Ties That Bind, Ties That Break

by Lensey Namioka

  I was glad James agreed with Father. I was beginning to like James a lot, and I wanted to know more about him.

  ‘‘I’ve told you a lot about my family,’’ I said. ‘‘Now tell me about your family. How did they happen to go to America?’’

  He grinned. ‘‘My family isn’t upper class like yours. Is that going to stop you from talking to me?’’

  I grinned back. ‘‘I’m not exactly in a position to talk about class. After all, I’m a third-class passenger, and I’m allowed here in second class only because I’m looking after Grace and Billy.’’

  A steward walked by, and James asked him for two cups of beef tea. It didn’t sound very appetizing. ‘‘I’m not sure I want tea that’s made from beef,’’ I said.

  ‘‘It’s not really tea,’’ explained James. ‘‘It’s a kind of soup, and it’s served between meals on the boat. Some passengers think it helps settle their stomachs.’’

  I found it strange to drink soup without anything solid to go with it, but I was willing to give it a try. The soup was rather salty, but the hot liquid felt good going down my throat.

  As we sipped, James began to tell me about his family. ‘‘My grandfather went to California during the Gold Rush in 1849.’’

  Jinshan, the Chinese name for San Francisco, meant ‘‘Golden Mountain,’’ and I pictured gold rushing down the mountain in a stream. ‘‘Your grandfather must have become fabulously rich!’’

  James smiled wryly. ‘‘No such luck. Grandfather didn’t manage to make a strike. Instead, he had the idea of opening a restaurant for the miners. It was very hard work, but in the end he did pretty well for himself.’’

  ‘‘Well enough to bring his family over to America?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘He went back to his hometown in Canton and got married to the girl his family had found for him,’’ said James. ‘‘Poor girl, she had expected him to return to China loaded with bags of gold, build a big house for her, and hire lots of servants. Instead, Grandfather took her back to America to work her feet off in a restaurant.’’

  I looked at James and at his well-cut suit. After my three years with the Warners I had seen enough Westerners and their clothes to be able to tell a well-cut suit from a poorly cut one. ‘‘Your grandfather’s restaurant must have prospered.’’

  James nodded. ‘‘The hard work paid off. My father inherited the restaurant, which continued to grow under his management.’’

  ‘‘So your mother had an easier life, married to a successful restaurant owner,’’ I said.

  ‘‘No, she didn’t,’’ said James. ‘‘Some of the other wealthy Chinese businessmen in San Francisco arranged for wives to be sent to them from China, women with bound feet. But Father went back to China and married a country girl from his ancestral village.’’

  I remembered my old wet nurse, a country woman with a broad lap, who comforted me and hugged me and crooned lullabies. James’s father had made a good choice, I thought.

  ‘‘Besides, women with bound feet have to stay indoors all day long,’’ continued James. ‘‘Father didn’t want a wife who spent her time drinking tea, eating watermelon seeds, and playing mahjongg. He wanted someone who would be able to walk out with him without being jeered at by Americans.’’

  I sat up. ‘‘You mean Americans make fun of girls with bound feet?’’ This was an astounding idea to me. I was so used to being jeered at for having unbound feet.

  ‘‘Some of the wives in Chinatown even try to hide the fact that they have bound feet,’’ said James. ‘‘They wear big shoes and stuff the extra room with cotton. But they can’t disguise the way they walk: They have to take tiny steps, and they sway from side to side.’’

  ‘‘For a thousand years the Chinese have prized that dainty, swaying walk,’’ I murmured, picturing the way my grandmother, mother, and sisters walked. It was a sign of their status.

  ‘‘Well, Americans have different tastes,’’ said James.

  ‘‘How do you personally feel about it?’’ I asked. ‘‘Do you think like an American or like most Chinese?’’ It suddenly became important for me to know.

  ‘‘I feel the same way as my father,’’ he said instantly. ‘‘When I marry, I want a companion, not a status symbol.’’

  I felt a rush of warmth at hearing his words and buried my nose in the steam from my cup of beef tea. After a minute I asked, ‘‘Will you take over from your father someday?’’ The restaurant had to be doing good business if James could afford to travel to China—in second class.

