Shanghai Girl

by Vivian Yang

  "My mother stopped caring for me long time ago.” I hesitate for a second, then add, “And I don’t really have a boyfriend."

  Gordon says pensively, "Maybe that’s not exactly a bad thing. Irene had a boyfriend who led her astray.”

  I am wrapped up in my own thoughts about boyfriends. After starting college, I was no longer quite an outcast as before, initially due to Father’s rehabilitation, and later, due to Stepfather’s influential position. However, the school encourages us students to focus on our studies and moral integrity. Couples who date are considered victims of bourgeois liberalism and criticized as the dregs of the student body. Expulsion, after schoolwide humiliation known as “self-criticism,” is a common punishment for students caught in premarital relationships. Thus, my knowledge of boyfriends is more imaginary than real. And I’ve had my share of imagining.

  Still, I did have a few encounters with boys. During my sophomore year, a handsome upperclassman I knew once approached me in a dimly lit corner of the library. "Do you know how foreigners kiss?" he asked, pursing his mouth into an "O."

  "No, I don't want to know."

  "You're not telling the truth. You do want to know."

  My cheeks burned.

  He blocked my way into the aisle. "You're blushing," he said. And he touched my face. "You want to be kissed, don't you?"

  I recoiled, yet felt warmth between my legs. "Please let me go?" I pleaded.

  My plea must have encouraged him, for he planted a moist kiss on my mouth enthusiastically. I eased away from him and ran into the ladies room, where I discovered a damp, colorless stream had stained my panties similar to the sticky onset of a menstrual period.

  I had been overcome by guilt. For a virgin to experience arousal was a social and ethical taboo. After all, Chi Gu, the words for the pubic bone in Chinese mean "the bone of shame." Even thinking of Chi Gu was supposed to make a woman feel disgraceful. The sticky stain was a warning. I must avoid the upperclassman's advances.

  Then, Lu Long came along. We met in “The History of the Chinese Communist Party” class, a mandatory course for students of all majors. During one class, Lu Long, who was majored in mathematics, slipped me a note in broken English:

  "Dear Hong Sha-fei,

  Your English very nice. I want go U.S. I want you, together study. OK?

  I am sitting your behind, two positions.

  Lu Long"

  On the back of the note, I wrote in English: "OK. Let's study English together and help each other."

  I didn't own a bicycle then. Lu Long offered me rides across campus side straddling on his. We agreed to practice English while on the bicycle.

  "I exercise mouth English and go U.S.A.," he would say.

  "You practice oral English in order to go to the U.S.," I would correct him.

  "Yes, yes. We practice oral drills, hard on and up everyday."

  "Well, we practice hard and make progress every day."

  "In U.S., bicycle useless. I drive you in big car. I want you sit on me together!"

  Back and forth, on campus, we rode and practiced.

  Once, he suggested that I wrap my arms around his waist for better balance. I declined coquettishly, arguing that we might be perceived by the school as being too intimate. Lu Long agreed that an embrace on the bicycle might indeed endanger our future chances of being granted the permission by the school to go abroad to study.

  More than once when I was near Lu Long, I had experienced the sensation of wanting to be hugged. But for the benefit of both of us, we never let that happen. Just two months ago, he managed to get a scholarship to go to New York for graduate school. He has written me a few letters saying he was busy surviving and wished I could also have a chance to study in New York.

  I look into Gordon's eyes and say, "I have nobody but you to discuss with whether or not to go to America right now, Uncle Gordon. I'm so used to making all major decisions about my life, I'm not hesitant over this one. Could you please help me?"

  Gordon examines me like a director trying to decide whether to star me in his movie. There are no more clouds of steam rising from our soup bowls. Once-floating blood chunks in the soup start to sink. The food has gone cold.

  I look around. Three waiters wearing soiled white smocks are leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, looking in the direction of our table, chatting among themselves. Two are puffing on cigarettes. The third throws me a silly smile. People at the tables surrounding us are talking, drowning out each other’s voices. I see a waitress, pail in hand, showing a nearby table a live fish ready to be cooked. "This one not fresh enough!" a diner protests. "Look at the eyes, they're glossed over." As the waitress refuses to switch the fish, an argument ensues.

