Shanghai Girl (12 page)

"Sha-fei Hong!" someone calls me from behind what must be a bulletproof window. It’s my turn.

“
Here!" I raise my hand and jump up from the bench. I am told that the Cultural Attaché does not see Chinese students. However, an intern in the Consulate will answer my questions.

A man in his late twenties comes to the hallway and shakes my hand vigorously. "Miss Hong?" he asks, smiling broadly. "I'm Ed Cook. Come on in."

Ed Cook stands about six feet and has curly sandy hair. After we enter his office, he surprises me by walking towards his desk and perching a hip on one of its corners. He folds his arms and studies me from head to toe.

"I'm here to ask some questions," I begin boldly.

He waves his hand to interrupt. "I know, I know, Sha-fei. You’ll have a chance for your questions. Do sit down. Let me ask you something first. Where did you learn your English?"

"At Pujiang University. And I practice very hard at home."

Ed Cook grins, revealing his yellowish teeth. "You speak very good English," he compliments. "Since I’m a foreign language student myself, I know it's not easy."

I am about to say something modest in reply. But, remembering Gordon’s advice, I say instead, "Thank you, Mr. Cook. Which foreign language do you speak?"

"Well, a little Chinese, and a little Japanese. I have a Chinese name, too. It’s Kwok Ai-teh, as in Cook, the Virtue-loving."

"Are you really a virtuous man?" I ask, thinking about the meaning of his Chinese name.

Ed Cook says with a laugh, "You Chinese girls always ask the most interesting questions. A name's just a label. Nobody takes it literally." For the first time, I look at his eyes directly. They are green like a cat's. His appearance fascinates me.

He moves away from the desk and sits down on his chair. From the breast pocket of his blue-and-white pin striped shirt with an all white collar, he takes out a pack of Chinese "Peony" cigarettes. Tapping the bottom of the box, he fishes a cigarette out with his mouth and lights it. What a dashing American, like the movie star John Wayne that Father talked about when I was young. At that thought, I sense my cheeks warming up.

"Who gave you your Chinese name, Mr. Cook?" I ask.

"Call me Ed," he says, puffing out a circular cloud of smoke. "Well, it was given to me by a young and intelligent Chinese woman like you. She tutored me in Chinese while I was in college."

"You had a private language tutor?"

"More than one. God, Tai Duo Le - too many. I've had a whole bunch of them -- Taiwanese, Hong Kong Cantonese, Japanese, even a Singapore 'niece'," he boasts, indulging himself. "Come to think of it, I've never had a mainland Chinese tutor."

"I can be your mainland Chinese tutor. But you'd have to pay me in U.S. dollars."

Ed breaks out laughing. "No wonder they say Shanghai people are born businessmen! I'd love to have you tutor me if your government allows interaction between an American man and an attractive Chinese young woman. But, in ten days, Wo Yao Qu Dong Jing, I'm going to Tokyo and I'm out of here!" he concludes joyfully. The few Chinese words he said had the kind of accent only a Westerner learning Chinese would have.

Ed lifts his legs onto his desk and crosses his feet. I cannot be more surprised. We Chinese consider it very rude to allow the soles of one's shoes to face a visitor. Yet I would be equally ill mannered if I commented about it. Ed's posture allows me to see the long, yellow hairs on his shins, as well as the ones sticking out of his maroon argyle socks. I shift my eyes and think: How hairy he is ... and he doesn't even wear long johns in this cold weather! Then, of course, they are always in a heated environment like here in the U.S. Consulate. American gentlemen are so interesting, so different.

"Now, Miss Hong, how can I help you?"

"I'm here to ask some questions about going to graduate school in America," I answer bravely, giving him the line I have rehearsed.

Exhaling another mouthful of smoke, Ed says, "That's simple. It's all explained here." He stands up and stretches his upper body before handing me a pamphlet from a thick stack. "Yours to keep. It's bilingual and answers all your questions."

