The Third Son (30 page)

He looked back at me for a moment and then waved his arm. “Come on, then.”

29

N
IGHTS,
I
STAYED LATE
at the lab, and when I returned to Wen-chong’s apartment, where he so graciously allowed me to sleep on his couch for the summer, I lay in the quiet of the night, reading the latest papers on the newly burgeoning field of atmospheric physics.

I did also study at times under the magnificently arched ceiling of the Hatcher Library, and it was in the corner of the main reading room that I found a cluster of Taiwanese graduate students hunched dutifully over their textbooks. One of them was Sun-kwei, the Professor, whose nervous smile I studiously avoided, though I wondered what had become of his buddy Li-wen. I recognized also a student named Wei-ta, whom I had competed against in junior college in intercollegiate track meets. I remembered him as a good sprinter, and he was built like one—a bit shorter than me, with a powerful build. He had an easy smile and introduced himself as president of Michigan’s Chinese Student Association.

“I remember you,” he whispered over his book. “Horse, right? Taipei Provincial Tech? You beat me on the four hundred meter.”

“Yes,” I said. “But you beat me on the fifty and one hundred.”

He invited me to his Plymouth Road apartment for dinner, and I accepted happily, looking forward to an evening of reminiscing about track and field.

He had barbells in his guest bedroom and an old coffee table padded with pillows to make a weight-lifting bench. We took turns doing bench presses while Wei-ta’s wife prepared dinner in the adjoining kitchen. My stomach grumbled at the familiar savory smells of ginger and garlic, sesame and allspice.

It felt good to be speaking Taiwanese with someone who did not appear to be a Nationalist agent and even had some social graces. Wei-ta’s wife also seemed very friendly, and I wished Yoshiko were there with us, to laugh in her rich voice and shake her head as Wei-ta and I relived our glory days at the stadium.

Wei-ta led me to the living room, where his wife had set out cups of oolong tea and a dish of roasted peanuts. “I’m sorry, this place isn’t much to speak of,” Wei-ta said. “These places come prefurnished.”

I glanced around at the pioneer-wagon curtains and imitation Navajo rugs, with their lingering smells of cigarette smoke and disinfectant. Yoshiko and I could live in an apartment like this. We’d be proud of our American home.

Wei-ta sat in an armchair and indicated for me to sit opposite on the matching plaid couch. He explained that he had tried to buy a house but was sure he had been discriminated against in favor of American buyers. He had determined to wait a year or two; the Chinese students had too little power, but there were many more blacks in the same situation in Ann Arbor, and they were mobilizing the Fair Housing Association for a housing ordinance.

“That sounds savvy enough,” I said, slurping my tea. It was much better than Wen-chong’s.

Wei-ta smiled and leaned forward as though he was about to tell me a secret. “Now, tell me,” he said. “How did you get here?”

I hesitated, confused. “To Ann Arbor? I drove.”

“No, no. I mean to America.”

“I flew.” I almost added “of course” but remembered Chen’s arriving in his box, on a boat.

Wei-ta rolled his eyes and laughed. “Oh, come on. I mean, how did you get here without passing the exam?”

I felt my face flush. “What do you mean?”

“Listen, I’ve been running the Chinese Student Association for five years. Every single Taiwanese here went to Taiwan University. You can’t tell me you passed the exam after vocational school. Was it some connection you had? A bribe? Whatever you did, I want to know. I’ve got a friend who wants to come, but he hasn’t got the mental firepower for it, if you know what I mean, and he’s not well connected.”

My blood rushed in my ears. What a presumption! But I bit my tongue. It was probably true that everyone else here was from Taiwan University.

I put my teacup down, a bit too hard, so that it sloshed and spilled a little into the saucer. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “But I’m afraid your friend will have to pass the exam,” I said, “as that’s what I did.”

He gave me a pointedly skeptical glance and sat back in his armchair, which looked suddenly dirty to me. “Didn’t mean to offend,” he said, though his voice was not very friendly anymore. I wondered if he had invited me for dinner solely to discover this purported secret of mine.

“Five years here and no PhD,” I said, before I could help myself. “You’re not even working on a thesis yet. Why is that?”

He smiled wryly. “I suppose you have the right to ask. But some have been here nine years. You have to pass the qualifying exam before you do your thesis, and no Taiwanese or Mainlander has ever passed it here. Though I suppose you could, Horse.”

“I plan to.”

“Go ahead and try. It’s oral.” He folded his arms, smiling again. “Notoriously difficult. Professors from double E, physics, and math asking you proofs on the spot. They teach you how to do that at Taipei Provincial Tech?”

“Of course not,” I said. “But apparently they don’t at Taiwan University, either.”

“True,” he said.

“Perhaps the only thing that matters is what we do in America,” I said. “People here can hardly tell the difference between Taiwan and Thailand, much less Taiwan University and Taipei Provincial Tech.”

“True again.” He nodded, then raised his eyebrow, cocking his head. “I prepare to be astonished by your trajectory.”

N
EAR THE END
of my internship, Gleason informed me that I would be on his paper—not first author, of course, and not last. I called Beck’s office immediately, readying myself for his dry note of surprise and approval. I had changed my decision, hadn’t I? He had been absolutely right. I wasn’t a pharmacist by any stretch of the imagination.

Mrs. Larsson answered. She sounded perfectly friendly and businesslike and I felt a jolt of shame at having ogled her when I left.

“I need to speak to Professor Beck. It’s quite urgent,” I said.

“Actually, Chia-lin, we were expecting Professor Beck back in a couple of days, but he just informed us that he’ll be spending next semester in Marstrand.”

“Where?”

“Marstrand. Have you ever been to Sweden? It’s so lovely there by the sea, and Professor Beck loves to sail—”

“The whole semester?” My mouth went dry.

