Shanghai Girl (20 page)

From the pay phone at the entrance to the subway station I call Ed in a trembling voice: “Hello, Ed. Sorry to disturb you now. My friend was furious after he found out what happened between us last night. I can’t stay there anymore. I'm now at the subway station with my luggage. What should I do?"

Ed chuckles. "Ha, you feisty little thing! You got kicked out, eh. Don't you know a Chinese woman is supposed to be meek?"

"I'm in the fire and you're in the water! What should I do now?"

"What else? Get over here, I guess. That’s why you call me for, right? Don’t fool around with the subway at this hour. Get a cab!”

A recorded voice urges me to deposit more money for extra time. The line is then disconnected as I fumble in my pocket. I realize that I have about seven dollars left, not enough to get me from Brooklyn to Manhattan in a taxi. I have a subway token left. "Good for One Fare," it reads.

The elevator man helps me up with the luggage to Ed’s apartment. When Ed tips Alfredo with a five-dollar bill, I can't believe my eyes.

The apartment is devoid of yesterday’s charm. Salem cigarette butts are piled in the ashtray on the white, kidney-shaped coffee table. Ashtray with an American insignia. It looks familiar. I’ve seen the same type of ashtray in the Consulate in Shanghai.

"I'm so sorry I have to bother you."

"Don't be silly.”

A hug. No kiss.

The cigarette butts in the ashtray indicate that Ed has been thinking, perhaps about the prospects of his legal career. Copies of
The National Law Journal
,
The American Banker
, and
The Wall Street Journal
are scattered on the floor near the day bed.

Ed begins slowly, "Well, you realize I've just begun a hectic job at Sachs & Klein. So I won't be around much. You make yourself at home. Perhaps tomorrow, you could go check the Chinese restaurants in the neighborhood. Most of them open for lunch. I'm sure they could use a waitress who can speak decent English. The clientele here is mostly upper middle class. Your tips should be pretty good."

"You think I should work as a waitress? But it's against the immigration law for me to work."

Ed sinks onto the day bed and lights a Salem. “Let me tell you something about the law,” he says with a wry grin. "And this is from a freshly-minted lawyer. Law is interpretation, not strict science. Immigration law is no exception. The INS has a lottery program which gives some people permanent residency based on their luck. A famous New England politician has made a career out of sponsoring bills that get nothing but the Irish in. Now that's interpretation."

Lu Long has assumed that I’m in love with Ed because I want to marry him for my Green Card. I want to show Lu Long he’s wrong. I’ll get my Green Card on my own. "I'll enter the lottery then," I interject.

"Wait. I haven’t finished yet. Some countries are excluded from the lottery program. Your great socialist motherland, the People’s Republic of China, is among them. That's also interpretation."

I’m disheartened like a balloon deflating through a tiny hole. "What should I do, then? Knowingly violate the law?"

"Three golden rules of the immigration lawyer are: Interpretation. Interpretation. Interpretation. Remember this: as a rule, as far as the INS is concerned, foreigners are presumed guilty until they're proven innocent. That's why it'll be so much fun to work as an immigration lawyer. Everybody who shows up at your door is pretty much ready to lick your boots. You are their only hope. In turn, you get to lick some of these people's boobs afterwards." Ed laughs, sending smoke out of his mouth like a boiling kettle spout.

"What are you talking about?" I frown.

"Private joke. Anyway, what I meant was that you can't have your cake and eat it, too. You either find a way to survive or you return to China."

"I want to survive in America," I affirm without blinking my eyes.

"I know you do. That's why you should count yourself as lucky. You can stay here with me if you want. Now how many young women coming into New York can say that? I won't charge you rent. After all, you were so good last night."

I remember what Lu Long said about the rent in Manhattan: $1,000 a month for a one-room studio. Utilities not included. Roaches and rodents are.

A roof over one's head. It's never easy, be it Shanghai or New York. I know that better than most.

My apartment in Shanghai was one-third this size, and even for that pigeonhole, Stepfather had to intervene to keep it for me. But as the Chinese saying goes, "Golden residence, silver residence. None beats the dog's house that's dog's own."

I am silent.

Ed extinguishes his cigarette and smiles. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right." In one stride, he reaches over, lifts my blouse, cups my breasts, and starts squeezing. "You're in good hands," he laughs, sliding one hand down. Fingers in panties. "You're in good hands, Sha-fei," he repeats with a hysterical laugh. "You just don't know where they've been before."

I don't want to go to the nearby restaurants to look for a job as Ed suggests. I don't want to violate the law. I will be risking too much of my future in this country to violate anything.

I call Gordon's office again and get the same unfriendly woman. Gordon’s still out of town. This time, I managed to leave her Ed's number. But I said that Gordon should only call at daytime. When Ed is away at work.

I make my next call to Gotham University. A woman identifying herself as being on the pre-registration staff digs through the files and says, "I’m sorry, but due to the budget cut, the Political Science Department will not grant any assistantship in the Fall semester. There's nothing we can do."

I can't believe my ears. "I'm not qualified?"

"As a matter of fact, you are well qualified. But the department has no money. Well, good luck next semester." Click!

I feel like crying, but I hold back my tears. I didn't even cry when I left China after over twenty years. I didn’t cry when I left Lu Long. I won’t cry over this, either.

I am not alone. Many college graduates left China for American graduate schools as
Zi Fei Sheng,
or “self-sponsored students.” Unlike
Gong Fei Sheng
, our luckier, better-connected government-sponsored counterparts whose tuition and living expenses are provided by either the Chinese government or American host institutions, we self-sponsored students have to procure private funding ourselves. In my case, Gordon has provided me with an “Affidavit of Support” nominally guaranteeing my financial resources for two years. The key word here is “nominal,” often the condition for sponsors even to come up with the Affidavit. I was counting on receiving a scholarship from Gotham once I got here.

