Days of Distraction

by Alexandra Chang

  At the coffee shop I point at items on the menu, which is thankfully also printed in English, since the place caters to expats, but none of the waitresses speak English, or at least not to me, so we mime at each other like sad circus clowns, then they leave me alone with my pork bun and tea.

  At first Gmail won’t open, but when I sign into my VPN service and connect to a U.S. IP address, voilà, email access. Who knows what magic is going on in the ether. I just press the buttons.

  J has sent a science news article about the biological origin of nose shapes, nostrils in particular. He is acting as though everything is fine. Or he really believes everything is fine. Or this is a gesture to make amends. The article poses and answers a question: Why are some nostrils wide and circular (like mine), while others are narrow and long (like his)? Something we’ve talked about before. A lab at Harvard has traced it back to ancestral climates. The hotter and more humid a climate, the wider the nostril.

  What I don’t understand is that there are different climates all over China, but most Chinese have a specific, particular, Chinese kind of nose, don’t they? Isn’t the nose at least half of what defines my face as especially Chinese? I’m typing this into an email draft and am about to hit send, but then something stops me. I think of the articles I sent to him that he never read.

  Back to Yamei Kin. To the question of why she tired of and shook her husband. Here, a clue, an article published in the San Francisco Call one month after the one on their divorce: “Indict alleged slave trader: Federal Grand Jurors say Lee Toy illegally imported four Chinese women. Is arrested in city. Warrant may be out for Da Silva, agent for St. Louis Fair Concession Company.”

  Without Yamei, Hippolytus was busy with a new life of his own. He was fired from his job as an interpreter for the Chinese Bureau in San Francisco, and started working for a man named Lee Toy, who was the president of the Chinese concession at the St. Louis Exposition, a large fair held in the city. Toy was also connected with a major importer of Chinese goods, which, apparently, imported people, too.

  The story goes: 207 Chinese acrobats and 12 Chinese women traveled by ship to St. Louis from the Canton region of China, just north of Macau. (That’s where I am. Zhuhai borders Macau.) The women had been working as house servants in China, and been told that they would work as waitresses in the St. Louis Exposition’s Chinese Village. Once aboard the ship, Toy revealed to the women that they would instead be kept as prostitutes. When four of the women objected, Hippolytus beat them into silence. (And whom did he visualize when he beat them?) Their silence did not last long. Upon arriving at port, those same four women appealed to the immigration commissioner, reporting that they’d been purchased for $500 to $700 each, and intended for a “horrible fate.”

  Lee Toy denied the women’s claims. “We had planned a very attractive village and wanted native Chinese to make a scene of realistic industrial activity,” he stated. “I did not see any of the women until they were brought to the steamship the morning of our departure, Da Silva having picked them up. There is absolutely nothing in the allegations that our scheme was criminal in its nature.”

  Well, well, well, that’s unquestionably bad.

  My dad walks into the shop an hour later in his whole getup. He walks with bravado. He is doing better than I’d imagined, though his clothes hang loosely from his skinny frame and his face seems made of sharper angles. I am still getting used to seeing him in front of me.

  “Did you look up the fisher girl’s story?” he asks as he sits down, placing a giant black backpack by his feet.

  “No, not yet. I’ll look it up now,” I say. “What do you carry around in that thing? It’s huge. Is it heavy?”

  “No, not heavy. I have maps, some guides, a long flashlight. Doubles as a weapon, just in case. Napkins, there’s enough for the both of us—you know you need to carry around your own napkins and tissues here. My beer. And it can hold whatever we buy.”

  “Okay. Here, drink some of my tea,” I say. “Eat the rest of the pork bun.”

  “I’ll have a few zips.”

  “Sips,” I say as I type Zhuhai fisher girl into the search bar.

  He drinks, but does not eat the bun. “Not sips. Zips. That’s my term for it.”

