The first interview was at the Chinese cultural center, which had a massive front door, dark like an ironclad gate. Nan arrived fifteen minutes early, so he stayed in the entryway and opened a copy of the white pages at a pay phone. He looked through some names in hopes of finding someone he knew. Whenever he was in a new place, he'd thumb through parts of its local white pages, dreaming of stumbling on a friend or acquaintance. Of course, the first person he'd look for was Beina Su. Somehow wherever he went, he'd fantasize he might chance on her. How wild with joy she'd be on seeing him. How firmly she'd hug him. Yes, they could always start like new. Today, despite finding no familiar names, Nan was amazed by the large number of Chinese living in Manhattan. Just under "Wei Zhang," six people were listed.
It was time for the interview. A young woman told Nan to go to the second floor and see Lourie. To his surprise, Lourie, the manager of this place, was a tall man in his mid-twenties wearing a ponytail and a blue shirt that was so long, it made his legs appear short. He reminded Nan of a hippie, though he looked Mongolian, with bright eyes. Behind him spread a cork bulletin board on the wall, tacked with posters and flyers. He stretched out his hand, which felt meaty when Nan shook it. "I was very impressed by your Mandarin," Lourie said, smiling while licking his fleshy bottom lip. They had spoken on the phone two days earlier.
"Sank you for considering my application," Nan said.
"Thank you for applying. What are you doing at the moment?"
"I'm zer managing editor of a literary journal."
"Excellent. What's it called?"
"New Lines."
Lourie lowered his head and tried to recall. Then he said, "It doesn't ring a bell." "It's new."
"I see. Do you speak Cantonese?" "No, I don't." "Not at all?"
"To tell you zer truth, it's like a foreign language to me. But I can learn."
"That'll make it difficult for us. You see, many of our students speak Cantonese only. You'll have to explain everything in the language they can understand."
"So I'm disquawlified."
"I'm not saying that. We cannot make our decision until we've interviewed all the top applicants."
"Can you tell me how I'm ranked among zem?"
"That I can't. Tell you what, I can offer you a free ticket for our exhibition."
"Sure, sank you."
The other interview was at one o'clock, still an hour away, so Nan went into the Museum of Chinese Immigrant Culture, located on the top floor. The exhibition, however, disappointed him because it was very shabby. There were dozens of photographs on the walls, but just a few pieces of artwork were on display, one of which was an instrument called the Chum Kahm, a crossbreed of the guitar and the banjo. Some hardwood chests and colorful robes worn by early Chinese immigrants were also among the collection. Even newspapers, printer blocks, abacuses, writing brushes, and used ledgers were on show. The most impressive of all was a large bald eagle made of pinkish toilet tissue, standing atop a glass case and symbolizing the longing for freedom. Up close, Nan could see that it was composed of hundreds of miniature origami birds. It had been created by a group of incarcerated illegal aliens, who had been seized by the Coast Guard when the rickety boat smuggling them into America got stranded at Hawaii. As for written works, there were only a handful of books, by contemporary authors such as Maxine Hong Kingston, Amy Tan, and Gish Jen. Near a tall window stood a trash can collecting the water dripping from a leak in the ceiling. There wasn't another visitor in the poorly lighted room. The whole show was a letdown.
Nan came out of the building with a sinking heart. Questions, one after another, were arising in his mind. Why do they call that place a cultural museum? Why are there so few exhibits that can be called artwork? How come there's no Picasso or Faulkner or Mozart that emerged from the immigrants? Does this mean the first Chinese here were less creative and less artistic? Maybe so, because the early immigrants were impoverished and many were illiterate, and because they all had to slave away to feed themselves and their families, and had to concentrate their energy on settling down in this unfamiliar, discriminatory, fearsome land. Just uprooting themselves from their native soil must have crippled their lives and drained their vitality, not to mention their creativity. How could it be possible for an unfettered genius to rise from a tribe of coolies who were frightened, exhausted, mistreated, wretched, and possessed by the instinct for survival? Without leisure, how can art thrive?
The more Nan thought, the more upset he became.
3
WITH a sadness induced by those thoughts, with the conviction that the cultural center wouldn't hire him, Nan entered Ding's Dumplings on Pell Street. The owner of this place was Howard Ding, who looked weary, sitting behind the counter with his legs crossed and reading the New York Times. But when he raised his eyes to glance at Nan, his face turned alert and intelligent. He stood up and shook hands with the applicant. Though already in his fifties, he had a straight back and a full head of dark hair, which Nan thought might be dyed. Howard stood almost six feet, but every part of him was thin-thin eyes, thin nose, thin chest, thin limbs, and thin extremities. After talking with Nan for a few minutes, he handed him a book that had a gray cover and a red title: Practical English for Restaurant Personnel. He told Nan, "Your English is pretty fluent, but you may still need to familiarize yourself with some of the words and expressions in our business."
"Does zis mean you're going to hire me?"
"Yes. I like you." Howard was soft-spoken, but his voice was clear. "Let me ask you one more question, because I hate to change my staff too often. How long will you live in New York?"
"I don't know, probably a year or two."
"I won't hire temporary workers. We just lost two people who started only three months ago."
"You mean they're cawllege students." "Right. They went back to Maryland."
"Zen I will stay longer. I don't go to school. No need to worry." "Good, I'm glad to hear that. Have you waited tables before?"
"No."
"What kind of work experience do you have in a Chinese restaurant?"
"I don't have any."
"I like your candor. How about starting as a busboy?"
"Zat's fine." Nan frowned in spite of himself.
"Don't be discouraged. Everybody here starts from the bottom. I'm always fair with my employees. You can also help the chef in the kitchen. Your English is good, so you can wait tables, filling in for someone now and then. If you're really capable, you may end up a manager eventually. I have other restaurants in town and need all kinds of help." Howard peered at Nan.
"All right, I'll begin as a busboy."
"Keep in mind that you're also a helper in the kitchen." "It seems you want me to know every part of zis business." "That's exactly what I mean."
Nan had on his mind a newspaper job he had applied for, but he wouldn't let this opportunity slip away. He said, "When should I start?"
"Tomorrow morning at ten." "All right, I'll be here on time."
Despite saying that, he wasn't certain whether he really wanted the job. He was going to call the newspaper today to find out his chances with them.
He crossed Canal Street and somehow wandered onto Mott Street, where crowds of people gathered at a fair. Many of them clustered around jugglers, palm readers, quoit throwers, toy gun shooters, psychics arranging tarot cards, even a fire-eater wearing a red cape. A lot of foods were for sale on the sidewalks: sausages as thick as a human leg, giant pretzels revolving in glass ovens, kebabs sizzling on skewers, ravioli bobbing in boiling pots. Three young men in black T-shirts with the ideogram for "tolerance" printed on the front were performing kung fu massage on the people straddling the chairs that all had a ring affixed to the top for the customers to rest their faces on. Toward the end of the fair, two Chinese painters sat on canvas stools, one in his early thirties and the other middle-aged, both wearing Chicago Bulls caps. The older man was crying, "Anyone want a portrait?"