by Alan Chin
Chew-Gen’s induction into the family increased his desire to accumulate treasure—porcelain, books, fancy silk clothing, gold fillings from corpses’ mouths, swords and rifles and coats from dead soldiers—anything that would help get him to America.
During those times, he found he could be happy, clinging to his new wife during the long, cold days and planning how they would live once they reached the golden shores. The voice became more insistent, issuing short, terse commands, prompting him to go out and find food, to provide for his family, to store up more treasures. It was that driving voice that gave him the courage to sneak up behind a soldier one night and cut his throat in order to steal food.
“I murdered a man,” Grandfather Lin said, as simply as he might have said, “It was a cold night.”
Still the voice urged him on, ordering him to steal, and the resonant beauty of it was irresistible. Soon the cave began to fill with everything except food.
Connor had heard all this before, and he looked bored at hearing it again, but he was not prepared for what followed, the never-told conclusion of his Grandfather’s story.
“When Chew-Gen’s morning sickness began, it threw me into a panic. How could she possibly grow a child with her empty stomach? I redoubled my resolve to find food, but the effort brought little results. That’s when I realized the sacrifice that must be made for the baby, for my dream for the family. For the baby to live, the grandparents must become the nourishment to grow the baby. With all of us on the verge of death, it was the only way to continue the family, the only way to fulfill the dream. The old ones were in so much pain, I thought, it will be a kindness to end their suffering.
“I sharpened a bayonet that I had filched from a dead soldier, but in the end I was not capable of enacting such horror on the people who gave me life, who had cared for and nurtured me. I doubled my efforts to find food, but in the end, it was clear there simply was no food.
“My courage had melted away, but my parents also knew that their deaths would ensure the family’s survival. They welcomed this sacrifice. One morning, when I again returned without food, my mother raised my bayonet. The blade had the bluish tinge of cold steel. Before I could stop her, she placed the blade to her neck and cut her carotid artery. She didn’t scream, there wasn’t even much blood, only the hoarse, choking sobs of someone too weak to react.
“My wife and I drank blood, ate flesh, and our bodies grew stronger. My father refused to eat. I buried her bones in the silt beside the river. Later, I experienced the same ordeal with my father.
“After the Japanese were driven from the land and Chew-Gen and I moved back to the town, to my father’s house, the voice never left my heart. Even as the emotional horror and physical hunger faded, I could not escape the voice, telling me to move my family to America.”
Grandfather Lin paused for a few heartbeats, looking into Connor’s eyes as if asking for forgiveness. He told of how it took all their stored up treasures to come to this country, and how he and his wife sacrificed everything, worked two jobs each so that their children could get ahead and enjoy the benefits of all these opportunities.
“But I had my dream in my heart, and I would let nothing, not even the love for my parents, keep me from achieving my dreams. That is what I want for you, to follow your dream. You have always said you wanted to be a doctor, and I have always supported you on that. And why? Not just because doctors follow a different set of ethics that transcend politics, war, and religion and devote themselves to a life of compassion and human decency, but also because that was the dream in your heart. What could be better?”
Connor dropped his head, could no longer look his grandfather in the eye. But I could tell that Connor was still not convinced. He was holding on to his tennis dream.
“Let me ask something,” the old man said. “Do you really like this person you’ve become? This person who wears black sequined shirts and laps up the applause? This person who uses all the people around him in order to be a star? Do you like this person? Are these changes you’ve gone through worth the money and fame?”
Connor suddenly looked as if he had been hit between the eyes with a sledgehammer.
All Connor’s jealous tantrums sprang to my mind, the drunken binge, getting knocked on his ass, the times he had abandoned Spencer, his back-talking to his father. I felt suddenly embarrassed for him, as well as something remotely like pity, because I think he was remembering those incidents too.
“Connor, I did not come here to watch you play tennis. I’m taking your grandmother back to China to live out our last days in the land that gave us birth, the place where the bones of our ancestors rest, and where our bones will rest too. So this is my last chance to bequeath something to you. If tennis is your dream, I’m happy for you.
“But if you’re going down this path simply to keep from disappointing your father, I say that you must follow your own heart. He’s a man, and he will get over it. I have never regretted what happened in that cave. I have followed my heart all these years, and I can tell you that it’s the only thing that brings lasting happiness. You must do the same. If medicine is what’s in your heart, money and fame are nothing more than a finger-snap. Look deep into your heart, then decide what your life will be. Will you do this for an old man who is going home to die?”
Connor wiped a tear from his eye. His face grew softer, as if letting go of all its apprehension at once. He took the old man into his arms and gave him a long, loving hug.
I suddenly thought about my own father and how I had harshly judged him over the years, and I wondered how many secrets he had hid from me.
“Grandfather, it is too late. I’ve already signed the contracts. I’m legally committed to play pro tennis for the next seven years.”
