The Dog (3 page)

Though Chen Wei wasn't steady on his feet, his palm fell on Zheng's cheek with all the delicacy of a lover's touch. He patted his cousin's rough face. The aunties all got very quiet. There wasn't much they hadn't seen before, and when Chen Wei drew his hand away, they each tensed imperceptibly. Chen Wei turned his slight shoulders to the side, coiling, and brought the back of his hand across Zheng's face with such force that Zheng, twice his size, staggered back a step.

Chen Wei's hand hovered in the dead air between them.

“Ha,” Zheng said. “Ha!” A wide smile split his face. “Good one,” he said.

If there were terrestrial sounds in the world at that moment, a swallow crying for its mate or a breeze pushing through the grass, they were absorbed into the wake of silence radiating from his voice. For a moment it seemed to Li Yan that the rotation of the earth had locked, that the natural world was pinned like a butterfly to a cardboard frame. She felt the silence enveloping her, the two men, the family, the village, and extending outward like a shadow until it seemed that the entire world was somehow flattened against itself, dark. It was this oppressive airlessness, the locus of suffocation within her own body, that caused Li Yan, desperate to set the world once again in motion, to speak.

“You idiot,” she said to her husband. She may as well have clubbed him with a length of pipe. His chin dropped to his chest.

He sighed.

It would take years for him to leave her, but after he had moved out and their daughter had left for America and Li Yan was left alone to pass from the subway to the tailor's shop and home again, where she sat in silence with a cup of tea and tried to rest, to drop the hulking weariness that had sunk itself in her chest, she returned to the yard again and again. Of course she wished that she'd held her tongue. But in her old age, she reasoned it out: standing there in Zheng's barren yard, before his family, the words had risen up out of an unavoidable instinct.

“Give him a break, he's drunk,” Zheng said. “We did worse when we were kids, that's for sure.”

Chen Wei nodded.

“Well, send her to the market,” Zheng said.

“Go to the market,” Chen Wei whispered.

“Right!” Zheng said. “You're going to cook for us, right? You saved a dog's life. We'll celebrate life, right? Go to the market, and we'll get the fire going while you're gone. Come on, don't look so ashamed. It's time to make up.” He took the couple's hands in his and joined them. Their fingers mashed together. “See? No problem,” Zheng said.

*   *   *

Li Yan was lucky to find anyone still selling in the market. Most of the vendors had already gone home, but she found a woman with two buckets of limp carp.

“I want both,” she said.

“You're from Tianjin, right?” the woman said.

Li Yan didn't have time to banter. She was sure Zheng would kill the dog while she was gone. “Beijing. How much for both buckets?”

“Beijing! I could tell from your clothes. Why do you want both buckets? Hungry?”

“I'm cooking for my husband's family. How much?”

“Who's your husband? I've never seen you before. Wedding feast?”

“Please tell me how much.”

“No need to be rude. What's the rush? If you're cooking, they'll wait for you. They can't eat air.”

“I'll give you twenty kuai for them.”

“Twenty kuai,” the woman said, as though divining a greater truth from the words. “One hundred.”

“One hundred,” Li Yan said. She looked around the empty market.

“They're worth twice that much right now. Don't try to put one over on me just because I'm a simple country girl.” Her teeth made an eerie whistling sound when she spoke.

“Your house isn't worth one hundred kuai,” Li Yan said.

“Good thing it's not for sale,” the woman said. “One hundred kuai.”

Li Yan didn't know what else to do. She held out the money. She'd stuffed her wallet that morning in case of emergency, but this was half a week's salary.

“Who's your husband?” the woman said as Li Yan reached for the buckets.

“Chen Wei,” she said.

The woman said, “I remember a Chen Wei who moved to Beijing.” But she didn't say any more.

Li Yan started to leave. “Where are you going with my buckets?” the woman said.

“I gave you one hundred kuai.”

“But you didn't bring any newspaper. I'll need a deposit for the buckets. Fifty kuai.”

Li Yan didn't see the point of arguing. She gave the woman her last note. If Chen Wei didn't have enough for tickets home, they'd borrow from Zheng.

“May your family choke on it,” the woman said, but Li Yan was already sloshing down the dirt road to Zheng's house.

