by Ha Jin
“To be honest, Bao,” Nan said, “you shouldn’t work at such a reckless pace. Slow down a little. Now it’s time to consolidate your success. Don’t rush.”
Bao looked amazed, then said, “Tell me honestly what I should do, Nan. If truth be told, success can be nerve-racking. It frightens me sometimes. I just dabble a piece for an hour or two and it can sell for hundreds of dollars, sometimes even more than a thousand. This gives me the willies.”
“Forget about making money. Remember your true ambition. Your rivals are not your contemporaries but some dead masters.”
Bao’s eyes sparkled. “That’s a brilliant thing to say, Nan. I told Dick you’re one of the most intelligent men I knew. Now I must say you’re also wise. Very true, I should think of immortal work now. All wealth and fame are transitory and extrinsic, not an inherent part of myself.” He stretched up his arms as if lifting a weight.
“Yes, we’re already middle-aged and should plan our ambitions carefully.” Nan sighed, remembering his own situation. He had written little in the last five years, always offering himself the excuse that his English wasn’t sufficient.
“Yes, I must keep that in mind,” agreed the host.
Then Bao told him that he was going to China to do some paintings, because his agent loved his Venice series so much that he wanted him to paint a Shanghai series to accompany it. Bao would leave for China after the Raleigh show. Also, he wanted to marry his fiancée in the fall if everything worked out in his favor. Nan asked, “So the Chinese government will let you go back? Didn’t they arrest you two years ago?”
“I’m no longer a democracy activist, they know. I can return as a working artist anytime. Things have changed. Don’t you want to go back and see your parents?”
“I do, but my situation is different—I’m not afraid of the government but the children of some top officials. There’s some bad blood between them and me. Once I’m naturalized, I may go back for a visit.” As they were conversing, Nan realized that his friend might have written a statement, as required by the Chinese government, declaring that he had quit political activities once and for all.
Brian came back from Postelle, the nearest town, with some cartons of Chinese food for lunch. While they were eating, Bao again talked to Nan about his bride-to-be.
“Where is she now?” asked Nan.
“She’s in Guangzhou with her family.”
“Why don’t you bring her here?”
“I’ve been trying. That’s why we’ll get married as soon as possible. I’ve also applied for naturalization. Once I’m a citizen, she can immigrate.”
“So before you’re naturalized she can’t come?”
“She can, but she’s quite comfortable with her folks there. Her family owns a factory, is prosperous. I have to make a lot of money to let her live well here. I’m thinking of building a home in this area.”
“You mean near your studio?”
“Correct. I can buy a piece of land from Frank.”
“That’s crazy. What makes you think your bride can stand this kind of isolation? You have your work, but what will she do here? Raise chickens and ducks? You can’t treat her like that.”
“Good, I need your advice.”
“Maybe you should build a home in a city, Knoxville or Atlanta or D.C., with a studio in the backyard. You can’t let your bride live your kind of life. Besides, you’ll have children. You have to take their schooling into consideration too.”
Shaking his stubbly chin, Bao said, “You’re such a wise man. Why don’t you learn how to paint so that we can work as a team?”
“I have my own difficulties. I’ve been trying to write poetry.”
“In English?” Bao asked matter-of-factly.
Nan realized he must have heard about this from Dick. “Yes, a big struggle,” he admitted.
“But you’re a brave man, determined to blaze your own path.”
“Honestly I don’t know what to do exactly. My wife is pregnant and we’re going to have a baby girl. That’s what I really care about now. I want to be a good, responsible father, a real family man.”
“That’s very meaningful too,” Bao said thoughtfully. “Not many Chinese men of our generation are good fathers and considerate husbands. Some of us don’t even know how to fend for ourselves. We’re often possessed with ideals and ambitions, too high-minded, but in all candor many of us are just ignoramuses.”
