Zero and Other Fictions

by Huang Fan

  At first, Yang T’ai-sheng took his wife and daughter to stay at his sister’s home in New York. His brother-in-law owned a Cantonese dim sum tea house there. In America, if the basement of a house is well ventilated, it can be turned into nice living quarters with just a little imagination and some enthusiasm, because America is a place full of possibilities.

  To work as a waiter in a dim sum tea house takes a minimum of training and a little psychological readjustment. The most difficult part is learning to speak English. But in just three months, Yang T’ai-sheng, a college graduate in history, learned to speak English much better than the elderly Chinese who had lived there for thirty years.

  As the situation in Taiwan cleared up, Yang T’ai-sheng slowly came to realize that it made no sense for him to have come all the way from Taiwan to America to work as a waiter. So, on Double Ten, when the streets of Chinatown were filled with the lively sounds of gongs and drums, Yang T’ai-sheng discussed the matter with his brother-in-law, who told him that indeed the grass is greener in America, but one has to watch for the opportunities. His sister and brother-in-law wished him good luck.

  Thus a new family was born in Monterey Park.

  Like other Chinese who had come to America from Taiwan to find “a turning point in life,” he felt the first step was to buy a house. So Yang T’ai-sheng, through a friend of his brother-in-law’s, boldly put down 70 percent of his working capital and bought a house, which, 10 years later, he told everyone he had obtained at a real bargain. The house was situated on a big lot. Six years later he built another house on it, which he rented out to a guy who owned a travel agency.

  He had a house and he was very ambitious, but what kind of business should he get into?

  Since Peter Wang had officially announced his candidacy for congressman, everyone, especially the people flowing in from Taiwan, speculated that Monterey Park would develop fast in the near future.

  Yang T’ai-sheng, with foresight, looked around and discovered that many people didn’t know how to decorate their American-style homes. Some people even had sealed up the fireplaces in their living rooms, because they thought that a fireplace was used only for cooking. He decided to open a furniture store so that the poor immigrants from Taiwan could live a really American life.

  Five years later, an old woman told him that she couldn’t stand the overstuffed American sofas and that she missed the old-style rocking chairs from home. Out of sympathy—and with a keen eye for business—Yang T’ai-sheng imported five of the rocking chairs. Unexpectedly, the chairs sold out within a week. T’ai-yuan Furniture Shop saw the advent of a new age as Yang T’ai-sheng began importing furniture from Taiwan. Soon, there were no longer any pieces of furniture made in the U.S.A. to be found in the shop. His sister’s whole family came from far away to congratulate him. He proudly told them, “I just can’t forget my origins.”

  After this he regularly went back to Taiwan twice each year.

  In 1981, NBC ran a six-day television program, A Trip to Taiwan, that made all the Chinese who were from Taiwan and now living in Monterey Park homesick. Many people told him that they missed their lives in the countryside of Taiwan.

  Two times a year, he went back to Taiwan to purchase the kind of furniture that would cure their nostalgia. The second time he went to Taiwan in 1981, he was out in the countryside when he was struck by an inspiration. Due to this inspiration, combined with the Taiwan policy of “Steady Growth,” he boldly made the second important decision of his lifetime. T’ai-yuan entered a stage of multinational enterprise: next to the Fu-ho Bridge in Yung-ho, Yang T’ai-sheng opened the Antique Furniture Assembly Factory.

  The workers at the shop had the ability to put together old wooden furniture purchased in the countryside and, like plastic surgeons, give it a second life.

  All together he had five people working for him and an accountant, a young lady. To give them more incentive in their work, he told them, “As soon as the business gets off the ground, you will have the opportunity to go to America, where …” It sounded reasonable.

  The young accountant, Yeh Mei-chu, was pretty and competent. One night in November, after sending out an order of merchandise worth US $100,000, the two of them drank some wine. Stimulated in part by the excitement of their work and in part by the desire he had already conceived for Yeh Mei-chu, Yang T’ai-sheng later told his wife that he had done this for a serious reason—he wanted a son. His wife, though disagreeing with his idea, did compromise, on the condition that “she was not to be allowed to set foot in America.”

