A Free Life Page 11

  It was time for the interview. A young woman told Nan to go to the second floor and see Lourie. To his surprise, Lourie, the manager of this place, was a tall man in his mid-twenties wearing a ponytail and a blue shirt that was so long, it made his legs appear short. He reminded Nan of a hippie, though he looked Mongolian, with bright eyes. Behind him spread a cork bulletin board on the wall, tacked with posters and flyers. He stretched out his hand, which felt meaty when Nan shook it. “I was very impressed by your Mandarin,” Lourie said, smiling while licking his fleshy bottom lip. They had spoken on the phone two days earlier.

  “Sank you for considering my application,” Nan said.

  “Thank you for applying. What are you doing at the moment?”

  “I’m zer managing editor of a literary journal.”

  “Excellent. What’s it called?”

  “New Lines.”

  Lourie lowered his head and tried to recall. Then he said, “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It’s new.”

  “I see. Do you speak Cantonese?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Not at all?”

  “To tell you zer truth, it’s like a foreign language to me. But I can learn.”

  “That’ll make it difficult for us. You see, many of our students speak Cantonese only. You’ll have to explain everything in the language they can understand.”

  “So I’m disquawlified.”

  “I’m not saying that. We cannot make our decision until we’ve interviewed all the top applicants.”

  “Can you tell me how I’m ranked among zem?”

  “That I can’t. Tell you what, I can offer you a free ticket for our exhibition.”

  “Sure, sank you.”

  The other interview was at one o’clock, still an hour away, so Nan went into the Museum of Chinese Immigrant Culture, located on the top floor. The exhibition, however, disappointed him because it was very shabby. There were dozens of photographs on the walls, but just a few pieces of artwork were on display, one of which was an instrument called the Chum Kahm, a crossbreed of the guitar and the banjo. Some hardwood chests and colorful robes worn by early Chinese immigrants were also among the collection. Even newspapers, printer blocks, abacuses, writing brushes, and used ledgers were on show. The most impressive of all was a large bald eagle made of pinkish toilet tissue, standing atop a glass case and symbolizing the longing for freedom. Up close, Nan could see that it was composed of hundreds of miniature origami birds. It had been created by a group of incarcerated illegal aliens, who had been seized by the Coast Guard when the rickety boat smuggling them into America got stranded at Hawaii. As for written works, there were only a handful of books, by contemporary authors such as Maxine Hong Kingston, Amy Tan, and Gish Jen. Near a tall window stood a trash can collecting the water dripping from a leak in the ceiling. There wasn’t another visitor in the poorly lighted room. The whole show was a letdown.

  Nan came out of the building with a sinking heart. Questions, one after another, were arising in his mind. Why do they call that place a cultural museum? Why are there so few exhibits that can be called artwork? How come there’s no Picasso or Faulkner or Mozart that emerged from the immigrants? Does this mean the first Chinese here were less creative and less artistic? Maybe so, because the early immigrants were impoverished and many were illiterate, and because they all had to slave away to feed themselves and their families, and had to concentrate their energy on settling down in this unfamiliar, discriminatory, fearsome land. Just uprooting themselves from their native soil must have crippled their lives and drained their vitality, not to mention their creativity. How could it be possible for an unfettered genius to rise from a tribe of coolies who were frightened, exhausted, mistreated, wretched, and possessed by the instinct for survival? Without leisure, how can art thrive?

  The more Nan thought, the more upset he became.

  3

  WITH a sadness induced by those thoughts, with the conviction that the cultural center wouldn’t hire him, Nan entered Ding’s Dumplings on Pell Street. The owner of this place was Howard Ding, who looked weary, sitting behind the counter with his legs crossed and reading the New York Times. But when he raised his eyes to glance at Nan, his face turned alert and intelligent. He stood up and shook hands with the applicant. Though already in his fifties, he had a straight back and a full head of dark hair, which Nan thought might be dyed. Howard stood almost six feet, but every part of him was thin—thin eyes, thin nose, thin chest, thin limbs, and thin extremities. After talking with Nan for a few minutes, he handed him a book that had a gray cover and a red title: Practical English for Restaurant Personnel. He told Nan, “Your English is pretty fluent, but you may still need to familiarize yourself with some of the words and expressions in our business.”

