Shanghai Girl

by Vivian Yang

  It stretches my patience to hear him out, then I ask, "Who says I'm not going to school? That's what I came to New York for. Besides, you said you were not going to charge me rent anyway. How come...? "

  "Wait. Wait. You can stay here for free. I'm just thinking that if you can't do anything else, I will get you something to do. In Shanghai you mentioned to me you were interested in law. I now have a perfect opportunity for you. You can do some immigration law research for me and that'll help your own immigration status."

  "But working is illegal. That's why I didn't go to any Chinese restaurants today, because I just don’t feel it's right."

  "Do you suppose that hanging around my apartment and not going to school is legal? The U.S. Immigration Law stipulates that the sole purpose of an F-1 visa holder's presence in this country is to be a full-time registered student in an accredited American institute of learning." Ed points his chopsticks at my nose for emphasis.

  "Then what can I do? Can you lend me the money to start? I'll return the full amount next semester. Maybe I can get a grant by then."

  As if I had asked the most ridiculous thing in the world, Ed leans back on his chair and breaks out laughing. "I can’t believe you would ask. I'm not the Chinese government providing zero-interest loans to its African brethren to promote 'proletariat internationalism.' The U.S. government charges interest when they give a college loan. And if you take out a loan from a bank, they'll charge you 12%. And they don’t lend money to foreign students or even Americans with no credit history. I don't have money to lend you. Nor will you have the money to repay me. You are what they call a bad credit risk.”

  I'm stunned by his bombardment. "I know you don't lack the money I'm trying to borrow. You just don't want to lend it to me, that's all. You've taken Shakespeare's advice too well - 'Neither a lender nor a borrower be.'"

  "What does Shakespeare have to do with this?"

  "I’m just using a line from Shakespeare to justify your actions. That’s all."

  "Quoting Shakespeare isn’t going to do you any good, you understand? New York is full of Shakespearean scholars driving cabs. Try to capitalize on your education by doing something practical. Make some money, for one. Get yourself a Green Card, for another. Working for me is an excellent start. You can never tell where our partnership can lead you. Okay?"

  I look blankly into Ed's eyes. The same green eyes that so enthralled me so recently.

  "So you won't lend me the money?"

  "I've already said it. I won't repeat it. Look, I'm exhausted. I'm going to take a shower and get some sleep." Ed pushes his rice bowl and the dishes away, stands up, and heads to the bathroom. I wipe the table and store the leftovers for my lunch tomorrow. Then I do the dishes. At least the warm tap water makes it easier.

  I can't sleep for the first half of the night. Ed's snoring. The 70F air-conditioning hissing. The ":" mark on the digital clock blinking: 1:12 a.m.,..., 1:30 a.m. ... .

  I am awakened in my dreams, choking. Ed didn't give me time to think. His hard and blood-congested flash has stuffed my mouth full.

  In the end, he kisses me. "Thanks, babe. I'll see you tonight. Don’t forget to check out the research library on Forty-second and Fifth."

  I glance at the clock: 7:53 a.m.

  I try hard to convince myself that the difference between Ed and Stepfather is that Ed seems to love me. He took me in when I most need love and advice. And I so want to be loved.

  I think of Lu Long. He loves me, too. And he would never treat me this way. I want to call him and let him know I miss him. But I remember his rage and jealousy. I don’t want to go back to him with a lost face.

  For now, I will forgive Ed because I still love him.

  11 Edward Cook: The Interlocution of an Interculturalist

  It is amazing how things you casually picked up along the way can seep into your consciousness when you least expect it. The magic of memory, I suppose. Ever since Sha-fei moved in with me – and I was really not given a choice – I’ve somehow been thinking about this Japanese saying: “A real man should not complain about the woman next to himself.” My own understanding of the saying is that if you can’t live with the woman and can’t live without her, learn to live with her. It must have been one of these Asian values I learned throughout my years as an East Asian Anthropology major at Gotham. It has trickled down to my system and found roots in me.