  The fisher girl was not quite an angel, like he’d said. She was the daughter of the Dragon King from the South China Sea. An immortal goddess-type entity. Drawn to the beauty of Zhuhai’s Xianglu Bay, she morphed herself into an average fisher girl to live in the area. She met and fell in love with a mortal man who loved her in return. The man, however, motivated by (1) gossip and rumors against her or (2) a devil-type figure baiting him or (3) his own plain curiosity (depending on the source of the story), requested that the girl prove her love by giving him her bracelet. She confessed her origins to him, explaining that the bracelet tied her to her father and home. If it was removed, she would not only lose her immortality, she would die on the spot. The man did not believe her and walked away. So the girl, in love and despair, took off her bracelet. As she said she would, she died. The man felt immense regret and remorse and sorrow. An immortal elder, unrelated to the Dragon King, was moved by the couple’s deep love. The elder decided to help the man locate an herb known to resurrect the dead. The herb, however, could only grow from the nutrients of human blood. The man used his own blood for days, weeks, years. When the herb was ready, he brought the once immortal goddess back to life as a mortal fisher girl. On the couple’s wedding day, the fisher girl gave the helpful elder a giant pearl to express her gratitude. This is what the statue of her in the bay is holding above her head. The statue was built in 1982, and is the main tourist attraction along the path known as “Lovers’ Road.”

  “Ah right, right,” says my dad. “I knew it was something like that. One of the nicknames for Zhuhai is ‘Romantic City.’”

  “Doesn’t sound like a very romantic story to me,” I say. “Sounds like the man was selfish and made her die in the first place.”

  “That’s one way to interpret it,” he says. “But then he makes up for his mistake. And in the end, she could be a normal human, like she wanted. Sacrifice for sacrifice. Okay, enough of those stories, let’s get going. Lots of places to see, people to meet.”

  He takes me to all of his spots. We walk all of his neighborhood walks. He introduces me to everyone. The market grandma and grandpa. The fruit stand lady and her son. The tea auntie. The trinkets stall uncle. The cold noodle couple. Each time, he talks and talks, showing me off. And each time, I stand up straight. (“This girl knows how to stand,” the Chinese teachers used to say. But that was only for them. The rest of the time I hunched wildly.) I want to convey to these people, so badly: Look, this crazy old man has a decent, high-functioning daughter.

  It is impossible for me to find shoes in China that fit. They are all either too narrow or too short. At a shoe store, I ask my dad to ask the owner if he has a pair of combat-style boots in one size up. The store owner shakes his head and says the ones I’m holding are the largest available.

  “Try on the men’s boots,” says my dad, who then tells the store owner what I think is the equivalent in Cantonese, a language I understand none of.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s okay!” When I notice the store owner looking down at my feet, I try to cover them with my hands. It’s a biological wonder that I can look so like everyone in China but have such average American limbs.

  Maybe it was something I ate growing up. All that hormone-injected cow’s milk and cheese, says my dad.

  On the news, a landslide in a nearby city engulfs twenty-two buildings of an industrial park, the hopeless faces of those digging through the rubble with their hands, looking for what’s gone missing. They toss aside pieces of fallen building. The reporter walks up to a section of wall and points out a structural problem. The camera zooms in and we can see that between the concrete of the walls are crushed food cans that have been used as support. I pick out a few words: “poor” and “people” and
“sorry.”

  My dad translates:

  “This world is fucked. Everybody is cutting corners. I’m just happy I won’t be alive to see the troubles that will hit in your time.”

  At night, noise of clanging metal rises up into the room. I look outside, down below. Big light fixtures shining on the circular overpass. From nine stories above, I can see tiny people moving between tents and umbrellas, plus a thing or two that look like cameras. I check my phone; it says 3 A.M.

  “Are you okay?”

  I startle and turn around. My dad stands in the bedroom’s doorway, a slender silhouette.

  “You scared me. I think they’re shooting a movie down there.”

  “Yeah, they do that at night when there’s nobody walking around. Probably one of these low-budget TV shows.”

  “Is Zhuhai a popular set location?”

  “Maybe. I’ve seen other things like this happen at night since I’ve been here. All sorts of activities here. Who knows what goes on at night.”

  “Are they always this loud?”

  “They don’t care. They’re saving money, while the rest of us are losing sleep.”

