A Free Life Page 42

  Nan often begged her to stay home in the afternoons. Shubo had lost his job at Grand Buddha, which had just folded, and could fill in for her. In fact, Shubo disliked bartending and preferred to be a chef, so he often came to the Gold Wok to learn how to cook from Nan. He was picking up the skill quickly and was delighted whenever Nan asked him to cook an order. “You’re a born chef,” Nan bantered one day.

  “I shouldn’t have acted on your advice, playing ducks and drakes with my money on the bartending school,” said Shubo.

  Whenever Nan asked him to come and help, he’d show up readily. Pingping often noticed Shubo caress his wife’s arm or peck her on the cheek when they were alone. It would be more appropriate to say that he came to help Niyan rather than relieve Pingping. He’d seek every opportunity to be with his wife, as if the two were newlyweds. Pingping and Nan were amused, saying they were like a pair of mandarin ducks that always accompanied each other.

  Shubo suggested that Nan get a karaoke machine, which might attract more customers and make the Gold Wok a lively spot where a lot of people would gather in the evenings, especially those professionals who, after speaking English all day long at work, needed to unwind some in a Chinese-language environment. “To make this place popular, you need to put an accent on atmosphere,” he said to Nan.

  “I don’t want to turn this place into bedlam. I’m afraid of crowds, you know.” Nan smiled and refilled Shubo’s teacup.

  “Then how can you attract more business?”

  “We have enough customers.”

  “If more people come, you’ll make more money.”

  “God, you’re such a party animal,” Nan said in English. Seeing his friend flummoxed, he added, “Never heard that expression, huh? Write it down in your notebook—a party animal.”

  “You’re an awful man.”

  Shubo knew many people in the Chinese community here, most of whom were lonely souls and would have come in and sung the old-time songs and opera snatches with which they had grown up. But Nan wouldn’t buy a karaoke machine, because most of his clientele were Americans who might dislike a noisy Gold Wok. Besides, he hated noise. Once he had dined in a Taiwanese restaurant where some well-dressed college students sang so loudly that his ears kept buzzing the next morning and he never set foot in that place again. In addition, he was reluctant to rub shoulders with the Chinese professionals here, some of whom might look down on him. In Nan’s eyes they were just clever snobs, full of themselves. Once they began singing at this restaurant, they might want to drag on into the small hours. He couldn’t possibly keep this place open that late for them. He joked with Shubo that if he promised to come every night, he, Nan, would install a karaoke machine. That was impossible, since two nights a week Shubo had to go to a part-time job in Atlanta. Later, Nan explained to his friend that he ought not to create more work at the moment so that Pingping wouldn’t be stressed. Shubo smiled, saying to Nan, “You’re a model husband.”

  Niyan said, “Yes, you must learn from Nan.”

  Knowing about Pingping’s pregnancy, Janet often came to the Gold Wok to see her. She also talked a good deal about Hailee, who could walk now. But Janet was worried: the child was pale and flaccid, as if shrinking. Sometimes Hailee cried wheezily as if in pain. Although Dave didn’t come to the Gold Wok as often, the Wus had seen him holding Hailee in the jewelry store or walking with her in the plaza, always leading her by the hand and taking short and slow steps. Besides asking Pingping questions about parenting, Janet seemed afraid Hailee would grow up lonely. She said to Pingping, “When your daughter’s old enough, can you let her play with Hailee?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Pingping. “We’re friends. So they will be friends too. But I’m afraid my baby not healthy.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know, I feel terrible these days.”

  “You’ll be fine. Try to think positive. We all hear the patter of tiny feet.”

  Janet was puzzled when Pingping told her that Nan was eager to have a daughter, because she and Dave had thought Nan disliked babies, especially girls, which was why, they believed, he had refused to be Hailee’s nominal father. Pingping couldn’t explain Nan’s change either, but she felt it was probably because he was getting older and their life was relatively stable now.

  9

  DICK phoned one evening in May and said to Nan in a cracked voice, “The old man died.” He sounded drunk and hoarse.

