plunked beside the cash register the stout amber bottle printed with "Wild Turkey," pulled out a snub-nosed revolver, and hissed at Pingping, "Give me all the dough you have here."

For a moment she was too transfixed to respond. The man said again, "Empty your drawer and give me all the cash!" His reddish beard, so thick that his mouth was invisible, quivered as he spoke, blowing hot, alcoholic fumes on Pingping's face.

Silently she unlocked the register and took out the tray that contained about a dozen singles, four fives, two tens, and some coins. Inside the machine, under the tray, was a sheaf of twenties, more than two hundred dollars, which she always kept in there for emergency use, but she didn't touch it. With trembling hands she placed the tray before the man and said, "We haven't star' yet." Through the corner of her vision she saw Niyan scurrying out the front door. The thought that she was left alone to face the robber petrified her, and she broke into sniffling sobs.

Her crying seemed to startle the man, who grabbed the money and thrust all banknotes into the pocket of his windbreaker but left the coins untouched. "What lousy luck!" he grumbled, his boozy eyes flickering.

"Please go away!" begged Pingping.

"Nope. I'm hungry and want some food."

"We not open yet."

"Don't tell me that!"

"I don't know how to cook."

"Sure you do. I've been here before and saw you cookin' in there." "What do you want?"

"Let's see." He flipped open a menu on the counter. "Mongolian Beef, this one, spicy."

"My husband is chef. Me can't make Mongolian Beef." She was really unsure how to cook his order, because the dish wasn't supposed to be spicy.

"Don't lie to me. I'm not a fool. Let me have some spicy Mongolian

Beef."

"I don't know how to cook that."

"D'you want me to come in and help you?" He slitted his eyes, leering at her.

"Okay, okay, I will see what I can do." She retreated into the kitchen.

As she was about to make for the back door, a piercing siren shrilled, rising louder and louder. The man was frightened. He spun around and rushed away to the front door. Before he could get out, three policemen came in and pointed their pistols at him. "Hold it there!" one of them ordered.

With a groan the man slumped to the floor. He wailed hoarsely, "I'm sorry! I'm really down and out. I need money to buy a birthday gift for my kid."

The police fell on him, pressed him on the floor, and handcuffed him. Then they pulled him up. Niyan came in and spat at the man's face, saying, "Shame on you! The bank is right across the street. Why don't you go there? We're poor too." She raised her hand and pulled off his marled hat, woven of black and orange wool and still bearing a Wal-Mart tag marked with the price-$3.75.

"Hey, hey, don't touch him!" said the short policeman with a beer belly, flipping the cylinder of the small revolver to remove the bullets. His colleagues were inspecting the crime scene, one in the kitchen.

"Can't make it anymore," the man mumbled to Niyan.

"Stop lying!" she snapped. "You still have money for a new hat."

"It's a gift from my girlfriend," he grunted.

Niyan turned to Pingping. "Good heavens, hear this? He keeps a woman while he's totally broke." She thrust the hat into his left pocket.

Pingping said to him, "You should feel shame yourself."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the man muttered, and hung his head, showing a whitish spot on his crown.

Pingping inserted his half bottle of whiskey under his arm. "Take your stuff." She then pulled all the cash out of his right pocket while explaining to the officers, "He grab all money from our machine."

"All right, let's go." The short policeman slapped the criminal on the back, then steered him toward the door.

An older officer began asking Pingping and Niyan questions. The waitress boasted that she could have grabbed the gun left by the man on the counter and shot him, but she phoned the police instead. "He's stupid, you know," she said, one palm on her hip.

"Never take the law into your own hands. You did the right thing," said the stalwart officer in a nasal voice, writing on a clipboard.

Pingping thanked him again and again for coming to their rescue.

When Nan came back, his wife, still beside herself, shouted at him, "I thought you had forgotten this place. Why are you here?"

He was taken aback by her tear-stained face and didn't respond. She was trembling a little as she spoke. After hearing about what had happened, he apologized and promised he wouldn't go to any of those meetings again.

