The Boat Rocker Read online

  TWO

  I called Haili the next morning; she picked up on the seventh ring. At first her voice was sleepy, but the more she spoke the more animated it became. That voice! It used to tug my heartstrings and lace my dreams with messages and meanings, but now it was businesslike and dismissive. As I started firing off my questions, I could hear her breathing, seething with fury. I stayed calm and emphasized that I was calling purely out of courtesy. I’d been asked to devote one of my columns to the clamor surrounding Love and Death in September.

  “Don’t presume I enjoy talking with you. It’s my job to hear your side of the story. Can we meet this afternoon?”

  After a long pause, she agreed to see me in a café in the Village, where she and Larry lived. I asked that she show me the manuscript so I could report on it accurately. “If it impresses me, I’ll add my praises to the heap,” I told her.

  “You’re not my editor. Why should I let you see it?”

  “If you don’t, I’d only be able to repeat what others have already said. That wouldn’t be fair to the book or to you.”

  “What have you heard?” She sounded anxious. “I didn’t mention you in it.”

  I was taken aback, never having imagined being cast in a story (though I wouldn’t mind if a fine book had me as an endearing character). I told Haili some of the comments that were already circulating online. “You should think about the consequences of publishing this book,” I said. “There’s a lot of talk already, and not everything is positive. Once words are in print, there’ll be no way to undo them.”

  “Thanks very much,” she said, “for your wisdom.”

  “Can I take a look at the manuscript?”

  She paused again. “All right—I’ll show you a couple of chapters.”

  That would do. I didn’t need to eat the entire pig to know what the pork tasted like.

  —

  I STILL HATED HAILI. For more than a decade Chinese couples hadn’t been allowed to go abroad together, so I couldn’t leave China with her. Before coming to the States seven years ago to join her in New York, I had noticed changes in her correspondence, in her phone calls, and wondered if she’d been carrying on with another man. It was said that in America people changed sex partners as often and easily as they changed their diets, that “freedom” included liberty from marital constraints, and that the ultimate purpose of life was to pursue personal happiness at all costs. Tormented by suspicions, I insisted that Haili get me out of China—not only for us, but so that I could have a second chance in life. My career at the state-owned newspaper in Changchun City was faltering: the editor in chief, who was also the vice Party secretary of my work unit, picked on me every chance he got. He told everyone that I had permed my hair like a woman, when in fact it just got curly by itself as it grew longer. The man, a high school dropout, was jealous that I had a BA in journalism from Jilin University and that I was married to such a beautiful woman. He often sounded me out about whether I might leave and, putting on a face like a smiling tiger, would ask me, “When will you head for New York, Danlin? All lights are green—you’re free to go anytime.”

  I knew he wanted to get rid of me and give my job to a relative or friend. So I had to go to the States and join my wife; otherwise I might snap and do something terrible.

  After twenty hours of flight I landed at JFK, where Haili was waiting. She looked better than ever. She called a yellow cab and took me directly to a seedy inn in Chinatown, near Little Italy, saying she’d found me a job in a restaurant and I’d better stay within walking distance of it.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, baffled. “Why are we staying here?”

  “This is just temporary,” she said.

  The moment I dropped my suitcases and lay down on the bed to ease my sore back, she handed me a folded envelope that contained a wad of cash, five hundred dollars in mixed bills. She said she had paid a whole month’s rent for this place, but she’d have to stay away from me for the time being because she was up to her eyebrows in teaching and administrative work. “Starting is always hard in America,” she told me, as if I were a student taking a music lesson from her. “But you’re an able man, and I’m sure you’ll find your way and make it here. America is a place where hard work can pay off, and with your kind of education and brains, you’ll find a professional job. Just be patient and persevere.”

  She said she had to go and would see me the next day. I was logy from the twelve-hour time difference and couldn’t make heads or tails out of what was going on. I got ahold of her arm and pulled her closer so I could have a better look at her and also kiss her. But she broke loose, saying she was having her monthly flow. For now I must rest well, she insisted. After she left, I went out to a diner and had Yangchow fried rice, which tasted better and richer than that sold at food stands back home, thanks to the fresh cooking oil and extra eggs and shrimp. The sweet peas and onion gave it an exotic flavor, but that was all right. I was amazed that they served the rice on a square plate instead of in a bowl. After the meal, I returned to the inn and slept for eleven hours straight.

  —

  THE NEXT DAY around noon Haili came again, wearing a scarlet sheath, high heels, heavy makeup, and lilac perfume. She looked like a seductress in a Western, and I came within a breath of suggesting that she don long gloves. No sooner had she sat down than she handed me a glossy blue folder. “Here are our divorce papers,” she said, looking away. “Please sign them.”

  “Why…why are you doing this to me?” I stammered, gagging. I could barely get out the words.

  “Things change, Danlin, and so does love. I need someone who has strong shoulders, but you’ve always been like a younger brother to me. Ever since we married, I’ve taken care of you. I’m tired of it and need someone who can take care of me. And so I’ve met someone else.”