  Thus the problem was solved. Each time Yang T’ai-sheng returned to Taiwan, he made a strenuous effort to produce a son. He also picked out a name for the baby in advance: Nien-t’ai. But Nien-t’ai never came. Yang T’ai-sheng, aside from making more concerted efforts, attempted to persuade Yeh Mei-chu to go to the hospital for a checkup. Yeh Mei-chu refused to go. “Your sperm count must be too low. They say that people who fly too often will have this sort of trouble. I got some Chinese herbal medicine for you. They say …”

  In the spring of 1985, the Taiwan Strait was calm and tranquil. However, the furniture market in Monterey Park was in a state of turbulence. A man named Qin, who had immigrated from mainland China, had imported Ming dynasty furniture, causing a small but economically profitable “search for roots.”

  “Damn,” Yang T’ai-sheng complained to his wife. “What kind of nonsense is all this to-do about the Ming dynasty things?” It didn’t matter what he said. After Qin imported a chamber pot once used by a eunuch and caused a surge in sales, Yang T’ai-sheng declared he had given up two of his principles: no trading relations with or visiting relatives in mainland China. (Relatives in mainland China were always writing to ask for money, and his wife had already visited China twice.)

  “I guess I’d better make a trip to the other side.” With a Taiwan passport, the best way to enter mainland China was through Hong Kong. Before his departure, his wife contacted the relatives over there. As soon as they heard of his coming, they planned a big welcome party for him.

  Thus Yang T’ai-sheng was easily able to open a factory in the Xiamen Special Economic Zone. All together he had eleven people working for him. “As soon as business gets off the ground, you will have the opportunity to go to Taiwan, where …”

  During his second inspection trip, his relatives recommended a young lady from Shanghai to be his administrative assistant. The young lady, a graduate of the English department of Fudan University, was pretty and competent. The moment he laid eyes on her, he felt he could transfer his “Taiwan experience” to her. From her desire to look pretty, Yang T’ai-sheng understood that she possessed a high degree of “bourgeois liberality.” So, one night in the autumn of 1986 when the streets were filled with the lively sounds of drums and gongs celebrating the anniversary of the success of the revolution, and after he had loaned her family a sum of money to repair their house, he “united” with her.

  Pan Jia, his mainland mistress, was a shy but brave little woman. Ever since she was a little girl, she’ knew how to fight for her rights. She also realized that giving Yang T’ai-sheng a son was the basis of all duty and power. From October to December, the two of them struggled unceasingly for a “new generation.”

  On Christmas Eve, Yang T’ai-sheng returned to Taiwan. Mei-chu treated him coldly, because she had just talked on the phone with his wife in America. “You can’t wrap fire in paper. Knowledge of your affairs has spread all over the States. Your first wife just called and told me that a relative in mainland China told her that you’ve got a Shanghai woman.”

  “That’s not so.” Inwardly he cursed this age of global communication networks.

  “Pan Jia,” she said, starting to cry, “that communist bitch.”

  “She’s not a communist,” said Yang T’ai-sheng as he dodged a vase thrown in his direction. “Don’t throw that one, it’s crystal and is worth $400.”

  “Then you’re going to stick up for her! She
plans to come and share our property.”

  “I must have a son to carry on the Yang family name.”

  “Communist bitch!”

  “She is very capable, and can take care of our interests on the mainland,” pleaded Yang T’ai-sheng. “Besides, she’s definitely no communist.”

  A Christmas song came on the TV. It was sung in English and was filled with a sense of peace and tranquility. Yang T’ai-sheng recognized the singer as Bing Crosby, whose old records continued to sell by the hundreds of thousands every year.

