by Ha Jin
5
TAOTAO had been on a Scholars Bowl team, but his parents made him quit because he’d miss classes, having to travel frequently for the tournaments, and because when they stayed at a motel, two boys would share one bed, which Taotao disliked. Furthermore, he didn’t learn much from the answers to the questions—to win, all you needed was a strong memory and quick response. Still, he was unhappy about leaving the team and often threw a fit at home, yelling at his father.
He wrote an essay about the injured drake for his English class and got an A for it. Mrs. Ashby, his teacher, put “Super!” on his homework, which pleased him and his parents. Nan also wrote about the incident, but he couldn’t complete the poem, whose ending simply didn’t work no matter how hard he tried. By chance Taotao saw a draft of the poem Nan had thrown away. Outraged, he told his father, “That’s my story. You shouldn’t steal from me.”
His parents were stumped. Nan said, “W-what do you mean?”
“I wrote about the duck already. If you did the same, you committed plagiarism.”
“What’s that?” asked his mother.
“Stealing ozzers’ ideas,” Nan explained, then turned to his son. “It’s our story. We all took part in rescuing zer duck. And I didn’t use any of your ideas or sentences and my speaker is zer duck. How can you accuse me of plagiarism?”
“But I’ve already written about it. You can’t use it again.”
“Who says I can’t?” Nan was losing his temper, his eyeballs throbbing.
“The law says.”
“Give me a break! You’re not a lawyer.”
“Fuck you!” The boy dropped his cereal bowl on the dining table and stood up.
“Say that again!” Nan jumped to his feet and grabbed at his son. Then he stopped and withdrew his hand, just glaring at him.
Pingping intervened, “Taotao, you apologize to Daddy. You curse him first, you must apologize.”
Ignoring her order, the boy hoisted his book bag over his shoulder and tore out the door for the bus stop. These days he was often annoyed by Nan, who would in secret search his drawers and book bag every two or three days to make sure he was drug-free, and who would read his e-mail messages whenever he forgot to shut off his account. How many times had he told him not to invade his privacy? But his father just wouldn’t mend his ways, treating him as if he were a culprit on parole. What a stupid asshole.
As Taotao was striding away, his mother caught up with him. She grasped his upper arm and stopped him, saying, “You must apologize to Daddy.”
“He started it. Ow! Don’t break my humerus!”
“I don’t care who start. You curse him, you apologize.” She was still clutching his arm.
“No, I won’t!”
“He’s your father. In whole world, if you can find another man who is better to you than Daddy, you don’t need apologize. If you cannot find such man, you must apologize to him.”
Taotao looked at her with a knotted brow, then ambled back to the house. Yanking open the screen door, he shouted, “I’m sorry, Daddy, okay?”
“That’s fine,” said Nan.
Although the exchange with his son spoiled Nan’s desire to work on his poem about the injured duck, he was amazed that during the whole altercation none of them had spoken a single Chinese word. He went out to the deck and swept away the pollen and dust, pleased he had contained his temper this time.
On occasion Taotao still showed animosity toward Nan. One sentence he often hurled at him was “You were never there.” Nan knew what he meant—the boy still resented Nan’s absence from his early childhood. Yet Nan would reply, “Who said I wasn’t there? I was the first person who saw you coming out of your mahther. Your head appeared first, with sleek hair.” That would exasperate his son more.
Without doubt, Taotao viewed Nan as a kind of rival in the household. Whenever possible, he’d strive to monopolize his mother’s attention and love, interrupting Nan’s conversations with Pingping or sitting between his parents, or pinning blame on Nan whenever something went awry. Nan told him to act his age. The boy was almost thirteen, five feet tall, but he wouldn’t change. “You have Oedipus complex and may end up a mama’s boy,” Nan often told him. That would make matters worse. Enraged, Taotao would call him “douche bag.” Nan didn’t know this word, nor could he find it in his dictionaries. He assumed that it must be a slang neologism, too recent for lexicographers to pick up. He once asked his son how to spell it, but the boy wouldn’t tell him.