  I say to Gordon quietly, "Nobody seems to be watching us or eavesdropping. I’m glad."

  "Sh-sh-u-u. You don't have to say it. I sized up the situation here as soon as we walked in. It was okay. Sha-fei, you should learn to 'Keep your eyes open to all four routes, and your ears tuned into all eight directions.'"

  "Have sharp eyes and keen ears. Be observant and alert."

  "Exactly. And shrewd."

  "Thank you, Uncle Gordon."

  "You're very welcome. Now, let me ask you something. How many dialects can you speak?" He takes off his bi-focal glasses as if it helps him think more clearly.

  "Obviously, Shanghainese,” I smile for stating the obvious. “Mandarin, and several Southeastern coastal dialects. I understand more than I can speak without accent. Why?"

  "No Cantonese?"

  "No, but I’m a fast learner of most things. But I want to go to America. All I need is English. Right?"

  “How good is your English?"

  "Oh! I think my English is pretty good," I switch to English. "Why don’t you be the judge? If you want, we can converse in English."

  "'Converse,'" Gordon repeats. "That’s bookish. Don't get me wrong. You speak good English. Yours reminds me of my own when I first went to New York. Once you live there, you'll pick up more colloquial words. I assume you can read and write English, too?"

  "Yes. I have pride in the fact that Father was America-educated, but I keep this quiet. I study English harder than anyone else to deserve Father in heaven. But in what way is Cantonese useful in America?"

  "Not that useful if you don't function in the Chinese-American community. I used to do business only with Americans, so the need to speak Cantonese was minimal. But recently, I’ve decided to branch out a bit with what I have been doing. I've begun to reach out to the Chinese-American community because the demographics in urban America are changing. Mandarin-speaking Taiwanese are now pouring new money into America, mostly in high-tech industry and real estate. They tend to be better educated, more politically conscious and fiscally conservative than immigrants from China in the past. I find myself having more in common with these people, so..." Perhaps finding himself babbling, Gordon stops, folds his arms, and grins at me.

  Although I cannot fully understand what he just said, I don't want to appear ignorant. "I'm sure I could be of service to your business in America," I volunteer.

  Gordon doesn’t answer directly, just smiles at me. "Now, let me show you something." From his brown, ox-hide wallet, he pulls out a tattered picture of a girl with Chinese features wearing a pair of thick, black-framed glasses. Her long black hair parts in the middle. No makeup and no jewelry. Yet she looks natural and unaffected.

  "This is Irene," Gordon says simply.

  "She's pretty. Must take after your wife," I say with a mischievous smile, expecting a retort from him. Instead, Gordon gazes into my eyes and says, “You are right. She takes after Marlene a lot.”

  My heart stops. “Marlene. Koo-oo?”

  He glares at me. “Tao told you about her, didn’t he?”

  I nod in shock.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Not much. I never knew about her until Father was about to die. I didn’t know she’s married to.. you, Uncle Gor-”


  He interrupts me. “What did Tao tell you about Marlene?”

  I take in a deep breath and reply, “Father just said that …… that they were close friends in America, and that ... that if I ever saw her, tell her that Father was wrong to return to China –” I find myself unable to continue.

  Gordon’s demeanor is much softened. “He did end up thinking so, didn’t he?” He suddenly holds my hand gently and says, “Now we’re the two that are left.”

  “I feel so sad, Uncle Gordon.”

  He lets go of my hand and says, “Don’t be, my child, don’t. You’re such a good kid. Tao was lucky to have you. I see you here, Sha-fei, and I can’t help but think about Irene. So similar yet a world of difference.”

  “How so?”

  He utters a long sigh. “Well, I’ve practically given up on her. Sometimes I wonder if I still know her.”

  “What do you mean, don’t know her?”

  “Figuratively, Sha-fei. She bears no resemblance with me in terms of beliefs or values. She has no beliefs, no values, nothing of that sort. She’s been ruined by the American culture.” Ignoring my puzzled look, Gordon puts Irene’s photo back. With a smile, he changes the topic. “Now, let’s see. What can we do to get you over to the States?"

