" Can you come and stay with me tonight? " she asked, and her eyes dimmed. "I feel so lonely, also frightened. Nobody cares about me here. My roommates are not in tonight and the apartment feels deserted. Please come with me. I'll be nice to you."
"Yafang, you're too emotional to think clearly. You're a good woman and will recover from this. I can't go to your place tonight. That will amount to taking advantage of you, and later you'll despise me. "
She nodded, her head hanging low. "You misunderstood me. I meant to invite you to stay in our living room. I'd just want to have someone in my apartment. I'm scared."
"Forgive me for what I said then, but I can't come with you."
"I understand."
"Don't tell others about what happened to you unless you absolutely trust them. If you can't help it, call home and talk to your siblings."
"That I can't do. They'll tell my parents. So far I've always told them everything is excellent here."
"Then you can call me if you want to talk." "Thanks. I might."
She got off at Kingston-Throop avenues, dragging her feet away as if her body were suddenly too heavy for her.
That night Nan reviewed Yafang's story in his mind. He felt low and somewhat regretted not having gone with her, but he feared he might get entangled with her too deeply. His life was already a quagmire. At this point he didn't want to be involved with another woman, and he had to concentrate on his own survival and that of his family. The more he thought, the more tormented he was by the notion Pingping had often expressed, namely that it was more dangerous to mix with your own people than with strangers. Yafang's trouble proved that. Many of their compatriots here were desperate and wouldn't hesitate to harm one another. In Heng Chen's case, there must have been more to it than just taking advantage of Yafang. His wife's betrayal might have turned him into a misogynist. No, not exactly. He obviously still lusted after women. Perhaps he was so desperate and so cornered that he couldn't help but move fast to seduce a young woman. But afraid of lawsuits and retaliation, he could only prey on a new arrival from their native land.
Yafang never phoned Nan. At work she was polite to him but remained aloof. Nan knew he must have hurt her pride, and she might have felt he had left her in the lurch. He noticed that she talked a lot with Aimin and Chinchin. Several times he caught her wistful eyes glancing at him, but whenever he joined their conversation, she'd turn taciturn. She seemed to avoid speaking to him, though she did tell him that she very much enjoyed the issues of New Lines he had given her.
MR. LIU called and said his wife, Shaoya, had completed a short story. He wondered whether New Lines could use it. If they could, he would send it along right away. Nan told him, "By all means, we'd love to see it. What's it about?"
" About how hard a Chinese woman works in an underground sweatshop in New York."
"That's good. We probably can run it."
"Should I mail it to you?"
"No need. I'm going to the print center tomorrow morning, and I can stop by and pick it up. That will save you the postage."
"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Nan. I'll see you then." Mr. Liu sounded tired, as though he'd lost some of his voice.
Nan told Bao about Shaoya's story. They both believed they should publish it provided she was willing to resume her pen name, Purple Lilac; yet they couldn't make the final decision until they had read it. Bao kept saying this was a good sign: some fiction might bolster the circulation of the journal.
The next morning Nan went to the Lius'. It took him a good while to find their apartment, because he wandered into a neighboring tenement that looked identical. Finally, as he was approaching the correct entrance, he heard a woman screaming in Chinese, but he couldn't make out her words. A black man ran out of the stairwell and almost barreled into Nan, who stepped aside to let him pass. The front of the man's canary yellow pullover bore the large words sick of it all! He nodded at Nan and sauntered away. Nan went to unit 127, and the female voice was intelligible now-it was Shaoya's.
"I've worked myself half to death to make the money while you just threw it away right and left," she shouted. "I didn't mean to," came Mr. Liu's tamed voice. "You must pay it back."
"You know I'm broke. If I had any money, you could have it all." "Stop playing the stock market! Do you hear me?" "Life is a risk. We-"
"Shut up! Just promise me never to do it again."
Should Nan go in? He decided to knock on the door. Mr. Liu answered and was surprised to see him. Then the old man grimaced, saying, "Come in, please." He spread out his arm as if ushering Nan to a meeting.
" Sorry, I understand this might not be a convenient time," Nan said.
"Don't worry. We're just having a small exchange of words. Right, dear?" he asked Shaoya, who still looked incensed, her face dark.
