by Vivian Yang
“And what kind of a venture do you have in mind?”
I considered for a moment and said, “I love food so a restaurant that serves Western as well as Chinese food is a possibility. It will be the type that will reflect the genuine international character of Shanghai.”
He walked to the closet and reached for something on the bookshelf inside. I was delighted to notice that all of the cheongsam dresses were gone.
“Here’s an old copy and you can use it until you can get a newer edition,” Uncle Fly said, handing me a calf-hide bound pocket-sized dictionary with golden cover protectors. The embossed printing read PENGUIN’S CONCISE DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH-CHINESE. Copyright © 1949. The lower spine oval logo showed the profile of a short-legged southern hemispheric bird looking due west. Pages had become brittle, its glue on the spine having hardened into yellow crusts.
“Thank you so much. I’ll treasure it,” I promised as my hand caressed its leather cover like a piece of glove-soft flannel.
“And use it.”
That late afternoon, I was in the bedroom editing my journals in English with the help of the pocket dictionary. I had moved into Mother’s former personal space which had a desk and a chair. She had taken the FOREVER padlock for her suitcase and I certainly didn’t miss it.
Then I had an unexpected visitor.
“Oh, good afternoon, Uncle Wang. Please come in. What brings you here?”
Old Wang replied with a dry chuckle and looked up and down our home, his very crooked teeth flashing a grin. “Really nice, so big, separate room with a door and flush toilet as well. Nicer than I remembered the last time I saw it – I carried all the stuff here the day you and your mother moved here, remember?”
“Yes, Uncle Wang. It was a long time ago. How have you been since Wang Hong left? Do you have a message from her for me?”
Without asking, he sat down on my bed next to the turtle’s head gas range and rocked himself. “So this is how a ximengss mattress feels – like sleeping in heaven!”
“Is there a message for me, Uncle Wang?” I asked again.
“Yes, from that Buddha-forsaken girl of mine and from Teacher Mo, too and that’s what I’m here for.”
“You heard from my mother? What did she say?”
“She confirmed our agreement so now is the time for you to hand over this flat to me since she has found my girl’s sponsor. She promised that to me before going to Tokyo.”
“What are you talking about? Have you or haven’t you heard from my mother since she went there?”
“I have. My girl called Secretary-General Zhao’s office this morning and asked for me. Teacher Mo also got on the phone briefly and said our agreement before she left is now official. You should come to the School to process the transfer immediately.”
“You really confuse me, Uncle Wang. How’s my mother doing? You said she found Wang Hong’s sponsor. Did she say anything about him? Did she give you her contact information? Did she ask of me?”
Old Wang shook his head like the pendulum on a grandfather’s clock. “No-no-no. She only spoke one sentence to me. She said our deal is official now. She came to our place very late the night before she went to Tokyo and asked about getting in touch with our girl’s sponsor. I said since she was leaving, we’d have your flat and she’d have our girl’s sponsor’s information. I said I would keep it a secret that she did not plan to return from Japan. She knew I could keep a secret well. A deal is a deal.”
I wrung my hands and said, “But this is so … unexpected. I had no idea. Let me think about it and I’ll give you a reply as soon as possible. By the way, how’s Wang Hong doing? Did she …”
Old Wang interrupted me. “I don’t have time! If you don’t come in to do the transfer by the end of the week, I’ll tell everyone about Teacher Mo’s shenanigans with my old boss Secretary-General Ouyang and …”
“Wait a minute! She and Ouyang …?”
“He-he, Mo Mo, I know everything and you better give us the flat fast. Teacher Mo is not returning so you can’t stay on anyway. You might as well be smart like she always is and I won’t let you lose face.”
Although Mother said only she and my father had known about their relationship, I wasn’t sure now if Old Wang knew about it too or if he was just bluffing about Ouyang. But since both Chen and Ouyang were disgraced former bosses of his, he could have easily used Chen to blackmail me had he known I was his child. But either way, I was not going to take chances.
