by Gus Lee
“Where’d you go? What’s that in your hand?” Bob asked.
“Señor Lorbus,” said the official line greeter, reading Bob’s name tag, shaking his hand, inclining his head very close to his, and stating with great courtliness, “Tengo mucho gusto conocerle. Me llamo Carlos Iturbe, del …” It is my pleasure to meet you. My name is Carlos Iturbe, of…
“It’s a corsage,” I whispered in Bob’s ear, still panting.
“Señor Corsage,” said Bob, “el gusto es mio.”
After enduring the common surprise regarding a Chinese West Point cadet speaking Spanish, I sought the girl in light blue.
Clint and “Meatball” Rodgers were talking to her. They had never looked better: Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart talking to Lana Turner, and now I disliked Clint’s good looks and Meatball’s gentle, self-effacing personality. They were laughing, and she was smiling, showing interest and surprise, quickly grasping a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, sipping it and looking at the coffered ceiling, the chandeliers, the crowd. She fit with Clint and Meatball. I edged in. She glanced at me and touched Clint’s arm and did not look at me again.
I left the room, scooping two glasses of champagne for myself, and sat on a soft green sofa on the mezzanine. I felt sorry for myself. I felt like the color of the sofa. I felt like smoking. I saw myself in the multifaceted mirrors of a tall column. I looked good in uniform, but still felt ugly. I was supposed to have a sweet face. I drank fast to numb my doubts and self-dislike.
Someone sat down next to me, someone light in weight. I blinked as two very large eyes in a lovely face framed by shoulder-length black hair gazed intently at me. She was so intent that I thought she was looking at someone behind me. I turned and looked to see who it was. We were alone, and she was Chinese.
She laughed, strong and naturally, without the strains of deliberate practice, the pulls of restraint which colored my laugh.
“You must be very thirsty and on your way to a prom,” she said, looking at the flutes and the corsage in my hands. Her voice had bells in it, and a full, round articulation that invited attention. The large, bright eyes dominated a smooth face complemented by a strong nose, a well-formed mouth, elegant eyebrows, and a pronounced jawline with prominent corners. She was tall and slender. The paleness of her face, throat, and arms was accented by a sleeveless black dress, a strand of pearls that looked anything but cheap, and disturbingly noticeable legs. Intelligence shimmered from her like summer heat waves. I was blinking at her and her signals, my addled brain struggling with the data, embarrassed by an involuntary reaction that made standing inappropriate. She was here because of me. I put down the glasses.
“How do you do?” I said. “My name is Kai Ting, and I am delighted to meet you. Please pardon me for not standing.”
“Cathy Pearl Yee,” she said, offering her hand, which I held, jittery with the realization that her fingers were so alive.
“I believe this is for you,” I said, offering the corsage.
She studied it carefully, as if it were something more complicated than a flower. “I don’t know you,” she said. “Am I safe in accepting this?” Her voice was like a radio message. I would have listened to her if she were giving weather reports from Nome.
“Incredibly,” I said.
She took it and pinned it to her dress.
“What generation—?” she asked.
“What genera—?” I asked at the same time, and we laughed. Chinese begin by establishing birth order. “You first,” I said.
“I’m first generation, New York. Originally, the family’s from Singapore. Shipping business. I’m the firstborn,” she said in a way that was so familiar and so new.
“I’m also first. San Francisco. My family’s from Shanghai, no family business. Poor as church mice. I’m the only son, and lastborn.” I tried not to look at her too hard.
She faced me. “Do you know Townsend Fan Yee?”
“No,” I said.
She smiled.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“How did you get into West Point?” she asked.
Nice answer, I thought. “My father was Kuomintang Army. He raised me to go to the Academy. Where do you go to school?”
She leaned forward, close to me, studying my face carefully. I almost squirmed. “What if I was a working girl?”
“Then it would have been a stupid question,” I said.
“I take classes,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But I’ll be very disappointed if you ask me my major.”
College students selected majors. Mine had been selected by Sylvanus Thayer and my father, before my birth. I wanted to know what she studied, but I didn’t want to disappoint her.
“Why are you worried about being safe? Safe from what?”
“People,” she said. “I like them to stay away. But I also like coming to parties in New York, to look at the people, to study how they act. New York is theater.”
“Why do you want people to stay away?” I asked.
“Caucasian boys ask all the same questions,” she said.
I shook my head. “That black dress isn’t going to ward off anyone. It might make the cops come. Do white guys ask you what generation you are?”
“No. They ask, ‘When did your parents come to America?’ ”
“It’s the same question,” I said.
“Not from them it’s not,” she said.
I offered her one of the champagnes and emptied mine. “I’ve been around white people. I probably ask white-guy questions.”
“Yes. I saw you chasing the buxom blond. But you didn’t ask her anything.”
“She wasn’t buxom.”
