by Ha Jin
“Yes, a favorable reception is more important,” Nan said.
“That’s true,” agreed Dick. “Actually, I care more about the reviews than about the sale.”
“Zat’s a right attitude. Poetry isn’t profitable anyhow.” Despite saying that, Nan didn’t fully understand Dick’s reasons. Neither did he know that Dick could make money indirectly if the book was well received, because his school would give him a bigger raise and he’d get invited more often to read and conduct writing seminars at colleges and writers’ conferences.
While the two friends chatted away, Pingping and Niyan were wrapping wontons in a corner. Dick was the only customer in the room, so Nan could sit with him for a while before business picked up.
20
DICK had continued his weekend meditation with the Buddhist group at a temple north of Emory. He tried to persuade Nan to join him, saying it would alleviate stress and make him peaceful. Nan wondered why Dick needed peace of mind if he wanted to write poetry. Didn’t the poet need strong creative impulses? Wasn’t it true that the more explosive his emotions were, the more powerful his poems would be? Yet out of curiosity Nan went to see the Buddhist group one Sunday morning.
Their temple was just two long ranch houses in a large wooded yard. It had been built recently, and each house was surrounded by a veranda and had more than a dozen doors. The place reminded Nan of a motel, with a large paved parking lot in the front and a few flower beds grown with clematis, jasmine, and chrysanthemums. Except for some tiny paper lanterns hanging under the eaves, nothing seemed to differentiate this temple from a family-run motel. Dick took Nan to the second house, but on the way there, they came upon the group they meant to join. The disciples were all sitting cross-legged in the lotus position on the expanse of grass in between the two houses. About half of them were locals, but there were four Tibetan men among them, all with leathery but energetic faces. It was a splendid fall day, warm and dry without a single fly or midge in the air. The stalwart Nepalese master, wrapped in a mud-colored robe, waved at Dick and Nan and nodded smilingly. He had a wattled chin and prominent eyes, which broadened some when he smiled. He was sitting on a round cornhusk cushion, and beside him on the grass was a cassette player. In front of him sat a small brass pot containing sand, wherein were planted sticks of incense, sending up coils of smoke.
Dick and Nan sat down beside a young woman in a sweater vest and white slacks. Another few people arrived. When everyone was seated on a hempen hassock provided by the temple, the master began to speak about the day’s exercise. His English was nasal and undulating, which made it hard for Nan to make out every word, but he could follow the drift of what the man was saying. He was talking about meditation as a way to cleanse one’s mind. “In fact,” the master said, “our minds are in a state of chaos before we make effort to improve them. An unimproved mind contains a mixture of many things, benign and destructive, base and noble, good and evil. We all know that a person has biological genes, but the truth is that one also has cultural genes and spiritual genes. All these inherited elements affect one’s inner life…”
Nan marveled at the master’s expanded notion of the genes. The man must be quite learned, he decided. Nan glanced at the white woman sitting beside him, her face smiling with innocence and joy. “In our exercise today,” the master went on, “we shall try to empty our minds and hearts. Forget everything and try not to feel any emotion, neither happiness nor sadness. Above all, forget yourself and who you are. In this way we can sink deep into our origins, experience total emptiness, and achieve genuine tranquillity.”
A pair of cymbals started tinkling, and then from the cassette player came the slow, gentle, aerial music played on the bamboo flute. The sound often subsided as if about to disappear, but it always swelled back. The master’s voice turned inaudible, though his lips were still stirring. All the disciples, eyes shut, were breathing relaxedly with their hands on their laps, their palms upward. Nan followed suit. But he closed his eyes only halfway and felt as if the master were levitating.
Unlike the others, Nan couldn’t concentrate on his breathing. He opened his eyes and looked around. Every face seemed carefree and serene, and many of them wore a knowing, inward smile that looked a bit mysterious. Nan shut his eyes and tried to let himself be transported by the music; still he couldn’t get close to the nirvana that seemed to be admitting the others. His thoughts couldn’t help but wander. He wondered if he should continue to write in Chinese. He had mailed out three poems to a literary journal in Taiwan two months earlier, but so far he hadn’t heard from it. As for the magazines in mainland China, he wouldn’t send them his work anymore after an editor had once written back and asked him to delete several lines that were too sensitive politically. Nan hadn’t responded to that, so the poem had never seen print. Maybe he should translate some of his poems into English and try his luck with small magazines in America. Probably the miserable feelings that often surged in him originated from the fact that he couldn’t see any possibility of publishing in Chinese, let alone establishing himself as a poet here. It was as if in front of him stood a stone wall inviting him to bump his head against it. If only he had come to America ten years earlier! Then he could definitely have given up his mother tongue and blazed his trail in English…
Somehow two ancient lines cropped up in his mind: “No prairie fire can burn the grass up / When the spring breeze blows, it will again sprout.” Yes, he must have the spirit of the wild grass. However thick and impenetrable the wall before him, he must grow beneath it and even on it, like the invincible grass with blades that eventually would dislodge the rocks. This was the American spirit Whitman eulogized, wasn’t it? Yes, definitely. He must figure out his own way of making poetry, and—
“All right, you can wake up now,” said the master in an even voice.
