by Alan Chin
Grandmother Lin shouted something in Cantonese, and Roy replied, “No, not at Hu Wong’s. I bought it on Clement Street, the kind with the spicy black bean sauce.”
Roy led the stranger to me and introduced the sun-lamped and greased-back-haired Caucasian as J.D. Lambert. He wore a pale blue rayon suit with wide lapels and the collar of his white shirt opened at the neck. He smelled of cigars and Old Spice cologne. His shoes sported elevated heels that lifted his height to about my shoulder blades. All he needed was sideburns and dark glasses to resemble an Elvis impersonator. I envisioned him in pegged jeans and a guitar slung over his shoulder, and I had to suppress a smile.
I stood and shook his hand while holding my bowl of soup in my left hand. It became clear to me that he expected recognition, and I would have loved to oblige him, but I didn’t have a clue who he could be. There was something familiar, however, about his deadpan eyes, about the way his lacy lids furled down at the corners.
“And this is Connor,” Roy said, dragging Connor over to meet Mr. Lambert. “Connor, Mr. Lambert is our new agent. He’s going to negotiate our contracts and manage our publicity.”
Connor and I gawked at each other. My soup had cooled, so I set it on the table next to my chair.
“An impressive win today,” J.D. Lambert said. His face grew animated as he ran his hand through his glossy pompadour. “Congratulations. I wasn’t there, but Roy gave me a blow by blow. That win will get me in the door of any equipment manufacturer. You use Babolat rackets, right? No problem. You’ll never have to pay for rackets again. Of course for the big money clothing contracts, Nike or Adidas, we’ll need an ATP ranking, and it takes three tournament results before the ATP issues a ranking. That’s no problem. There are two tournaments in southern California next month. That means I’ll start negotiating a clothing deal before we head to Australia in January.”
Roy beamed as Connor glared at me with a question etched on his face.
“Australia?” I said, looking Mr. Lambert in the eye. “We’re not going to Australia. Not next year, anyway.”
“But if Connor qualifies for the Aussie slam, why not? Even if he loses in the first round, he’ll get American television coverage, which translates into mucho cashola when I close the clothing deal. And if he wins a round or two, we’ll be livin’ on Easy Street.”
“Look, Mr. Lambert. We already have a game plan. We’ll keep improving his game through the winter, play the challenger tournaments in Long Beach and San Diego, then try to qualify for San Jose in February and Indian Wells in March. We’ll go up against the big boys in those two tournaments, and if we do well, we’ll shoot for the Sony Ericsson Open in Florida. That way, we hit all the winter American tournaments without Roy shelling out much money for traveling expenses.” Jared loomed in the back of my mind. I doubted he would go to Australia. The pain of being there without playing would devastate him, and I didn’t want to leave him alone for a month.
J.D. Lambert turned on Roy. “That’s a costly mistake. Australia is a golden, and I mean golden, opportunity.”
Agents are the same the world over, I thought. Only their accents and their sports differ. In the last twenty years, they have become well dressed and professional. Most work for corporations and have become slick, savvy, suave. I couldn’t help but wonder how good this little man dressed in Elvis garb could be. But I had to admit that the business end of this partnership was none of my concern. My job was to mold a champion.
Roy nodded his agreement, but before he could voice an objection, I said, “Mr. Lambert, we’re here to develop Connor’s career, not jump after a quick buck.”
“Those tournaments you mentioned don’t get the same television coverage or the national interest. They mean nothing in terms of negotiating a deal.”
“If we do well in California and hopefully qualify for the Sony Ericsson,” I continued, “we’ll play the European clay court season. That should give us a shot at qualifying for the French Slam. I’m sure you can wait four months to become a permanent resident on Easy Street.”
J.D. Lambert scowled at Roy.
Roy said, “Gentlemen, we all want Connor to succeed, and we all want to make a little money along the way. Mr. Bottega, don’t you agree that the sooner we cut a clothing deal, the sooner we can pay you the lucrative salary of a pro coach?”