The cover says in English and Chinese: A Guide To Studying in America. Before I can look through the table of contents, Ed hands me another pamphlet. He reads the title aloud in Chinese: "Zhei Shi Mei Guo" - This Is America. Looking at back covers, I realize that the pamphlets are published by the United States Information Agency (USIA). "Not for resale" are printed on both. Ed extends his hairy white arms toward me, palms up, and asks, "Anything else, Sha-fei?"

Bracing myself, I reply, "Yes. I have specific questions about getting a scholarship."

Ed emits a low whistle and says with a laugh, "Every single Chinese I've spoken to wants to know about scholarships. What's your major?"

"Political Science."

Ed shakes his head. "Unless you are some kind of a science whiz, few schools will give you a scholarship."

"Really?!"

"Trust me." Ed's words come out from between his teeth with the half-consumed cigarette hanging on a corner of his mouth.

None of what he said is news to me. I knew all along how hard it would be for students of liberal arts to get scholarships compared to science majors. Lu Long got his scholarship because of his field, although his English was nowhere close to my level. But I am not someone who gives up easily. "Do you mean there is absolutely no hope of getting a scholarship?"

"Oh, I didn't say that. Sometimes you get lucky. If I were the director of admissions, I couldn't wait to offer you a scholarship. Unfortunately, I'm not."

A spell of silence ensues. My perspiring hand is leaving a damp imprint on the cover of A Guide To Studying In America. With Lu Long in mind, I ask, "What if I changed my major to Applied Mathematics? Would I get a scholarship then?"

"Your odds are definitely better, if you can handle math. You may also be required to take undergraduate MATH 101."

“
But I’m not good with figures,” I shake my head.

“
I think you have a great figure,” Ed laughs.

“
What do you mean?”

Ed dismisses my question, saying, “Never mind. It’s a joke. Anyway, if you put your mind to it, you'll survive just fine in America even without a scholarship. You can tutor Chinese to guys like me. You can serve Chinese or Japanese food in restaurants to guys like me. Strictly speaking, you're not supposed to work as a foreign student. But many people do it and the INS can't catch them all. By the way, this is off the record."

"The INS?" I ask.

"Yeah. The Immigration and Naturalization Service. They deal with people like you if your pretty face ever shows up in the U.S.," says Ed, his face lights up. “Why do you want to go to the U.S. anyway?"

I've rehearsed the answer to this question as well. I announce, "I want to study in the Western advanced countries so that I can apply the skills and knowledge I learn abroad to help modernize our socialist motherland upon my return."

Ed's head is shaking like a pendulum. "Liar, liar, you tricky little liar. Don't give me this official line. Tell me the real reason you want to leave China."

It could be his youthfulness that disarms me. It could be his informal approach. Maybe it’s his knowledge of China. It could simply be because he's American. Whatever the reason, I find myself opening up to Ed. But not without conditions. "I'll tell you if you promise to help me go to America."

Ed laughs, walking towards me. "I can't believe this, Sha-fei. You're too hot for me to handle. Listen, you tell me first, and I'll see what I can do. One thing at a time, okay."

"Okay," I agree, swallowing. "Why do I want to leave? I want to live to the fullest what life can offer to an educated young person of our times. I think opportunities in China are limited while America is known to be the land of opportunities. Besides, I have personal reasons which I won't tell you."

"And I won't ask," answers Ed. "How determined are you to survive in America? You know you'll have to endure a lot of hardships when you leave home."

I look directly at Ed and vow, "No matter how hard it will be, I'll make it."

He takes a final draw on his cigarette and butts it in an ashtray with an American insignia. "Good. If you're psychologically prepared, we can talk about some practical issues. Which schools are you thinking of applying to?"

I haven't thought about that yet. "I don't care as long as it's in New York. I know somebody who lives there. I have another friend who is doing his M.S. at the University of Flatbush in Brooklyn."

