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  Some people applauded. Liu’s words surprised Nan, who raised his hand and was allowed to speak. With his legs shaking, Nan said in a calm voice, “Mr. Liu, I can see the political logic of your argument. But if we look at this issue in a different light, that is, from the viewpoint of humanity, we may reach another conclusion. For the individual human being, what is a country? It’s just an idea that binds people together emotionally. But if the country cannot offer the individual a better life, if the country is detrimental to the individual’s existence, doesn’t the individual have the right to give up the country, to say no to it? By the same token, all the regions in China are like members of the Chinese family—if one of the brothers wants to live separately, isn’t it barbaric to go smash his home and beat him up?”

  The audience was thrown into a tumult, with many eyes glowering at Nan, who forced himself not to wince. Mr. Liu smiled and said, “Nan Wu, my friend, I see your point. I can sympathize with your concern for humanity, but your argument is infeasible and too naive. If China doesn’t get Taiwan back, another country will take it and set up military bases there to threaten China. Sometimes a nation must sacrifice to survive.”

  Mei Hong, the short, bony-faced woman, stood up and spoke in a shrill voice. “I totally agree with Mr. Liu. John F. Kennedy said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.’ Even Americans put their national interests before the individual’s interests. Without Taiwan, our shoreline will be cut in half. Also, if Taiwan goes independent, then how about Tibet, Inner Mongolia, and Sinkiang Uighur? If we let this happen, China would break into numerous small warring states. Then chaos will rule our homeland, millions and millions of people will be homeless and die of famine, and the world will be swarmed with refugees.”

  Nan challenged, “You’re a Christian. Does your religion teach you to kill? Are there not enough crimes committed on the pretext of patriotism in this century?”

  Shiming Bian, the pastor, broke in, “Christianity doesn’t tolerate evil. Anyone who wants to destroy China deserves his own destruction. Nan Wu, you’re too emotional to think coherently. Even a democratic country like the United States fought the Civil War to keep the country from going separate.”

  Nan cried, “Isn’t the current Chinese government an evil power that banished you? Why do you see eye to eye with it?”

  Mr. Liu put in, “We must differentiate the government from our country and people. The government can be evil, but both our people and our country are good. I’m optimistic because I cannot afford to lose hope for our nation. The world already has too many pessimists, a dollar a dozen, so we ought to take heart.”

  That shut Nan up, but he wasn’t persuaded. He thought of retorting with the aphorism Mr. Liu had often quoted from Hegel, “the nature of a people determines the nature of their government,” but he sat down and remained silent. The question-and-answer period continued.

  Nan left the meeting before it was over. The next morning he phoned Pastor Bian’s residence, where Mr. Liu was staying, and left a message on the machine: he invited both of them to dinner at the Gold Wok. But they didn’t return his call. Nan was disappointed by both Mr. Liu and the pastor, so for a long time he didn’t set foot in that church again.

  23

  THERE WERE hundreds of Tibetans living in the Atlanta area, some of whom were graduate students. They gathered in a lecture room at Emory University on weekends to meditate and listen to a monk preach on Buddhist scriptures. Dick was involved with this group and often urged Nan and Pingping to join them, but the Wus couldn’t, having to work on weekends. They had noticed that whenever they slackened their efforts at the Gold Wok, problems would crop up and customers would complain. They had to do their utmost to maintain the quality of their offerings, keep the restaurant clean and orderly, and see to it that every part of the business went without a hitch.

  A few days after Mr. Liu’s talk at the public library, Dick told Nan excitedly that the Dalai Lama was going to speak at Emory that week. Both Nan and Pingping were interested in hearing the holy man’s speech and asked Dick to get tickets for them. Dick promised to help.

  The next morning he called and said all three thousand tickets were already gone. Nan and Pingping were not overly disappointed, since it would have been difficult for both of them to leave the restaurant at the same time. They had seen the Dalai Lama on TV recently and respected him. He had a natural demeanor that belied his role of a dignitary. At a conference broadcast on TV, a reporter asked him what the major events of the next year would be, and he laughed and said, “What a question you gave me, Ted! I don’t even know what I’m going to eat for dinner. How can I predict anything about next year?” The audience exploded in laughter.

