Shanghai Girl (8 page)

A sink with three faucets connected by a pipe is available across the ditch for washing hands and cleaning chamber pots. The faucets are frequently frozen during winter. When I was a child, my hand once stuck to the middle faucet. The frozen faucet tore off a layer of skin like a piece of wrapper stuck on a popsicle. Blood dripping, I ran crying back to our apartment, where Mother dressed my hand with a drop of our precious, rationed cooking oil and a piece of cloth.

At this moment, admiring the soft, pink bathroom tissue near the toilet seat, I carefully tear off sections of the paper along the perforated lines and smell it. Then, holding my breath, I pick a rose petal from the dry flowers, sniff it, wrap it inside the tissue, and tuck it into the centerfold of my handkerchief. My souvenir from the Shanghai Plaza Hotel.

And the bathtub. It stands like a vase with the legs of classical style furniture. Gordon Lou's voice resounds in my ears: Use the facilities, if you wish. My heavens, do I wish! I can take a bath here! Without heat at home, it's always too cold to bathe in winter. I wish I had brought a change of clothes.

I let the warm water rise to fill the tub. The full-length mirror on the door begins to fog up as I peel off my clothes. Naked, in a trance, I stand watching myself in front of the mirror: dimples, almond eyes, double folded lids, long neck, long limbs, cascading black hair. Until now, this frontal view has never been exposed in its entirety, not even to myself. Somebody will love it, I think with a grin, caressing my own skin in relish.

As if pouring cooking oil into a hot wok to avoid splashing, I empty the bottle of "Foaming Bath Gel -- Musk" into the water with caution, marveling at the bubbles generated.

Slipping into the pearly water, I close my eyes and let my body float. It would be even nicer if my prince charming could scrub my back now. As I clean myself with a small towel, I experience a surge of pleasure I did not dare to explore before. For seconds, I am oblivious to my surroundings. Nothing but senses.

Then, I pull myself up, stand in the middle of the tub and let the water from the showerhead gush into my mouth. Water. Water. Water. A whole month's supply of water gushes into my mouth. A gargoyle during a rainstorm. Cathartically cleansed.

I have on the late afternoon "Learn To Speak English" TV program when I hear a knock on the door. With a quick reflex of the last time I saw Stepfather, I jump from the sofa like a spring and let out a cry in Chinese - “Shui ya?”-- Who is it?

Enters a smiling Gordon Lou. “Why, it’s me. I see you’ve been studying English?"

I turn off the TV and stand at attention in front of him, saying, "Don't be angry, Uncle Gordon, but I took a bath in your tub before turning on TV."

At first surprised, Gordon changes into a big smile and says, "Why would I be angry? I'm glad you made use of this place. Besides, I'm flattered that you didn't mind bathing in the same tub I used."

Wringing my hands nervously, I stand watching Gordon Lou taking off his suit jacket and his tie, and hanging them in the closet. Again, the scent of the cologne hits me.

Gordon turns and looks down at the back of my jeans. Twisting my torso to examine myself, I ask nervously, "Did I sit on something dirty?"

"No, no. These jeans look nice on you, perfectly form-fitting. The skills of the Chinese labor force are picking up."

I blush, suddenly wishing that I hadn't come here. Gordon's hands are resting on his hips. The thought that he might take off his pants as Stepfather did terrifies me. I grab my duffel bag and dash to the door, sputtering, "I have to leave now!"

Gordon takes my shoulders and commands, "Calm down. You're overreacting, Sha-fei. Go down to the lobby and wait for me there, all right?"

Letting go of the doorknob, I bend my head and apologize, "I'm sorry, Uncle Gordon. I didn't mean to overreact. It's just ... that ever since Father passed away, I've lived in fear."

Gordon pats me on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I understand. We'll talk over dinner. Let me change into casuals and I'll be right down. Meanwhile, think about where you'd like to go for dinner, okay, Sha-fei?"

"Okay. Thank you, Uncle Gordon."

