by Gus Lee
“He isn’t. I am. Now it’s my turn. Let me tell you about my father. Oh, Ding Kai! You’ve eaten all the crumpets. It was a whole package!”
Townsend Fan Yee was the firstborn son of Brandon Kow Yee of Taishan Shipping Company Ltd., Singapore. Like his father, Townsend had attended Oxford, had more than one wife, and had inherited millions.
“He has more than one wife?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Pearl. “My mother is his first wife. My brother is the son of his second wife.”
“Does that bother you?” I asked. “How does your mother feel?”
“He is my father,” she said. “And she is his wife.”
“Shiao, filial piety,” I said. “The Three Followings and the Four Virtues.”
“Of course,” she said. For a moment, her beautiful, stilled face looked like one of the cool, expensive objets d’art in the entryway.
“I have trouble seeing you walking with small feet, five steps behind your husband.”
She smiled hopefully. “I intend him to take long and powerful strides, to stay with me.”
Mr. Yee was a rich man who feared financial risk. As was appropriate to a man with two wives, he had a mistress in New York and another in Singapore. He changed houses the way I changed the cotton liner in my dress-gray tunic.
She said that she represented his only entrepreneurial impulse. In return for her service as chum for trolling business sharks, Pearl had Zee taitai, the lifetime Chinese maid who had followed her to Vassar, an expense account, a Thunderbird convertible, and open charges in most of the stores that counted in New York.
“Is it a good trade?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s the question.”
The father had arranged four engagements for Pearl. When it became clear that she would scuttle them, he helped her break them. Pearl knew that she was becoming a sought-after prize, appealing to the gambling spirit that lives within all men, and increasing the business bounty that would be paid to her father for her hand.
I was going to have dinner with a slave girl and her master.
“He’ll ask you the same two questions he posed to my suitors while he was selecting them. A question about politics, to see if you’re controlled by it. He likes neutrals but can accept moderates.” She looked at me, wondering. “He’s a Republican. I’m a Democrat. What are your politics?” she asked.
“I’m an independent. I like Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy. I support the war in Vietnam. I like the ACLU and I hate Communists.”
“Well,” she said, “aren’t you easy to categorize! He’ll ask you a question about money, to see if you’d risk or conserve. He is most assuredly a conservator. The suitors came from approved families, and he’ll ask about that. I hope you tell him more than you’ve told me.”
“Does he think I want to marry you?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to.”
“I can’t imply that if it’s not true,” I said.
She looked at me, both elegant eyebrows raised. “Guan Yu and the Hanlin, the Wen-lin. Chinese honor, right? But you’re an American romantic. You want to marry for love.”
“I don’t want to marry at all,” I said.
“Then do what you wish,” she said. She stood and leaned against the windows, crossing her trim ankles, the sea frothy and greenish behind her while snow fell on the wintering trees. “I’d be very nice to you,” she said, thinking things I could only imagine. “And you’d be rich. But you have to answer his questions. Just, please be nice.”
She had a face that could relaunch the Greek fleet and make rational men fight each other with sharp swords for ten years. People would think highly of me for having won a woman so gorgeous. A few weeks ago Pearl had made me reveal that I was weak for being unloved. I blew out my breath. The admission had caused Pearl to pity me the way Clint ached for a busted bird. Crying in front of her. Be nice. I’m rich. What a lot of crap. Doesn’t matter.
“I don’t like it,” I said. “I don’t want nice and I don’t deserve ‘rich.’ I don’t care about money. You didn’t tell me you were setting me up for a marriage exam.” I blew out breath. “News about my family would sink all this, anyway.”
She closed her eyes in pain and turned her back to me. Slowly her back stiffened, with either anger or resolve, or both. “Just be my friend, Ding Kai,” she said in a very controlled voice. “Do not lie—do not pretend to want marriage. But please, be kindhearted.”