“All blonds are buxom. If she were here now, I don’t think I’d be wearing the corsage.”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Why should I believe you?” she asked.
“Because I don’t lie.”
She studied my eyes. “Will you dance with me?” she asked.
“I’m not very good,” I said.
“Oh, then forget it.” She looked down and sipped champagne.
It was safe to stand. I offered my hand. “Cathy Pearl Yee, may I have this dance so I can gently stomp all over your toes?”
I discreetly adjusted my trou. We entered the ballroom, found space, and I took her in my arms, fiercely concentrated to find the beat, and began. She was about five feet six; her waist was very small, her fingertips soft and warm; and she danced very well, adjusting fluidly to me while her large eyes studied me. Somehow, I knew I would not step on her feet and cause her to say “Eek!”
“You’re not that bad,” she said. “But you’re frowning.”
I quickly lifted my eyebrows, and she laughed.
“You’re very funny,” she said.
“What every guy wants to hear while he’s waltzing.”
“Ding Kai,” she said, using the correct and traditional Chinese pronunciation, “we are not waltzing.”
“No wonder I was frowning.”
“Why am I incredibly safe with you?” she asked.
“I’m a gentleman,” I said.
“That means you’re not married or engaged, right?” she asked.
“Cadets can’t be married.” Something changed in her face.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.
“No,” I sighed. “I’ve loved a girl for six years, but she’s not interested. How about you?”
“I have too many girlfriends to count,” she said, smiling and surveying the crowd. “Your friends are admiring us.”
“They’re admiring you,” I said.
“No, it’s us, together. You’re tall and muscular. Not a great dancer but you’re coordinated, accustomed to using your body.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I study ballet.” I felt the muscles in her back.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked. “And is he here?”
She nestled into me, and I took deep,
rapid breaths as I held her, feeling her warmth, her closeness a third party with whom I had to cope, the corsage pressing into me, my heart beating loud enough to interfere with the band. At the end of the number I thanked her. “May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
She turned and walked away, and I forced myself not to study her undeniably elegant back. I followed her to the sofa and we sat. She leaned toward me, the strand of pearls as white as her skin sliding with a mystic sensuality, resting against the corsage. She looked into my eyes. I imagined feeling her breath on my face. For a moment, I thought she was going to kiss me.
“You’re not used to girls, are you?” she asked.
“Yes. No,” I said. Her mouth was lovely.
“Are you nice, Ding Kai?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I’m trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, reverent.”
“Where did you learn to be a gentleman?” she asked.
“My father, I think. And from a woman in my neighborhood.”
She laughed. “You may call me Pearl.”
“Because I’m nice?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Do you speak Chinese?”
“I hate that question,” I said.
“Me, too,” she said. “Although I speak some. Even Mandarin.”
I nodded. “Questions which are not answered,” I said, “worry me. Who is Townsend Fan Yee? And tell me about your boyfriend.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
I made a wry face at her and she laughed. “You’re very funny! Not like the men I’ve known.” Not a good sign, my face making her laugh so hard. I wondered how many men she had known.
She read my face. “I’m complimenting you. All my fiancés have been pigs. Oh—if you could see your face! You’re so funny!” She laughed, her elegant chin raised, giggling, covering her mouth in a Chinese laugh, and I couldn’t help laughing with her. It was all Toussaint’s fault; he had made me vulnerable to the contagion of giggling, even if I was its cause.
She had a boyfriend and a history of fiancés. She was a woman.
“How old are you?” she asked. I had felt the question coming.
“I’m twenty.” I wanted to say twenty and a half.
“I’m twenty-four,” she said. “You’re a child. I don’t like many men; I’m not sure I like boys.”
“Why don’t you like men?”
“Men’s brains are completely deranged for sex, and men like to give orders. I don’t enjoy following them. Pearl’s first rule: Only follow orders you must.” She sighed. “Men don’t understand.”
I had jumped internally with her assessment of my brain. “That sounds like me,” I said.
“Men don’t admit it. You’re different—you do.” She smiled. “You even said you don’t know a lot about girls. I like a little uncertainty in men.”
“I’m not that uncertain,” I said.
“Don’t ruin a good thing,” she said. “Please, could I have another champagne.” She said it New York—no question mark.
I returned with a tray of twelve flutes. “I’m no good in math.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “You are trying to be different, aren’t you?” She watched me drink. “Do you have a drinking problem?” she asked softly.
I looked at her, at her still-full second glass. I looked at the tray, beckoning to me. I stood and left with it. When I returned empty-handed, I said, “Not anymore, I don’t.”
“Do they teach decisiveness at West Point?”
“Any decision is better than none. But I learned about drinking from you. And some of my buddies.”
She smiled effortlessly. “I wish I were more decisive.”
“About what?” I asked.
She leaned away from me. “Being a good Chinese daughter,” she said softly. She sighed. “Or being American.”
