A Long Stay in a Distant Land Page 10

  Uncle Bo first met Julie at the Hong Kong Museum of Art. She was a docent leading his tour group through the Antiquities Section.

  "I noticed she was a beauty when she pointed out a white marble Guanyin from the Eastern Wei dynasty," Uncle Bo wrote. "She smiled at me when we passed by the palm-sized red lacquer boxes from the Yuan dynasty. I asked her out next to a Ming dynasty jade water jar shaped like a dragon-headed tortoise. She told me to wait while she answered questions from the other tour members who were asking about scrolls and dresses. When we reached the Qing dynasty, she stood in front of an ivory snuff bottle and told me she would be busy that night. She led us on and pointed at a libation cup made out of a rhinoceros horn. It was painted red with dragons carved around the outside in relief, and there at the end of the Qing dynasty, I realized I would marry her."

  Uncle Bo soon became a regular of her museum tours and convinced her to agree to a date. More dates followed. They eventually married and honeymooned in Thailand, where they rode elephants. Louis was happy for his uncle's happiness. He delighted at each description Uncle Bo provided of Julie—her ability to perfectly mimic the monkey from Aladdin, for example.

  After she died, Uncle Bo stopped writing and the story of Sung2's journey, at fifty-five pages, was left unfinished.

  He wrote his uncle.

  "How did Sung2 get home? When he was away, did his family believe he was dead? Did they hold a funeral service for him? Did a lot of people attend?

  "Are you still doing research at the library?

  "Exercise. It's good to sweat when you're upset."

  His father asked him to stop writing. "Yes, I mean no more letters until he writes you. He wants to be left alone. Nobody's at fault. I don't know when he'll write back."

  Every afternoon Louis checked the mailbox, hoping for a letter from Uncle Bo. He asked Grandma Esther if she had any contact with him.

  "I have his address, but he told me not to visit," she said. "I have his number, but he told me not to call. I send him a form. He fills it out. He's alive. He has a job and continues to plan on waking the next day. That's good enough for me."

  A year passed. Uncle Bo could fill out Grandma's forms, but not write him a letter. He tried to forget his uncle as his uncle had probably forgotten about him. But he couldn't forget and so he put to good use what had been written.

  He plagiarized sections of Sung2's life for his seventh-grade family history report, the majority of which covered the Mongolian invasion of Japan. Mrs. Keller wrote, "I appreciate your ambition in reaching so far back into history, but don't you think fourteen pages (out of twenty) on the Mongols is a bit much? What about your family today? (I really did enjoy your technical discussion of ancient flamethrowers and catapults, though.)" She gave him an A minus, the A for vivid details of Mongolian cavalry and weapons, the minus for writing so little on his family in the twentieth century.

  He plagiarized the report again in high school for a research paper on genealogy. By college, Louis had dismissed Sung2's life as fiction. He dismissed it as easily as Uncle Bo had dismissed him. He dismissed it to spite his uncle, who had had years to grieve, enough time to write a note or a letter. "Hi Louis, sorry I didn't write back," he could've written, or "Hi Louis, how have you been?"

  Was he dead or alive? Was he still in Hong Kong?

  Louis had always taken comfort in knowing the facts. He enjoyed verifying names, dates, and numbers. It was what made his editorial assistant work fun despite the meager paycheck. His father was Sonny and his mother Mirla. Grandpa had blown Nazis away with a machine gun in France. Death looked like Grandpa and had wiped out half the Orange County Lums. The word cleave suggested coming together or apart. Louis knew all this and once knew he'd been descended from Lum Sung Sung.

  He'd given Uncle Bo the benefit of the doubt. He'd believed his uncle would finish the story of Sung2's life, which he'd presented as the main focus of his family history report. It was Sung2 who'd been featured, not Granduncle Phil and his discovery of diphenhydramine hydrochloride, not his mother and her high school math exploits, and definitely not Grandpa and his stint in France. He'd believed his uncle had cared enough to share a piece of family history the other Lums didn't know about. He'd believed his uncle would at least write back to let him know he wouldn't be writing anymore, and the man never did.

