Tropic of Orange

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  Rafaela ran after Sol into the cool shadows of the house. There was a sudden gust of tepid wind, and from the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the line’s razor shadow dip away, south. Rafaela felt a dizzy nausea. She did not realize that the orange had fallen irresistibly from a height of two meters, rolling in dusty turbulence down a small slope, under the barbed-wire fence, and just beyond the frontiers of Gabriel’s property to a neutral place between ownership and the highway.

  CHAPTER 2:

  BenefitsKoreatown

  Check it out, ése. You know this story? Yeah, over at Sanitary Supply they always tell it. This dude drives up, drives up to Sanitary. Makes a pickup like always. You know. Paper towels. Rags. Mop handles. Gallon of Windex. Stuff like that. Drives up in a Toyota pickup. Black shiny deal, all new, big pinche wheels. Very nice. Yeah. Asian dude. Kinda skinny. Short, yeah. But so what? Dark glasses. Cigarette in the mouth. He’s getting out the truck, see. In the parking lot. Big tall dude comes by with a gun. Yeah, a gun. Puts it to his head and says, GIMME THE KEYS! It’s a jacker. Asian dude don’t lose no time, man. No time. Not a doubt. Rams the door closed. wham! Just like that. Slams the door on the jacker’s hand. On the jacker’s gun! Smashes the gun! Smashes the hand. Gun ain’t worth shit. Hand’s worth even less. Jacker loses it bad. He’s crying. Screaming. It’s not over. Asian dude swings the door open. Attacks the jacker. Pushes him up to the wall of Sanitary and beats the shit out. Dude don’t come up to the jacker’s nose. But it don’t matter. Got every trick in the books. Bruce Lee moves. Kick. VAP! WHOP! Damn. Don’t mess with this man. By now Sanitary’s called the police. Crowd’s seen it all. Jacker’s a mess. Blood everywhere. Never seen so much blood. But not a drop on the Asian. Not a drop. Never took off his shades. Never even stopped smoking. Turns over the jacker’s remains to the police. Don’t say nothing. That’s it. Goes into Sanitary. Picks up the mop handles, Windex, rags. Gets in the pickup. He’s gone. That’s it. That’s it.

  That’s Bobby. If you know your Asians, you look at Bobby. You say, that’s Vietnamese. That’s what you say. Color’s pallid. Kinda blue just beneath the skin. Little underweight. Korean’s got rounder face. Chinese’s taller. Japanese’s dressed better. If you know your Asians. Turns out you’ll be wrong. And you gonna be confused. Dude speaks Spanish. Comprende? So you figure it’s one of those Japanese from Peru. Or maybe Korean from Brazil. Or Chinamex. Turns out Bobby’s from Singapore. You say, okay, Indonesian. Malaysian. Wrong again. You say, look at his name. That’s gotta be Vietnam. Ngu. Bobby Ngu. They all got Ngu names. Hey, it’s not his real name. Real name’s Li Kwan Yu. But don’t tell nobody. Go figure. Bobby’s Chinese. Chinese from Singapore with a Vietnam name speaking like a Mexican living in Koreatown. That’s it.

  Bobby’s story. It’s a long story. Gotta be after hours for Bobby to tell it. And then, he might not. He was twelve. His brother eight. Dad had a bicycle business in Singapore. Mother dies. Business went bad. Can’t sell no more bicycles. Dad says, you wanna future? Better go to America. Better start out something new. For the family. You better go. Don’t worry about us. You start a future all new.

  Bobby’s only twelve. How you get from Singapore to America? It’s 1975. People getting on boats, rafts, dinghies, anything, swimming south out of Vietnam. Get to Singapore, but Singapore don’t want them. They tell the Americans, it’s your problem. Put them in camps. Keep them there. Count them. Sort them out. Ask questions. Americans lost the war. Gotta take care of the casualties. Call them boat people. Call them refugees. Call for humanitarian aid. Call for political asylum. Meanwhile, they’re in camps. Singapore don’t want them. What’s America gonna do? Count them again. Sort them out. Ask more questions. Pretty soon refugees get put on planes. Little by little. Distributed to America.