The rich, captivating aromas of a Chinese banquet and “Joy to the World” filled the entryway. Pearl came down the white staircase in an embroidered, high-collared, pale opaline chi-pol, cheongsam, which fit her snugly about the neck and hung straight down from the shoulders to touch a matching pair of satin pumps. Her hair was wrapped atop her head. The long dress set up her radiant face and elegant, deep green jade earrings. I stopped breathing and adjusted my Academy tie.
“These were birthday presents, two years ago, from my father. I’m wearing them for the first time.” She seemed vulnerable in her noble outfit, smiling in recognition of my kindhearted look. She touched my hand. She was more nervous than I.
A narrow, white-haired man with a hard, lean face approached us. He wore a precisely tailored charcoal smoking jacket with velvet lapels. He walked carefully, without hurry, on slippered feet that made a Chinese-like, hissing sound on an indigo carpet. He was almost my height. Pearl slightly inclined her head.
“Father, this is Ding Kai, from San Francisco. His family is from Shang-hai. Ding Kai, this is my father, Mr. Townsend Fan Yee.”
“I am honored to meet you, sir.” His hand was like soft deerskin, making my calloused, weightroom-beaten, pugilist’s palm seem like a lizard’s. His large, widely spaced eyes were of black ice. He had a face with sharp cheekbones, a large nose, and tight, dark skin beneath a precisely brushed head of medium-length white hair. I saw the source of Pearl’s jawline. His mouth was wide, the chin broad. He looked rich and smelled rich, and looked at me the way I inspected Plebes, seeking error.
“Strong,” he said in a guttural voice.
“Like ox,” I said, and Pearl covered her mouth.
Watkins served the shark-fin soup at a pace akin to Pee Wee McCloud’s thick speech. Mr. Yee delivered his questions like a New York cabbie.
“What do you know of business?” he asked.
Leadership was everything. “Management’s the prime factor,” I said.
“Can you run a business?” he asked.
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Brains keep Chinese alive in a foreign world,” he said. “Agree?”
“And honor,” I said. “K’ung Fu-tzu liked honor.”
“Do you approve of racial integration?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Even we Han are really a polyglot race.”
He leaned forward, although his daughter did it better. “What if this costs us our traditions?”
“Then they are expendable.”
“What if this changes who you are?”
Like going to West Point. “Then I’ll learn a new life.”
In an injured voice he said, “You are Chinese, and say this?”
“But sir, so many of our traditions have changed. Chinese used to listen to the Sheng yu, the Edicts, every fifteen days. The daughters of prosperous men had their feet bound. Times change.”
He made a dismissive Chinese sound—“Foot binding was not tradition. This is Western sensationalism, focusing on a stupid fad! Tradition is the San-gahng and the Wu-lun, the Three Bonds and the Five Relationships. The Five Virtues of benevolence, duty, ritual, wisdom, and faithfulness. Agree?”
I took a deep breath. The shark-fin soup was probably cold. I figured part of the test was to see if I could recite instead of eat. An old test. “Gahng and lun omitted mothers and sisters. And daughters.”
He sighed. “Should wives honor their husbands?” he asked.
�
�Yes, sir. And husbands should honor their wives.” He had two mistresses. I felt smug until I realized that I felt a continuing loyalty to Christine. That made no sense.
His next question jarred me: “How would you discipline a disobedient child?” He looked at Pearl. She looked at her soup.
Edna was screaming at me to take Silly Dilly to the vet to be put to sleep. Edna had never known poverty, we were poor, and this was her response—to save fifty cents a day by killing the cat. My income alone would support a nation of pets, and there were scores of people who would take Silly Dilly, but Edna had decided, and she never recanted a decision. I could have our cat put to sleep, or Edna would mismanage Silly’s death. Ch’a lu t’ung k’u.
I would never have children. “I can’t discuss parenting competently, sir,” I said, frowning.
He pursed his lips. Pearl smiled at me hopefully.
“Should college students be drafted?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “All citizens should serve the country.”
“You are a political extremist,” he said. Now he frowned.
“No, sir. I’m an American.”
“This is a melodramatic answer,” he said.
“Being American is melodrama,” I said, tasting the soup. “Great soup,” I said, finishing it while he and Pearl watched me.