  I nearly jump from my seat. “You will help me go to the U.S.?!”

  Gordon laughs. “Those aren’t my exact words, are they?”

  This calms me down a little bit. I begin to second-guess his intentions. “You’re not doing it because of your daughter, are you?” I ask. “Or is it for my Father, or for your wife?"

  Gordon looks at me in disbelief. He reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. "You have a sharp mind and a sharp tongue, Sha-fei. Now listen to this: It’s for you. I love helping people whenever I can and I’d like to help you. I have an appointment to see the Commerce Counsel at the American Consulate. I'll take you with me and see if you can talk to the staff. They should be able to help with the technicalities. I hope we can kill two birds with one stone."

  I'm thrilled. "Thank you so much, Uncle Gordon. I'm sure Father would have been grateful for your kindness...”

  With a wave of his hand, Gordon cuts in. "What did I just say? It's for you, Sha-fei."

  I utter softly, "Uncle Gordon, if this were in the old days, I would kneel down and kowtow to you. But all I can say now is 'Thank you.' Let me show you my gratitude in the future, Uncle Gordon. I won’t disappoint you, I promise.”

  “Don't get carried away, now. In life, you have to strive for the best and be prepared for the worst." He picks up the china ladle in the serving bowl and aimlessly stirs the soup. “Did you ever see how they break the bird’s neck to make this blood soup? Well, sometimes I think life itself is such a process. ‘Survival of the fittest.’ So are you prepared to face the real challenges of life, Sha-fei?”

  “Yes, I am, Uncle Gordon. I’ll be worthy of your help.”

  “We shall see.”

  The taxi pulls in past the Plaza's gate. Gordon gets out, offers me his hand, and gives me a parting hug. The texture of his wool coat leaves a quick sensation on my cheek.

  I've just spent an evening with a gentleman from America, the gentleman who was the husband of the woman whom my own Father had loved …… My thoughts are in disarray.

  Gordon says our next meeting will be at the gate of the American Consulate at ten o'clock, the day after tomorrow.

  In the typical Chinese style of Ke Chi, or "over-politeness," I decline Gordon’s offer to have the taxi take me all the way home. "I have my bicycle," I tell him.

  "But it's almost ten. And it's cold out there. Will you be safe?"

  "No problem. People ride bicycles around the clock if they have to, say, taking one to the hospital at midnight in an emergency."

  “Imagine that!” says Gordon, shaking his head. "Well, if you insist, you're a big city girl. Thank goodness Shanghai is not as crime-infested as New York. Just take care of yourself!"

  No guards stop Gordon as he walks inside the gate. I gaze at his back, receding, blurring, and then disappearing behind the glass doors. I am reminded of the famed essayist Zhu Ziqing's lyric lines about his father in “Figure Viewed from Behind”:

  "I saw him wearing a small, black cloth hat, a

  black cloth mandarin jacket and a dark blue

  cotton-padded robe, walking haltingly to the

  side of the railway tracks …… His figure viewed

  from behind blended into the human traffic to

  and fro, nowhere to be found."

  Wheeling my bicycle out of the parking zone under the nippy, star-lit sky, I stop, lean against the bicycle for support, and close my eyes. Gordon's image surfaces in my mind: a tall man in a beige parka, collar up, checkered wool scarf, standing against the winds and clouds over the waters of the Huangpu River, hands in pockets, eyes reaching beyond the horizon ... It is an image of what Father would have been had he stayed in America. Can Gordon be my surrogate father and guide me from now on?

  The giant SONY neon sign over the Huangpu blinks behind me, turning the Bund into a psychedelic night scene. Beating those in the West, the big name Japanese are the first to enter the Chinese market. Hitachi, National, Panasonic and Sanyo are fast becoming household names. In the university, I even take up Japanese as a second foreign language, right after English.

  At this moment, towered over by the lights from the SONY, I feel oddly transcendental. Raising my head to take another look at the Plaza, I cry in my heart, "Goodnight, Uncle Gordon, my godfather of hope!"