Nan was moved by Bao’s words, but on second thought wondered whether his friend had spoken from his heart or merely rehashed someone else’s remarks. Bao loosened his belt a notch, then bent forward a little. Although none of the others could understand Chinese, he said to Nan in a voice just above a whisper, “May I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Can you translate Tim’s article for me? You don’t have to do a thorough job, just make the meaning clear.”
Tim heard his name mentioned and squinted at his teacher. Hesitantly Nan answered, “I can do that. I’ll mail the translation to you.” In spite of his agreement, he felt as uneasy as if he had been taken in. Bao jotted down his address on the back of his former business card. He used a post office box in Postelle.
After lunch, Frank left for Chattanooga to meet a client, and the rest of them went to a reservoir on the mountain to swim. On the low dam stood a small power plant, no longer in operation. They parked the van at the waterside and shed their T-shirts and pants. Brian, Tim, and Bao wore swimming trunks while the guests had on their briefs. As Nan put his wristwatch into his sneaker, he noticed Dick stealing glances at Brian’s slender, muscular body, which was remarkably well proportioned and much more youthful than his face. With a loud, exhilarated whoop, Bao jumped into the cool water, and the others followed him. Their shouting and splashing echoed off the mountain while a few waterfowl glided slowly against the woods on the distant shore, crying softly.
Nan floated on his back in the shallows as the others rushed toward the middle of the reservoir. Dick swam freestyle while Tim and Brian did the breaststroke, puffing and gurgling like giant frogs. The water was clear, almost transparent, reminding Nan of his childhood when he had gone swimming with his pals in a pond surrounded by jagged rocks. The children had divided themselves into two teams and fought each other in the water, pulling and pressing their opponents down. Whenever a boy accidentally swallowed water, he’d curse his attacker without stopping. Laughter would surge in the afternoon air. What fun they had had! That was almost thirty years ago. Now, in this land, the water felt similar but people were different; so were the birds and the woods. This changed life was full of mysteries. Who could have predicted Nan would land here?
As he was swimming breaststroke toward the middle of the reservoir, lost in thought, suddenly a tiny triangular head rose above the water; then the creature, brownish and sinuous, swung aside, now tightening, now slithering on the surface of the water. “Snake!” he yelled, and turned around, crawl-stroking to the shore.
The others stopped to look in his direction, laughing and hollering from the center of the reservoir. Nan reached the beach and dropped on his knees, gasping for breath. His right calf had a cramp, so he held his big toe and stretched the leg as straight as possible, which did ease the muscle pain somewhat. He cried at the others, who were still treading and looking at him, “Hey, there’s a snake in zer water, zis long.” He stretched his hands over four feet apart.
“No big deal,” shouted Tim. “Just a water snake. It won’t bite.”
Beyond him, Brian was doing the butterfly, splashing the water rhythmically.
Nan dreaded snakes, both poisonous and harmless ones, so he didn’t enter the water again. Finally Bao came ashore. He said to Nan, “Boy, I didn’t know you were so scared of snakes. As long as you leave them alone, they won’t come close to you.”
“It dashed right to my face.”
“Come on, it wouldn’t attack you. Snakes are afraid of people, who are much more poisonous.”
Nan
sighed, “This is my problem in the South. I can’t blend myself into the landscape. Always at odds with the flora and fauna here.”
“I thought you were quite at home in Atlanta, much more adaptable than me.”
“I’m weak in my own way.”
“I guess we all are.”
An hour later, on their way back to Atlanta, Dick couldn’t stop talking about Brian and Tim. He hoped to see them again and make fun of each other some more. He was attracted to Brian, Nan knew. The moment they entered Georgia, a fine shower trickled down, washing everything clean. But the rain stopped abruptly fifteen minutes after they had come out of Blue Ridge. The sun had dispersed the clouds and shone softly on the blacktop, which had turned darker. Their wheels were rolling on the wet asphalt with a crisp sound. Ahead of them was a blue Volvo cruising with a small mist in its wake. As they were catching up with it, they saw a sticker on the car’s rear, announcing PUBLISHED AUTHOR ABOARD!
