by Ha Jin
“I know you miss her again,” Pingping said to Nan one morning after putting Taotao on the school bus. Now that they lived near the restaurant, they didn’t have to hustle to work.
“Who are you talking about?” He pretended to be puzzled.
“Beina. You met her again in your dream last night.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“If you love her so much, why did you marry me? Liar! Why did you tell me you loved me?” She turned away and broke into sobs.
He said no more as a cramping headache suddenly seized his scalp. He got up, slipped on his green raincoat, and made for the door.
“Come back!” cried his wife.
He went out without turning his head. It was chilly outside, a mizzle falling almost like a fog, but there wasn’t a breath of wind. Most of the trees had already shed their leaves, which were scattered on the lawns along the street, a few plastered on tree trunks and some caught in evergreen shrubs. In Nan’s mind was falling another drizzle, in which he and Beina were walking under his raincoat toward their classroom building. Their body heat mingled while he wrapped his arm around her shoulders firmly. She was so little in his one-armed embrace, like a child, and she couldn’t stop laughing. Around the campus, frogs were croaking lustily. The path through the aspen grove was misty and seemed to lead to a place far away. If only they could walk like that for hours.
Nan was heading for the Gold Wok. The cars, parked diagonally in Beaver Hill Plaza, had been washed clean, brighter than usual, and the asphalt was spotted with oily sheen. He didn’t go to the restaurant and instead continued toward Lawrenceville Highway, which was two hundred yards to the north. He thought about his dream of the night before, in which Beina again wept wordlessly. He wondered why she appeared so wretched. Did her husband abuse her? Was she in trouble? Did she need him to help her? To rescue her from that bastard? Why was she always sad in his dreams?
At the same time he tried reasoning himself out of his fantasies. How ridiculous you are. The dream was nothing but vagaries of your mind. She had no need for you then and has no need for you now. Have you forgotten her words—“I can’t stand you anymore”? Like some women she too wanted a man of wealth or power. You’re nobody, just a piece of garbage dumped by her. Drop all the illusions! Stop wallowing in despair. Pull yourself together and focus on what’s going on here and now.
Still, the pain was real, constricting his throat. He crossed Lawrenceville Highway and strolled toward Kroger because the other shops weren’t open yet. Once inside the supermarket, he poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up a half blueberry muffin, both free for sampling; he walked around, pushing a shopping cart, which he actually didn’t need. At the end of an aisle he stumbled on a table that displayed wristwatches for sale, all at a big discount. His watch had died a few days before, so he decided to buy one. He disliked those with leather straps because in the summer he’d sweat so much in the kitchen that the leather would rot within a year. So he picked one made in Brazil with a steel strap and a calendar on its face. The original price had been $140, but now it was marked down to $19.99. He touched his pockets and realized he’d left his wallet home. Yet in his hip pocket he found a twenty and a ten. He was glad he had the money on him.
At the express lane a gawky, pink-faced boy checked him out and said, “Twenty-three forty-seven.” The screen of the register showed the same amount.
Nan was puzzled but handed him the money anyway. As the cashier was making change, Nan said, “Zer marked price is nineteen ninety-nine. Why such a big difference?”
“Six percent sales tax, sir.” The boy grinned while his pale blue eyes batted.
“Still, it shouldn’t be so mahch.”
The boy gave thought to that, then pointed at a counter, saying, “The computer must’ve made a mistake. Go to Customer Service. They’ll help you. I’m sorry about this, sir.” He handed Nan the change and the receipt.
At the counter a fortyish woman with amber hair looked at the receipt and the watch. Without a word she punched away at a keyboard. “I’m going to give the money back to you, all right?” she said to Nan.
“Fine.”
She came over and handed him $23.47, together with the wristwatch. Perplexed, Nan said, “I want zer watch.”
“You can have it.”
“But you gave me all zer money back.”
The woman, wearing a nametag with SARAH printed on it, beamed and narrowed her eyes. “The store has a new policy—if the computer overcharges you, we give you the purchase for free. We apologize for the mistake, sir.”
“Wow, sank you!”
Nan put on the watch and stepped out of the supermarket, impressed by the store’s effort to inspire the customers’ trust. His mood was lifting, and he was amazed that he was actually so easy to please. Just a free little timepiece could cheer him up. As he was about to cross Lakeside Drive, he caught sight of a pack of Virginia Slims lying in the roadside grass, the cellophane wrap dotted with rainwater and a cigarette sticking out of the top of the case. He picked it up. He didn’t smoke, but the pack was hardly used and its contents still dry, so he put it into his pocket. With a lightened heart he headed home.
