Journey Across the Four Seas (35 page)

*

My children’s future was never far from my mind. At the mahjong table, I talked to my friends about my quandary. What was I to do with a boy as puzzling as Patrick? Everyone was sympathetic, but each family had its own unanswered prayer. My friends couldn’t help me anymore than I could help them. I read the newspapers for inspiration, but found only disturbing news throughout the region. The Americans were stepping up the war in
Vietnam
. In
China
, a new campaign called the Cultural Revolution was brewing. Factions were killing each other, and dead bodies were spotted floating down the
Pearl River
. In
Hong Kong
, the left-wing unions were spoiling for a piece of the action.

I prayed to Mother Mary for guidance, read the sky for omens, and analyzed my dreams for clues. I felt as if I were stranded at a depot. Buses came and went, but none of them was the vehicle that would take me to my destination. Two years after my return to
Hong Kong
, I was still waiting.

One Sunday my parish church held a special mass to celebrate the life of Saint Teresa, for whom the church was named. My baptismal name being Teresa, I went to pray to my patron saint. I brought along Chris, who’d grown from a crabby baby into an obedient ten-year-old. While filing out of the church, somebody tapped me on the shoulder. It was a former classmate from
West
China
University
, a man by the last name of Chung.

"I’m about to emigrate to
America
," he said to me once we were outside.

His statement surprised me. Chung was a diffident, mild-mannered man, hardly the type to seek riches or adventure. "How did you manage that?" I said. "I heard it’s very hard to get approval."

"It’s much easier these days since Kennedy increased the number of immigrant quotas. Why don’t you come up to my home for a cup of tea? I live just around the corner." He pointed to one of the apartment buildings across the street.

Chris and I went with him. The flat was an all too familiar scene of packing. Strewn around were cardboard boxes, packing tapes, and old newspapers to be used for wrapping fragile items. Despite the mess, I could see that it was an expensive apartment in an expensive neighborhood. Envy nipped my heart. Chung had been a shy university student. After working so many years in a bank, he no longer blushed every time a girl talked to him. But he was still a very ordinary man married to an ordinary housewife. From what I heard, his position at the bank was equally ordinary. But he’d plodded on, placing one foot in front of the other, to reach this level of affluence. I felt humble in the presence of this common man.

While his wife served us tea and cakes, we chatted about
U.S.
immigration policies. There were quotas for each country, Chung told me, and the allocation for
Hong Kong
was higher than ever before. Chung’s own application had been a breeze. All he needed to show was that he had an American sponsor—a sister in his case—good health, and no criminal record.

Before we parted, I wished him luck in his gold-digging expedition in
America
. He cast his eyes down at his shoes and shifted his weight from one leg to another. "It’s too late for me to be gold digging," he said. "I’m emigrating for the children. My wife and I are very comfortable in
Hong Kong
, but the children are getting to college age. You know how hard it is to get them into university here. We can’t afford to send them overseas either, so the only way is to all go together."

"I know exactly what you mean," I said with feeling. "My children’s future keeps me up at night too."

Inside the elevator, the phrase "all go together" whined in my ears like a persistent mosquito. While sitting on the bus, I reviewed the events of the day. It had started with my going to the special mass to ask Saint Teresa to show me the way, and ended with the chance meeting with Chung and his parting words, "The only way is to all go together." Was that Saint Teresa speaking through Chung’s mouth?

My eyes fell on Chris’s hand resting quietly on her knee. Wrapped in my own thoughts, I’d forgotten about her. She’d been such a good girl, contented to eat the cake that was offered her and sitting patiently through the grown-up conversation. Being a precocious child, she must have understood more than she let on. I took her hand and leaned down toward her.

"How would you like to live in
America
?" I said.

"Can I have a pet?" Her round, dark eyes sparkled up at me.

"Of course you can have a pet. In
America
, everyone has a pet."

Chris raised her eyebrows, half smiling and half testing, and said, "Let’s go then."

The moment I got home, I went looking for my husband. He was sitting in the bedroom, every muscle relaxed and an after-tennis glow on his face. His thinning hair was wet and smelling of shampoo. Nothing soothed him more than an afternoon of tennis with Patrick. I closed the door and poured out everything that Chung had told me.

"Chung is right," I said. "To pay for expenses in U.S. dollars we have to earn in U.S. dollars. That’s how we can educate all our children."

"It’s not that simple," Hok-Ching muttered.

Ignoring his remark, I went on. "Patrick is my biggest headache. Unless a miracle happens, he can’t get into
Hong Kong
University
. He can while away his time in a third- or fourth-rate college, but his diploma won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on."

Hok-Ching shrugged, as if he didn’t care. "I can’t understand you," I said. "You’re up all night worrying about something as small as a sesame seed, but when it comes to the future of your children, you think it’s trivia."

"Why should I worry about Patrick? He creams everyone at tennis. A person who can do that can’t be stupid."

"Is he going to earn a living by playing tennis?" I retorted.

"If he gets good enough, he can make millions." Hok-Ching broke into a grin.

"Be serious. You know Patrick has no future unless he goes overseas. In our current situation, this is impossible. We have to face reality. We’ve both reached a dead end in our incomes. Brother Kin can help us with my household expenses, but I can’t ask him to pay for our children’s education too."

Hok-Ching winced at the poke into his sore spot. Before, he would be barking at me, but nowadays I had him by the tail. He was the one who’d put us in this predicament, and he knew it.