“Do you know that she has broken three”—he held up the last three fingers of his left hand—“engagements, and each time I lost the dowry?”
“I knew about the engagements. Not the dowries.”
He looked at Pearl. “Do you wish to marry her?” he asked
“I don’t know,” I said.
He peered at me like a squad leader finding rust in the rifle bore. He looked at Pearl. She smiled at him wanly, lifting an elegant eyebrow. He rubbed his hard, smooth forehead with the first two fingers of his right hand. “Your answer is insulting. She is engaged to a fine man from an excellent family in Macao, the result of months of search and interviews. You have no right in this house unless you provide cause for breaking the engagement.”
“I’m sorry. I meant no insult.” I adjusted my glasses. “I would like permission to continue to date your daughter. But the best cause for breaking the engagement is your daughter’s wish to break it.”
He wiped his mouth with a jade-colored napkin, which he crushed like something that had angered him, and left on the table. “Why would you not want to marry my daughter?” He asked it with the same tone as “Why would you not want to breathe?”
“We’ve known each other for only two months.” Honor. I looked at Pearl. “I was in love with another girl for six years.” I let out my breath. “Whoever marries Pearl marries, I think, a lot more than Pearl.”
“You resist a Chinese family that would welcome you, while you are part of an army that restricts your freedom?” He laughed a joyless Chinese laugh. “I have read of West Point and its famous discipline. What if it orders you to kill Asians? Do you know the American army killed a million Chinese in the Korean War? How many of them do you think were named Ting and Yee?”
“I will go where the Army directs me. They have my promise.” I looked at Pearl. “It’s an honorable profession. It gives me a purpose in life.”
“Can you afford a girl like her?” he asked, his eyes alight. “With ‘purpose’?”
I knew it: a math question. The tip of my tongue emerged while I calculated. “Sir, for three dates, I’ve bought your daughter one corsage, three cherry Cokes, a ticket to an armed forces movie theater for one dollar, two dinners at a government hotel, and six hot dogs. We’re within budget.”
He tilted his head and moved his crushed napkin. “Six hot dogs?” he said.
I was trying to read book titles, but my view was constantly interrupted by paintings I later learned were Matisses, Vuillards, Maillols, and Picassos. My concentration was broken by Pearl’s clear voice. “He’s in awe of you. He’s proud that a Chinese is at West Point. He understands what it’s like to be a Chinese man in a Caucasian school. He admired your courage. You were wonderful. You were honest and strong. You saved me, I think, from the man from Macao.”
She crossed her legs beneath the long dress. I wanted to kiss her, but I could feel her father’s flat, refrigerated gaze on my desires. It was ten o’clock. I had no idea how I could sleep in this house. I wondered if they had a big weight room. I wondered if I could run back to the Academy from here.
“You did well, if somewhat sarcastically.”
“West Point,” I said.
“Many men are very interested in marrying me,” she said.
I looked at her. “This is news?”
“They think me attractive.”
“They never saw you eat a red hot.”
“You’re not avoiding me, are you?” she called.
I was on the other side of the room. If I went any farther, she’d have to phone me. I returned, which took a while, and sat next to her on the extravagantly soft burgundy sofa. I felt vulnerable, the way Pearl had looked coming down the staircase.
I realized that the company of Chinese women had caused me to cry. My muscles were of no use in these matters. She was more than the sum of chest-thumping intelligence and good looks. She sat there, so dignified, holding keys to a mythological past that I could not know, and a future that was filled with new days. She was, in so many respects, perfect for me. The money didn’t matter; she was a Chinese woman and we had walked in each other’s shoes. My heart quivered in fear. I’m a loser. I don’t want to lose her. No more questions about heart. I’ve already done too much.
Her eyes were so warm, so close. She filled my vision and my mind. I looked at her mouth. “Are we through talking?” I asked. “Can we kiss now?”
“I hope we’re never through talking,” she said softly.
“Ach, zere may be no hope for you, young Chinese lady,” I said. “Unless, you take ze vater treatment. I have zis teacher, Mr. Flauck, who can help you change your life.”
