Shanghai Girl

by Vivian Yang

  When it comes to hiring an attorney who failed the Bar, even Sachs & Klein partner Tabor W. Wilcox, Esq. could only do so much. Maybe one of these days Dad's deep pockets will be of use to Tabor. If he decides to run for office, as he often mentioned, Dad might be a financial backer. Dad has promised to contribute the maximum allowable. But I know that in most cases Dad's promise is hollow. This trait runs in the Cook family.

  Connections in Chinese are known as Guan Xi. One can never have too many of those. But after being in Shanghai for two weeks, I am fidgeting for some connection, some liaison, any liaison with the local Shanghainese. One of the reasons I came to China was the prospect of having a good time with the local girls.

  I chose Shanghai over Beijing because of its flamboyant reputation -- "The Whore of Asia," as it was called in the old days. Unfortunately, my experiences in other parts of the Far East did me a disservice, for today's Shanghai is nothing like those “Bang!kok” places. The last time I was out in this part of the world, I was an American tourist escaping from a life of mass-mailing resumes and continued unemployment after college. My interest in Asia developed from textbooks and carnal knowledge wasn’t getting me far in New York. Go East, young man! I urged myself. And look what I found – a paradise for young men like me who knew how to enjoy the good services of the LBFMs, the Little Brown Fucking Machines.

  For me, Bangkok was the best. You could get heroin for less than half the price at home. For a country whose economy has little to offer besides live elephants and Buddha statues, being close to the Golden Triangle helps. And if you have enough dough for the stuff, your LBFMs, and the Buddhist cultural ambiance, you’re all set. One slight problem is that I ran out of money. After a while, Dad got delinquent about putting money in my account – too busy satisfying his own newfound taste for a Japanese woman. My daily trips to Citibank in the Sathorn District became futile. I suppose the old man had assumed that since the return ticket was pre-paid, I could always come home when I was broke. And I did after I came to the realization that the campus of Gotham U. itself was a hotbed (no pun intended here) to fetch LBFMs.

  Here in Shanghai, the Consulate puts me up in a two-room flat in the Gascogne Apartments on the former Avenue Joffre, considered locally as one of the best living quarters in the city. At this time of the year when the majority of Shanghai residents freeze in bone-chilling dampness and cold, the apartment is central-heated by a coal furnace in the basement, so at least I’m comfortable. Unfortunately, even the Gascogne has no cable TV hookup, nor anything in English originating from the West.

  The Americans here at the Consulate still use the pre-Communist street names of Shanghai, although those names have long been changed. I guess this is because the old names tend to be either English or French and thus easier to pronounce than the tongue-twisting, tonal Chinese. I've studied Mandarin Chinese and Japanese (And thank God, Japanese is not tonal!) since my second semester in college, but Shanghai dialect remains Greek to me.

  During my first week here, I tried my newly acquired pick up line in Shanghai dialect with a girl in front of the formerly famed Da Sun Company, now The Shanghai No. 1 Department Store, and almost got myself into serious trouble.

  "X-x-xiao ja nong hao. Nong zeng piao liang. Qin nong qo ya veh yao va?" I stuttered out. "Hello, Miss, you're so good-looking. Want to have dinner with me?"

  The chick stopped and smiled at me. Beautiful dimples. But to my shock, a middle-aged Chinese man popped out of the swarm of people and demanded in broken English, "Your I.D.! Amelika?" Seeing the plainclothes policeman, the girl fled. I was left fumbling through my jacket looking for my passport. The man squinted like a cat and examined the passport from cover to cover, looking for the visa, making me sweat the whole time. When he finally handed it back to me, he bellowed, "Necks tied, no Chai-niece girl!"

  “Yes, yes! I’m sorry, very sorry. Thank you very much!”

  When I related the story to the people back in the Consulate, I got little sympathy and plenty of laughs. I was warned not to solicit Chinese “nieces” again in public. "The Consulate won't be able to bail you out even if they have your neck tied," the Cultural Counsel told me half-jokingly. Knowing that, I was glad I hadn’t smuggled into Shanghai a few copies of "Penthouse" Hong Kong edition, or the Japanese “Comic Amour” manga. A political campaign to eradicate the Western bourgeois "spiritual pollution" has being going on in China, and I have no desire to become an eradicable pollutant during my short stint here.

