by Vivian Yang
“Thanks a lot.”
I make the call in Shanghai dialect so that Ed can't understand. Lu Long’s roommate, also form Shanghai, tells me that Lu Long is still out. He has called the apartment earlier this evening to ask me to join him tonight for the fireworks display, apparently on impulse. Nor have I mentioned to him the existence of Ed for fear of making him jealous. I tell his roommate that I’m staying overnight at a friend’s in Manhattan and to tell Lu Long not to worry.
After I hang up, Ed walks out from the kitchen with a bottle of beer. “Ever tried a Sapporo?” he asks, flashing it before me.
“No. I never knew it’s also a brand of beer. I know Sapporo is a city in Japan.”
“That’s right. Some beers are named after the city in which they’re brewed.”
“Such as Tsingtao beer.”
“You just stole the line I was going to say. I wish they had a beer called Osaka.”
“That’s another Japanese city. Why? Do they have good mineral water?”
“No,” Ed laughs. “I happen to have a small fetish over Osaka. Here, try some.”
He pours a little Sapporo into a mug, then drinks the rest from the bottle. "Japanese silver bullet. My favorite. It's just as good as Tsingtao."
I stare at the mug. Its handle is a naked woman arching her curvaceous body backward in the shape of a bow. The mug reads "#1 Sex Instructor." My face reddens. “No beer, thanks. Just some water, please.”
Ed senses the need to explain. "A girl I know gave it to me as a joke."
I begin to feel chilly. Can he turn the air conditioner off, I request?
"You poor thing. Not accustomed to the good life. Come, let me show you my humble Asian collection. That'll warm you up."
There's no need for showing. Asian artifacts fill the place. A pair of ceramic lions guards the doorway to the bedroom. The bathroom has a life-size framed poster facing the toilet. Its caption: "Bang Kok!!!" The poster displays five bare buttocks. All lined up. All on heels. All tanned bronze. Bare buttocks coming out at you.
Track lights in the living room focus on paintings and Oriental artifacts. In a polished frame is an Ukiyo-e print of a beautiful courtesan in a colorful kimono with layered collars and sleeves, holding a landscape fan. A giant print of "Mao" by Andy Warhol towers over a cream-colored leather day bed. The "Mao," painted in 1972, wears a crooked half-smile on his light-brown lips, a matching Mao-tunic, all on a bright green background. How blasphemous! I can't help thinking. This rendition would have had the artist cut to pieces in China during the Cultural Revolution. The concept of Qian Dao Wan Gua comes to mind, the ancient capital punishment of dismembering a human being by applying a thousand knife wounds and ten thousand cuts.
I look away from "Mao" for the next attraction - a Chinese red lantern with a golden sash as chandelier. A Japanese sho-ji screen is a decorative partition. A red and white wall clock with the numbers one to twelve in Chinese characters. A painting titled "Yin-Yang Balance." It's supposedly part of the collection at "The Museum of Wanton Art/Paris/New York/Stockholm." The conventional black and white Yin-Yang sign is modified to depict a couple locked in a twisted position.
“You get it?” Ed asks from my side. “6, 9.”
“Meaning?”
“Want me to show you?”
My cheeks burn. "Oh! This is terrible!"
"'It's terrible!'" Ed imitates me in a shrieking voice. "I love the way you said that. You've got a lot of catching up to do in America, Sha-fei. Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"This!" Ed presses his moist tongue into my mouth. It tastes Sapporo and cigarettes. I try to push away, but he holds me tighter and tighter, his tongue rolling in my mouth. I feel drunk, my head reeling. Part dragging, part pushing, Ed leads me to the day bed and pins me there. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. You'll love this.”
Swiftly baring himself in front of me, he tears open a small paper square with his teeth and slides a filmy plastic bag onto himself. Thrilled and confused at the same time, I ask dreamily, “What’s that for?”
“Never seen a rubber? It’s for your protection, honey. I wouldn’t dare impregnate a civilized vestal virgin with my barbarian seeds, would I? Your ‘Uncle Gordon’ would kill me.” He pulls me over and takes off my clothes vigorously. Before I can fully orient myself, Ed penetrates me with a grunt. It happens so quickly, all I can do is to react physically. My limbs feel heavy. All my sensations are in the groin. In the crotch. I close my eyes and scream. When I open my eyes, I see "Mao" squinting down at me in a ghastly angle. "Mao" is not pleased. There is a flash of thought of Lu Long as well. He will be devastated.