  The truth is that Sha-fei has barely been with me for a week and she is already getting on my nerves. And that’s where the Japanese men’s wisdom comes in. Of course it’s easier for the Japanese guy. The salariman’s woman would have his shirts and suits laundered and pressed, breakfast served, aisai bento “loving box lunches” prepared, house and tubs scrubbed, household shopping done, checkbook balanced, kids fed and tucked in, quilt and mofu blanket spread out, bath water heated, and she herself on bowing standby. I swear to God I won’t complain about such a woman being next to me.

  Alas, that’s not my luck. Chinese women are not Japanese, and on top of that Sha-fei is not an average Chinese. The Shanghainese are notoriously sophisticated and adaptable in order to sustain and prosper. One doesn’t have to look far from Mainland China to Hong Kong to realize how well the former Shanghainese have faired on the British colony. Fleeing the Communist takeover in the late 40’s, they have all but dominated the local economy within a few short decades. But with a little Ed Cook-style manipulation, I can even make Sha-fei a bit more obedient. After all, she owes a lot to me and knows on which side her bread is buttered. She will do anything to survive. Besides, she is a sucker for me right now.

  Perhaps I can keep her by my side happily, a la les japonais.

  It is surprising how few in the West can distinguish the Chinese from the Japanese. Take my own family, for instance. The Cooks certainly have had more than the average share of dealing with the Chinese, indeed over the past few generations. My old man, who at one point was madly in love with this Japanese woman Michiko, would be turned on by anything and everything Oriental. But even a guy like him can’t tell the difference between a Chinese, a Japanese, a Korean, a Vietnamese, or a Thai. He once thought a Thai was someone from Taiwan.

  I was determined not to have such silliness repeated in my own generation. So when my old man told me that the only condition for me to get that blank check for college was to get into Gotham, I took it, never doubting that I was going to be an Anthropology major focusing on East Asia.

  The main reason I was drawn to anthropology rather than history was the former disciple’s strong emphasis on naturalistic observation and interpretation of peoples. In short, I was attracted to the hands-on part of the promise. Within the broader confines of anthropology, however, it was and still is the cultural anthropological aspects, rather than physical anthropology, that most interest me, although I certainly cannot proclaim with a clear conscience that the real physical part of physical anthropology does not captivate me.

  In a way, I see my eventual pursuit of a law degree as a natural extension of my studies in East Asian anthropology, particularly, the cultural aspects: the social structure, language, law, politics, religion, art, and technology. The language alone is fascinating enough. The Chinese and the Japanese languages – deceivingly similar to an outsider largely due to the Japanese usage of the Chinese characters kanji – belong to fundamentally separate origins. One cannot be said to have mastered one or more of the East Asian languages without a thorough understanding of the underlying cultural context.

  Art is another such matter. On a personal level, it is nearly impossible to admire the beauty of a Japanese woman without an appreciation of the traditional garment that porcelain skin is wrapped under. It was therefore no coincidence that I fell in love with the elegance of kimono the first time I was in Japan, at a Kyoto festival, face to face with a kimono-clad girl. It was as if she was walking out of a Kitagawa Utamaro Ukiyo-e print, meticulously done up in this incredible piece of brocade of gold, red, and sky blue. A large,
matching square-shaped knot was tied in the back. This decorative knot on a kimono, I later learned, is a long sash known as the obi. The obi is regarded as the essential part of the kimono and can indeed be many times more expensive than the garment itself. Although still widely worn by the Japanese on social and ceremonial occasions, the kimono to me is a work of art first and a utilitarian outfit second. My passion for it is strictly aesthetic.

  Surprising even to myself, I had since started purchasing quality kimonos for fun and pleasure. I now owe three such valuable kimonos, two for woman and one for man, that I am sure are of collectable quality. I even joke about waiting for the call from the curator of Boston Museum’s Japanese collection to borrow them for exhibits.