  Nevertheless, as I sit in the midst of papers bearing the American insignia, tortured by boredom, I can't help but wish I were watching one of my videos. When I close my eyes, I can see the Oriental chick and the white guy nailed together, gyrating in front of me. "The Oriental Lickspress" was a good one. So was "Hoo's On Top" and “Ono Offers Osaka.”

  Christ! The neck of that slit-eyed chick who plays Ono! She’s all neck, neck as good as her thighs. Better, really. Long, slender, and smooth like a polished elephant tusk. The porcelain nape with the collar-less kimono draped low, the Japanese doll is at her most sensual. Dressed in geisha garb and beehive hairdo, Ono releases her chopstick hair pins to let down her long hair – hair that would have felt like nice, gentle rain whipping against my body – the foreplay leading to Osaka Ono’s Oriental orgasm. My mouth waters at the thought of her juicy, oozy pussy ……

  When I recover from my daydreams and return from the Men's Room after the release, I think about the Bar Exams. I don't suppose Gene's cousin would be thrilled to find out that I'm being paid by Uncle Sam for an internship focusing on how to pass the Bar. It wasn’t by accident that I left all my Bar/Bri Bar Review materials in my East Village studio.

  The four-week internship will give me an opportunity to get a glimpse of a China unknown to most Westerners including myself. Every morning, as I walk through the Consulate gates guarded by armed, expressionless Chinese sentries, the sheer number of people waiting outside always strikes me. Curious about the crowd’s motives for leaving China, I did a bit of research. I soon realized that the well-groomed, middle-aged men in overcoats and woolen scarves are the professionals, grim survivors of China's many political movements. The chatty ladies standing by their sides, with newly permed hairdos, are their anxious wives. Occasionally in tow are the children, bundled up like pandas to keep warm. Most of these people have distant family members in America who have agreed to sponsor their long-lost mainland relatives for a visit to America. The luckier ones among them may have obtained private funds from U.S. companies to do research there.

  The wide-eyed, down jacket-clad youngsters are mostly college students, some already admitted to graduate programs in the U.S. Unlike the Chinese government-sponsored students who will have everything arranged for them, these young people braving the wind here are known as "the private students," U.S. visa category "F-1." The U.S. immigration forbids them from working while in school. This rule will hurt these Chinese youths the most, since they probably have little or no money in the U.S. To make matters worse, the Chinese government has tight control over the exchange of Renminbi, or People's Money, into any foreign currencies, so these students, once abroad, are usually penniless and unable to earn money legally.

  For those who emigrate, the Chinese have a saying - they seem to have a saying for everything. It's called "Leaving the home village and turning one's back away from the native well." It's meant to describe people who are desperate. Looking at these crowds, I think these Chinese are truly desperate.

  It dawns on me that their despair can be my gain. I can make money from the Chinese. Instead of busting my balls working like a dog for Tabor Wilcox as a corporate lawyer on Wall Street and toiling and moiling for years to make partner, I want someday to start my own immigration law practice. The field is poorly regulated, and I’ll have a lifetime supply of Chinese as clients, among others. Relishing the idea, I grab a note pad, cross out the U.S. insignia with an "X," and jot down:

  "Belated 1985 New Year’s Resolutions:<
br />
  1. Pass the Bar

  2. Do a short stint w/ Wilcox at S & K

  3. Establish immigration practice in Chinatown.”

  After all, the Chinese were responsible for making the earliest Cook families rich. During the late 1870's, Great-grandfather was just another redneck tilling a parcel of desert land in Joshua Tree, California. Through some strange mixing of the Californian Yin and Yang, he ended up testifying against the influx of the Chinese, or Chinamen, as they were called. The result was the Chinese Exclusion Act passed by Congress in 1882. His local celebrity status helped him get elected as mayor and the Cook family had never looked back.

