The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (74 page)

              He woke up without knowing where he was.  He looked around the tiny office and forced the recollection on himself.  It was a familiar feeling, waking up in a place he didn’t remember.  His dreams had passed so slowly.  He felt the time was enough to be taken anywhere.  He searched for clues, the quick kind. 
Walls
. 
Floor
. 
Chair
. 
Walls
. 
Floor
. 
Walls
. 
Walls
. 
Desk
.  Then he saw the photographs.  They were stationary on the desk and stationary in time.  Then it came back, the day’s events. 
The campus and the classes
.  He remembered sitting, alone in the hallway—waiting.  He remember calling out to his sister only once and she stopped in place.  He contrasted it with when he was a boy.  He chased her.  He called out her name.  He cried.  But she didn’t stop.  The car gained speed as it moved forward down the road.  His little legs couldn’t keep up.  She left him literally in her dust.  But that was then and there were so many years between.  But the memories of his sister were consolidated and few. 

              His contemplation was interrupted by the opening of the door.  She caught him swimming through his memories, the deep end.  He came up for air and caught Xiaofeng by the eye.

              “
I’m done for today
,” said Xiaofeng, “
Are you hungry
?”  Mr. Li nodded.

              “
Ok
,” said Xiaofeng, “
Let’s get out of here
.”  Mr. Li got out of the chair and followed her out of the room.  A third-party observer would have commented on the boyish way he walked behind her. Her car was in a reserved spot, much of her life had been reserved.  Some reservations were inherited. Some she had earned.  Her car was a 2007
Toyota Corolla
, small and unassuming.  It didn’t whisper outward success.  It whispered practicality, a kind of lesson.  Mr. Li climbed in on the passenger side.   Xiaofeng admitted she didn’t have enough ingredients to make dumplings.  She had the flour but nothing to make the filling.  She didn’t have eggs either.  Driving the car with her brother in the passenger seat was like a subconscious dream.  The dream was so real it laid siege to her conscious mind.  The idea of her brother as an adult was far-fetched.  She felt so much outstanding guilty over leaving him, the boy.  That was why the role came back to her.  She could flirt with being his big sister again.

              “
What kind of filling would you like
?” asked Xiaofeng.

              “
I don’t know
,” said Mr. Li, “
You choose
.”

              “
You used to like pork with cabbage
,” said Xiaofeng.

              “
I don’t remember
,” said Mr. Li.

              “
It was all you ever asked for
,” said Xiaofeng.

              “
I’ve got other things in my head, now
,” said Mr. Li.

              “
Well
,” said Xiaofeng, “
We’ll jog your memory
.”

              “
Ok
,” said Mr. Li.  The
Corolla
headed toward West Los Angeles to a grocery store across the street from a tree-filled neighborhood.  Mr. Li acquiesced to dumplings with pork and cabbage.  That’s what Xiaofeng bought.  The drive home was quick but strained.  It was as if she was trying to force twenty-two years down the drain.  She was back to taking care of him.  She wouldn’t let him carry the canvas bag.  Its contents had to be readied by her so she carried it.  The neighborhood was quiet except for the cars along Sepulveda Boulevard.  Lawns were cut.  Trees were trimmed.  Her house was a simple one-story, stucco like the rest.  The roof was red-tiled and the window on the front was arched not squared.  The driveway was narrow but she navigated it perfectly.  The garage was to the back but she didn’t use it to store her car.  It stored her memorabilia.  Everything Mr. Li left behind was somewhere in the garage.  She opted to use the carport on the side of the house to shield her
Corolla
from the sun.  She let Mr. Li out before backing in under the carport.  They entered the house through the front door.  Wood tiles greeted Mr. Li’s shoes as he made his way inside.  The house was neat with two bedrooms.  The artwork wasn’t Chinese.  She favored Ansel Adams.  Black and white still photographs added a sense of stillness to the room.  The landscapes made him forget Southern California was outside.  The living room was open and had a quiet voice.  A yellow leather sofa provided a contrast of color livening up a black piano with its reflection.  The house was Wendy’s not Xiaofeng’s.  It spoke of a California resident.  Not a woman raised half the world away. 

              Xiaofeng set the piano, a player.  She let the music play while she made the dumplings.  She refused his help.  Her mother always made dinner alone, so did her grandmother.  She saw it as her matriarchal duty.  But she was slow at it.  She didn’t have the frequent practice like the other women in the Li family.  She had to find the right tools, thinking of what she could use.  She had the necessary cookware but she was unfamiliar with her own kitchen.  She cooked but it was usually quick.  Now she had to mix and roll and chop and so much else.  Mr. Li sat on the yellow sofa and worked the room.  He looked for anything that gave a clue.  The only story told by the room was that Xiaofeng had tried vehemently to be someone else.  Mr. Li was certain she didn’t throw away all of the things she had from China.  She just didn’t display them.  He was also certain she didn’t play the piano.  She hid her humble origins.  Like she hid her disdain for raising him.  She didn’t hide it from everyone, only from him.  He looked at his hand studying it.  He remarked to himself once again how well the polymer spray worked.  He couldn’t tell the skin wasn’t his.  He liked the idea of returning the favor, a lie for a lie. 

              “
What have you been doing in Hong Kong
?” asked Xiaofeng.

              “
I graduated from polytechnic school and now I work for the harbor authority
,” said Mr. Li.

              “
Doing what
?” asked Xiaofeng.

