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  The waitresses had scarcely pulled the cart away when Nan burst out laughing, a bubbling sound in his nose. He said to the others, “Let’s whisper, let’s whisper.” They got the joke and all cracked up.

  “Lucky we still have our tongues,” said Mengfei with a straight face.

  They laughed more. As they were eating and chatting, more people appeared in the restaurant and most of the seats were taken. There were several gatherings in the room, but each group of diners paid little attention to the other tables. Nan liked the fish and ate several pieces of it. Everything else, though, tasted mediocre, but he tried to show his appreciation. By now he realized this place must be a kind of club for officials, businesspeople, and the cultural elite.

  A moment later Nan mentioned to Fanlong, the senior editor, Dick Harrison’s new book, Unexpected Gifts. The man looked blank, blinking his baggy eyes and saying, “I don’t know enough about contemporary American poetry. Tell me more about this poet.”

  Without mentioning his friendship with Dick, Nan described him as a rising star in American poetry. He even recited the final stanza of Dick’s poem “A Son’s Reason,” and they all laughed at the last lines—“Mother, I love you / only from far away.”

  “Dick Harrison just started teaching at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop,” Nan told Fanlong.

  That soaked in. They all knew that workshop and the Iowa International Writing Program. The latter would admit two or three Chinese writers a year. The competition for such an opportunity was especially fierce among poets, because it was also a way to get a bit of money. After spending a semester at the University of Iowa, one could save $2,000 or $3,000 besides having the honor of attending such a prestigious program.

  Danning declared to them, “In fact, Dick Harrison is a close friend of Nan’s.”

  The faces at the table changed visibly. Fanlong, who was also a published poet, began to listen to Nan more closely and went on asking questions about American poetry. He even said to Nan in an orotund voice, “I hope I can visit you in Georgia one of these days. Atlanta must be a big international city.”

  “Sure, you’re always welcome.” Nan felt like a fake, uncertain whether Pingping would like that. But he had to appear friendly.

  Some people at the tables near a low platform started singing a song, following the karaoke machine that had just come on. Mengfei stood up and said, “Let’s go have some fun.” They all went over to watch the crowd.

  Several young women who must have been on the waitstaff were among the singers. A moment before, everyone had been quiet and subdued, but all of a sudden the men and women were so clamorous that Nan wondered whether they were all depressed and desperate to vent their frustrations through singing. They belted out song after song—sometimes only one man and one woman sang together, and sometimes a number of people chorused at the top of their lungs. Fanlong went to the front and began to sing an old folk song with a woman with a bleached blond pageboy who wore a red cheongsam. They were singing:

  In a distant mountain lives a beautiful girl.

  Whoever passes her cottage will turn,

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

  Her small pink face shines like the sun.

  Her lovely eyes move

  Like the moon in a cloudless night.

  O I’m willing to give up all I have

  And just follow her flock of goats,

  So every day I can see her small pink face

  And her pretty dress frilled with gold.

  O I’m dying to be her little goat

  And always stay at her side,

  So she can flick her tiny whip

  To stroke my behind.

  Having finished the song, Fanlong wagged his big ass and bleated twice, which set off whoops of laughter. He then held the woman’s hands and did a little jig under the miniature chandelier, swinging his legs briskly while his cheeks glistened with sweat. The woman followed his steps, swaying her hips while holding her face up and straight. Despite the noisy audience, the two looked quite natural.

  Nan was a little tired, but he thought he ought to keep his friend company. Danning was playing cards with Mengfei, the captain, and the journalist at their own table now. They had asked Nan to join them, but he had forgotten how to play One Hundred Points and just stayed around watching them.

  Two girls, heavily made up, came over and sat beside the men. One of them said to Mengfei, “Colonel, don’t you want some fun and comfort today?”

  “Wait until I lose another five pounds.” Mengfei rolled his bovine eyes. Except Nan, all the others cackled. Nan was puzzled by the colonel’s answer, but said nothing.

  The other girl turned to Danning. “Hey, big writer, you’ve forgotten me already? Where’s the perfume you promised me?”

  “Next time, Dailian, all right? I’m with my friend here.” His chin jutted at Nan.