  Mei-chu thought of his first wife in America, who had just called her. It almost seemed that the two of them stood on the same side; this made her feel a little better. “No matter what you say, or under whatever circumstances, that Shanghai woman should not be allowed to set foot in Taiwan.”

  Thus resolved, the “cold war” began. Yang T’ai-sheng spent the entire month he was in Taiwan thinking about how to solve this sticky problem. Finally, with a heavy heart, he carried these problems with him as he uneasily returned to Monterey Park. During the two weeks before New Year’s Day, his wife didn’t give him a single day of peace. In various ways, she reminded him that he was a big fool. “The one in Taiwan is understandable,” she said, sneering at him. “But that one in mainland China could be your daughter.” His daughter, who was then studying at Harvard University, had called to inform him that she couldn’t make it home to celebrate Chinese New Year. That was it! For the first time in his life, Yang T’ai-sheng felt deeply distressed. “You know, my old lady-killer, the hair on the back of your head is beginning to turn white. Here, let me pull some out for you to look at.”

  “I remember the lively New Year’s festivities of the past.” The couple sat facing each other across a long table.

  “You probably miss your homes in Taiwan and Xiamen, don’t you?” His greatest desire in life was to unify his family. In the summer of 1987, the first “family conference” was convened in Singapore.

  Why had Singapore been chosen? Because each of the wives had sworn that the others were not allowed to enter her territory. Naturally he had considered Hong Kong, but it was too close to mainland China. Choosing Hong Kong might have given the mistaken impression that he favored one of them over the others. Besides, he had an old friend in Singapore who could arrange everything; on top of which, Singapore was clean and quiet, just the place for anyone who wanted to sit down and talk calmly.

  The Royal Hotel, located in the middle of downtown, was a thirtystory building. From the windows one could look over the edifices of the finely planned “third China.”

  The rooms had been prepared. The largest room had a small conference room attached to it. Yang T’ai-sheng and his first wife stayed in that room, on the twenty-second floor. The second wife was on the twenty-first floor and the third wife was on the twentieth floor. It had been arranged this way to prevent them from running into each other in the hallway.

  After everyone had lunched in their own room and rested, it came time for the meeting. The first wife was dressed in a light voile dress from Dior’s branch shop in Los Angeles. The second was wearing a Western-style dress, hand tailored by Lancaster designers in Taipei, and the third wore a black qiipao, the masterpiece of a famous Shanghai dressmaker. The four of them sat around a round table. Yang T’ai-sheng looked to his right and to his left, feeling like an emperor of old. His three wives glanced at one another from the corners of their eyes.

  After a moment, Yang T’ai-sheng cleared his throat and said, “This is a historical moment. We thank the past generations of our ancestors for this blessing.” His inspiration welled up like a spring, as if he were once again a college student indulging in loud and empty talk. “That the entire family can be together to discuss and plan our future is a significant breakthrough for the nation.” As he said this he cursed himself inwardly; he also heard his first wife snort, but pretended not to hear. “Of course, there are some technical problems that must be resolved,” he continued. “For example, every Chinese New Year we should all get together.…”

  “Don’t forget the conditions you have already agreed to. I don’t want the neighbors laughing at me!” said the first wife, unable to hold back any longer.

  “I can’t have you coming to my place, I still have a position in society,” said the second.

  The third lowered her voice as if she had been wronged. “Where I come from, committing adultery must be reformed through labor.”

  “Nonsense, there is no reform through labor over there anymore.” Yang T’ai-sheng stood up, waving his hands to silence them. “Commit, hell, nobody can even visit.” Then he sat down in a fury, tapping the table with his fingers. The three wives started talking to one another about their dresses. After a while they changed the subject to prices, as if they wanted to leave Yang T’ai-sheng out in the cold.

  Yang T’ai-sheng looked around. Suddenly he was puzzled, because he didn’t know how to arrange things for that night. He couldn’t help scratching his head, thinking about these three women who urgently needed his most productive energies to live together.

