by Ha Jin
Around eight o’clock the poet arrived, accompanied by Dick and several other faculty members. Mr. Neary was a lanky man with a short neck and a web of wrinkles on his face, but he must have been quite handsome when he was young, as his Roman nose and pale green eyes suggested. They all sat down in the front row, which had been reserved for them. A moment later Dick went over to the podium. He introduced Mr. Neary briefly, enumerating the awards and grants the poet had garnered and calling him “a major poetic voice of our time.”
Then Edward Neary took the microphone and began reading a long poem, “An Interpretation of Happiness,” which he said he was still working on. His tone was languid and casual, as if he were talking to a few friends in a small room, but the audience was attentive. Now and then somebody would “huh” or “hah” in response to a playful line or a clever turn of phrase. Neary kept reading without lifting his head and seemed to have some difficulty concentrating, shifting his weight from leg to leg. His right hand rubbed his chin time and again. Whenever he did this, he’d muffle his voice a little.
Nan couldn’t understand everything Neary was uttering. Soon he grew absentminded, looking around at the audience and noticing that some others were bored too. It took the poet at least twenty-five minutes to finish the poem. As he was flipping through a book, searching for another piece to read, a female student cried out, “Let us hear ‘Tonight It’s the Same Moon.’”
“Yes, read that, please,” chimed in another young woman.
“All right,” the poet said. “It’s a love poem I wrote many years ago, for a girlfriend of mine whose name I’ve forgotten.” The audience laughed while Mr. Neary grinned, running his fingers through his grizzled flaxen hair. “I guess I’m too old to write this kind of poetry anymore, but I’m going to read it anyway. Here it is.” He lifted the book with one hand and began reading the poem with some emotion. Nan liked it very much. It was an elegy spoken by a young widow in memory of her late husband, lost in a recent plane crash. The cadence was supple and tender, in keeping with the pathos.
After that, Neary read seven or eight poems from different volumes. Then unhurriedly, he stacked his books together, indicating he was done. Dick stood up, clapping his hands. After a burst of applause, he announced, “Let’s adjourn to the reception in the lobby, and Mr. Neary will be happy to autograph his books. Please join us for a glass of wine. Also, don’t forget the colloquium Mr. Neary will give tomorrow afternoon, at three, in this room.”
In the lobby Nan drank a cup of punch and ate a piece of cauliflower and a few squares of honeydew. Though Dick had announced there was wine, only some soft drinks were on the tables. Nan felt out of place here because he didn’t know anybody except Dick, who was busy taking care of the poet’s needs while talking with some people standing in line to get their books signed. Nan went up to him and said, “I’d better go.”
“Don’t you want to join us after this?” asked Dick.
“For what?”
“We’ll have a drink somewhere. Come with me—we’ll spend some time with Ed.”
Nan agreed. He was curious about the poet, who seemed passionless, carefree, and a bit cynical, remarkably different from the ardent Sam Fisher. He went over to a table and picked up a small bunch of red grapes and stepped aside, waiting in a corner.
When the reception was over, Dick and a group of young women took Edward Neary to a bar just outside the campus. Nan tagged along and accompanied the poet all the way while Dick was talking and laughing with the five women walking ahead of them. Mr. Neary walked with a shuffling gait. He had been to China a few years before and talked to Nan about how hot it was in Beijing in August. He remembered fondly a young woman assigned by China’s Ministry of Culture to serve as his interpreter.
Then he asked Nan, “Do you happen to know Bao Yuan, an exiled Chinese poet living in New York?”
“Of coss I know him! We were a kind of friends and once worked togezzer at a journal.”
“He’s an interesting guy. He’s been translating some of my poems.”
“Reelly?”
“He also interviewed me.”
“Does he speak English now?”
“He had a young lady interpreting for us. He can read English but cannot speak it well.”
Nan couldn’t believe that Bao, despite his deplorable English, would attempt to translate Neary’s poetry. He must have relied on someone to produce the notes first, from which he might be able to do the translation. “Where is he going to send zer poems? I mean, to which Chinese magazine?” Nan asked.
