by Vivian Yang
I have a feeling that Gordon’s attitude toward me has changed because I’m staying with Ed now. Or could it be something else?
I look around Ed’s apartment, my eyes meeting those of "Mao"’s. Disapproving as ever.
“Evening Pearls, Inc.” is situated at the corner of Seventh Avenue and 40th Street. The four-story building looks like one solid concrete slab. The large freight elevator opens up directly into the reception area. A young woman with a typical Cantonese appearance is sitting at the desk, working on an electric typewriter. She has relatively large eyes and long hair like mine. Her protruding cheekbones are awkwardly covered by her dark skin. Layers of shining, 24K gold jewelry covers her earlobes, wrists, and neck. Her feet, in inch and a half black heels, appear tiny even in proportion to her small frame.
"Good afternoon, miss. I'm Sha-fei Hong. You must be Lotus, right?”
The woman tilts her head slightly and says, “Yes.”
"I have a 4:30 appointment to see Mr. Lou."
“I know,” Lotus says, glancing at her watch. "You’re a little early, Miss Hong. Take a seat, and I'll let Mr. Lou know you're here."
I sit on one of three red leather armchairs and study the reception area, noting the matching red, cylindrical reception desk at which Lotus sits and the ample space surrounding it. A tall, silver and neon sign mounted on the wall behind her states the firm’s name. Ceiling lights from a semi-circular track focus on the reception desk, making Lotus look like a TV anchorperson flanked by two original columns in the building. I suddenly wish I were sitting on that seat on center stage. I remember having admired Lotus for the way she handled my first two phone calls to Gordon. Now that I have met her in person, I feel certain that I, too, can manage the spotlight if given the opportunity.
“The Boss will see you now,” Lotus announces. “His office is the last one to your right."
I thank her and go through the corridor where stacks of open boxes of documents line one side of the wall. It seems that Gordon is in the process of moving them. On the other side, through the sweeping one-piece glass window, I can see a huge workshop with high ceilings. Many people, almost all of them women, are bending over sewing machines. Others are manning the 40-foot long pattern-cutting monsters whose roaring sound can be heard even with the partitioning window.
The door to Gordon's office is open. I knock and enter. Gordon stands up from his desk and comes to hug me. "Sha-fei! Welcome! Do sit down."
He points to one of the two red velvet armchairs facing him and says, "Let me ask Lotus to get you something to drink. A soft drink, green tea, or coffee?"
"No, no. You don't have to bother. I'm really fine. The air-conditioning will cool me down quickly. I'm so glad to see you again, Uncle Gordon. You look splendid."
"Thank you for your golden and pearly words,” Gordon says with a smile and walks to the door to close it. Returning, he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “So, new to America and no money to go school, aye?”
I shift my weight to make his hand go and say, "Yes. New to America and already hit by harsh reality. I did try to raise some funds for the fall semester, but wasn't successful."
"'Raise some funds.' What big words," Gordon laughs. “I could use someone who is a fund-raiser. How did you do that?”
I turn red. "What I meant was borrowing money. Unfortunately, I failed."
“Who were your targeted philanthropists?”
“Oh, please, Uncle Gordon. There is no philanthropist. I just hope you don’t scold me after you hear this. I was trying to borrow money from Ed Cook.”
“What?! Why didn’t you talk to me about it first?”
“I would have, but I called several times and you were not in.”
Gordon stands in front of my chair with arms folded and asks, “Is that why you’re staying in his place?”
“Why? No! That has nothing to do with it.”
Gordon waves his hand impatiently and returns to his desk. He spreads his arms on the desk like an A frame as if supporting himself with it. “The school situation aside – that we can work out, why are you staying at his place?”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Gordon. I know you disliked him. But I … I find him an interesting person. He loves Chinese and Japanese cultures. I don’t blame him for not wanting to lend money to me. Nobody is obligated. I just wish I could work to earn my own.”
Gordon pushes himself away from the desk and sinks down on his chair. “You’ve come to the right person if wanting to work is your goal.”