“What a braggart!” said Nan.
“Let’s see what the driver looks like.” Dick floored the gas pedal. With a jolt his Mustang charged forward, passing the Volvo. He slowed down a little so that they could get a better look at the authorial driver. A stout woman with heavy makeup and a big bouffant hairdo was steering absentmindedly. Her head was bobbing and jerking, perhaps to music.
“Did you recognize her?” asked Nan when they had passed the car.
“No. She looks like a freak.”
“Maybe the car is not hers.”
“If she’s an author, she must write romance novels.”
They tipped their heads back and laughed. Dick said he should have a bumper sticker designed for his car, proclaiming PUBLISHED POET ABOARD! That might attract a lot of women.
Also men, Nan thought, but he didn’t let that out.
11
FINALLY Edward Neary wrote back to Nan, saying he liked his poems, particularly the one entitled “Pomegranates.” But the poems were unfinished yet and needed “some tightening.” He didn’t return the poems and instead said he’d like to discuss them with Nan in person. In September he was going to conduct a workshop at Key West, so he hoped Nan could attend his class there. He had enclosed a brochure that described the Key West seminars taught regularly by distinguished writers.
At first Nan was excited by the personal attention the poet had paid to him. Then, reading the letter again, he found something strange between the lines. At one point Mr. Neary wrote: “I vividly remember the night we spent at the bar outside Emory. Your sweet smile impressed me greatly. In fact, it comes to mind from time to time. Please go to Key West, where we can meet and talk about your work. Clearly you have a good deal of talent, but you need tutoring. You’re still a diamond in the rough. So do make the best use of this opportunity. I wish to know you better.”
Nan wondered if Edward Neary was making a pass. In the Gold Wok’s bathroom he observed himself in the mirror and found his face quite masculine, with a squarish chin, a broad nose, and wide-spaced, shining eyes. He couldn’t see how he could be attractive to men. Yet several times in the bank and bookstores he had caught men’s furtive glances shot at him. This had never happened in China and was troublesome to him. If only those stealthy eyes had belonged to women. That would have boosted his confidence considerably. Now Mr. Neary’s suggestion perplexed Nan, who was uncertain whether he should go to Key West. Probably he shouldn’t even think about it, because Pingping would enter the third trimester of her pregnancy in September and he must be around. Also, he couldn’t afford to be away from his business for more than two days, let alone an entire week. Still, it was extraordinary to have such an offer from a famous poet, and Nan couldn’t stop musing on the invitation.
When Dick came the next time, Nan showed him Neary’s letter. After reading it, Dick put it on the table and grinned mischievously.
“What?” Nan asked. “What do you make of it?”
“I think he’s an old lech.”
“You mean he’s gay?”
“No, everybody knows Neary is an inveterate womanizer.”
“Zen why did you smile like zat?”
“He remembered you wrong and took you for another person.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Remember Emily Choi, the Korean girl at the bar? He must’ve gotten you and her mixed up.”
Blushing, Nan muttered, “Zat’s ridiculous.” He recalled the young woman, who had indeed had a sweet face and also bright, smiling eyes.
“Look, your name Nan must have suggested to him a female, like Nancy and Nanny and Nanette. As a matter of fact, Nan is a diminutive of Anne and Anna.”
“Actually, Nan means ‘male.’ My name means ‘martial man.’”
“But Neary doesn’t know Chinese.”
“I see. He just wants to sleep wiz me, right?” Nan burst out laughing hysterically.
Dick looked startled, staring at his friend, whose face was distorted by the laugh. When Nan had stopped, Dick said, “Forget about this letter, okay? You can always show me your poems, and I’ll tell you what I think honestly.”
“I will do zat, sanks.” Nan felt better, though his cheeks were still twitching. He remembered that when he was at Brandeis, he had once received a small package containing a pair of tampons mailed to him as a target consumer. Over the years he had run into many Chinese who had transformed themselves into Barry, or Harry, or Mary, or Larry, or Carrie, and he had wondered whether he should have changed his name too, but he had always chosen not to.
