I HOTEL
ALSO BY KAREN TEI YAMASHITA
Through the Arc of the Rain Forest
Brazil-Maru
Tropic of Orange
Circle K Cycles
KAREN TEI YAMASHITA
I HOTEL
COFFEE HOUSE PRESS :: MINNEAPOLIS
COPYRIGHT © 2010 by Karen Tei Yamashita
COVER DESIGN by Linda Koutsky
BOOK DESIGN by Allan Kornblum
Illustrations by Leland Wong © 2010 Leland Wong
Illustrations by Sina Grace © 2010 Sina Grace
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © Mary Uyematsu Kao
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CIP INFORMATION
Yamashita, Karen Tei, 1951–
I Hotel / by Karen Tei Yamashita.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1968: Eye Hotel, NOVELLA, E-ISBN 978-1-56689-388-6
1. Civil rights movements—United States—Fiction.
2. Asian Americans—Fiction.
3. Nineteen seventies—Fiction.
4. Nineteen sixties—Fiction.
5. Chinatown (San Francisco, Calif.)—Fiction.
I. Title.
II. Series.
PS3575.A44119 2010
813'.54—DC22
2010000382
This story is based, in part, on true events, but certain liberties have been taken with names, places, and dates, and the characters have been invented. Therefore, the persons and characters portrayed bear absolutely no resemblance whatever to the persons who were actually involved in the true events described in this story.
For Asako and her grandchildren
1968: Eye Hotel
Contents
1:Year of the Monkey
2:Language in Reaction
3:Analects
4:My Special Island
5:We
6:Tofu Tigers
7:Chinatown Verité
8:This Moment
9:Authentic Chinese Food
10:All the Things You Are
Afterword
Author’s Acknowledgments
The Illustrators
Permissions Acknowledgments
Funder Acknowledgments
Coffee House Press
1: Year of the Monkey
So I’m Walter Cronkite, dig? And it’s February 27, 1968, and I’m saying, the U.S. is mired in a stalemate in Vietnam, and you are there.
But whoa, let’s back up twenty-nine days to the Lunar New Year. Now we know the Vietnamese call it Tet, but the Chinese own it: New Year, they call it. This year it’s significant for Paul because on this night his dad grabs his heart like it’s been antipersonnel-mined with a BLU-43, what you call dragontooth, like it was waiting there in one of those jungle paths, waiting for someone to put his toe on the de-toe-nator, and boom! There’s firecrackers busting all up and down Grant Avenue, so Paul can’t hear his dad cry out, but he’s walking behind through a narrow in the crowded festivities and the spitting lights glittering overhead only to stumble across his dad, crumpling into a laundry heap on the sidewalk.
“Ba! What is it?”
Ba has a vision as he passes: his big mistake and no atonement. “When your mother died,” he’s gasping, “for your sake, I should have married again.”
“What are you talking about? Help! We need help. An ambulance!”
“Just the two of us from that time on”—gasp—“Good son. Only child.”
“Move away! Give him air!”
“Now, my son . . . I’m sorry . . . in the world all alone . . .”
Maybe he says this, maybe not. Paul can’t hear him with all the explosions and the drumming. This Lunar New Year of the Monkey. There’s a float with everyone dressed like monkeys. They’re scurrying around with their wire tails bouncing. Every day for a hundred days, Paul tries to hear his father’s last words. Maybe he said “. . . in the world be strong . . .” Every Chinese New Year for the rest of his life, he tries to hear his father’s last words. And every year, he will hear something different.
Who’s Paul? Just one of those sensitive Chinatown kids in high school, senior at Lowell, now orphaned. Isn’t his story the story of every kid in the Year of the Monkey, 1968? Every one of us orphaned this year; just that Paul knows it first, a midnight orphan on the gung hay fat choy. Who are we to know that our black daddy Martin with a dream and our little white father Bobby will take bullets to their brains? By the end of the year, we are monkey orphans let loose, raising havoc; no daddies to pull the stops, temper the member; got those wired tails swinging from every rafter, we are free at last, brother, free at last.