  “That’s enough!” shouted Yang T’ai-sheng. The three of them became silent. In a moment, he recovered his authority. “We will continue this meeting tomorrow.”

  There was still no progress the next day, but his three wives were becoming more intimate with one another and seemed to have arrived at some sort of tacit understanding. A week later, the first wife made the first move by declaring that the three of them had reached an agreement. Under this agreement, Hong Kong was the site chosen for producing an heir. The entire family would stay in Hong Kong for one year, during which time every one of them had to do their best to produce a son for the Yang family. If one got pregnant, the whole family would live in the lucky mother’s territory. If nothing happened, they would split up, living separately as they had done before. The suggestions were pretty good, and Yang T’ai-sheng laughingly accepted.

  After the agreement was reached, they spent a week sightseeing. Singapore was indeed a pleasant place, full of potential. With great business acumen, Yang T’ai-sheng couldn’t help checking it out.

  The day before their tour was to end, Yang T’ai-sheng announced to his three wives, “While you were shopping, I took the opportunity to look around and analyze the business situation here. I also talked on the phone with a number of friends”—he paused and looked around at his wives—“and they all agreed with my point of view, that it is possible for me to open a branch office here.”

  Translated by Yingtsih Balcom

  how to measure

  the width of a ditch

  1

  No matter what you say, measuring the width of a ditch will never be an interesting topic of conversation. When we regale our friends with words, we most frequently resort to topics such as male-female relations, economics, scandals, movies, and jokes.

  We mull over witticisms, lick our humorous lips, and then tighten our vocal cords to emit sounds in all wavelengths. If these sounds are organized, possess meaning, or are interesting, we then dub them topics of conversation.

  Yes, I too have significant means at my disposal to deal with these superficial topics. In addition to the few mentioned previously, I can also converse about the weather, medicine, and shells (of which I have collected a whole drawer full).

  I wouldn’t exactly say that hearing me talk is enjoyable, but neither is it a torture, unless, that is, I am incautious and let slip the matter of measuring the width of a ditch. When that happens, normally the facial muscles of the person listening suddenly contract, the lines around his or her mouth deepen, and their eyes grow larger, forming an enigmatic expression that possesses a strong satirical power, the sight of which immediately cuts me short.

  Let me say something about the title of this piece—“How to Measure the Width of a Ditch.” With regard to this issue, most people would accept a counterquestion in reply: How do you measure the width of the soul?

  This form o
f question and answer is frequently encountered in academic debates on metaphysics. For example:

  “Where is God?”

  “Where is man?”

  Or in the koans of Chan Buddhism:

  “Master, please give me a dharma-door with which to quiet my mind.”

  “Show me your mind and I’ll quiet it for you.”

  Thus, when wit is used carelessly, it can easily sink to the level of profanity. I must avoid this at all costs. What’s more, the soul and a ditch cannot be discussed in the same breath, though a certain connection does exist between them. Let it be said, though, that this connection is the main reason for my tossing and turning at night.

  How do you measure the width of a ditch? How do you measure the width of the soul? Why I am I so fond of this question? Why can’t I rid myself of the habit of thinking about measuring the width of a ditch at any time and in any place?

  This city is covered with a network of different kinds of ditches: irrigation ditches, drainage ditches, sewers, and even the perpetually smelly old-style sewers.

  I asked the Public Works Department how many ditches are there in the city, but they couldn’t tell me.

  “Why don’t you go ask the Environmental Protection Department?”

  I called four times before a young woman finally answered the phone and politely asked me, “Sir, may I ask why you want to know how many ditches there are?”

  I told her that it was a matter about which someone had to be concerned.

  Ditches serve as the city’s excrement channel, just like our assholes. It’s not something people like to discuss, but someone has to be concerned about it. All the more so since they’re so quickly disappearing from sight, like earthworms burrowing underground, breathing underfoot, moaning, writhing; if at all possible, they’d hiccup and the stench would come pouring out through the grated cover.