10
SLUMPED at the kitchen table, Pingping was smoking while Nan was away. Usually she wouldn’t touch cigarettes, but when distressed, she’d indulge in one. She always kept a pack around, secreted somewhere Nan couldn’t find. If only she didn’t love him so hopelessly. How often she was torn between love and bitterness; and she even tried to hate him, but never could she summon up any real hatred. Despite her misery and feeling of being misused, every night before going to sleep she’d repeat to herself, “I love my husband only,” as though this thought were her only way out of the labyrinth of love in which both she and Nan were trapped. It was clear by now that she could never go back to China and live as a self-sufficient person again, yet she wouldn’t regret having settled down in Georgia and was willing to accept the prospect that she and Nan would have to remain together for a long time, probably for the rest of their lives. Still, why couldn’t Nan outgrow his feelings for his first love, for that heartless woman? Why would he continue letting her suck all the energy and lifeblood out of him? Stupid ass. He’ll get feebler and feebler if he doesn’t quit pining away for her. Why can’t he see that her life belongs elsewhere and has nothing to do with his here? He’s just a miserable man, just an automatic generator of suffering and pain.
Unlike him, Pingping had never missed her ex-boyfriend, compared with whom Nan was a better man; Nan hadn’t hesitated to marry her and wouldn’t shirk his responsibilities as a husband and father. If only he were more responsive to her love and devotion. If only there were a way to soften his hardened heart.
The kitchen door opened. At the sight of Nan, Pingping averted her eyes and took a short drag on her cigarette. He said harshly, “You’re not supposed to smoke in this house.” The instant he let out those words, he changed his tone. “This isn’t our home.” He took out the Virginia Slims and inserted something into the case.
She blew out a puff of smoke. “I don’t care.” Despite saying that, she stubbed out her cigarette in a saucer serving as an ashtray.
“Then I have another pack for you.” He smiled and handed her the opened Virginia Slims. “It has two thousand lucky pennies in it too.”
“You bought this for me?” She looked puzzled, her eyes wider. She shook the case. “My, twenty dollars!”
“I told you, didn’t I?”
“Where did you get this? You smoke too?”
“No. I found it on the street.”
“Who lost it, do you know?”
“No idea.”
He also showed her the brand-new watch on his wrist. She was amazed he had gotten it free. Hurriedly she made oatmeal for both of them. After breakfast, together they walked to work as if their squabble had never happened. Nan was amazed that just a free wristwatch had actually averted the crisis between them. He felt rather tr
ivial as he remembered he had never been like this before. He had despised money back in China and never cared to save any, and before he met Pingping, he had always spent every penny of his salary each month. On the other hand, he felt that a good life should be uneventful, having few dramatic moments; instead, it should be filled with small delights, each of which should be appreciated and enjoyed like a gift. Pingping and he had too few such delights in their life, so a tiny windfall, a free watch, could bowl them over and switch their emotions to another gear. He wondered whether this piece of luck had come his way at the critical moment purely by accident. Life was truly mysterious. If he were a Christian, he’d have believed this might be a gift from God, but he didn’t belong to any church and so he didn’t allow his thoughts to stretch heavenward.
11
AT BEAVER HILL PLAZA a jewelry store had opened recently. It was five doors down from the Gold Wok to the east. Its owner was Janet Mitchell, a woman in her late thirties, with rusty hair and sloping shoulders. She had come from New Jersey to Atlanta the previous year with her husband, who worked for GE. Despite her trim figure, Janet walked with a lurch, the result of a traffic accident three years before. The damages she had collected enabled her to start her own business, whose clientele consisted mostly of young women living in Gwinnett County. She hired a salesgirl to work at the counter of her store while she herself made earrings and necklaces in the back room, which had a glass cutaway. Two or three times a week she would come to the Gold Wok for lunch and was particularly fond of the noodles and Ma Po Tofu offered there. Janet had caught the Wus’ attention from the very beginning, because she wouldn’t use a fork and would pick up a sliver of meat or a piece of stir-fried vegetable with her fingers if her chopsticks couldn’t do the job. She and Pingping liked each other, and whenever she was there, the two of them would chat and giggle. Janet was amazed that Pingping, having learned English mainly by osmosis, could read local newspapers.
Sometimes when it wasn’t busy at the restaurant, Pingping would go to Janet’s store to see how she made jewelry. Besides showing her the craft, Janet also told her where to buy the beads, shells, stones, pearls. She even let Pingping assemble a necklace, just for fun; the piece turned out as elegant as those for sale. Janet was greatly impressed. Whenever they were together they’d talk about all kinds of things. Janet asked Pingping many questions. Why did Chinese children do so well in school? How come there weren’t many fat Chinese? What did she think of the one-child policy in China? Why did some families abandon girl babies there? Did the Chinese really respect old people? Must Pingping take care of her parents even if she was far away from home?
To the last questions Pingping replied “Not really,” though every year, before the Spring Festival, she’d send five hundred dollars to her parents, as well as to Nan’s. Their parents had all retired with full pensions and free medical care, so the remittances were mainly meant to make their holiday more festive.
One afternoon at the Gold Wok, Janet asked Pingping why Chinese women looked better than Chinese men. The question stumped Pingping, who had never thought about it before, but she admitted that some Chinese men were skinny perhaps because they had starved when they were young. If a man didn’t look physically strong, he might be viewed as a weakling, especially in America. “But there is many handsome men in China,” she told her friend. “Nan is handsome, right?”