Just as these thoughts went through my mind, Old Wang caught sight of the rubber hose connecting the turtle’s head gas range and got up from the mattress. “I’m bringing this back,” he said, disconnecting the tube. “I gave this to Teacher Mo to use for free and it belongs to me. I’ll put it back again when I move in!”
With that he walked out of our flat, leaving the door opened behind him.
“Hello, Beautiful …”
The sarcastic voice gave me a start as I walked up the stairs the following evening.
“Who is it?” I asked, clutching onto my key, ready to use it as a weapon to poke his eyes if necessary.
“Why, our great beauty cannot recognize her long time admirer’s voice?”
“Condiments? You’re back from Tokyo?”
“I am indeed, but that’s not important. I’m here today for poor ol’ Master Worker Wang.”
“Wang Hong sent you? Is she back, too?”
“No, but if I get her old man what’s due him, I stand a good chance of convincing her to return as well. Let me get to the point: you go process the transfer of the flat tomorrow or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Look, my beauty, do not choose to do things the hard way. I didn’t go to Japan for nothing. I’m a businessman now, and if you’re smart as we all know you are, I can get a few buddies around to help you move out for free. Otherwise, Master Worker Wang knows the Conservatory inside out. Enough said.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Fine, I’ll move. But only the flat itself belongs to the School and not the furniture in it, I want a two-month extension to vacate and he can have all our things in it.”
“Including the storied ximengss?” Condiments asked excitedly.
“Yes, both of them, plus a desk, all the chairs, a small table and everything el…”
“Deal! I’m sure he can wait two more months to upgrade himself and his wife to the ximengss-sleeping class. Lucky Old Man Wang! Even in Japan we had to sleep on the tatami mats.”
I remembered the description of Wang Hong’s living quarters in her letter. In my head, it looked like Coach Long’s tatami-dorm with the “coffin” bed and the plastic lasso noose.
Ryu Hideo.
“So how is Wang Hong doing in Japan?” I asked.
With a crinkle of his nose Condiments answered, “She’s fine … and thanks for asking.”
I was a bit taken aback by the “thanks for asking” part and wondered if I had inadvertently touched upon a sore spot in his heart, or if Condiments had finally learned some basic manners from his stint in Japan.
“And how’s your sponsor … eh … Mr. Ryu?”
Condiments flashed me a weird look and shot back at me, “It’s none of your business, now I give you two months!” At that, he ran down the stairs.
Manners were not one of the things he had learned in Japan, I concluded.
Late that night Old Wang came again. He brought back the rubber tube and hooked it up for me so that “You can make tasty late night snacks for yourself.” He also gave me half a catty of salt baked sunflower seeds. “My woman would be offended if you think too low of us and don’t take it.”
“I’ll accept, then, Uncle Wang. Please thank Mrs. Wang for me.”
“Can I sit on the mattress again?” he asked this time. “I want to be used to it in two months.”
“Be my guest.”
Before he left, he apologized for Condiments’ immaturity. “Ai-ya! The boy may know oil, salt, sau
ces, and vinegar well but even after Japan he still doesn’t understand the proper way to handle things. I would have agreed to three months if I knew you’d include both ximengss. Please understand because he’s too anxious to please me for our girl.”
“Don’t worry, Uncle Wang, I understand. You’ve practically seen me grow up, and you’ve helped me and my mother over the years and I’m grateful. I’m glad you and Mrs. Wang can live here soon.”
“You people are different and all so smart,” Old Wang said upon leaving, carefully closing the door.
15 Until Daybreak It Sheds Its Tears
We were strolling towards the Pushkin statue newly re-erected on the site where the Red Guards had overthrown it. The onetime “graveyard” was now a manicured garden with a freshly planted maple. Uncle Fly looked on as I ran my hand over the Russian poet’s bust on a five-meter slab of granite. We now flanked Pushkin, in quiet reminiscence.
