He even began to wish, heaven help him, that they could go running again in the park. He thought he must be losing his mind. He hated running in the park. Then he remembered her comment, “I won’t call you. You call me.” And—laughing at himself for being every kind of a fool—he began to think of reasons—legitimate reasons, certainly—to call.
Slowly, Fenton. Think it through! he cautioned himself, and decided that seeing her amid crowds of people would be the best solution for them both. So he searched the datebook section of the Chronicle to find places to take her.
His first selection, a scruffy little street fair in the Haight, was not exactly a big success, but she seemed to enjoy it. He thought the vendors looked tired, weary, perhaps, of an endless succession of street fairs. Their long tangles of slightly greasy hair, the old and deliberately quaint clothing, all seemed somehow out of date and a little ridiculous to him. Their wares—jewelry, leather goods, handicrafts of all sorts—looked shopworn, as if from having been unpacked and spread out for sale once too often. Bruce felt suddenly apologetic. Donna was so young and so vibrantly healthy that she contrasted oddly with these shoddy surroundings.
“Do you want to go? Had enough street fair?” he asked after they had examined a few stalls.
“No,” she said quickly. “Not yet, please not yet. We haven’t even looked at the other side of the street.” And she burrowed her way through the crowd to cross the street. He followed her with the uncomfortable feeling that he was too old for this. Enjoy, Fenton! he admonished himself as he detoured around a guitar player who wasn’t very good. He thought disgustedly, Forget it, Fenton. You’re past it. This sort of junk is for the young in heart. Grimly, he followed her to the end of the street, waiting patiently while she listened to a singing zither player, while she bought a shell necklace, while she stood entranced before a juggler; and as he watched, it seemed to him that the juggler improved. It didn’t matter that the flying ninepins needed a fresh coat of paint. Some of Donna’s enjoyment communicated itself to him.
“You really liked this, didn’t you?” he said as they left. “Come back in October, and I’ll show you a real street fair. We’ll go down the coast for the annual Pumpkin Festival.” Then, as he saw the quick leap of eagerness in her eyes, he drew back. Back off, Fenton. Cool it.
Next Bruce found a kite-flying contest at the marina during a long summer evening. It had been one of San Francisco’s brilliant, windy days, and he and Donna were stretched on a blanket on the grass, gazing up into the kite-filled sky. The green water of the bay was full of white-caps. The sun was going to set in a little while in a blaze of color.
Because of the capricious wind, each kite seemed to have a mad life of its own, straining at its cord, leaping, dipping and soaring.
“I never saw such kites!” Donna said with delight. “Look! Oh, I wish my little brother Jimmy could see this. Oh, look at that fish! Look at those silver-and-purple boxes! Look at that man! Bruce, it’s a kite shaped like a man!”
“I see it, I see it,” he laughed. Oh, it was good, Bruce thought, lying here beside her, laughing at the kites. And truly, the kite makers had outdone themselves this year. There were a number of flying wind socks, and on the same principle, many of the kites were of different shapes and wind-filled, so that each had a realistic form. Together, Donna and Bruce watched, marveling at a string of great boxes in rainbow colors that bobbed and swooped in the upper air currents like some curious cubist dragon. They watched the fat gaudy fish with fluttering fins and waving tales tugging at their lines. They watched the flying man, his winged arms spread out at his sides and his trousered legs trailing behind him, looking exactly like a hang glider over the dancing waters of the bay.
“Oh, I wish I had my camera,” Donna groaned. “I could get some pictures of them for Jimmy. He’s into kites now. He’d love to see these.”
And Bruce found himself approaching a perfect stranger who had a Polaroid camera. What’s the matter with you, Fenton? You going soft, or something? She should have remembered to bring her own camera. But he made a deal with the man on the spot for pictures to send home to Jimmy McGrath.
One of the best times they had together was not something he had found in the Chronicle datebook, but simply a happy accident. They were driving down Geary Street, headed vaguely in the direction of the beach, not quite sure what to do with the rest of an afternoon. They had dressed up for a dutiful appearance at one of Laura’s benefit luncheons. Suddenly Bruce made a right turn and circled around the block.