  “Doesn’t your friend feel lonely? He’s so quiet.”

  “Ask him then.”

  The girl was all smiles. She scooted closer to Nan and asked coquettishly, “Don’t you want to know me?”

  “Sure,” Nan replied out of politeness.

  “Would you like to spend some time with me?”

  “For what?”

  Mengfei gave a belly laugh and said, “Nan’s so innocent. Different from us. He’s still uncorrupted.”

  “Just follow her,” Danning told Nan. “She’ll let you know for what.”

  “Who will pay for it?” Nan asked.

  “You will, of course.” Mengfei pointed at him. “Now I see that you’re not so innocent as I thought. I pay for food and drinks but not for fellatio or sex.”

  The girl sitting near him pouted. “He’s always so shameless and barbaric.”

  Jokingly Nan said to the girl beside him, “I don’t have money, unless you’re willing to spend time with me for free…”

  “You don’t have to pay now.”

  Danning intervened, “Nan, don’t tease her. She knows you’re from abroad. If you’re not interested, just say you don’t want it. She’ll hold me responsible if you get anything free from her.”

  “All right.” Nan turned to the girl. “I’m too tired today. I just flew all the way back from America, almost twenty hours, and I’m still jet-lagged.”

  “America? That’s beautiful. Don’t you want my phone number just in case?”

  “I’m a married man.”

  That set the whole table roaring with laughter. “We’re all married men,” Mengfei said, and slapped his broad forehead three times with the heel of his hand. “Nan, please don’t remind us of our depravity.” He stared at the girls, who turned quiet at last. A moment later they both moved to a nearby table.

  On their way back, lounging in the Audi, Nan asked Danning, “Why did Mengfei tell the girl to wait until he lost another five pounds?”

  “Ah, he has a theory—the intensity of sexual pleasure is in proportion to the weight you have lost.”

  “Strange. Do you believe him?”

  “Too much body fat dulls the physical sensation, doesn’t it?”

  “I see, you fellows are experts. By the way, why did the restaurant give those common dishes all the fancy names?”

  “To get more business. Everybody wants to sell and sell and sell, to make money by hook or by crook. People don’t call things by their names anymore.”

  Then Nan asked him what kind of place was that restaurant. “It’s like a brothel,” he said.

  His friend laughed and told him that there were many bars, salons, and hotels like that in Beijing. Using women to attract business was common practice nowadays. Nan thought of asking him whether he had often spent time with the girls, but he checked himself. Without question Danning was a regular customer; so were his friends. Nan wondered whether he himself would have become one if he lived here.

  9

  AFTER a whole night’s train ride, he arrived at Harbin in the early morning. The train station had been renovated, and, with a new ver
anda and a massive gateway, it looked more welcoming than it had twelve years before. People here were dressed more colorfully than Beijingers, though they had much less money. The city appeared dormant and aged; the old Russian buildings in the southeast looked gray and shabby in spite of their copper cupolas. In the square before the station a few boys and girls in sweat suits were practicing martial arts, jumping around, or kicking and punching air, or directing their energy to different parts of their bodies while standing still with their knees bent at a right angle. On the west side of the square stretched a line of food stands that sold fried dough sticks, soy milk, sugar pies, jellied tofu soup, roasted beans and peanuts. Several customers sat on canvas stools there, eating breakfast while palavering or reading newspapers; a woman had a beagle on a long leash that kept wagging its docked tail. Nan flagged down a cab and set out for Nangang District, where his parents’ home was located.

  The city hadn’t changed much. Indeed, there were more cars on the streets, but unlike in Beijing, not many of them here seemed privately owned. Nan liked the new tall buses, which looked roomy, like tourist coaches. Five minutes later he asked the taxi to stop at Friendship Boulevard, about three hundred yards away from Wind Chime Street, on which his parents lived, because he wanted to walk a little. He gave the cabbie, a young man with a missing front tooth, twenty yuan and let him keep the change. Then he headed toward his parents’ home, lugging his wheeled suitcase without looking at the street signs as if his feet knew where to take him.