“It is never too late to do the right thing,” the old man whispered. “While I lived in my cave, I became adept at sneaking out at night to steal other people’s treasure.” He winked, pulling a set of papers from his inside coat pocket: Connor’s Adidas contract. “Harman was planning to give these to your sponsors on Sunday, but he misplaced them.” Grandfather Lin’s face split in half with a wily smile that showed his pearly dentures.
Connor took the contracts and held them close to his chest as if they were precious to him. “What about Dad? It will break his heart.”
“Leave him to me,” the old man said with a confident grin.
Connor ripped the contracts in half, and again, and again, until they were shreds. He threw the pieces into the air to let them float to the ground like confetti. He gently took the old man in his arms again as the shreds of contract fell about their heads and shoulders. “Thank you, Grandpa. I’ll be a damned fine doctor, I promise.”
Chapter 33
IT WAS cold that morning. The mist was clammy and pricked my skin. Beneath the press of gray sky, I rolled myself onto court central in the heart of Roland Garros to study the sky while wondering if the rain would hold off long enough for my boys to play their final match.
The stadium stood empty of fans, but the caretakers had been there since before dawn, half hidden in the mist, preparing. I heard an occasional shout and the incongruous clapping of plastic seats being lowered and wiped. The workmen had that air of efficient superiority derived from the common experience of knowing the inner workings of something totally mysterious to ordinary mortals, like stage hands who know precisely which levers to pull to make the magician disappear.
Sharing that empty stadium with them on that particular Sunday morning, I was very tempted to scream, to let go with a triumphant shriek and listen to the echo ricochet off the green plastic seats.
Jared and Connor followed me onto the court to perform their half-hour warm-up before match time. They kept their warm-up jackets and sweatpants on. I was bundled up but still felt the chill. They stood at opposite sides of the net at the service line and warmed up like we had done a hundred times. It was most likely the first time in the history of Grand Slam tennis that two p
layers facing each other in the final actually warmed each other up before the match.
They took their time working their way back to the baseline, as if they didn’t want to rush even a second of this experience. Connor had decided to retire after this match. This would be his only appearance in a Grand Slam final, and who knew what fate had in store for Jared? We all savored the moment. Whatever nervous energy they were feeling burned off in the first few strikes of the ball. They both became relaxed, moving well and swinging with broad, clean strokes.
A quiet joy came over me, and, as if somehow linked to the feelings churning in my gut, the heavens opened and sunlight spilled onto the court. Warmth radiated over us, and in minutes, our jackets came off and I knew it was going to be a beautiful day.
I had gone over the different game plans with both my players, and I knew they were each eager to jump out to an early lead and dominate the other. Jared felt his heavy serve and pounding groundstrokes would give him the edge. Connor hoped that his foot speed and ability to keep the ball in play would frustrate Jared and allow him to take charge.
I knew the deciding factor would be each player’s resolve. At the business end of the match, one player would crack and the other would hold his nerve, proving who was the undisputed champion of clay court tennis for this moment in time. It would pivot toward the mentally stronger player, whoever had more heart.
At the end of the workout, both my boys had smiles on their sweat-streaked faces. They trotted over to me, and before they put away their gear, Connor said something utterly unexpected. “If it looks like the match is going my way, I’m going to back off and let Jared win.”
Silence hung in the air as Jared and I stared at him.
“Even the runner-up prize money will more than pay for medical school,” he continued quickly, with a sudden, nervous edge to his voice. “So I don’t need to win, but if Jared wins, he’s set for life. He’ll never be denied entry into any ATP event for as long as he wants to keep playing.”
Jared’s face turned a scalded red. “Don’t you even think about cheating me out this fight, you hear me? If you don’t give me your best game, I’m coming across that net and kicking your skinny ass all the way back to San Francisco. You think I’ve fought this hard to not play a real final? Fuck you! I don’t give a fuck what you do with your life tomorrow; today, I want your best game. I demand it. I deserve it, you deserve it, and so do the fans.”
Jared did not wait for an answer. He stuffed his racket into his bag, flung the bag over his shoulder, and stomped off toward the player’s lounge.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you were only trying to help us.”
“No, he’s right. He understands what it’s about, and he’s not willing to compromise.”
“Meaning?”
“It doesn’t matter who wins. What matters is that you find out what you’re capable of. You want your opponent to play his absolute best, to put as many obstacles in your way as possible, so that you push yourself beyond what you’re capable of, and vise-versa. You push each other into that zone where you’re playing out of your head and you see how high you can fly. This”—he waved his arms around the stadium—“is only a stage to add more pressure, and that pushes you to fly even higher.”
Yes, I thought. He was right. You push each other toward perfection so that you both break through your known limits. And no matter who wins, you step to the net, shake hands, and congratulate the other on a game well played.
A light illuminated in my head. It’s true, competition is a cooperative effort to drive each other beyond boundaries. That, I realized for the first time, is the only meaningful goal. Images began to flash in my mind: Diefenbach with his condescending double smirk, Roy Lin with his gruff frown, Jared’s leaving me in San Francisco, McEwan’s boastful taunts, Shar’s angry leer, and the shooter’s cold red eyes. They had all provoked me into new territory.
