Shanghai Girl (14 page)

Two hours later I called her again but she was still nowhere to be found. I was furious. "Does anybody on earth know where she is?" I asked the worker who picked up the phone. She told me in a trembling voice, "She's probably out on a lunch date, Boss Lou." A date in the middle of the day when I'm waiting like an ant on a hot wok for her to fax over the revised Purchase Agreement? "Who is the date?" I bellowed into the receiver. "I ... I'm not sure, Boss. He’s also Chinese." I've been away for less than a week and here she is, chasing after some Chinese guy on my time. Lotus is going to pay for this, I decided. I'm going to get rid of her after I return. She could start a more prominent career serving
dim sum
or duck feet or whatever to Chairman Siew in Chinatown.

"It's 2 a.m. here in Shanghai and I'm waiting for the document. Tell her if she doesn't fax it over to me by the end of her day, she's fired!"

Silence. My worker wouldn't dare to tell this to Lotus. Many on the factory floor call Lotus "the Little Boss" behind her back. They know she has power beyond their imagination.

"Okay. I'll take care of her later myself. Just ask her to get the Agreement together and fax it over. Fast!" I hung up before the sound of my cursing "
Ta Ma De
" - “blast his mother” gets through to the worker.

It's now already 9:30 a.m. The front desk says no fax for me. Lotus never dared to be so unbridled before the Siew Clan people showed up. I wonder whether Lotus's wanton behavior is the Siew's way of telling me something. In any case, I can't do anything until after the Purchase Agreement is signed. But where is the darned Agreement? Had I known this was going to happen, I would have asked the fellows at Sachs & Klein to fax it directly to me here. But then, with special overseas delivery added to the $200 an hour billing, the total costs would be obscene. I hope this will be the last time I have to deal with these shysters, but I know better. Throughout the years, Sachs & Klein has enabled me to get away with paying the minimum to the IRS. My handsome fees, in turn, have contributed to adding an extra layer of icing or two to the partners’ year-end profit-sharing pie. Well,
c’est la vie
!

So I’m able to blame things on Lotus. It seems that I’ve unwittingly found the perfect replacement for her without ever trying. Tao’s daughter has Tao’s brains, Lotus’s body, and Irene’s feistiness. Sha-fei is truly a Shanghai dynamo hopping right into the middle of my palm to be molded, although she is no fool for her age and her China-only experience. She’s dying to go to America and anxious to get my help. So if I get her over to New York, she won’t act too prudish toward me, especially since it sounds as if she has already been laid by her Communist stepdad. All things considered, she’ll beat Lotus. The best part is her lack of funds in the U.S. The law forbids her to work unless her benevolent Uncle Gordon steps in to provide job sponsorship.

I revel at the thought. The “F” word of the moment is Sha-fei. F-F-F-F-EI-EI-EI! I bite my lower lip with the "F" sound until my lip is pale, stretching the "EI" for as long as my breath can hold. Like an urchin engaging in a favorite act of mischief, I savor the meaning of the character “Sha-fei” for pure self-indulgence: F-EI - to fly, to float, to soar on the wings of a cherub into my cage …

As I stare down at the bathtub she used, I suddenly realize that I am a Taoist of the worst kind. So I sit down on the tiled floor in the lotus position, cross my legs, close my eyes, clasp my hands, and take deep breaths, in and out, in and out – meditation galore. My thoughts are numerous and disorderly. The root of my manhood, firm as an eggroll, refuses to be anything less than the most assertive piece of muscle of my body, concentration and Nirvana unattainable.

I know I should be meditating and not thinking these thoughts. But I can't help it. Her long, strong legs trapped in those jeans. Dimples suggesting sadness and hope. Eyes filled with anticipation when "New York" is mentioned. I can possess her innocence, her charm, and her
chutzpah
simply by being her financial sponsor for just three years’ worth of tuition and living expenses. That means I have to put my John Hancock down on a government “Affidavit of Support” form and have someone at Sachs & Klein notarize it. Somebody at the Consulate in Shanghai gave me a couple of blank ones. I look at the form and envision the completed version:

Since foreign students are not allowed to work in the U.S., the only way for Sha-fei to survive in America legally is to turn to me, although she now vows in the name of Tao that all she needs is a paper guarantee and nothing more. But what do you know, my dear little niece?