  When he entered the residential compound, he heard a man chanting, “Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…” Accompanying those amplified singsong words was slow, dangling music that sounded ancient and listless. Rounding the corner of the first building, Nan caught sight of a group of old people, about thirty of them, doing morning exercises in the open space between two concrete tenements. They stepped around rhythmically, putting down heel first and swinging their arms left and right, all with their eyes half shut. They looked funny to Nan, as if sleepwalking or wrestling with shadows. Among them he saw his parents, who were swaying their shoulders indolently, his father wearing a flat brown cap while his mother was in purple slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. To his amazement, neither of them had changed much; only their midriffs seemed thicker than before and their limbs looked a little stiff. All the people were expressionless, and their bodies moved in time with the male voice and the music as if they were in a hypnotized dance. Unconsciously Nan stopped in his tracks, his chest so full of feeling that he could hardly breathe. His eyes filmed over. Then he came around and decided not to address his parents, not to wake up the whole crowd. He went along and passed them with his face toward the wall of the building.

  He climbed the stairs and reached his parents’ apartment. The door was locked, so he leaned against the steel banister at the landing, waiting. His father and mother had retired several years ago with pensions equal to their full salaries, and they lived comfortably. Nan could see why, whenever he complained about the Chinese government in his letters, his father would write back upbraiding him and saying he was too naive and too rash. The old man, a staunch Communist, had never doubted the superiority of socialism to capitalism. He had once even condemned his son, saying that even though Nan lived in an American house, drove an American car, spoke American words, ate American food, and cut American farts, still all those privileges couldn’t justify Nan’s “vituperation” against the Chinese government. Now Nan understood that his parents’ livelihood depended on the support of the state.

  “Who’s there?” his mother shouted as she was climbing up the stairs.

  “Mom, it’s me.”

  “Nan! Are you really Nan?” She ran up, stumbled at a step and put out her hand to break the fall.

  “Don’t run.” He hurried down to meet her.

  She threw her arms around him and broke into happy tears. “Oh, my son, how I miss you! Are you back alone?”

  In his arms, she was like a meatball with love handles. He said, “Yes, Pingping and Taotao couldn’t come with me.”

  “Let me take a good look at you.” She pushed him away a bit and observed him with creased eyes. “Nan, you’re a middle-aged man now. You’ve changed so much. Life must be hard in America.”

  “It’s not easy, but we’ve managed. You look great, Mom. I saw you and my dad outside just now, but I didn’t interrupt you.” They turned toward the door. Viewing her from the side, he found her more bent than before, but her hair was jet-black, apparently dyed.

  “Oh, you should’ve stopped us,” she went on. “We were doing this new breathing exercise. It’s like magic and everybody feels better after doing it for a week. Hey, my old man, our son is home.”

  Nan’s father appeared in the stairwell. He saw Nan and hastened his steps. The moment he came in, he asked, “When did you arrive?”

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us beforehand?” He smiled, crinkling his weather-burned face and unable to contain his happiness.

  Nan explained the raffle prize that had enabled him to fly back. His mother had already started making breakfast in the kitchen, from which the clatter of pots and bowls could be heard. Nan saw steaming water falling out of the faucet in there—that was something new.

  The old man and Nan sat down on the sofas in the living room. He said to his son, “You were right not to come up to us when your mother and I were at the exercise. Uncle Zhao was right behind me. He’s still unhappy with you.”

  “Because I didn’t help him get his paintings exhibited in the United States?”

  “Right.”

  “That was several years ago. He still bears a grudge?”

  “Sometimes he complains that you’re ungrateful, and I have to pretend to agree with him.”

  “But I’m nobody in America. How could I help him hold an art show?”

  “I’m not blaming you, Nan. He’s just pigheaded, but he’s an old friend I don’t want to lose. So don’t go out during the day in case people in the neighborhood see you, because then Uncle Zhao will know you’re back.”

  “All right, I’ll remain indoors.” Nan was tired and sleepy, preferring to stay home anyway.

  “If you want to go out, use the back alley and wear sunglasses. Don’t go by the front gate.”

  “You mean the alley is still there?”

  “Yes, nothing really changed except for people getting older.”