  Point of Departure

  (2002)

  Esther was surprised to see him. "Come in. How are you doing?"

  "Fine," Louis said. He followed her into the living room and sat down on the sofa. She sat next to him.

  "Your father shouldn't drink so much."

  "He didn't drink much at all."

  "You look confused," she said.

  "You always say 'your father,' when you talk about my father, but you don't say 'your uncle,' when you talk about Uncle Bo. You say Bo."

  "Sonny's your father. If Bo had a son, I'd say 'your father' to that boy, too."

  Louis thought it over. "I want to go to Hong Kong and look for Uncle Bo. I want to go alone."

  "I'm not an invalid," she said. "I won't slow you down."

  "You have to stay here and watch your son."

  "You said he's okay," Esther said.

  "I didn't say that. You assumed it."

  "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

  "He wants to kill the man who killed Mom."

  "How long has he felt like this?"

  "A long time."

  "He's depressed," she said.

  "He's thinking about murdering someone. That's not just being depressed."

  "Fine."

  "He's your son," Louis said. There was anger in his voice.

  "I know that."

  "You've known him longer than I have," Louis said. "You raised him. You told him what he could and couldn't do for eighteen years. If I had your experience, I'd try to figure out a way to change his mind. He won't listen to me. There's a chance he'll listen to you. He's crazy."

  "Don't call him crazy," she said.

  "He's a freaking lunatic."

  "You're right. You haven't known him as long as I have. Don't call him a freaking lunatic."

  "Then what is he?"

  "Don't call him those names," she said.

  "My Cantonese is passable. I'm good with directions. I walk fast. I'll find out what happened to Uncle Bo, but you have to stay with Dad."

  "You think he'd do it?" she asked.

  "I moved in with him because he said he would."

  "Maybe he just wants company. Maybe he doesn't really want to do it."

  "Maybe he does," Louis said.

  "You've done a generous thing by watching over him," she said.

  "If I have to watch over him much longer, I'll kill Hersey Collins myself."

  "Why do you want to find your uncle?" she asked. This was important. If she was going to stay and watch Sonny, and hand the search to Louis, she needed to know he would see it through to its conclusion.

  "He never responded to the last letter I sent him," Louis said. "He owes me an explanation."

  "I understand."

  Louis's father was pouring a glass of milk. It was four in the morning. "What are you doing up?"

  "Getting something to drink," Louis said.

  "Here."

  "Thanks."

  "Welcome."

  "I'm leaving," Louis said.

  His father checked the clock on the microwave. "Going out for a breakfast burrito? Grab me one."

  "I'm going to look for Uncle Bo in Hong Kong. I talked to Grandma about it last night. She agreed to let me go by myself."

  "He's alive," his father said. "You don't need to look for him."

  "I want to."

  "I'm making you so miserable you're leaving the country?"

  his father asked.

  "It's not only because of you."

  "When I said your mother was like my right leg, I meant she was very, very important to me. I could have said she was like my heart, but I wouldn't have meant
that. The legs are two of the most important parts of the body."

  "Okay."

  "You think I've insulted her," his father said.

  "It's too early in the morning to argue."

  "What I said about her was the highest compliment I could give anyone. That's what I'm saying."

  "Fine," Louis said. "I believe you."

  "You don't." His father walked to his room.

  "I'm going out for a breakfast burrito," Louis said. "You want one?"

  "No."

  Louis left and when he returned, music was pumping from his father's room, the bass quaking the walls. He knocked on his father's door. The music stopped and the door opened. "What?"

  "Breakfast burrito," Louis said.

  "I said I didn't want one."

  "Here."

  His father took it. "Thanks."

  "What were you listening to?" Louis asked.

  His father motioned for him to come in.

  On the bed was an album by someone named Biz Markie. In front of the closet was a stack of vinyl records. "You can take a look if you want."

