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It feels like a long walk from home to Chinatown this morning. When she must be clear-headed and sharp, her dreams have left her jumbled. She feels herself buckling down into the concrete, the weight of the steaming summer heat pressing down on her head, though it is still early, and a Saturday, and Chinatown is mostly sleepy and quiet.
Foot after foot, heading downtown, then east, her left knee sticking, her right knee catching, but she’s going to make it all the way to Haiyang Best, the best seafood market in Chinatown, the only seafood market she has frequented since landing on the shores of Manhattan.
Her heart is rattling a bit behind her breastbone, and her breath has narrowed to strange wheezes at the back of her throat, but on she marches in her crisp white Converse sneakers, her boy-sized dungarees, a shirt of white cotton eyelet that she likes very much. Dangling from her ears are hammered gold Indian earrings, three tiers of concentric circles like she herself once carved out of pear tree wood, the earrings purchased in Udaipur when she traveled there alone for her fifty-second birthday, and ended up having a lovely affair. She feels fetching today, dressed in something other than her workaday attire, the first time, perhaps, since the winter day she interviewed Theo. Je me sens sexy? she asks herself. Non, she does not exactly feel sexy, well, perhaps there is a soupçon of sexiness still in her bones, in her sculptured face, and this morning, in her queenly bathroom mirror, she felt her old beauty was wearing very well.
And though she may be huffing and puffing, and likely needs both knees replaced, something that will never happen—she will not expire on an operating table—she feels a power today in her soul. That it might have anything to do with Theo’s dinner party, she refuses to consider. The phrase “our dinner party,” wends around uncomfortably in her head. Her agreement to participate merely a gesture of kindness to someone she cares about in some way or another.
Straight down Wooster until she reaches Grand, and veers to the left. It always is much farther than she imagines, the north-south blocks very long, and several west-east blocks, and now, when she has the fish store in sight, a few more steps and she will be within the cool confines of Haiyang Best, there is a small stumble, not a trip, but she feels the concrete coming at her all of a sudden, and then she is on a chair in Haiyang Best, Young Wong on bended knees, looking up at her.
Her first thought is that he looks nothing like his father Chang or his grandfather Hai, extraordinarily handsome Chinese men she used to flirt with, when both she, and they, were younger. Chang is rarely in the store anymore; he runs the transportation part of the business and is down at the docks, and Hai, when Paloma has seen the old man, he grabs her hand and kisses the back of it, and they exchange brief greetings, for they have known each other in the most basic of ways for half a century. When the old man is in the store, Paloma finds it great fun to watch him hanging out the front door gazing at the young pretty women who walk by, checking out their behinds, sometimes calling out, “You’re a beauty,” then listening to the titter of those young women’s laughs.
But it is Young Wong in the store this morning, which is how Paloma Rosen thinks of him, and with whom she has not developed any kind of relationship. There were times after leaving Haiyang Best, after all that happy flirtation, when she pondered about Chang and Hai on her walk home, but Young Wong, not once has she thought of him when she is again out the door, purchases in hand. When Chang introduced Young Wong to her perhaps a year or two ago, he said, “This is my son, the third generation of Wong men to care for Haiyang Best,” and she wondered how the son felt, being the third generation of caretakers, but not droll, or quick with the compliments, and not at all handsome, critical genes lost in the generational transition.
Now, sitting in the red plastic chair, looking at Young Wong on his knees, Paloma has a chance to observe his face up close, to study it under the color of exhaustion, or heat prostration, to use her age for her own purposes, while she catches her breath, and he asks if she is okay, can he get anything for her, does she need medicine of some sort, should he call an ambulance? Long moments pass during which Paloma shakes her head once, twice, three, four times—non, non, non, non—giving her the opportunity to see that Young Wong is not as ugly as she thought, that he has a fascinating sort of beauty, a face Picasso might have painted, all bulging eyes and skewed lips, unlined skin and crystal-clear warm brown eyes. The minutes inure to Young Wong’s benefit, for eventually Paloma thinks, But he’s beautiful, and how have I not seen this before, when I have come to buy fish? It is a face worth sculpting. He looks as if he might be a few years older than Theo Tesh Park, the physique though, is short and narrow, while Theo is tall and still thin, but shoulder-broad.