  At breakfast Nan asked about his brother and sister. His parents said their family was lucky that neither of Nan’s siblings was out of work. There were so many unemployed people nowadays that pick-pockets were everywhere in town. Nan had better be careful with his wallet on buses and in shops, especially in movie theaters, where the darkness could facilitate theft. His mother also told him that his younger brother, Ning, was addicted to gambling. Sometimes Ning would go out for a whole night. His wife griped about his bad habit all the time, but he wouldn’t change. She had even threatened to leave him; still he wouldn’t stop.

  “Why is he like that?” Nan asked, remembering his brother fondly.

  “Depressed.”

  “What? Depressed?”

  “Yes. He just can’t take heart from anything,” chimed in his father.

  Nan felt it strange that Ning, formerly a cheerful young man, had degenerated like that. Before he had left China, Nan had never heard the word depressed, which his mother now used like an everyday term.

  Nan gave his parents each five hundred dollars, saying he’d had to leave Atlanta in a hurry, so was unable to bring them any gifts. At the sight of the green banknotes, his parents beamed. His father picked up a crisp twenty from the wad of cash and narrowed his weary eyes to observe it against the sunlight streaming in through the window, as if to ascertain its genuineness. “This is twenty dollars,” he said. “I never saw American money before.”

  “It’s real.” Nan nodded.

  “I’ve never thought the almighty dollar loo
ks so ugly.”

  His mother interjected, “What a silly thing to say. No money looks ugly.”

  The old man chuckled and sucked in his breath. “That’s true. Just one of these banknotes can buy me a hundred noodle meals.” He turned to Nan. “Now tell me, how much can your restaurant make on a good day?”

  “Around a hundred?”

  “Five of this!” He fluttered the twenty in his hand. “No wonder people say America is the richest land.” The wrinkles around his snub nose turned into grooves as he grinned and clucked his tongue.

  Nan didn’t say more. Instead, he went to wash and brush his teeth. Then he undressed, got into bed, and slept eight hours on end.

  10

  TOWARD DUSK Nan went out to the riverbank with his brother, Ning. He pushed his father’s Phoenix bicycle through the back alley lined with piles of garbage, but when he came out of it and got on the bike, he couldn’t ride it steadily anymore, and pedaling zigzag, almost ran into a young couple. His brother, tall and rawboned, shook his head, crying, “Use the bell!” Squeals of laughter rang out around them.

  Nan dismounted instead, and together they walked to the Songhua River. They turned onto Central Boulevard, which stretched north about a mile, all the way to the riverside. Nan had once been fond of this cobbled street built by the Russians in the nineteenth century, but somehow it was nothing extraordinary now. He felt the street rather confining, probably owing to the numerous business signs overhanging the buildings.

  The Wu brothers entered the plaza that formed the center of Stalin Park, in the middle of which stood a slender monument erected in memory of the victory over a huge flood in 1957. A structure supported by stone columns, resembling a giant horseshoe, curved behind the monument. Somehow this piece of architecture that had impressed Nan greatly for many years now looked flimsy, no longer giving any feeling of magnitude. The two brothers went deeper into the park and reached the waterside. The riverbank was different from what Nan had remembered. This place had once been like a park, filled with flowers and trees, but now most of the plants were gone and there were booths and kiosks everywhere, selling foods, fruits, drinks, souvenirs. People were bustling around with their purchases in string bags carried in their hands or slung over their shoulders. There were also flocks of tourists strolling about, and some were cracking spiced watermelon seeds and spitting the shells on the ground. Not far away to the east rose a cluster of tall residential buildings that blocked the view of the grassland. In fact, the riverbank was now like a marketplace. The ground paved with concrete slabs was strewn with melon rinds, ice cream cups, crushed eggshells, Popsicle sticks and wrappers, cigarette butts. Nan and Ning leaned against the guardrail atop the embankment, watching a houseboat wobbling near the other shore, with a grapnel dangling over its stern and with foamy wavelets tumbling in its wake. The surface of the water had shrunk considerably, only about two hundred yards wide now, revealing a broad band of sandy beach. “Where are all the ships?” Nan asked his brother.