Oracle Bones (52 page)

Finally, I telephoned the official myself. His name was Shi Jiangtao; his voice sounded young but it went flat the moment I introduced myself. We spoke in Chinese.

“I’ve already discussed this with other people at the Foreign Ministry,” he said. “We think that New York Person is a better translation. It’s more exact.”

“Is there any way that we can meet?” I said. “I’d be happy to go anywhere that’s convenient for you. I think it would be better if we could talk in person.”

The Foreign Ministry was located on the Second Ring Road. The massive building had a gray-windowed façade that bulged outward, as if the place had been packed so tightly with
jiade
paperwork that it was about to explode. Shi Jiangtao’s voice didn’t change.

“I can’t meet today, or even this week,” he said. “Maybe next week, but I’m not certain. In any case, it’s not necessary for this matter.”

“Well, the name is important to me. I want a name that’s more recognizable; it will make my job easier.”

He told me that that shouldn’t matter because the magazine had not previously posted a resident correspondent in China.

“That’s not true,” I said. “There were reporters here in the 1940s.”

“Well, that’s a long time ago and nobody is going to remember that.”

“I’ve seen
Niu Yue Ke
used on many Web sites and publications,” I said. “And it’s used by overseas Chinese.”

“We don’t care what people might use outside the Mainland,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what they do in Chinese communities in America or other places. This is for us to decide.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “
Niu Yue Ke
doesn’t come from Taiwan or anything like that.”

The man responded quickly: “Who mentioned Taiwan? I didn’t say anything about Taiwan.”

“I’m just saying that in other overseas Chinese communities,
Niu Yue Ke
is more standard. I’m not saying that it has anything to do with the Taiwan problem.”

“Of course it has nothing to do with the Taiwan problem,” he said angrily. “Why would it?”

IN THE END,
it was their language and their decision. I tried to be philosophical: a fish trap is for catching fish; once you’ve caught the fish, you can forget the trap. I received my new visa, new journalist license, new office registration card, and new chop. The stamp said, in bright red ink:

(“American New York Person”)

Every time I stamped an official document, I told myself that it didn’t mean anything. I was still a proud Missourian, and the Reds could never take that away.

16

Flags

September 11, 2001

THE CAR WAS POLAT’S MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION. SOMETIMES, WHEN
he felt restless, he took the Honda Accord for long drives into Maryland or Virginia. His English was still poor, but he could negotiate the roads without any trouble. He decorated the dashboard with two flags: one American, the other from the East Turkestan Republic. The East Turkestan flag featured an Islamic white star and crescent on a blue background, and it was banned in China.

The car was also Polat’s best hope for permanent escape from the corner of Franklin and Rhode Island. He wanted to move out of the neighborhood, and he wanted to start working; the Honda would make it easier to do both, once his papers were in order. In May of 2001, he was interviewed by a representative of the Immigration and Naturalization Services. Brian Mezger, the lawyer, accompanied Polat, and the interview went smoothly. The following month, the United States of America granted Polat political asylum.

He immediately applied for his wife to join him. The paperwork would take time—maybe a year, maybe longer—and she seemed increasingly nervous about leaving Xinjiang. In the evenings, Polat often telephoned, trying to convince her that everything would work out. But she worried that the Chinese would revoke her passport, or that even if she made it to America, the adjustment to daily life would be too difficult. Polat avoided telling her much about the neighborhood where he lived.

He was between passports—no longer a citizen of the People’s Republic,
and not yet an American—and so the United States government issued him a refugee travel document, which would allow him to cross international borders. He began planning a trip to Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. He had friends there, and perhaps some trade possibilities would open up; he had already spent most of his Yabaolu savings. During the summer, he finally moved to an apartment in the District’s Chinatown. For somebody who had fled China less than a year earlier, it seemed wrong to pay rent to a landlord from Guangdong, but Chinese was still Polat’s most useful language.

In August, the U.S. government granted him permission to work. In the District, the Uighurs who didn’t speak much English usually found jobs as deliverymen or restaurant kitchen staff. Polat wanted to see if anything else was available, and I put him in contact with a former college roommate named Bob Brashear. Bob ran a factory in Baltimore that made cans, and occasionally, they hired non-English speakers. Wages were low—the job involved moving boxes—but they provided basic benefits, including health insurance.

I also introduced Polat to Adam Meier, who had taught with me in the Peace Corps. Nowadays, Adam worked at the State Department, in the office of Colin Powell’s spokesman. One evening in late August, Adam arranged a summit between Polat and Bob. Polat brought along another friend, a Uighur who had lived in the United States for twelve years. It was a mixed group: two political-dissident Uighurs, two Ivy League-educated white Americans. Naturally, they went to a Mexican restaurant. The next day, Adam sent me an e-mail:

It was a “business” dinner in which a 45-year-old college-educated, multilanguage-speaking, former teacher brings an entourage of two to discuss the prospects of getting work moving heavy boxes in a large un-air conditioned warehouse for $7 or $8/hour. Kind of a strange scene, all in all. The wait staff was very eager, and kept asking us if we “were familiar with their food.” Polat in fact wasn’t—he ordered some sort of enchilada/burrito, and he mentioned that it was his first time eating it. He polished off the plate of food. When we were leaving the restaurant, I asked him what he thought. He said again that it was his first time eating it, and that it wasn’t so good.

After we checked out the factory, we headed back to DC, and I asked Polat what he thought of the job. He said that it might be hard and tiring, but he would do it. He repeated a few times that he wasn’t afraid of the job, although he had never done anything like it.

