Fish Heads and Duck Skin

by Lindsey Salatka

  Mr. Han cleared his throat. “An astute observation made from a position of privilege.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means when you are affluent—”

  “But I didn’t notice it because I’m affluent. And, to be clear, I started with nothing but debt, and I’ve worked hard for everything I have. My point is that money does not equate to happiness or well-being. Sure, money reduces stress and makes things easier, but to achieve true happiness, we need something else. I’m not saying I know what that thing is—I don’t. But I do know that a singular obsession with money will only create more societal problems down the road. Money should not be the only goal; it’s not what life should be all about.”

  I felt proud of my speech, like I had shared profound wisdom. As though I had come from a more enlightened place on the planet and was finally able to teach him something meaningful.

  He templed his fingers. “It is true we must look inside ourselves. But, in your observation, is it also true that money affords security?”

  “Sure it does.”

  “But you wouldn’t wish security for your friends on your holiday cards, because they already have security, and they have had it for generations.”

  “Correct …”

  “Would you wish food for your friends on your holiday card? Basic food, so they’re not hungry?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “But you see, in China, not long ago, we had nothing—no money, no food, no security. Today, we do have these things, and life is better. But we remember, you see. So when we wish wealth for someone, we aren’t saying, ‘My friend, my friend, I wish you can buy a TV for every room in your house.’ It’s not that at all. It is a wish for them to have security, and stability, a hope that their food won’t disappear, their life won’t be at risk, and they will never need to worry about having nothing, ever, ever again.” He looked at me with kind eyes, deeply creased at the sides. “You see, sometimes our words say one thing but mean another.”

  I cringed in shame and dropped my face in my hands. I uttered the first thought that came to mind, “I’m such an asshole.”

  He smiled. “I do not know this word.”

  “It’s, uh, hard to explain—Another word that says one thing but means another.” I looked up at him. “It means that I feel unworthy of your kindness and your patience.”

  He grabbed my hands, squeezed them once, and then held onto them. “Of course you are worthy. Your thoughts are quite normal, Ting Ting. You have come to China to learn many things, both about the world and about yourself. The expats here, especially the Americans, are ignorant of their abundance. This is because you have known no other way. Like we have known no other way than what we have seen, what we have lived. We do not share a common history, therefore it can be hard for us to understand each other. But we must continue to try.”

  With that he raised my left arm above my head, setting it at the correct white crane angle. Then, as he shuffled to adjust my right arm, he leaned in and whispered, “You are my most worthy student.”

  I laughed. “You are kind, but that’s not true, and if it is, it doesn’t say much about your other students.”

  “You are very strong, more powerful than you think, only lacking roots.”

  I looked at him and thought about how much I had already learned from him. He was so wise. How could he be so wrong about me? Or was it possible that he wasn’t wrong? That I was both worthy and powerful? I stood up straight, inhaled, and breathed into my feet, trying to make Mr. Han’s statement at least a little true. I yearned to know what having roots felt like, so I could imagine them for myself.

  “You will be rooted one day, Ting Ting. Continue to try.”

  “I am a white crane,” I said, wishing it were true now.

  41.

  “Yī, èr, sān, sì, wǔ, liù, qī, bā, jiǔ, shí. You know this already, right? One through ten,” Katie said.

  It was three weeks later, and we were sitting at my dining room table. I nodded even though I usually forgot how to say seven.

  “Well today you will learn a Chinese truth that most of us take for granted: If you want to buy something at the local market, you must sign for it.”

  “Sign for it?”

  “Yes, with your fingers. For clarity. To firmly quantify your want.”

  My brain matter felt particularly mud-like on this morning. I’d been up all night with Lila, who had cried and cried but couldn’t tell me what hurt. Daniel was out of town inspecting a new factory. My bike had a flat. And I had run out of tea. I knew I had more gripes, but I was too tired to think of them.

  “You’re going to have to say that again, slowly. I don’t understand,” I said.

  She held her hand in front of my face in a hang loose configuration. “This is liù. Six.”

  “This is six?” I stuck out my thumb and pinky and folded my middle three fingers.

  “Yes, liù,” she said.

  I laughed. “Why on Earth would I use this to say six when I can just use my words, the ones you are teaching me, and say liu?”

  “Because if you want six apples, six pears, six bananas, or six anything, you will show the man at the food stand the sign for six, and then he will make the same sign back at you. You will then nod, and he will tell you what you owe. It’s very simple.”

  I paused. “What if I want eight apples? Because I really love apples.”

  Katie held up her hand like a gun, thumb up, index finger and pointed it at me, and then to her side. “Bā. Eight.”

  “How about nine?”

  She balled up her hand, all except her forefinger, which she curled over. “Jiǔ. Nine.”

  I curled my forefinger like hers, then straightened it, pointed it straight at her, and wagged it. “I will never remember this, Katie!”

  “Of course you will; I’m going to teach you a trick,” she said with mischief in her eyes.

  “A trick?”