On the Tet, boys back in Vietnam about to be orphaned too. Got their helmets fitting snug at the chin, faces smudged like football defenders, hugging those rifles for a sneak attack, all in camouflage like the VC can’t see them. Must be why more Vietnamese get killed than American boys: 58,000 to 3,895. Numbers for Vietnam are rounded off to the nearest thousand. Numbers for The Boys are exact. You do the math—it’s fifteen to one. We must have won. Saigon, Khe Sanh, and Hue—we get them all back. We get back the little places too, like Ben Tre and My Lai. At Ben Tre, an officer without a name says, “It became necessary to destroy it, in order to save it.” At My Lai, Charlie Company gets its orders: This is what you’ve been waiting for—search and destroy—and you’ve got it. LBJ, the CIA, Westmoreland, McNamara, the Wise Men, they all say, let us wash our hands, go quietly into that good night. Bye-bye. See you on the judgment day.
Judgment day is here already for Paul’s daddy. Wait a week to let the festivities die down, keep daddy on ice at the Cathay Wah Sang on Powell Street, over there near Jackson where the cable car makes its turn. How many ghosts hop the cable car to make the U-turn out of Chinatown? Paul makes two calls, one to Auntie and one to the Benevolent Association, and suddenly everyone goes into action like a finely tuned machine that cranks out tradition.
“My brother, what was he thinking?” Auntie wails. “He never went to the doctor. Me, I take my pills every day. Our father died the same way.”
Paul don’t know what to say. Maybe it’s his fault. Wasn’t paying attention to the old man. But how old was he? Turning sixty-five. He was supposed to live to ninety, see Paul graduate college, get married, see his grandchildren. He was betting big-time on his only son.
Auntie’s on the kitchen phone with the Cathay morticians. “My brother only has one son, and he doesn’t know anything about funerals. But why should he? He’s only sixteen.”
“I’m eighteen, Auntie.”
“Ay, how time flies. But what does it matter? He still doesn’t know anything. We’re going to have to take care of all the details.”
“Auntie, what details?”
She waves her hand at him and continues on the phone. “You know my family, well, everyone knew our father. A modest funeral, you understand? My brother was, well, why not say it, eccentric, but we are a traditional family. Yes, Ning Yung, that’s right. Someone from the Association will be in touch. I’ll be there tomorrow in the morning. Yes, my nephew will come. After all, the son should be the one to choose.”
“Auntie, choose what? And wha
t about Ning Yung?”
“Chinese cemetery in Colma. Don’t worry. They’ll take care of everything. They’re professionals. Tomorrow there’ll be an obituary in the Chinese Times. Be sure you go and get a copy. Now, come here.”
Auntie jumps up, and Paul follows her down the corridor to the study. They walk through and over the books piled with scattered newspapers on the floor. From the desk, she picks up Dad’s reading glasses. She pulls one of his calligraphy brushes from a bamboo holder. “Here,” she says, handing the glasses and the brush to Paul. She scans the tall shelves of books that line every wall of the study. There are books in Chinese, English, and French. There’s classical Chinese literature, painting, ancient and contemporary Chinese, Western and American history, philosophy, politics, and religion. The man could read! Books are open to selected pages, annotated in the margins, wedged in every cranny of available space in the room. And behind everything else, stacked in the corners are painted canvasses. Auntie throws her hands up—“Hasn’t been dusted in years. Scandalous!”—and marches out in disgust. Paul follows obediently like a dumb puppy dog. Everything is the same as it’s always been. He can’t remember his mother’s feminine touch, her tidy ways. It’s all forgotten. He looks back at the torn leather on his dad’s old reading chair, and the way the wood floor is worn from the chair to the desk. He sees his dad pacing back and forth from the chair to the desk. No dust there. Not one speck.