  James shook his head. ‘‘I’m a younger son, so that means my elder brother is taking over the restaurant, and I’m supposed to work under him.’’

  I studied his face. ‘‘You don’t look forward to working under him.’’

  ‘‘Is it that obvious? No, I don’t enjoy working under my brother. He’s not a good businessman, and I hate seeing the restaurant going downhill in his hands.’’

  ‘‘And it’s impossible to pass the business over to a younger son,’’ I murmured. Even if James’s father preferred to marry a woman with unbound feet, he kept to the old traditional ways in some respects.

  James didn’t have a chance to answer because the door of the activity room opened and the children came spilling out. Grace and Billy said they were tired of sitting still for an hour and wanted me to take them for a walk. As I held the children’s hands and walked with them around the ship, I thought about James Chew’s family history.

  ‘‘I understand you’ve found an admirer,’’ Mrs. Warner said to me a couple of days later.

  ‘‘Oh, you mean James Chew,’’ I said casually. ‘‘He was nice to me when the bartender in the lounge tried to order me back to third class.’’

  Mrs. Warner flushed. ‘‘I’m sorry, Eileen. I shall have to ask Mr. Warner to speak to the bartender.’’

  ‘‘No, no, it turned out all right,’’ I reassured her. ‘‘Anyway, James was in the lounge at the time, and that was how we got acquainted.’’ Mrs. Warner continued to look uncomfortable, so I told her a little about James’s family and background.

  In Nanjing Mrs. Warner and I had seldom had a chance to have a real conversation. After the crisis over Billy’s measles, her manner to me had become much warmer, and she had made some attempts to talk with me. But like her husband, she was busy with her missionary work most of the day, while I spent my time with the children. Only during Sunday dinner were we all together.

  Now, aboard the ship, I found out that she came originally from New England, which was way over on the eastern side of America, more than three thousand miles from San Francisco. Mr. Warner was from Iowa, a state in the middle of the country. The two of them had met when he went to college, and after they got married they moved west. When they both decided to become missionaries, they chose China as their field. They worked first in Shanghai and then were assigned by their mission to Nanjing.

  I was impressed by all the moving the Warners had to do. For that matter, James’s family had done some drastic moving, too. Truly, Americans were a people who moved around. And I thought I had taken a big step by going outside the Tao family compound.

  Mrs. Warner seemed to grow increasingly nervous as the ship approached its destination. ‘‘Aren’t you glad to be going home to San Francisco?’’ I asked.

  Mrs. Warner hesitated. ‘‘It’s hard to say exactly where home is for me,’’ she said. ‘‘We’ve been in China for so many years that both Grace and Billy have gotten used to the life there. Billy, in fact, thinks of America as a foreign country. I don’t know how he will take to living in San Francisco.’’

  I tried to imagine what it was like for the Warners, who went home only once every seven years on furloughs. The life chosen by the missionaries was not an easy one. Whether or not I agreed with their religious beliefs, I had to admire them for their hard work and dedication.

  James Chew also seemed sorry that the voyage was drawing to a close. ‘‘This trip might be my last one f
or a while,’’ he said. ‘‘It was my idea. I suggested to my father that by going back to Canton, I could arrange for our suppliers to sell directly to our restaurant.’’

  ‘‘You can’t buy the supplies for your restaurant in America?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘We need all sorts of spices and ingredients not available in America,’’ he explained. ‘‘We’ve always had to go through a lot of middlemen, and that raises the prices on everything.’’

  I didn’t know what middlemen meant, but what struck me were his words about this being his last trip. ‘‘You don’t expect to do any more traveling?’’

  He sighed. ‘‘Not when my brother takes over the management of the restaurant. He and I have very different ideas about the business. My father has been sick for more than a year now, and he says he can’t put off his retirement any longer.’’

  ‘‘So what will you do?’’ I asked.

  He sighed even more deeply. ‘‘I suppose I have to work under my brother, even if it means watching the business go to ruin.’’ He turned and looked at me. ‘‘I hope we meet again in San Francisco. Do you know where you’ll be staying?’’