She said to Nan as if he were an old friend, "He dabbled in stocks with the sweat money I made. Yesterday alone he lost more than two thousand dollars."
"All right, all right," said her husband. "The stock market is like a battlefield where it's normal to lose or win. It highly depends on luck. Right, Nan?"
Nan was taken aback, totally ignorant of stocks. He forced himself to answer, "That must be true. Losses and gains take place every day."
"But he shouldn't have run the risk in the first place," she said. "Heaven knows how hard I've worked at the gift store. Last week I put in fifty-eight hours, and my legs got swollen every night when I came back. But he stayed home playing ducks and drakes with the money I made."
"All right, I won't do it again," said her husband.
Nan got the story and Shaoya's agreement to resume her pen name. on his way back he mulled over the scene at the Lius'. He was surprised that the old man would speculate in stocks. Everyone assumed that the Lius were poor, but Mr. Liu had just lost thousands of dollars. How could that be possible? Had he accepted some financial aid on the sly? Probably. Otherwise he wouldn't have squandered money that way.
On second thought, Nan was unsure of his reasoning. Mr. Liu had already established his image as an independent man; if he had taken money from someone, word would surely have come out, since the exile community was small and all eyes were focused on the funds available for the dissidents. No, the old man could hardly have accepted any financial aid without being noticed. Nan realized that Mr. Liu's apparent self-reliance was based mainly on his wife's hard work and sacrifice.
BAO knew a famous poet, Sam Fisher, who lived in the Village. He had invited Fisher to be on the honorary board of New Lines and the poet had agreed. The journal listed his name, together with several others, on the inside of its back cover. Bao also requested poems from Fisher, who was so generous that he said he'd give him three or four. One Sunday morning Bao and Nan set out for the poet's place to get the poems.
Fisher lived in a yellow-brick building on West Tenth Street. He greeted Bao and Nan with a little bow, his arm opened toward the inside of his apartment. He looked sleepy, but his droopy eyes were intense, as if they could bore into your mind when he peered at you. His crown was entirely bald, yet the hair at his temples curved upward like two tiny horns. His home was rather crowded, the walls lined with bookcases and many large photographs, some of which showed naked young men in different postures. One displayed a teenage boy sitting on his haunches and holding his erected member with his hand as if masturbating. Sam Fisher was also an accomplished photographer, selling his pictures to collectors regularly. In addition, he was a Zen Buddhist. On the wall of the corridor hung a long horn, the type used at Tibetan temples. He led the visitors into the living room, which smelled bosky and had a shiny floor, and then he called to his boyfriend to brew tea.
To Nan 's surprise, a young Chinese man stepped in with a tray that held a clay teapot and four cups. "This is Min Niu, from Chang-sha," Fisher introduced him to the guests.
They greeted his boyfriend in Mandarin, and then Nan resumed speaking English with Sam. He observed the young man pouring tea.
Min was rather effeminate and had a smart face with a smooth, hairless chin. He must have been in his mid-twenties. How could he and Sam be lovers? Sam must have been at least thirty years older than he was.
On the glass coffee table lay two biographies of Sam Fisher, one almost twice as thick as the other. Sipping the piping hot jasmine tea, Bao pointed at the books and asked Sam, "Which is more true?"
"Neither," Sam said. "This one is from a Marxist point of view, and that one is Freudian. They're interesting, but the man they describe is not me." He laughed, a sparkle in his eyes. He got up and went into his study.
Nan turned to Min Niu. "How long have you been in America?"
"Since last autumn."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a graduate student at NYU."
"Studying science?"
"No, Asian history."
"Really? What period?"
"I'm not sure yet. Probably I'll write a thesis on homosexuality in ancient China."
Sam returned with a few sheets of paper and handed them to Bao, saying, "You can use these."
Bao glanced through them as if able to read English while his eyes brightened. He said, "Thank for your help."
"Your poems will make a huge difference to our journal," Nan added.
Sam nodded without speaking. Someone knocked on the door, and Min went to answer it. In came a tall young man with Beatles-cut hair and high cheekbones. "Hey, come and meet my friends," Sam shouted, waving at the new arrival.