China had undergone rapid changes since the time we first noticed each other right around this spot. These days, government-sanctioned “patriotic” religious activities were beginning to take place in Shanghai. Decades-old copies of the Bible, their pages yellowed, were seeing the light of the day again, albeit mostly in the shaded corners of private homes.
After we started walking again, Uncle Fly said, “I’d like to take you to another place that was also built in the 1930’s. Do you know the former Russian Orthodox Church?”
“I know where it is -- that cream building with five aqua-blue onion domes and cusped turrets, but I’ve never been inside.”
“I was only there a couple of times myself years ago, with Peter.”
“Your Christian friend?”
“Yes. Peter recently went to take a look inside. Since the last priest died in the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, the place has been deserted except for the occasional revolutionary meetings. But now some people are back, mostly curiosity seekers, though.”
When we got there, the gates of this Moscow-style church were closed but not locked. Part of the stucco on the exterior walls was crumbling. Inside, we walked on the loosening hardwood floors with care. Dust covered the rows of long benches made from pomelo trees. Uncle Fly pointed out to me a barely discernable portrait of Madonna and Child in an alcove, explaining the mostly discolored frescoes. “If you can, try to picture their splendor when they were first consecrated,” he said.
I did. And despite its rundown condition, I was in awe of the hallowed 2,000 square meter sanctuary with a soaring, twenty-eight-meter vault. To me, the structure was love at first sight.
When Uncle Fly spread out a piece of plastic paper he had for us to sit on, I asked, “So you had this planned from the beginning?”
He only replied, “I’ve been giving things a lot of thought lately.”
I tucked up my knees under my chin and stared into the space before me, picturing its former grandeur and envisioning the future it could become with proper renovation.
He watched me as though savoring. “Do you feel your grandfather’s spirit?”
“Sorry to disappoint you but no, not really. My generation was raised as Marxist-Leninist atheists, remember, my dear Mister Pious Christian?”
He laughed, shaking his head in self-mockery. “What was I thinking?”
“How many White Russians came to China as a result of the Bolshevik Revolution?”
“About a quarter-million, I believe. They crossed the Steppes on camelback and in caravans, or traveled as stowaways in the Trans-Siberia Railway cargo sections. Those ‘stateless people’ ended up largely in China’s Northeast, Xinjiang, and of course, Shanghai.”
“I didn’t know they went to Xinjiang.”
He lifted his eyebrows mischievously. “No? But weren’t you supposed to be a native of the Muslim land?”
“Can you not rub it in? I didn’t make it out there because the movie never went on location.”
“I know, my darling. You know they shouldn’t have cast someone as refined as you as a frontier girl to begin with. With the pose you’re striking just now, if you were wrapped in ermine over a cheongsam, you’d be straight out of a 1930’s ‘beautiful Shanghai calendar girl’ poster.”
“I’m not sure I’ll take that as a compliment. I think perhaps you just spoke to Helen Jen, for she’s more likely to be associated with that kind of image. Am I not right?”
“You’re just as sharp as ever. I did talk to her concerning you and here’s the situation: she said she’s like a clay Buddha figurine trying to cross the river -- she can’t even save herself at this stage, but she may be able to find you somebody else as a sponsor.”
“What kind of a person?”
“Well, first let me ask you this: can you see yourself working as a fashion model cat-walking up and down the runway?”
“As a job in Hong Kong? And she can get me a work visa doing that? Absolutely! Just watch.”
Before he could speak I stood up, threw my shoulders back, and began sashaying into the beam of light cast on the aisle through a tall stained glass panel featuring a biblical scene. Taking one step back at the end, I pivoted on that back foot to complete the turn, returning in his direction and looking straight forward.
“Bravo!” He clapped as I stopped before him and struck a pose.
I did a curtsey and said, “Thank you. Do I have a work visa sponsor now?”
