Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

by Jamie Ford

  "Dad, I'm engaged."

  "To a girl?"

  Henry asked the question in all seriousness. Marty laughed. "Of course to a girl."

  "And you're scared to tell me this?" Henry searched his son for some meaning in

  his face, his eyes, in his body language. "She's pregnant." Henry said it as more of a statement than a question. The way you'd say "We surrender" or "We lost in overtime."

  "Dad! No. Nothing like that."

  "Then why are we talking out here ..."

  "Because she's inside, Pops. I want you to meet her."

  Henry lit up. Sure, he was hiding a pang of hurt that this mystery girl had been kept a secret, but his son was busy, he was sure Marty had a reason.

  "It's just that, well, I know how crazy your own folks were. I mean, they weren't just Chinese, they were super-Chinese, if you know what I mean. They were like ice cubes in America's melting pot, you know-- they had one way of seeing things." Marty struggled for the words. "And you know, you married Mom and did the whole traditional wedding thing. And you sent me to Chinese school, like your own old man did-- and you always talk about me finding a nice Chinese girl to settle down with, like Mom."

  There was a pause, a moment of silence. Henry watched his son, waiting for him to continue. Nothing stirred but the shadows cast on the steps as the fir trees swayed in the slight breeze.

  "I'm not like Yay Yay--not like your grandfather," Henry said, as he realized where this was going, stunned to be categorized in the same breath as his own father. He loved his father, deep down, what son doesn't? He'd only wanted the best for him. But after all Henry had gone through, all he'd seen and done, had he changed that little? Was he so much like his own father? He heard a click as the door opened behind them. A young woman poked her head out, then stepped out smiling. She had long blond hair, and cool blue eyes--the kind Henry called Irish eyes.

  "You must be Marty's father! I can't believe you've been out here this whole time.

  Marty, why didn't you say something?" Henry smiled and watched her look in surprise at his son, who looked nervous, as if caught doing something wrong.

  Henry offered his hand to his future daughter-in-law.

  She shone like a light. "I'm Samantha, I've been dying to meet you." She stepped past his hand and threw her arms around him. Henry patted her, trying to breathe, then gave in and hugged her back. Looking over her shoulder--smiling--Henry gave Marty a thumbs-up.

  Urne

  (1986)

  In the backyard, Henry put on garden gloves and pruned dead limbs off an old plum tree--dotted with small green fruit used in Chinese wine.

  The tree was as old as his son.

  Marty and his fiancee sat on the back steps and watched while sipping iced green tea with ginger. Henry had tried making iced tea with Darjeeling or pekoe, but they always tasted too bitter, no matter how much sugar or honey he added.

  "Marty told me this was some sort of a surprise, I hope I didn't completely ruin it-

  -it's just that he's told me everything about you, and I've been dying to meet you."

  "Oh, not much to tell, really," Henry said politely.

  "Well, for starters, he told me that's your favorite tree," Samantha said, doing her best to fill the awkward silence between father and son, "and that you planted it when Marty was born."

  Henry continued pruning, clipping off a twig with delicate white blossoms. "It's an ume tree," he said, slowly pronouncing it "ooh-may" "Its flowers bloom even during the harshest weather--even in coldest winter."

  "Here we go ...," Marty whispered to Samantha, just loud enough for his father to hear. "Viva la revolucion ..." he joked.

  "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Henry asked, pausing from his labors.

  "No offense, Pops, it's just that--"

  Samantha interrupted. "Marty told me that tree has a special meaning for you.

  That it's a symbol of some kind."

  "It is," Henry said, touching a small, five-petaled plum blossom. "Ume flowers are used as decoration during Chinese New Year. It's also the symbol of the ancient city of Nanjing and now the national flower of all of China."

  Marty stood up partway and offered a mock salute.

  "What's that for?" Samantha asked.

  "Tell her, Pops."

  Henry kept pruning, attempting to ignore his son's jest. "The flower was also my own father's favorite." He struggled against his pruning shears before finally clipping off a large dead branch. "It's a symbol of perseverance in the face of adversity--a revolutionist symbol."

  "Your father was a revolutionary?" Samantha asked.

  "Hah!" Henry caught himself laughing at the thought. "No, no--he was a nationalist. Always scared of the communist. But he still believed in one China. The ume tree was special to him that way, understand?"

  Samantha smiled and nodded, sipping her tea. "Marty said that tree came from a branch of your father's tree--that you planted it here when he died."

  Henry looked at his son, then shook his head and clipped another branch. "His mother tell him this."

  Henry felt bad for mentioning Ethel. For bringing up such sadness on what was an otherwise happy day.

  "I'm very sorry," Samantha said. "I wish I could have met her."

  Henry just smiled solemnly and nodded, while Marty put his arm around his fiancee and kissed her on the temple.

  Samantha changed the subject. "Marty tells me you were an incredible engineer, they even let you retire early."