"Dick Harrison," the man introduced himself, and shook hands with Bao and Nan. He sat down across from Sam, and Min put a cup in front of him. As Min was about to pour tea, Dick stopped him and asked Sam, "Aren't we going out?"
"Yes, we're going to have lunch at Lai Lai." He turned to Bao and Nan. "Let's go out together, okay?"
Min whispered in Chinese, "He's in a sunny mood today."
"What did he say about me?" Sam asked.
"You're high-spirited," said Nan.
"Yes, I am happy. Let's go out for lunch."
"I have homework to do, Sam," Min said. "I can't join you."
"Stay home, then. We'll go without you."
After Nan called Ding's Dumplings and told Chinchin he'd be an hour late, the four of them went out of the building and headed east. As they passed a small bookstore called Smart Readers, a young woman with penciled eyebrows waved at Sam and cried, "Hey, Mr. Fisher, how are you doing?"
"I'm well."
She blew him a kiss and turned away, pulling a cart loaded with used books. Then a young man with a widow's peak stepped out of the bookstore, and at the sight of Sam, he said, "Wow, Mr. Fisher! Please wait a sec. Let me go in and buy a book of yours. Can you autograph it for me?"
"All right."
The man rushed back into the store while the four of them stood waiting. "Well, I'm often stopped on the street," Sam told Bao and Nan, apparently amused. His hands hung against his abdomen, his fingers interlaced.
In no time the man returned with a volume of Sam's poetry entitled Oh-Oh-Oh-, his thumb in between the cover and the title page. "Please sign this for me, will you? This will make my day."
"Sure." Sam took the felt-tip the man handed him and began inscribing. Nan craned to see him drawing a Buddha with a drumlike belly. Next Sam put several stars around the Buddha's head and wrote "Ha Ha Ha!" Then with a flourish he signed his name below the figure.
The man looked at the drawing and the signature. "This is awesome! Thank you." He held out his hand and Sam shook it.
They went on their way to Lai Lai on Sixth Avenue, which Dick told them was a noodle house Sam loved. Sam walked with his hands in his pants pockets and every once in a while kicked something on the sidewalk: a beer can, or a pebble, or a cigarette pack, or a paper cup. After another turn they arrived at the eatery, but before they could enter, an overweight man greeted Sam. "Mr. Fisher, I enjoy your new book. I'm a big fan."
"So," Sam looked annoyed, "you want me to fuck you in the ass?"
"No, no, please." The man backed away, but turned his head to smile at Sam.
Nan was flabbergasted by Sam's words. Dick explained, "That's Sam. People know him well and won't be offended."
"Damn it," Sam grunted. "I just don't want to be stopped every five minutes. If he'd bought my book, that would've been different."
They all laughed and went into Lai Lai.
THE NOODLE HOUSE was full of people. A young waitress, looking Vietnamese, piloted them into an inner room that had only two tables in it. She asked Sam with a knowing smile, "What would you like today?"
"Ask my friends first," Sam said.
"Sure." She turned to Bao. "What will you have?"
"Shogun Noodle."
Nan ordered the same; not having eaten the Japanese noodle before, he wanted to try it. Dick and Sam chose Pad Thai.
While waiting for their food, they talked about religion. Sam said he knew the Dalai Lama personally, and in fact his master was a distant cousin of His Holiness. "Do you practice Buddhism?" Nan asked him.
"I meditate every day."
"We go to Ann Arbor every fall," Dick put in.
"Why?" Bao asked.
Sam smiled mysteriously. "My master's temple is there, so we go there to pray every year."
"We also listen to our master preach," added Dick.
The noodle and the Pad Thai came, giving off a spicy scent. Nan was fascinated by their involvement with the Buddhists. He spooned a shrimp out of the soup and took a bite. It tasted fresh but a bit rubbery. He asked Sam, "Why do you study Buddhism?"
"It can calm me down. It also helps my constipation."
Nan burst out laughing, while Bao looked bewildered. Dick said, "It can also enlighten the mind."
"Does your master impose any restriction on your life?" asked Nan.
"No, we're free," Sam said. "You can do anything in our branch of Buddhism. Drugs, sex, marriage, alcohol, you name it, anything but violence."