“He had six of them published in a journal called Foreign Letters.”
“That’s a prestigious monsly, very literary.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I’m glad Bao is still writing poetry. He’s also a painter.”
“Yes, he showed me some of his work, very impressive. He has fine sensibility and a lot of talent. But the exile must have stunted his development considerably. He said he never had time to write the work he planned to do.”
As they passed the side entrance of the university, Mr. Neary asked Nan about the average price of the houses in the Emory neighborhood, which he had seen on his way to the campus that afternoon. Many of them looked grand, built entirely of bricks. Though uncertain of the price, Nan ventured a figure, guessing upward of $400,000, but that didn’t impress the poet. Mr. Neary said he owned a larger house than these in Newport, Rhode Island. Nan was surprised, because to his mind most poets were struggling artists without that kind of money.
In the bar Mr. Neary ordered beer, wine, chicken nuggets, and nachos sprinkled with cheddar cheese and bits of jalapeno. The young women were effervescent; apparently they all admired Neary’s poetry. Laura, the tallest of them, with cloisonné bracelets on both wrists, smiled at the poet all the while, her eyes flashing. Emily, the only Asian woman among them, seemed shy, though she giggled happily and nudged her friends now and again. Her sweet face resembled a teenager’s. Mr. Neary liked her and asked about her life in Atlanta and her family. Her parents had immigrated from Korea, but she was born and raised in Missouri. She had moved to Georgia three years earlier and liked it here. Mr. Neary thought she was Chinese, but she said her last name was Choi and considered herself Korean American.
The shortest of them, Anita, was a budding poet and middle school teacher. She could even quote Mr. Neary’s lines with ease, which pleased the author greatly. The other two women, also fans of the poet, worked at Barnes & Noble. The five of them belonged to a poetry group and met regularly to read and discuss one another’s poems. Nan said little and just listened to them.
As they were chatting and drinking, Mr. Neary grew louder and more talkative. He said he had been editing an anthology of poetry by young poets for a New York publisher, whose name he wouldn’t disclose. He squinted at Dick, who smiled knowingly. Then he told the women, “My babysitter has been helping me sort out the poems. Without her I don’t know how I could do it. I don’t have time to read all the books and journals people send in. You should all show me your work. Nan, you should send me your poems too.”
“I will do zat when I have somesing finished,” Nan replied in earnest. But none of the women responded to the invitation enthusiastically. He wondered why they wouldn’t jump at such an opportunity, since they were all writing poetry and must have been struggling to get published.
Laura asked the poet casually, “Does your babysitter write poems too?”
“No, not now. She might have in her teens.”
The women glanced at one another. The short Anita smirked, then covered her mouth with a napkin. Mr. Neary said to them again, “Feel free to send me your work. I’m a maker and breaker of poets. I’m a powerful man, you know.”
Nan could see that the poet was tipsy. He caught a dubious expression flitting across Dick’s face. Mr. Neary smiled to himself as if to recall something, his hand holding a barbecued chicken nugget. Then he lifted his head and asked the women, “So you don’t
believe me? You think I’m just an old loony?”
Emily Choi said, “You’re not old. Your poems are wonderful and powerful.”
“I’m also a rich man, you know,” Mr. Neary went on. “Imagine, a poet paid sixty thousand dollars for federal tax last year. This is indeed a great country where even a poet can become a millionaire.”
“Amazing,” Emily mumbled, lowering her eyes.
Anita put in, “So Canada is no longer your homeland?”
“No. I’m an American.”
Dick winked at Nan, who was bemused, knowing Neary had been born in Ontario and had come to the United States in his early thirties. He wondered why the poet would talk so much about power and money. How did those bear on his poetry? Why was he acting more like a business magnate?
A waitress came and placed the bill on the table, which Mr. Neary picked up. Nan noticed that it was more than eighty dollars. The young women looked at one another. Anita said, “Mr. Neary, let us take care of it. We’re taking you out.”