              “
Code enforcement
,” said Mr. Li, “
I make sure the shippers and their ships are following the book
.”  The lies didn’t need effort.

              “
Do you enjoy that
?” asked Xiaofeng.

              “
I enjoy the boats
,” said Mr. Li, “
I get to go out on them a lot.  They’re great constructions.  Mankind’s obsessed with water.  That’s why we build boats
.”  Mr. Li had fashioned his lie around a man he admired—Uncle Woo—the sailor and smuggler.  He knew it was the source of his story.  Xiaofeng didn’t.

              “
And what about you
,” said Mr. Li, “
You’ve always been smart and beautiful, why didn’t you ever marry
?”  The question hit Xiaofeng in a different place.  It was usually family that asked those kinds of questions.

              “
I grew up watching I guess
,” said Xiaofeng from inside the kitchen.

              “
What does that mean
?” asked Mr. Li.

              “
I saw mama—our mother—and she was always alone
,” said Xiaofeng, “
I met my father but I don’t remember him.  I was just too young back then.  For so many years, I believed that was the way for a woman, manless.  When we moved back to live with Grandma and Grandpa, I remembered thinking how disenfranchised it all seemed.  He didn’t seem to understand her, she seemed to have had enough of him but they were together.  It just lasted, since years before me.  And I thought I didn’t want to just last.  I wanted to live.  Mama was living.  She was free.  The only thing, her only hindrance was me.  But we fit.  Even the two of us could fit on the back of her scooter.  It was too small for a man but we fit.  That was our world.  My world has always been small like hers.  I could have a man of my own or a world of my own but not both.  My choice is between being like our mother or like our grandmother.  For me that’s an easy one
.”

              “
I understand
,” said Mr. Li, “
I understand sacrifice
,
trade off
.”

              “
My little brother
,” said Xiaofeng.  She didn’t say anything else.  It was two hours of theater but the dumplings came ready.  Mr. Li relocated from the yellow sofa to the high dining table.  The table was a ways from the sofa.  The most entertaining Xiaofeng did was cocktails and coffee.  Mr. Li was special.  He got special service.

• • •

              Service was included and dinner was served.  A large porcelain bowl was left to steam in the middle of the table with edible extras.  The dumplings were piled high, using up the bowl and upwards.  The food formed a mount, lonesome in the middle of the table.  The tea was unready.  The water had boiled.  The leaves were washed and soaked, but they hadn’t soaked enough.  When it was ready, Xiaofeng poured the hot water over the leaves and brought tea to the table.  It had belonged to her grandmother.  Years before they had their tea from the same pot in the same cups served on the same tray.  Mr. Li didn’t remember.  It was as new to him as Xiaofeng was.  But he went through the motions.  She served his tea, bringing it to him as if he were that little boy.  Reminiscent but not remiss, she served enough dumplings for both of them, too much though if he were still that little boy.

              “
Be the judge
,” said Xiaofeng.  Mr. Li gave himself enough dumplings to serve as judge.  He smacked his approval before he mouthed it.

              “
What’s the verdict
?” asked Xiaofeng, “
Better than grandma
?”

              “
Yes
,” said Mr. Li, “
Because I don’t really remember grandma
.”

              The statement was matter of fact.  But the irony wasn’t lost on a professor who taught controversies in global economics.  The most ironic part was Xiaofeng had always held her mother’s dumplings above her grandmother’s.  Mr. Li was an inapt judge.  He had never tried her mother’s dumplings.  Ironic still, it was his mother’s cooking he hadn’t tried.  Xiaofeng thought the sentiment made the difference.  She was much closer to her mother than she had been with her grandmother.  She naturally preferred dumplings cooked by her mother.  But they weren’t better.  They were dumplings.  They could only be so good.  Mr. Li would give her dumplings a seal of approval.  He had no choice.  There was no competition.  The real challenge was in the conversation. 

              “
You asked me
,” said Xiaofeng, “
Now I’m asking you
.”

              “
What
?” asked Mr. Li.

              “
Are you married
?” said Xiaofeng.  No was the short answer.

              “
Did you come close
?” she asked.

              “
I suppose no
,” said Mr. Li.

              “
Why do you say it like that
?” asked Xiaofeng.

              “
Some things you don’t know
,” said Mr. Li, “
Like dying, how do you know if you’ve come close, if you’re still living?  Maybe I’ve been close or maybe it just looked that way.  How would I know?  I didn’t die yet
.”

              “
That’s a bit more than I was asking
,” said Xiaofeng.

              “
Then what
?” asked Mr. Li.

              “
Did you ever find someone
?” said Xiaofeng, “
Did you ever ask someone
?”

              “
No
,” said Mr. Li, “
I never asked anyone
.”

              “
Did you ever find someone to care about
?” asked Xiaofeng, “
Mom had me to care for and I had you.  Did you ever care for someone
?”  Mr. Li’s eyes retreated.  He thought about the question.  The question was redundant.  He answered with the same obviousness.

              “
Yes
,” said Mr. Li.

              “
Who was she
?” Xiaofeng asked.  He paused.  The answer didn’t come out so mechanically.  It didn’t come out at all.  His eyes rolled from the table to the wall behind Xiaofeng.  Then they came front and center.  He stared at her.  She noticed.  It was more destabilizing than him surprising her in the hallway.  That was a shock.  But his eyes could do different things.  His eyes charged forward.  She was stunned.  She wanted to look away but couldn’t.