“What’s the matter? Are we going back?” Donna asked. “Aren’t we going to walk along the seawall?”
“We just passed the Russian Orthodox Church. Didn’t you see it?”
“Of course I saw it,” she laughed. “How could I miss that gorgeous golden dome? Except, since neither one of us is Russian—”
“But they’re having a wedding,” Bruce said. “Didn’t you see the wedding party coming out?”
“A wedding!” she cried, as Bruce pulled the car to a stop near the entrance to the church.
“Yes. Look at the way all the cars are decorated. And since we are dressed up for Laura’s do, we’re far too grand to walk along the seawall. We’ll go to a wedding reception!” He eased his car into an impossibly small and thoroughly illegal parking space, and felt a glow at her quick response.
“Oh, what luck that you know someone getting married here,” she said, walking beside him into a dense crowd of wedding guests.
“I don’t know a soul here, Chickie,” he said, smiling at several unknown faces and receiving answering smiles. “Oops, sorry, the word Chickie just slipped out. I don’t know these good folks from Adam, but who’s to know that in a crowd of two hundred or so people? Ah, here’s the entrance, I guess. It’s where everybody’s going.” He took her firmly by the elbow and led her into the large recreation room of the church.
They came into a fairyland of pastel streamers, balloons and hundreds of floral arrangements. Vast tables were spread out, some covered with a lavish display of wedding gifts, some loaded with Russian food on ornate silver platters and towering silver urns spouting little puffs of steam, redolent of spices.
“You mean you don’t know them,” she hissed. “You mean we’re…crashing?”
“Yep. It’s the only way to go. Look, here comes the bride!” And they melted back into the crowd, over which a kind of hush fell. The newly married couple passed, the woman very young, very flushed and bright-eyed, with that sparkling aura all brides seemed to have. Her new husband was much taller, his arm draped possessively around her shoulders, his other hand clasping hers tightly. Then they moved on, and a babble of voices arose. Next, cries rang out. There was the clink of silver on china, and the throbbing of Russian music welled over them all.
“Let’s eat.” Donna grinned, raising her shoulders as if she half expected to be caught. But they worked their way slowly to the tables. They weren’t hungry after Laura’s luncheon, but they sampled one or two of the more exotic dishes pressed upon them by smiling caterers. They stood there, munching delicious unnamed morsels. They talked and laughed with friendly strangers. They wished the radiant bride happiness. They congratulated the beaming groom.
Then they fell back again as the dancing began, and wild dancing it was. The young men were especially eager to show off their skill. There was a pattern to it all, probably based on ancient customs. A little clearing would magically appear on the dance floor, leaving room for a solitary dancer. The man would go down gracefully almost to the floor, clasping his arms in front of his chest, kicking his feet, first one, then the other, out before him in perfect rhythm to the beat and moan of the music. He would kick his way across the room until he came to a place in front of the bride, and there he would dance for her, offering her this moment of grace and agility, strength and skill, in brief tribute. It was a gesture of love. The phrase “dance at my wedding” came and went in Bruce’s mind. This was a wedding dance to remember.
When a dancer could continue no longer, he would bounce upright, bow to the bride and kiss her extended hands while laughter rippled through the room. Then another man would take his place. There was a warm, flowing, give-and-take among these people, and Bruce found himself responding to it. When he looked down into Donna’s flushed face, he could see that she was utterly entranced by it all.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful.” Her wide dark eyes took on a sheen of tears.
Fenton, you jackass! Why did you bring her to a wedding, of all things? And he hurried Donna outside as quickly as he could, saying goodbye right and left to people he hadn’t known a few minutes before.
Outside again on Geary Street, the lights were just beginning to come on.
“Oh, Bruce, that was wonderful. What a marvelous idea to stop,” Donna said eagerly as they walked to the car. “Why didn’t you join in the dancing? Those men were really good, weren’t they?”