  “I…I still love you,” I said, fighting down the sob surging in my throat, though tears, hot and unstoppable, trickled down my cheeks. I turned, grabbed a pillow, and wiped my face with it.

  “In that case, you should have my best interests in mind, shouldn’t you? Please sign these.” She patted the folder in front of me while my grief quickly turned to rage.

  I knew it was no use protesting in the moment—I’d need to get my wits together. So I held back my anger and muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

  She placed her attorney’s embossed card on the folder, then rose and left. The second the door was closed behind her, I collapsed sobbing. I cried hard, punching the sheet and the blanket and biting the pillows. Never had I expected I would land in such a trap.

  I wept on and off for hours, kneeling on the floor with my elbows on the bed. Every object in this “nonsmoking” room gave off a tang of tobacco; even the faded flowery wallpaper smelled acrid, which further stoked my anger—it seemed everything was fake in this so-called Beautiful Land. As I went on sniveling, my face rubbing the sheet and my knees scraping the carpeted floor, dusk was falling outside, the street abuzz with traffic and people. Now and then a car tooted or a truck braked with a screech. Somewhere a siren, probably from a fire engine, squealed.

  Finally I climbed up from the floor, blew my nose, and washed my face. My chest was so full that I couldn’t think coherently, my temples hammering, so I went out to get a breath of fresh air. I began to think. I would never sign the divorce papers, nor would I let Haili get away without paying for what she’d done to me. I would spread the word about her promiscuity in both New York and Changchun, and make her name stink everywhere—even her parents would feel ashamed to mention their slut of a daughter in the presence of others, and no suitable man would want to marry her younger sister. Yes, no matter how Haili begged me to relent, I would plague her like a disease.

  But as I was roaming the streets of lower Manhattan, a numbing pain sank deeper and deeper in me and I began to calm down. I realized if I tried to smear Haili’s name, I might also make a fool of myself—I could turn myself into a laughingstock. People would poi
nt at my back when I passed by, shake their heads, and say to others, “If you don’t treat your wife well, you too will be made a cuckold.”

  I leaned over the rail on the Brooklyn Bridge for a long time, watching the glittering flow of the rush-hour traffic on the Manhattan Bridge up the river. These bridges had appeared quite magnificent just the previous evening, when I had viewed them from the descending plane—one stream of red lights going against another stream of white. Now beyond that glowing torrent of traffic, in the indigo sky an airliner was drifting away, wavering like a ghostly lantern. It was windy, and the water below was choppy, shimmering like colossal scales, as though churned by the vibration of the thundering wheels from the bridge. As a blue tugboat chugged past against the current with a little skiff of the same color in tow, I imagined jumping into the East River. But what next? Beyond that I could not visualize a thing. People here wouldn’t even notice that one man, healthy and in his prime and full of potential, was missing—a new arrival like myself hadn’t even become a number here yet. (Haili had mentioned she had several ID cards.) Unless my body washed ashore, no one would pay me any attention. But fish might eat me up before that could happen. Would Haili grieve over my disappearance? Probably not. Would she bother to look for me or worry about what had become of me? No, unlikely. She’d feel relieved and might not even report the case to the police. Good riddance, she’d think, and continue with her life. Perhaps her memories of me would trouble her for a few weeks, but in time she would wipe me out of her mind. So it would be foolish for me to die here and now, as though of shame or a mental disorder. No, I wouldn’t fade out of her life so easily.

  It would make no sense to try to save a broken marriage, so I signed the divorce papers a week later. I enrolled in a language school, taking two courses as a full-time student, so that I could stay in America legally. With the help of a former schoolmate, I found a job at a small community newspaper. I quit my classes as soon as my boss began the process of sponsoring me for a green card. Two years later, right after becoming a permanent resident, I moved on to a bigger newspaper despite my boss’s reproving me for betrayal. After job-hopping three more times, I landed my current position.

  —

  THE CAFÉ in the Village where Haili and I were to meet was somewhat gloomy inside, though a small electric candle glowed in a glass shade on every table. She was already there when I arrived. She lifted her hand, her slim fingers wagging at me, showing a diamond ring. I went over and took the seat opposite her.

  “So you’re working on me?” she said almost languidly, her long eyes fixed on me.

  “Believe me, I’d prefer to spend my time differently, but my boss assigned me this topic. This is nothing personal.”

  A young waitress wearing frayed jean shorts came over. She kept pushing up the bridge of her oversize glasses as she took my coffee order; she must have been a college student, fresh out of the classroom—her mind seemed elsewhere. Haili was already sipping a double espresso, the dish in front of her still holding the rim of an elephant ear. I was amazed that she’d eaten almost the whole large pastry. She continued, “I do take this personally. After so many years’ hard work and frustration, at last I’m making a breakthrough. And you seem determined to ruin it for me, don’t you?”

  “The only thing that could ruin you would be the poor quality of your work. Nothing but your own blunders can undo you—that’s common sense.”