“I cannot tell you just yet. Let’s talk details over dinner. Maison Rouge has a new menu if you care to try,” he said, standing up.
Taking one last survey of the church, I said, “This would make one gorgeous place for dining if it were properly fixed up.”
“And it could be named Maison Jasmine.”
Facing competition from private entrepreneurial startups that until recently had been banned, Shanghai’s existing service sector was slowing getting in shape. Traditional items such as escargots, foie gras, and crème brûlée, long absent from the Maison Rouge menu, had reappeared. The French Onion Soup was now graced with cheese.
Returning to the venue of our first meal together, we were seated at the same table by the wainscoted window. I clutched onto my napkin and whispered, “Details, please. What kind of a sponsor?”
“His name is Hua Wen and he owns a dining club where Helen’s mahjong partner and high tea companion is a member. Mr. Hua is British-educated and also operates a boutique department store chain. The ladies approached him and he has agreed to sponsor you for a work visa although actual employment is not promised. He’ll arrange to put you up initially though.”
“This certainly sounds promising although it’s a lot to swallow. You mentioned catwalk earlier. Does that mean that I’ll be working as a model if I can convince Mr. Hua to hire me?”
He didn’t answer directly but said, “Another food metaphor.”
“What?”
He gazed at me, eyebrows knotting. “There’s indeed a lot to absorb, isn’t there? What if Mr. Hua turns out to be not as uninterested in you as Helen makes it sound?”
I inched my hand across the table to clasp his. “I understand your concern and I appreciate it. But I can assure you that I will not be taken advantage of. Nothing will stop me from going to Hong Kong, not the least the potential of having to fend off men like him. You said the other day that it’s time for me to be tempered in the outside world. I can only come out stronger and better. Please tell Helen I agree to this arrangement, and thank her, and you, so very much. I’ll go visit her and thank her personally as soon as I get to Hong Kong.”
“Let me pass on your gratitude over the phone. I think it best that you two do not meet.”
“No?”
His eyes were on the snail tongs he was holding. “And here’s why … Helen … two decades and still the same temper,” he said, poking an escargot in the garlic and parsley butter sauce with a fork. He suddenly looked up. “We won’t have anything else to bother her with after this anymore.”
“We? Did you get into an argument with her on the
phone because of me?”
His face fell. “Nothing to do with you, darling, but we did have … arguments from time to time ... anyway, I respect your decision and will do my best to help you live your life well. Godspeed.”
Our desserts had arrived. My crème brûlée was vanilla custard topped with caramelized brown sugar. He had ordered a napoleon.
Two cups of coffee.
Black.
“This sugar looks like a perfectly shining moon. I hate to break it.”
He smiled. “It’s just sugar. Now dig in and see how you like it.”
“I want to treasure the last course of our last meal in our first restaurant,” I said, choking up.
“Don’t be silly. There’s nothing ‘last’ about this. If the Lord will answer my prayer, we shall be able to dine together again in the foreseeable future.”
A teardrop landed on the surface of my crème brûlée like a pearl glistening on a moonlit lake.
Gazing at the black and white passport photo I had just picked up from the photographer’s, Uncle Fly said in English, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” complete with a suggestion of the Humphrey Bogart lisp.
My throat tightened.
Within a week of being issued a Chinese passport, my Hong Kong work visa was granted. He would be buying me the plane ticket as a present. I had my passport photo blown up and inscribed it on the back -- my going away present in return.
Ah Fang had left in the pavilion room a stack of rice paper and a Chinese ink and brush set on the rosewood desk with brass-handles. Uncle Fly smoothed the paper and put a pair of marble lion paperweights to secure its corners. He then wrote down the canto “Zeng Bie” (Presented upon Departure) by the Tang Dynasty poet Du Mu in elegant classical Chinese calligraphy:
Duo qing que si zong su qing,
Wei jue zun qian xiao bu cheng.
La zhu you xin hai xi bie,
Ti ren chui lei dao tian ming.