But keep following Auntie. She’s on a mission down the corridor to his dad’s bedroom. She freezes at the door. Their house is a bachelor pad, so it’s a shock. Clothes everywhere. More books. More canvasses. Bed unmade. You can see the shape of his body in the wrinkled sheets. That’s where Auntie finally loses it. “My brother, you are gone,” she weeps, grabbing the dark wood of the doorframe and slipping down into abundant sorrow. Paul bows his head, stares down at his tears spattering his dad’s reading glasses and calligraphy brush. Old ink gets bloody in his young hands.
Later, Auntie sits down in the kitchen. Writes a list:
one full set of clothing including best suit
don’t forget socks and shoes
reading glasses
brush
newspapers
mah-jongg set
bottle of French cognac
What else?
his favorite things
like favorite pen or favorite book
Pentax box camera
“O.K.,” says Auntie. “You have to find these things. If the clothes are dirty, you bring them to me tomorrow morning and I’ll wash them. Remember. His best suit. The one he wears to,” she pauses foolishly, “funerals. Bring everything tomorrow. Maybe we need to get it dry cleaned, too.”
“Why the favorite things?”
“We put these things with him in his coffin, to make his journey.”
“Auntie, maybe he wouldn’t want us to do this.” Paul can’t help it, but he yawns. He’s been up all night in the study trying to read his dad’s old letters. “Maybe he didn’t believe in the journey.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Camus?” he suggests. “Existentialism.”
Auntie huffs, “What did he pump into your young mind? All that’s irrelevant when you die in Chinatown.”
Yes, ma’am, all that’s irrelevant when you die in Viet’nam. To celebrate the Tet, nineteen VC commandos charge through the walls of the U.S. embassy compound in Saigon with antitank rockets. Marines hold them off until they get a helicopter of the Airborne in to finish up this mess. When it’s over, you got nineteen dead VC, two dead Vietnamese civilians, and five dead American boys. And we’re watching the action all on TV, dig? But that’s just the embassy. The North Vietnamese have infiltrated the entire city, coming in on holiday with their ammo hid under flowers, rice, and vegetables. It’s a peasant surprise. Presidential Palace, South Vietnamese Army headquarters, Westmoreland’s headquarters, radio station, and the air bases all attacked. Aircraft crippled, neighborhoods reduced to rubble, two million new refugees. Ol’Walter pulls you back to the map, and you see the DMZ, line that marks North from South, and you say hey, that’s a long ways away from Saigon. What’s the war doing down there in the deep South? Hey, Westmoreland, are we winning this war or not? And if we are, why are twenty-six hearts and minds bleeding there on the floor of our U.S. courtyard, what you call U.S. soil?
By the time Paul’s father’s wake comes along, Saigon the city is under control. The war’s pushed to the outside villages, which is easy because all they got to do now is destroy them. Like the lady at the front of the Cathay mortuary who is burning paper—joss paper, otherworld paper money, paper clothing, paper replicas of cars, televisions, houses, servants, everything going up in symbolic smoke to send along with Dad in the next world. Paul can see the flames go up and smolder, reflecting off the shiny brass along the casket. The pungent smell of incense and burning paper swirls through the room. Paul’s dad is dressed in his best suit, sleeping on a satin bed in a beautiful box with all his favorite things.
Auntie and her husband and their five children and their children are all there. There are other cousins too, but Auntie says they are paper cousins, so do they count? If they’re not careful, lady in the front might grab them, send them up in symbolic smoke.