  “You still can’t quit playing the wise guy. But this time, you’d better mind your own business. My novel is a national project, endorsed by the Chinese government.”

  “Really?” Flummoxed, I needed a moment before I could reply. “Are they bankrolling the project?”

  “I’ll just say that there’re people in high places supporting my book. You’re not dealing with me alone.”

  Like the Party’s Central Committee and the White House? I remembered the ridiculous Post article and wanted to laugh, but restrained myself. Surely, anything could become a national project if it got some powerful officials interested in it. Despite Haili’s composed voice, I sensed the edge of her anger. My temper was simmering too; the old wound was opening in me again, festering and gaping. “To the best of my knowledge,” I said, “you started the book several years ago and it had nothing to do with 9/11. It’s supposed to be autobiographical. How in God’s name did you lose your husband in the World Trade Center? How did Larry became a gorgeous artist?”

  “It’s a novel, for which I’m free to invent drama and characters. The beauty of fiction writing is that you can create people and episodes to fully realize the story. You can give your own logic and order to the life you dramatize. Sometimes you even must lie in order to tell a bigger truth.”

  “But the main characters are named after you and Larry, and in your statements to the press you insist that the story is based on your personal experiences, every episode rooted in an actual event. Your claim of absolute authenticity undercuts your artistic license.”

  “That conceit is part of the novel.”

  “But fantasies and verbal fireworks don’t add up to genuine art. It’s always convenient to consume others’ suffering,” I said, becoming angrier by the second. “When the families of 9/11 victims find out what you’ve written, what will they think? Won’t they accuse you of exploiting their pain and losses? Some might even say you’ve committed an anti-American act.”

  “Oh, knock it off. You’re so self-righteous, as always.” She dismissed my words with a wave of her hand. “You think I wasn’t aware of those issues? But my artistic talent is my pass to creative freedom. Besides, lots of people have made good use of the tragedy. Some of Larry’s colleagues made fortunes right after 9/11. Practically every capable stockbroker benefited from the attacks.”

  “That doesn’t make it right, what you’re doing,” I said, unmoved.

  “By comparison,” she said, and I could see her mind racing, “I’m much more honest than a broker. I have put more than two thousand hours into the novel. The fruit of my labor will do good in the world—it will promote emotional exchange between the Chinese and the Americans and help readers empathize with the victims and their families.”

  I tipped back my head and laughed. My laughter drew the eyes of the young waitress and of two men seated on high barstools at the counter. I knew that Haili could always come up with some skewed explanation on the spur of the moment. There was no question in my mind that my ex-wife and her publisher meant to deceive the public. Worse yet, her novel was cheap, shoddy, and, according to what was reported, full of gushing expressions and schlock. But I couldn’t press her anymore, as much as I wanted to, because I needed to get ahold of the portion of the manuscript she had promised me.

  I told her, “I’ll be fair when I write about your book.”

  “Danlin, you’re a gentleman.” She dropped her voice a little and peered at me, tiny sparks flitting in her eyes. “I can trust you on this one, can’t I?”

  “I can’t promise anything at this moment, but like I said, I’ll be impartial.”

  “Then I’ll owe you one.” She smiled, her cheeks going pink.

  For Haili, that could range from a dinner in an upscale restaurant to a pair of opera tickets. She always assumed that she could handle me easily. Annoyed, I wanted to tell her to put away her old charms, but I merely said, “Can I have the pages?”

  She opened her quilted tote bag, which had a brass zipper on either side, obviously made by cheap Chinese labor, and she took out a sheaf held by a red clamp, more than a hundred pages thick. “These are some chapters, self-contained more or less. Of course, after the book is edited, it will be in better shape. So don’t be so nitpicky.” She lifted her hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Then she pressed her fingers on her hoop earring, a thick jade bangle sliding down her arm, and tilted her head a fraction to observe me, her eyes gleaming.

  “At this point, like I said, I can be fair. Thanks a lot for this.” I dropped the pages i
nto my canvas shoulder bag.

  “How’s Katie?” she asked.

  “She’s fine.” It alarmed me that she’d brought up my girlfriend. Perhaps their paths had crossed recently, but Katie hadn’t mentioned anything. What was Haili up to?

  “Give her my greetings,” she said.

  “I shall.”

  “When are you two going to marry?” A shadow of a smile rose on her high-cheekboned face.

  I couldn’t tell if it was a genuine question or mockery. Haili must have known I no longer cared about marriage and that I had accepted my bachelor’s life. Nevertheless, I found myself saying, “We plan to have our wedding next summer. By then Katie will have finished her book and be ready for tenure.”

  “Don’t forget to invite me and Larry.”

  “Of course.”

  I thought of asking after Larry but checked myself, knowing that their marriage wasn’t at all as smooth as it appeared. They often fought, I’d heard. Rumor had it that Haili would call Larry names even in front of her guests, because she spoke to them in Chinese, which he couldn’t understand. Not knowing even a little bit of the language, he could only scan others with a vacant face as they giggled and chattered.