“I’ve lived on limited funds all my life. I can wait for Connor’s game to mature.”
“Well, I have debts!” Roy’s voice grew harsh, and his face flushed. “I say we play Australia.”
The room hushed except for Roy’s labored breathing.
“You’ll go without me,” I said.
“I coached Connor before you, and I can do it again.”
Grandfather Lin shuffled up and stood between Roy and myself. Stooped shoulders, thin gray hair, large gentle eyes, he reminded me of Yoda. He spoke in a soft voice. “The heart of this issue is Connor’s career. Will money improve the boy’s abilities? If Connor needs time, he should have it. Gambling debts have no bearing on this matter.”
Grandfather Lin clutched my hand. “In China the elderly are respected, but not so in America. My voice is seldom heard. But please know that I am grateful you put the boy’s needs before your own. I respect this.”
Roy pulled a pack of Tums from his breast pocket, popped two into his mouth, and bit hard. I heard the crunch clearly, like snapping bones. Again, I felt his growing animosity. But to my surprise, he backed down and made a tactful retreat, turning away from me and leading J.D. to the table to load up their dinner plates.
Connor’s grandmother emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of steamed dumplings. She crowed something in Cantonese, and everyone dug into their food, shoving forkfuls of noodles into their mouths and chewing with bulging cheeks. Everyone ate except Connor and Shar, who sat on the couch in front of the front window, whispering and giggling.
I assumed they were passing remarks about J.D. Lambert, so I strolled toward them to get Connor’s take on these new developments. As I came within earshot, I heard Connor say, “I’m starving. Let’s eat now.” There was a grating whine to his voice that I’d not heard before.
“Darling, remember what I said before the party?” she responded.
“Fine, let’s go. My sugar level is freefalling.”
“Behave yourself, darling. We’ll go in twenty minutes.” Her voice was a whisper, but it had a governess’s edge to it, as if he risked a spanking if he didn’t take heed.
“Don’t you love me?” he asked her, somewhat playfully. At least I’d hoped it was playful.
“Nobody loves a pain in the ass. Go munch on a wonton, for Christ’s sakes, and when I’m damned good and ready, we’ll go eat wherever you want.”
An unusual blush colored his cheeks as he jumped up and made a beeline to the dinner table.
As I strolled up, I couldn’t stop myself from saying: “You didn’t answer his question. Do you love him?”
She winked at me, but it was humorless, more like a warning signal.
Grandfather Lin gripped my arm and led me toward the dining table, saying, “My wife says everybody must eat so that we can play mah-jongg. Do you play?”
“Yes, sir. My mother taught me years ago.”
“Good. You play at my table so we can talk more. Now you eat. Have some crab.”
I glanced at the mass of curved claws and twisted legs, covered in brown sauce. I was tempted, but it would be very messy eating with my fingers. I filled a plate with steamed dumplings and chow mein instead.
I sat in the easy chair, watching everybody take a second helping and some a third. By the time I finished my first helping, the ladies had finished pecking at the last morsels on their plates and begun carrying dishes to the kitchen. The children unfolded three card tables and twelve chairs, arranging them in a row across the living room.
Mr. Lin waved me over to the first table. “Come, sit across from me.”
I stood waiting by the card table as Conn
or, Shar, Spencer, and Uncle Harman gathered at the front door.
“We’re going dancing,” Connor said. “Mr. Bottega, are you sure you won’t come? I guarantee it’s more fun than mah-jongg.”
Connor’s arm hugged Shar’s waist, not letting her get even an inch away. Spencer stood close to Harman, his face glowing shyly. As a foursome, they struck a harmonious cord. I would be an awkward addition, I thought, rather like a trombone player joining a string quartet. “I’ve had plenty of fun today. I think I’ll play a game or two before I head home.”
Grandfather Lin trundled up to Connor. “You hardly ate anything,” he said. “Have some noodles. Have some crab.”
“We’ll grab a pizza on the way to the club. I’m tired of Chinese food.”
