Shanghai Girl

by Vivian Yang

  Enters a smiling Gordon Lou. “Why, it’s me. I see you’ve been studying English?"

  I turn off the TV and stand at attention in front of him, saying, "Don't be angry, Uncle Gordon, but I took a bath in your tub before turning on TV."

  At first surprised, Gordon changes into a big smile and says, "Why would I be angry? I'm glad you made use of this place. Besides, I'm flattered that you didn't mind bathing in the same tub I used."

  Wringing my hands nervously, I stand watching Gordon Lou taking off his suit jacket and his tie, and hanging them in the closet. Again, the scent of the cologne hits me.

  Gordon turns and looks down at the back of my jeans. Twisting my torso to examine myself, I ask nervously, "Did I sit on something dirty?"

  "No, no. These jeans look nice on you, perfectly form-fitting. The skills of the Chinese labor force are picking up."

  I blush, suddenly wishing that I hadn't come here. Gordon's hands are resting on his hips. The thought that he might take off his pants as Stepfather did terrifies me. I grab my duffel bag and dash to the door, sputtering, "I have to leave now!"

  Gordon takes my shoulders and commands, "Calm down. You're overreacting, Sha-fei. Go down to the lobby and wait for me there, all right?"

  Letting go of the doorknob, I bend my head and apologize, "I'm sorry, Uncle Gordon. I didn't mean to overreact. It's just ... that ever since Father passed away, I've lived in fear."

  Gordon pats me on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I understand. We'll talk over dinner. Let me change into casuals and I'll be right down. Meanwhile, think about where you'd like to go for dinner, okay, Sha-fei?"

  "Okay. Thank you, Uncle Gordon."

  I sit in the lobby pondering the Chinese idiom Yi Ci Bei She Yao, Shi Nian Pa Cao Sheng -- "Bitten by a snake once, fearful of straw ropes for ten years." I feel guilty that I almost wronged Uncle Gordon because of what Stepfather did to me. How silly of me to question Gordon's character. He's Father's friend and an American gentleman. The desire to tell Gordon about my life grows stronger.

  As to the place for dinner tonight, I can’t think of a better place than Shanghai’s historic Old Town. Most people from overseas enjoy dining there. The pagoda-roofed Shanghai Old Restaurant comes to mind. When Gordon joins me in the lobby, I suggest that to him. “Sounds wonderful,” he says. “I’ve been craving for genuine Shanghai cuisine for years now. My late wife missed it so much!”

  “Your late?” I stop short, not wanting to be too intrusive. Then, I ask, “Was she also from Shanghai?”

  Gordon looks at me in a peculiar way and answers slowly, “Yes, she was a Shanghainese, too, like all of us.”

  When we arrive at Shanghai Old Restaurant, Gordon says he still remembers the look of the place. We choose a table in a corner by the window, overlooking an ornamental lake with wriggling goldfish and wiggly lotus leaves. Across from this epicurean pavilion is the famed Yu Garden Bazaar built in the traditional Ming-Qing architectural style. Here, Shanghai natives do their shopping, munching, and gossiping amidst a warren of open market stalls on winding cobblestone streets. To eat here, I will get a sense of anonymity.

  Gordon studies the menu and orders the best: Eight-Treasure Pork, Sizzling Shrimp, Stinking Tofu, and Chicken and Duck Blood Soup. The last dish is a local favorite. Now a restaurant classic, it used to be prepared on the street by cutting the bird's neck in front of the customer, letting out the blood into a bowl of salt water to dilute, and pouring the congealed blood chunks into the broth. Freshly chopped scallion is then sprinkled onto the soup. Color, fragrance, and taste: the three essential ingredients for fine Chinese cuisine.

  Gordon pours green tea for me, a real gentleman to a lady. I sip, wet my mouth, ready to recall Father.

  Across our square, butcher-block table, I hand the two photos of Father one at a time. Gordon takes off his glasses and examines them with squinting eyes.

  "This one was taken in front of the hospital two months before his death," I explain. "It is the last photo I have of him."

  "I can't believe what time did to him," Gordon murmurs, shaking his head.

