Then Yong Chu, the poet, took the microphone. He had served as an aircraft pilot in the Chinese Nationalist Army for five years, dog-fighting the Communists' MiGs over Taiwan Strait. Though getting on toward sixty, he was the picture of health, with a dark, strong face like a peasant's. It was said that he could drink a whole bottle of vodka at one sitting without getting drunk. His poetry often showed a kind of masculinity that was rarely found in the works of contemporary Chinese poets. Mr. Chu announced in a booming voice:
"The Tiananmen Democracy Movement is the greatest event of mankind. It demonstrates the Chinese people's bravery and resolve. Weilin Wang, the young man who single-handedly stopped a column of tanks, is a national hero whose image has lodged in the minds of the whole world and whose name will be recorded in history forever.
In one fearless stroke he removed all the shame from my face. He showed the world that there are still courageous Chinese willing to lay down their lives for an ideal. He's our pride and China 's pride, and so are all the heroes in Tiananmen Square who sacrificed themselves for democracy. Their immortal deeds have made our personal achievements look so trivial that I feel I have shrunk to nothing. Here I declare that the whole body of my poetry isn't even worth one drop of the blood shed by the martyrs in Tiananmen Square…"
The speech annoyed Nan, whose illusion of this master poet quickly vanished. He wondered why Mr. Chu had let national pride supersede the value of his poetry, as though patriotism and literary arts should be judged by the same criteria. As an accomplished poet, he should see that the function of his poetry was to transcend history and to outlast politics and that a poet should be responsible mainly for the language he used. Instead, he was haranguing like an official in charge of propaganda.
Before the meeting was over, Nan left the auditorium with Dan-ning, who invited him to go to his place for dinner. Danning now had a girlfriend named Sirong, a visiting scholar from Beijing. But Nan would have to get home and have some sleep before going to work that evening, so instead they went to the Harvard Science Center for coffee.
In the cafeteria Nan took a decaf and Danning a mocha to a table. "I'm going back to China next month," Danning told him the moment they sat down.
"Really? Are you going to teach somewhere?"
"At the People's University."
" Does it have a physics department?"
"They have a computer science program where I'll teach, but I'm not that interested in teaching. I've been writing fiction. Actually, I had a novella just accepted by Spring Breeze. It will come out in the fall."
"Congratulations!" Nan was amazed despite knowing the bimonthly was a provincial literary magazine.
" Thanks. I plan to devote myself to writing novels," said Danning. "Then what will you do with your Ph.D. in physics?" "I'll use it to earn a salary."
"That's a good arrangement. I'm impressed, also jealous. You're on your way."
"No matter where I go, I feel I'm a Chinese to the marrow. I'm terribly homesick recently, perhaps because I'm getting old and softheaded."
"You're only thirty-five."
"But I feel I'm aging rapidly in this country."
"To be honest, I don't worry about my nationality anymore. I wear my nationality like a coat." There was so much bitterness in Nan 's voice that his friend was startled.
"That can't be true. That's just your fantasy, Nan. For example, you speak Chinese like a news anchorman, but your English will never be as good."
"Language and nationality are different issues. I just want to be a decent human being."
"Can you be that without loving your country, your homeland?"
" China isn't my country anymore. I spit at China, because it treats its citizens like gullible children and always prevents them from growing up into real individuals. It demands nothing but obedience. To me, loyalty is a two-way street. China has betrayed me, so I refuse to remain its subject anymore."
"Come now, you're not an American citizen yet."
"I've wrenched China out of my heart." Nan grimaced, his eyes brimming with tears.
"You're just angry. You know you can never do that, no matter how hard you try. I can see that China hurt you deeply. Your anger just shows you're still emotionally bound to our motherland and you cannot remain detached."
"I wish I had more anger so that I could write genuine poetry. I feel crippled inside, numb here." Nan placed his hand on his chest.
"That's because you've tried to cut yourself off from your roots."
"Enough of that patriotic nonsense. Patriotism is the last stick in the authorities' hand. With it they strike whomever they don't like."
"All right, I won't argue with you about that, Nan. We're going our separate ways from now on. But we'll remain friends, won't we?"
"Yes, forever buddies. I wish you all good luck and a great success."
"I wish you a happy family. You have a lovely wife and a fine son. I envy you. You ought to cherish what you have." "I have trouble with Pingping."
"I sensed that, but that will pass. If you live in this land, a stable family means everything. It's like a sturdy boat in a rough sea, and you have to stay within the boat to cross the ocean."
"I'llremember that."
"Also, don't ever talk to any Chinese like you did just now. You'll get into more trouble. You don't know who will turn you in."
"I'll be more careful in front of others, of course."
On their way out, Nan said he was sick of his current job, which had turned him into a semi-coolie. Danning told him that a Chinese-language poetry magazine in New York City was looking for a managing editor, but he knew nothing about the pay and the workload. Nan was interested and got the phone number of the editor in chief from Danning. The two friends hugged and parted ways, walking in opposite directions along Massachusetts Avenue.
PART TWO
1
NAN decided to take the job in New York. The editor in chief, Bao Yuan, had said on the phone that he could pay Nan only $1,000 per issue of the quarterly, New Lines, but he could also offer him a small room, rent-free. And Bao might help him find work in Brooklyn or Manhattan. Pingping supported Nan's decision, fearing he might lose his mind if he didn't quit his job at Hampden Park soon. Also, New York must hold more opportunities for him. Though the managing editorship didn't pay much, Nan could use it as a foothold to get a start in something. The Wus had heard that a man from Shanghai, formerly a graduate student in anthropology at Tufts University, had gone to Wall Street and gotten so rich that he owned a huge apartment on Madison Avenue. Pingping's main concern, however, was health insurance, which Nan couldn't possibly get in New York for the family. But many immigrants without any coverage at all had managed to survive, so she let him take the job, which might be his only chance to get out of his plight.
"Daddy, I'll miss you," Taotao said to Nan as mother and son were seeing him off at the Greyhound station at Riverside.
"I'll miss you too. Listen to Mom when I'm not home, all right?"
"I will. When will you come back?"
"At the end of zis mons. Be a good boy. If you need anysing, let me know."