Shanghai Girl (4 page)

Teacher Gao puts on a mediating smile. "Come on, Comrade Cheng. We’re all happy for Sha-fei. Let Sha-fei tell us the details of the news from America." She motions to Aunt Cheng, and then grins at me.

"You both seem to know more than I do. All I know is that Father’s long-lost friend might be visiting Shanghai. I don’t even know what to do yet."

Aunt Cheng’s face lights up, revealing her tea-stained teeth with years of lack of toothpaste. "Ai-ya!" she shrieks with delight. "Our Sha-fei will go to America and become Mrs. Americana. Once you’re there, you mustn’t forget all of us here, Sha-fei girl!"

I reply with a forced smile. "Aunt Cheng, what you’ve said is all in your imagination. I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen. And I don’t know where this notion about a rich American husband comes from."

With the chopsticks she used for cooking hanging out of her mouth like two long cigarettes, Aunt Cheng retorts, "Come, come, Sha-fei. Nowadays, who doesn’t want to marry an American? Look at my husband’s cousin twice removed. To go abroad, the girl even married a Chinese-American in his late sixties with grown children older than herself. But her letter home says that
Meiguo
is paradise, just as the written characters themselves promise – ‘Beautiful Country.’ Everyone drives a car. Nobody uses bicycles. Their garages are larger than our apartments!"

"I’m not surprised," says Teacher Gao. "Some of my former students write to me from America saying the same thing. Over there, warm water flows from the tap. American women don’t have needles pinching their fingers while doing dishes and laundry in bone-chilling water, as we do here." She emphasizes her point by wiggling her freezing, carrot-like fingers in front of me.

I am glad the conversation seems to have shifted its focus from the aerogramme from America to the United States in general. The U.S. is one of my favorite topics, too. I associate America not only with material comfort, but also with individual freedom. I’ve heard that in the United States, teenagers are allowed to date, not to mention university students like me. American gentlemen look like the actor Gregory Peck in the black-and-white film,
The Million Pound Note,
the only American film I’ve ever had the privilege to see. American men always open doors for women and let them have the first choice of everything. It’s called "Ladies first." I would definitely have a boyfriend who loves me if I lived in America.

The bulb over the Wu family stove is suddenly lit, indicating that Mrs. Wu will be in the kitchen momentarily. Teacher Gao and Aunt Cheng look at each other and stop talking. I pick up my pail and rush back to my apartment.

Mid-afternoon, the same day, I am alerted by repeated knocks on my apartment door, followed by a throaty voice. "Sha-fei Hong, Sha-fei Hong, are you in?"

Terrified that Stepfather may be here again, I brace myself, tiptoe to the door, and look out through the keyhole. Two familiar but unwelcome people stand outside -- Mrs. Wu and Master Worker Wu. I open the door. Master Worker Wu’s barrel-like body rolls in, trailed by Mrs. Wu’s hopping gait, her rotund figure bouncing like a wound-up toy.

"Good news, Sha-fei." she squeals as she holds out both hands to shake my ill-prepared right hand. "It’s wonderful news for our community," she giggles, her eyes becoming two glistening slits of joy.

Master Worker Wu silences her with a hard look and says, "According to Marxist materialist dialectics, everything has two sides to it. It can be good and it can be bad. That’s why we’re seeking your cooperation to achieve the best result."

"My cooperation?"

"We’ll sit down and talk," he says, resting himself on the same spot where Stepfather was a few days ago and lights a cigarette. I hand him a soy sauce dish for an ashtray. Mrs. Wu stands beside him like a maid waiting to be given an order. I sit on the chair by the bed and stare at Master Worker Wu’s crooked front teeth, waiting for him to drop the bomb, my heart racing. Does the Neighborhood Revolutionary Committee want me to “cooperate” when it comes to what happened between Stepfather and me? But "good news" – does that mean the authorities are happy about Gordon Lou’s visit? What sort of cooperation does Master Worker Wu want from me? My thoughts swing like a pendulum as he sucks on his cigarette, puffing circles of smoke into the room.