  “Does zis mean you’re going to hire me?”

  “Yes. I like you.” Howard was soft-spoken, but his voice was clear. “Let me ask you one more question, because I hate to change my staff too often. How long will you live in New York?”

  “I don’t know, probably a year or two.”

  “I won’t hire temporary workers. We just lost two people who started only three months ago.”

  “You mean they’re cawllege students.”

  “Right. They went back to Maryland.”

  “Zen I will stay longer. I don’t go to school. No need to worry.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear that. Have you waited tables before?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of work experience do you have in a Chinese restaurant?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “I like your candor. How about starting as a busboy?”

  “Zat’s fine.” Nan frowned in spite of himself.

  “Don’t be discouraged. Everybody here starts from the bottom. I’m always fair with my employees. You can also help the chef in the kitchen. Your English is good, so you can wait tables, filling in for someone now and then. If you’re really capable, you may end up a manager eventually. I have other restaurants in town and need all kinds of help.” Howard peered at Nan.

  “All right, I’ll begin as a busboy.”

  “Keep in mind that you’re also a helper in the kitchen.”

  “It seems you want me to know every part of zis business.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Nan had on his mind a newspaper job he had applied for, but he wouldn’t let this opportunity slip away. He said, “When should I start?”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “All right, I’ll be here on time.”

  Despite saying that, he wasn’t certain whether he really wanted the job. He was going to call the newspaper today to find out his chances with them.

  He crossed Canal Street and somehow wandered onto Mott Street, where crowds of people gathered at a fair. Many of them clustered around jugglers, palm readers, quoit throwers, toy gun shooters, psychics arranging tarot cards, even a fire-eater wearing a red cape. A lot of foods were for sale on the sidewalks: sausages as thick as a human leg, giant pretzels revolving in glass ovens, kebabs sizzling on skewers, ravioli bobbing in boiling pots. Three young men in black T-shirts with the ideogram for “tolerance” printed on the front were performing kung fu massage on the people straddling the chairs that all had a ring affixed to the top for the customers to rest their faces on. Toward the end of the fair, two Chinese painters sat on canvas stools, one in his early thirties and the other middle-aged, both wearing Chicago Bulls caps. The older man was crying, “Anyone want a portrait?”

  Few people paid heed to them. A flock of fat pigeons landed nearby, strutting nonchalantly, pecking at bread crumbs and popcorn and sending out a koo-koo-koo sound. Nan looked at the large sample portrait standing between the two painters. Beneath it were listed the prices: BLACK AND WHITE—$20, COLORED—$40, FRAME—$8. So cheap. How could they make a living by doing this? The middle-aged painter tilted his lumpy chin and asked Nan, “Want a portrait, brother
?”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  The man smiled and whispered, “Please sit down for us. We won’t charge you.”

  “I can’t do that.” Nan was amazed by his offer.

  “Please help us. We have to work on somebody to attract customers. Sit down, please.”

  “I’ll pay you ten dollars if you do a good portrait of me. How’s that?”

  “Fine, just sit on that.”

  The younger man handed him a folding stool. As soon as Nan sat down, people began gathering around to watch. The older painter wielded a charcoal pencil, and with a few strokes sketched out the contour of Nan’s face. Then he proceeded to draw his bushy hair and broad forehead. From time to time he used a napkin to wipe his own pug nose, which somehow wouldn’t stop dripping. He now lifted his head to observe Nan, and now bent forward, scratching the paper rapidly.

  “Where are you from?” Nan asked the younger painter.

  “Wuhan. We used to teach at Hubei Institute of Fine Arts.”

  “You were professors?”

  “He was. I was a lecturer.”

  “Can you make a living by drawing portraits on the street?”

  “It’s not easy, but we’ve been doing this for several years.”

  The older painter raised his eyes, his brow furrowed. “Don’t talk too much. Keep still, or the portrait may not resemble you.”