He gave a hoot of laughter. “Looks too strenuous for me. I’d break a leg in the first minute. I can’t imagine kicking a thousand times from a low squat. Come on.” He unlocked the car door. “Well, come on.” He turned, and she wasn’t where he expected her to be. Then he lowered his eyes, and there she was.
“Come on,” she cried. “Try it!” She was down almost to the sidewalk, and clasping her arms in front of her, bouncing and kicking, she began dancing her way down Geary Street.
“Get back here!” He took off after her, slid his hands beneath her arms, and hoisted her upright again. Smiling people had stopped to stare, and he burst out laughing. He hadn’t had so much fun in years. It was a wonderful summer.
The laughter caught in his throat, but he kept smiling. He must be careful, so careful.
“This has nothing to do with my Chinese heritage, does it?” she asked, her eyes sparkling, as they drove away from the church.
“Not a thing,” he agreed blandly. “I just thought you’d like a change of pace. San Francisco is a chameleon. It’s anything you want it to be. You come on Columbus Day and everybody’s an honorary Italian. We have another big parade then. We always have a parade.” They laughed together, and things were almost as they had been. Almost.
When he wasn’t with Donna, or working, Bruce doggedly pursued his research into Raymond Tsung. Who was this man who was Donna’s biological father? He had to find out. Since he’d been the one to insist she follow through with what she’d started, he had to make sure that, somehow, Donna wasn’t going to be hurt. He got the man’s financial report and studied it. Whew! The guy was loaded. Bruce felt uneasy. Would this sort of man be receptive to seeing an unknown daughter?
He sought out an old friend, Edison Wong, with whom he had worked on the project to help Hong Kong newcomers adapt to the city.
“Well, what’s new, man? Haven’t seen you around,” Ed said over a beer in a small Chinese restaurant.
“Oh, busy. You know, this and that. Say, do you know Raymond Tsung? Over at Cathay Bank?”
Ed pursed his lips in thought. “I know him by sight, of course. Everybody does. He’s a wheel. I don’t know him personally. I don’t travel in his circle. This is pretty good. Is this Hong Kong beer we’re drinking?”
“No. American. They don’t have any Hong Kong. What do you know about him? Tsung, I mean.” Bruce put his glass down, making little wet circles on the bare table.
“Well, I don’t know. What are you looking for? I think he’s a nice enough guy. That is, I never heard anything bad about him. He’s an overachiever, that’s for sure. He’s top dog over there at Cathay. He’s into all the big stuff, you know, cutting ribbons, laying cornerstones, always first on the list to contribute to something. Why d’you want to know?”
“I’m looking into the backgrounds of a number of Chinese-American overachievers,” Bruce improvised.
“Chamber of Commerce or the city going to give him another award or something, I’ll bet. Well, let me see. He’s married. Her name is Helen Chow. Nice lady. Kind of pretty. They’ve got kids. Two, I think. Boys. I tell you who might be able to give you something. See Gertrude Wong, no relation to me, over at Cathay Bank. She works for him. I went to Cal with her.”
Gertrude Wong met Bruce on her lunch hour. She had been shopping, and carried a large Macy’s bag full of purchases.
“You wanted to talk about Mr. Tsung?” she said briskly. “Can we talk while we’re walking? I’m going to be late otherwise.” She seemed a little too old to have gone to college with Edison Wong. Maybe she’d gotten a late start. Bruce reached over and took the heavy shopping bag, and they walked along together, dodging in and out of the crowds on Grant Avenue.
“Eddy said something about some sort of award committee or something. Are you going to give Mr. T. an award?”
Bruce coughed and said, “I’m really not at liberty to say.”
“Oh, sure. Of course not,” she agreed quickly. “Lemme see, what can I tell you about him? He’s a nice enough guy, a family-man type. You understand, I don’t know him that well. True, I’m a loan officer at his bank, but I’m not exactly buddy-buddy with the president.”
Bruce made an understanding noise while he prayed she never compared notes with Raymond Tsung’s secretary, who would wonder why Bruce Fenton found it necessary to investigate the man he’d made an appointment with. She might wonder enough to mention something to Tsung on the phone and reveal Bruce’s hand before he was ready.