“Miss Paloma Rosen,” Young Wong says to her, no longer appearing like a Cubist rendition of himself, “Please tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Water first,” Paloma Rosen says. “Fish after.”
In Haiyang Best, Young Wong—Da Wong—trails after Paloma, one arm outstretched in case he must steady her, the palm of the other crossed over his apron, over his heart underneath, still beating hard from the tough old puo puo’s near collapse. She drank down two glasses of cold water and her color returned, her cheeks no longer concave, but slowly reinflating, softly wrinkled silk being pulled taut. He wouldn’t mind touching that skin, seeing if he can transfer its texture to paint when Sunday comes and he’s free of fish, free of this place. Her blue eagle-eyed stare is back, her mouth the exotic color of the bold fuchsia flower he once tried to paint from a picture off the Internet, but he should not leave her alone for a minute. If she collapses again and dies, it cannot be here in Haiyang Best. And so Da follows behind while she roams his aisles, such majesty in her walk, those blue eyes so smart when she flicks her head in his direction to make sure he is in pursuit, a clicking that he hears coming from her and thinks might be her brain actually working away.
He wonders what she would think if she knew there were times she was the subject of Wong family dinners, Yéyé’ Hai and his fùqīn, discussing seriously the nature of a country in which a woman like Miss Paloma Rosen was alone. Despite their cluck-clucking, when he was young, Da heard in their voices respect, affection, pleasure in the way her name rolled oddly on their tongues, their desire to say Miss Paloma Rosen over and over again. When he grew older and still they were talking about her, he realized their tones reflected the intimidation she made each man feel, for they thought her a strong woman, nearly a siren calling to Da’s forebears to desire something beyond their own tight world. Of course, neither had moved beyond their tight world, and neither knew much about Miss Rosen at all, except for what they imagined in their own heads, just as he, Da, does not know anything about her. But with her in the shop, the time they just spent together, with worried Da on his knees, those dinners when she was the topic are on his mind, how she was such a luminous curiosity to Yéyé’ and Fùqīn.
“That loup de mer, Young Wong,” Miss Rosen says, pointing to a huge black sea bass, laid out on ice with his cohorts, its eyes glassy—all-seeing or no-seeing, is what Da wonders perpetually, constantly, day after day.
“It is twenty pounds,” Da Wong says. “Cleaned, but not gutted.”
“Parfait,” says Miss Rosen. “I like to eviscerate myself.”
It is only the true chefs who gut their own fish, and sometimes even they instruct Da to have it done for them. Da looks down at the old woman’s hands, thick-fingered and resting lightly on top of the glass case, and wonders how well she yields a knife. It does not seem to Da that she has the requisite flexibility or delicate touch to do the job right. But it is what she wants and he knows from the stories told about her at the dinner table that one does not question Miss Rosen.
Da nods at his cousin Bai, who works alongside Da perpetually, constantly, day after day, chattering in Da’s ear all manner of naughty things when the shop is empty of customers, naughty things Da can’t stop thinking about, unsure if he is interested in them or
not, naughty things falling out of Bai’s mouth even when Da says, “Bai, despite your name, you are no person of purity.” Bai lifts the hefty bass off the ice, begins wrapping it in thick white paper, using too little tape as always, until Da throws him a sharp look, and Bai returns it with a shoulder shrug, then rips an overly long strip through the teeth of the holder.
Without Da being aware, Miss Rosen has moved deeper into the store, to another case, this one open to the air. He hurries after her and slips behind the case she stands before, staring down into the mound of prawns piled high. The tiger shrimp of the sea, is how Da thinks of them. Brown and orange shells, skinny feelers, and those angry black eyes moving around ever so slightly. The air and the ice doing them in.
“When did those arrive?” she wants to know.