“No, no.” The poet waved, licking his upper teeth. “This is on me. But I’m open to another drink with you at another place, individually or collectively.” He laughed and screwed up his eye as he folded the receipt and placed five twenties in the bill sleeve.
The women said no more. They all got up, ready to leave. The bar was closing, and together they made for the door.
Outside, the night was clear, the street shimmering in the whitish moonlight. A breeze came, shaking the sprouting aspens a little. The traffic was still droning in the distance. The women said good-bye to Mr. Neary and presently faded into the darkness beyond North Decatur Road. Dick was going to walk his guest all the way back to the Emory Inn, which was about half a mile to the north. Nan kept them company for about two hundred yards, then parted from them and veered toward the garage behind the university’s main library, where he had parked. He turned his head to look at them while walking away.
He overheard Mr. Neary say, “Let me give you the receipt for tonight.”
“Sure.” Dick took the slip from the poet.
18
DURING the next few days Nan thought a lot about his meeting with Edward Neary, about what the poet had said at the bar. When Dick came to the restaurant on Friday afternoon, Nan asked him what Mr. Neary had meant by being “a maker and breaker of poets.” Dick explained that generally speaking, the inclusion of a young poet’s work in a significant anthology could help establish the poet. As the editor, Edward Neary decided whom to include, so he was a maker of poets. Conversely, he’d have to exclude some people from the book—those poets, once left out, would suffer a setback in their careers. Therefore he was also a breaker of poets.
“Do you sink he’ll leave someone out on purpose?”
“Sure, everyone does that to his enemies and people he doesn’t like.”
Nan was surprised that poets could be so vindictive and malevolent. “Is he reelly so well endowed as he bragged?” he asked again.
“Ha ha ha!” Dick laughed. “You’re so funny. I don’t know if Ed has a big penis, but he’s a MacArthur fellow.”
“What’s that? He’s related to General MacArthur’s family?”
“No, no, it’s a foundation that gives huge fellowships to talented individuals, at least three hundred thousand dollars. For Ed’s age, it must be worth more than that, because the older a fellow is, the more money he gets.”
“I never imagined a poet could be zat rich.”
“Some poets live like a prince or princess.”
“How about Sam?”
“He makes a lot too.”
Nan thought it rather absurd that Mr. Neary was so powerful that he could decide the fates of some young poets. “Will he include your poems in his anthology?” he asked Dick.
“You bet, or I wouldn’t have had him invited over and paid three thousand dollars.”
“Reelly! He made mahney so easily? He just worked two or three hours and made more zan Pingping and I can make in a month.”
“Life’s unfair, isn’t it? But that’s the price for poets of his stature.”
“How about you?”
“I’ll be lucky if a school invites me just to read. Occasionally I get five hundred dollars for a visit.”
“Zat’s not bad.”
“No, I can’t complain. I can’t think of money and power at this point in my career.”
“You’re right,” Nan said sincerely. “If you reelly like power, you should run for zer governor.”
Dick chortled. “I’ll remember that.” He turned his fork to twist some noodles into a bundle, then added, “Because what’s at stake is so piddling in the poetry world, the competition is all the more fierce. In fact, it’s a rough-and-tumble territory. Also, most poets live in cliques, otherwise it would be hard for us to survive. The network is essential.”
“So you belong to Sam’s group?”
“You can say that.”
To some extent Nan was disillusioned by what Dick said. To him the poetry world should be relatively pure, and genuine poets free spirits, passionate but disinterested. Yet according to Dick, many of them were territorial and xenophobic. Could someone like himself ever belong to a coterie? Unlikely. He couldn’t imagine being accepted by any clique. Besides, above all, he wanted to become a self-sufficient individual.
Dick lifted the teacup and took a swallow. He grinned at Nan while dipping his pointed chin. He looked secretive and leaned forward, whispering, “I want to show you something, Nan.” He fished out of his hip pocket two small tubers like shriveled ginger roots, dried thoroughly. They looked familiar to Nan, but he couldn’t remember what they were called. Dick asked, “Do you use this herb too?”
