by Vivian Yang
Bracing myself, I reply, "Yes. I have specific questions about getting a scholarship."
Ed emits a low whistle and says with a laugh, "Every single Chinese I've spoken to wants to know about scholarships. What's your major?"
"Political Science."
Ed shakes his head. "Unless you are some kind of a science whiz, few schools will give you a scholarship."
"Really?!"
"Trust me." Ed's words come out from between his teeth with the half-consumed cigarette hanging on a corner of his mouth.
None of what he said is news to me. I knew all along how hard it would be for students of liberal arts to get scholarships compared to science majors. Lu Long got his scholarship because of his field, although his English was nowhere close to my level. But I am not someone who gives up easily. "Do you mean there is absolutely no hope of getting a scholarship?"
"Oh, I didn't say that. Sometimes you get lucky. If I were the director of admissions, I couldn't wait to offer you a scholarship. Unfortunately, I'm not."
A spell of silence ensues. My perspiring hand is leaving a damp imprint on the cover of A Guide To Studying In America. With Lu Long in mind, I ask, "What if I changed my major to Applied Mathematics? Would I get a scholarship then?"
"Your odds are definitely better, if you can handle math. You may also be required to take undergraduate MATH 101."
“But I’m not good with figures,” I shake my head.
“I think you have a great figure,” Ed laughs.
“What do you mean?”
Ed dismisses my question, saying, “Never mind. It’s a joke. Anyway, if you put your mind to it, you'll survive just fine in America even without a scholarship. You can tutor Chinese to guys like me. You can serve Chinese or Japanese food in restaurants to guys like me. Strictly speaking, you're not supposed to work as a foreign student. But many people do it and the INS can't catch them all. By the way, this is off the record."
"The INS?" I ask.
"Yeah. The Immigration and Naturalization Service. They deal with people like you if your pretty face ever shows up in the U.S.," says Ed, his face lights up. “Why do you want to go to the U.S. anyway?"
I've rehearsed the answer to this question as well. I announce, "I want to study in the Western advanced countries so that I can apply the skills and knowledge I learn abroad to help modernize our socialist motherland upon my return."
Ed's head is shaking like a pendulum. "Liar, liar, you tricky little liar. Don't give me this official line. Tell me the real reason you want to leave China."
It could be his youthfulness that disarms me. It could be his informal approach. Maybe it’s his knowledge of China. It could simply be because he's American. Whatever the reason, I find myself opening up to Ed. But not without conditions. "I'll tell you if you promise to help me go to America."
Ed laughs, walking towards me. "I can't believe this, Sha-fei. You're too hot for me to handle. Listen, you tell me first, and I'll see what I can do. One thing at a time, okay."
"Okay," I agree, swallowing. "Why do I want to leave? I want to live to the fullest what life can offer to an educated young person of our times. I think opportunities in China are limited while America is known to be the land of opportunities. Besides, I have personal reasons which I won't tell you."
"And I won't ask," answers Ed. "How determined are you to survive in America? You know you'll have to endure a lot of hardships when you leave home."
I look directly at Ed and vow, "No matter how hard it will be, I'll make it."
He takes a final draw on his cigarette and butts it in an ashtray with an American insignia. "Good. If you're psychologically prepared, we can talk about some practical issues. Which schools are you thinking of applying to?"
I haven't thought about that yet. "I don't care as long as it's in New York. I know somebody who lives there. I have another friend who is doing his M.S. at the University of Flatbush in Brooklyn."
"Stick to Manhattan. There's nothing good in Brooklyn. You now know someone else from New York. I'm a Manhattanite, born and raised," Ed says with a wink. "New York is a heck of a town, and a city girl like you will have a ball there."
"So which school in Manhattan do you recommend?"
"That depends on what you want to study. If you want to stick to political science, I'd say check out Gotham University. In fact, Gotham's pretty good at almost everything. For me to spend seven years there, it has to be good."
"I'll apply to Gotham University, then."
"Good. Although I have to warn you that it's difficult to find a job with a political science degree. In New York, they don't even let foreign women with a degree in political science drive a cab."
"Really?"