  Every day, Bobby gets up early. He and his little brother. Walk over to the camp. Gates open in the morning. Walk in. Stand around with the refugees. Eat with the refugees. Guards don’t notice. Who’s gonna notice? But he’s there every day. Maybe he belongs there. So maybe they notice. Bobby and his brother. Looking like orphans. Sad situation. Orphans everywhere. The war did this. Got to help the children. It’s the children who suffer. Bobby and his little brother don’t understand nothing. Don’t understand Vietnamese. Just get some language here and there. That’s all. Looks like they can’t talk. Why not? War does that. You can’t talk. Gets to be nighttime. Bobby and his brother go home. Slip out. Walk back into Singapore town. Go home and eat. Sleep. Get up early. Go back every morning. Spend the day sitting and eating with refugees. It’s like that every day. Every day for months. That’s it.

  Then, pretty soon Bobby and the brother get counted. They get sorted. Get questions. Bobby’s gotta have a name. He says Ngu. Everybody’s Ngu. He’s Ngu too. He’s on the list. He’s counted. Brother’s counted, too. Get their pictures taken. Get some papers. American passports. Bobby’s dad gives him money. U.S. money. Saved from the black market. Hides it in his pants. Sews it there. It’s everything his dad can give. Money’s there. Ready. Just in case. Every morning, Bobby gets his brother up early. Every morning, they slip into the refugee camp. Every night they slip out. One night they do not come home. One night Bobby’s dad and the two sisters eat dinner. They leave two bowls out like always. They stare at the bowls. Silent. Staring at the two bowls.

  Bobby’ll tell you this story. But only after hours. After some beers and lots of smokes. He don’t have time to tell stories. Too busy. Never stops. Got only a little time to sleep even. Always working. Hustling. Moving. That’s why he beat that guy up and never stopped. Just kept on going. Never stops smoking either. Gonna die from smoking. He can’t stop. Daytime, works the mailroom at a big-time newspaper. Sorts mail nonstop. Tons of it. Never stops. Nighttime got his own business. Him and his wife. Cleaning buildings. Clean those buildings that still got defense contracts. Bobby’s got clearance. Got it for his wife too. Go around everywhere. Dump the stuff that’s shredded. Wipe up the conference tables. Dust everything. Wipe down the computer monitors. Vacuum staples and hole punches and donuts out of carpets. Scrub the urinals. Mop down the floors. Bobby only stops for a smoke with the nighttime guard.

  Bobby’s wife likes to study. She’s got a Walkman in her ears. Running the vacuum and the Walkman. It’s not music. She’s studying English. She’s Mexican. Bobby don’t teach her English. Speaks to her in Spanish. She’s got to learn by herself. She’s smart. Really smart. Got her degree at LACC. She told Bobby, janitors like them got to make better money. Got to get benefits. Some don’t even get the minimum. Can we live on $4.25 an hour? No way. She joined Justice for Janitors. Bobby got mad. This is his business. He’s independent. All the money is his. What’s she talking about? It’s solidarity she said. Some work for the companies. They need to organize. For protection. Bobby don’t understand this. He says he works the morning job and gets benefits. Why is she complaining?

  Maybe this was the reason. Maybe not. Bobby got in an argument with his wife. So she split. She took the boy with her. Drives him crazy. He can’t see straight. Never been so happy as when he got married to that woman. Can’t explain. Happier he is, harder he works. Can’t stop. Gotta make money. Provide for his family. Gotta buy his wife nice clothes. Gotta buy his kid the best. Bobby’s kid’s gonna know the good life. That’s how Bobby sees it.

  It’s not just the kid and the wife. Bobby’s gotta send money to his dad. Back in Singapore. Keep the old man alive. Wanted the old man to come to L.A., but he wouldn’t do it. Says he’s too old. Says Bobby’s got the future. All new future. And Bobby’s baby brother. He’s in college. Smart kid. Gets all A’s. Bobby put him in college. Pays for everything. Books, dorm, tuition, extras. Got him a car, too. Bobby don’t forget his baby bro. His carnalito. Don’t forget the kid cried every day when they arrived. Every day for two weeks. Cried for his mom who was already dead. Cried for his dad. For his sisters. Cried. Carnalito don’t cry no more. Bobby don’t forget.

  Used to be, back in Sing
apore, Bobby had it easy. Dad had a factory. Putting out bicycles. Had a good life. Good money. Only had to go to school. One day, American bicycle company put up a factory. Workers all went over there. New machines. Paid fifty cents more. Pretty soon, American company’s selling all over. Exporting. Bicycles go to Hong Kong. Go to Thailand. To India. To Japan. To Taiwan. Bobby’s dad losing business. Can’t compete. That’s it.