“You mean … you can find me work?”
He nods, displaying a controlled smile.
“But what if Immigration found out?”
“We’ll make sure it’s legal, but you’ll have to work on my terms, Sha-fei.”
“What are they?”
Gordon removes his bifocal glasses and meticulously folds the frame. The gentle clicking sound is followed by what seems a long silence. Then he says, “As new immigrants, we all have to pay our dues. Because of our special relationship, Sha-fei, I’ll give you a break and let you work on a project for me on a trial basis. The $500 monthly allowance should cover your basic expenses. How does that sound?”
“Would I lose my legal status if I work for you?”
Gordon sounds impatient. “Everything will be taken care of by my lawyers if you agree to my terms. Do you?”
“I guess I do.”
“You’d better. You know the Chinese phrase ‘Like a mouse falling into the rice vat and not realizing his fortune’? Well, you’re the mouse, my darling. Most people would kill for such an opportunity.”
“I appreciate that, Uncle Gordon. What are my specific duties?”
Gordon displays a big smile and says, “Now, that’s my girl! Your duties are to provide me with analyses and updates on the status of the Chinese community in the Greater New York area. You were a political science major in China, so you should know how to do research. You don’t have to come in here. I’ve got no office space for you, and you’re really not on Evening Pearl’s payroll. All I want is a weekly written report in Chinese on relevant topics. After I read it through and make changes in it, you can translate it into English and Lotus will type it out. Do you think you can handle that?”
“No problem, Uncle Gordon. As a matter of fact, I’ve already begun to do some research on immigration for Ed at the New York Public Library.”
Gordon gathers his thick black eyebrows. “What for? Is he an immigration lawyer?”
“Not yet. But he hopes to become one someday.”
Gordon sneers, “Let me know if he ever becomes something real. So how is he treating you?”
I shrug, avoiding eye contact.
Gordon pulls at the knot of his tie and loosens his first shirt button. He says in a deep voice, “If we were still in China, I’d tell you to stay away from that scoundrel. But here in America, I can’t tell you what to do because you are an adult. You’re supposed to have your own sound judgment, make your own choices, and bear the consequences. As someone who was once a friend of your father, I just want to remind you that my daughter was ruined in the hand of this man.”
I look up into his eyes and reply, “Thank you for your advice, Uncle Gordon. But I think I know what I’m doing. Anyway, thanks for everything. I’ll be a good worker for you.”
“That I’m not concerned about. One last thing. You need to make a trip down to Chinatown, and Lotus will take care of that for you. It’s for your legal status transition.”
“That’s right! A friend of mine told me that some doctors in Chinatown do that for foreign students,”
Gordon casts me a surprised look. “I have to watch you, Sha-fei. You’re a sponge sucking up everything.”
I just smile at him.
Gordon presses a button and talks into a speakerphone, “Yeah. We’re done. You can go ahead and make the arrangement with Sha-fei, as discussed.”
He gives me a tight hug. “I care a lot about you, Sha-fei,” he says.
Then he lets go.
Lotus is late.
As I stand waiting under the golden arches sign on Canal Street, I re-examine the slip of paper Lotus gave me yesterday upon my departure from Gordon’s office. “Dr. Winchester Hom, 222½ Canal Street, Room 5. 1 p.m.” The Chinatown in America is so different from China itself. McDonald’s, the famous American institution I only heard of in China, is here known in Chinese as "Mai Dang Lao," or "Wheat Should Be Old." Who did such weird translation?
So this is the world depicted in The Chinese New Yorker. Merchants with storefronts looking like the China of the past century. Peddlers hawking in a dialect I cannot comprehend. Pedestrians lugging plastic bag after plastic bag of groceries. Truck-drivers bargaining with the Chinese proprietors in vernacular English. Hustle and bustle. The Middle Kingdom in the middle of democracy.
I observe this world with fascination. My research for Gordon will be focused here, this social and cultural center of the Chinese-American community, this country within a country new immigrants are most attracted to.