  From the outset, the daunting price of a new kimono, easily a five figure U.S. dollars per piece, was out of the question for me. The trick is to obtain used ones in good conditions at a fraction of their original prices. Oftentimes, the Japanese are superstitious about owing an item that has been worn by a deceased individual, which was how I acquired my tie-dyed, gray silk man’s kimono. As with everything else in life, a fair amount of luck and a lot of persistence will always pay off.

  My visit to Japan is never complete without a few side trips to the flea markets in search of the perfect kimono. Not to have it to hang on a wall, but to let it bring myself to a higher state of mind.

  Although in this day and age, few would readily concur with the Rudyard Kiplingesque notion of “The White Man’s Burden.” Fewer still, as I do, can appreciate the enjoyment of being a white man who can actually sail through different cultures.

  The golden age for an interculturalist cum anthropologist cum lawyer has arrived.

  12 Sha-Fei Hong: A Chinatown Prescription

  Patience and Fortitude, the pair of sculptured lions flanking the marble-faced Beaux Arts New York Public Central Library on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street evokes a sense of home in me. In China, important edifices are often guarded by round-headed bronze or stone lions. Not since I arrived in America a week ago have I missed China. But now, standing on one of the 30 steps leading to the entrance in the middle of two Greko-Roman-looking beasts, I wish these heraldic lions couchant could look more benevolent. Back home, the mirthful and playful dancing lions atop a red and golden ball seen in the Shanghai Acrobatic Troupe performances are always associated with joy and celebration.

  I miss hearing my mother tongue of Shanghai dialect around me. I miss looking into Chinese eyes that would look back, unembarrassed, interested, perhaps even concerned. I miss ears that would listen and understand. Instead of going to the library to do research for Ed, I wish I were meeting Teacher Gao or even Aunt Cheng to find a solution to my dilemma: I don’t have the money to go to school, but I cannot not go to school and stay legally in the United States. Ed will not help me. Gordon is nowhere to be found. And Lu Long …

  But the moment I walk into the Library itself, I am taken with the beauty of my surroundings. Marble, marble, everywhere. Convinced that this is a world class landmark building, I begin a self-guided tour to each of the floors, where the First houses Current Periodicals, the Second, the Oriental Division, and the Third, the Main Reading Room, where the coffered ceiling is just about the most impressive architectural feats I have ever seen.

  It is on a cluttered shelf of the Asian languages periodical reading room that I spot The Chinese New Yorker. As if bumping into an old friend who had moved away from my own neighborhood, I read through a month’s worth of the daily Chinese language paper.

  The Chinese community in New York is a lot like the Lu Long’s surroundings in Brooklyn Chinatown. The paper features evaluations of clan associations, propagates the concept of bonesetters and acupuncturists, and prints the zodiac of the Chinese lunar year Yin calendar. The classified ads are a kaleidoscope of services: Buddhist retreats, Chinese schools, fortune telling, gun shops, herbal boutiques, Immigration assistance, Kung Fu studios, medical services, Oriental bridal connections, professional learning academies, restaurant supplies, social service organizations, shoe repairing, and Chinese-speaking guided tours of the Bronx Zoo.

  New York City’s Chinese community is a different world. It’s a country within a country. Instead of pleading with unsympathetic and preoccupied Ed, I should really turn to the Chinese community to get help. Someone in Chinatown should be able to help me. I will stay legal. I will survive! And who would be a better person to start talking to than Lu Long?

  I put my concern about face aside and drop a quarter into a pay phone. “Hello?” His voice comes through, sending ripples of electricity through me.

  “It’s me. … I’m so sorry. How have you been?”

  A long pause. “Fine,” he mutters. I can hear him breathe.

  “I’m at a pay phone, so I don’t want to talk too much. I … I just want to tell you I’m okay. … And I’m sorry I left like that last week.”

  His reply is like a quote from a classic romantic movie, “Sorry is unnecessary to your true friend. I’m just happy you called. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I hated myself for being so out of control. Please forgive me, Sha-fei.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I understand how you felt. I’m sorry I hurt you. I want to remain your friend.”