He only has about $1000 left, and so he needs the job. He is going to look for a place in Baltimore, or Bobby may ask if anyone at the factory can rent him a room….

He doesn’t like DC—he just moved out of his building which he hated because he saw drug-use and crime and guns. He probably won’t land in a situation that is much better in Baltimore, especially at his budget level.

The following week, Adam wrote again:

Unfortunately, he got his car broken into. He was over at a friend’s house listening to some Chinese broadcast, and somebody busted his window to get his stereo, which, I am sure, was worth about $15. He had to pay $230 to replace the window, and now he has no stereo.

ON THE MORNING
of September 11, Polat drove back to Baltimore, to take another look at the can factory. He had already installed a replacement car radio, purchased secondhand for forty dollars, but on that Tuesday morning he wasn’t listening to the news. Later, he wasn’t certain about exact times, but he believed that he must have been at the factory before 9:37
A
.
M
. The sky was high and blue and there was not a cloud in sight.

He worried about the factory’s location. He was willing to do manual labor, at least until his English improved, but he didn’t want to be isolated from the local Uighur community. Most of his Uighur friends lived in the District, and his new apartment was about an hour’s drive from the Baltimore factory. After making the trip on September 11, Polat decided that the plant was too far away. He would find something closer to the capital.

That morning, he continued driving to Newark, New Jersey, where some Turkish immigrants lived. During the 1990s, Polat had spent several months in Turkey, and since the language is close to Uighur, he always felt comfortable with the immigrant Turks. In Newark, he called up to their apartment, like he always did. But for some reason the Turks didn’t answer.

At about eleven o’clock, he finally gave up and headed back toward home. On Interstate 95, he got caught in the worst traffic jam he’d ever seen in America. For a few hours, the cars crept along, and Polat noticed that other drivers looked upset. He turned on the radio. From the news reports, he understood two English words: “smoke” and “Pentagon.” He had learned “Pentagon” from driving around the capital, and Marlboro Light had taught him “smoke.”

He pulled off at Towson, Maryland. In that city, he knew an ethnic-Korean immigrant who had formerly been a citizen of China. The Korean had a tan
gled family background that as a boy had somehow landed him in Central Asia: he had grown up in western Xinjiang, in the city of Kashgar, and his mother tongue was Chinese. Nearly a decade ago, he had received political asylum in the United States. Over the years, he had saved up money and finally opened a business. Naturally enough, it was a sushi restaurant.

The Korean told Polat about the attacks. Together, they sat in the sushi restaurant, watching television: the collapsing buildings, the burning Pentagon. News reports suggested that the attacks may have been organized by Islamic fundamentalists; there was speculation that more violence could follow. Across the country, flights had been grounded, and Polat decided to stay with his friend for a couple of nights. He was afraid that on the streets Americans might mistake him for a terrorist.

On the morning of September 13, he finally drove home to Chinatown. Along Interstate 95, there were lots of police cars, but few other drivers. The Pentagon still burned—smoke was visible from miles away. That month, Polat removed both flags from his car.

17

Straight to Video

September 12, 2001

THE MORNING AFTER THE ATTACKS, I CAUGHT A TRAIN SOUTH TO
Anyang. The journey was familiar, its scenery as patterned as wallpaper: a peasant, a field, a road, a village; a peasant, a field, a road, a village. The sense of repetition jarred against the televised images of the previous evening. But there had been no reason to cancel the trip, which had been scheduled for months; the archaeologists always worked in early autumn. They spent the days out in the field, mapping the underground city, step by step. At night we watched television news. But the Chinese government limited the early coverage, and it was hard to find much information. I couldn’t get a good Internet connection from my hotel.

After trying unsuccessfully for a couple of days, I finally called Polat’s cell phone. He sounded fine, although he had temporarily given up on the job search. He still had some savings in China, and he said he might ask a friend in Urumqi to give me some cash that I could convert into a check. I told Polat that I’d probably visit Xinjiang soon, because of another writing project. That fall, I was traveling a lot—after Anyang, I planned to go to Wenzhou.

I asked Polat about the mood in Washington, D.C.

“I’m not sure how people are out on the street,” he said. “I don’t go out much, especially in the evenings. If somebody were to ask me what I’m doing, it would be hard for me to explain in English. That’s the kind of thing I worry about.”

“Have you seen the other Uighurs?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “None of us has had any problems so far. But people say it’s better to be careful.”

I LEFT ANYANG
and flew to Wenzhou. It felt like another long trip—from the slow world of the archaeologists to the boomtown. In Wenzhou, the power of the economy was so intense that you felt it upon the moment of arrival, like the damp heat of a tropical country. At the Wenzhou airport, the baggage claim area featured eight different advertisements for shoe factories. I stepped outside the terminal and found myself facing a massive billboard:
JIALAIDUN PISTON
. My cab cruised beneath an English sign that had been erected by the Wenzhou government:

GOING ALL OUT TO SET UP THE LIGHT INDUSTRIAL CITY

I headed toward Yueqing, the satellite city where Willy and Nancy lived. Along the way, the cab passed through factory towns: Baixiang, which produced cheap suits; Liushi, home of low-voltage electrical appliances. Advertisements lined the highway: Brother Packing Machine, Tingyu Group Meters, Tongda Electric Wire. Many billboards had been designed in the boomtown-pastoral style that I remembered from Shenzhen: an obscure product superimposed atop a sunny green field. Tires, transformers, shock absorbers, electric outlet covers. Everything for export, everything in bulk. Brand names mixed parts of Chinese and English words: Jubang, Gelhorn, Shar Moon, Odkon. Dorkan: “King Shoes of China Genuine Leather.”