  Nan stopped. He looked away. In the distance two trees grew on a rooftop, beyond which a jumbo jet was sailing noiselessly through the fleecy clouds. He wondered whether the trees were planted in pots or in a flower bed on the roof. Three seagulls were wheeling in the air on sickle wings, squawking like babies in pain. Around Nan, people were palavering about the portrait in the making. “It’s really like him,” said a girl.

  “A fabulous job,” echoed another voice.

  “For twenty dollars, not a bad deal.”

  “Maybe I should have a portrait done here.”

  “Yes, just twenty bucks.”

  “Look et de nose, exectly like de guy’s.”

  “Hey, smile,” a jug-eared man yelped at Nan.

  “I’m not taking a photo.” Nan purposely set his face straight while fiddling with the strap of his bag.

  Twenty minutes later the portrait was done. Nan looked at it and was surprised by his own face, which was as forlorn as though he had just missed a train or boat, too muddled to know where to go or what to do. In the drawing his eyes gazed into the distance while his mouth was set as if he were suppressing some anguish or pain. This face belonged to a lost, exhausted man. Obviously the painter had captured the actual state of his mind. A miserable feeling surged in Nan’s chest and his eyes misted over, but he managed a grimace—his cheeks twitched. The older painter bent down and inscribed the date and place at the right-hand bottom corner of the portrait. “Here you are,” he said, rubbing his hands while the younger man took the sketch off the easel and rolled it up for Nan.

  Nan paid the older man ten dollars and walked away with the drawing under his arm. On the train he wondered what to do with it. Who wanted to see such a woeful face? It would remind people of bad luck! On no account would he show it to his wife and son—Taotao might laugh about it, whereas Pingping would be disappointed. So when he got off at Utica Avenue, he dropped it into a trash can at the station.

  In Wendy’s house, a letter from the North Star Times was awaiting him, which informed him that the newspaper had picked someone else for the assistant editorship it had advertised. Nan was upset, suspecting that they might already have decided on the hire before they put out the ad. An applicant like himself must have been needed just to fill a quota. Now he had no alternative but to start at Ding’s Dumplings the next day.

  4

  DING’S DUMPLINGS offered mainly Shanghai cuisine, which isn’t spicy but a bit sweet. It also specialized in noodles and dumplings filled with several kinds of stuffing: lean pork, fish, shrimp, crabmeat, and beef, all mixed with various vegetables. The restaurant was small, with only twelve tables in it, but it enjoyed a fine reputation. Under the glass top of each table was a New York Times article praising the quality and the fair prices of the food offered here. Unlike in a regular Chinese restaurant, on each table here was a sugar shaker among the cruets of soy sauce, vinegar, and chili oil. The main wall in the dining area was glazed entirely with mirror, on which some sea creatures were blazoned: turtle, swordfish, lobster, crabs, skate. On the street-facing window was painted a fat boy carrying with a curved shoulder pole two huge baskets of money, one of gold coins and the other of silver ingots.

  Nan’s job was to wash dishes in the basement kitchen. Besides the chef and the busboy, there were three waitstaff, supervised by a hostess named Chinchin. Chinchin was from Taiwan, and was congenial but garrulous and giggly. She often wore a pink dress and beige pumps, her bright-colored outfit making her sallow complexion appear dark. Whenever possible, she’d chaff the waitstaff, who were all from mainland China. She’d say they were all Communist supporters, red to the bone, and hadn’t yet shed their air of banditry, and still dreamed of communizing property and sharing others’ spouses and children. Unlike Chinchin, the two waitresses and one waiter all had on the restaurant’s uniform—a yellow T-shirt, black slacks, and a maroon apron. Nan wore the same clothes but stayed in the basement most of the time. When there were too many customers he’d go upstairs and help clear tables. Otherwise, the waitstaff would carry the used tableware downstairs for him to wash.