All the people opened their eyes, their faces softened and their voices smaller. The master told them, “May you hold the peace in you. See you next Sunday.”
When all in the group were on their feet, Dick asked Nan, “Well, what do you think?”
“I can see it works on everyone except me.”
Dick laughed and slapped his back. “Come, let me introduce you to a few friends.”
Nan looked at his wristwatch and said, “I have to go now. It’s already past eleven.” The Gold Wok opened at twelve noon on Sundays, so he had to rush back.
Dick didn’t insist but asked Nan to join him here the next Sunday. Nan said he’d try his best. Actually, he wasn’t interested in meditation. He wouldn’t join the group again.
21
FINALLY Gerald’s house was put up for auction, TO BE SOLD ON PREMISES as the sign on the lawn announced. For weeks people would stop by to look at the property, and when they saw the Wus in the front yard, they’d ask them about the neighborhood and the former owner of the home. Although empty of all the junk at last, the house looked more dilapidated than before. A pipe had burst in the basement and flooded a good part of the floor; the unfinished glassed-in porch looked like a boat cut in half, displaying a dark, gaping cabin. Worse yet, two of the windows had smashed panes now—someone had thrown rocks into the house. The neighbors all looked forward to the auction, which had been postponed once already.
One Saturday morning Alan said to Nan about the house, “I won’t buy it unless it’s under ten grand.”
“Eef you can fix it and sell it to someone, you can make a lawt of money,” said Nan.
“But the renovation will cost a fortune. Too many things have to be replaced.” Alan slapped his thigh as if an insect had gotten into his pant leg, and his other hand was holding a tiny spade with which he dug dandelions out of his lawn.
Nan went on, “My friend Shubo may be interested in buying it, but he doesn’t know how to repair a house.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“You know zer waitress at my restaurant?”
“Yes, she’s a pretty gal.” Alan swatted a mosquito that had la
nded on his sinewy neck.
“Shubo is her hahsband. Zey live outside Lawrenceville and want to move closer.”
“I think I met the guy. Well, tell him he’s not welcome.” Alan’s tone was rather casual, but he seemed to speak accidentally on purpose.
Nan was taken aback. “Why?”
“I like you and Pingping, to be frank, and you’re good neighbors. But there’re too many Chinese in this neighborhood already. We need diversity, don’t we?”
“But we are probably zee only Chinese here.”
“How about the big family across the lake?”
“Oh, they’re Vietnamese.” Nan remembered seeing seven or eight cars parked in the yard of that brick raised ranch the other day. He had also noticed two young Asian couples in this area, but he was sure they weren’t Chinese.
Alan continued, “Mrs. Lodge, Fred, Terry, and Nate, we all talked about this. We don’t want this subdivision to become a Chinatown.”
Nan was scandalized but didn’t know how to argue with him. He managed to say, “All right, I will tell Shubo what you said. You want to keep Chinese as minority here, but don’t you sink our neighborhood should be a melting pot?”
“But some people are not meltable.”
“Maybe the pot is not big enough. Make it a cauldron, zen everybody can melt in it, yourself included.”
They both laughed. Alan said, “To be honest, the worst-case scenario is that a slumlord will buy this house, fix it up, and rent it out. That’ll cause a lot of trouble to our neighborhood.”
“See, my friend will be a mahch better choice.”
“Sure, compared with a slumlord.”
The thought flashed through Nan’s mind that some people in the neighborhood had taken his family to be interlopers all along and probably would continue to do so whether they were naturalized or not. When he passed Alan’s words on to Shubo, his friend was so outraged that his eyes turned rhomboidal and his face nearly purple. The opposition from the neighborhood made Shubo all the more determined to bid for the house, even though he was uncertain how to renovate it and even though originally he and Niyan had worried that the property might depreciate in value because it was right next to the Wus’. He didn’t know anyone in the house-repairing business and would have to use a contractor, who might rip him off. Worse still, it would be impossible for him to keep a close watch on the renovation because he’d have to bartend at Grand Buddha six days a week. All the same, his anger didn’t abate, and the more he thought about Alan’s words, the more resolved he was—he and his wife must enter into the neighborhood like a thorn stuck in those racists’ flesh.
By now Niyan had befriended Janet, so Janet volunteered to accompany her and Shubo to the sale on November 6, which they all expected would be something like a Dutch auction. Shubo had drawn a certified check for $15,000 from the bank, as the flyer had indicated would be needed in order to seal the bargain on the spot. Nan urged the couple to be cool-headed about this matter, advising that they should treat it just as a regular business deal. After exchanging views, everybody agreed that Shubo and Niyan should pay no more than $40,000 for the house. If it went higher than that, they should forget it.