  "He was in prison for five years."

  "Was he? Why?"

  "Because he had studied at Columbia. They said he was a spy for the U.S. imperialists," I say in a subdued voice.

  Gordon's hand touches the photo with the Mao statue in the background and sighs. "So all the horror stories we read about in the West actually happened to Tao." He cups my hand in his and squeezes it. "I'm so sorry, Sha-fei."

  First comes the Eight-Treasure Pork. With knotted brows, Gordon stares at the glossy pork set on a bed of gleaming sweet rice and preserved fruits. "Somehow it's not as appetizing now when I think of Tao," he says.

  "I don't think Father had even thought about a dish like this before he died. At that time, pork was rationed, four ounces per person per month."

  "You mean in prison?"

  "No, at home. I believe Father never had meat in prison at all."

  Gordon puts down his chopsticks. "Tell me what happened to him in prison, Sha-fei."

  I had rehearsed what I’d say to Gordon before I came here, but now I don't know how to begin. So many scenes from the past flash back at once. My eyes become moist.

  "I was with Father the day he was arrested. Mother was at the plant working. Three men came. They shoved a towel into Father’s mouth, tied him up, and denounced him as a spy for the U.S.. As he was taken away in an army jeep, I saw his protesting eyes from the jeep window. He couldn't talk."

  I pause, wiping off a single tear pushing out a corner of my eye. Again, Gordon cups my free hand.

  "I remember once Mother took me along to deliver a package to Father -- regulations forbade prisoners to have any contact with the outside world. Before sending it through a window to its unknown destination, two guards inspected our package while we waited. It contained a cake of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a handful of roasted sunflower seeds, all saved from our own ration. There were also five razor blades for shaving. When a guard shook the cloth that wrapped the package, a tiny picture of Mother and me fell out. Furious, the guard tore it into shreds and warned, 'If you try to fool us again, we'll deliver nothing else but the razor blades so he can cut his wrists with them.' I was so scared I didn't even dare to cry. On our way home, Mother said to me that she wished she had a different husband and I had a different father."

  I'm on the verge of sobbing. My fingertips touch the toilet tissue from Gordon's hotel in my pocket. Instead, I use my napkin to wipe my eyes.

  "Brutal, brutal," repeats Gordon, his face looking grim.

  For a split second he reminds me of Father, even though they bear little resemblance. "I wish Father were here with us now."

  "So do I. Do you know how he was treated in prison?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "Not all the details. But I know they beat him with bamboo poles and leather belts to make him admit that he was a spy. To save his life, he agreed. And he was ashamed about it, I think. He hated talking about his experience in prison. He was melancholy until his death."

  "What a shame. I remember a smart and jolly fellow in a beige linen suit and oxfords."

  My mouth opens, unable to see Father in such a bourgeois outfit. “Do you have a picture of him taken in America?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Gordon smiles. “I came prepared. Here, we are together by the Alma Mater statue of Columbia.”

  He shows me a salmon-colored photo from a bygone age. It surprises me that neither of them was wearing glasses. Father was in a checkered jacket with a matching cap and a white shirt and holding several books. Gordon, looking slightly younger than Father, even then, was in a knitted vest with his tie tucked under its V-neck, his hair pomaded and slicked back without a parting. The two men stood solemnly in front of the seated Goddess of Justice statue. “That’s Columbia’s Alma Mater designed by the same gentleman who did the John Harvard statue in Harvard Square,” explains Gordon. Her head adorned by a wreath, the Alma Mater
had an open book on her lap, her raised right arm held a scepter and left arm reaching skyward with an open palm, her piercing eyes staring into the vault of heaven. I am in awe at this image.

  “Come to think of it, these two pictures are almost identical except for Mao and the Goddess of Justice,” Gordon says abruptly.

  I am surprised at the analogy. “Yes, but they’re so different, Uncle Gordon! This one was in China, and the other one in America!” The way I say the word “America” sounds the same as when Aunt Cheng called out “America!” when she saw the letter Gordon had sent -- romantic and full of hope.