  But that’s the past. Everything had to change. Change like the seasons. Rainy season. Dry season. Rainy season’ll come again. Bobby’s working on it. Gonna flood with the rainy season. Gonna fly back to Singapore and see his dad. Gonna see his sisters. See his nephews and nieces. Gonna bring the kid bro and the family along, too. But he’s gotta get that woman back. Gotta bring the boy home. Can’t be happy without his family. Can’t work. Can’t keep running. Can’t keep fighting. After hours, Bobby keeps thinking. What’s he gonna do? Rafaela said he’s gotta stop smoking. That’s it.

  After hours, Bobby goes home. House’s in Koreatown, edge of Pico-Union. Maybe it’s Koreatown, but he owns it. Stucco job with two palm trees in front. Nobody home. Just him. Woman said to stop smoking. That’s it. That’s the last cigarette. Boil some water. Get out the ginseng. Get a good piece of the root. Grind it up good. Hot water. Ginseng. Steam goes up just like the root. That’s the smell. Clean up the system. Clear the head. It’s an old root. Takes a long time to grow. Don’t waste it.

  CHAPTER 3:

  Weather ReportWestside

  “That film noir stuff is passé. Don’t you get it?” Emi told Gabriel over her Bloody Mary. She squeezed the lime, dumped it in, shook in the Tabasco, more black pepper and stirred the whole mess with the celery stick, licking her fingers, watching him, watching the waiters, watching the cocktail hostess walk away, watching the entire clientele in the restaurant, taking hold of the situation as if she had produced it herself. “Stop being such a film buff. Raymond Chandler. Alfred Hitchcock. Film nostalgia. I don’t give a damn if Chinatown, The Player, or everybody in Hollywood owes these old farts their asses. I’ll give you this: at least they’re in color. Except for Roger Rabbit, if I have to spend another evening with you viewing another video in black and white, this relationship is over.” She laughed, tossing the silky strands of her straight hair over her padded shoulders. She didn’t mean it. She never did.

  She had started dating Gabriel because he was Latino, part of that hot colorful race, only to find out that, except for maybe his interest in tango (and even that was academic), he wasn’t what you call the stereotype. But that was back in college (the things you learn in college); since then, they had been on again/off again. And considering someone like herself—so distant from the Asian female stereotype—it was questionable if she even had an identity.

  “Hot colors,” she said sipping the Bloody Mary. “Color TV. When I was born, black-and-white TV was already passé. Monochrome monitors are passé for godssake. The other day I saw a thirty-inch Super VGA. Know what it looks like? Like my hand. Here.” She pointed with the celery at her other hand, at the big ruby ring and the red nail polish. “Next step is high-def. You know what I say?” She stopped scanning the ongoing surrounding scene long enough to look Gabriel in the eyes. “Colorize ’em all.”

  Emi watched Gabriel’s reaction, watched his dark eyes under powerful brows, the aristocracy of his Incan nose, his trim goatee. Wouldn’t you know it; his lips turned in a subtle grin. He was chuckling. Maybe he was even secretly hoping that everyone in the restaurant could hear Emi. They were all an assortment of Hollywood types—screenwriters, producers, wannabees, gophers of varying dispositions, moguls of varying degrees of power or lack of, graduates of the UCLA film school. Here they were at the very center of the Westside power plays, cushioned in pastels and glass bricks and remakes of David Hockney, and she was trying to be obnoxious. And he was smiling. Go figure.

  Emi looked at her watch. “Don’t worry. I can take a long one today. Only I gotta be back to segue the weather report. Can you believe it? We got a sponsor for a midafternoon cut to weather report. Ninety seconds. Didn’t want the heat of anything controversial so probably suggested wea-tha. Also ultracheap time slot, not to mention short. In L.A. how can you lose? Monday. Overcast in the morning. Sunny in the afternoon. Tuesday. Overcast in the morning. Sunny in the afternoon. Temperature holding at seventy-eight degrees. That’s what’s wrong with your precious L.A. detective films. It’s always raining. It never rains here! The only reason it rains in those films is so Bogie can wear a trenchcoat. What’s the point? It’s like those freeway signs that tell you you’re in traffic. So what’s new? It’s either overcast or sunny. And you know who bought the slot don’t you? Some tanning lotion company. Summer’s over and it gets dumped.”

  “Summer solstice today,” Gabriel mentioned since the subject seemed to have changed to the weather. “I was thinking about my place in Mexico. The Tropic of Cancer runs right through it.” He picked up a knife and sliced the air. “That means the sun is right there, directly on top of my place. Now.” He looked at his watch.