On the other hand, the girl is Tao’s only survivor and treasure on earth. I will be very careful when I set things in motion so that Tao in the nether, the
Yin
world would not turn me into a toad drinking out of the cesspool of the Canal Street-Chinatown subway station, fighting over bagel crumbs with rats for a living in my next life.

Oh, how ironic life could be! What the Lao-Zhuang Daoists call
Wu Wei
,
pure pointlessness. Imagine that with a twist of fate, the Sha-fei that I’m so infatuated with could have been borne by Marlene, or for that matter, she could be a sibling to Irene? I flinch at such associations and strive to
Ren
for now -- to bear, to endure. Grandmaster Confucius would have advised me to be a soldier, a
Ninja
-- a soldier who can fight as well as to
Ren
.

I pull out my appointment book to double-check my dinner with Sha-fei tonight at seven. She must be anxiously awaiting my promise to provide the Affidavit of Support. There will be some strings attached, she’ll be told. There’ll be no advanced financial commitment on my part so she’ll have to ask for it when she gets to New York. Even if she could get a meager scholarship, she still has to pay her rent and bills if she wants independence from me. Even Irene, a native New Yorker, hasn’t figured out how to do that. Sha-fei has to pay her dues. With her smarts and talents, she should work out fine for me and for herself.

7 Sha-Fei Hong: The Revolutionary Help Exchange

Kwok Ai-teh, Kwok Ai-teh. Cook, the Virtue-loving. It was only two days ago that I met Edward Cook. But now I find myself repeating his name under my breath, even in class. Ed is a young diplomat and a lawyer. An attorney. The term itself conveys a sense of prestige. Too bad I can't apply to law school now. If I get admitted to a graduate school in New York, I can go to Ed and ask for help again. It's wonderful that he lives in New York, just like Lu Long and Uncle Gordon. Except Gordon doesn’t like Ed because Ed made him lose face. And Ed looks down upon the school in Brooklyn where Lu Long is studying because it is not as prestigious as Gotham University. But at least all my friends, old and new, live in New York.

Gotham University is where I want to go. Perhaps Ed will introduce me to a lot of other wonderful Americans. Perhaps Ed and I will become good friends, just like Lu Long and I are now. But what did he mean when he said that he wished somebody could show me affection? He also hinted something to me when we shook hands. My heart throbs at the thought. Maybe … I do not dare to indulge in such fantasizing.

Last night, sitting on the edge of my bed, under the light from the 15-watt lamp, I kissed Ed's name card. Then I copied the card word for word on my pocket notebook. I took out the piece of toilet paper from Gordon's hotel room and wrapped the card with the rose petal there. I wanted to store both away in a safe place. They were my first encounter with things Western. Things American.

The teacher's voice drones in my ears: "Dialectical materialism is the core of Marxist-Leninist philosophy. In building socialism with Chinese characteristics, we must ... " Nothing she says makes sense to me. I stare at the U.S. Consulate phone number on my notebook and have an urge to call Ed. I miss Kwok Ai-teh.

First thing after school, I go to the neighborhood public phone shack. Half a dozen people are crowding in front. As I poke my head forward, a man bundled up in a gray, cotton-padded overcoat bellows at me, "Hey, you! The end of the queue is over there!" I go to the end of the line, becoming the seventh person waiting to use the phone. Given the number of residents in the faculty residential quarters, seven is not a big number. However, many people ignore the three-minute per call time limit. Callers stand outside the telephone shack leaning on the windowsill to talk on the phone. Inside, the service personnel, two elderly women known as the "telephone aunts," collect money and answer in-coming calls for neighborhood residents. They jot down the incoming caller's number, often that of another public phone, and take turns going door-to-door to notify the phone call recipients. The residents, if at home, go back to the shack and line up to return their calls.