Sometimes Nan wondered what it would have been like if he’d had a daughter instead of a son. Deep down, he’d have preferred a girl, who might have treated him with more affection and attachment, and who might have helped him more with the work at the restaurant—not like Taotao, who would feel ashamed of clearing tables in the presence of the kids he knew and would complain to his parents, “Haven’t I been a servant boy long enough?” Nan wouldn’t respond to that, though he felt Pingping had spoiled their son. If only they’d had a daughter.
6
IN THE SPRING of 1996 Pingping found herself pregnant. The expectation of a new arrival in the family agitated everyone. Taotao was furious and said his parents were outrageous. “I’m almost thirteen. Am I going to be an uncle of the baby?” he blustered.
Nan countered, “Once you go to college, we need anozzer child at home.”
“I don’t want any siblings.”
Pingping remained silent. The boy seemed afraid that the new arrival would become the center of the family.
“Selfish brat,” said his father.
“Shut the hell up!”
Nan throttled his impulse to yell back at his son. In fact, he was the only one in the family who was happy about Pingping’s pregnancy, because he imagined that the baby might provide a new focus for his life. He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his years raising the child if it was a girl.
Unlike him, Pingping was frightened, for she was already forty and might not be able to give birth easily. Also, this wasn’t like in China, where her parents, both doctors, could help her. Here she was alone and couldn’t rely on Nan, who wasn’t good at taking care of others. More worrisome, the medical expenses would be enormous since their health insurance covered only emergencies. What if she died in childbirth? Then Taotao would be motherless and Nan would be wretched too. There were so many risks to consider that she had gotten restless. She told Nan about her fear, but he replied, “Don’t worry. Everything will work out fine. We have some extra money now and can afford to raise another child.”
An ultrasound at the Norcross Medical Center showed it was a healthy baby, though it was too early to find out its sex. Somehow both Nan and Pingping had no doubt that it was a girl. From a tiny black box like a camera a nurse let the Wus hear the baby’s heartbeat, which raced rapidly like a bird flapping its wings. “Very strong,” Nan said, beaming as thin creases grooved the skin under his eyes.
Stacy, the nurse, told them, “Actually, the pulse is rather shallow, but it will get stronger as the baby grows.” Her chubby fingers kept pressing Pingping’s belly, which hadn’t bulged out yet. The baby was just two months old.
Despite paying $236 for the checkup, Nan was elated. During the following days he and Pingping began thinking what name they should give the baby. Whatever they came up with, Taotao would say it sounded silly. Ignoring the boy’s grouchiness, Pingping and Nan settled on “May,” which is phonetically identical with the Chinese characters beauty and plum blossoms. Indeed, such a name was commonplace, but the plainness might make the child easy to raise. Back in China, especially in the countryside, parents often purposely gave babies nondescript names, even calling them Doggy or Donkey or Dolly, or just Kiddo or Lassie, so that ghosts might not notice and snatch them away.
Gradually Taotao cooled down, willing to accept a sister as a new member of their family, though his mother was still anxious. Sometimes Pingping was an insomniac at night, tossing in bed and thinking about all the unpredictable thi
ngs. What if the baby turns out to be retarded or has a congenital illness? I’m already forty—anything like that can happen. What if I die in childbirth? That’ll destroy Taotao and devastate Nan—our family will collapse. I won’t worry about Nan, who can get along without me. If I’m dead, he might find another woman soon and might even go back to China to look for Beina. Although he says he’s too tired to love anyone, I know him better than he knows himself—he could forget me and marry another woman soon after I’m gone. But I wouldn’t begrudge him that. He deserves to go on with his life, to form a new family. What I cannot set my mind at ease about is that Taotao will be motherless. Nan loves him, I’m sure, but he doesn’t know how to take care of a child. Not to mention the baby, who will need nursing and looking after. Nan can be a good provider but can’t be a true family man. He was born to be a writer and scholar, though he can be neither here. That’s what makes him angry all the time. If only my parents were here! They could help me figure things out and make arrangements. With them around I wouldn’t mind having two more babies. I love children; so does Nan. We should’ve had a large family. That would make him happy, and with a girl baby he’ll definitely try to be a good, indulgent father. Well, I’m not so sure. It seems like he can’t live without making himself and others suffer. Still, I love him. He’s a good man for all his shortcomings, and he can’t wait to see the new baby. Never is he worried about the difficulties I might get into. Always absentminded like that. You may be able to remove a mountain, but you can’t change a man’s nature. Stop thinking so many negative thoughts. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is Monday, and there’ll be a lot of work for the buffet.