But I can’t think straight at this moment. Ed has flipped me over, my weight on his hairy, sweaty torso. He situates me in a squatting position and shakes me until I cry out involuntarily, ecstatic. I can feel him loving me. Ed loves me!
The thermostat should have been at an even lower setting.
A-ahhhhh!
“Where did you spend the night?” bellows Lu Long.
Eyes downcast, I reply quietly, “With a friend.”
"What friend? Male friend?"
I can tell that Lu Long’s worst fears are confirmed. He waves his fist in the air and yells, "You. You! You ungrateful woman! How can you do this to me the third day you’re here? Who is he?"
I can’t stand looking at Lu Long‘s pain-filled eyes. Collecting myself, I tell him, “He’s an American I met in Shanghai. I’m afraid I’m in love with him.”
Lu Long's face turns purple. He shouts in disbelief, "Oh, Lao Tian Ye, my grand old heavens! In love! In love! And you never even mentioned him to me! You shameless cheap bones!"
“Stop using such harsh language, please, Lu Long. I know you’ve been good to me and I’m sorry for what happened. I don’t even know how it happened. But … but I think I’m attracted to him and … and he is very interested in China and Asian culture.”
“Nonsense! You’re not attracted to him because of his so-called interest in Asia. You’re attracted to him because he’s American. You think I’m just a poor, struggling student who’s not going to make it!”
“What are you talking about? Who thinks you’re not going to make it? We both are going to make it, Lu Long! And we knew it back when we were in China. This thing … this thing has nothing to do with how I see you. I have full confidence in you, Lu Long. This has to do with emotions. I’m just swept away. I suppose American men are aggressive and Chinese men are more patient and subtle. I’m very, very fond of you, and I want to be your best friend. But I’m sorry that’s all I can say right now!”
Lu Long pounds his fist on the table and asks, “Sorry? What’s the use for saying sorry? I’m sorrier than you are that you just want to get your Green Card the easy way. I must have been blind to be so infatuated by you! Guess what? As long as I stay alive, one day, I’m going to prove to the world that I am a real man, a worthy man. Just wait and see!”
“I never doubted that you are one, Lu Long. And please don’t be mistaken. I’m not trying to get a Green Card. I’m just … “
He interrupts me. “You know what? Two can play the game. Don’t think you’re the only one who can attract Americans. Sooner or later, I’ll have a Green Card of my own. I hope you don’t regret it then!”
I find it hard to talk to him. “Listen, this isn’t about Green Cards, Lu Long. Why can’t you understand? Anyway, I think it’s best that I leave here. Thank you for putting me up for several days. I have to go now!"
Lu Long is suddenly in tears. "Fine! Fine!” he sobs, “Go to your American boyfriend. From this point onward, Ni Zou Ni De Yang Guan Dao, Wo Zou Wo De Du Mu Qiao -- 'You stride on your thoroughfare, and I’ll cross my single-plank bridge.' Let our relationship be ‘cut into two by the knife at one stroke!’ -- Yi Dao Liang Duan. Let us go our separate ways." In the height of his emotions, he uses a string of Chinese idioms.
“Okay, ‘My well water will not intrude into your river water!’” I shoot
one of my own back at him. I drag my suitcase and the duffel and storm out without looking back.
From the pay phone at the entrance to the subway station I call Ed in a trembling voice: “Hello, Ed. Sorry to disturb you now. My friend was furious after he found out what happened between us last night. I can’t stay there anymore. I'm now at the subway station with my luggage. What should I do?"
Ed chuckles. "Ha, you feisty little thing! You got kicked out, eh. Don't you know a Chinese woman is supposed to be meek?"
"I'm in the fire and you're in the water! What should I do now?"
"What else? Get over here, I guess. That’s why you call me for, right? Don’t fool around with the subway at this hour. Get a cab!”