  “Does it affect broadcast reception?”

  “I don’t know,” Gabriel shook his head.

  “I thought the sun could do that. Why am I asking you? I should ask one of my technicians. On the other hand, I shouldn’t. You ask a technical question and you want a yes or no. But these guys are starved for any little talk. They’ll technilese you to death. Really, they get off on it, like sex. All I wanna know is if my program is gonna get up and for godssake don’t screw up the commercial.”

  Gabriel sipped his water.

  “At least order Perrier. This is on me you know. I’m expensing this one.” Emi crunched into the celery and waved around the stringy end of it. “Order a Sauvignon Blanc. Go ahead. For my sake, you could try to blend in with this crowd.” Blend in with this crowd. Blend in with all these white studio types. That comment should get his goat.

  “You blend in,” he quipped and pushed the glass of water toward her. “Try this. Tap water from Northern California. It’s got a very subtle bouquet.”

  Emi smiled. Being obnoxious with Gabriel was a great pastime. She liked trying to push his buttons. For example, she liked trying to be anti-multicultural around him. Right in the middle of some public place, she might burst out, “Oh you’re so Chicano!” Oppressing him with images of television was another tactic. He was such a film aesthete, it made her sick. Sometimes she really made him mad, and he’d cuss in Spanish. On occasion, he’d walk out. Oops. Went too far. Oh, well. But today it occurred to her that Gabriel was on to her, on to this purposeful (for whatever purpose) display of obnoxiousness. He seemed to be sitting there waiting for it to pass.

  Her mother had said her big mouth was always getting her into trouble and that it was no wonder any boyfriend didn’t stick around very long. “Whatsa matter with you? Your dad and I don’t talk like that. Your brother and sister don’t talk like that. In fact no J.A. talks like that.”

  “Maybe I’m not Japanese American. Maybe I got switched in the hospital. There were three sets of switched kids on the daytime Donahues last week: Montel Williams, Rikki Lake, and Sally Jesse Raphael. (Ratings were all up. Caress sold a lot of Caress.) But get this, they discovered each other by genetic testing. If three talk shows found three different sets, imagine how many more of us there must be! There’s probably a support group out there for people like me. I should check the net.”

  “It’s your dad’s genes. Not mine. We Sakais keep our mouths shut, that’s what. Besides, I like Gabriel.”

  “Really? I like Gabriel, too.”

  “If you like someone, how can you treat him like that?”

  “He can take it. Think of it this way. I’m not hiding anything from him. What he sees is what he’ll get. It’s really just a test. Rigorous, but hey, some fail. Like Human Feats on cable. Like paddling across the Pacific in a canoe. Crossing the Sahara on bikes. Climbing Mount Whitney.”

  “It’s more like jumping off Mount
Whitney.” Emi’s mother rolled her eyes. It was useless to talk seriously about these things.

  “If there’s one thing you and dad taught me, it’s that you can never appreciate anything that just comes to you. You’ve got to struggle for something to really appreciate it. Like when you made me make my payments on my Civic. Or when I saved to buy my first Panasonic VCR. I really struggled. That’s what Gabriel is doing. Struggling.”

  The most Gabriel was struggling with at the moment were the foreign words on the menu. “Pappardelle con funghi al vino marsala,” he muttered.

  “As menu items go, it’s probably passé. But it is to die for,” she suggested. “I know the chef. Go ahead. Die.”

  “Poison fungi?” he asked, attempting a mild joke.

  But she said, “Fugu. Fugu’s poisonous. If you wanted Japanese, you shoulda said so.”

  “Fungi.” He looked up. “Mushrooms. Fungi are mushrooms. Some mushrooms are poisonous.”

  She took a swig of Bloody Mary and licked her lips. The Tabasco burned her lips. She licked them again and puckered, “So. What? It’s just a little oral gratification. Afraid to die?”

  “No shit. I’ll go to hell, and you’ll be there, with your big mouth, dumping on me till eternity.”

  “That’s the trouble with you. Live on the edge I say. Live to the max. It’s like riding the crest of a wave, staying current with it, right there, on top, top of the news, before it breaks.”

  “I’d rather be in Mexico.”

  “You’d rather be in the nineteen thirties back in black and white with that detective Philip whatshisname. It’s not like I’m not interested in your habit. I mean this Philip Morris—

  “Marlowe.”