Pingping went on, "If Niyan hadn't called the police, that robber would have rushed into the kitchen and killed me in there. I was so scared! My legs still can't stop shaking."

Niyan tittered. Nan threw an arm around his wife and told her, "We're poor too. I never thought someone would rob us. Don't cry, Pingping. I won't leave this place to you alone again. That man must have been really destitute."

"Maybe so. He wasn't like a professional robber. Probably he was scared too. I'm sure he was drunk."

Niyan put in, "Maybe we should keep a gun here."

"No, no, absolutely not!" Nan said. "If a robber shows up again, just give him what he wants. The most important thing is not to get yourself hurt. Understood?"

" Yes, sir," replied the waitress with a grin.

₂₃

THOUGH Taotao read The Oxford American Dictionary from time to time, he refused to learn Chinese anymore. Whenever his parents urged him to write some characters, he'd claim his hand hurt so much that he was suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome. What was that? His parents had no clue. They believed the problem lay in his mind and it was his laziness that had caused the constant slippage with his Chinese writing. He could speak and understand Mandarin but could no longer read or write the words. Even when he spoke the language, he used it only in a rudimentary way. He was tired of his parents' litany of the advantages in being fully bilingual. One afternoon his father yelled at him in the storage room, demanding that the boy promise to work hard on the written characters, but Taotao wouldn't give him his word and instead complained about the use-lessness of Chinese in his life. Shubo happened to be present and tried to convince the boy of the necessity of keeping his mother tongue.

"It's too hard," Taotao said. "I've already spent so many years on it and can't even keep the words I had learned before I was six." Recently he had begun to resent the more difficult characters. Among those he could recognize, he hated the killer ideogram cang (hide) most, never able to remember the order and number of its strokes.

"You've never poot your heart into it. Of coss you have regressed so much," Nan said.

Shubo coaxed, "Taotao, don't give up. Stroke by stroke you can fell an oak."

"I don't want to cut down any tree!"

"I mean, no pains, no gains-if you keep to try, you will master Chinese."

"Fat chance," grunted the boy. "Yes, you still have a big chance." "I don't mean that."

His father broke in, "I know what you mean-'a very slim chance.' No matter what, you must continue to learn Chinese."

Unlike Nan, Pingping sympathized with their son and in private pointed out to Nan that Taotao would never learn enough of the language for taking the SAT II Chinese test. Her argument sank in, and for several days Nan left him alone.

Now it was time for the boy to decide what foreign language to study in middle and high schools. There were Sunday Chinese classes at Emory University, which many children attended, but on weekends Nan and Pingping had to work and couldn't drive their son into Atlanta. Moreover, Pingping didn't believe Taotao would benefit much from knowing Chinese. She felt English was much more expressive and more useful. Back in China she could hardly write anything, but here once she learned a little English, she had found herself able to write a lot, as if whatever she put on paper became interesting. Nan agreed with her. Compared with written Chinese, English was indeed a language of common people, despite being hard to master, its grammatical rules too loose and its idioms defying logic. Without question, their son should devote himself more to this alphabet.

So they stopped badgering him to inscribe the characters. If the boy didn't like Chinese, he would never master it by copying the words. Maybe someday they could send him to Pingping's parents during the summer; that way he could regain his fluency and literacy in his mother tongue. In his school Latin was very popular, and he applied for it but couldn't get into the class. It was said that some students had learned Latin so well that they kept diaries in the dead tongue so that their parents couldn't tell what they wrote. Nan knew that the knowledge of Latin would strengthen his son's English, so he was displeased that Taotao couldn't enroll in the class.

Later Pingping found out that besides English, most papers in science were published in three other languages: French, German, and Japanese. So it would be better if Taotao took up either German or French, both offered at his school. At the beginning of the next semester he chose to learn French, which turned out to be so easy for him that he soon excelled in the class.

Once he asked his parents, "Can I major in French in college?"

"You should study to be doctor," Pingping said. "What profession is better than save people's life?"