  4 Edward Cook: Connections and Recollections

  When the Class of '84 graduated from Gotham Law last summer, I had visions of the "IN" box at Sachs & Klein piled up with mail addressing me as "Edward Johnson Cook, III, Esq." Never did I dream of slouching over a desk in this God forsaken place doing a so-called legal internship. The U.S. Consulate in Shanghai is perhaps the last pit on earth where women in the office don't wear makeup, heels or stockings. My only consolation is I won’t be here much longer. My next leg is in our Embassy in Akasaka, Tokyo. The female Japanese hires known locally as office ladies, or OLs, will all be dolled up in Catholic schoolgirl-style uniforms and serving me kohii (coffee) and kocha (black tea) in. Also looking forward to treasure hunting trips to enlarge my collection of Ukiyo-e prints.

  I owe it to my mother for this opportunity to work with the State Department here in Asia. Gene, that obnoxious old fart she married, has some cousin who’s a career diplomat, one of those guys who travels around the world popping champagne bottles at taxpayers' expense.

  My mother is a character. Ever since her facelift at age forty-nine, her voice has put on a more mellow tone to match that. I can picture her charming that dude over the phone. "Yes, Gene's mentioned that you've had the most illustrious career in his family. I can't wait to meet you when you're on leave. I'll take the morning shuttle to D.C. to have lunch with you if that's what it takes." And then, "Listen, Ed is a good boy and trust me, he's smart. And you know how notoriously difficult the New York Bar is. Everyone deserves a second chance and I've no doubt he'll pass it next time around. It's just that right now, he needs something international that can boost his resume."

  The diplomat suggested that I take the State Department's American Foreign Service written Exam. If I passed that and the interview, he said, then he would see to it that I get into the Foreign Service. I went ahead and took it but flunked it as well, which came as no surprise to me. I never was good at taking tests. It was a fluke that I ever got into law school to begin with. But knowing what I know today, I'm better off having failed the AFS exams. Once in the Foreign Service, Uncle Sam has you sign your life away. Not me! I now remember only one good thing from all the cramming on U.S. foreign policy – that Japan was opened to the U.S. for commercial exploration in the 1850’s following President Fillmore’s desire to insure “friendship, amity, and intercourse” between us two nations. I’ve since gratified my own desire to explore the Japanes
e by establishing friendship, developing amity, and culminating in intercourses, in that order. A quote from a U.S. President has proved to be an effective pick up line to impress my various Madame Butterflies.

  Anyhow, after I failed the AFS, my mother called our diplomat again, this time practically pleading. Mr. Diplomat finally showed mercy. "Which area of the world would your son be interested in for an internship?" he’d asked.

  “Well, let’s see. He majored in East Asian anthropology in college. And he has been learning Chinese and Japanese for years now. I suppose anything having to do with China or Japan?” So here I am, in Shanghai for a month first before heading over to Japan for another.

  Like they say in those How To Find Your First Job books, connections, connections, connections. They were what got me into Gotham Law. Dad's fraternity brother was on the university board or the alumni committee or whatever. All it took was a few phone calls and I was in. The same fellow assured Dad that an associate's position would be waiting for me at Sachs & Klein once I pass the Bar.

  Tabor is a frequent guest at Dad's gray brick mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut. The house was built specifically to the whims of Michelle, my old man's new bride. I arranged for a Chinese Feng Shui master to bless the house to be rid of ghosts. Mirrors were placed in key spots in the huge living room, which one needed a three-iron to drive across, to dispel evil spirits and preserve wealth. Lotus Siew had recommended the master. A brief fling later, the Chinatown butcher’s daughter was history, and I moved on to the Orient.

  I imagine that Dad and Tabor do their serious talking not by the poolside over food catered by Michelle, but when left alone over a game of croquet on the back lawn. I wouldn't be surprised if Tabor would occasionally give Dad a good stock tip or two, something Dad categorically denies. Yet all it takes is a look at my old man's portfolio performance. If he hasn’t been getting inside tips, I'm all wet.