  Henry could see Samantha out of the corner of his eye as he tended to the tree; it was like she was checking off an imaginary list. "You're a great cook, you like to garden, and you're the best fisherman he's ever known. He told me about all the times you took him out on Lake Washington for sockeye."

  "That so ...," Henry said, looking at his son, wondering why he never said these things to him. Then he thought about the communications gaps, more like chasms really, between him and his own father and knew the answer.

  Samantha sipped her iced tea, stirring the ice cubes with her finger. "He says you love jazz music."

  Henry looked at her, intrigued. Now we're talking.

  "And not just any jazz. The roots of West Coast jazz and swing, like Floyd Standifer and Buddy Catlett--and that you're a big Dave Holden fan, and a really big fan of his father, Oscar Holden, as well."

  Henry pruned a small branch and tossed it in a white bucket. "I like her," he said to Marty, loud enough for her to hear it. "You did good."

  "I'm glad you approve, Pops. You know, you surprise me."

  Henry did his best to communicate without words. To give his son that smile, that knowing look of approval. He was certain Marty picked up every phrase of their wordless communication. After a lifetime of nods, frowns, and stoic smiles, they were both fluent in emotional shorthand. Smiling at each other as Samantha showed off her impressive knowledge of Seattle's rich prewar music history. The more Henry listened, the more he thought about going back to the Panama Hotel next week. About sifting through the basement. All those crates. All those trunks, and boxes, and suitcases. And about how much easier it would be if he had help.

  But more than that, Henry hated being compared with his own father. In Marty's eyes, the plum hadn't fallen far from the tree; if anything, it was clinging stubbornly to the branches. That's what I've taught by my example, Henry thought, realizing that having Marty help him in the basement might ease more than the physical burden.

  Henry took off his garden gloves, setting them on the porch. "The ume tree was my father's favorite, but the sapling I planted--it didn't come from him. It came from a tree in Kobe Park ..."

  "But wasn't that part of old Japantown?" Marty asked.

  Henry

  nodded.

  The night Marty was born Henry had cut an incision in the small branch of a plum tree--one of many that grew in the park--placing a toothpick in the cut and wrapping it with a small strip of fabric. He came back weeks later and took the rest of the b
ranch--new roots had grown. He planted it in the backyard. And tended to it, always.

  Henry had thought about grafting a cherry tree. But the blossoms were too beautiful--the memories too painful. But now, Ethel was gone.

  Henry's father was long since gone. Even Japantown was gone. All that remained were days filled with long, endless hours, and the plum tree he had tended to in his backyard. Grafted the night his son was born, from a Chinese tree in a Japanese garden, all those years ago.

  That tree had grown wild during the years Ethel fell ill. Henry had had less time to tend to the massive branches that had grown to fill the small confines of their backyard. But once Ethel had passed, Henry had started taking care of the tree once again, and it had begun to bear fruit.

  "What are you two doing next Thursday?" Henry asked.

  He watched them look at each other and shrug. His son's face still bore a wrinkle of confusion. "No plans," Samantha said.

  "Meet me at the tearoom of the Panama Hotel."

  Home Fires

  (1942)

  Henry burst through his front door, fifteen minutes earlier than the time he normally came home from school. He didn't care, and his parents didn't seem to mind. He needed to talk to someone. Needed to tell his parents what was going on. They'd know what to do, wouldn't they? Shouldn't they? Henry needed to do something. But what?

  What could he do? He was only twelve.

  "Mom, I need to tell you something!" he yelled, trying to catch his breath.

  "Henry, we were hoping you'd be home soon! We have guests for tea." He heard his mother in the kitchen, speaking in Cantonese.

  She came out, speaking broken English, shushing him, urging him to their modest living room. "Come, you come."

  Henry found himself indulging in a terrible fantasy. Keiko had run away; she was here, safe. Maybe her entire family had fled, just before the FBI broke down their door, leaving them to find an empty house--the window open, curtains blowing in the wind.

  He'd never met them but could picture them clearly, running down the alley, leaving the FBI agents flat-footed and confused.

  He walked around to the sitting area and felt his stomach drop, as if hitting the floor, rolling under the couch, lost somewhere.

  "You must be Henry. We've been waiting for you." An older Caucasian man in a fine tan suit sat across from Henry's father. Sitting next to the man was Chaz.

  "Sit. Sit." Henry's father motioned, speaking Chinglish.

  "Henry, I'm Charles Preston. I'm a building developer. I think you know Junior here--we call him Chaz, in our house anyway. You can call him whatever you want."

  Henry had a few choice names. In two languages even. He waved at Chaz, who smiled so sweetly Henry noticed his dimples for the first time.

  Still, he didn't understand what was going on--in his own home no less. "What ..."

  What are you doing here? He thought it, but the words were stuck somewhere in his throat as he realized why his father had worn his suit--the one he always wore to important meetings--that morning.