  Later that night Dick phoned to inform Nan that the Dalai Lama would meet with a group of Chinese students at the Ritz-Carlton hotel at two p.m. the next day. “If I were you, I would go,” he told Nan. “This is a rare opportunity.”

  Then Dick described to him the public speech the Dalai Lama had delivered in the university’s stadium two hours before. It had gone well at first, and His Holiness had spoken about forgiveness, benevolence, love, happiness. People were captivated by his humor and candor. But as soon as the Dalai Lama finished speaking, a stout politician took the podium and began condemning China for occupying Tibet, for starting the Korean War and the Vietnam War, for the genocide committed by the Khmer Rouge sponsored by the Chinese Communists, for oppressing the minorities and dissidents, for supporting the dictatorial regimes like Cuba and North Korea. He went so far as to claim that the Chinese national leaders should be grateful to the United States for the very fact that every morning they woke up to find Taiwan still a part of China. As the result of his diatribe, the spiritual gathering suddenly turned into a political battle. Some Chinese students shouted at the speaker from the back of the stadium, “Stop insulting China!” “Get off the stage!” “Stop China-bashing!” The meeting was chaotic until the politician was done.

  The next day Nan and Pingping drove to Lenox Square in Buckhead. The timing was good, since Niyan and Shubo could manage without them in the early afternoon. When Nan and Pingping stepped into the hotel, the lobby was swarmed with people trooping out of a large auditorium. In the hall the Dalai Lama was standing on the stage and shaking hands with a few officials; he had just given a talk to four hundred local community leaders, two pieces of white silk still draped around his neck. There were so many people pouring out of the entrance that the Wus couldn’t get closer to look at the holy man. Seeing some Chinese students heading down the hallway, Nan and Pingping followed them, pretending they were graduate students too. One man wearing thick glasses said in English, “I’m going to ask His Holiness how often he jerks off.”

  Pingping didn’t understand the expression, but Nan was shocked. Then a pallid young woman said, “Yes, we must grill him.”

  Following them, the Wus entered a room in which a dozen rows of folding chairs occupied almost half of its space. About seventy Chinese students and scholars were already seated in there. At the front stood a small table and two wing chairs. A few moments after Nan and Pingping had sat down, the Dalai Lama stepped in, accompanied by a thickset man who had a broad, weather-beaten face. His Holiness bowed a little with his palms pressed together before his chest. The audience stood up. The Dalai Lama shook hands with some people at the front. “Sit down, please sit down,” he said in standard Mandarin.

  He and his interpreter sat down on the chairs. He looked rather tired, without the beaming smile he had worn a moment before. “I’m very glad to meet all of you here,” he said in halting English. “It’s important for us to communicate with each other. I always tell Tibetans, let us talk with Chinese people. Try to make friends with them. Now here we are.”

  A short, squinty fellow with a crew cut stood up and asked, “Since you left China in 1959, you have attempted to create an independent Tibet, but in vain. Where do you see your movement leadin
g you?”

  The interpreter translated the question. The Dalai Lama said solemnly, “There’s some misunderstanding here. I have never asked for an independent Tibet. Check my record. You will see I never seek independence from China.”

  “What do you want, then?” the fellow pressed on in English.

  “More autonomy and more freedom for my people so we can protect Tibetan life and culture. We need the Chinese government to help us achieve this goal. The Tibetans are entitled to a better livelihood.”

  Nan was surprised by the modest but dignified answer. Prior to this occasion he too had assumed that His Holiness demanded nothing but the complete independence of Tibet.

  A female graduate student got up and asked, “As a political leader, you can represent the Tibetans in India and elsewhere, but who gave you the right to represent the Tibetans in China?”

  A dark shadow crossed His Holiness’s face. He replied, “I’m not a political leader, not interested in politics at all. But as a Tibetan, I am obligated to help my people, spiritually and materially. I have to speak for those who are not listened to.”