  “I’m so happy you called. Did you get the assistantship?”

  “That’s what I was going to tell you. I didn’t. And I’m so worried. I just read The Chinese New Yorker and was wondering if something could be done to help me.”

  Lu Long says in an excited voice, “Don’t worry, Sha-fei. All it means is that you can’t go to school right now. It might be just as well. You can earn some money and lay a good foundation. You can start over next year!”

  “But I’ll lose my status.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you what to do.“

  “I’m at a pay phone the main public library. I think my time is up.”

  “Give me your number, and I’ll call you back.” And he does.

  “Sha-fei,” he says, “I know someone who had a similar problem. Then he got a prescription from Chinatown and everything was smooth-sailing afterwards.”

  “A prescription from Chinatown?” I ask.

  “Sure.” He elaborates. I listen with excitement and fear, peering constantly to make sure no eavesdroppers are waiting, as though I were still in a public telephone shack in Shanghai and the average New York library-goer were an INS informant who understands Shanghai dialect perfectly.

  “I have to go, Lu Long. Thank you so much for the information. I’ll call you again soon and let you know what happens.”

  Hesitation on his end. At the end of the pause, he manages to ask, “Are you still in love with the American?”

  A tingling sensation surges up my nose. I feel like crying. “I … I can’t talk about this over the phone, Lu Long. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you give me your phone number?”

  “I’ll call you soon. After I go to Chinatown, I’ll call you, and we’ll get together. I promise.”

  There is a crack in his voice: “Sha-fei, whatever you do when you close your eyes, just remember I’m still waiting for you. Good luck.” He hangs up before I can say anything else.

  Whatever I do when I close my eyes.

  Would I think about Lu Long the next time Ed makes me close my eyes?

  "B-e-e-e-e-p ... "

  Ed’s phone rings later that afternoon when I am in a reflective mood. I wait until Ed’s answering machine message plays out. I have been told not to answer the phone.

  "Oh, hello," a deep, male comes through. "My name is Lou. I'm calling for Miss Sha-fei Hong, from China. If this is the correct number, please ... "

  I snatch the receiver. "Uncle Gordon! It's me, Sha-fei! How are you?”

  "Oh, not bad. Just got back from a trip. Sorry I missed your arrival. How are things?"

  "Fine. Still getting my bearings. I’d like to see you, if possible.” "For you, it’s always possible,” Gordon replies with a l
augh. “Where are you staying?"

  “I’m actually over at Ed Cook’s place. We met him at the Consulate in Shanghai, remember? And we’re now friends." Recalling Gordon’s confrontation with Ed in Shanghai, my voice falters a bit.

  "Oh?” Gordon pauses for a second. “I was under the impression that he was stationed in Shanghai."

  “Only temporarily. He was an intern there. Then he went to Tokyo for a while. But now he’s a lawyer in New York.”

  “I see.” Gordon’s tone falls flat. “I didn’t know you were planning to see him in New York.”

  “I didn’t come here just to see him. Things didn’t quite turn out the way I expected. I didn't get the assistantship from Gotham University, so I'm really worried right now."

  “I told you things wouldn’t be easy. What do you plan to do?”

  “I don’t have any concrete plan yet, but I’ll do everything possible to stay legal. If I could register for the fall semester, things will be okay. Unfortunately, I have no funds.”

  I was secretly hoping that Gordon would offer to loan me some money to tide me over. Asking directly would be face losing, as I have vowed not to use his money once I come here. But Gordon didn’t respond to that. He said instead, "Don't panic. We can work out something for you if you are willing to be flexible. When can you stop by my office?”

  “Any time you’re free, Uncle Gordon.”

  “I’m never free. Hold on a second. Let me check my calendar with Lotus.”

  I wonder whether Lotus is the woman who answered my calls to Gordon.

  “Okay, Sha-fei. Why don't you come here at four-thirty tomorrow? I'll spend some time with you then."

  "That's wonderful. I can’t wait to see you, Uncle Gordon."

  "Same here. See you tomorrow."