My turn comes about half an hour later. Hand trembling, I dial on the black rotary phone. "Br-rr-r-ing ... Br-rr-r-ing ..." Ed Cook must be away from his desk. Suddenly, a sharp female voice answers in Chinese, "U.S. Consulate. Looking for whom?"

I freeze.

"Wei? Wei?" the voice asks. Then, in English, "Hello?!"

Replying in English, I answer, "Mr. Edward Cook, please.”

"Who are you?"

A lump forms in my throat. "I..., I'm his friend. Can ... can you please connect me?"

"Friend? Are you Chinese?"

I debate whether to hang up. "Y-yes. Can you please connect...”?

She won't let me finish. "What's your name?"

My stomach curdles and I hang up.

Tears well up. Ed is leaving for Tokyo soon. I won't be able to talk to him again unless I succeed in going to New York. Now only Uncle Gordon can help me get there. But he is leaving Shanghai, too.

"You can see a gentleman off for a thousand li, but there always comes a moment of parting company." So states an ancient Chinese saying. When Gordon invited me to dine with him tonight at the famed East Wind Restaurant, I knew the moment of saying goodbye would come.

Gordon Lou has changed my life. In his special way, he has brought me the fatherly attention that I miss so much. More than anything else, he has brought me hope. Hope that I can get away from the tyranny of Stepfather. Hope from America.

By 6:45 p.m., I've arrived at the pillared building on the Bund with marble floors, oak paneling, and tall, barrel glass ceilings. The East Wind Restaurant is the address of the former Shanghai Club, a private British club in pre-Communist days. Its Long Bar was the longest in the world. Dark, gleaming mahogany extending well over a hundred feet. Now, waiting for Gordon at the inside of the entrance, I see scores of people crowding on the high stools, eating noodles, sipping soft drinks, and puffing "Peony" cigarettes, a product preference shared by Ed Cook, Stepfather, and Shanghai's male chic.

Gordon walks in at a few minutes after seven, bringing in a cold draft of air and a radiant glow. "Hello, my dear. I've just closed the deal. Let’s celebrate!"

"Congratulations," I offer. "I'm so happy for you. I wish your business forever prosperous, Uncle Gordon."

"Thank you for your ‘golden mouth and jade words,’" he replies. Extending his hand in an elegant manner, he asks, "Shall we?"

We are led to a back corner with a black leather upholstered banquette. A giant oil painting adorns the wall. A coastal storm. A Chinese National Five-Star Red Flag on the flagstaff of a sailboat blows bravely in the wind. Its title: "The East Wind prevails over the West Wind," a quotation from Chairman Mao. China, the Eastern giant will beat the West. Gordon glimpses the painting and comments dryly, "They’ve changed the name from Shanghai Club to East Wind, then hang this eyesore here. Not terribly subtle, is it?"

I just smile, trying to be subtle myself.

"Well, East wind or West wind, I hope this place still lives up to the reputation of the Shanghai Club. It's a happy occasion today. Let's get something to drink. How about a Manhattan for you, Sha-fei?"

The word “Manhattan” has appeal, although I have no idea what this is. I nod in consent.

"Good. And I'll get the Shanghai Cocktail."

Our drinks soon arrive in bell-shaped glasses with sturdy stems and feet. I put my nose to the rim of the glass and sniff the pungent bouquet of my Manhattan. Its color resembles that of concentrated Chinese cooking wine -- deep orange, almost brown. A piece of orange and a cherry mounted on miniature plastic swords floats on the drink. I pick up a sword and lick the cherry tentatively. Sweet, but my eyes tear from the alcohol.

Gordon motions me to stop, adding, "It's not a lollipop, Sha-fei. You will need to learn proper Western etiquette if you want to go to America."