Janet smiled without speaking; apparently she didn’t think so. She then came up with another question. “I saw on TV the other day that Chinese women prefer double-fold eyelids, like the Western type. Some girls in Shanghai went through cosmetic surgeries to reshape their eyes. They already looked pretty, why did they bother to do that?”
“They like double eyelid, but that isn’t really Western. Look, I’m double, right?” Pingping’s forefingers pointed at her dark brown eyes while she flapped her lids. “I’m natural, right?”
“That’s true. People tend to assume Chinese have slit Mongol eyes.”
“China is big country, have all kinds people.”
Nan was slicing pork tenderloin in the kitchen and pricked up his ears to listen in on them through the window that opened onto the dining room. He liked Pingping best when she was happy and bubbly. Despite feeling uncomfortable about Janet’s curiosity that bordered on nosiness, despite having warned his wife not to tell her friend too much about themselves, he wouldn’t think ill of Janet, who was a regular and was so fond of Taotao that she often bragged about him to her husband, Dave Mitchell. Dave, a husky man with a boyish face and a barrel chest, would come to dine at the Gold Wok with his wife on weekends.
Nan craned his neck to glance through the window at Pingping and Janet, who were sitting in a nearby booth, a pot of tea between them. He returned to the cutting board, working slowly so that he could eavesdrop on them more. Janet said in her contralto voice, “Come on, don’t tell me this place doesn’t make money. Everybody can see it’s a cash cow. You and Nan have transformed it totally.”
“I tell you truth,” said Pingping. “We need money for house. This business can’t make enough for that.”
“Well, it depends on what kind of home you’re looking for.”
“Just small house, enough for three of us.”
“That shouldn’t be expensive here. If you were living in New York or San Francisco, you could say you can’t afford it, but here real estate is cheap.”
“We really don’t have enough money.”
To Nan, the business of the Gold Wok wasn’t bad, but it didn’t fetch a large profit. By now he understood that a tiny restaurant like theirs could never make a lot of money, but it could save a good part of its earnings through tax breaks. His family’s living expenses had been reduced considerably since they took over this business. They ate at the restaurant, and most of the stuff they bought was tax deductible, things like lightbulbs, coffee, tea, detergent, paper towels, even gasoline. Eventually they could save most of the profit the restaurant made. No wonder a lot of Americans kept a small business even though they held regular jobs in large companies. Everyone tried to outsmart the IRS.
12
EVER SINCE the Wus had revived the Gold Wok, Nan had been troubled by the fact that legally he was the sole proprietor of the restaurant. What if he died of illness or got killed in a traffic accident? He was afraid that the state would take away his business and deprive his family of their livelihood. He talked with Pingping about this and convinced her that they should have both of their names included in the deed for the restaurant. He called Mr. Shang one day in late October and made an appointment for the following week.
Together Nan and Pingping went to the law office in Chamblee early on Monday morning. Mr. Shang, in a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, was sipping coffee when the Wus arrived. On his desktop lay a sticky doughnut half wrapped with a piece of glossy paper, a bite revealing the dark jelly stuffing. He beckoned to the couple to sit down in front of him. “I have your paperwork ready,” he told them.
“Sanks,” Nan said.
“Let me explain how we should do this—I’m going to file a straw for you.”
“What’s that?” Pingping asked.
Mr. Shang shot her a reproachful look. He pushed up his glasses with his thumb and resumed, “A straw is also called ‘bail common,’ which we borrowed from the English law. The procedure works like this: you sell the property to me for one dollar and then I’ll sell it back to both of you at the same price.”
Nan felt uneasy. “Is there anozzer way to do zis?”
“No, this is the only way, inasmuch as you’re not allowed to transfer property within your family.” Mr. Shang lifted his coffee mug and drank noisily. His secretary, a stout woman with large eyes and tawny hair, came in and placed a brown folder on his desk. “Don’t go, Cathy,” he told her. “We need you as a witness.”
In an undertone Nan explained the procedure to his wife, who seemed uncomfortable about this straw thing. He said, “Let’s do it now
, all right? It will be hard for us to come again.”
To their surprise, Mr. Shang said to Pingping in stiff Mandarin, “Believe me, this is the only way to make you a proprietress.”
So in the presence of the secretary, Nan signed the sheet that specified him as the seller, and then Mr. Shang signed the other one that sold the restaurant back to both Nan and Pingping. The attorney assured them that he’d go to the deeds office and register the transaction soon. For the registration and the lawyer fees Nan wrote him a check for two hundred dollars, and Cathy gave the Wus a receipt.
Once they were back at the Gold Wok, Nan and Pingping talked about the straw and grew more agitated. What if the lawyer wouldn’t file all the papers? In other words, Mr. Shang could register himself as the buyer of the property without carrying out the second part of the straw—not selling it back to them. The more they thought about this possibility, the more jittery they got. They regretted not having asked for a copy of the paperwork. Now all they had was a receipt for the fees they’d paid. Then again, Mr. Shang could shred the check so that they wouldn’t have any evidence for the transaction.