At one twenty, Lotus emerges from under the subway stairs. All she says is “Just follow me and do as I say. Dr. Hom is going to give you a brief check-up. If he asks where you are going to school, say out-of-state. And you're staying with relatives here for the summer before going to school in the fall. That's enough. They just want to know you're not admitted by a school in New York so that Immigration wouldn't check that far."
"Then?"
"Chances are he'll issue you a health certificate. You’ll be all set. The Boss’s lawyers downtown will handle the rest."
The sign on Dr. Hom's door is in both English and Chinese: "Winchester Wing-Wah Hom, M.D., Internist." His Chinese given name means “Forever China.”
Lotus says “Hello” to the doctor's receptionist and hands her several $20 bills. The girl nods and glances at me. She then attaches a note to a folder. She and Lotus start chatting vigorously in Cantonese as if I and several other elderly Chinese patients were not present. Not understanding their conversation, I turn my eyes to the waiting area. Two mice race through the cracked wood floor toward a withered indoor plant.
It must be because Lotus is a friend of the receptionist that my turn comes before everybody else’s. “I’ll go in with you,” says Lotus matter-of-factly.
Dr. Hom is a short, skinny man probably in his early forties. He peers at the note on the chart and asks, "You've been sick since you came to the U.S., eh?"
"Yes. Tired all the time," I answer, realizing why Lotus has taken me here.
"Sometimes dizzy?"
"Occasionally," I reply, continuing to play along with the scheme.
"And periods irregular?"
I blush. "Ye-yes."
"Okay, I'll write a note for you to send to your school. By the way, is your school in New York State?"
"No. It's out-of-state."
Dr. Hom doodles something on his prescription pad and whisks me out.
"Thanks, Doctor Hom," Lotus calls behind him. He grunts something but doesn't turn.
I read the note with trembling hands: "Patient Sha-fei Hong suffers from chronic fatigue and hormonal disorder. Intensive coursework not recommended."
Lotus snatches the paper from my hand and declares, “I’ll hold on to it. We’ll send a copy to your school’s admissions office and they’ll give you written permission not to register for the semester.”
“Thank you for your help, Lotus.”
She has turned her back to me to thank the receptionist.
"You're always welcome, Lotus. Brainy called earlier to say you were coming,” the girl says in English.
“He did?”
“Yeah. He said the Chairman says to call again any time if your boss needs anything.”
I wonder who else besides Chairman Mao is also known as the Chairman. Lotus’s facial expressions warn me that questions are not welcome.
I call Lu Long from a pay phone on Mulberry Street to inform him of my new situation. His roommate takes the message. “Please tell him everything is fine now,” I say, not giving out Ed’s phone number.
13 Sha-Fei Hong: No More Sewing Others’ Trousseau
A typical day of mine now passes like this: in the morning, I am awakened to Ed’s pre-shower routine, prepare breakfast, clean up the mess in the apartment, and lock up and leave. I walk a couple dozen blocks north on Fifth Avenue until I reach the NYPL’s Research Library.
I always slow down when passing the intersection of the Fifth and Broadway to look up at the majestic limestone building, the Flatiron. It brings Shanghai to my mind. Shanghai’s Flatiron stands not too far from our old house on Ave. Joffre. Built by the French in the 1920’s, it used to be called the Intersavin Society Apartments. My closest association to it is growing up taking the No. 26 trolley bus to Huaihai Road Central station, and going shopping at the Flatiron’s ground floor arcades. The Shanghai Food Products Factory Ltd., my favorite store for food in entire Shanghai, is located there. I would buy snacks such as preserved duck liver, honeyed dates, dried hawthorn flakes, and chocolate and cream waffles. The Flatiron in Shanghai has given me some of the rare, sweet memories of a childhood spent in exile away from the section of the city I was born. The Flatiron here in New York does not have my favorite food store. Seeing it also reminds me of reality. Reaching the Flatiron means I am halfway through my hike to Mid-town, and the Library is just another ten blocks away.