I sit in the lobby pondering the Chinese idiom Yi Ci Bei She Yao, Shi Nian Pa Cao Sheng -- "Bitten by a snake once, fearful of straw ropes for ten years." I feel guilty that I almost wronged Uncle Gordon because of what Stepfather did to me. How silly of me to question Gordon's character. He's Father's friend and an American gentleman. The desire to tell Gordon about my life grows stronger.

As to the place for dinner tonight, I can’t think of a better place than Shanghai’s historic Old Town. Most people from overseas enjoy dining there. The pagoda-roofed Shanghai Old Restaurant comes to mind. When Gordon joins me in the lobby, I suggest that to him. “Sounds wonderful,” he says. “I’ve been craving for genuine Shanghai cuisine for years now. My late wife missed it so much!”

“Your late?” I stop short, not wanting to be too intrusive. Then, I ask, “Was she also from Shanghai?”

Gordon looks at me in a peculiar way and answers slowly, “Yes, she was a Shanghainese, too, like all of us.”

When we arrive at Shanghai Old Restaurant, Gordon says he still remembers the look of the place. We choose a table in a corner by the window, overlooking an ornamental lake with wriggling goldfish and wiggly lotus leaves. Across from this epicurean pavilion is the famed Yu Garden Bazaar built in the traditional Ming-Qing architectural style. Here, Shanghai natives do their shopping, munching, and gossiping amidst a warren of open market stalls on winding cobblestone streets. To eat here, I will get a sense of anonymity.

Gordon studies the menu and orders the best: Eight-Treasure Pork, Sizzling Shrimp, Stinking Tofu, and Chicken and Duck Blood Soup. The last dish is a local favorite. Now a restaurant classic, it used to be prepared on the street by cutting the bird's neck in front of the customer, letting out the blood into a bowl of salt water to dilute, and pouring the congealed blood chunks into the broth. Freshly chopped scallion is then sprinkled onto the soup. Color, fragrance, and taste: the three essential ingredients for fine Chinese cuisine.

Gordon pours green tea for me, a real gentleman to a lady. I sip, wet my mouth, ready to recall Father.

Across our square, butcher-block table, I hand the two photos of Father one at a time. Gordon takes off his glasses and examines them with squinting eyes.

"This one was taken in front of the hospital two months before his death," I explain. "It is the last photo I have of him."

"I can't believe what time did to him," Gordon murmurs, shaking his head.

"He was in prison for five years."

"Was he? Why?"

"Because he had studied at Columbia. They said he was a spy for the U.S. imperialists," I say in a subdued voice.

Gordon's hand touches the photo with the Mao statue in the background and sighs. "So all the horror stories we read about in the West actually happened to Tao." He cups my hand in his and squeezes it. "I'm so sorry, Sha-fei."

First comes the Eight-Treasure Pork. With knotted brows, Gordon stares at the glossy pork set on a bed of gleaming sweet rice and preserved fruits. "Somehow it's not as appetizing now when I think of Tao," he says.

"I don't think Father had even thought about a dish like this before he died. At that time, pork was rationed, four ounces per person per month."

"You mean in prison?"

"No, at home. I believe Father never had meat in prison at all."

Gordon puts down his chopsticks. "Tell me what happened to him in prison, Sha-fei."

I had rehearsed what I’d say to Gordon before I came here, but now I don't know how to begin. So many scenes from the past flash back at once. My eyes become moist.

"I was with Father the day he was arrested. Mother was at the plant working. Three men came. They shoved a towel into Father’s mouth, tied him up, and denounced him as a spy for the U.S.. As he was taken away in an army jeep, I saw his protesting eyes from the jeep window. He couldn't talk."

I pause, wiping off a single tear pushing out a corner of my eye. Again, Gordon cups my free hand.

"I remember once Mother took me along to deliver a package to Father -- regulations forbade prisoners to have any contact with the outside world. Before sending it through a window to its unknown destination, two guards inspected our package while we waited. It contained a cake of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a handful of roasted sunflower seeds, all saved from our own ration. There were also five razor blades for shaving. When a guard shook the cloth that wrapped the package, a tiny picture of Mother and me fell out. Furious, the guard tore it into shreds and warned, 'If you try to fool us again, we'll deliver nothing else but the razor blades so he can cut his wrists with them.' I was so scared I didn't even dare to cry. On our way home, Mother said to me that she wished she had a different husband and I had a different father."