  "Your father and I were trying to discuss a business matter, and he indicated you'd be a perfect translator. He says you're learning English over at Rainier Elementary."

  "Hi, Henry." Chaz winked, then turned to his father. "Henry's one of the smartest kids in class. He can translate anything. Japanese too, I bet." Those last words came out like mumbled ice cubes as Chaz once again beamed at Henry. Henry could tell Chaz didn't like being there any more than he did, but he was content playing cat and mouse with Henry while innocently seated at Mr. Preston's elbow.

  "Henry, Mr. Preston owns several apartment buildings around here. He's interested in developing some property on Maynard Avenue, in Japantown," Henry's father explained in Cantonese. "Since I'm a Chong Wa board member, he needs my support, and the support of the Chinese community in the International District. He needs our support for the approval of the city council." He said it in a way--his tone, his eyes, his mannerisms--that made Henry realize this was a very big deal. Very serious, but also very enthusiastic. His father didn't get excited about too many things. Victories in China over the invading Japanese army, which were few, and Henry's scholarshipping at Rainier were the only things he'd ever talked about with such electric enthusiasm. Until now anyway.

  Henry sat on the footstool between them, feeling small and insignificant. Caught between a rock and another rock, two towering pieces of adult-shaped granite.

  "What do I need to do?" he asked in English, then in Cantonese.

  "Just translate what each of us is saying, the best you can," Mr. Preston said.

  Henry's father nodded, trying to follow the English words Chaz's father spoke slowly.

  Henry rubbed grit and soot from the corners of his eyes, wondering about Keiko and her family. He thought about those three Japanese couples lying facedown on the dirty floor of the Black Elks Club in their evening finery. Being hauled out and jailed somewhere. He stared back at Mr. Preston, a man trying to buy land out from under families who were now burning their most precious possessions to keep from being called traitors or spies.

  For the first time Henry realized where he was, standing on one side of an unseen line between himself and his father, and everything else he'd known. He couldn't recall when he'd crossed it and couldn't see an easy way back.

  He looked at Mr. Preston and Chaz, then at his father, and nodded. Go ahead, I'll translate. I'll do my best, he thought.

  "Henry, can you tell your father that I'm trying to buy the vacant lot behind the Nichibei publishing company? If we can force the Japanese newspaper out of business, will he approve us to buy that land as well?"

  Henry listened intently. Then he turned to his father, speaking in Cantonese. "He wants to buy the land behind the Japanese newspaper and the building too."

  His father evidently knew this area well, answering, "That property is owned by the Shitame family, but the head of the family was arrested weeks ago. Make an offer to the bank, and they will sell it out from under them." The words came out slowly, presumably so Henry wouldn't miss a thing in translation.

  Henry was shocked at what he was hearing. He looked around for his mother. She was nowhere to be seen--probably downstairs doing laundry, or making tea for the guests. He hesitated for a moment, then looked at Mr. Preston and in all seriousness said,

  "My father won't approve of the sale. It was once a Japanese cemetery and it's very bad luck to build there. That's why the lot is empty." Henry pictured a dive-bomber, augering toward its target, loaded with ordnance.

  Mr. Preston laughed. "He's kidding, right? Ask him if he's joking."

  Henry could hardly believe that for the first time in months he was actually talking to his father--and telling him lies. But necessary ones, Henry thought. He looked over at Chaz, who just stared at the ceiling, seemingly out of boredom.

  Henry's father was hanging on his every Cantonese word. "Mr. Preston says he wants to turn the building into a jazz club. That kind of music is very popular, and there's a lot of money to be made." Henry pictured his imaginary bomber releasing its payload, the bombs raining down ... screeeeeeeeeeeee ...

  His father looked more offended than confused. Bull's-eye. The bombs exploded on impact. The International District needed many things, his father argued, but more nightclubs and more drunken sailors were evidently not very high on Henry's father's agenda for progressive community development, even if they displaced some of the Japanese in Nihonmachi.

  The conversation went significantly downhill from there.

  Mr. Preston grew angry, accusing Henry's father of indulging in Japanese

  superstition. Henry's father accused Mr. Preston of indulging too often in the spirits that he intended to sell at his proposed jazz club.

  After more mixed translation on Henry's part, they ended their bilingual discussion, agreeing to disagree, each warily eyeing the other.

  But they still argued, bypassing Henry altogether, hardly understanding a wo
rd each other was saying. Chaz stared at Henry, not even blinking. He opened his coat and showed Henry the button he'd stolen from him. Neither parent noticed, but Henry saw.

  Chaz flashed him a bucktoothed grin, then closed his coat again and smiled angelically as his father said, "We're done talking about this. I can see coming here was the wrong thing to do. You people will never be able to handle real business anyway."

  Henry's mother walked in with a fresh pot of her best chrysanthemum tea, just in time to see Chaz and Mr. Preston stand up and storm out, looking like gamblers who'd lost their last sawbuck on a round of pitch and toss.