  We stand at the window and watch silently together for a moment. Then he shuts the window and tells me to rest and get over my jet lag. We’re going to do even more walking tomorrow.

  Snores from the living room. His figure formed into a curve on the small couch, neck and back against one arm and legs up on the other. Didn’t matter how many times I said I didn’t need or want the bed, he wouldn’t take it. “You’re my guest,” he said.

  One of his apartment building’s security guards comes running after us, an umbrella in hand. He gives the umbrella to my dad and the two of them talk, then we part ways.

  “Nice guy, nice guy,” says my dad. “You know, they all call me ‘Big Boss’ here. Not everyone treats these guys well. I bring them beer and chat with them when they’re working their overnight shifts. They appreciate that.”

  “See those young guys on the street? The ones in the suits? They’re trying to sell apartment units to all these new buildings. They’re in college or just out of high school, nice kids, but their job is tough. They’re out on the streets all day in the heat and rain, doesn’t matter what weather, they have to go up to anybody who they think might be a buyer. That’s how desperate these places are to fill units. They’ve approached me a lot of times. I even went inside for a tour—everything new and fancy, they let you customize features, counters and appliances and stuff like that. But to lease is three or four times what I’m paying at my place. At night, you only see a few lights on inside these buildings. They’re empty, nobody actually lives there. These developers are trying to make a quick buck off of a growing city, but none of the people here can afford these fancy new places. My prediction is they’re going to sit empty like that for years. Just watch. I’m always right about these things.”

  Now at a restaurant known for their congee. Soft Chinese music plays in the background. I want him to tell me about Sharon, so I say, “Remember when you told us that we’re Jewish because Sharon was Jewish?”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes, one time when I was in high school and you were talking about her.”

  “Okay, I believe you. That’s not why you’re Jewish, though,” he says. “You’re Jewish because my grandmother was part Jewish. She was an orphan, but the orphanage told her she came to them from Mongolia or Russia, so it’s very likely she was part Jewish. She didn’t look Chinese. There were some Russian Jews who lived in the alley, too, and one time I heard her speaking to them in a language I didn’t recognize. So how would she know how to speak that language unless she had learned it as a child?”

  “She never told you anything?”

  “No, she never said anything about her childhood. She didn’t even tell me she was an orphan. I learned those things about her much later on.”

  “So she actually looked Russian? She looked white? Didn’t you think that was weird?”

  “Everyone just knew she was a little different, but we were her grandchildren. That’s why I look the way I look. Different.”

  He asks a waitress for another beer.

  “Here, eat more of this, since I’m not going to eat all of it.” I spoon the spiced tripe he ordered onto his plate.

  “Okay, okay. That’s enough. I don’t feel good when I eat too much. Not like you and your mother. So how’s your mother these days?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Do you have a picture of your grandma I can look at?”

  “Somewhere, I’ll look for it . . . There’s one somewhere.”

  Adorable, fat orange cat in the alley, rolling on her back, exposing her belly to me. I kneel down to pet her head. My hand comes back covered in filth. I wipe it on my jeans.

  “Ah, what are you doing? Don’t be a bonehead,” my dad scolds. He takes a packet of wet wipes out of his backpack. “Here. Wipe your hand with this. These cats are cute, but that’s the trouble. You never know what diseases they’re carrying.”

  J sends a second email: How’s it going? How’s your dad? Tell him I say hi. The pets miss you. I miss you.

  This might be the longest we’ve gone without talking since the day we got together, though it’s only been a few days. I write back: Have you cleaned the litter box? Do they have enough water? Are they eating normally? Has the dog chewed anything up? Can you send pictures of them so I can know that they’re OK?

  On September 20, 1904, a couple of days after Lee Toy’s arrest, the Associated Press reports that the U.S. Secret Service found and arrested Hippolytus in St. Louis and brought him back to San Francisco to face trial.

  The San Francisco Call mentions the same, though the paper adds that Hippolytus was dismissed from his job in the Chinese Bureau “because he fell in love with one of the stenographers and neglected his duties.” Which is fine, considering this would have been after Yamei Kin had left him (though they were still, technically, married).