In the morning Pingping’s face would be sickly and bloated. She also retched a lot, convulsing with the dry heaves. There were many things her stomach wouldn’t digest, such as cheese, tofu, spinach, fish, chicken. Yet she got hungry so frequently that she ate seven or eight meals a day. “This baby is a monster,” she kept saying.
Nan tried to calm her down. He wouldn’t let her do any heavy work in the restaurant. All of a sudden his life seemed to have a purpose, a center, and he felt invigorated. He was grateful for a second opportunity, because he hadn’t helped his wife much in raising Taotao. This time he was determined to be a better father.
7
NAN wrote four short poems in English. He was pleased with them and wondered if he should show them to Dick. He decided not to for the time being; instead, he mailed them to Sam Fisher and Edward Neary, since both poets had told him to send them his work. He hoped they would comment on his poems and ideally help him publish one or two.
A few months earlier Dick had suggested that Nan write a memoir. Nan was bemused by the idea and shook his head, saying he had no such intention and couldn’t imagine being a memoirist. To him, such a book should be written by someone who had experienced something extraordinary. But Dick said, “Your life can be a very interesting subject according to what I’ve heard.” Still, Nan didn’t want to attempt that. Besides, a book of prose would demand a lot of the author—a long-lasting concentration and total immersion in the writing. It meant he’d have to live as a full-time writer for a year or two, a luxury he couldn’t afford. He’d better focus on poetry, which mainly needed short bursts of energy.
Now that the poems had been mailed out, he expected to hear from the two poets any day. But three weeks passed without a word from them. He was puzzled, wondering if he should write to them again, but his good sense got the better of him, so he waited patiently.
One afternoon Dick arrived at the Gold Wok with a sullen face and puffy eyes. He looked a few years older than the cheerful Dick that Nan had last seen. Nan drew up a chair upholstered with red vinyl and sat down at the table across from his friend. “What’s eating you?” he asked, using the expression he had just learned from Shubo.
Dick uttered a long sigh. “My publisher is eating me. Oh, help!” His face contorted as he suddenly began sobbing. He stretched out his hand and held Nan’s forearm as though intending to stand up but unable to. Surprised, Nan handed him a paper napkin, which Dick took and used to blow his nose.
“They want you to sell more books?” asked Nan a moment later.
“No. They refused to publish Unexpected Gifts.”
“Why? I wondered what happened to zer book. It should have come out long ago.”
“First they postponed its publication, then they decided not to do it at all.”
“How come?”
“They said my last book hadn’t reached the sales standard. That’s just an excuse. I know some books they published have done much worse than mine. They just wanted to get rid of me, probably because I quarreled with them about that cover.”
“Don’t you have a contract?”
“I signed the contract, but they’ve never sent me the cosigned copy. So the contract isn’t valid.”
“Zat’s awful!” Despite saying that, Nan didn’t fully understand why his friend was so heartbroken. He asked again, “Didn’t they already cawpyedit it?”
“Yes, but the publisher changed his mind. I’m through, Nan. I’ll never recover from this blow.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic. You can always look for anozzer publisher, can’t you?”
“You don’t get it, Nan. Once you’ve lost your publisher, you’re ruined.”
“How so?”
“You belong to a different category of poets now and few publishers will take your work seriously. It’s like you’ve become homeless.”
“There’s no room for negotiation?”
“With whom?”
“Zer publisher.”
“No. The series editor was a sorry poet whose book I once reviewed negatively, because he’d lifted lines from others’ poems. This made the whole thing worse. I knew that snot might stab me in the back, but I didn’t expect he and the publisher would connive to destroy me. This got me right here.” He pointed at his heart. By now he had stopped sobbing, though his eyes were still misty.