"Got’ ya," Ed chuckles happily. "I was just kidding. Most cab drivers in New York don’t speak English too well. Your English is already too good to be a cab driver. But seriously, a political science degree is not a practical degree like a J.D."
"What's a J.D.?"
"Latin for Juris Doctor. It's what I have, a law degree."
"Oh, you're a lawyer?" I exclaim. "My father almost studied law in America."
"Is that right?" Ed asks with his eyebrows raised. "Did he end up not going to the U.S.?"
"Yes, he did. But he changed his major from law to engineering, thinking the latter would be more useful to China."
"And he returned to China afterwards?"
"Yes, in the early 1950's, long before I was born."
"A mistake on his part!" Ed sighs.
"You're right." Then, gathering up my courage, I ask, "So you've agreed to help me get to New York, Ed?"
Ed comes over and sharply tweaks me in my waist. "Did I say that? You know what? A nice Chinese girl is not supposed to be this persistent."
I immediately ease away from him and peer at the open door to see if anyone was watching, but I see no one. I turn to Ed and say, "You scared me."
With a hearty laugh, Ed describes me with a Chinese idiom: "You're a true Jing Gong Zhi Niao - a birdie startled by the mere twang of a bow-string. I love it!"
"That is not funny," I chide.
Ed suddenly becomes melancholy. "It's sad that wonderful young women like you are brought up to be so stiff. Ever heard of the word ‘affection’?" he asks.
I stare at him, motionless.
"I wish someone could show you," Ed mutters, lighting another Peony cigarette.
"Why do you smoke Chinese brand cigarettes instead of the '555' like all the rest of the foreigners in Shanghai do," I ask, changing the subject.
"How many so-called 'foreigners' do you know?"
"You're the only one I ever had a conversation with," I admit. "I don't know any foreigners in Shanghai. I just think they all smoke Triple Five because it's the best."
Ed laughs. "As a matter of fact, unlike here in China, where there’s only one flavor of ice cream - vanilla, people in the West have many brands of cigarettes to choose from. The Triple Five happens to be one that's popular in Hong Kong, I guess, because it's British. I don't care for it myself. When it comes to cigarettes, I like to try out local products, at least once. They're cheap and sometimes have the taste one can truly savor." Inhaling a deep draw, Ed gives me a consuming stare and declares, "Do in Asia as the Asians do. By the same token, whenever I'm in Asia, I first check out the lay of the land. You got it?" He laughs at his own joke, which I didn't get. I'm not sure why he stressed the word "lay."
"Then I try out local products, and finally I try to learn the language. It's like one, two, three. It's fun." He coughs as smoke comes out of his mouth. I smile for no reason. This must be the way an American lawyer talks, I think. Everything is one, two, three. Orderly, organized, logical.
"In China, political science and the law have close connections. Is that the case in the U.S.?" I ask.
Frowning, Ed answers slowly, "I suppose there's some overlap. Why?"
"Do you think it would make sense for me to apply to law school in Americ
a?'
Ed nods his head up and down, considering. "At this point," he begins slowly, "I would recommend against it. The most obvious reason is that you need to take an entrance examination called the LSAT - the Law School Admissions Test, which is not offered in China. No law school will consider your application until your LSAT score is submitted. So you have a dilemma there." Ed pauses to take a hard draw on the cigarette. "However, if you're truly interested in law, I won't rule out the possibility that you could work in the legal field without having to go to law school."
"How so?"
"Well, you are Chinese and speak good English. You can use your bilingual skills to work for American lawyers with an Asian clientele. But you have to be in America first."
"I thought it's the rule that foreign students can't work in America."
"True,” he says. “That's why I think your best bet right now is to apply to a graduate program, and not to law school."
Ed glances at his watch and straightens his tall frame. "Okay, Miss Hong,” he says in a businesslike tone, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope I've been helpful. Good luck." He transfers the cigarette to his left hand and extends his right hand toward me.
Wishing he weren't concluding our meeting so abruptly, I walk over to shake his hand. The tip of his little finger pinches into my palm slightly as he gives my hand a tight squeeze. Blushing, I avert my eyes from his, which are shining like a pair of green marbles.
"Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Cook. By the way, could you give me your address so that I can contact you if I reach New York?"
Ed opens a gilded cardholder marked "E.J.C." and says, "I gave up my apartment in the city before I came to the Far East so I'll just give you this one with the Consulate address. If you're in New York, call information. I should be listed. Okay?"
His card, in black raised letters, reads:
Edward Jonathan Cook, III (Kwok Ai-teh)
J.D.; B.A. - Asian Studies
Special Aide, U.S. Consulate General
Shanghai, P.R. China
Immediately below is a rubber stamp imprint of the Consulate address and phone number.
I touch the surface of the card with care, feeling important. This is the first time I have received a business card from someone. From an American!
The phone on Ed’s desk rings. I hear him answer, “We’re winding up here. But you can let him stop by.” To me, he says, “I didn’t know you came with your uncle.”
“Well, he’s not my real uncle. He’s my American uncle.”
“I see. I know you Chinese call everybody uncles and aunts. I’m your American cousin, then,” he laughs.
“But my uncle is Chinese-American.”
“Is he?”
Just then, Gordon appears at the door and knocks lightly. “May I come in?”
“Certainly,” says Ed, walking up to shake Gordon’s hand.
“I’m Gordon Lou. I came with Sha-fei.”
“I’m Ed Cook. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lou. You have a very intelligent and attractive niece, I have to say.”
“Thank you. That’s my opinion of her, too. I just met her a couple of days ago here in Shanghai. She is the daughter of an old friend of mine.”
“So you’re visiting from the States?”
“Yes, from New York. First time back in Shanghai in three decades. Shanghai is unrecognizable now.”
Ed studies Gordon then asks suddenly, “This may sound odd to you, but would you by any chance be related to a woman named Irene Lou? Irene Long Lou?”
Gordon’s face changes expression sharply. “Of course! I’m her father.” His body tenses. “And you’re that Ed Cook?!”
“I sure am, Mr. Lou. I’m sorry that you seem to …” Ed makes an attempt to shake Gordon’s hand again but is ignored. His face turning pale, Gordon says, “I don’t want to hear anything from you. I just can’t believe I could bump into you here!”
Ed forces a smile. “Yes. In Shanghai, of all places.”
“Yuan Jia Lu Zhai, indeed,” Gordon blurts out in Chinese. To Ed’s somewhat confused look, Gordon adds sarcastically, “I’m certain a connoisseur of Chinese culture like you will know the idiom - ‘Enemies are bound to meet in a narrow alley!’ Our confrontation is inevitable. It’s just a matter of time.”
“That’s right!” Ed raises his voice. “’One cannot avoid his enemy’ is what the idiom means. But I hardly viewed you as a nemesis, Mr. Lou. No matter what you think of me, I cared about your daughter! I still think about her from time to time. By the way, how is she doing?”
Gordon waves his hand, ignoring his question. “We have to get going. For whatever advice you gave Sha-fei, I thank you. And good day!”
One hand held by Gordon, I clutch the two pamphlets with my free hand and give Ed one last look. My confused eyes are met by Ed’s own viridescent ones, hazy yet somehow clear to me. “Thank you, Ed!”
"Good luck, Sha-fei,” he calls after me.
Gordon released my hand at the corridor, but remains silent until we get out of the Consulate gate. The anger on his face eases a bit as he says, “I’m sorry I had to cut your visit with him short, Sha-fei. I just didn’t expect this!”
“That’s all right, Uncle Gordon. Thank you again for taking me there. I’m sure that these pamphlet I got are going to be very useful.”
He takes a look at my pamphlets and offers to store them in his briefcase. I’m again impressed by his gentleman-like behavior.
With eyebrows knotted, he asks, “Would you like to accompany me for a quick walk near the Bund?” he asks.
“Certainly, Uncle Gordon.”
“Thank you.”
He hails a taxi and tells the driver, “Beijing Road East and the Bund.”
Gordon and I sit quietly side by side, neither talking. A moment later, drawing me closer to him in the unheated car, Gordon takes off his black leather glove and cups my hand. That split second, I have the strangest thought that it was Father holding Marlene Koo’s hand in a taxi in New York over three decades ago. But then, Gordon puts my hand down. “I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice.