The sun had disappeared behind the hills by the time she got there, and her legs were soaked with smelly water. At the gate, she set the buckets down. The fire pit was piled with sticks, dark, just as when she'd left. Through the window she saw the men playing cards at the table. She crept around the side of the house and walked along the wall. The cage was open, and the dog was lying in the far corner of the wall. She patted her leg and said, “Come here.” The dog caught the scent of fish on her and trotted halfway across the yard, but stalled, unsure of her motives. She looked at it staring dumbly back at her, its tongue drooping from the side of its mouth. It looked happy. Animals have no memory, Li Yan thought.

She left the dog there. Back around front she lifted the buckets and walked to the door.

“Hey, the chef's back,” Zheng said.

The room was packed solid with bodies. Chen Wei didn't look up from his cards when she entered. The children rushed over to see what she'd brought. “Rice fish,” one said.

“What'd you expect from a Beijinger?” Zheng said. “They eat like this every day.”

Li Yan slopped the buckets over to the iron stove. The aunties had a strong fire burning, and the stove radiated an intense heat. Sweat dripped from her face and sizzled on the cooktop. She hadn't cooked over a wood flame since she was little. In Beijing they had gas. But she'd make do. She plunked the buckets down and the aunties crowded around, doling out judgments about the size and color of the fish. Li Yan wrestled the largest wok onto the fire and the aunties swung into motion, chopping scallions, growling orders at one another, pouring oil and vinegar into the wok. The men's voices were loud and drunk. Each man seemed to be locked in a separate and discursive argument over the rules of English poker, which only Chen Wei knew how to play, but no one was paying attention to him. Wriggling across the floor, under the table, snaking around feet and chair legs, the children did their best to contribute to the chaos.

*   *   *

Li Yan closed her eyes. Her ill-fated cooking stories had gained her a reputation in English class, and the American teacher had nicknamed her “Chef.” She knew that women in the neighborhood talked about her behind her back because her husband was skinny.

She would have to be extremely careful with the fish. The aunties would take care of the side dishes, but they wouldn't help with the main dish. She'd brought this on herself, and as she added ingredients to the wok—pepper, sesame oil, coriander, salt—the aunties maintained a loose ring of motion around her without ever coming too close.

Once the oil was popping, she reached into a bucket and pulled out a wriggling carp, wiped it with a cotton rag, and dropped it into the wok. The fish curled tightly, its bony mouth gaping.

“Smells like a five-star restaurant in here,” Zheng called from the table. She couldn't tell whether he was trying to make amends or whether it was a joke at her expense. Concentrate, she thought. Concentrate and keep your mouth shut.

Li Yan ladled hot oil over the fish and pressed it flat against the wok. There was room for another one, and she quickly plunged her hand into the bucket. Altogether she had ten fish—with side dishes, more than enough for the family—but by the time she would finish cooking the last one, the first fish would be cold. So she dropped yet another in the wok, three altogether. The auntie who had been looking after Li Yan's daughter peered into the wok and placed her hand on Li Yan's shoulder. Li Yan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She knew what she was doing. The men were so drunk they'd barely taste the meal. It was just a matter of presentation.

The aunties had completed a platter of scallion cakes and set them out before the men. There was a great clatter of porcelain and wood, and the cakes were gone. When Li Yan took the first three fish out of the wok, an auntie dropped an armload of spinach in and added soy sauce. “Just one minute,” she said, holding Li Yan's wrist. They waited there by the wok until the spinach was transferred to the bare scallion cake platter. Again the platter was laid before the men and scoured clean. Then came tomato soup with egg flower. Then sauced cucumber.

“Enough of the small-fry,” Zheng said, and the men all laughed. “Bring the main course!”

Li Yan was nearly done with the fish, but cooking three at a time was depleting the oil at such a rate that she had to add cold oil as she cooked, which killed the boil. She lost track of how many handfuls of scallions she'd added. The fish curled and she smashed them down. They came out of the wok dripping with oil, and more went in. Finally, the last fish looked ready. The aunties had prepared a plate for each fish, a mixed batch of stoneware and porcelain that Li Yan thought hardly worthy of the meal. Each fish was laid on a bed of bok choi, which Li Yan would have said wasn't the proper presentation if she'd had time or space to argue. No matter, she thought, these peasants don't know any better.