“Two hours ago,” Da says.
Paloma nods her head. “Ten pounds, merci. And your cod?”
“Follow me,” Da says, slipping back into the aisle, gently grasping her elbow, steering her way.
“Très bon,” she says, looking at the cod laid out in a perfect, synchronous row. “That display speaks to me, Young Wong, as if the fish were marching forward into battle, or are the stakes of an iridescent picket fence. I’ll take eight, petites, s’il vous plaît.”
The only customer, Da thinks, to ever notice how he has arranged any fish in any of the twenty cases in the store.
Da nods again at Bai, and says, “Eight, Bai,” and then in rapid Mandarin, “Nǐ tīng shuōguò ba?”
Bai says under his breath, “I heard that cousin, I’m not an idiot,” and Da shrugs his shoulders.
“Et enfin, anchovies,” Miss Rosen says.
Da speaks no French, only fish, and leads her to the case with the anchovies.
“Ten pounds, merci. Eviscerated and descaled.”
Bai, following along, is crestfallen, so much work to do on ten pounds of anchovies.
When Bai does not move quickly, Da says to him, “Xiànzài zuò tā, zuò tā kuài, nǐ lǎnduò de hùnhun.” Do it now, and do it fast, you lazy bum.
“And now, deux boîtes de caviar,” and Da indicates she should continue down the aisle, to the double-stacked and refrigerated display at the end which showcases Haiyang Best’s assortment of roes from different kinds of pregnant fish.
Opened silvered tins front each case. The roe cling to each other, froth over the edges, interesting formations Da always thinks, as if someone has carved those roe into sculptures. The exemplar tins are Da’s doing, to allow customers to see the panoply of roe the store sells. “Let them examine the color of the eggs, their size, large, or medium, or small. Let the customers imagine the skin of those eggs cracking easily or sharply between their teeth, the explosion of smokiness or saltiness assailing the senses. Allow them a taste, if they ask,” Da had said to Yéyé’ and Fùqīn, until Grandfather and Father were convinced, said he could do it his way.
Roe, Da will still eat.
“Ikura, Tobiko, Masago, Kazunoko, or Tarako?” Da asks, mentioning the types most frequently purchased.
“Quelle est la différence?” Miss Rosen asks.
Hearing the word difference, even in French, is enough for Da to understand what Miss Rosen wants to know. But he stops for a moment. Usually, he rattles off the ten types of roe they sell, but there is something about Miss Rosen, beyond what his father and grandfather used to say about her, that makes Da throw out his summary speech, want to give her the personal touch.
He opens the case and leans down to the top tray, places a finger next to the Ikura, talks with more volume than he usually would, so she can hear him through the glass—who knows if she might be deaf. “See how big these eggs are. So red-orange. Looking soft to bite into. This is Ikura, big salmon roe.
“But these tins here,” he says, pointing to a quartet of display tins all sprung open, the roe making Da think of miraculous clouds hugging one another in the sky, absolutely impossible to touch—how has he not seen this in all his days working at Haiyang Best? He should be painting tins of opened roe. His heart is pounding happily from his discovery, but he continues on without missing a beat.
“These, Miss Rosen, are varieties of Tobiko, flying fish roe. Teeny-teeny eggs. Its untouched color is red-orange, like salmon, but Tobiko is often colored. Squid ink turns the eggs black. Yuzu turns them nearly yellow.”
“Gorgeous, Young Wong,” Miss Rosen says.
“And if you look over here,” Da says, watching as Paloma follows his finger to the other side of the case. “This is Masago, smelt roe. Do you see how the eggs are even smaller than the Tobiko?” and he is gratified when the old woman vigorously nods.
From this vantage point, when she is facing Da through two panes of display glass, she does not look old at all, just gorgeous and refracted, lit up from within by a thousand-watt bulb. He rarely sees faces in his daily world that he would like to paint, but he would like to paint Miss Rosen’s. Preferably just her face and neck, perhaps the hollow of her throat, but the rest of her lost in blackness, the kind of blackness Diego Velázquez used so well, an icon of Da’s that sometimes, when he feels brave, he tries to copy, with abysmal results. But Da would try again with Miss Rosen as his subject.