  “America, the land of justice, right?” Gordon asks sarcastically while looking at me. “Not for people like Tao and me,” Gordon shakes his head and says. “But then again, nor is China.”

  This is the first time I ever heard of anyone so critical of America, except my textbooks that scolded the U.S. imperialists.

  “What do you mean it’s not good for Father and you? Father returned to China not because he disliked America, but because he wanted to help build a New China.”

  Gordon stares blankly at me and says, “’Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.’ He loved China too much. He was too naïve. He could have stayed in America like some of us did, and he certainly had reasons to stay, but he chose his country over his personal concerns.” Gordon pauses for a second and continues intently, “On the other hand, there’s no telling how his life might have turned out had he not returned to China, though, either. He could have become a businessman like myself. Ha, how ironic.” Gordon chuckles as if in self-laugh. Meticulously, he shells a whole shrimp with chopsticks and sets its head aside. As though talking to the shrimp, he continues, "Of course we were naïve, too, those of us who did stay. As it turned out, I couldn't pass the security clearance to work for a Defense Department contractor, and I couldn't change my Chinese features and shed my accent. It’s all a matter of economics, I suppose, Sha-fei. The Asian-American immigrants don’t have economic power, so they have no political power to speak of. I ended up giving up my training and started my own business."

  "What type of business, Uncle Gordon?"

  "Well, I own a factory in New York which manufactures high end formal wear. As a matter of fact, I'm negotiating to buy a supplier’s company here in Shanghai."

  "That will be a solely-owned foreign entity, then," I volunteer.

  "It sure will be. It will become the chief source for clothing and I will only need to keep a small office in New York."

  "Good cost-saving strategy, Uncle Gordon."

  "Pretty good, Sha-fei. I certainly wasn't expecting you to be this knowledgeable and articulate. You're definitely Tao's offspring. What was your major in college?"

  "I won't be graduating until this summer. My major is political science."

  Gordon nods, studying me.

  I try to amend what I said. "I major in political science, all right. But it's not all those didactic Marxist theories. Nowadays, we also study the structure and workings of so-called 'western democracy'."

  "So, tell me, Sha-fei, what are the pros and cons of China's current structure of government versus that of 'so-called western democracy'?" he challenges.

  I look straight into his eyes and ask, "Do you want the official version or my personal opinion?"

  "I thought you're not supposed to have a personal opinion."

  "Not supposed to, but I have one. Perhaps it would be wise of me not to tell you, though."

  Gordon agrees, "You'd better not. I already think you're a wise and capable young lady."

  A sudden shyness comes over me at his compliment. "You overpraise me, Uncle Gordon," I say, blushing, and lowering my head.

  "Let me give you a piece of advice, Sha-fei. You should take recognition in stride and not be overly modest. Acknowledge the compliment by simply saying 'Thank you' with pride. You can argue that modesty is traditionally considered a virtue in Chinese culture. But in order to survive and succeed in today's world, you must learn to be assertive without being aggressive. Fight for what you’re entitled to. Understand?"

  "Yes, I do. Thank you, Uncle Gordon." I decide to put this into practice as soon as possible.

  Touching my nose with his index finger, Gordon says, "You naughty little thing."

  I reply defensively, "No, I was thanking you for your advice."

  "Is that right? I'm sure that they didn't teach you to talk like this in school," Gordon says with a laugh.

  "That's right. They didn't teach me any of this at Pujiang University here in Shanghai. It's just me."

  "Good for you."

  "Thank you," I answer brightly, tilting my head forward. "I forgot to tell you that I go to the same school where Father taught."

  Gordon squints, as if trying to picture Tao Hong the Professor. "Is that right? Was he a good professor?"

  "I never took his classes. He died before I got into the school. He had been a popular teacher before imprisonment, but after his release, he didn't live long enough to teach much."

  Gordon looks at his spoonful of blood soup in his hand and pours it back to the bowl. "It's sad Tao will never know about our meeting today."

  "Yes. Father died without hope of any sort."

  "How did your family take it?"