Having translated the Blue Stars article on Bao, Nan mailed it to his friend. To his surprise, Cathay Herald, a Chinese-language newspaper circulating in Tennessee, Georgia, and Florida, published the article two weeks later. The translator’s name wasn’t given; that bothered Nan a little. He was also annoyed by the author’s new tone, which had been altered quite a bit from the English, more formal and more authoritative now. Evidently, either Bao or the editor had tampered with his translation. In the space of a month the same piece was reprinted in a magazine called Art World. Obviously Bao had been busy promoting himself. Why did he take his student’s article so seriously? The original publication was only in a new, obscure journal. Why should Bao be so obsessed with such an amateur piece of writing? He was too vain. No wonder he couldn’t concentrate on real work.
Then Nan realized that in this case his friend had indulged his fraudulence more than his vanity. Bao tried to utilize the gap between the two languages—since few Chinese were familiar with the journal Blue Stars and Tim’s writings, they could be misled into believing that it was a magazine as reputable as any major Chinese-language publication and that Tim Dullington must be an established art critic. Art World is a top-quality magazine printed outside China, so the transferring of the original article into such a major publication would present Bao in a different light, as if he were already a celebrity in America. In short, the whole misleading process helped to raise Bao’s image to a higher level to the Chinese audience.
It was clever chicanery. Bao would have been better off, Nan thought, if he had spent the time working on his art.
A few days later Nan received a painting from Bao, a bizarre piece in which Sakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism, was riding a white horse and leading a batch of his disciples. It was signed as a gift for Nan. Nan didn’t like it because it looked dark and muddy, lacking in life. Without his friend’s explanation in the note, he could hardly have figured out what it was about. Still, the piece was an accomplished painter’s work, so he was glad to have it. Then the thought came to him that Bao must have meant to pay him for his translation with this painting and wanted him to keep mum about the original article. This realization further dimmed his interest in the gift, and he didn’t even bother to write back to thank Bao.
12
PINGPING’S diabetes was under control through her low-carb diet. By late June she had been pregnant for five months. Dr. Walker, her obstetrician at the Norcross Medical Center, suggested that Pingping go t
o the headquarters of their medical group in Dunwoody to be examined regularly, since that clinic had more advanced equipment and eventually the baby would be delivered there. It would be better for the Wus to acquaint themselves with the people at that place. Nan phoned the clinic and made an appointment with Dr. Smith.
On Friday morning Nan and Pingping arrived at Dunwoody Circle at nine. The clinic was almost like a small hospital and occupied an entire four-story building. Before meeting with the doctor, Pingping was to go through a comprehensive checkup, including an ultrasound, a urine test, and a blood test. Accompanied by Nan, she was ushered into a dim room with a single window covered by teal curtains. She lay down on a sloping bed, as she was told.
A tall nurse with blond hair stepped in and said to Pingping, “I’m going to do an ultrasound for you, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Happy about having a baby again?”
“Yes.” Pingping smiled faintly.
Nan was sitting on a low-backed chair in a corner and watched the nurse putting on a pair of latex gloves. She then rubbed a bit of gel on Pingping’s abdomen and began massaging the lubricated area with the black transducer, turning the thing slowly clockwise. As she proceeded, her mouth fell ajar. Nan gazed at the sonogram and saw the shape of the tiny baby but not the twinkling star they had last seen at the Norcross Medical Center.
“I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat,” said the nurse. A mournful expression widened her face as her eyes dropped. Silence filled the room.
Nan was staggered, choking and motionless, his eyes still fastened on the dark screen. A few seconds later the woman asked Pingping, “D’you understand what I mean?”
Pingping nodded without a word. Nan’s heart contracted as if a hand were tugging and twisting it. He finally stood up but still didn’t know what to say.
“I’m so sorry,” said the nurse. “You should go see Dr. Smith right away.”