  Edward Cook, Sr., my grandfather, was the first in the family to finish high school. He had this vision of becoming a Yankee. Going against the tide, he took his young bride to Manhattan’s Lower East Side, edged the Jews there out of a few tenement buildings, and became a landlord to Chinese bachelors. He made money through real estate and sent Dad to a private college in New England. The old man lived well into his eighties, dying only a few years ago on a trip to St. Martin while looking into time-share properties. The taxi he had hired to go to the casinos on the Dutch side reportedly fell off a shoulder near the French-Dutch border, killing him, his second wife, and the driver. Grandpa had written his will and taken care of the probate business, so Dad didn't do much about looking into the accident overseas.

  At the time, Dad had just divorced Mom and was head over heels in love with a Japanese woman, a design student at Gotham U. But he decided not to marry her, and passed Michiko on to me upon my return from the Far East. That’s when I first learned about the Japanese practice of erasing women’s pubic hair from shunga magazines. It was the Japanese way of censoring adult material, I was told. The Japs’ hypocrisy didn’t bother me, though. I developed something of a fetish for a sushi-tasting cunt with pubic hairs clipped off. One got the sensation of processing raw yellowtail, wasabi, soy, and ginger all in one mouthful. Sashimi deluxe.

  It’s obvious that this fascination with Orientals runs in the family. I had my first Chinese lay as a junior in college and I've been hooked ever since. The girl's name was Irene Lou, then a freshman at Gotham. Her body was as smooth as golden jade. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to her. I was the first man she had slept with. I used to be so cocky about that.

  The Cook family learned over time that you really couldn’t exclude the Chinese any more effectively than Hitler's fantasy of exterminating the Jews. Nor can you, for that matter, really beat the Japs by rounding up all the Isseis and Niseis in the camps. I laugh invariably every time someone tells me the joke "Once upon a time, there were two Chinese. Look now, how many?" There are just too many of them. One might as well make use of them. And we certainly did. We had them build the railroads, have them cook and deliver mouth-watering food in handy pagoda boxes, and we have them tell us our fortunes in cute little cookies. Like the words on this T-shirts I have which says something like Oriental women are better than beers - you drink them and you throw them out. They'd never mention Betty Friedan or their proprietary rights to their reproductive systems. I can just imagine representing a steady stream of bedmates as these eager clients entrust their bodies and souls to their immigration lawyer.

  The phone on my desk rings as I chuckle to myself. Would I spare a moment to answer some questions for a Chinese student interested in studying in the U.S.? "Sure," I reply. Unbeknownst to the receptionist, I’m not otherwise occupied. "Send him over."

  "It's a girl. Her name is Sha-fei Hong."

  I light a cigarette and smile to myself. So much the better.

  5 Sha-Fei Hong: Bound To Meet On a Narrow Alley

  I see Gordon arriving in a taxi at the gate of the U.S. Consulate. He is dressed in a gray plaid business suit and a light brown camel’s hair coat. His red and silver striped tie sports a gold stickpin. The burgundy, leather briefcase he’s carrying bears a metal plaque with his initials “G.L.” Such style! How I wish I’d seen Father in this kind of outfit.

  Seeing me, he throws his arm around my shoulder in a quick hug and says, “Waiting here long?”

  “Not really,” I reply. His presence warms my half-frozen body.

  Taking my hand in his, Gordon walks past the throng of Chinese people waiting in line and heads directly toward one iron-jawed sentry. Squeezing my hand to assuage my fears, Gordon patiently waits for the sentry to address us. Rifle clutched in between his legs, the guard examines Gordon’s passport and grunts in Chinese, “Lou Guo Deng, American citizen, uh?”

  “Yes,” Gordon replies in an even tone. “We have an appointment. This is my niece. She’s with me.”

  The sentry checks a piece of paper in his hand with a list of names. “Oh, yes, your name is here. Two persons. You may go in.”

  I secretly utter a sigh of relief. Gordon seems to me to be so smart, so reliable, and so protective. I’m lucky to be with him.

  Once inside, Gordon exchanges pleasantries with a blonde receptionist who puts our names on a clipboard. Gordon’s turn to see the Commerce Attaché comes first. Before rising to go, he says in Chinese, “Be calm and be yourself. Ask questions. See if you can take some printed material with you.”

  "Sha-fei Hong!" someone calls me from behind what must be a bulletproof window. It’s my turn.