Grandfather Lin tilted his head to one side. “Tired of Chinese food?” A shameful tone resonated in the old man’s voice, as if the family had let Connor down by not having a better feast. I could feel his shame from twenty feet away. Connor must have felt it too, because he glanced down, then turn toward the door. The issue, I was sure, had to do with Shar not liking Chinese food.
As they dashed out, J.D. Lambert meandered over and held out his hand. “Pleased to have met you, Mr. Bottega. I’d like to drop by your office tomorrow so we can talk more, just the two of us. I want to ensure we’re both playing from the same game plan.”
I shook his hand, which was clammy with perspiration. “Come at noon and I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Great. See you at noon sharp.”
Mr. Lin escorted J.D. Lambert to the door and returned to the card table nearest the fireplace. As I sat, I could feel the pictures hanging over the mantle, as if the great-grandparents were glaring over my shoulders, waiting to see if I could hold my own in this ancient game of strategy.
Grandfather Lin poured me a tiny glass full of a clear liquid. “Drink this. It’s Chinese wine.”
I had never heard of Chinese wine. I sipped the fiery drink and shuddered.
“You like?” he said, smiling.
I nodded helplessly.
He drained his glass. “Like Japanese sake.”
Sake? More like ammonia. Two more sips and it tasted better, enough so that I polished it off with one swallow. Grandfather Lin moved to refill my glass, but I placed my fingers over the rim.
His nod seemed unconvinced, and when I pulled my hand away and glanced about the room, my glass mysteriously became full again.
Kitty sat to my right and spilled mah-jongg tiles onto the tabletop from a black box. We all reached forward and flipped the tiles so that they all faced down and swirled them around the table with the palms of our hands to mix them up.
Grandmother Lin sat to my left, completing the foursome. The other tables filled with adults while the grandkids migrated to a bedroom to watch television.
As we stacked tiles to build four walls, I asked Grandfather Lin if he was given his name of Lincoln before coming to America.
“The America immigration people made me take a western name. They said no one could pronounce my Chinese name. I didn’t know any western names, so I asked the man, ‘Who was the greatest American leader?’ He told me Abraham Lincoln. I could not pronounce Abraham, so I chose Lincoln as my name.”
Kitty rolled the dice to determine the playing sequence. She started first, which meant I was last. She threw the dice again, lifting a tile from the right numbered spot on the wall. I arranged my tiles by the sequences of colored balls and bamboo sticks.
Grandmother Lin and Kitty exchanged small talk in Cantonese mixed with broken English. I had no idea what they were saying, but it seemed like they were not listening to one another. Both were intent on arranging their tiles.
“What year did you come to America, Mr. Lin?” I asked while waiting my turn.
He sorted his tiles, considered each one carefully. He did not answer my question, and he did not play his turn until he had arranged his hand to his satisfaction. He threw the dice and took his tile at a comfortable pace. He said, “1946. I took a cargo ship to Honolulu and then to San Francisco, one year after the war.”
“Did you come to America to escape the Communists?”
He studied his tiles.
“Tell him,” Kitty said. “Tell your story, Grandfather.”
He continued to scrutinize his tiles, but he said, “In China, I lived with my family in Shaoguan. I was fourteen years old, too young for the army. My father was a doctor, but I fished the river. I used birds with ropes tied around their necks to catch fish. Those birds were my pride, and being on the river was my joy. All around the curving river were jagged peaks, and green moss covered the shoreline. So beautiful. So peaceful.
“The Kuomintang came and told us the town was no longer safe. We knew then that the Japanese were winning. People from all over Canton came pouring through Shaoguan ahead of the Japanese army. Peasants and bankers, storeowners and rickshaw pullers, they were all refugees carrying whatever treasures they had. Some carried boxes of gold coins, some carried babies. They were all trudging to Chungking.
“When they went, the people of Shaoguan went with them. They took everything they could carry: money, clothing, livestock, heirlooms.”
I rolled the dice and picked up a flower tile, but it didn’t match anything I had. I sipped more wine. My mind drifted away from the game. The old man’s story held my interest.
