Few people paid heed to them. A flock of fat pigeons landed nearby, strutting nonchalantly, pecking at bread crumbs and popcorn and sending out a koo-koo-koo sound. Nan looked at the large sample portrait standing between the two painters. Beneath it were listed the prices: black and white-$20, colored-$40, frame-$8.So cheap. How could they make a living by doing this? The middle-aged painter tilted his lumpy chin and asked Nan, "Want a portrait, brother?"
" No. " He shook his head.
The man smiled and whispered, "Please sit down for us. We won't charge you."
"I can't do that." Nan was amazed by his offer.
"Please help us. We have to work on somebody to attract customers. Sit down, please."
"I'll pay you ten dollars if you do a good portrait of me. How's that?"
"Fine, just sit on that."
The younger man handed him a folding stool. As soon as Nan sat down, people began gathering around to watch. The older painter wielded a charcoal pencil, and with a few strokes sketched out the contour of Nan 's face. Then he proceeded to draw his bushy hair and broad forehead. From time to time he used a napkin to wipe his own pug nose, which somehow wouldn't stop dripping. He now lifted his head to observe Nan, and now bent forward, scratching the paper rapidly.
"Where are you from?" Nan asked the younger painter. " Wuhan. We used to teach at Hubei Institute of Fine Arts." " You were professors?" "He was. I was a lecturer."
"Can you make a living by drawing portraits on the street?"
"It's not easy, but we've been doing this for several years."
The older painter raised his eyes, his brow furrowed. "Don't talk too much. Keep still, or the portrait may not resemble you."
Nan stopped. He looked away. In the distance two trees grew on a rooftop, beyond which a jumbo jet was sailing noiselessly through the fleecy clouds. He wondered whether the trees were planted in pots or in a flower bed on the roof. Three seagulls were wheeling in the air on sickle wings, squawking like babies in pain. Around Nan, people were palavering about the portrait in the making. "It's really like him," said a girl.
"A fabulous job," echoed another voice.
"For twenty dollars, not a bad deal."
"Maybe I should have a portrait done here."
"Yes, just twenty bucks."
"Look et de nose, exectly like de guy's."
"Hey, smile," a jug-eared man yelped at Nan.
"I'm not taking a photo." Nan purposely set his face straight while fiddling with the strap of his bag.
Twenty minutes later the portrait was done. Nan looked at it and was surprised by his own face, which was as forlorn as though he had just missed a train or boat, too muddled to know where to go or what to do. In the drawing his eyes gazed into the distance while his mouth was set as if he were suppressing some anguish or pain. This face belonged to a lost, exhausted man. Obviously the painter had captured the actual state of his mind. A miserable feeling surged in Nan 's chest and his eyes misted over, but he managed a grimace- his cheeks twitched. The older painter bent down and inscribed the date and place at the right-hand bottom corner of the portrait. "Here you are," he said, rubbing his hands while the younger man took the sketch off the easel and rolled it up for Nan.
Nan paid the older man ten dollars and walked away with the drawing under his arm. On the train he wondered what to do with it. Who wanted to see such a woeful face? It would remind people of bad luck! On no account would he show it to his wife and son- Taotao might laugh about it, whereas Pingping would be disappointed. So when he got off at Utica Avenue, he dropped it into a trash can at the station.
In Wendy's house, a letter from the North Star Times was awaiting him, which informed him that the newspaper had picked someone else for the assistant editorship it had advertised. Nan was upset, suspecting that they might already have decided on the hire before they put out the ad. An applicant like himself must have been needed just to fill a quota. Now he had no alternative but to start at Ding's Dumplings the next day.
DING'S DUMPLINGS offered mainly Shanghai cuisine, which isn't spicy but a bit sweet. It also specialized in noodles and dumplings filled with several kinds of stuffing: lean pork, fish, shrimp, crab-meat, and beef, all mixed with various vegetables. The restaurant was small, with only twelve tables in it, but it enjoyed a fine reputation. Under the glass top of each table was a New York Times article praising the quality and the fair prices of the food offered here. Unlike in a regular Chinese restaurant, on each table here was a sugar shaker among the cruets of soy sauce, vinegar, and chili oil. The main wall in the dining area was glazed entirely with mirror, on which some sea creatures were blazoned: turtle, swordfish, lobster, crabs, skate. On the street-facing window was painted a fat boy carrying with a curved shoulder pole two huge baskets of money, one of gold coins and the other of silver ingots.