  “Here!" I raise my hand and jump up from the bench. I am told that the Cultural Attaché does not see Chinese students. However, an intern in the Consulate will answer my questions.

  A man in his late twenties comes to the hallway and shakes my hand vigorously. "Miss Hong?" he asks, smiling broadly. "I'm Ed Cook. Come on in."

  Ed Cook stands about six feet and has curly sandy hair. After we enter his office, he surprises me by walking towards his desk and perching a hip on one of its corners. He folds his arms and studies me from head to toe.

  "I'm here to ask some questions," I begin boldly.

  He waves his hand to interrupt. "I know, I know, Sha-fei. You’ll have a chance for your questions. Do sit down. Let me ask you something first. Where did you learn your English?"

  "At Pujiang University. And I practice very hard at home."

  Ed Cook grins, revealing his yellowish teeth. "You speak very good English," he compliments. "Since I’m a foreign language student myself, I know it's not easy."

  I am about to say something modest in reply. But, remembering Gordon’s advice, I say instead, "Thank you, Mr. Cook. Which foreign language do you speak?"

  "Well, a little Chinese, and a little Japanese. I have a Chinese name, too. It’s Kwok Ai-teh, as in Cook, the Virtue-loving."

  "Are you really a virtuous man?" I ask, thinking about the meaning of his Chinese name.

  Ed Cook says with a laugh, "You Chinese girls always ask the most interesting questions. A name's just a label. Nobody takes it literally." For the first time, I look at his eyes directly. They are green like a cat's. His appearance fascinates me.

  He moves away from the desk and sits down on his chair. From the breast pocket of his blue-and-white pin striped shirt with an all white collar, he takes out a pack of Chinese "Peony" cigarettes. Tapping the bottom of the box, he fishes a cigarette out with his mouth and lights it. What a dashing American, like the movie star John Wayne that Father talked about when I was young. At that thought, I sense my cheeks warming up.

  "Who gave you your Chinese name, Mr. Cook?" I ask.

  "Call me Ed," he says, puffing out a circular cloud of smoke. "Well, it was given to me by a young and intelligent Chinese woman like you. She tutored me in Chinese while I was in college."

  "You had a private language tutor?"

  "More than one. God, Tai Duo Le - too many. I've had a whole bunch of them -- Taiwanese, Hong Kong Cantonese, Japanese, even a Singapore 'niece'," he boasts, indulging himself. "Come to think of it, I've never had a mainland Chinese tutor."

  "I can be your mainland Chinese tutor. But you'd have to pay me in U.S. dollars."

  Ed breaks out laughing. "No wonder t
hey say Shanghai people are born businessmen! I'd love to have you tutor me if your government allows interaction between an American man and an attractive Chinese young woman. But, in ten days, Wo Yao Qu Dong Jing, I'm going to Tokyo and I'm out of here!" he concludes joyfully. The few Chinese words he said had the kind of accent only a Westerner learning Chinese would have.

  Ed lifts his legs onto his desk and crosses his feet. I cannot be more surprised. We Chinese consider it very rude to allow the soles of one's shoes to face a visitor. Yet I would be equally ill mannered if I commented about it. Ed's posture allows me to see the long, yellow hairs on his shins, as well as the ones sticking out of his maroon argyle socks. I shift my eyes and think: How hairy he is ... and he doesn't even wear long johns in this cold weather! Then, of course, they are always in a heated environment like here in the U.S. Consulate. American gentlemen are so interesting, so different.

  "Now, Miss Hong, how can I help you?"

  "I'm here to ask some questions about going to graduate school in America," I answer bravely, giving him the line I have rehearsed.

  Exhaling another mouthful of smoke, Ed says, "That's simple. It's all explained here." He stands up and stretches his upper body before handing me a pamphlet from a thick stack. "Yours to keep. It's bilingual and answers all your questions."

  The cover says in English and Chinese: A Guide To Studying in America. Before I can look through the table of contents, Ed hands me another pamphlet. He reads the title aloud in Chinese: "Zhei Shi Mei Guo" - This Is America. Looking at back covers, I realize that the pamphlets are published by the United States Information Agency (USIA). "Not for resale" are printed on both. Ed extends his hairy white arms toward me, palms up, and asks, "Anything else, Sha-fei?"