  Then a tall man raised his hand. He asked in a thin, funny voice, “What do you think of the slave system in Tibet before 1959?”

  His Holiness answered without showing any emotion, “We always had our problems and backwardness. To be honest, I planned to abolish the slave system myself. Like any society, ours was never perfect.”

  Someone in the back stood up and spoke huskily. “For centuries Tibet has been part of China, and your predecessors used to be the spiritual fathers of the Chinese people. You’re wise not to pursue an independent Tibet, which China will never allow, because China has to maintain its territorial integrity. Truth be told, Tibet can never be a vacuum of external power. If it weren’t part of China, other countries would occupy it and pose an immediate threat to China…” The voice sounded familiar to Nan. He turned around and to his astonishment found Mr. Liu standing there and speaking. He’d thought the old man had left Atlanta.

  The Dalai Lama didn’t respond to Mr. Liu directly and said only, “I’ve heard the same argument before, but it is not based on justice. It’s not difficult to rationalize injustice.”

  Some of the Chinese here were so belligerent, so devoid of empathy, that Nan and Pingping felt embarrassed. Nan could see that the Dalai Lama was miserable and at moments cornered by the questions. His Holiness was obviously a suffering man, totally different from his public image. Nan had come to see his beatific face, but ever since the conversation started, not even once had His Holiness smiled.

  A stocky male student asked sharply, “Can you tell us what kind of life you lived before you fled to India?”

  Some eyes turned to glare at him and a few voices tried to shush him, but the short fellow seemed impervious to the resentment from the audience, some of whom felt the question was frivolous. The holy man answered calmly, “I lived like my predecessors, well clothed and well fed, but I also worked hard to manage things and earn my food and shelter. Sometimes it can be exhausting to be the Dalai Lama.”

  Some people laughed; so did His Holiness. The intense atmosphere lightened some.

  Then an older man, who looked dyspeptic and professorial, rose and said, “I’ve always sympathized with you Tibetans, although I’m from China originally. Can you tell us how much Tibetan culture has been lost under the Communist rule?” Many eyes stared at the man, who obviously hated the current Chinese government.

  The Dalai Lama sighed. “Some Tibetans just came out and told me, a lot of people don’t eat barley and buttered tea anymore. They eat steamed bread—mantou—and rice porridge. Even children curse each other in Mandarin now, and many young people can write only the Chinese characters, not the Tibetan script.”

  From this point on, the meeting turned lively, and His Holiness laughed time and again. So did the audience. His humble manner and witty words were infectious. Most of the audience could feel the generosity and kindness emanating from him. When the last question was answered, His Holiness said, “Please forgive my old, slow English because the Dalai Lama is old too.”

  The audience broke into laughter again. Then they all went to the front to take photos with His Holiness. Nan and Pingping stepped forward and stretched out their hands; to Nan’s surprise, His Holiness, after shaking their hands, put his left palm on Nan’s shoulder while signing a book a girl held open before him. A crushing force suddenly possessed Nan, as though he were going to collapse under that powerful hand. He was trembling speechlessly. When the hand released him, he still stood there, spellbound. The holy man kept nodding as numerous people surrounded him for a photo opportunity. The crowd pushed the Wus aside.

  Mr. Liu came up to Nan and said he appreciated his invitation, but couldn’t come to the Gold Wok because he was leaving that very evening. Then he said about the Dalai Lama, “He’s quite shrewd.”

  “But he’s a great man, isn’t he?” Nan said.

  “You’re always naive, Nan Wu. With an M.A. in political science, how come you still don’t understand politics?”

  “That’s why I quit my Ph.D. candidacy.”

  Mr. Liu slapped Nan on the shoulder and laughed, saying, “You should be a poet indeed.” They shook hands again, for the last time, and said good-bye.

  “Let’s go.” Pingping tugged Nan’s sleeve.

  Arm in arm they headed for the garage. “I’m disgusted with some of them,” Nan said, referring to the audience at the meeting.