The Association president is there. So are Paul’s dad’s office manager, the typesetter, and Mr. Fung, who practically does all the writing and photos for the newspaper. It’s just a small operation. His dad’s been publishing this local paper since his mother died maybe twelve years ago. Auntie says her brother went to hide inside that paper, use it to publish what was in his mind. She doesn’t say that no one reads it; at least she never did. She reads Mr. Fung’s articles about events in Chinatown, but she never understood her brother’s writing—all those complicated philosophical ideas of his. Well, his friends always said he was brilliant, and they got their brilliant writing in print too. Paper comes out once a week on Friday, so today’s paper’s a big photo with a full-page obituary. Readers maybe don’t know the whole paper is Paul’s dad, and maybe this is the last issue. Auntie folds a fresh copy and tucks it in with her brother. She inspects everything: can of tea, passport, reading glasses, calligraphy brush, bottle of French cognac.
“Oh,” she notices and says to Paul, “you found his old Pentax box camera.” She approves. “He loved that camera and took so many pictures with it.” Then she notices a book resting in the satin. “What’s this?” she asks.
“Favorite book, you said,” Paul mutters quietly.
“Capital?” she whispers. Even Auntie knows Karl Marx.
“Ah yeah, it was the book he was reading these days.”
“Favorite?”
“He always said the book he was reading was his favorite.”
Auntie’s exasperated, but she smiles and looks around. She slips the book out and hugs the cover to her bosom. “Do you want to get us in trouble?” she squeaks, bowing three times.
“But—”
“Bow three times,” she interjects. “Customary to do so,” she instructs, and moves away with Marx under cover. Outside, she shoves the un-American book at Paul and hisses, “Get rid of this.”
Meanwhile, under cover of air and artillery blasting away at the fat walls of the Citadel, Marines in assault craft ply the Perfume River to its banks to take back the sacred city of Hue. Who will bow three times to bless the blood lapping at the shore?
Next day at the funeral, Paul wears a black suit, a black waistband, and a black band on his left arm. The waistband means he’s the oldest son. He knows people see it and think that that’s not all it means. He’s too young to be wearing this waistband, too young to take his father’s place. Now the Chinatown community files in, solemnly bowing three times, one by one, and filling the pews at the Cathay. They’ve sent wreaths of flowers with ribbons naming the family, institution, or shop Paul’s father did business with.
And now Paul’s got to be the oldest only son, approach
the casket to perform the blanket ceremony. If only there were other sons: a third son to place the white blanket of heaven, a second son to place the red blanket of life, a first son to place the gold blanket of spirituality splashed with red characters. If only there were ten sons to place ten blankets, to send his father warmly into his spirit life. But Paul’s the only son, so he surreptitiously hides Karl Marx under the folded blankets, shrouds his father’s traveling body with each eternal blanket, tucking the pei in to hide Dad’s unfinished reading. Paul thinks, even if it’s not his daddy’s journey, it’s their journey: Auntie’s journey, Mr. Fung’s, the Benevolent Association, his father’s writing buddies. It’s their journey, dig? It might be Karl’s too. Back of the hall, paper-burning lady’s going at it with the matches. Could have given her his dad’s entire library plus his paintings, burn it all up to heaven.
Endless eulogies, three bows per person, and condolences take forever, but finally the pallbearers get the casket out into the long hearse. They make Paul sit in the Cadillac convertible with a giant wreathed photo of his dad. The Cathay brass band of twelve old white guys in maroon outfits starts in with their signature tune, “Nearer My God to Thee,” and marches in front of the convertible Cad. Paul looks back at the hearse following. All the other cars follow the hearse. He’s on parade through Chinatown. Everyone on the street is staring at him and the giant photo. Does he look like a younger version of his dad? Chinese look to see if they recognize the guy in the photo. Kids run alongside the band and then the Cad, like it’s a continuation of New Year’s, and tourists snap their Brownies. He can hear the tourists saying, “The band is playing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’ Can you beat that in Chinatown? These folks are Christian too. Honey, is that yellow confetti they’re throwing out of the cars? How festive!” Paul grips his dad’s photo and hides behind it, every nerve in his body electrocuted by an overloaded circuitry of grief and humiliation.
1968- Eye Hotel Page 1