A recorded voice urges me to deposit more money for extra time. The line is then disconnected as I fumble in my pocket. I realize that I have about seven dollars left, not enough to get me from Brooklyn to Manhattan in a taxi. I have a subway token left. "Good for One Fare," it reads.
The elevator man helps me up with the luggage to Ed’s apartment. When Ed tips Alfredo with a five-dollar bill, I can't believe my eyes.
The apartment is devoid of yesterday’s charm. Salem cigarette butts are piled in the ashtray on the white, kidney-shaped coffee table. Ashtray with an American insignia. It looks familiar. I’ve seen the same type of ashtray in the Consulate in Shanghai.
"I'm so sorry I have to bother you."
"Don't be silly.”
A hug. No kiss.
The cigarette butts in the ashtray indicate that Ed has been thinking, perhaps about the prospects of his legal career. Copies of The National Law Journal, The American Banker, and The Wall Street Journal are scattered on the floor near the day bed.
Ed begins slowly, "Well, you realize I've just begun a hectic job at Sachs & Klein. So I won't be around much. You make yourself at home. Perhaps tomorrow, you could go check the Chinese restaurants in the neighborhood. Most of them open for lunch. I'm sure they could use a waitress who can speak decent English. The clientele here is mostly upper middle class. Your tips should be pretty good."
"You think I should work as a waitress? But it's against the immigration law for me to work."
Ed sinks onto the day bed and lights a Salem. “Let me tell you something about the law,” he says with a wry grin. "And this is from a freshly-minted lawyer. Law is interpretation, not strict science. Immigration law is no exception. The INS has a lottery program which gives some people permanent residency based on their luck. A famous New England politician has made a career out of sponsoring bills that get nothing but the Irish in. Now that's interpretation."
Lu Long has assumed that I’m in love with Ed because I want to marry him for my Green Card. I want to show Lu Long he’s wrong. I’ll get my Green Card on my own. "I'll enter the lottery then," I interject.
"Wait. I haven’t finished yet. Some countries are excluded from the lottery program. Your great socialist motherland, the People’s Republic of China, is among them. That's also interpretation."
I’m disheartened like a balloon deflating through a tiny hole. "What should I do, then? Knowingly violate the law?"
"Three golden rules of the immigration lawyer are: Interpretation. Interpretation. Interpretation. Remember this: as a rule, as far as the INS is concerned, foreigners are presumed guilty until they're proven innocent. That's why it'll be so much fun to work as an immigration lawyer. Everybody who shows up at your door is pretty much ready to lick your boots. You are their only hope. In turn, you get to lick some of these people's boobs afterwards." Ed laughs, sending smoke out of his mouth like a boiling kettle spout.
"What are you talking about?" I frown.
"Private joke. Anyway, what I meant was that you can't have your cake and eat it, too. You either find a way to survive or you return to China."
"I want to survive in America," I affirm without blinking my eyes.
"I know you do. That's why you should count yourself as lucky. You can stay here with me if you want. Now how many young women coming into New York can say that? I won't charge you rent. After all, you were so good last night."
I remember what Lu Long said about the rent in Manhattan: $1,000 a month for a one-room studio. Utilities not included. Roaches and rodents are.
A roof over one's head. It's never easy, be it Shanghai or New York. I know that better than most.
My apartment in Shanghai was one-third this size, and even for that pigeonhole, Stepfather had to intervene to keep it for me. But as the Chinese saying goes, "Golden residence, silver residence. None beats the dog's house that's dog's own."
I am silent.
Ed extinguishes his cigarette and smiles. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right." In one stride, he reaches over, lifts my blouse, cups my breasts, and starts squeezing. "You're in good hands," he laughs, sliding one hand down. Fingers in panties. "You're in good hands, Sha-fei," he repeats with a hysterical laugh. "You just don't know where they've been before."
I don't want to go to the nearby restaurants to look for a job as Ed suggests. I don't want to violate the law. I will be risking too much of my future in this country to violate anything.
I call Gordon's office again and get the same unfriendly woman. Gordon’s still out of town. This time, I managed to leave her Ed's number. But I said that Gordon should only call at daytime. When Ed is away at work.