"Stick to Manhattan. There's nothing good in Brooklyn. You now know someone else from New York. I'm a Manhattanite, born and raised," Ed says with a wink. "New York is a heck of a town, and a city girl like you will have a ball there."

"So which school in Manhattan do you recommend?"

"That depends on what you want to study. If you want to stick to political science, I'd say check out Gotham University. In fact, Gotham's pretty good at almost everything. For me to spend seven years there, it has to be good."

"I'll apply to Gotham University, then."

"Good. Although I have to warn you that it's difficult to find a job with a political science degree. In New York, they don't even let foreign women with a degree in political science drive a cab."

"Really?"

"Got’ ya," Ed chuckles happily. "I was just kidding. Most cab drivers in New York don’t speak English too well. Your English is already too good to be a cab driver. But seriously, a political science degree is not a practical degree like a J.D."

"What's a J.D.?"

"Latin for Juris Doctor. It's what I have, a law degree."

"Oh, you're a lawyer?" I exclaim. "My father almost studied law in America."

"Is that right?" Ed asks with his eyebrows raised. "Did he end up not going to the U.S.?"

"Yes, he did. But he changed his major from law to engineering, thinking the latter would be more useful to China."

"And he returned to China afterwards?"

"Yes, in the early 1950's, long before I was born."

"A mistake on his part!" Ed sighs.

"You're right." Then, gathering up my courage, I ask, "So you've agreed to help me get to New York, Ed?"

Ed comes over and sharply tweaks me in my waist. "Did I say that? You know what? A nice Chinese girl is not supposed to be this persistent."

I immediately ease away from him and peer at the open door to see if anyone was watching, but I see no one. I turn to Ed and say, "You scared me."

With a hearty laugh, Ed describes me with a Chinese idiom: "You're a true Jing Gong Zhi Niao - a birdie startled by the mere twang of a bow-string. I love it!"

"That is not funny," I chide.

Ed suddenly becomes melancholy. "It's sad that wonderful young women like you are brought up to be so stiff. Ever heard of the word ‘affection’?" he asks.

I stare at him, motionless.

"I wish someone could show you," Ed mutters, lighting another Peony cigarette.

"Why do you smoke Chinese brand cigarettes instead of the '555' like all the rest of the foreigners in Shanghai do," I ask, changing the subject.

"How many so-called 'foreigners' do you know?"

"You're the only one I ever had a conversation with," I admit. "I don't know any foreigners in Shanghai. I just think they all smoke Triple Five because it's the best."

Ed laughs. "As a matter of fact, unlike here in China, where there’s only one flavor of ice cream - vanilla, people in the West have many brands of cigarettes to choose from. The Triple Five happens to be one that's popular in Hong Kong, I guess, because it's British. I don't care for it myself. When it comes to cigarettes, I like to try out local products, at least once. They're cheap and sometimes have the taste one can truly savor." Inhaling a deep draw, Ed gives me a consuming stare and declares, "Do in Asia as the Asians do. By the same token, whenever I'm in Asia, I first check out the lay of the land. You got it?" He laughs at his own joke, which I didn't get. I'm not sure why he stressed the word "lay."

"Then I try out local products, and finally I try to learn the language. It's like one, two, three. It's fun." He coughs as smoke comes out of his mouth. I smile for no reason. This must be the way an American lawyer talks, I think. Everything is one, two, three. Orderly, organized, logical.

"In China, political science and the law have close connections. Is that the case in the U.S.?" I ask.

Frowning, Ed answers slowly, "I suppose there's some overlap. Why?"

"Do you think it would make sense for me to apply to law school in America?'

Ed nods his head up and down, considering. "At this point," he begins slowly, "I would recommend against it. The most obvious reason is that you need to take an entrance examination called the LSAT - the Law School Admissions Test, which is not offered in China. No law school will consider your application until your LSAT score is submitted. So you have a dilemma there." Ed pauses to take a hard draw on the cigarette. "However, if you're truly interested in law, I won't rule out the possibility that you could work in the legal field without having to go to law school."