Nan 's job was to wash dishes in the basement kitchen. Besides the chef and the busboy, there were three waitstaff, supervised by a hostess named Chinchin. Chinchin was from Taiwan, and was congenial but garrulous and giggly. She often wore a pink dress and beige pumps, her bright-colored outfit making her sallow complexion appear dark. Whenever possible, she'd chaff the waitstaff, who were all from mainland China. She'd say they were all Communist supporters, red to the bone, and hadn't yet shed their air of banditry, and still dreamed of communizing property and sharing others' spouses and children. Unlike Chinchin, the two waitresses and one waiter all had on the restaurant's uniform-a yellow T-shirt, black slacks, and a maroon apron. Nan wore the same clothes but stayed in the basement most of the time. When there were too many customers he'd go upstairs and help clear tables. Otherwise, the waitstaff would carry the used tableware downstairs for him to wash.
Howard, the owner, seldom showed up here and left Ding's Dumplings in the hands of Chinchin, a distant relative of his, who also managed the tiny bar. Usually customers just ordered ready-made wines and beers, so the bar was rarely used. Howard had other restaurants in the city, one in the World Trade Center and another on 55th Street, near the Museum of Modern Art. These days he was all tied up at a new place he'd just opened in Queens. He was such a wealthy man that he received a letter from George Bush each year, inviting him to the President's Dinner at the White House, though he had never attended such an event. "Too expensive," he once told his staff. "You think there are free meals in America? You'll have to pay fifteen thousand dollars for a fund-raising dinner like that. Besides, I'm not a Republican."
A week after Nan started at Ding's Dumplings, a stalwart black man appeared. As he was stepping into the doorway, Chinchin motioned to the waitresses and shouted, "Be careful! Here comes a dark ghost." A month ago the restaurant had been robbed by two blacks, one of whom wore a mask of Ronald Reagan and the other that of Richard Nixon. The police were still investigating the case.
To their astonishment, the black man announced in standard Mandarin, "Please rest assured, comrades. I'm not a hoodlum. I'm your friend."
Embarrassed, they looked at one another speechlessly. Then Nan broke into laughter and the others followed him. Maiyu, the slender waitress with slightly bulging eyes and hoop earrings dangling from below her bob haircut, led the customer to a round table close to the stairs. The man, more than six foot two, squared his shoulders and sat down, his hands clasped on the tabletop. He had grizzled hair and wore a tie with a pattern of antique coins on it and a dark blue suit, his yellowish shirt decked with cuff links. He smiled at Maiyu, showing his wide mouth and strong teeth. Plainly he was past forty, but the wrinkles on his face made him look masculine and quite handsome. "Hi, it's gorgeous out there, isn't it?" he said to the waitress.
"Yes. What would you like?" Maiyu's soft eyes wavered as she spoke.
" Yangzhou Fried Rice and Three-Delight Soup." He spoke Mandarin as if he were an old customer.
"How come you speak Chinese?" put in Heng Chen, the waiter, standing by with arms akimbo. Heng was Maiyu's husband; they had married the previous year, right before he came to America.
"I studied it in Beijing Foreign Languages Institute for three years, in the seventies," the man said, watching the supple movement of Maiyu's shapely waist as she was heading away for the kitchen.
"What are you doing now? Teaching Chinese?" Nan asked him.
"No, I quit teaching long ago. That's an awful profession, I mean in this country, underpaid and tiresome. I'm a private investigator now."
"You're a detective?" the bespectacled Aimin cut in, fingering the tip of her thin braid.
"Yes. I help my clients find information on other people or companies."
Maiyu returned with a pot of tea. The black man gave her a sidelong look and said, "You're beautiful, a real knockout."
Though unfamiliar with his last word, she was blushing. She glanced at her husband, who was frowning.
"I'm David Kellman. What's your name?" the man asked her.
"Maiyu."
"Can you write it down for me?" He took out of his inside pocket a gilt pen and a dark blue address book and opened it for her to inscribe on.
He observed the characters she'd written for him. "This is a beautiful name, 'Mai-you.' " "No, 'Mai-yu.' "
"Let me try again. 'Man-yu.' Did I get it right?" "Almost."
"Thank you for writing it down. I'm going to look it up in my dictionary and work on it. Next time I come, I'll pronounce your name accurately. Here's my card. If you need any help, just give me a ring."
She looked astonished, staring at him, her face crimson. Heng Chen, her husband, jumped in, "She has no ring for you!"