“Yes, he’ll be back in January,” Mrs. Larsson said. “It gets so cold there in the winter.”

“But he told me I could have a teaching fellowship if I did research this summer,” I said. “Now I’m on an important paper at the University of Michigan . . .”

“I see. Oh, dear. You’ll have to address those concerns to the acting chairman now, Dr. Krauss. He’ll be in tomorrow. You’d better hurry,” she said. “The semester starts next week and you’re not registered.”

Damn Beck and his flippancy!

I hung up the phone and held my head. I had no idea who this Krauss fellow was, but hopefully he would be a reasonable man. I set to work packing my suitcases and readying myself for the long journey back to South Dakota. At least this time I had a car.

I
THOUGHT IT
would be better to wear my suit while I drove from Michigan rather than fold it up in my suitcase as I usually did. I’d be sitting in my own new car, not a smoky public bus. For the first couple of days, I enjoyed feeling like Pat O’Reilly, rocket windows down, in my fine suit. But the suit became thoroughly wrinkled after the first day and then stained with cheeseburger grease. Somewhere around Mason City I folded it back into my suitcase, and when I unpacked it in the next motel, I found toothpaste on it. I spent the next two nights trying to scrub the toothpaste off with rough motel washcloths.

By the time I arrived in Rapid City, the suit was a mess. I bought a clothes brush and brushed it off as well as I could before walking into Beck’s office.

Professor Krauss looked at me over Beck’s desk. He wore round glasses that made him look like an eighteenth-century philosopher. All around him were pictures of Professor Beck—Beck holding up a fish, Beck at the helm of a ship, Beck holding a baby. I thought it odd that Krauss would set up camp in someone else’s office when his own office was just down the hall.

“What you say sounds impressive,” Krauss said, his voice thin and gravelly, his eyes roving my suit. “But you’ll need to submit an application and go through the formal process like everyone else.”

“But Professor Beck told me—”

“Professor Beck is having a lovely time eating crayfish and drinking schnapps. While he enjoys himself, I’m chairman.”

I kept quiet, hearing his sharp tone. He looked up at me, his face serious, humorless. No doubt he thought Beck a clown and resented his position.

“Mrs. Larsson will show you an application,” he said.

Mrs. Larsson glanced at me as I came out of Beck’s office, my face hot. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, putting a red-lacquered finger to her lips. “His bark is worse than his bite.” She handed me an application. “And this came today,” she said with a smile. She handed me a blue airmail envelope that smelled of her perfume. She turned her back to me and resumed licking envelopes. She obviously had no interest in me at all. I had just been vulnerable, had imagined things.

I tore the letter open.

Dear Saburo,

It’s very boring in the hospital. I’m in a room by myself so the other patients won’t bother me. The food tastes terrible, but it’s enough, at least, and I am regaining some of my weight. They come by three times a day to give me my medication, and once a day they record my weight.

I sighed, relieved and amazed. I had made one—albeit one very expensive—phone call. I had spoken out against my mother more strongly than I ever had. And now Yoshiko was in the hospital, getting what she needed.

I miss Kai-ming terribly. Your parents have not brought him by, nor have they come by themselves. Only my family and my friends come, bearing me delicious treats that I have no appetite to eat.

Your mother was so angry with me after your phone call. She said she told me not to tell you I was sick. Then she didn’t say anything to me at all or even look at me until I left for the hospital. It was as though I was never there. I suppose there will be no more holding hands at the market. I think that she thought we were best friends and that I deceived her. I’m very sorry about that.

“Would you like to register now?” Mrs. Larsson said brightly.

“What?”

“You’ll need to register to attend classes on Monday. You missed registration, but I’m sure they’d help you at the registrar’s office. And—” She handed me a little slip of paper.

“And what?” I took the slip of paper.

“Rick’s Laundry. He’s the best.” She winked.

I registered for fall semester, paying in cash. And I had more to worry about than Yoshiko, Kai-ming, and my mother. Because after registration and all I had spent on the car, the train tickets to and from Churchill, my summer’s living expenses in Ann Arbor, and Rick’s Laundry, I had $204.53 left for the entire year.

30

W
HILE
I
HAD GROWN
up considering eggs a delicacy, eggs were actually the cheapest source of protein I could find in America. And having learned from my childhood encounter with malnutrition, I dutifully supplemented my eggs with whatever odd vegetables I could afford at the supermarket. There would be no Toru here to rescue me.

I flipped an egg, but the protein stuck to the dented pan and the yolk spilled open. I tried to scrape the mess off the pan with the spatula, but it didn’t come off and the egg looked even worse. I mixed it all up in the pan, hoping to make it into an omelet.

“Look at this!” My roommate held up the morning’s newspaper, its letters smeared under his sweaty fingers:
SOVIETS FIRE SATELLITE INTO SPACE!

“A satellite?” I stared at the grainy image of a metal sphere trailed by four spikes.

It wasn’t possible. Everything I’d read had agreed with Hong’s assessment, that the Russians were bluffing. Eighty kilograms to the Americans’ projected one and a half, an altitude twice as high. Impossible.

Yet there it was.

I shut off the stove and scraped the partially burned mess of egg onto my bowl of rice. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “Those guys can say anything they want. The picture could be a fake.”

“No, no! People have seen it!” my roommate said. “They’re tracking the radio transmissions.” He laughed. “Except the frequency is different from what everyone expected. Tricky Russians.”

I read the paper. It was true. The satellite was orbiting.

I walked to the window and looked at the sky, hung with cumulocirrus clouds. Above them, roving atoms tumbled in the wake of a beeping Russian sphere, their bonds jolted for the first time by this thing so weirdly smooth, so symmetrical, so man-made. Space was no longer pure, and that thought filled me with excitement, wistfulness, and fear.