I think about Father’s last words: “Life is hard. Be strong and resourceful. …… Survive first. Then, thrive in this world.” Nobody ever promised it would be easy. Perhaps my consecutive setbacks upon arriving in New York are a test of my true character. Without a scholarship, I may not be able to afford graduate school, but my life in America is only beginning, and the future is bright.

So, I reconstitute myself as a woman around the apartment and the stove. I dust and cook for Ed. I feel I have to do something to show him my appreciation for taking me in.

The most eye-catching piece of item in Ed’s bedroom is a large, lacquer black framed print of Claude Monet’s “The Japanese Fan,” hung directly above his full sized futon bed. The painting depicts a Western woman in a full-length, red, quilted kimono with colorful embroideries of tree leaves and a samurai, holding a red, white, and blue tri-color fan and surrounded by a dozen of Japanese fans. It is a stunning treat to the eye.

On his bedside table, buried under the opened condom boxes of various brands and textures, I discover with embarrassment a book of
Makura-e
, or Pillow Book showing Japanese courtesans and their partners making love in 48 different positions. My heart races as I leaf through the pictorial. This must have been Ed’s bedside Bible. No wonder he seems to like things Japanese so much.

I’ve been preparing a four-course Chinese meal since late afternoon, and now I'm waiting for Ed to return. Return to the dinner table with bowls and chopsticks and soy sauce dipping plates. He's just started a job, his first real job. I can understand if he has to work a little late.

It’s 8:30 p.m. when Ed walks in, suit jacket in hand, tie loosened, shirt collar open. No kiss. No hug. No noticing the spotless apartment. He kicks off his shoes and takes off his clothes, tossing them in the laundry basket as if throwing a frisbee. He drops down on the day bed and announces, "I'm beat. Is there any cold beer left in the fridge?"

"Sapporo or Tsingtao?"

"Whichever, for God's sake. This weather's killing me. And the cab I finally grabbed didn't have air conditioning. The Russian guy had the nerve to say it was broken. Can you believe it?"

"I'm sorry, Ed. Here's a bottle of Tsingtao for you. The dinner's ready when you cool down."

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I always order in."

"I thought I'd do something nice for you."

After tasting my dishes, Ed changes his mind. "Guess what? I could get used to this. It’s delicious. I didn't know you were such a good cook, too."

"I'm glad you like it. Now, I've got some bad news. Gotham really won't grant me an assistantship. It’s final. I called today."

Without looking away from his dish, Ed says, "Oh, really? They're getting more and more close-fisted now. When I was in law school a couple of years ago, even I got some kind of a grant despite my parents' net worth. I wrote in the application that my parents were divorced and I would be at an emotional disadvantage begging for tuition. And they bought it."

"I guess it’s different now.”

"Well," Ed shakes his head and goes on to talk in his lawyerly manner. "There are two sides to everything. The news is good and bad. Perceived the right way, it doesn't have to be bad. Now that you can't go to school, you can start doing research for me in the comfort of this apartment. Part of what you do will cover the cost of you living here: rent, food, entertainment, etc., so there will be no out-of-pocket expenses on your part. What do you say?"

It stretches my patience to hear him out, then I ask, "Who says I'm not going to school? That's what I came to New York for. Besides, you said you were not going to charge me rent anyway. How come...? "

"Wait. Wait. You can stay here for free. I'm just thinking that if you can't do anything else, I will get you something to do. In Shanghai you mentioned to me you were interested in law. I now have a perfect opportunity for you. You can do some immigration law research for me and that'll help your own immigration status."

"But working is illegal. That's why I didn't go to any Chinese restaurants today, because I just don’t feel it's right."

"Do you suppose that hanging around my apartment and not going to school is legal? The U.S. Immigration Law stipulates that the sole purpose of an F-1 visa holder's presence in this country is to be a full-time registered student in an accredited American institute of learning." Ed points his chopsticks at my nose for emphasis.

"Then what can I do? Can you lend me the money to start? I'll return the full amount next semester. Maybe I can get a grant by then."

As if I had asked the most ridiculous thing in the world, Ed leans back on his chair and breaks out laughing. "I can’t believe you would ask. I'm not the Chinese government providing zero-interest loans to its African brethren to promote 'proletariat internationalism.' The U.S. government charges interest when they give a college loan. And if you take out a loan from a bank, they'll charge you 12%. And they don’t lend money to foreign students or even Americans with no credit history. I don't have money to lend you. Nor will you have the money to repay me. You are what they call a bad credit risk.”

I'm stunned by his bombardment. "I know you don't lack the money I'm trying to borrow. You just don't want to lend it to me, that's all. You've taken Shakespeare's advice too well - 'Neither a lender nor a borrower be.'"

"What does Shakespeare have to do with this?"

"I’m just using a line from Shakespeare to justify your actions. That’s all."

"Quoting Shakespeare isn’t going to do you any good, you understand? New York is full of Shakespearean scholars driving cabs. Try to capitalize on your education by doing something practical. Make some money, for one. Get yourself a Green Card, for another. Working for me is an excellent start. You can never tell where our partnership can lead you. Okay?"

I look blankly into Ed's eyes. The same green eyes that so enthralled me so recently.

"So you won't lend me the money?"

"I've already said it. I won't repeat it. Look, I'm exhausted. I'm going to take a shower and get some sleep." Ed pushes his rice bowl and the dishes away, stands up, and heads to the bathroom. I wipe the table and store the leftovers for my lunch tomorrow. Then I do the dishes. At least the warm tap water makes it easier.

I can't sleep for the first half of the night. Ed's snoring. The 70F air-conditioning hissing. The ":" mark on the digital clock blinking: 1:12 a.m.,..., 1:30 a.m. ... .