  Louis knelt down and flipped through them. The album covers all featured black men. Some wore red Adidas jumpsuits and gold chains around their necks. Some didn't. Some looked pissed off. Some didn't. They were Grandmaster Flash & Furious Five, Rhythm Heritage, Afrika Bambaataa, Eric B. & Rakim, Run DMC, Public Enemy, and more. Some he'd heard of, most he hadn't. "When did you start drinking malt liquor?"

  "Years ago," his father said.

  "Who introduced you to it?" Louis asked.

  "A neighbor."

  "Where were you living?"

  "Santa Ana."

  "I'd like to have one pleasant conversation with you before I leave," Louis said.

  "I was living a mile down from where you were living, on Fairview."

  "Nice place?"

  "A shithole like your place was," his father said. "It was burglarized twice before I moved out.

  "The first time it happens, I come home and the place is a mess. My neighbor Vu comes downstairs and knocks on my door. Says he's sorry. Says he saw them take my stuff. Says he should have called the cops, but was afraid the burglars would come back and kill him.

  "I tell him I would have called the cops if I was in his place. You can't live your life in fear, I say. They took my goddamn mattress.

  "Says he feels terrible about not making the call. I sleep on the floor with the roaches, I tell him. I don't even have a bowl for rice. He leaves and comes back with a couple bottles of malt liquor. Says it's all the food he has."

  "I never knew you lived so close to my old place," Louis said. "Your mother didn't allow alcohol in the house. She didn't like hip-hop, either. She thought the bass would make her go deaf. She wanted a quiet house with no alcohol, and I respected her preferences. She was so happy when you started listening to REO Speedwagon."

  "Were you always this bad a drinker?" Louis asked.

  "Takes time to build up tolerance, boy."

  "Your tolerance was much higher before?"

  "Yeah."

  "When you used to drink regularly?" Louis asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Really?" Louis asked.

  "I said yeah."

  "You plan to keep drinking it?" Louis asked.

  "You poured what I had on the front lawn."

  "You plan on buying more?"

  "Malt liquor tastes like crap," his father said.

  "Why'd you buy a case?" Louis asked.

  "I liked the idea I could keep it in the house. I didn't think you'd react like your mother."

  "Sorry."

  "I'm thinking of switching to gin anyway," his father said. "It's healthier."

  Louis put the records down. If his father had told him the malt liquor story years before, he could have included it in his family history report, and his father would have occupied more than one line.

  His father plucked a record from the stack and put it on the turntable. "I'll play you a standard."

  "It's called 'A Standard'?" Louis asked.

  It was called "Rapper's Delight." As the track played, his father nodded his head to the beat and his lips approximated a smile. After it finished, his father asked, "You coming back in a few weeks?"

  "Your burrito's getting cold," Louis said.

  His father paused, like he wanted to repeat his question, then unwrapped his breakfast and took a bite. "This is different from my usual."

  "It's a deluxe," Louis said.

  "What's in a deluxe?"

  "Eggs and sausage. Bell peppers. Onions. Beans."

  "I don't like bell peppers," his father said.

  Esther called Hong Kong again. "Tell me where he is," she said to the landlady.

  "I can't. He made me promise not to."

  "You're killing me."

  "Please," the landlady said.

  "I've had two open-heart surgeries. My husband died in World War II and I raised Bo all by myself. But I don't want pity. I just want to hear his voice one last time before I die."

  "Can't you take comfort in knowing he's alive?" the landlady asked. "You can ask a hundred times and I'll tell you a hundred times he's alive and in good health."

  "That's not good enough," Esther said.

  "Please see a doctor if you have pain."

  "You cold, cold dog."

  "He's safe."

  "You don't deserve to be a mother," Esther said.

  "He loves you."

  "Heartless rat."

  The landlady refused to reveal what she knew over the phone, and would refuse again in followup conversations that adhered to the same pattern—request for information, refusal to provide information, insult landlady, request for information again, refusal again, insult landlady again.

  Esther believed that when the landlady saw that a member of Bo's family had flown thousands of miles to search for him, she'd no doubt feel so guilty she'd have to reveal where Bo was.