“Ah-ha,” I said automatically. A Chinese acknowledgment. “Why not be both?”
She looked at her pretty hands, caressing her bare left ring finger. Cole Porter’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” wafted through the open doors above the smooth roar of the genteel crowd.
“Not possible,” she said. “I think you know that. Either I obey my father and give up my own life to him, or I can do what I want to do and lose him.”
“Ah-ha,” I said again. Ch’a lu t’ung ku, the Fork of Pain. In an instant I knew that she should captain her own life. I wondered if that applied to me. I wanted to tell her that I was not a very good Chinese son, but I wanted more for her to think highly of me, to think that I was good and worthy.
“What is it that you want to do?” I asked.
“I want to be free,” she said. “It’s being free to do whatever I want to do.”
To do whatever she wanted to do. So much American thought. I raised an eyebrow. Obviously, I couldn’t arch it the way she did, because she laughed, and I couldn’t help smiling.
“You have a most amusing face.” She giggled at me. “Dance with me, Ding Kai, right here, in the hallway. Pretend that we’re old friends, happy to be together again. That we’re gay and happy and there’s no tomorrow.”
“We just met. You’ve called me funny and laughed at my face.” I took her in my arms. We danced to Gershwin and I had Arch’s feet.
“I used to daydream about a Chinese warrior prince with a kind heart who would teach me about China,” she said, tossing her long hair. I was holding her, without other couples near, and it made our touching more personal, more intimate, riskier. “In the picture books, he looked a little like you. Big, robust, thick black eyebrows. All you’re missing is the red face and the beard.”
“Guan Yu,” I said. “I remind you of him?”
“A little, but you’re not really Chinese,” she said. “You’re not like white men. You’re strange.”
I was a Chinese colored kid with a white chimu who was supposed to be a quiet Confucian scholar and an Airborne Ranger. I liked to read English novels and Chinese history texts in a white school for engineers. “Yes,” I said. “I am.”
She nodded. I tried to imagine her without makeup. I suspected she was flirting with a lack of health, for reasons unclear.
“Are you healthy?” I asked.
Her eyebrows arched. “What a question! You should ask, instead, what year I am.”
“Okay. I’m Year of the Dog. You?”
She smiled. “Horse. Both of us should marry tiger people.” Her hand on my back caressed me.
“Guess we don’t need to waste any more time with each other.”
She laughed. “But dog is also recommended. My doctor says I’d be stronger if I ate more. I don’t like Western food. Is it the same for you?”
“I miss Chinese food, but I eat anything that doesn’t fight me.” She looked at me to see if I had been serious.
“Do you miss your family?” she asked.
I laughed involuntarily, too loudly, took a deep breath and shook my head, too emphatically. “You?”
“You are a mystery, Ding Kai. I miss my mother, and my youngest brother, very much. I’m not a good Chinese daughter.”
I took a breath. “I’m not a good Chinese son.”
She gazed at me. I think her eyes twinkled.
“Do you like Chinese girls, Ding Kai?” she asked.
I didn’t like the question. Her eyes consumed me. Her hand on my back stopped moving. I loved her face.
“You’re very beautiful,” I said. “Really, breathtaking.”
“You don’t,” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Grew up with blacks and whites. Never had a real girlfriend. I’ve tried, for almost six years now, with one girl, who won’t have me. Never known a Chinese girl, except for my sisters. And I haven’t seen them in a long time.” I didn’t want her to think I didn’t like her, but telling her I cared was too much ji hui. I took a deep
breath.
“I like you,” I said, my voice strained. She was warm and strong. Her eyes danced over my face and I felt the length of her against me.
“I could teach you a lot,” she said. “Would you like me to teach you?”
I licked my lips. “I don’t know,” I said. I looked at her very sternly, curling an eyebrow. I was becoming very expressive. “Am I safe with you?” I asked in a low voice. “Are you nice?”
She lifted her small chin and laughed, leaning backward. She enjoyed leaning on my arm, angling away from me, and I was captivated by the provocative posture, her delicate throat, the angle of her smile in repose. Her tongue played with her teeth. “You’re strong,” she said.
“Like ox,” I said in my comically deep Mike Mazurki voice, flexing my arms, shoulders, and chest. “After eat onion and garlic, strong all over!”
She pulled away from me, and I felt relieved and despondent. She held on to the rail and leaned so far forward that I quickly joined her, ready to grab her if she fell. She had gorgeous legs. Facing me, her eyes searching, she parted her lips, closed them, licked them, thinking, building a very big question for me.
“Pretend you’re a father. You have a daughter who wanted to marry a Caucasian. Would you permit it?”
I never wanted children. “If she loved him,” I said.
“What if you disliked him?” she asked.
“For what reasons?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re the father and you just don’t like him,” she said.
“If my daughter loved him, then I would like him,” I said flatly, figuring it out, my spirits deflating. I felt chilled.