The aunties took up plates and stood around the table.

“The fish should honor the head of the family,” Li Yan said, laying a plate before Zheng with the glazed eyes facing him.

“No, no,” he said, “to our honored guest,” and slid the plate to Chen Wei's place. “Now we'll see how they eat in Beijing.”

The aunties laid plates before each of the men, fish heads pointing at Chen Wei.

“Go ahead, let us know what kind of cook your wife is,” Zheng said. The men leaned in as Chen Wei held his chopsticks aloft. He felt their eyes on him. He felt the presence of his wife behind him.

“Dig in,” Zheng said. “Join the Celebrate Life Movement.”

Chen Wei lowered his chopsticks to the skin and pressed. Oil seeped out from the scales, but the skin didn't break. He pressed harder and more oil escaped, pooling on the cabbage leaves.

“Maybe you need a fork to eat Beijing cuisine?” Zheng said.

The men laughed and threw back glasses of baijiu. “Do you want your butcher knife back?”

Chen Wei jabbed at the fish, desperately trying to puncture the skin. It wouldn't give. The fish was raw on top. He couldn't turn it over—that was bad luck for the fisherman who'd caught it, even if it had been raised in a rice field. He tried to get at the meat from the side, and succeeded in creating an incision in its belly, but the meat he pulled out dripped with oil and visceral fluid.

“Eat up. Looks tasty,” Zheng said, smacking his lips. This time the men didn't laugh. The room was quiet as Chen Wei brought the meat to his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes set on a distant point. His mandible rose and fell. He swallowed and laid his chopsticks on the table. Wood crackled in the bowels of the stove.

“You want a drink, I bet,” Zheng said, filling a glass. Chen Wei turned to him and forced a smile.

“Hey, don't give me the evil eye. She's the one who cooked it,” Zheng said.

Li Yan laid her hand on Chen Wei's shoulder, and as if she had touched the first in a row of dominoes, he lunged forward with such violence that all the men reared back in response. He stood and calmly collected their plates into a pile at the center of the table. The men all looked at their laps. Chen Wei began to stack the plates in two towers, placing his own eviscerated meal at the top of one.

Li Yan backed away.

“No, you're going to help me,” Chen Wei said.

He gathered up one tower and thrust it on her. Oil bled over her arms and clothes.

“Come on,” he said, his own arms loaded with plates. His voice sounded rough to her, as though his old country accent were again taking hold. He charged out the back door and into the walled yard, the plates balanced on one hand. Li Yan followed him, the family spilling out behind her.

“Hey, waiters,” Zheng called. “Get back here with my dinner! Hey, Chen Wei,” he said. A laugh caught in his throat.

“Hey.” Zheng steadied himself in the doorway.

The dog emerged from the shadow of the wall, its nose high on the breeze.

It was obvious to everyone that Chen Wei meant to exact a measure of revenge on his wife. Sweat rolled over his brow and his jaw was working furiously at something. Everyone waited for him to make a move, and he stood in the yard for an embarrassingly long time, the plates clacking wetly against his chest while the dog arched its back playfully, just out of reach. Finally, Chen Wei turned to his wife and shouted, “You've cooked for a pack of dogs, so let the head of the family have the first bite.” And with that, he hurled the plates at the dog. The animal tore at the bounty before it, making a terrible, primal noise. The family watched, enraptured, all except Li Yan. She stood to the side, the plates held tight against her breast, as if to challenge someone to wrest them from her.

 

THE HEIR

 

There once had been a time Omar looked forward to fighting the Chinese the way he looked forward to a good meal or sex. But lately he'd been letting his men take care of the dirty work. He could no longer bear the awful smell of the Chinese, their coarse gestures and smacking lips. To make matters worse, everyone was plotting against him—his own people were working with the Chinese to engineer his downfall, he was sure of it. Even Bola, the Mongolian henchman so stupid he hardly knew his own name, had made a play for the old gangster's throne. Not to expect treachery from his men would have been to display a gross misunderstanding of human nature, and Omar wasn't anyone's fool. But he had begun to question his ability to defend himself from their plots. Some of his men would cut their own mothers' throats.