  "Mother was relieved Father was finally dead. She tried to negotiate with the school to get compensation for our family, but the school gave nothing. I knew, even then, that the person who cared about me the most had gone. I had no siblings – you know about China's one child policy, right? I knew I was going to have to fend for myself for the rest of my life." I pause to swallow something, tears or saliva I'm not sure. Gordon is listening intently without a word. "What I didn't know was that Mother had struck a deal with an important school official so she could marry my stepfather and live her good life that way."

  "Oh, I didn't know...," Gordon decides not to finish his sentence.

  "That school official used to be my stepfather's subordinate. Thinking Mother was good-looking, he introduced her to Stepfather, as a favor to his old commander. Mother stayed with me for another year after she was legally married, then she went to his home in Nanjing, shortly after I began college. She didn't postpone moving away because of me, though. The government's transfer of official residency permit took that long, even at Stepfather's level."

  Gordon exhales audibly. "I guess your mother made the best of her circumstances. What does your stepfather do?"

  "He is a ranking cadre. Mother is finally living her good life, the life she didn't have with Father," I say bitterly.

  "Are you on good terms with your stepfather?"

  I lower my head and talk into my lap, "I suppose I am. It's a shame that I'm still dependent on him financially. I want to be strong and independent. But Stepfather … He's such a … such a … terrible man! …” Tears well up in my eyes. Gordon does not seem to mind that I am sobbing. He reaches over, pats my shoulder, and says, "Sha-fei, I have a daughter of my own. I guess you're about her age. If there's anything you want to say, Uncle Gordon is here to listen.”

  "It’s, it's my stepfather. He's such a powerful man and he will destroy my future if...”

  "If what?"

  "If, if I don't obey him …"

  "What do you mean -- obey?"

  "In the worst sense you can think of."

  Gordon throws me a quick glance, then lowers his eyes, his face flushing. "I’m outraged – taking advantage of a cai mao shuang quan young lady like you … ” He calls me a woman endowed with both talents and beauty.

  “My talents do not interest him,” I say coldly. “His old friend can destroy my future if Stepfather told him to. My fate upon graduation and for the rest of my life will be controlled by Stepfather."

  "How is that possible?"

  "It's possible because all jobs are assigned by the government and determined by the school authorities. One cannot choose or switch a job assignment. You can't even decide not to take an a
ssigned post. That's the policy. The government doesn’t give us four years of free college education without exacting a price. His friend is in a key position to hurt my chances."

  Gordon gestures for me to slow down. "I'm confused. Can't you just pack and leave and forget about dealing with these people? You know the old Chinese saying, 'Of the thirty-six stratagems, running away is the best'?"

  "Of course I know it, but I can't pack and move wherever I want. There's the government's residency registration system. Even Mother had to wait for a year to join Stepfather in his house. Without connections, there's nowhere for me to run to as long as I'm in China." As soon as I finish saying this, I realize there's a new option I've never considered before. "Unless I leave China.”

  Gordon looks at me questioningly.

  "Well, why not? I'll go to the U.S. and retrace Father's footsteps. Some of my schoolmates have gone abroad as graduate students. I just have to find out how they did it."

  Gordon's face looks serious. "Here's a piece of fatherly advice, Sha-fei. You shouldn't make major decisions of your life impulsively. I'm sure Tao would tell you the same thing if he were here. You should think things over, and weigh the pros and cons before making a decision."

  "I've been thinking about my future very hard recently. I now have no other choice. Besides, in America, I can put my talents and education to use and better myself."

  “Where did you get that idea from?”

  “I just know it. America is a land of opportunities and freedom.”

  Gordon shakes his head and laughs. “What a cliché. Everyone who has never lived in America thinks so.”

  “I believe it. At least in America, nobody could crush me just because he has all the right connections in China.”

  Gordon says, "You’re so headstrong, you remind me of my daughter Irene. She's fiercely independent and wants to do everything her way, often the wrong way."

  "I don't know what your daughter is like, but I do respect your advice."

  "I don't know what to tell you, Sha-fei. I'll certainly help you if you let me know when you need help, but with a matter like going to America, you should really discuss this with your family first. Or your boyfriend, maybe?"