“How, Herr Doktor?” she asked.
“You must close your eyes,” I said, moving closer.
“You may not kiss me until I know why you won’t court me.”
I took a deep breath. I could lose her because of honesty. Honor. “I’d be no good as a husband. Worse as a father.”
“How can you know that?” she asked.
“I know,” I said with great certainty.
“There are books that can help us,” she said. She was looking at my mouth. Her eyes were so large and bright, her eyelashes so long. “I’m smart, learn fast, and already know much. Let me help.”
“You can’t help me with your eyes open,” I said.
She closed them. She lifted her chin, her face so strong, so confident, so open, her lips expectant, her pallor gone.
“Don’t know if I’m good enough for you,” I said.
She opened her eyes. “For this I closed my eyes?” she asked.
“Okay. Close them again,” I said.
“Kai. Do you love me?”
Music played. I looked into her penetrating eyes. I looked at her with love and fear. She lifted her elegant chin, offering her mouth as she closed her eyes. Two tears clung to her eyelashes. I kissed her eyes, picking up the teardrops, then caressed her lips.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Oh,” she whispered. “I love you. Merry, Merry Christmas, Ding Kai,” she said into my mouth, sealing my lips with hers.
28
FORK
West Point, January 4, 1967
“Major Maher speaking, sir.”
“Sir, this is Kai Ting. I’m on your team.”
“All right, Big Thunder! Good man. Happy New Year!”
“Same to you, sir. You sound cheerful.”
“Dammit—I love a good fight! Hell, I can’t wait! Congratulations on getting off the goddamn fence. Listen, watch your AO. Only speak to me when you’re secure. Remember—we’re dealing with a mutiny.”
I wasn’t sure how I was goi
ng to start. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew that my comfort quotient was about to be kicked in the teeth. All the Academy buildings looked different. Somewhere, among us, cheaters lived and worked. Ts’ao Ts’ao was alive and living at West Point, cackling as he rubbed his hands.
I checked for messages in the orderly room. There was an envelope from the Catholic chaplin inviting me to a memorial service on Sunday for First Lieutenant Marco Matteo Fideli.
I had been staring at the Guan Yu figurine and the photo of Pearl on my desk when I realized that Clint had been trying to welcome me back from Christmas leave. Then Clint saw the note. Time stopped.
“Oh, man!” he cried. “Don’t do this to me! Not Fideli!”
I couldn’t say anything. I appreciated my immobility, and tried to hold on to it.
Pee Wee McCloud came in the door in a civvy sport coat, a new beard on his face. He looked at me with an infinite sadness, then crumpled the chaplain’s note he had received, and savagely hurled it into the wastecan. He grabbed me by the open collar to my dress gray and lifted my dead weight bodily from the bunk, carried me to Clint, who was at the window near Para-rat, and embraced both of us, their foreheads touching mine. Pee Wee’s shoulders shook and he wept. “He was too good,” he said, dragging out each word. “He’d be the guy to pull the others out of the bush. Can’t be dead. He and Mario were going to sing at Carnegie next year.”
Clint kept shaking his head, and then he began to cry. I did not want to be in this cluster of misery, but Pee Wee’s bulk pinned me. “It’s a battlefield mistake,” I tried.
No one bought it. Pee Wee growled, “We’re going to the funeral, Kai. Pay respects. Meet me in my room, thirteen hundred hours.”
The three of us trudged silently up Washington Road wearing full overcoats over full dress. Our galoshes made a unified scrunch in the fresh snow. Hundreds of cadets straggled behind. Pee Wee had timed it to allow family and officers to arrive first.
Mr. Fideli was a medium-sized man in a heavy black overcoat. He leaned heavily on Lieutenant Mario Fideli, all of his control swept away in a maelstrom of burst agony. A soft and gentle snow fell. Mrs. Fideli was a tall, patrician woman, struggling to retain control. She kept an arm around the waist of a young woman in black, speaking to her through their veils: Marco had a sister.