“What are these?”
“Dong quai, a kind of aphrodisiac. I thought you Chinese all used it.”
Nan broke into laughter, which baffled his friend. “What’s so funny?” Dick said.
Instead of answering, Nan asked, “You have used Tiger Balm for sex too?”
“Sure, but that’s not as good as Indian God Lotion and burns your skin like hell.”
Nan cracked up again, his eyes squeezed shut. “To tell zer truth, in China women use dong quai to regulate menstruation. It nurtures zer yin in your body, not zer yang. I’ve never heard zat any man eats zis herb to strengthen a dick.”
Dick was amazed, then grinned. “Nan, you’re a poet.”
“How so?”
“You just made a pun with my name.”
“Oh yes.” Nan was surprised by his unintended feat.
“To be fair, this is powerful stuff,” Dick went on. “I’ve used it for a while and it has really improved my performance and made me feel strong. It helps my writing too. As for Tiger Balm, I’ve removed it from my medicine cabinet.”
“People in China mainly rub zer balm on zeir foreheads to prevent sunstroke, or on their temples to sooze headaches. Even kids use it too. We call it ‘fresh and cool ointment.’ Nobody trits it as somesing zat can increase sexual pleasure.”
“Ah, this is a case of significant misunderstanding in cultural exchange, don’t you think?”
“Of coss it’s meaningful. It reflects zer core of American culture zat’s obsessed with two s’s.”
“Two s’s? What are they?”
“Self and sex.”
“Very true.” Dick’s eyes lit up as he gave a hearty laugh. “Where did you get this idea? Is there an article or book on this?”
“No, just my personal impression.”
“That’s excellent.”
After that conversation, Dick came to the restaurant more often, though Eleanor rarely accompanied him. He seemed fascinated by Nan, by the kind of off-kilter humor Nan had. Also, Nan always offered him something free along with his order—a couple of steamed dumplings, or a pair of egg rolls, or a scallion pancake. Pingping once asked Dick why Eleanor hadn’t come with him. He shook his head and said, “She wants to play the field.”
Pingping didn’t unde
rstand that idiom. When she asked Nan, he said, “Eleanor wants to see as many men as possible.”
“No wonder Dick has such a sad face these days,” she said thoughtfully.
“He’s lonely, I guess. He said I was his only friend here.” Nan was surprised by his own words, because he had never believed Dick felt isolated in Atlanta.
“I don’t think that’s true. He has a lot of colleagues at Emory.”
“But that doesn’t mean they’re his friends.”
“He’s just a big boy, inside weak.”
“Anyway he’s my friend.” Nan looked at Pingping, who smiled at him quizzically. “What?” he asked.
She said nothing. Nan took hold of her ear, tweaking it, and ordered, “Confess.”
“Let go!” she shrieked.
The instant he released her, she grabbed a flyswatter from the counter and set out to chase him. Nan was running around the table in the middle of the room, clockwise or counterclockwise, opposite the direction she moved in. Both of them seemed to have forgotten what had caused the pursuit, and despite their panting and red faces, they looked happy. Niyan laughed and watched them while shaking her head.
19
PINGPING felt uneasy about Nan’s going out with Dick, though he generally did so at most once a month. Together they had gone to a Shakespearean play, a puppet show, and a reading given by John Updike. She understood that Nan needed some diversion once in a while, but the work at the Gold Wok would get hectic without him around. Shubo could cook a few things now, but Pingping would have to bustle about in the kitchen most of the time when Nan wasn’t there. What’s worse, Nan’s absence would make her fidgety and make the place feel as strange as if it belonged to someone else. Why does he have to spend so much time with that frivolous Dick? she often wondered. Will they go elsewhere after the reading? Will they be alone, just the two of them? I really don’t mind that they’re friends, but I want Nan to stay here. He shouldn’t act like a bachelor and ought to pay more attention to our family. He should spend more time with Taotao.