  "That's what you're counting on?" Louis asked. "You're counting on her to have a change of heart just because I'm knocking on her door?"

  "She's a mother. She understands my concern. And you'll knock on her door every night until she tells you. You can go sightseeing during the day, but at night you knock on her door."

  "What if she calls the cops?" Louis asked.

  "She won't do that. She's never hung up on me even after I called her names."

  "You called her names?"

  Esther wanted physical proof that Bo was alive and well.

  "A photo's good, right?" Louis asked.

  "Best if I can talk to him. Next best thing would be a picture you take of him. Bring me a shirt. A pair of pants. Physical evidence. You have enough pocket money?"

  "I've got enough for three weeks," Louis said.

  "What if it takes more than three weeks?"

  "If the landlady won't tell me in three weeks, she won't tell me."

  "She'll tell you," Esther said.

  "I hope so. My boss only gave me three weeks off."

  "We're here," Sonny said. Louis was next to him, Ah-Mah in the backseat.

  "Don't park in the lot," Louis said. "Just pull up to the curb."

  "I'm not going to leave you at the curb."

  "You can't walk me in anyway. See the guards with the automatic rifles? You can't walk past check-in anymore unless you have a boarding pass. Security's changed."

  There was gridlock. Cars were stuck end to end, side by side, slowly circling the LAX terminals.

  "Then I'll walk you as far as I can," Sonny said.

  "That would be the curb," Louis said.

  Sonny groaned. He pulled over and a guard checked the trunk. They stepped out and Louis removed his black tote bag and brown suitcase from the car. He set them on the ground and hugged his grandmother.

  "Have a safe flight," Sonny said, and patted him on the arm.

  "I'll call you when I land," Louis said.

  "Have a safe flight," Sonny said again.

&nb
sp; "I will."

  "Louis," Sonny said.

  "Jesus. I'll have a safe flight." Louis slung his bag over his shoulder and lifted his suitcase.

  "Request a seat next to an emergency exit," Sonny said.

  "I was going to do that anyway."

  "And make sure you know how to use the oxygen mask," Sonny said.

  "I do."

  "It's a long flight," Ah-Mah said.

  "Don't worry about it. I want to find him and make you happy."

  "Is that true?" Ah-Mah asked.

  "And I need to get out of the country for a while."

  "Can you say that again?" Ah-Mah asked.

  "I need to get out of the country for a while."

  "What you said before," Ah-Mah said.

  "I want to make you happy?" Louis asked.

  "Say it again."

  "I want to make you happy."

  She smiled.

  "Are you okay, Ah-Mah?" Sonny asked.

  "Quiet," she said. "One more time."

  "I want to make you happy," Louis said.

  "Thank you."

  "You still remember your Cantonese, right?" Sonny asked.

  "Yeah, it's great," Louis said. A pause. "It's passable." Another pause. "I'm sure people there speak English."

  His son gave them a final wave. Then he turned and walked past the armed guards, through the sliding glass doors, and out of sight.

  Speaking Cantonese So-So Dkay

  (1990)

  Louis believed he spoke Cantonese much better than so-so okay, which was how Grandma, who taught him the dialect, described his proficiency in it.

  There were seven tones, three more than in Mandarin. Speaking correctly was not only a matter of pronouncing the correct word. It involved pronouncing the correct word with the correct intonation. High. High rising. High falling. Middle. Low. Low rising. Low falling.

  Every Saturday between the ages of eight and fourteen, Louis learned Cantonese from Grandma, which was to say every Saturday she popped into her cassette player one of a series of Cantonese instructional tapes, pressed play, and went to the patio to read while he listened.

  The series was entitled How Are You, Willy Lau? and featured the travels of Willy Lau and his son Joseph. They launched off Cape Canaveral in a space shuttle with the mission of foresting the moon. They buckled on steel armor, polished their scabbards, and sailed westward for the Americas on Spanish galleons. They joined Roman legions in repelling hordes of fur-covered Vandals in the woods of what is now Germany. They went to the San Diego Zoo {"Ah-Bah, paau! Father, leopard!").