Gertrude Wong was looking at him.
“What’s his wife like?” Bruce asked.
“Mrs. Tsung? Beats me. I know she wears designer suits, because she’s come into the bank a few times wearing them. Oh yeah, they’re very family, if you know what I mean. Close-knit. Always at some family do. Plenty of brothers, sisters, cousins. And businesswise, he’s up on affirmative action. Watches to see that women get an even break. I like that about him.” She was panting a little from exertion. They had come to the door of the bank building, and she reached over for her bag. “Thanks.”
“Thank you.” He handed it to her. “Christmas in midsummer?” He grinned and she grinned back, her eyes suddenly laughing.
“You might say so. One of my aunts is visiting from Taiwan, and she’s going back Tuesday. Going back means taking presents to everybody. We’re all helping her get them together.” She paused a moment. “I’m sorry I can’t seem to offer much help, but I just know him in that business-employer way that doesn’t amount to much.”
“Everything helps. Let me give you my card. If you think of anything else, give me a call. I’m interested mainly in character delineation—what sort of man he is.” That sounded pretty good, he thought.
“You might talk with Father Fu over at Old Saint Mary’s. That’s Nathan Fu, the younger Father Fu. I think he’s nephew to the older one. Anyhow, I know he’s worked with Mr. Tsung on a lot of civic committees and such, you know, for community improvement and so on. Do you want me to give him a call and introduce you?”
“Yes. Would you, please? I’d appreciate it.”
Later in the day, at Old Saint Mary’s, Bruce handed his card to a slim, middle-aged Chinese in a cassock, carrying an armload of paperback music books. They stood in the dim, lofty nave of the church itself, where Bruce had been sent by a girl in the office.
“How can I help you, Mr….ah…” Father Fu glanced down at the business card Bruce held out. “Mr. Fenton?” Then recollection dawned. “Oh, you’re the man Mrs. Wong at the bank telephoned me about. Let me get rid of this stuff, will you?” The priest dumped the books onto a nearby pew. “We can sit over here, if you like.”
They sat in a pew, and Bruce ran his hand over the old wood while he looked up at the altar. “Quite a landmark, this old church,” he said.
“Oh yes. Not as well attended on Sundays as it used to be, but surviving. Let’s see, you needed information concerning Raymond Tsung?” The priest’s face was tranquil, but his eyes were sharp and alert. “Was this in the nature of…ah…a
legal matter, Mr. Fenton?”
“Not at all,” Bruce said quickly. “Just a casual inquiry. I’m trying to get a line on the man’s character, if I can.”
“Something about a possible award, Mrs. Wong said. I understand that you must be circumspect, since the recipient is not yet selected. Raymond and I have had dealings together working on various committees set up by the city. He’s received a lot of awards, as you will see if your inquiry takes you as far as his office. You have only to look on the walls there.”
“The nature of the man,” Bruce said, somewhat desperately. What he wanted to say, but couldn’t, was, “Would he be nice to a lovely young girl who suddenly showed up claiming to be his daughter?”
“You mean is he kind to his mother and does he refrain from kicking stray cats?” the priest asked, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Bruce had to laugh. “That’s close.”
Father Fu was silent and thoughtful for a time, his thin hands resting motionless in his lap. Finally he spoke.
“Raymond Tsung is, above all things, a doer. He gets things done. He is a remarkably competent man, in many areas. He is, or appears to be, a devoted family man. He is a fourth-generation American, but with a strong sense of his Chinese culture. He speaks both Cantonese and Mandarin fluently. He is currently in Hong Kong, but will be back in a couple of weeks. He will leave his wife, Helen Chow, and their two sons there, probably for a period of two years. He’s closed up their house temporarily. They live out in the Richmond, on the avenues. The address will be in the phone book if you don’t already have it. He will stay temporarily with his sister and her husband, the Nicholas Huangs, also in the Richmond. That sounds like Wong, but it’s spelled H-U-A-N-G. This is inconvenient for him, but he wants the boys to use their original language in its pure form and to appreciate their original culture. So this way nothing is lost, you see?”
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