"What kind of job would I find?" Hok-Ching said. "I’m not a young man anymore. Most people go to
America
in their twenties. By the time our application goes through, I’ll be fifty, and you’ll be forty-nine."

It was my turn to wince. I’d been dyeing my hair for a few years now, but nobody other than my hairdresser needed to know. My skin was still fair and unblemished, which could fool people into thinking I was at least ten years younger.

"There’s plenty of money to be made in the
Gold
Mountain
," I answered boldly. "People say that American college students can earn their tuition by cutting their classmates’ hair. Labor is expensive over there. Even street cleaners are paid more than I. That’s how everyone in
America
gets to own a house and car."

"Not everyone makes it. Some have returned because life in
America
is too hard."

"That’s only a minority of the minority. Listen to me. I have a ten-year plan. During this period, the two of us will unite our hearts and combine our strengths to achieve the same goal. We’ll bury ourselves in work. We’ll spend on ourselves only what is needed to keep us alive. We’ll think of nothing but putting our children through college and graduate school. Ten years is my estimate. The moment their education is completed, our mission will be accomplished, and we can come back to retire. Frankly speaking, I don’t look forward to doing housework. But for the sake of the children’s future, I’m willing to sacrifice everything."

He heaved a sigh of surrender. My husband would never do me any favors, especially if they involved risk-taking. For his children, however, he always dug deep into his well of courage. This husband of mine is different from every other husband. The most mundane activities, such as sleeping and getting up to go to work, were as strenuous as going to battle against an army. He marched out of his fortress every day only because the children’s livelihood depended on it.

"Which brother will you ask to be our sponsor?" I said. Baba’s patriotic fervor notwithstanding, he’d sent most of his children to
America
. There were altogether five
U.S.
citizens in the family, but Hok-Ching was on speaking terms with only the two brothers born of the same mother as he.

"I guess we can ask Hok-Jit," he said.

His suggestion made sense. Hok-Jit and Wai-Jing had been my friends. We’d played together in
Chungking
, and recently they’d been taking Agnes into their home during holidays. For once, my husband and I saw eye to eye.

My wait had come to an end. The bus I wanted had arrived. It was traveling at full speed, but it must also stop at all the stations en route. I told myself to be patient; I would get to my destination in the fullness of time. Hok-Ching wrote to his brother in
California
to express his wish to emigrate to
America
. Hok-Jit agreed to sponsor us. He submitted a petition on our behalf. On our end, we filled out a volume of paperwork. Two months later, the embassy sent us instructions on where to go for physical checkups.

So far the bus ride had been as smooth as Chung had described. The physicals were the last roadblock. Barring any surprises, our visas should be issued shortly after. My bout with TB was a long time ago, and I’d shown no symptoms for more than two decades. Surely the Americans couldn’t be strict beyond reason.

The six of us trooped into the doctor’s office. We had our vitals checked, our blood drawn, and our chests X-rayed. Then we were told to go home and wait.

We waited and waited. I went to the embassy several times, only to have a different staff member give me the same stone-faced reply, "Your application is being processed. Go home and wait for your turn." Days merged into weeks and weeks into months. The envelope bearing the logo of the American eagle failed to show up. I began to imagine the worst. Did the doctor find something in my lungs? Did one of us have a terrible disease we didn’t know of? Had someone at the embassy mislaid our papers?

I tried to go about my daily life as usual. The last thing I wanted was for the principal to replace me before I had someplace to go. None of my colleagues could be trusted except one. Her name was also Teresa; she was also Catholic, and also a graduate of
Hong Kong
University
. Although she was young enough to be my daughter, our common traits sparked a spontaneous friendship between us. She alone knew the reason for my time off on the day of the physical.

One afternoon when only the two of us were in the teachers’ workroom, I updated her on my immigration saga. My young friend had a way of stopping everything she was doing to give another person her full attention. As I started to speak, she put down her pen and shifted her body to face me. The thoughtful eyes on the angular face were wise beyond their years.

"That’s most unusual," she said after I finished. "A year after your physical and you still haven’t gotten your visa. If there is a problem, the embassy should at least notify you."

"I don’t even know whom to talk to at the embassy. The Chinese clerks at the front desk have their noses turned toward heaven. Just because they work for the
U.S.
government, they think they’re a class above everyone else. They won’t answer my questions, nor will they let me talk to the consul. Some people say I should give one of them a red
lai si
envelope. But it’s rather awkward, and I don’t know how much money to put in it." With a frustrated shrug, I stuffed a pile of student essays into my bag.

"I know somebody who may be able to help you," my friend said. "It’s the American priest for whom I do secretarial work on Saturdays. He’s in
Macao
right now, helping to settle a new group of refugees from the mainland. I’ll talk to him when he gets back. He knows a lot of people at the embassy."

That he did. It was all hush-hush, but everyone knew about these missionaries who shuttled around doing charity among refugees from communist
China
. CIA agents were what they really were. Teresa was kind to offer to recruit his help, but I couldn’t see why he would want to get involved with my problems. He would most likely promise to look into it, just to be polite, and then let the matter die.

I’d forgotten about this priest when Teresa pulled me aside at a class break. The story she told was amazing. Upon hearing about my case, the priest went to the embassy and rummaged through the stack of pending files. He found mine buried at the very bottom. The priest pulled it out and put it on top. "This family has been cleared a year ago. Why haven’t they received their visas yet?" he asked the officers present. One of them replied, "Oh, their records must have been lost in the pile."