  What is not fine is that Hippolytus, too, denied bringing the Chinese women over for prostitution. He said he knew nothing about the charges against him, except from what he had read in the paper.

  And with the papers he had one major complaint:

  Da Silva was very indignant because of the published statement that he was of mixed Chinese and Portuguese blood.

  “I was born in China,” he added, “but I am a full blooded Spaniard.”

  Spanish Interpreter Antonio de la Torre Jr. of the Immigration Bureau says that Da Silva does not speak good Spanish.

  During this time, Yamei Kin traveled to upstate New York to enroll her adolescent son in St. John’s Military School in Manlius, east of Syracuse. Her appearance there, as “a lady of remarkable literary attainments,” was noteworthy enough for a write-up in their local paper, though they also refer to her in the headline as a “chink doctor.” She booked lectures. She made plans for her career. She was becoming increasingly popular with women’s clubs across the country. News circulated of her anticipated attendance as the sole Asian representative at an international peace conference in Boston. Whatever concern she may have had for her former husband, she expressed none. It seemed they had no attachments and were now simply two lives on far-diverging paths.

  The TV or movie crew is back again. Again, I wake up and watch, though there is little action. Small specks of movement, lights on and off, a shout or two. I squint and think I can make out the cameras pointed at two people talking to one another on the overpass. Maybe they are staring off into the distance at the tall bright buildings lining both sides of the street, or maybe they are looking at each other. It could be a romance in the romantic city, since most TV shows and stories involve elements of romance, Chinese or American or otherwise, and the two characters are talking about their relationship, some struggle they are going through, which requires them to take a walk together outside of their home, or perhaps they are newly in love, having one of their first dates, or it could be that th
ey are near the end, and this is their last encounter before they say a painful goodbye. It’s possible one of them has fallen out of love, that one of them does not love the other as much as they are loved, that the love is too painful to carry on. It’s possible they will decide to work on their relationship and it is not the end, but something in the middle, something to look back on and say, Those were our difficult days. They will laugh. What a funny time that was, they’ll say, even if, right now, as they stand beside one another on the overpass, they don’t find it funny at all. I watch them until the crew shuts it all down and leaves.

  I haven’t gotten used to sleeping here. Where I would expect a thick mattress, there is a board of plywood topped with a couple of blankets. I sleep on my side and my shoulders ache and crack as I move. The night noises disturb. Each time my dad coughs in the other room, I jolt awake and worry.

  “Your father’s grandmother doesn’t look white. I’ve seen the photo. She is Chinese. If anyone looks white, it’s your great-grandmother on my dad’s side. She has huge eyes. Deep in the face and very straight nose,” my mom says when I FaceTime her from the coffee shop.

  “Why does everyone want to be white?”

  “What? I don’t want to be white! I just said your great-grandmother looks white. White people are selfish. Their parents are always telling them, ‘Love yourself first.’ What about love your family first? How’s your father?”

  “Good.”

  “Just good? How does he look?”

  “Skinny.”

  “That’s all you say? Why? You’re tired?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Geez, being around your father is that tiring, huh? All that negativity.”

  “No.”

  “Tell him you need to rest. Take a break. Can’t run around all day. Australia is so nice, sunny and warm. I feel like I can really relax.”

  In China, my deskmate’s mother pulled at my shirtsleeve. “Give my son more room,” she said. “Mama! Stop!” he cried. The parents pressed up against the windows, their hands reaching in to pet hair, wipe dirt off faces, pull sleeves of competing children. What kind of day was this? All I can remember is the oppressiveness of those parents, how they would squash us all with their need and desire. My mother hadn’t bothered to come. “These Chinese parents are crazy,” she’d said. It was the same at judo practice. Jump higher!, the instructor yelled. Parents’ faces crowded the door’s small opening. When class ended, they bulldozed in. I pushed my way against them to find my mother waiting outside, distanced from the rest. Her Americanness had made her wary of the smothering. Was it Americanness, though? Or something else? Of no longer being a part of, but apart.