I make my next call to Gotham University. A woman identifying herself as being on the pre-registration staff digs through the files and says, "I’m sorry, but due to the budget cut, the Political Science Department will not grant any assistantship in the Fall semester. There's nothing we can do."
I can't believe my ears. "I'm not qualified?"
"As a matter of fact, you are well qualified. But the department has no money. Well, good luck next semester." Click!
I feel like crying, but I hold back my tears. I didn't even cry when I left China after over twenty years. I didn’t cry when I left Lu Long. I won’t cry over this, either.
I am not alone. Many college graduates left China for American graduate schools as Zi Fei Sheng, or “self-sponsored students.” Unlike Gong Fei Sheng, our luckier, better-connected government-sponsored counterparts whose tuition and living expenses are provided by either the Chinese government or American host institutions, we self-sponsored students have to procure private funding ourselves. In my case, Gordon has provided me with an “Affidavit of Support” nominally guaranteeing my financial resources for two years. The key word here is “nominal,” often the condition for sponsors even to come up with the Affidavit. I was counting on receiving a scholarship from Gotham once I got here.
I think about Father’s last words: “Life is hard. Be strong and resourceful. …… Survive first. Then, thrive in this world.” Nobody ever promised it would be easy. Perhaps my consecutive setbacks upon arriving in New York are a test of my true character. Without a scholarship, I may not be able to afford graduate school, but my life in America is only beginning, and the future is bright.
So, I reconstitute myself as a woman around the apartment and the stove. I dust and cook for Ed. I feel I have to do something to show him my appreciation for taking me in.
The most eye-catching piece of item in Ed’s bedroom is a large, lacquer black framed print of Claude Monet’s “The Japanese Fan,” hung directly above his full sized futon bed. The painting depicts a Western woman in a full-length, red, quilted kimono with colorful embroideries of tree leaves and a samurai, holding a red, white, and blue tri-color fan and surrounded by a dozen of Japanese fans. It is a stunning treat to the eye.
On his bedside table, buried under the opened condom boxes of various brands and textures, I discover with embarrassment a book of Makura-e, or Pillow Book showing Japanese courtesans and their partners making love in 48 different positions. My heart races as I leaf through the pictorial. This must have been Ed’s bedside Bible. No wonder he seems to like things Japanese so much.
I’ve been prepari
ng a four-course Chinese meal since late afternoon, and now I'm waiting for Ed to return. Return to the dinner table with bowls and chopsticks and soy sauce dipping plates. He's just started a job, his first real job. I can understand if he has to work a little late.
It’s 8:30 p.m. when Ed walks in, suit jacket in hand, tie loosened, shirt collar open. No kiss. No hug. No noticing the spotless apartment. He kicks off his shoes and takes off his clothes, tossing them in the laundry basket as if throwing a frisbee. He drops down on the day bed and announces, "I'm beat. Is there any cold beer left in the fridge?"
"Sapporo or Tsingtao?"
"Whichever, for God's sake. This weather's killing me. And the cab I finally grabbed didn't have air conditioning. The Russian guy had the nerve to say it was broken. Can you believe it?"
"I'm sorry, Ed. Here's a bottle of Tsingtao for you. The dinner's ready when you cool down."
"Oh, you don't have to do that. I always order in."
"I thought I'd do something nice for you."
After tasting my dishes, Ed changes his mind. "Guess what? I could get used to this. It’s delicious. I didn't know you were such a good cook, too."
"I'm glad you like it. Now, I've got some bad news. Gotham really won't grant me an assistantship. It’s final. I called today."
Without looking away from his dish, Ed says, "Oh, really? They're getting more and more close-fisted now. When I was in law school a couple of years ago, even I got some kind of a grant despite my parents' net worth. I wrote in the application that my parents were divorced and I would be at an emotional disadvantage begging for tuition. And they bought it."
"I guess it’s different now.”
"Well," Ed shakes his head and goes on to talk in his lawyerly manner. "There are two sides to everything. The news is good and bad. Perceived the right way, it doesn't have to be bad. Now that you can't go to school, you can start doing research for me in the comfort of this apartment. Part of what you do will cover the cost of you living here: rent, food, entertainment, etc., so there will be no out-of-pocket expenses on your part. What do you say?"