  “Yes, they’re malicious.”

  “We’d better avoid them.” Nan jutted his thumb backward.

  “They take pleasure in torturing others.”

  “They seem to know everything but humility and compassion.”

  Touched by his meeting with the holy man, for several days Nan felt almost ill, as if running a temperature. What moved him most was that the Dalai Lama had never shown any anger while talking with those bellicose Chinese. He was sweet and strong, probably because he was beyond destructive emotions, though Nan believed that deep inside, His Holiness also suffered like a regular man, and was perhaps even more miserable than most.

  24

  THE WEEK AFTER the meeting with the Dalai Lama, Nan went to Borders in Snellville to buy a book by His Holiness. There were several volumes on the shelf, and he picked the most recent one, Ocean of Wisdom: Guidelines for Living. It gave him pure pleasure to visit the bookstore, where he’d stay an hour or two whenever he was there. Today he went through books on some shelves, especially the poetry section, to see what books had come out recently. He found Sam Fisher had published a new volume, All the Sandwiches and Other Poems. He bought that book too.

  On his drive back, he couldn’t help touching his purchases in the passenger seat from time to time. The minute he stepped into the Gold Wok, Pingping handed him a letter and said, “From your dad.” Eyes rolling, she stepped away.

  On the envelope was a stamp of a red rooster stuck askew. Nan took out the two sheets, pressed them on the counter, and began to read. The old man had written with a brush and in India ink:

  August 22, 1993

  Nan:

  Not having heard from you, your mother is deeply worried. Write us more often from now on. Let Taotao write a few words too.

  Recently I read several articles on the Chinese dissidents in the United States. Beyond question those are devious people, whom you must shun. Nobody can be a good human being without loving his country and people, and nobody can thrive for long by selling his motherland. Some of the dissidents are just traitors and beggars, shamelessly depending on the money proffered to them by the American capitalists and the reactionary overseas Chinese. Do not get embroiled with them. Do not do anything that may sully the image of our country. Always keep in mind that you are a Chinese. Even if you were smashed to smithereens, every piece of you would remain Chinese. Do you understand?

  I’m also writing on behalf of Uncle Zhao. He has finished a large series of paintings lately.
He wants you to help him hold a show in America. Nan, Uncle Zhao has been my bosom friend for more than three decades. He had a tough childhood and is an autodidact. For that people think highly of him. When you were leaving for America eight years ago, he presented you with four pieces of his best work. You must not forget his generosity and kindness. Now it’s time to do something in return. Please find a gallery or university willing to sponsor his visit to the United States. It goes without saying that the sponsor of the show should cover his travel expenses. Also, try to explore the possibility of having him invited as an artist in residence so that he can stay there a year. He is already sixty and this may be his only chance to have an international exhibition. He told me that his visit to America would automatically eclipse all his rivals and enemies here. So do your utmost to help him.

  Blessings from far away,

  Words of your father

  No need for my signature

  Nan sighed, then said to Pingping, “What is this? He thinks I’m a curator of a museum or a college president? I told him on the phone that I couldn’t help Uncle Zhao hold a show here. I’m nobody.”

  “Your dad still treats you like a teenager. You’re already thirty-seven.”

  “This is sick. I won’t write back.”

  “We have to respond to his letter one way or another.”

  “You write him.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Tell him I regret having accepted Uncle Zhao’s paintings. Tell him we’re working like coolies every day and have nothing to do with the art world. Tell him he and my mother should know we’re merely menial laborers at the bottom of America—we’re useless to them.”

  “He’ll be mad at you.”

  “Let him. The old fogey is full of crap, as if he owns me forever. He’s too idle and has too much time on his hands. He just wants to use me. If our business goes under, we’ll lose our home and everything. Can my parents help us? They’ll continue to ask for money every year. They’ll never understand what life is like here. They still believe I’m heading for a professorship, even though they know I’m working my ass off in a restaurant. They’re just selfish. Damn them, let them disown me! I couldn’t care less.”