  Howard, the owner, seldom showed up here and left Ding’s Dumplings in the hands of Chinchin, a distant relative of his, who also managed the tiny bar. Usually customers just ordered ready-made wines and beers, so the bar was rarely used. Howard had other restaurants in the city, one in the World Trade Center and another on 55th Street, near the Museum of Modern Art. These days he was all tied up at a new place he’d just opened in Queens. He was such a wealthy man that he received a letter from George Bush each year, inviting him to the President’s Dinner at the White House, though he had never attended such an event. “Too expensive,” he once told his staff. “You think there are free meals in America? You’ll have to pay fifteen thousand dollars for a fund-raising dinner like that. Besides, I’m not a Republican.”

  A week after Nan started at Ding’s Dumplings, a stalwart black man appeared. As he was stepping into the doorway, Chinchin motioned to the waitresses and shouted, “Be careful! Here comes a dark ghost.” A month ago the restaurant had been robbed by two blacks, one of whom wore a mask of Ronald Reagan and the other that of Richard Nixon. The police were still investigating the case.

  To their astonishment, the black man announced in standard Mandarin, “Please rest assured, comrades. I’m not a hoodlum. I’m your friend.”

  Embarrassed, they looked at one another speechlessly. Then Nan broke into laughter and the others followed him. Maiyu, the slender waitress with slightly bulging eyes and hoop earrings dangling from below her bob haircut, led the customer to a round table close to the stairs. The man, more than six foot two, squared his shoulders and sat down, his hands clasped on the tabletop. He had grizzled hair and wore a tie with a pattern of antique coins on it and a dark blue suit, his yellowish shirt decked with cuff links. He smiled at Maiyu, showing his wide mouth and strong teeth. Plainly he was past forty, but the wrinkles on his face made him look masculine and quite handsome. “Hi, it’s gorgeous out there, isn’t it?” he said to the waitress.

  “Yes. What would you like?” Maiyu’s soft eyes wavered as she spoke.

  “Yangzhou Fried Rice and Three-Delight Soup.” He spoke Mandarin as if he were an old customer.

  “How come you speak Chinese?” put in Heng Chen, the waiter, standing by with arms akimbo. Heng was Maiyu’s husband; they had married the previous year, right before he came to America.

  “I studied it in Beijing Foreign Languages Institute for three years, in the seventies,” the man said, watching the supple movement of Maiyu’s shapely waist as she was head
ing away for the kitchen.

  “What are you doing now? Teaching Chinese?” Nan asked him.

  “No, I quit teaching long ago. That’s an awful profession, I mean in this country, underpaid and tiresome. I’m a private investigator now.”

  “You’re a detective?” the bespectacled Aimin cut in, fingering the tip of her thin braid.

  “Yes. I help my clients find information on other people or companies.”

  Maiyu returned with a pot of tea. The black man gave her a side-long look and said, “You’re beautiful, a real knockout.”

  Though unfamiliar with his last word, she was blushing. She glanced at her husband, who was frowning.

  “I’m David Kellman. What’s your name?” the man asked her.

  “Maiyu.”

  “Can you write it down for me?” He took out of his inside pocket a gilt pen and a dark blue address book and opened it for her to inscribe on.

  He observed the characters she’d written for him. “This is a beautiful name, ‘Mai-you.’”

  “No, ‘Mai-yu.’”

  “Let me try again. ‘Man-yu.’ Did I get it right?”

  “Almost.”

  “Thank you for writing it down. I’m going to look it up in my dictionary and work on it. Next time I come, I’ll pronounce your name accurately. Here’s my card. If you need any help, just give me a ring.”

  She looked astonished, staring at him, her face crimson. Heng Chen, her husband, jumped in, “She has no ring for you!”

  “What?” Kellman looked puzzled, and then his face relaxed. He burst out laughing. “Oh my, this is so funny! You thought I was talking of an engagement ring or a wedding band? What a misunderstanding! I wish I could do that for this charming young lady, though.”

  Nan told his fellow workers, “He meant you should phone him eef you need his help.”

  “Exactly,” Kellman said, still chuckling.

  “Thank you,” Maiyu mumbled. She turned and made for the kitchen to fetch his order. Still, Heng couldn’t take his triangular eyes off Kellman. As his wife was passing him, he wagged his chin to indicate that she shouldn’t talk too much with that self-styled Sherlock Holmes.