"So we’ve all heard the news, Sha-fei," he begins. "As you must know from going to the university, the Party’s policy currently is to encourage cultural and business exchanges with the Americans. American friends and business partners are welcome."

I am more than relieved. This is not about Stepfather and me. "What am I supposed to do, then, Uncle Wu?"

"You may go and meet with the Chinese-American on your father’s behalf. Just bear in mind that you should report anything suspicious about our overseas compatriots to the grassroots authorities."

In other words, to him. After promising with a straight face that I’ll do as he says, I sit passively through his droning lecture. As Master Worker Wu rises to leave, Mrs. Wu slaps me on the shoulder and says, "Do let me know what your American friend looks like after you see him, Sha-fei."

What does Gordon Lou look like? I wonder myself. When Father mentioned Marlene Koo to me, I had asked if he had a picture of her. "No. The Red Guards burned all my photos in our house on Joffre and confiscated many old belongings.” I have no reference point as to what a Chinese from America would look like.

I lounge in bed, staring at the wall, trying to picture Gordon Lou. He must be around Father’s age, mid-fifties. Maybe he wears glasses, just like Father did. But his glasses would come with a chic, "MADE IN USA" frame, unlike Father’s old, broken pair he had worn throughout the decade of the Cultural Revolution. But what would a pair of American eyeglasses look like? Suddenly I remember the American who visited China when I was a teenager -- Henry Kissinger. He wore thick-rimmed glasses that made him look like a curly-haired panda. Is it possible that Gordon Lou looks like Henry Kissinger, only with a Chinese face?

I chuckle at the absurdity of my thoughts. No matter what Father’s old schoolmate looks like, something in my life is going to change. I hope for the better.

2 Gordon Lou: Gentleman Avenger

“
Time’s running out, Mr. Lou,” the senior associate at Sachs & Klein warned me on the phone yesterday. Corporate Department partner Tabor Wilcox is himself involved in my deal with the people in China. How else could these shysters justify $200 per hour in fees? “It’s all in the fine print, Mr. Lou,” the guy said. Right. I do understand that the twice-redlined Purchase Agreement with Shanghai has to be finalized now, or my trip there will be postponed. As I sit studying the draft, I notice the red light blinking on the phone. Lotus again. One of these days, I'm going to fire that pest. "What now?" I ask on the speakerphone.

A voice as low as a mosquito buzz comes through, hardly her usual coquettish tone. "Eh-ks-cuse me, Sir, two gentlemen are here to see you. Shuu … should I direct them to your office?"

She never calls me "Sir." I pick up the receiver. "Where are they from?"

Lotus hesitates. I can see her watery, lychee eyes roll as she searches for the right words. "Downtown," she murmurs.

"You mean the fellow from Sachs & Klein’s office on Wall Street?"

"No, but I think you better see them," she whispers.

IRS? FBI? City Hall? Who the hell are they? For the first time in a long while, indeed since I considered myself having "made it in America," I feel I have no choice. "Send'em in, then."

I thrust the document into the brown folder by my foot and push the tiger-head bookends together to straighten the books on the teapoy.
Larger Than Life
, a biography of Armand Hammer, sits beside
Iacocca: An Autobiography
, a current bestseller of the man who revived Chrysler. And there is my favorite, the blue cloth-covered, string-bound edition of
The Analects of Confucius
.

The Chippendale mahogany desk shows my reflection: elbows on the edge of the desk, chin resting on my locked fingers. To my far left is a bronze bust of my guiding light Confucius, the phone, a picture of my daughter, Irene, taken shortly before she dropped out of Gotham U. in her junior year, and a paperweight -- a gold-plated statuette of a dragon encased in crystal, a custom-made gift from my deceased wife, Marlene.

