Shanghai Girl (31 page)

I grin to Lotus, but do not bother correcting Dong Kee. “By the way, I’ve got something for you, Lotus,” I say.

“For me?” she screeches in her usual pitch.

“Yes, you, Lotus. You deserve a bonus.” I fetch the gift bag from the bedroom and hand it to her.

“Tiffany’s! Oh, Boss, thank you so much!” She hugs me joyously. “May I open it?”

“Do whatever you like. It’s yours.”

With ohs and ahs, Lotus puts the pearls on. Dong Kee gives me a half bow and says, “Boss Lou, we weren’t expecting this. You’ve rewarded us enough already. Now, this. Much obliged, much obliged.”

“You people did a great job. This is just a small token of appreciation.”

Taking that as an encouragement I didn’t intend, Dong Kee takes out a cigarette from his breast pocket and fumbles for a lighter.

“No, you can’t smoke here! Go outside if you have to!” Lotus speaks sharply to him.

“Forgive me, forgive me!” Dong Kee apologizes with an awkward bow.

“Feel free,” I tell him.

“Really? Then, I go for a minute.” He glances at his watch. “Maybe I should get to a pay phone to check with folks back home as well. Excuse me, Boss Lou.”

“Take your time,” says his wife.

Lotus and I hear the door latch click. Dong Kee is outside. I leap to Lotus and carry her to my bed, her high boots kicking the air. In one move I lift her checkered skirt and gratify my sense of sight: those thin, long, legs tucked into lace panties. There’s no time to take anything off. Lotus tongues my middle and index fingers before I tug her panties aside and thrust myself in. Her expression changes as she twists and turns. Her new necklace gleams. And suddenly she cries out.

“You liked it?” I ask.

She answers “Mmmmm.” Her ever so beautiful eyes say the rest.

"My little thing," I mutter, “You’d better remember me!”

Dong Kee returns from his cigarette break with his coat on, completely non-suspicious. “We have to get going, Boss Lou. Thank you so much for having us over to your mansion.”

“You haven’t seen a real mansion yet, young man,” I laugh, recalling the house I grew up in China, with plenty of rooms for multiple wives, chambermaids, cooks, chauffeurs, and two garages.

“It’s definitely an eye-opener, without a doubt. And these pearls! Lotus would never dream about things from Tiffany’s.”

“I’m glad she likes them.”

After getting a wet kiss on the cheek from Lotus, I escort the couple to the door. On my doorstep lies the late edition of
The Gotham Tribune
. A small-type headlines in the Metro Section reads: “A Frigid Red & Gray Matter in Chelsea -- Hit & Run Into the New Year.”

I read and re-read the little, inch and a half story and burst out laughing. I remember the phone call the now deceased made to my office, during which he improvised a front-page article from
The Gotham Tribune
that told of my indictment by Federal prosecutors for customs duties and corporate tax evasion. This, thank goodness, will never happen now.

As a young boy in an American mission school in Shanghai, I learned the English proverb “He laughs best who laughs last.” There could not be a more appropriate occasion to recall it.

I crush the Metro section of the paper into a ball and toss it into the fireplace. Then, I sit back, and laugh.

20 Sha-Fei Hong: Two Is a Pair

The beginning of 1986 marks my first six months in America. What a half a year it has been! So busy surviving that I hardly had a chance to examine what direction my life has been going. Today, I'll make it a day of reflection.

An unexpected benefit of sharing accommodations in a Chinatown pigeonhole is that the other five women are hardly ever there during daytime. They all work in the same Chinatown garment sweatshop six days a week and their only diversion seems to be buying the weekly Lotto tickets. When the Fat Win Fat Tour Group offers special Sunday bus trips to Atlantic City, they hardly miss a chance at the slot machines. As much as I feel alienated from them, I continue to stay here due to their constant absence.

Palms supporting my chin, my elbows resting on a shaky TV tray table a former tenant left, I sit by the only window in the room, my notebook open in front of me. On the first page of my journal I have recorded Father’s parting advice to me: "Survive first. Then, thrive in this world.” I have survived the past six months physically and emotionally. The next step is to thrive in America and to achieve my life’s goals. Where do I go from here?

I turn to a new page of my journal and jot down my thoughts. Perhaps influenced by China's Five-Year Plan for national economy, I choose five years as my time frame:

"In five years, I strive to become a professional in New York’s Asian-American political arena. This requires my continued efforts to balance my relationships with Gordon and Senator DellaFave.

"I will have earned my Permanent Residency immigration status in the U.S. by being employed as a professional.

"I will have saved enough of my earnings to be able to pursue a law degree. I came to the U.S. as a student and I must fulfill that promise. Father in Heaven would be proud and content if I accomplish something he had once wanted to do. In China, I always realized that law and politics go hand in hand. My experiences in America have only enhanced my desire to study the legal system of this country.”

I am determined to become the lawyer that Ed Cook was not. I want to be of service to Asian-American immigrants, not exploit them.

I was deeply shocked two days ago when I read about Edward J. Cook’s death in
The Chinese New Yorker
in the Chatham Square Public Library. Hoping that an inaccurate translation had occurred, or that it was simply someone with the same name, I called the paper from a pay phone in the nearby pagoda-roofed Manhattan Savings Bank. The researcher confirmed the name and identified
The Gotham Tribune
as the source of their story. I put in another quarter and dialed the number I hadn’t called for some time, my hand trembling. Ed’s phone rang but once before his voice came through with the first part of his message cut short: “ … Leave a message at the tone. Thanks.” There was an extremely long beep, and the phone clicked. It dawned on me that his message tape was full and no one had checked it. My heart sank. Is Ed really dead?