As we stroll along the Bund waterfront promenade, I make an effort to dispel my wild associations and concentrate on the view: The lazy winter sun covers the Huangpu River with a golden sheet. Ferries, man-oared junks, tenders and ocean-going jumbos dance on the gilded stage that is the Huangpu, making up a scene I have so taken for granted in my twenty-one years in Shanghai. The solemn neo-classical architecture is reminiscent of a colonial age. It looms over me with a stately Egyptian grandeur. Even the piercing wind feels refreshing. Like the house that still stands on the former avenue Joffre, which I now look at with the sentiment of a passer-by rather than that of a one-time resident, the mesmerizing city of Shanghai just seems to be there for me. It is part of my system that I don’t know exists unless somehow reminded.
The same sight seems to have brought Gordon out of his sullen mood and thrown his into nostalgia. “Ah, the Honkers and Shankers Building is right here,” he says, looking at a domed structure.
“Oh. This is the seat of the Shanghai Municipal People’s Government.”
“At one point, it was the headquarters of the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation, popularly dubbed as the Honkers and the Shankers,” he says. “They have branches throughout Hong Kong, as well as in New York.”
“Is that so?” I ask. “I’ve never heard of this bank before.”
Gordon looks at me and says, “I’m afraid there’re a lot of things you haven’t heard of, Sha-fei. The other day, the taxi I was in passed by the Outer White Ferry Bridge - a familiar city landmark to you, I’m sure. But I became emotional in spite of myself. I was reminded of the days in the early 40’s when the Japanese soldiers guarded the bridge and beat up Shanghai civilians.”
“That was during WWII, right?”
“Yes,” says Gordon. “I can never overcome my resentment towards the Japanese because of the War, not in my lifetime. Ironical
ly, in America nowadays, people are equally anti-Japanese. But that’s for economic reasons. So, as Chinese in America, we are often mistaken for Japanese. Ridiculous.” He shakes his head and continues, “Americans are so ignorant and they get away with being perpetually ignorant!”
I listen without comment, believing that he’s still upset about his confrontation with Ed Cook, and therefore, criticizing Americans in general.
At noon, the loudspeakers from on top the Customs House begin to broadcast “Red Is the East,” as they do at the beginning of every hour. Unconsciously, I hum along with what is the most familiar tune in my life:
Red is the East, rises the sun,
China was blessed with a Mao Zedong.
For the people’s happiness He works,
Hu-er-hei-yo
He’s our great liberator!
……
The Communist Party is like the sun,
Illuminates every corner where it shrines.
Wherever exists the Communist Party,
Hu-er-hei-yo
People there’ll be liberated!
“What’s that?” asks Gordon.
“You’ve never heard of ‘Dong Fang Hong -- Red Is the East’? This is the song one billion Chinese sing to eulogize Chairman Mao, the Red Sun of the East!”
His eyes drawn to the Customs House clock tower, Gordon appears to be hypnotized by the simple, repetitive folk melody. When the music dies down, he sighs. “They used to be the Big Ben Westminster chimes. How everything has changed! I feel like an alien in my native land. Unfortunately, I sometimes feel like an alien in my adoptive land as well.”
“You mean in America?”
“Yes. Let me tell you this, Sha-fei, you have to be very determined and prepared if you really want to go to the States. It will be a trip of no return. Home will never be as sweet again.”
“I still want to go, Uncle Gordon. Home isn’t sweet at all now. Besides, I won’t know what it’s like to live in America until I go there. Otherwise, I may regret forever that I might have become more successful had I left home.”
“You saw my reaction after seeing that American boy earlier. I believe I know who his father is, as well. Part of my worry for you going to the States is that a man like him … , well, let me put it this way: young, innocent women from Chinese families often cannot resist Western temptations. Irene fell in love with that man as soon as she entered college. She had been a top student at Stuyvesant High, a top public school in New York. But she ended up hanging around with young men who lacked ambition, experimented with drugs, and embraced liberal causes. It was that Ed Cook who had led her astray in the beginning.”