Still baffled, Nan said, “Zis shouldn’t be zee end of the world. As long as you keep trying, there will be a way to get your book pahblished.”
“You’ve no idea how the poetry world works. It will take me at least half a year to find another press willing to consider the manuscript, if I’m lucky. This winter I’ll be up for the pretenure review. If I don’t have a book accepted soon, Emory might fire me. If that happens, I’ll be half dead as a poet and will have to start my career all over again.”
At last Nan realized the enormity of his friend’s setback. He asked, “Did zer series editor know zis would damage your career so much?”
“Of course he knew. He must be gloating over my suffering. Poets can be more vicious than politicians.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“I may have to file for Chapter Eleven soon.”
“You mean zer bookstore in Decatur? How can Chapter Eleven help you?”
Dick broke out laughing, his eyes suddenly filled with sparkling tears. His laughter perplexed Nan. Dick explained, “To file for Chapter Eleven means to declare bankruptcy. You’re such a funny guy, Nan.”
“I see. But you reelly haven’t lawst any capital. No need for Chapter Eleven. Just try and wait.”
“Yes, I’m not dead yet.” Dick thumped the table. “I have to pull myself together and put up a fight. I’ll start looking for a new publisher right away.”
Since it wasn’t the busy hour yet, Nan asked Pingping to cook some noodles for Dick and himself. Together the two friends had a late lunch, with a plate of roast duck and Kung Pao Chicken between them. Dick cheered up a little as he was eating. He said he was going to ask Sam Fisher to help him. He had to get his manuscript accepted by the end of the year so that he could become ready for the pretenure review. Nan assured him that he’d definitely find a new publisher.
Dick’s setback upset Nan. It offered him a glimpse of the strife in the poetry world. If Dick was this vulnerable, what about a budding poet like Nan himself, unco
nnected and unpublished? Still, uncertainty and lack of luck shouldn’t be the excuse for him not to try. He must try and try harder.
Despite his tough-mindedness, he actually avoided using any spare moment to write, because his wife was pregnant and needed care. For several weeks he fussed over Pingping so much, even patting her belly or hooking his arm around her in the presence of others, that at times she’d shoo him away, though whenever he wanted to kiss her she’d tilt her face for him to peck.
8
PINGPING was happy with Nan’s sudden transformation into a devoted husband. She reveled in his attention and small loving gestures. He loved their baby girl so much that he often smiled for no apparent reason, as if relishing something secret. She was still unsure if he loved her, but with this new baby she’d be able to keep him occupied for many years. She knew he might still miss Beina even though he wouldn’t let on about it. A few days ago she had looked through some drafts of his poems, some of which were evidently addressed to his first love. She was still hurt by his feelings for that coldhearted woman, who had probably forgotten him long ago. Sometimes Pingping couldn’t help but believe that Nan just imagined a lover in order to fill his soul with sorrow so that he could suffer more.
These days she felt out of sorts, her body lacking strength and her mind agitated. She’d be thirsty no matter how much water she drank. A checkup indicated that she suffered from type 2 diabetes. The diagnosis frightened Nan and Taotao. Having heard that some people died of the disease, the boy was afraid he might lose his mother. He cried and blamed his father for making her pregnant. “I hate you! I hate you!” he yelled at Nan.
Though also worried, Nan believed that Pingping’s diabetes would probably be temporary. The nutritionist had said that many pregnant women were afflicted with this disease, especially Asians, whose diet contained too much starch, but most of them would recover soon after they gave birth.
Following the menu provided by the nutritionist, Pingping ate five meals a day, all of low carbohydrates and high protein. She didn’t like the prescribed food but dared not eat what Nan cooked at the restaurant, fearful of messing up her blood sugar. Despite being careful about her diet, she was still ill, always exhausted and sleepy during the day. Her face was swollen and her eyes watery. Every night she got up many times to vomit into the toilet. She suffered so much that she claimed the baby meant to torture her and wear her down.