Irene was born in New York in 1964, the Chinese Year of the Dragon. We gave her the middle name
Long
, for dragon. It hurts me to think that she never uses it. She's American, she has told me more than once, not Chinese. She's no dragon lady, but a flower girl, as in Flower Children. The way she is now, I’d call her a junkie. Her only Father's Day present since her coming of age is the sign "MAKE LOVE, NOT PROFITS". It's buried somewhere in my desk drawer. I cherish the thought that at least she occasionally thinks of me, but I hate the message. Oh, well …

The marble and brass table lamp with three candelabra sits to the left of me. The Columbia University seal is embossed on the gray parchment shade facing the visitor. Facing me, however, is the seal of St. John’s University, the most prestigious school in pre-Communist Shanghai. I had Lotus find a Chinatown craftsman to mount the famous of my Alma Mater: “Light & Truth.” It reminds me my Chinese roots and my pride of being a Johannean.

To my right is a personalized Tiffany pen and pencil set, a corporate gift. In the far right corner is my eyesore: a blue cloisonné container Lotus brought back last year from her trip to her ancestral village in Guangdong. "You know I have no use for it," I told her. But she insisted, "Sorry it looks tacky, but at least it’ll remind you of me, Boss," as if it isn’t bad enough putting up with her all day long. She stopped in Hong Kong, where she brought me a jar of bull’s penis extract, purportedly miraculous in boosting my
yang
. I told her I wasn't into that kind of stuff. I've got enough
yang
to go around. She, of all people, should know that. Yet I know that Lotus is a street-smart businesswoman. She was just trying to get on my good side. Nothing more.

No visitor will fail to see the display case lining the wall behind me. The tri-color Tang horse and the pairs of Qian Long vases and Qing plates are authentic relics. The Polish cleaning woman who comes in is told to keep her hands off the shelf. The responsibility belongs solely to Lotus.

My office is foolproof for the NYPD, the IRS or the FBI, devoid of anything a Chinese might call "a spider's thread or a horse's trail". I don’t hire corporate tax lawyers and bean counters for nothing.

As though posing for the ultimate Gordon Lou, CEO, photo in the annual report of the company I have yet to take public, I sit upright, looking straight ahead. I feel reduced to being like the two red velvet armchairs facing me across the desk, waiting for the unexpected.

Despite my mild shock that they are Chinese, I remain seated as Lotus escorts my visitors in. From downtown indeed they are -- deep in the heart of Chinatown. The younger man with a crew cut is in a black polyester suit. A pack of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses crowd his front pocket. "Boss Lou, sorry to disturb," he mutters in dialect-accented Mandarin, poking his head out like a turkey reaching for the feeding trough. The other fellow, heavy set and wearing a counterfeit Polo shirt barely covering his protruding stomach, turns to close the door, shuts Lotus out, and plants himself by the door, hands crossed in front of him. I signal them to take a seat.

Heavy Set doesn't move. Turkey Neck comes forth and sits down. Scuffing on the red carpet, he begins with a typical Chinese phrase of apology. "Bother you, bother you, Boss Lou. The Chairman sends me here. Humble me am named Dong Kee Siew. Brothers call me Brainy Dong because I went to City College."

"The Chairman?"

"Yes, yes, Chairman Siew of the Eastern U.S. Siew Clan Benevolent Association. Our headquarters is at the corner of Canal and Chestnut, that red brick walkup, you know?"

Despite my three decades in New York, I've never bothered to explore the nooks and crannies of Chinatown. But I know enough, staring down at Dong Kee, to recognize that I can't afford to offend Chairman Siew.

Leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs, I ask, "Mr. Siew sends you?"

"Yes, yes," he replies, standing up. He fumbles with his pants pockets. "The Chairman knows your stature in the midtown business community. You're a very successful Chinese, pride of us all. Even downtown we know you. Few Chinese have reached your level ...”

I wish he would cut the crap and get to the point. "And?" I interrupt, folding my arms.

"And ... and …," Dong Kee peers at Heavy Set and continues, "the Chairman wants to ask a favor from Boss Lou. Here." He produces a red package, a gold- rimmed envelope, and an airline ticket. The man's giving me cash and sending me on a trip. I stand up. "Okay. Time out. I'm not going to...”

"But please, please, Boss Lou. Let me finish. The red package is nothing. It just covers your cost. We have a favor to ask. Why don't you take a look at the invitation first? It's from the former State Republican Senator Leonardo DellaFave. He's holding a political fundraiser – he wants to run for Governor next year. The Chairman wants you to attend the event."