heavy
double load. Proudly, he sidestepped
through alleyways and around corners, and up and over
the raised threshold into the courtyard,
brought that water home where he would stay.
His host—Lai Lu Gaw,
Brother Lai Lu—praised and thanked
Witt Man Gaw—shouted, “A good person
has come to visit us!” Out of the dark
of an open doorway appeared a woman. How
to describe Beauty? Perfection. Symmetry. Beyond
compare in all aspects—intelligence of gaze,
tallness of stature, star presence, gentilesse.
Not young, not old. Just right.
What a good man am I, able
to love looks so not-American. Bro
Lai Lu introduced her as Moy Moy.
Younger Sister. (Lower tone: Plum Plum.)
They’re not husband and wife. Father and daughter?
Brother bade brother, Come in,
la. Sit, la. Rest, la.
Home, la. The men sat on stools
at a low table. The woman brought tea;
she poured. With both hands, she
held the cup out to the guest, who
quickly accepted it with his 2 hands.
I am paying you my full attention.
The Communists and the Cultural Revolution have not
wiped out manners. Hosts and guest drank
without speaking. From the dark loft hung,
high and low, dried and drying plants,
tree branches, gourds with writing on them, clusters
of seeds, baskets. On the ground, the dirt floor,
all around were open jars and sealed
jars, bales, bundles, sheaves. We
are bowered in a nest. Smell: medicine herbs,
chrysanthemum, mustard, licorice, cilantro,
vinegar. The poor save everything, all
they make and grow, and so feel abundant.
Please don’t want to be like us. Don’t want.
Host as well as hostess carried from stove
and cooler, from pots and jars, dishes of brown
foods. A cauldron of white rice, enough
for meal after meal. The brown foods
tasted like jerked meat, sausage, brined
and sugared citrus and plums. Moy Moy
got up, and cooked afresh peas and choy,
greens of the new harvest. Back-home
Chinese, too, cook throughout
the dinner party, everybody in
the kitchen. The hostess began conversation:
“Are you married?” What answer but Yes?
“Yes. She’s not Chinese.” Too
small vocabulary, blurt it all. “She’s
white ghost woman. Her name, Taña,
means Play.” (
Fawn
. Lower tone:
Food.
)
“I married Play. Heh heh.
I married Food. She married me.
I am with her more years than I am without her.”
Hard to parley verb tenses. And impossible
to admit: Marry white, escape karma.
“How much money did you pay
for your airplane ticket?” She’s rude, bad
manners East and West to ask cost.
Truth-caring Wittman answered, “One
thousand dollars one-way.” Impossible
to explain redeeming coupons, miles, life
savings. “Waaah! One thousand dollars!?!
What do you do to make such money?”
“I write.” Impossible to explain the life
in theater. The moneymaking wife. “So,
how do
you
make
your
money?” “Farmer
peasants don’t make money, don’t
use cash.” They live as most human
beings have lived, directly on ground that gives
work and sustenance. “Mr. American Teacher,
will you marry me, and get me out
of the countryside?” “But I’m already married.
I have a wife and son.” “No matter.
No problem. Marry me, a Chinese
woman. Chinese women are beautiful,
kind, and good.” “I came but today to the country-
side, and do not want to leave it.”
The brother spoke up, “I want to
stay in the countryside too. I learned
the lesson Chairman Mao sent us down
to learn: The people who work the earth know
true good life.” “Where were you
sent down from?” “Shanghai City.”
The Shanghainese took the worst
punishment in the 10 Years of Great Calamity.
“We read. Both of us, readers. So sent
down, Moy Moy to Xinjiang,
I to another part of Xinjiang,
far far west, beyond Xizang,
almost beyond China. There are Uighur
Chinese, Muslim Chinese,
Xizang Chinese. The women—
they’re so free—whirl and twirl,
raise their arms to the sky. The music
double load. Proudly, he sidestepped
through alleyways and around corners, and up and over
the raised threshold into the courtyard,
brought that water home where he would stay.
His host—Lai Lu Gaw,
Brother Lai Lu—praised and thanked
Witt Man Gaw—shouted, “A good person
has come to visit us!” Out of the dark
of an open doorway appeared a woman. How
to describe Beauty? Perfection. Symmetry. Beyond
compare in all aspects—intelligence of gaze,
tallness of stature, star presence, gentilesse.
Not young, not old. Just right.
What a good man am I, able
to love looks so not-American. Bro
Lai Lu introduced her as Moy Moy.
Younger Sister. (Lower tone: Plum Plum.)
They’re not husband and wife. Father and daughter?
Brother bade brother, Come in,
la. Sit, la. Rest, la.
Home, la. The men sat on stools
at a low table. The woman brought tea;
she poured. With both hands, she
held the cup out to the guest, who
quickly accepted it with his 2 hands.
I am paying you my full attention.
The Communists and the Cultural Revolution have not
wiped out manners. Hosts and guest drank
without speaking. From the dark loft hung,
high and low, dried and drying plants,
tree branches, gourds with writing on them, clusters
of seeds, baskets. On the ground, the dirt floor,
all around were open jars and sealed
jars, bales, bundles, sheaves. We
are bowered in a nest. Smell: medicine herbs,
chrysanthemum, mustard, licorice, cilantro,
vinegar. The poor save everything, all
they make and grow, and so feel abundant.
Please don’t want to be like us. Don’t want.
Host as well as hostess carried from stove
and cooler, from pots and jars, dishes of brown
foods. A cauldron of white rice, enough
for meal after meal. The brown foods
tasted like jerked meat, sausage, brined
and sugared citrus and plums. Moy Moy
got up, and cooked afresh peas and choy,
greens of the new harvest. Back-home
Chinese, too, cook throughout
the dinner party, everybody in
the kitchen. The hostess began conversation:
“Are you married?” What answer but Yes?
“Yes. She’s not Chinese.” Too
small vocabulary, blurt it all. “She’s
white ghost woman. Her name, Taña,
means Play.” (
Fawn
. Lower tone:
Food.
)
“I married Play. Heh heh.
I married Food. She married me.
I am with her more years than I am without her.”
Hard to parley verb tenses. And impossible
to admit: Marry white, escape karma.
“How much money did you pay
for your airplane ticket?” She’s rude, bad
manners East and West to ask cost.
Truth-caring Wittman answered, “One
thousand dollars one-way.” Impossible
to explain redeeming coupons, miles, life
savings. “Waaah! One thousand dollars!?!
What do you do to make such money?”
“I write.” Impossible to explain the life
in theater. The moneymaking wife. “So,
how do
you
make
your
money?” “Farmer
peasants don’t make money, don’t
use cash.” They live as most human
beings have lived, directly on ground that gives
work and sustenance. “Mr. American Teacher,
will you marry me, and get me out
of the countryside?” “But I’m already married.
I have a wife and son.” “No matter.
No problem. Marry me, a Chinese
woman. Chinese women are beautiful,
kind, and good.” “I came but today to the country-
side, and do not want to leave it.”
The brother spoke up, “I want to
stay in the countryside too. I learned
the lesson Chairman Mao sent us down
to learn: The people who work the earth know
true good life.” “Where were you
sent down from?” “Shanghai City.”
The Shanghainese took the worst
punishment in the 10 Years of Great Calamity.
“We read. Both of us, readers. So sent
down, Moy Moy to Xinjiang,
I to another part of Xinjiang,
far far west, beyond Xizang,
almost beyond China. There are Uighur
Chinese, Muslim Chinese,
Xizang Chinese. The women—
they’re so free—whirl and twirl,
raise their arms to the sky. The music
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