  “Who’s dead?” asked Nan.

  “Sam.”

  “Reelly! When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday afternoon he had a heart attack and died soon after they rushed him to the hospital. I’m going to New York tomorrow to attend his funeral.”

  “Yes, you should go. Tell Min Niu I’m sorry about Sam.”

  “I may not see Min. Oh, didn’t I tell you he was no longer Sam’s boyfriend?”

  “No, you didn’t tell me. What happened?”

  “He left Sam a few months ago to marry a woman, but nobody knows his whereabouts exactly. I heard he was teaching at a college in Hong Kong.”

  “I can’t believe zis.”

  Though surprised that Min Niu was a bisexual, Nan made no further comment. He told Dick to have a safe trip and not to grieve too much since Sam had passed away without much suffering. After he hung up, he couldn’t help but wonder if Min Niu had used Sam without genuine love for the poet. Without Sam’s sponsorship and paying his tuition, Min couldn’t possibly have come to America. Then after Min had earned his M.A. from NYU, he left Sam to start the kind of life he had probably desired all along. Nan suspected that Min could be that kind of schemer.

  Sam’s death grieved Nan in a peculiar way. He hadn’t known the poet well enough to feel very attached to him, but the loss saddened him nevertheless. Sam, who could have helped him in his writing, had left a small hole in Nan’s life. His passing made Nan feel more isolated. He couldn’t stop wondering whether Sam had read his poems before he died. Perhaps not.

  Dick returned on Monday, having to teach the next morning. He came to the Gold Wok for a late lunch on Wednesday afternoon. He didn’t look grief-stricken. His gray eyes radiated a soft light, and he kept smiling mysteriously. Nan went on gazing at his animated face as Dick talked about how Sam, prior to his death, had planned to buy an apartment in Brooklyn for his stepson and how he had still dreamed of visiting Tibet. When Niyan brought over his order, Bang Bang Chicken, Dick said to Nan, “My book was taken by a New York press, thanks to Sam.”

  “Congratulations!” Nan was happy for him. “How did this happen?”

  “Sam called the president of Four Continents and sent him my manuscript personally. After reading it, the publisher told Sam he would print it. Now that Sam is dead, he’s all the more eager to honor his word.”

  “A good deed. Sam gave you a big hand.”

  “It’s a miracle. Four Continents runs a better poetry series than my former press.”

  “See, I said you would find a publisher soon. Now you won’t have any problem wiz your pretenure review.”

  “Right.”

  Chewing a piece of chicken, Dick changed the subject and began talking about Bao Yuan, who had also attended Sam’s funeral. Nan was excited to know that Bao was quite a success in the art world, having sold many of his paintings. Dick said with a grin, “He told me that he has a fiancée in China.”

  “He’s engaged?”

  “Yes, he went back for the engagement two months ago. He was very happy and invited you and me to visit his studio.”

  “Did zer Chinese gahvernment let him go back?”

  “Obviously they did. I don’t know how he worked that out.”

  “So he remembered me?”

  “Yes, very fondly. He said you were brilliant.”

  “You’re jahst pulling my leg.” Nan laughed with some bitterness that misshaped his face into a sad expression, as if he had a sudden pain in his chest. He added, “A brilliant cook, maybe. Jahst now you s
aid he has a studio—where’s zat?”

  “On a mountain in Tennessee.”

  “So he’s a professional now?”

  “Yes, and quite rich. His paintings are selling well.”

  Dick relayed that Bao had moved to Tennessee half a year before and begun teaching a small group of local amateur painters. One of them was a wealthy lawyer who owned a piece of land on the mountain, so the man had a studio built there for his teacher. Also, this way his fellow students could have a place to stay when they gathered to take lessons from Bao. Dick’s explanation piqued Nan’s curiosity. Never had he thought Bao, formerly a mere sponger, would make it in America. Perhaps that fellow had changed; perhaps he had become a diligent artist.