I suddenly felt something near gratitude.
I WAITED in the players’ lounge, just outside the changing rooms.
Connor was the first to emerge, and for the first time since Indian Wells, he wore the shirt his grandmother had made for him, the powder blue with the embroidered dragon on the back. I smiled. “Blue is definitely your color. That black sequin number really wasn’t very flattering.”
Before Connor walked to the waiting area, he gave me a long hug. As he pulled away, I slipped something from my pocket and held it out to him: the dark green pendant that Grandfather Lin had given me back in San Francisco.
“Your grandfather asked me to give this to you, for luck. It came from China.”
He took the pendant and held it close to his face as if it were priceless. “You know I love you.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know. Now, you’ve been playing in Jared’s shadow for six months, and this may be your only chance to step into the limelight, so go out there and make us proud.”
His smile was fragile and boyish. He spun around and walked down the hall to the waiting area. The dragon embroidered on the back of his shirt shifted from side to side, as if it were pacing back and forth.
Jared strolled over, set down his bag, and lifted me out of my chair. He held me suspended in his arms, and that eased my anxiety. I noticed with a shock that his face was clean. For the first time since coming to Europe, he would play without his war paint. I stroked his cheek, knowing he didn’t need it anymore but a little sorry to see it go.
“I’m about to go out there and play my heart out for the next four or five hours, all to justify my existence. And you know something funny? All these years of work and hardship, I’ve been petrified of losing, but at this moment, I think I’m more terrified of winning.”
I knew who would win this match, but I didn’t need to tell him. I knew because in my mind, I had already witnessed the entire match played out, point by point, until the end, when the winner raised his racket in sweet glory. I was sure Jared had seen it too, experienced it with me as I was seeing it. How else could he be so relaxed? Where did this power come from, to see every point before the first ball is struck and to know that what you’re seeing is true, is truth itself?
“Win or lose, doesn’t matter,” I said. “This match is not about tennis, it’s about heart. Now go out there and show me what you’ve got.”
He gave me a sensual kiss, pressed his forehead to mine. I was sure he was going to tell me he loved me, and I didn’t want him to. He had already shown me in so many ways, telling me would be anticlimactic.
Instead, he smiled. “That reminds me,” he said. He sat me back in my chair and pulled an envelope from his bag. “While we’ve been in Paris, I had Harman go back to Spain to buy this for you. Once we signed with Nike, I knew we could afford something special, so don’t worry about the cost. It’s a little something for our future.”
He handed me the envelope. “Hope you like it.” He pulled his bag over his shoulder and walked down to the staging area to wait for the announcement. I watched him glide away, more proud of him and more in love than at any other moment.
When Jared turned the corner and stepped out of my sight, I opened the envelope and pulled out two cream-colored sheets of paper: the bill of sale and the deed to the Villa Baraka. For just an instant, I thought I could smell the wind coming off the Mediterranean. I remembered the feel of swimming in the cool surf and making love on the beach, and I smiled.
SPENCER pushed my chair as fast as he could up the ramp and out into the stadium. Bruno lifted me from my chair and carried me down the steps to the coach’s box. There, on the end, was Roy, and beside him sat Grandfather and Grandmother Lin.
Bruno and I stopped next to Roy, who had his camera held in front of his face and was already snapping pictures like a madman. Pride poured off him like a fine rain. I felt happy for him. He deserved his pride. I shook his hand and told him, “Thank you.” He returned a puzzled stare, but I smiled to myself without bothering to explain. Bruno sat me beside Grandfather Lin and moved beh
ind me to shield me from the crowd.
The old man’s eyes were wet as he shook my hand. “You know who’s going to win this match?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I know too. No matter what happens out there”—he pointed to the red court with its pristine white lines and black net—“you have won, because you care about the things that really matter.”
I wanted to thank him for sharing his cave story with me. I confess I didn’t know how he could live so peacefully with that monstrous thing weighing on his conscience.
As if he had heard my thoughts, he said, “Everyone weaves a unique tapestry, using threads of happiness and sorrow, honor and shame, to create a multi-colored landscape that is our past. The secret is knowing that the tapestry is a mirage. It doesn’t really exist. There is only now and what is to come. It is life’s mystery—and its blessing.”
I twisted my head around to glance at Karl Diefenbach, who sat slouched in his seat in the row above me and two seats to my left. I felt a slight pang, something akin to pity. We had beaten him in every way possible, in ways he was not yet aware of, and I knew very well what would plague him the most: he was pushing sixty, and over the next thirty years, he would grow into a bitter old age, then lie rotting in a mahogany box. Time would reduce him to calcium dust and a few gold fillings, and he would fade from human memory.
I shared the same fate, of course, but not Jared and Connor. Long after Diefenbach and I were forgotten, Jared and Connor would live on in archives, in books; their recorded images and voices would be stored among the precious and venerated objects of our time and our sport.
Yes, he had played a good game, stretched me to my limits, but today at least, I had won. One of my boys would be crowned champion and be accepted into the game’s elite. It was a sweet victory indeed.