Once at the Library, I spend much of the day doing research for Gordon and for Ed. Ed has no idea I’m working for Gordon as well, and Gordon doesn’t want to hear the word “Ed” mentioned. I take my lunch break at about 12:30, buying a can of soda and a $1 hot-dog with everything on it from the cart of an Egyptian street vendor stationed at the corner of 42nd and Fifth. Often chewing and walking simultaneously, I head west to a newsstand selling papers and magazines from all over the world. I do some more reading here before returning to the Library.
At around five, I walk back to Ed’s apartment to cook, clean, and getting ready for the evening.
Once a week, I see Gordon in his office for about an hour to update him on my research. In gleaning through volumes like the Almanac of American Politics, America Votes, or The Congressional Quarterly Researcher, I've found that issues confronting the Asian-American public are not only related but also inseparable. Statistical analyses of presidential, gubernatorial, and congressional elections and public opinion poll results reflect the changing faces of America. Different cultural and ethnic groups' involvement in the political processes significantly correlates with their immigration pattern and degrees of assimilation.
I rely heavily on The Chinese New Yorker for my research for the two men. For the most part, the condition of immigrants from mainland China, the primary target of Ed's potential clientele base, is very bleak. Many recent immigrants came to America without knowing what they were getting into. Many more want to come, as demonstrated by this advertisement:
FAIR MAIDEN SEEKS GOOD HUSBAND
Untouched Chinese beauty, 23, 5'2", high school
grad., Sino-Western joint venture employee,
pretty, gentle, domestic, excellent cook. Seeking
established man, 50-, US citizen or Green Card.
I feel sorry for whoever placed this ad for the Chinese girl, and for the girl herself. I also found a different one on the same classified page that I thought would be of interest to Ed, so I xeroxed it to bring home to show:
IMMIGRATION LAWYERS WANTED
N.Y.C. law firm seeks attorney w/ min. 1-yr
experience in immigration practice. Knowledge
of labor certifications & general immigration
law. Corporate experience & Mandarin- and/or
Cantonese-speaking a plus. Federal Plaza
vicinity location.
But when I hand the copy to Ed, he snickers over the one about the lawyers, but reads the personal ad with a glee.
"This is a pathetic situation. I'm no
t amused," I tell him.
"Supply and demand, it’s economics. Who do you suppose will be my clients if nobody puts out an ad like this?"
“Exploitation,” I scold Ed under my breath, not fully realizing I am among the exploited.
Ed has predictable schedules. He doesn't come back until around 9:00 p.m. "For first-year associates, this is life," he has said.
After my daily dinner assignment, I would find myself staring at the wall clock, where the short hand is around the Chinese character Ba, eight o’clock. I would have an urge to speak to Lu Long. Most of the time, though, I would contain that urge and instead jot down in my journal thoughts on some public policy issue I encountered during the day. Even though I have no opportunity to go to graduate school this semester, I still want to prepare myself for the days ahead, to survive and to thrive here in New York. I know I would not be leading this type of life forever, indeed, not for long.
Despite my complicated relationship with Ed and Gordon, Lu Long always seems to be the person I can connect with most easily. Although I’m not in active touch with him, in my heart he remains my most trusted friend. Sometimes I wonder why this is the case. Is it because that Lu Long and I are both from Shanghai, and we share same experiences people from different backgrounds cannot relate to? Or is it, as he told me long time ago that we were destined to be with each other, as our names and our Chinese zodiac of the Year of Dragon indicated.
At least for now, I am trying hard to resist accepting Lu Long’s interpretation of our relationship, because I believe I am still in love with Ed. But I remember that a wise man once said that there are no friendships between a man and a woman, only love or hatred. So I’m not sure whether Lu Long would change his mind about me. Suddenly, the urge to talk to Lu Long is overwhelming, and I pick up the phone.
“Ah, it’s you, Sha-fei!” Lu Long answers the phone excitedly. “You must have a sixth sense, as I was just thinking about you. I have good news. I’ve been given a full scholarship to study for an M.S.-Ph.D. combination degree in Applied Mathematics at Columbia University, starting in the spring.”