I walked to the Asian products store. I’d never been inside, but I had often seen the façade when driving down Avenida Fernández Juncos. On the same block there were a couple of topless bars and, a bit farther on, the empty lot where the city’s largest brothel had once stood. At this hour in the morning, the area was deserted.
When I walked into the poorly lit place stuffed with merchandise, my first impression was that I had traveled to another continent. Tall display shelves, crammed with products I’d never seen before, limited the walking space to a narrow passageway. In the back, there was an old desk and a man who reminded me of Li’s boss, but instead of his suits, this man was wearing a shirt covered in stains. Beyond where I could see, several people were having an animated discussion in Chinese.
I walked through the shelf-lined aisles, examining cans and bottles with labels inscribed in characters I found incomprehensible. I could identify their contents by the pictures but found it impossible to discern how they had been prepared. At the end of one of the aisles, I found a long, low table covered in newspapers and magazines, and above it a couple of small shelves with thin paperbacks. I took one. The cover showed some sort of mechanical superhero with a machine gun, and written on his metal breast in Latin characters, he bore the title of the adventure series: Predator. After the title page came the vertical paragraphs. Next to this tiny library were a good hundred videos, flanked by posters announcing martial art films from Hong Kong.
Farther back, past the boss’s desk — I acknowledged him with a bow of my head — were more shelves where they kept dried fish, large bottles of sesame oil and soy sauce, woks and kitchen utensils of every size. I stopped for a moment to examine the rows of bottles that constituted a small pharmacy of Asian remedies. Behind a curtain an unknown number of children and adult seemed to be bustling about, and against the back wall of the store there was an enormous refrigerator, out of which emerged an older woman carrying bags full of vegetables.
Li was nowhere to be seen. I approached the boss to ask about her. He shouted something in Chinese; the woman who had come from the refrigerator answered him and then pointed to a door I hadn’t noticed. Pushing it open, I found a staircase. The second floor led to a gallery around a tiny interior patio that marked the space between two buildings. Music or conversations could be heard coming from behind the doors. I knocked on one, which was answered by a man in a sleeveless T-shirt with a cigarette between his lips. Behind him was a narrow bed and a woman kneeling on the ground and facing a tub full of clothes and soap suds. The man made me repeat my question, then he went out onto the gallery and indicated with his hand that I should go to the end. I knocked on the last door, and when it opened, I found Li.
We did not kiss. Without a gesture from her, I knew that we were in a situation that called for extreme decorum. Near the small window, which opened onto the side wall of the neighboring building, were two men. Li led me to them. A short and very thin old man was sitting in an easy chair covered in clear plastic. On a chair facing backward rested a young man. The old man, named Wen Da, was Li’s granduncle. Bai Bo was her cousin. I sat down on the rickety old bed. Li brought me a glass of tea before sitting down by my side. The relatives talked among themselves. Li seemed to be explaining to them who I was, but I guessed from the brevity of their exchange that this was old news and that their words constituted a sort of prologue. The two men must have been waiting for me.
Calligraphy, landscapes, and ink drawings of birds hung from the walls. Drafting implements were on the table, and in a corner by the door were about a hundred books organized into piles. The old man spoke almost in a whisper, his voice hoarse. He was extraordinarily skinny, and his smile held only a couple of teeth. Through Li, he asked whether I liked the tea. Again, I raised the glass to my lips, tasted the harsh, earthy infusion, and nodded. Then he said that I would have health and long life if I drank several cups a day.
I noted that Bai, Li’s cousin whom I had seen fleetingly around the restaurant, was glaring at me without ever directing a word my way. I played with my glass of tea, looked at the worn linoleum on the floor or out the window at the wall of the building next door, having no intention of getting involved in the conversation. After Li laughed with Wen, Bai said something that made her lower her gaze and answer with a short phrase that sounded harsh. Then he finished his tea and left without saying good-bye. From the doorway, he responded to his cousin. When he was gone we sat in silence.
— What happened? I asked.
— Forgive Bai, Li said after the sound of his sandals disappeared down the staircase. He’s always been like that.
— It doesn’t matter, I said, not understanding.
— Wen was an attorney in China, she said, changing the subject. But he also studied art. All the drawings are his.
I looked around the walls. The images were traditionaclass="underline" rivers, mountains, birds among bamboo shoots, examples of calligraphy that were probably the names of people or quotes from texts, all done with a skilled hand.
To say something, I asked him if he still worked at it.
— He says it is strenuous work, and he can’t see well and is too tired.
— What do you read? I asked, pointing to the piles of books.
— Old books, Li translated.
We drank a second cup of tea in the old man’s room. Wen Da was kind enough to show me his brushes, the rolls of rice paper, the inksticks. He searched through his books and handed me yellowing editions of Huanchu Daoren, Huang Po, and Chuang Tzu in the original language. Recognizing their names, I mentioned the Tao. Wen seemed happy that I knew something about the topic and spoke with enthusiasm. Li’s translation was exceedingly laconic:
— He is talking about the Taoist practices he has followed.
— Why is he here? I asked.
— He came with our group, Li explained. He actually isn’t my granduncle, but it makes no difference, I love him just as much. He worked in the restaurants with us, as a cook for many years, but he was different from the rest. As you see, he has books, and he’s a painter.
— Do you come visit him often?
— Whenever I can. He’s the only one I consider family.
— And Bai, your cousin?
— He doesn’t count, like the rest.
— Why did he leave?
— He can’t stand the sight of you.
— Seriously? It bothers him that you’re with someone who isn’t Chinese.
— It’s more than that, and it isn’t worth talking about. Bai, like all of us, has spent his whole life surround by woks or watching kung fu movies. He doesn’t know anything else, and he’s a pig.