  “Yes.” She smiled with excitement. “One through five are easy—the same as your American hand counting. But here’s how you will remember the rest of them—Give me a call, which is liù, six, I know this Italian, which is qī, seven, and I want to shoot him, which is bā, eight, because his wanker is tiny, or jiǔ, nine, and he punched my mother, or shí, ten.”

  I made the signs, repeating, “Give me a call, liu, I know this Italian, qi, and I want to shoot him, ba, because his wanker is tiny, jiu, and he punched my mother, shi?”

  “Exactly! But his wanker is more like this.” She demonstrated again.

  “And you can guarantee that if I use these hand signs, people won’t ignore me when I’m trying to buy stuff at the wet market? Because that’s a daily issue.”

  “I believe you will have a much higher probability of success.”

  “Then I can’t wait to try it.”

  Later, when she stood to leave, I said, “Do you want to hang out sometime, outside of lessons? Maybe we could go get a massage? I usually meet my friends on Thursday nights. There’s a place right down the street that’s great; we reserve a whole room. Maybe you could come with us and meet some potential clients? Wendy will be there, too. What do you say?”

  “No thank you. I have my own masseuse. She comes to my apartment twice a week. Her brother brings her to me; she is blind.”

  “Blind?”

  “All the best masseuses are blind.”

  “Oh, uh, okay, how about a run then? Meet me some morning. We can start at the park.”

  “A run?”

  “Yes, a run. You know, for fitness.”

  She started laughing hysterically, guffawing louder than I would have thought she could. “That is your best joke by far, Tina,” she said. “You want me to run!” She packed up her briefcase and walked to the door, still chuckling, and turned around. “You must understand—I’m a Chinese woman. I wouldn’t even run from a tiger.”

  She opened the door and stepped out, then tipped her head back in. “I’d like to be friends with y
ou too, Tina, but I’m very busy. I have another job that takes up a lot of my time. I’ll tell you about it sometime when I don’t have another client after you. Sorry.”

  “Another job? Seriously? This one isn’t enough?”

  “The other job is not about money. I’ll explain later.”

  42.

  “You know what I think?” I asked Mr. Han the following Wednesday and then immediately took a bite of my large steamed bun. I couldn’t wait. We were sitting on a bench under a tree in the neighborhood park. I got busy tucking into the meat section of my baozi, while he hadn’t taken his out of the tiny plastic bag yet. We had just walked from a not-so-grueling tai chi session to our favorite baozi shack, then to the park to eat our purchases.

  I put up a finger until I swallowed and began. “I think we should eat baozi on Wednesdays instead of practice tai chi. Women yinggai yiqi qu chifan.” I nodded. “We should eat together. Instead.”

  Mr. Han looked at me and blinked.

  “I mean I like tai chi, I do. I’m sure for some people it’s a beautiful thing. However, it’s possible I might be too high-strung for tai chi—I’m not sure it suits my personality.”

  “It will suit you. Once you’re more rooted, it will feed you. Like baozi feeds you now.”

  “Nothing can feed me like baozi feeds me. Not in the East, not in the West.”

  “Tai chi will be even better for you someday,” he said.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “More nourishing. To your energy.” He nodded.

  I sighed and looked at him. “I want to tell you something.”

  He nodded and took a bite.

  “Is that a carrot baozi?” I asked.

  “Mmm.” He nodded. “And leek.”

  “I’ve never had that kind. Is it good? It looks really good.”

  “Mmm. Very good. Is this what you wanted to tell me?”

  “No, sorry. I wanted to tell you that you remind me of my grandpa.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, very much. I didn’t realize it right away, but lately I feel it more and more.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How do you know that’s a compliment?”

  He looked confused.

  “I’m kidding, it is. I haven’t told you before, but my grandpa was the only person who ever really loved me—a totally unselfish, unconditional, uncomplicated love. He taught me things for no other reason than to make me better. Not for himself at all. How to make pancakes even though he couldn’t eat them. How to play pool even though he had arthritis. How to play guitar but …”

  Mr. Han waved his fingers, and I nodded.

  “My grandpa was a great man and he loved me more than anyone ever has and probably ever will.” I sad-smiled. “He’s been dead for ten years, and I still miss him. Spending time with you feels like I’m spending time with him. That’s why I come to see you every week,” I said. “You’re channeling my grandpa.”

  He thought for a moment, silently translating. “Ah. Okay,” he finally said.

  “I don’t come to learn tai chi,” I said.

  “Eh?”

  “I mean tai chi is nice, and your friends are there, and they’re very patient with me.”

  “Because they want you to improve. To be a stronger team member.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that. Plus, your sister is much more pleasant now—she only occasionally yells at me, maybe because I’ve worn her down—I know I can do that. But I just want you to know, I go to see you, not to move slowly around in circles because, depending on the day, the practice of tai chi still makes me feel impatient. Like it serves no purpose. But for me, you’re the purpose. And I wanted to tell you that. I am grateful for you and the way you make me feel, more than you’ll ever know.”