"What?" Kellman looked puzzled, and then his face relaxed. He burst out laughing. "Oh my, this is so funny! You thought I was talking of an engagement ring or a wedding band? What a misunderstanding! I wish I could do that for this charming young lady, though."
Nan told his fellow workers, "He meant you should phone him eef you need his help."
"Exactly," Kellman said, still chuckling.
"Thank you," Maiyu mumbled. She turned and made for the kitchen to fetch his order. Still, Heng couldn't take his triangular eyes off Kellman. As his wife was passing him, he wagged his chin to indicate that she shouldn't talk too much with that self-styled Sherlock Holmes.
Nan went back into the kitchen and resumed chopping vegetables and slicing beef. Today the assistant to the chef was off work, so Nan took over the kitchen chores, which he liked doing, as he was eager to see how the chef cooked.
From that day on, Kellman would come to Ding's Dumplings at least three times a week. Whenever he was here, the room would echo with his laughter. Nan liked him, though he felt this man was reckless, flirting with Maiyu openly and never noticing her husband's furious eyes. Kellman would talk excitedly to the waitress, who at first seemed reluctant to speak, but her face would turn sunny whenever he was here. Heng hated to see him, yet he couldn't throw out a regular customer. He had neither the muscle and guts to confront this big man nor the English to spoil his conversation, which at times could be heard by the entire room. One day, after Kellman had left, Heng exploded, accusing his wife of having become Americanized and degenerated into a shameless broad.
Chinchin reproached him, saying he ought to have a large heart. She kept shaking her oval face, on which lingered the last trace of youth, and said to the waitstaff, "You people have been brainwashed by the Commies and are too serious about what happens between a man and a woman. A husband should feel proud if his wife is attractive to other men. Heng, just because Maiyu spoke a few words with Kellman, you think she's carrying on with him? You're dead wrong. Truth be told, I'm pleased to see that Kellman has become a regular. If only we had more pretty girls here. Then you all could get more tips." She caught herself and glanced at the homely Aimin, whose eyes were fixed on Chinchin, glinting behind her thick glasses.
But Heng couldn't be appeased, and was visibly jittery and grumpy whenever Kellman was in the restaurant, so Chinchin scheduled Maiyu and Heng for different shifts. As a result, Nan often filled in, waiting tables in the daytime. He made four dollars an hour as a busboy and was glad about the tips he got. Unlike him, the waitstaff were each paid only $1.50 an hour because they kept the tips.
Nan would phone Pingping in the morning before he set out for work. Occasionally she called him, especially when she had run into difficulties. One recent day she was unable to use his credit card to order things on the phone because she couldn't recall his mother's maiden name. Neither she nor Nan actually knew what a maiden name was. Three years ago, when they were opening a joint bank account and a woman representative asked Nan for his mother's maiden name, he had been stumped, but on the spur of the moment had told her, "Fengkou," which was a rural town where his grandparents had lived. When Pingping was asked, she said to the woman, "My mother has same maiden name." The representative said, "How did that happen?" Nan explained, "It's common in China, where a billion people have only a hundred family names." From then on, both of their mothers had shared the same maiden name- "Fengkou," a word that might never have been applied to a human being before.
Once in a while Nan didn't have time to call Pingping before going to work; then she'd phone him at the restaurant around noon. His fellow workers often teased him, saying his wife was an insomniac without him in bed, and asking him if he and she had grown up together. He once answered with a poker face, "Of course, we were engaged when we were tots. That's why I'm so henpecked."
They were amused but unsure if he had told the truth.
THREE WEEKS LATER Howard hired another busboy and promoted Nan to the chef 's assistant, because the former kitchen aide had left for Miami to marry a Cuban Chinese woman. Nan got a one-dollar raise too. Chef Zhang needed a lot of help, and Nan 's job was mainly to cut meats and vegetables, fry chicken cubes, and wrap dumplings. Nan watched carefully how the chef cooked. Zhang told him to memorize the entire menu and the ingredients of every dish, so that Nan could assemble all the things needed for each order in a bowl or a plate or a Styrofoam container before the chef cooked it. On occasion Zhang would let Nan make fried rice or noodle soup while he stood by to supervise. He also taught Nan how to concoct various sauces. When it wasn't busy, Nan would go upstairs to chat with the waitstaff. Chef Zhang, always cooped up in the basement, told Nan not to "gab too much with those bitches up there."