The offer saddened Nan in a way. It reminded him of his interview seven years ago with Howard, the owner of Ding's Dumplings in Manhattan. Howard too had meant to make him a manager eventually. Nan 's life now seemed to have come back in a circle to the starting point. Yet he could see that he was no longer the same man. He had been toughened by the struggle, by the mistakes he had made, by the necessary process of acclimatization that a regular immigrant like himself would have to go through. What's more, his family had a relatively stable life. He could even say he was a better man now, wiser and more capable, and determined to follow his own heart.
When sitting at the front desk in the small hours, he'd think about his life, especially about his twelve and a half years in America. Many things previously unclear to him had become transparent. The notion of the American dream had bewildered him for a good decade; now he knew that to him, such a dream was not something to be realized but something to be pursued only. This must be the true meaning of Emerson's dictum "Hitch your wagon to a star." To be a free individual, he had to go his own way, had to endure loneliness and isolation, and had to give up the illusion of success in order to accept his diminished state as a new immigrant and as a learner of this alphabet. More than that, he had to take the risk of wasting his life without getting anywhere and of becoming a joke in others' eyes. Finally, he had to be brave enough to devote himself not to making money but to writing poetry, willing to face failure.
On Christmas Eve, which was a Friday, he wrote a poem for Ping-ping for the first time in his life. The lines came naturally and effortlessly as he jotted them down in his notebook. Seeing the words on the paper, he was moved, also awed, his vision blurred a little. The poem went:
Still, I went on scouring the clouds for a face that might blow the shimmer of my brain into blazing lines. With a seething heart I wobbled through the air, chasing a sublime haze.
Having read the poem once more, he wept, tears wetting his fingers. Never had he been able to write with such fluency and feeling. He revised the poem numerous times, rearranging some lines and replacing a word here and there. He worked hard at it.
After four o'clock sleep finally claimed him. He rested his head on a rubber pad on the counter and dozed off. His Collins Cobuild Dictionary sat beside his elbow, on top of which was a volume of Linda Dewit's poems. By now he used only monolingual dictionaries so that he could understand the definitions of words more accurately and learn the language faster.
"Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas to you too!"
Nan was wakened by the joyous greetings in the corridor leading to the kitchen. The low-pitched lobby smelled of fresh coffee and muffins. He rubbed his eyes and smiled as Mr. Lee, in a gray anorak, stepped in to replace him. Even though he had to work on the holiday, Nan felt genuinely happy. "Merry Christmas!" he said to his boss.
Mr. Lee looked at him in perplexity, though he greeted him back. "I thought you'd be upset about working tonight," he said inquiringly.
"No, I'll be happy to work here every night." Nan beamed despite his tired face.
As Nan headed for his car, a homeless man, Jimmy, who was a veteran of the Vietnam War and often mooched cigarettes from passersby, was sitting on his heels with his back against the wall of the motel. He stood up, grinning at Nan, and said, "Merry Christmas, sir. Can you spare some change?" He put out his dark-skinned hand, his ring and little fingers missing.
"Merry Christmas!" Nan cried back. He thrust his hand into his hip pocket, pulled out four singles and some coins-all the money in there-and gave them to Jimmy.
Jimmy said, "You gave me a real holiday, sir. Thank you!"
"Buy yourself a cahp of coffee and a doughnut."
"I will."
Nan could feel Jimmy's eyes following him all the way to his van. The sky was overcast and the wind chilly. It threatened snow. He lifted his head to watch the low nimbus clouds. Snow would make today more like Christmas, and Pingping and Taotao might roll a snowball again in their backyard. Nan felt sleepy, his forehead numb, yet he was strong in spirit. He pulled out of the parking lot and turned on the radio, which was playing a swelling carol. He reminded himself that he mustn't nod off on his way home.
EPILOGUE
EXTRACTS FROM NAN WU'S POETRY JOURNAL
January 3, 1998
THE OTHER DAY, at the used book store Book Nook, I picked up a volume of poetry, A Peculiar Time, by Dabney Stockwell. Having read it through, I feel it's a remarkable book: fresh, elegant, intimate, and full of mysterious lines. But there's no way to find more information on this poet, who should be in his seventies if he's still alive. Neither Barnes amp; Noble nor Borders carries his books. This saddens me, because it shows how fragile and ephemeral a poet's reputation can be. In the acknowledgments, Stockwell listed the magazines in which most of the poems had originally appeared. Obviously he was known, if not famous, when the book was published in 1969. No matter how good one's poetry is, its survival seems to depend on chance. Therefore, one shouldn't expect any success. In the end there may be only failure.
January 30, 1998
I have found that the addressee, the "you," in lyrical poems is vital in shaping the poetic voice. It functions like a sounding board that helps determine the level of diction and the volume and tone of the speech. Generally speaking, it's more effective to identify the addressee in a poem so that the readers can be clear who is speaking to whom.
March 9, 1998
Good news. Yellow Leaves accepted two poems, "Pomegranates" and "The Drake." Though it returned my other three pieces, this is my first acceptance, which I hope portends an auspicious beginning. The editor suggested only one minor revision-deleting a comma. I revised four other poems slightly and sent them out to Still Water Review.
April 7, 1998
For a long time I couldn't decide in what kind of English I should write. I used to avoid using American English because some of my poems were set in China. These days I feel I must depend on the American idiom and stop confining myself to the neutral English like that used in the Holy Bible, NIV My subject matter would eventually be American, so I should get myself ready for the task of speaking in the American idiom. I mustn't live in the past and must focus on the present and the future.
May 4, 1998
Heard from Arrows today. Its editor, Gail Upchurch, urges me to quit writing poetry. She wrote, "I admire your courage, but I should let you know you are wasting your time. English is too hard for you. You may be able to write prose in English eventually, but poetry is impossible. So don't waste your time anymore. Do something you can do. For instance, write a memoir about the Cultural Revolution, which I'm sure will be marketable. Or write some personal essays. In brief, the way you use the language is too clumsy. For a native speaker like myself, it almost amounts to an insult."
Screw the memoir! It's a kiddie form. I don't mind insulting someone by my writing. A poet is supposed to outrage people. Gail Upchurch spoke as if I hadn't known I was waging a losing battle, and she didn't know I already accepted myself as a loser who has nothing to lose anymore. To write poetry is to exist.