  He looked away for a moment, toward the pond, then looked back and smiled. “My grandfather was also a wonderful man,” he said.

  “He was?”

  “Yes. He was a teacher and a powerful leader. Wǒ de zǔfù hěn yǒu quánwē. He taught me tai chi.”

  “He did?”

  “Mm. In Guìlín.”

  “Where is Guilin?”

  “South and west. Twenty-four hours by train. I was born there, and I will die there.”

  “How do you know you’ll die there?” I scoffed.

  “Because, when it is my season, I will go there to join my ancestors.”

  “What do you mean? When will it be your season?”

  He shrugged. “When it is. Probably three seasons from this season.”

  “Mr. Han, no. That isn’t right. You are very healthy and vibrant. Three seasons is far too soon. I think you’re forgetting the zero. Thirty seasons is more accurate.”

  He laughed. “Thirty!” he sighed and wiped his eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I forget the shí.” He held his fist straight up, fingers curled toward me.

  “That means ten!” I sputtered, pointing at his hand.

  “Mm, ten,” he said. “Shí.”

  “I know shi is ten, but last week I didn’t know that this,” I held up my fist like his, “means shi, which means ten.”

  He smiled, but I could see the significance was lost on him.

  “I’m learning things, Mr. Han, about China. This is proof that I’m smarter today than I was last week.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Ha ha. Good!” He patted my hand. “Grandchild. No, granddaughter. Good granddaughter.”

  I hugged him tight, then pulled back. “Now will you please give me a bite of your baozi? I don’t know how many hints I have to drop.”

  “Eh? You want some?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay okay,” he said and pushed it toward me. “Please. Eat.”

  “Okay, Grandpa. Thank you. Here, have some of my pork and vegetable.”

  “Yes, okay, granddaughter.”

  “Favorite granddaughter,” I said.

  “Mm. Yes, favorite granddaughter. Xiè xiè.”

  “Xie xie ni,” I said.

  We chewed on each other’s baozis for a bit, happy and quiet. Then he said, “Wednesdays will be for both baozi and tai chi.”

  I sighed.

  43.

  A month later on a Friday night, Daniel announced, “I need a favor.” He was perched on the glossy stool with his chin resting in one hand, a cold Qing Dao beer in the other. The bottom of the frosty bottle rested on his knee. The kids were asleep, and I had nabbed the love seat again. I rested my head on the hard, plastic arm and closed my eyes, wondering if I should let myself fall asleep there, even though it would mean I would wake up contorted, cramped, and with my cheek stuck to the fabric.

  “What kind of favor?” I mumbled without raising my head.

  “I have a potential buyer—a very big buyer—coming to China next week to meet with me and discuss rolling out the robot kits in stores across the US. Callie is flying in for it. It could be huge.”

  I raised my head, suddenly alert. “Wow, that’s great. I can help you with that,” I said. “I could be a customer liaison, or—”

  “No, Tina. I don’t need a work favor; I need an entertainment favor. The buyer is coming with his wife and two kids. While we’re touring the factory, she and the kids want to tour ‘the real Shanghai,’” Daniel said.

  “‘The real Shanghai?’” I asked. “I don’t think they have much of a choice; it’s pretty hard to water this place down.”

  “Right, well, I was going to have Cinderella take them around, but I need him for my meeting to help me communicate with the factory manager,” he said.

  “So you need a family-friendly tour guide for ‘the real Shanghai?’”

  “Yes. Their boys are eight and ten,” he said. “They really want to see pandas.”

  “Pandas? But pandas don’t live in Shanghai.”

  “I know, I know, but there has to be a panda around here somewhere. Listen, I want them to have a good time so their overall impression of China, and me, is positive. So please, if you can �
��”

  I was surprised to see how stressed he looked. I was used to feeling like that, but anxiety wasn’t Daniel’s go-to emotion. I sat up straight and leaned toward him.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “As okay as it can be, I guess.”

  Right then Lila started crying. I groaned.

  “I’ll get her,” he said. “But can you entertain them?”

  “Of course I can. I’ll take them on a tour, show them the highlights, and do everything in my power to skip the lowlights,” I said. “Don’t worry, honey, their time here will be more than positive. It will be unforgettable.”

  “What are the kids like?” Wendy asked the following Monday as she slid mahjong tiles toward herself from the center of the table.

  “I have no idea; I’ve never met them. Why does it matter?” I asked, staring at my tiles, trying to make something out of nothing for my next turn.

  “Because!” she said. “Are they brainiacs, in which case you should take them to the museum? Or are they sporty, in which case you could take them to the skateboard park?”

  “All I know is they’re eight and ten, they’re from Texas, and they want an authentic Shanghainese experience. Oh, and they want to see pandas,” I said.

  “Would they prefer to see the feral pandas that roam the streets? Or the more domesticated breed?” Barbara chided from the neighboring table. I had recently graduated from the newbie area in the back, which meant that my mahjong was improving. It also meant that Barbara could hear and comment on my conversation topics.