I walked slowly toward the Arch of Triumph of the Manhattan Bridge, where Lu Long had wooed me the same evening I saw Ed at Lotus’s wedding. I couldn’t believe that turned out to be our last encounter. Traffic accident on New Year’s Eve. A young life was lost just like that. How transient and unpredictable life could be!

Despite the troubled nature of our relationship, I felt a need to grieve over Ed. I wished I had somebody to express my condolences to. But I had never been introduced to Ed’s family or even his other friends. I thought about Lotus. The very fact that Ed was at her wedding suggested that she must have known him well. But Gordon’s company in New York had already closed down and I didn’t have Lotus’s home number.

What about Gordon himself? Did he know Ed had died? He had really resented Ed. How would he react to the news? I decided to call. Gordon answered the phone spiritedly, “It’s you, Sha-fei. I was just thinking of calling you.”

“Really? Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Nothing important. Just wanted to see how you were doing and wish you a Happy New Year.”

“Thank you, Uncle Gordon. Happy New Year to you. I was wondering whether you heard about the accident that happened on New Year’s Eve.”

“What accident?”

“Ed Cook was killed in a car accident.”

Gordon paused and cleared his throat. “Your friend Ed Cook? Is that right? How did you hear about it?”

“I saw it in the paper by accident and felt awful. So I called his apartment, but his message tape seemed to be full and I got cut off.”

“He could be out of town, or even out of the country again. Are you certain it was your friend and not someone else with a similar name? Cook is not that uncommon a name, after all.”

“From the description in the paper and the phone tape, I’m pretty sure. You hadn’t heard about it?”

“How would I? If it’s really true that it was he, then it’s too bad. He died so young.”

“Yes, it’s terrible. I still can’t believe it.”

“But things happen, my child. There’s certainly truth in the maxim ‘
Tian You Bu Ce Feng Yun, Ren You Dan Xi Huo Fu
-- There are unpredictable winds and clouds from the sky and unexpected changes of fortune to people between the morning and night.
’
That’s why people turn to religion for answers. In your Uncle Gordon’s case, I turn to Buddha for blessings.”

“But I don’t believe in afterlife. Once you’re dead, everything is over.”

“We can’t be sure until we are dead, can we?” Gordon said and laughed. “As you go through life, you’ll find that nothing is carved in stone. Your beliefs will change. When I was a student in the American Methodist School in Shanghai, I thought I had been converted from being a Buddhist to a Christian. It was not until I spent many years in the U.S. that I realized that, at least to me, Buddha is still the savior and Confucius is still the Master.”

“What will Ed’s afterlife be like, then?”

“It’s not yours to worry about, Sha-fei. Death and taxes, these are the two things one can’t avoid. Now, don’t dwell on it, my child. You need to move on. In fact, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“I told you I couldn’t sponsor you not because I was unwilling but because of the selling of my business, right?”

“Yes. Now you can?”

“Well, I still can’t, unfortunately. But I can certainly put in a word for you in front of Lenny DellaFave. Maybe he can help you.”

“Really? That will be very kind of you, Uncle Gordon. But if DellaFave’s campaign does sponsor me, would I still be working for you?”

“I’m just throwing out an idea. We don’t know whether it would work or not. Even if you end up working for him, you’ll still be associated with me, won’t you?”

“I suppose so. After all, you’re my original sponsor.”

“I’m glad you still remember.” His sarcasm was blunt and obvious.

“What are you talking about, Uncle Gordon. Of course I remember. And I will always remember.”

“Very good. Now, you’re going to the fund-raising at the Pierre as well, right?”

“Yes. Senator DellaFave has invited me as a guest. You surely know I can’t afford the twelve hundred dollar ticket price for a dinner.”

“Very few of us can, indeed. May I have the pleasure of escorting you?”

At first surprised by such a request, I quickly collect myself and reply, “Oh, yes, of course, Uncle Gordon. I’d like to go with you.” I suddenly realized that Gordon had cleverly reminded me how much I owed him.

“One other thing: Ed Cook’s father, Ted Cook is a friend and supporter of DellaFave. If you meet him at the party, it would be wise not to mention that you dated his deceased son. You’ll make him feel worse.” Gordon puts a harsh emphasis on the word “dated.” I can appreciate his reasons, so I agree readily.

“All right, Uncle Gordon. Thank you for letting me know.”

“You’re very welcome. Again, I’m sorry to hear about this. But you should go on with your life, as I trust you will.”

“I will, believe me,” I said in a determined way.

Gordon and I arrive at the Pierre at quarter to seven on January 15
^th
. A tall, white-gloved man with an Eastern European accent ushers us into the Rotunda. I hold my breath in awe of this oval space with sumptuous, full-length murals. I experience once again the same kind of excitement and sensation as I did when I walked into the Astor Hall in the Research Library of the NYPL for the first time several months ago. But a low hum here in the Rotunda tells me that this is not the place to express loud admiration.

Our place cards are next to each other, confirming my suspicion that Gordon has somehow pre-arranged this. A waiter pulls out my chair and helps me sit down. "Ma'am," he calls me. He then unfolds the rose-bud-shaped napkin and offers it to me, then pours a light pink wine into my glass. “Blush Chablis,” Gordon tells me in a subdued voice. A sip of the chilled wine gives me a crisp, sweet feeling of anticipation.

Several elderly white men already at the table acknowledge Gordon with slight nods. Ribbons of cigar smoke drift lazily across the room. Prodding me to stand up with him, Gordon announces, "Gentlemen, please meet Miss Sha-fei Hong, the finest young woman China has bestowed on America in a long time."

I shake hands with each of them and sit down. A blonde man with receding hair walks over from a nearby table and shakes hands with Gordon. “Good to see you again, Grover, isn’t it?”