I'm on the verge of sobbing. My fingertips touch the toilet tissue from Gordon's hotel in my pocket. Instead, I use my napkin to wipe my eyes.

"Brutal, brutal," repeats Gordon, his face looking grim.

For a split second he reminds me of Father, even though they bear little resemblance. "I wish Father were here with us now."

"So do I. Do you know how he was treated in prison?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Not all the details. But I know they beat him with bamboo poles and leather belts to make him admit that he was a spy. To save his life, he agreed. And he was ashamed about it, I think. He hated talking about his experience in prison. He was melancholy until his death."

"What a shame. I remember a smart and jolly fellow in a beige linen suit and oxfords."

My mouth opens, unable to see Father in such a bourgeois outfit. “Do you have a picture of him taken in America?” I ask.

“Yes,” Gordon smiles. “I came prepared. Here, we are together by the Alma Mater statue of Columbia.”

He shows me a salmon-colored photo from a bygone age. It surprises me that neither of them was wearing glasses. Father was in a checkered jacket with a matching cap and a white shirt and holding several books. Gordon, looking slightly younger than Father, even then, was in a knitted vest with his tie tucked under its V-neck, his hair pomaded and slicked back without a parting. The two men stood solemnly in front of the seated Goddess of Justice statue. “That’s Columbia’s Alma Mater designed by the same gentleman who did the John Harvard statue in Harvard Square,” explains Gordon. Her head adorned by a wreath, the Alma Mater had an open book on her lap, her raised right arm held a scepter and left arm reaching skyward with an open palm, her piercing eyes staring into the vault of heaven. I am in awe at this image.

“Come to think of it, these two pictures are almost identical except for Mao and the Goddess of Justice,” Gordon says abruptly.

I am surprised at the analogy. “Yes, but they’re so different, Uncle Gordon! This one was in China, and the other one in America!” The way I say the word “America” sounds the same as when Aunt Cheng called out “America!” when she saw the letter Gordon had sent -- romantic and full of hope.

“America, the land of justice, right?” Gordon asks sarcastically while looking at me. “Not for people like Tao and me,” Gordon shakes his head and says. “But then again, nor is China.”

This is the first time I ever heard of anyone so critical of America, except my textbooks that scolded the U.S. imperialists.

“What do you mean it’s not good for Father and you? Father returned to China not because he disliked America, but because he wanted to help build a New China.”

Gordon stares blankly at me and says, “’Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.’ He loved China too much. He was too naïve. He could have stayed in America like some of us did, and he certainly had reasons to stay, but he chose his country over his personal concerns.” Gordon pauses for a second and continues intently, “On the other hand, there’s no telling how his life might have turned out had he not returned to China, though, either. He could have become a businessman like myself. Ha, how ironic.” Gordon chuckles as if in self-laugh. Meticulously, he shells a whole shrimp with chopsticks and sets its head aside. As though talking to the shrimp, he continues, "Of course we were naïve, too, those of us who did stay. As it turned out, I couldn't pass the security clearance to work for a Defense Department contractor, and I couldn't change my Chinese features and shed my accent. It’s all a matter of economics, I suppose, Sha-fei. The Asian-American immigrants don’t have economic power, so they have no political power to speak of. I ended up giving up my training and started my own business."

"What type of business, Uncle Gordon?"

"Well, I own a factory in New York which manufactures high end formal wear. As a matter of fact, I'm negotiating to buy a supplier’s company here in Shanghai."

"That will be a solely-owned foreign entity, then," I volunteer.

"It sure will be. It will become the chief source for clothing and I will only need to keep a small office in New York."

"Good cost-saving strategy, Uncle Gordon."

"Pretty good, Sha-fei. I certainly wasn't expecting you to be this knowledgeable and articulate. You're definitely Tao's offspring. What was your major in college?"