“Bombers tore apart the town. I packed my birds and all our food and took my family to a secret cave in the hills. There were other families in other caves, but we had a cave to ourselves. The echo of bombs stopped, and we knew that the Japanese troops would come.
“We hid like animals until we forgot what the sun looked like. Our food depleted, so every night I went out searching for food. I found bodies everywhere, in the fields, the streets, the burnt-out houses. They smelled like rotting fish. The Japanese slaughtered so many people, and no one buried the dead. The birds and town dogs fed on the bodies. Terrible! Terrible! I would lay down and play dead so the dogs would come to eat me, and I grabbed them instead. But soon there were no more dogs or birds to feed on.
“I found other things too, things that people left behind: fancy silk clothes, jade pendants, gold rings, porcelain bowls. I hauled them back to the cave. Then one day I found the most precious thing of all. I found my Chew-Gen, wandering alone through the outskirts of town. I took her to the cave and made her my wife.”
He paused for a moment, smiling.
“We lived in that cave for over a year. I fished with my birds for food and hunted for treasure at night. My parents both died in that cave. I buried them in the silt by the river.
“After the war, I had a whole cave full of treasure. Chew-Gen told me she was having a baby, and we both want to have our baby in America so that he will be a citizen of the gum san, the Golden Mountain. So I sold all my treasures to get enough money. We arrived in San Francisco just in time. We were still in the Angel Island Immigration Station when Harvey was born. I bought a sewing factory in Chinatown with the leftover money. The cave was a horrifying time, but from it grew my greatest joys.”
“Aii-ya,” Grandmother Lin said as she picked up a tile. “Pung!” and “Mah-jongg.” She spread her tiles out with a satisfied laugh. We counted the points and began again. The more wine I sipped, the better I played, or so I thought, although Grandmother Lin seemed to win every game.
Grandfather Lin’s cave story haunted me on the drive home. I kept wondering if I had the courage to endure such hardship, and at the same time, I felt grateful for my comfortable life.
AT HOME, I walked into a darkened living room. A shadow ran across the floor toward me, and Mr. Toa brushed my leg. I switched on the lights and found Jared stretched out on the sofa, naked and snoring softly. A half-empty bottle of Haig and Haig Scotch Whiskey sat on the coffee table beside the sofa.
I felt the urge to walk back out of the apartment, but I had nowhere else to go. No secret caves burrow under Russian Hill.
Chapter 10
I WOKE in the night to the sound of Jared fumbling about the apartment. I lay motionless, listening: the toilet flushed, the bathroom faucet ran, the refrigerator door opened, the cork popped. I wondered how many hours and how many drinks before he returned to bed. I slipped from the covers and tiptoed to the bathroom to pee without letting him know.
Back in bed, I lay sleepless. Light from street lamps filtered through the blinds, giving the room a silvery glow. I waited. After endless hours, he stumbled into the bedroom. In the dim light, he looked like a ghost. He fixed me with a cold stare, not bothering to speak. He looked away, turned to walk out.
“Come to bed,” I whispered.
“Can’t sleep.” He slurred the last word.
“Hold me.”
“My life is whooshing down the toilet. Everything sucks. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Please, Jared. Please hold me.”
I felt him climb onto the end of the bed and crawl on all fours until he slipped under the cool sheets. He draped an arm over me. It felt heavy and warm on my chest. I turned to face him, into his boozy breath, and I stroked his cheek with the back of my fingers. He forced his eyelids shut and said, “Go to sleep,” as if he couldn’t stand to have me look at him.
I had lost him again. The world had killed him, even though his heart pumped and his lungs drew air. I felt so alone. I’ve read that couples need time away from each other, that no matter how deeply in love, they crave time alone and they are jealous of that in each other, but I have never once felt that way.
I have all too often experienced that gut-empty aloneness when he held me, though. We both did. During the day we were alone against the rest of the world, them against us. I didn’t mind that he and I stood united against the many, but this other aloneness, the terrible kind that happened at night, with him touching me and yet not there at all, made me feel as if my guts were being yanked out one yard at a time.