  I shook my head. It had never occurred to me to ask the Warners for their address. ‘‘Maybe we’ll run into each other. Is San Francisco a large city?’’

  ‘‘I’m afraid it’s very large,’’ replied James. ‘‘But please try to go to Chinatown and look for the Green Pavilion restaurant. It’s on Dupont Street.’’

  His eyes were very intent as he spoke. I wanted to promise him that I would find some way to visit his father’s restaurant, but I suddenly felt shy and couldn’t find anything to say.

  James seemed to sense my embarrassment and adopted a lighter tone. ‘‘Look! Billy is hungry again. Why don’t we badger the bartender for another snack?’’

  When land was finally sighted I stood on deck, holding Grace and Billy by the hand. All three of us were silent. I had entered a totally new world when I enrolled in the MacIntosh School, and another one when I went to live with an American family. Now I was about to enter still another new world—literally the New World.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Warners’ house in San Francisco was halfway up a hill. It was in a pleasant neighborhood on the northwest side of the city, and the view down to the ocean from the front windows was spectacular. The trees were permanently swept back by the sea breezes, and in the late afternoon the fog rolled over us like a wadded quilt. I couldn’t stop marveling at the beauty of my surroundings. Nanjing was a flat city, with some pretty lakes and low hills in the outskirts. San Francisco, on the other hand, had sharp hills and a roaring ocean. The city—maybe all of America—seemed rugged and untamed.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that the Warners were not well off. Their house, which had been rented while the family was in China, needed a thorough cleaning. After we arrived, I waited for a crew of servants to come and do the necessary work. I was shocked when Mr. and Mrs. Warner themselves took up brooms, mops, and dusters. Even their houseboy back in Nanjing would never use a broom or a mop. That was beneath his dignity.

  I offered to help with the cleaning, but to my great relief Mrs. Warner preferred to have me keep the children busy and out of the way. I helped the children put away their belongings. I was sharing the bigger of the two upstairs bedrooms with Grace, while Billy had a tiny room facing the back of the house. It was hardly bigger than a closet.

  By late afternoon Billy was whining with hunger. I was pretty hungry myself, since all we’d had for lunch had been some pieces of bread with butter. I tiptoed cautiously downstairs, hoping the cook would have some tidbits I could take up to Billy. I had done this often in Nanjing, and the cook had been willing to oblige me, although he was temperamental and surly toward the rest of the household.

  The kitchen was very different from the one in the Warners’ Nanjing house. The stove here didn’t have a hole for resting the wok, and there was no roaring fire inside. There was no fire at all in the stove. In fact, there was not a soul in the kitchen.

  I had to face the bitter truth: Not only did the Warners have no servants to do the cleaning, they had no cook to prepare the meals.

  I heard the front door of the small house open, and Mrs. Warner, looking very disheveled, staggered in with some parcels. She dropped them on the kitchen table and sank into a chair. For a moment she looked too tired to speak. Then she gave a great sigh. ‘‘I’d better start getting dinner ready. You know, I’m already homesick for Nanjing.’’

  I pulled myself together. ‘‘I’m not. I think coming to America is a great adventure!’’ My employer needed support, and I tried to sound bracing. ‘‘You must be tired. Let me help with the cooking.’’

  Mrs. Warner grinned. ‘‘My dear, have you ever done any cooking before?’’

  I had to admit that I hadn’t. ‘‘But I can learn!’’

  ‘‘Well, at least I’ve cooked before,’’ said Mrs. Warner. ‘‘I’ve been spoiled in China, but I can still remember a few basic things.’’

  Mrs. Warner might still remember a few basic things about cooking, but she was badly out of practice. For the rest of my life I will never forget my first dinner at the Warners’ house in San Francisco. The meal consisted of pork chops, boiled cabbage, and mashed potatoes. The cabbage was mashed, the potatoes were crunchy, and the pork chops tasted like scraps of lumber.

  Billy was always the first to complain about food, but he took one look at his mother’s rigid face and had the sense to say nothing. We all found it safer to say nothing. After the meal I got up to help Mrs. Warner clear the table. ‘‘Grace will help, too,’’ Mrs. Warner said.