To everybody’s amazement, the auction was such a quiet affair that few people in the neighborhood even noticed it. Seven real estate brokers showed up and Shubo was the only nonprofessional bidder among them. There was no chair for anyone to sit on, and the auctioneer, a tall man from Southtrust Bank, didn’t shout out any offer from the bidders; neither did anyone hold a paddle with a number printed on it. Besides owing a mortgage of $65,000, Gerald hadn’t paid real estate tax and several other bills for years. By any means the bank, the town, the utility companies, and even a used-car dealer had to recover the arrears, so the starting price for the property was $81,000. Shubo, Niyan, and Janet were dumbfounded, just standing there and watching others outbid one another. There were no raised voices, as if they all were at a coffee break from a meeting, making small talk. A man with a marzipan face was sucking a large Havana cigar the whole time and just flashed his fingers at the auctioneer without speaking. Two of the brokers quit at $90,000, but they showed no emotion, as if tired of the whole thing.
The final bid was $93,000, and the house went to a young Hispanic real estate broker. Shubo and Niyan returned to the Gold Wok, still in disbelief. Niyan told the Wus the purchasing price. Everybody was surprised and couldn’t imagine that after paying that amount someone could still make a profit from the house. Shubo kept shaking his round chin and said, “Without money you can’t fight racism in America.”
“Just as you have to be rich enough to love your country,” added Nan.
Like their neighbors, the Wus also feared that the buyer of the house might be a slumlord; otherwise, who would pay that kind of price for the property? Maybe the broker meant to convert it into a two-family house and rent it out so that he could make a larger profit. The more people talked about this, the more agitated they became.
To the Wus’ bewilderment, for a whole winter the buyer left the house untouched. Though the season was less convenient for construction work, people in Georgia don’t stop building or repairing homes in the wintertime. The new owner, who was said to intend to fix up the house and then sell it, seemed to have forgotten the property and didn’t even come and look at it again until the next spring.
In mid-March the renovation finally started. A group of Mexican workers washed the walls and the roof, painted the doors and windows, and spread grass seeds into the loosened dirt of the lawn. They dismantled the glass porch and built a new deck. A real mailbox was erected at the end of the front yard. Despite the bright appearance of the renovated house, Nan knew that all the inner damages were covered up. The roof should have been replaced, as well as some of the pipes inside. Within two weeks, a sign was planted in the yard with a sheaf of flyers sheathed in a plastic pocket attached to the board. The asking price was $123,000, which pleased Nan and Pingping in a way, because it indicated that their own home must have appreciated considerably in value. Still, they couldn’t help wondering who would pay that kind of money for such a house.
Their anxiety proved unjustified. A month later, Judith Goodman, a middle-aged single woman, bought it. She was an optician at the Gwinnett Mall and liked the quiet neighborhood and the lake. Then her mother, previously living down in St. Petersburg, Florida, moved in with her. Many people in the subdivision were relieved to see the Goodmans here. Again, Mrs. Lodge placed a vase of flowers, tulips this time, on their welcome mat the day after they moved in.
PART SIX
1
FOR ANOTHER YEAR Nan devoted himself to making money. The quality of his cooking was so good and the prices so affordable that the Gwinnett Gazette wrote about the Gold Wok, praising it as “the best bargain.” Sometimes customers arrived groups and Niyan couldn’t wait on so many of them, so Shubo, if available, would come in to help. The Wus had thought of hiring another waitress but decided not to, fearing business might flag again.
In the meantime, Pingping had cut as many household expenses as possible so as to pay off the mortgage. In the winter, during the day she wouldn’t turn on the heat to warm the whole house and instead put a column radiator in the dining room, where Taotao did his homework. In the summer she shut off the wall registers in the living room and her own bedroom so that the air-conditioning would start up less frequently. She cooked as rarely as possible at home. If Taotao didn’t go to the restaurant for dinner, she’d bring back something for him. He was allowed to stay home in the evenings, but he mustn’t use his computer for more than one hour a day. Pingping also saved on taxes. She even filed their son as a part-time employee (the boy did do some kitchen chores) and claimed he had earned two thousand dollars the past year. Nan often joked with his wife, saying, “I’m a fork that rakes in money while you’re a box that holds money. It doesn’t matter much if the fork loses a tine, but it will be a disaster if the box has a hole.”
She
would say, “I scrimp and save for you, not for myself. Don’t make fun of me.” That was true; she had never bought a single item of new clothing for herself.
In December 1995, they sent Mr. Wolfe the final big check and asked for the title to their house, which the old man mailed them two weeks later. At last they had put their feet on the ground they could call their own. Confidence surged in Nan, who had finally earned the security for his family, and a kind of elation possessed him for a month or so. Now, even if the restaurant went under, his family would be safely sheltered. As long as he did some work, he could easily bring food home. This is freedom, he reasoned: not owing anybody a penny and having no fear of being fired.
But his joy was short-lived. Somehow he was puzzled by the home ownership, which he hadn’t expected to come true in less than five years. He remembered A House for Mr. Biswas and still could feel for the protagonist, a small man whose lifetime struggle was to have his own roof. But here in Georgia, where land was cheap and realty in a buyer’s market, he hadn’t had a prolonged struggle for owning a home at all. In a way he wished this miracle had taken place in Boston or San Francisco or New York City, where one could claim success by owning a house. But here most people who worked hard could eventually become a home owner. Then his former neighbor Gerald came to mind, reminding him that there were a lot of losers even in Georgia and that he ought to be grateful.