“And these tins here. This is Kazunoko. Herring roe. See how it is a single cohesive mass, as if it is an intact piece of fish? It is not, but it has a firm, rubbery texture, and its natural color ranges from pink to yellow.
“And this one is called Tarako. Alaskan pollock roe that people eat salted and grilled.”
This is the best Da can do, and Miss Rosen, all five feet two inches of her, stretches back up and says, “Merci, Young Wong. I have learned so much in such a short time. Mais, je crois que le caviar vert est très beau.”
Da raises his head over the counter and looks at Miss Rosen.
“Ah, oui, yes, I think I want the green caviar, like a colony of delicate vegetation attached to an undersea rock. The color is so beautiful, so lush.”
“That is one version of our Tobiko, flying fish roe, the eggs quite small, but its coloring, the reason it is green, is because it has been mixed with the Japanese horseradish, wasabi.”
“Oui? Vraiment? I do love sushi and wasabi. So does that mean the caviar is good and spicy? Might knock people out with surprise when they spoon a bit into their mouths. Make them gasp and fall over and die?”
Da twists his lips together. Is Miss Rosen planning on buying his wasabi Tobiko and then adding some kind of poison to it, killing anyone who eats it? If the tin is found in her bin, with Haiyang Best’s seal on it, the store, the company, the Wong family, will be in serious trouble. She cannot be saying what she means.
“Yes, it is spicy. The Japanese horseradish will surprise them, and, I guess, it might knock people out if they aren’t expecting the bite.”
“That is what I want then. Two tins. I want to surprise people with a taste they don’t expect. See them flying to the floor.”
So Miss Rosen only wants a taste sensation for her guests, Da can appreciate that. He pulls two of the wasabi Tobiko tins from the case and takes them to Bai’s workstation.
When Bai has finished gutting and descaling the anchovies, and wrapping and taping and packing the rest of Paloma Rosen’s selections, bagging it all in ice, and Paloma has counted out from her small change purse a series of large bills that pay for her expensive order, Da says, “Miss Rosen, I will have someone walk you home, carry the heavy bags for you.”
“Not someone,” the old woman says. “You, Young Wong. You can walk me home, carry my bags, bring that fish and Tobiko up all of my stairs.”
Da sighs and reaches behind for his apron strings.
Haiyang Best is kept iced like a freezer and by four each morning, Da Wong is inside, shivering in the dark, preparing for the new business day, waiting for the deliveries, deliberately not turning on any of the lights, wanting to feel the pain of his life. Quality and assurance, these are the words by which Da lives his quotidian fishy life, able,
when asked, to spout the store’s history—blah, blah, here for fifty years, certain to be here for another hundred, blah, blah—having given it so many times to tourists who come around, all low-rent journalistic interest without purpose.
Da is startled by the heat when he steps outside into the morning, with Paloma Rosen’s bags of fish looped around his wrists. He eats his lunch and takes his short breaks in the backroom in which it is impossible to warm up, to have a creative thought, or any thought at all. And when Da locks up, always the last to leave, Bai skipping out hours earlier as usual, it is late, nearly midnight, and since the summer began, the sun is always long gone, the rancid heat of the day just barely reduced, day again returned to night.
“Very hot,” Da says to Paloma Rosen.
“No different than every single day this month,” she says. “Where have you been?”
Always inside the fish market. He has forgotten how the rest of the world lives during a steamy Manhattan summer, the way even in Chinatown people slow down, cease zipping around one another, more decorous about not catching elbows or ankles, the lot of them sagging and damp, sweat beads on foreheads, unsightly circles spreading under armpits, tracking down shirt backs. It is a heat fugue Da is joining, everyone together in some version of hell, and yet he feels freed, unexpected joy and relief spreading through his icy insides, warming his fingers, his face, his toes.
The Resurrection of Joan Ashby Page 55