  Nan and Dick decided to visit Bao together. The Gold Wok didn’t open until noon on Sundays, and there wouldn’t be many customers until late in the afternoon. So Nan asked Shubo to stand in for him so that he could go to Tennessee with Dick the next weekend.

  10

  DICK and Nan set out early on Sunday morning. It was a gorgeous day, cool and clear after a mist had lifted. Sunlight fell on the dewdrenched tree leaves, which flickered in the breeze. They drove along Route 575 for an hour and a half, took a break at Blue Ridge, then continued north. Half an hour later they crossed the Georgia border, and then after a few miles of hilly gravel road filled with doglegs, they found Bao’s place on the mountain. To Nan’s amazement, Bao was cut off from the outside world, living like a recluse. No house was visible from his studio, which was a large, high-pitched wooden shack with broad windows. The fresh wood, not painted yet, was whitish and rough-hewn, giving off an intense pine scent. Behind the studio was parked a brown travel trailer in which Bao cooked his meals and slept at night. Beside the trailer sat a burgundy passenger van. Sometimes he’d drive to a Chinese restaurant in Postelle, a tiny town about five miles to the north, to have lunch or dinner. On weekdays he devoted himself to painting and would meet his students only on weekends.

  Bao hugged both guests warmly. He was more like a middle-aged man now, wearing a crew cut and having gained about twenty pounds, but he was the picture of health. His bronzed face reminded Nan of a peasant who worked in the elements. Bao told them that he swam in a nearby man-made lake every day.

  In the studio were lounging three students of his. One of them was Frank, a fortyish man wearing glasses. He was the lawyer who owned the land and the studio. The other two were in their mid-twenties, Brian and Tim. Tim was tall and thin, but muscular like a basketball player, with a reddish mustache; Brian was a Vietnamese American, born in Vietnam, with a handsome face that was rather Mongolian. Brian told Nan that his last name was Ho. His father had fled to the United States in the 1970s after Saigon fell, and a year later his mother, carrying him on her back, had come to America and joined his dad. Unlike these two hardy young fellows, Frank looked studious, skinny, and heavily myopic. The students’ demeanor showed a good deal of respect for their teacher, though Bao was casual and often patted them on the shoulder and back. He was louder and happier than before. He spoke English as if yelling at someone and often added a high-pitched laugh after a sentence. Nan wondered when Bao had started to speak English like this, without hesitation.

  Nan scanned the studio. Against the walls leaned about twenty paintings, mostly still lifes of fruits, flowers, trees, bowls of food, rocks, clumps of stars in the indigo sky. There were a few idyllic pieces of animals and young women, which were reminiscent of French impressionism.

  “I work very hard these days,” Bao said to the guests. “One day, one painting.”

  “So you must’ve made a lot of money,” Dick said.

  “I’m impressed,” Nan admitted.

  He noticed that these paintings differed palpably from Bao’s former works. Most of them were bright and buoyant, full of life, sunlight, and exuberance, without any trace of the violent colors and tragic tones that used to suffuse his paintings. Evidently Bao’s life in America had affected his art. These pieces had shed the depressive agitation, the jaundiced view of the world, and the dark despair; instead, they gave the feeling of warmth and contentment—there was light everywhere. Yet on second thought, Nan wasn’t sure whether the change had stemmed from within the artist or from his effort to meet the needs of the American market. He could find little originality in these paintings.

  “Each piece here is worth at least a thousand dollars,” Tim told the visitors.

  “So that’s your price?” Dick asked Bao.

  “Actually his Washington, D.C., series sold for more than forty thousand,” Frank broke in, pushing up his glasses with his thumb.

  “Here, I show you.” Bao led the visitors to a long trestle table on which sat three bulky albums. He opened one of them and said, “Here’s the series.”

  Nan and Dick looked at the photos of the paintings, which were indeed impressive, presenting the U.S. capital in a fresh, bright way, as if the city were a large park where woods gleamed in the morning sun and where shimmering cathedrals, half shaded, were massive like hills. “I just did one series,” explained Bao. “My agent want me to do more, but I refuse.”