"I don't like medical science. How about art history or English? Can I major in art history?"

"Zen you will be a poor scholar for zer rest of your life," Nan said.

"I don't care."

"You don't care because we work night and day to make money for you," retorted his mother. "You act like rich kid who don't need profession."

Taotao turned to his father. "Didn't you tell me to follow my heart? You said, As long as you do something well, you won't starve.' "

"Sure, I said zat. But you should take your mozzer's opinion into account too."

"If I get a scholarship, can I study anything I want?"

His parents didn't answer, knowing there was no way to dissuade him. Nan knew Pingping would be happy if Taotao became a premed, but he believed they shouldn't force their son to do anything against his will. Yes, he wanted the boy to follow his own heart.

₂₄

" SOMETHING good happened," Dick said to Nan when he stepped into the Gold Wok. There was a note of delight in his voice. He pulled his maroon scarf off his neck, his hair damp with rainwater and his cheeks steaming a little. It was still drizzling outside, and it had been a slow afternoon at the restaurant. "What happened?" asked Nan.

"My book won the National Book Critics Circle Award." Dick's eyes were sparkling and his face was so radiant that he seemed many years younger.

"How big is zis prize?"

"Almost like a Pulitzer."

"My goodness, congratulations!" Nan gave him a bear hug, patting his shoulder several times. "So now you're as famous as Edward Neary?"

"I'm getting close."

"You inspire me," Nan said in all sincerity. Indeed, just yesterday he hadn't thought of Dick as a significant poet; now overnight his friend had become a literary figure.

"Now my task is how to manage success," said Dick.

"How do you mean?" Nan was puzzled, unable to see how success was something to be managed.

"I must capitalize on the opportunity to promote myself and my work, also to raise my fee."

"What fee?"

"The fee for my readings and talks."

"Oh, you'll rake in zer kind of mahney like Edward Neary?" "You bet."

That surprised Nan, because Dick was talking like a businessman. Yet Nan said, "We must celebrate." "Yes, let's do that. Thank you."

Nan went into the kitchen to make Crabmeat Fu Rong and Scallops with Black Bean Sauce. Both dishes were easy to to cook, and the latter was one of Dick's favorites. Nan told Niyan to take two bottles of Tsingtao beer to Dick. He said to Pingping, "Dick just won a top prize for his poetry book. He's a star now."

"No fooling? What prize?"

"I forgot what it's called, similar to the Pulitzer."

"My, I should go and congratulate him."

"Tell him I'll be done in a few minutes."

Both Pingping and Niyan gave their congratulations to Dick, who was so wild with joy that he wouldn't use the glass on the table and drank the beer directly from the bottle and in long swigs. His eyes turned watery. He now smiled and now sighed, shaking his head as if bemused by such good fortune.

A few weeks later Dick told Nan that he had received a job offer from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and decided to accept it. Nan had heard of that place and knew this was a major development in his friend's career. At least Dick wouldn't have to worry about his tenure at Emory anymore. Nan felt upset that from now on he'd be entirely alone as a struggling poet. He had been writing poetry in English these days, though somewhat halfheartedly, and had been planning to show Dick a few of his poems about animals once he polished them. Now his friend was about to leave; it was almost like a blow to him.

Nan managed to be congratulatory, though deep down he wished Dick could stay in Atlanta a few more years. Dick seemed to have sensed Nan's disappointment, so he promised to keep in touch with him and even said, "You must come see me in Iowa."

"I shall try." Nan grimaced.

"I'll miss the Gold Wok, you know."

They both laughed. "You are always welcahm to eat here. Do come back and visit us," Nan told him.

Seeing that Dick didn't respond and knowing he must be elated to leave Atlanta, Nan added, "Winter is mild here."

"Yes, of course. I'm sure we'll meet again, one way or another."

So in May 1997, Dick sold his condominium and left for New York. After spending the summer there, he started teaching at the University of Iowa. As promised, he kept up a correspondence with Nan.