  In the days that followed, I was not the only one to find it hard adjusting to life in America. Mr. and Mrs. Warner, tight-lipped and overworked, spent little time at home. Grace had to enroll in a neighborhood school, but she didn’t seem to feel the same joy that I had on entering my school. Eight-year-old Billy became so homesick for China that he started to behave like a four-year-old. I had to use all my ingenuity to keep him from throwing tantrums.

  I did my best to help Mrs. Warner, for I felt closer to her now than I had in Nanjing. Although I had been hired to tutor the children, I didn’t have the heart to sit back while she toiled so hard with the housework and cooking. I tried wielding a broom, but I didn’t realize that I had to collect the dirt in a receptacle and deposit it in a refuse container. In China the maids simply swept everything out into the courtyard. I was no more successful with a mop, since I didn’t know that for good results the mop had to be squeezed dry first.

  One night, as I watched everyone around the dining table doggedly chewing away at Mrs. Warner’s dinner, I was suddenly overcome by the desire to eat Chinese food. ‘‘Why don’t I try to cook some rice?’’ I suggested. ‘‘Maybe I can also cut up some meat into shreds and stir-fry it with vegetables.’’

  I was startled by the enthusiastic response from the whole Warner family. Grace clapped her hands, Billy jumped up from his seat in glee, and even Mr. Warner’s solemn face broke into a grin. Mrs. Warner gave a great sigh. ‘‘I think that would be an excellent idea, Eileen.’’

  That was how I began my career as a cook.

  In China I had never set foot in the kitchen, but I had loved to prowl around the courtyard outside it, and I had seen the family chef wield his chopping knife. I knew about the quick ‘‘flash’’ style of cooking because I had seen the chef dump the finely sliced food into the hot wok and stir it around vigorously. Best of all, I knew how good food should taste.

  Of course it took me a while to master even the most elementary techniques of cooking. Rice is the foundation of every Chinese meal, but it was surprisingly hard to cook well, I discovered. My first pot of rice turned out to be rice soup, but rice soup—called congee by some Westerners—was at least a recognized dish.

  Mrs. Warner was so relieved at having some of the cooking taken off her hands that she was very patient with me. As my co
oking gradually improved, the family stopped pretending to like my food. Their appreciation became genuine.

  But it was hard work. I had never done so much physical labor before in my life. In addition to tutoring Billy and helping Grace with her work after school, I had to walk to a nearby store to shop for food and do an increasing amount of cooking.

  Yet I had never felt so much self-satisfaction. True, I had been proud of my work at the MacIntosh School. True, I had been Grandmother’s favorite. But Big Uncle had made it clear that a girl in a Chinese family was a luxury, someone who might be dearly loved but who was always a drain on the family resources. Girls didn’t bring anything into a family. They were married off at great expense to some other family, where they fulfilled their duty by producing sons.

  With the Warners, I felt I was making a contribution to the family. I was needed.

  ‘‘I have to buy some soy sauce,’’ I said.

  Until that evening the Warners had held back from saying anything about my cooking. I knew perfectly well that they found it less than perfect, but they had not tried to criticize me. Maybe they were afraid I might resign from cooking and they would have to go back to mashed cabbage and wooden pork chops.

  Billy, as usual, was the first one to speak his mind. ‘‘This doesn’t taste like what we used to have,’’ he said after a mouthful of my cabbage shreds stir-fried with chunks of beef.

  The others tried to shush him, but it was too late. Besides, I agreed with him. My cooking, which came reasonably close to Chinese food in texture, had very little taste or color. It needed zing. For that, I needed certain ingredients, but none of the stores in our neighborhood had anything resembling Chinese groceries.

  Suddenly I felt a tremendous hunger for long-grain rice, not the mushy kind used by Americans for making rice pudding. My mouth watered for soy sauce, for ginger, for bamboo shoots. . . .

  ‘‘Maybe you can take Eileen to Chinatown, Imogene,’’ Mr. Warner said. ‘‘She can find everything she needs there.’’