  “Why?” asked Dick.

  “I don’t want to repeat my work.”

  That answer puzzled Nan. By nature Bao was shrewd and pragmatic. Perhaps he meant to keep something unique in his repertoire so as to maintain and increase the value of his work. Nan didn’t ask more and went on thumbing through the albums. They contained hundreds of photographs of Bao’s paintings in different styles: landscapes that revealed the influence of traditional Chinese painting, avant-gardish pieces like advertisements, impressionistic gouaches and aquarelles, still lifes, portraits of girls and various kinds of artists. Among them Bao took great pride in the few he had painted with a palette knife. Indeed, these pieces of cityscape and waterside looked vigorous, striking, and primitively spontaneous. He said he himself had invented the technique, called “knife painting.” Though impressed by the scope of Bao’s works, Nan asked him, “Do you still write poetry?”

  “Not anymore. I’ve found painting suits me better.”

  “How about your memoir?”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  Nan realized Bao would never complete that book, which he must have scrapped.

  A moment later Bao cut open a huge watermelon, and together they sat on the deck, conversing, drinking beer, and eating watermelon and grapes. Tim and Brian edited an art magazine called Blue Stars, which had just published a lengthy article on Bao and his works, praising him as “a master on the mountain.” Tim was its author and prided himself on the writing.

  Because of his poor English, Bao couldn’t fully make out the elaborate sentences in the article, so he asked Nan to tell him what they meant. He insisted that Nan translate every word for him orally on the spot. Although aware of Brian’s slightly ironic grin, Nan went ahead and explained the article sentence by sentence while Bao kept nodding and listening intently, his eyes blinking constantly. Nan felt his host was like a small boy, vain but in an innocent way. Somehow Bao differed remarkably from his former self, carefree and natural, though there was still a little edginess in his bearing and his face still betrayed a small bit of uncertainty. He laughed loudly whenever Nan rendered a flattering phrase into Chinese.

  It took twenty-five minutes for Nan to finish translating the article. Then they resumed talking about the people they knew living in New York. Bao confessed he had fallen in love with a Chinese woman two years before, but her parents despised him and wouldn’t let her marry him. In their eyes he was a ne’er-do-well, not a match for their daughter, who was now working on a Ph.D. in biology at Vanderbilt. He followed her to Nashville, though her mother had said to his face that he was merely a toad dreaming of nabbing a swan. “I give them ten my best paintings,” he told the guests.

  “They must be rich now,” Dick said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Brian put in, “They used his paintings as tablecloths, and
one by one they ruined them. Then, last fall, they went to Bao’s show in D.C. and were flabbergasted at the sight of the prices. They couldn’t take their eyes off the price tags, man: six or seven thousand bucks apiece. The fact is that those paintings they destroyed were worth much more.”

  “That’s old story,” Bao said calmly. “It’s over between she and I. We have no luck, no chance, no together. After she go away for another guy, I move to the mountain and work harder here. I’m stupid man, no luck with ladies.”

  Nan laughed, then checked himself. He remembered that Bao had once been a goatish fellow. How come this libertine had changed so much? Probably his success had given him more confidence and made him want to be a responsible man.

  Bao let out a feeble sigh and said to Nan, “That relationship hurt me deeply. It changed me. All of a sudden I felt old, eager to settle down and start a family.”

  Nan thought about that and decided Bao might be a better man now.

  Dick and Tim got up and went out to the trailer to use the toilet. Nan was curious about Bao’s success, wondering why he would paint at such a pace, one piece a day, which must have made him work like a manufacturer. No artist should force himself to do such a thing. He ventured, “Why do you paint so fast?”

  “There will be a show in Raleigh next month. I must give them ten pieces.”

  “Do you really need to rush?”

  “I ought to keep the momentum. My paintings have been selling very well in Hong Kong and Taiwan. People often ask, ‘Who is this fellow, Bao Yuan?’ They saw my work hang in the same halls as those done by some master painters.” His tone of voice betrayed some complacence, which made Nan uneasy.