A Long Stay in a Distant Land Read online

  "What kind of a response is that?" Louis asked, his voice loud.

  "Don't be upset. You're my favorite nephew."

  "You never knew my cousins," Louis said. "Why didn't you write back?"

  Uncle Bo glanced at the ceiling, then at the table.

  "You could have let me know you weren't writing anymore," Louis said.

  Uncle Bo opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again.

  "Answer a simple question," Louis said.

  "Don't shout at me."

  "I'm not shouting!"

  "Eat some fries!" Uncle Bo pushed his tray toward Louis. Louis pushed it off the table and the fries scattered on the ground.

  Uncle Bo looked at the floor.

  "Answer the question," Louis said.

  A McDonald's employee came by. "The garbage can's over there. It's for garbage." He cleaned up the mess on the floor and shot a long stare at Louis as he walked away.

  "You know what makes me happy?" Uncle Bo asked. "Single room. Heavy black curtains. A mattress on the floor and a thick comforter. Bottles of water. Tins of sardines. No phone. No television. Air conditioner set to high so I can cover myself head to toe in the comforter all day."

  Louis wasn't sure how to respond to that. He wanted an answer to his question. Maybe this was his uncle's answer. This was some fucked-up answer.

  Uncle Bo glanced at his watch.

  "Am I keeping you up?" Louis asked. "Early day tomorrow?"

  "I start work at three in the morning. I'm usually up this time of night. You're not keeping me up."

  "I shouldn't have knocked the fries off the table," Louis said. "Made more work for that kid."

  "Julie never yelled, hardly ever raised her voice."

  "You want to talk about her?" Louis asked.

  "Do you want to listen?"

  "If you're not going to answer my question, I don't care what you talk about. I just need to bring Grandma proof you're alive."

  Uncle Bo thought about it. "How's your father doing?"

  "He's been driving me crazy."

  "I'm sorry about your mother," Uncle Bo said.

  "He's been a pain," Louis said.

  "He can be a difficult man."

  "I live with him now."

  "That must be hard," Uncle Bo said.

  "He can be irritating," Louis said.

  Uncle Bo nodded.

  "But I can't ignore him," Louis said. "And I don't understand why you'd ignore your mother. Make her cry."

  "She's not the crying type."

  "She wasn't before."

  "She's a tough woman," Uncle Bo said.

  "I don't understand why you can't return a damn form if all you have to do is check some boxes, especially when it comes with a self-addressed stamped envelope."

  Uncle Bo was quiet.

  "I'm going to order something to eat." Louis got up and walked to the row of registers. He placed his order with the boy who'd swept away the fries.

  "If you can please keep this off the floor, I'd appreciate it." The boy slapped two cheeseburgers down on the tray.

  Louis returned to the table. "Want one?"

  Uncle Bo shook his head. "You said your father's been driving you crazy. How?"

  "I didn't come here to talk about him."

  "I'd like to know how he's doing," Uncle Bo said.

  Louis looked at his food. "He wants to kill the guy who killed Mom."

  "Do you want to kill him?"

  "No," Louis said.

  "I don't believe in violence, either."

  "You also don't believe in responding to letters from relatives."

  "I should have let you know I wasn't going to write any­more," Uncle Bo said. "Your grandmother—"

  "Your mother," Louis said.

  "My mother has a strong grip," Uncle Bo said. "I left for Berkeley when I was seventeen. My parents dropped me off at my dorm and she hugged me before leaving. About as strong as the bear hugs Sonny used to give me as a kid. He'd squeeze until it hurt to breathe. He'd leave bruises on my sides. She had that kind of a grip. She gave me that hug twice in my life. At Berkeley and before I left for Hong Kong."

  "You're exaggerating," Louis said.

  "No," Uncle Bo said. "Filling out those forms was like getting a bear hug from her. Every box I marked was a squeeze.

  "After Julie passed away, I felt squeezed just being around people. I'd get frustrated with them because they were alive and Julie was dead. Even people I considered friends. I'd get mad at them for breathing and taking up space on the subway, on the bus, in my home."

  "You want to talk about her?" Louis asked.

  "My mother?"

  "Aunt Julie."

  "Let me think about it," Uncle Bo said.

  Louis unwrapped one of the cheeseburgers and began eating. "The room you described, I've thought about it before. Something quiet and plain with no phone so I won't have to take any more calls from Dad. A place no one will think of visiting. San Bernardino. Bakersfield."

  "You understand?" Uncle Bo asked.

  "I wouldn't want to live in it permanently."

  "I'm glad you've thought about it," Uncle Bo said.

  Louis was considering the second cheeseburger.

  "You're not hungry?" Uncle Bo asked.

  "I'm not in the mood for fast food." Louis stood and tossed the burger into a garbage bin nearby. "I left my camera at the hotel. Come on. I need to take a photo of you."

  "Are you still hungry, Louis?"

  "Why?"

  "I know a better place to eat," Uncle Bo said.

  "Do they serve turnip cakes?"

  They talked on the sidewalk, the subway, and all the way back to Tsim Sha Tsui, where Uncle Bo took them to an all-night cafe in an alleyway off Granville Road. It was the size of a living room, with six small square tables placed against each other in two rows. The cafe was full and people were chatting outside.

  "It's worth the wait," Uncle Bo said.

  Twenty minutes later, they were waved inside to a table right next to the cash register, which rumbled and rang loudly whenever a customer came up to pay.

  Louis sat across from Uncle Bo, the two of them squeezed between other customers. The room was loud, warm, and filled with the aroma of hoisin sauce, bottles of which dotted the tabletops. The sauce was thick and had both a sweet and spicy flavor.

  Uncle Bo ordered two bowls of rice porridge with pork and preserved egg, a plate of gai Ian, and a plate of fried turnip cakes.

  "You like that stuff?" Uncle Bo asked.

  "Grandma makes it."

  "I remember."

  "I want to know what it should actually taste like," Louis said.

  Uncle Bo smiled.

  When the food arrived, Louis picked a piece of turnip cake with his chopsticks and held it in front of his nose.

  "It smells funny?" Uncle Bo asked.

  "No. I want to savor this."

  The cake was studded with diced beef and green onions. It smelled wonderful and Louis put it in his mouth. The texture was soft on the inside but not flaccid, and tough on the outside but not hard. It'd been perfectly fried, not burnt, not undercooked. It'd been prepared with discipline and devotion.

  "Good?" Uncle Bo asked.

  "I dream about this all the time. The dream doesn't come close." He slurped porridge from his spoon, bit into the crisp stems of the gai Ian, and listened while his uncle talked.

  Uncle Bo mentioned that Julie had admired the shape of his head, which she'd thought resembled a duck egg. She'd held a deep affection for and kept the refrigerator stocked with cases of soy milk. They'd both been late eaters and sleepers. Dinner had started at nine and bedtime had been one in the morning. Sometimes she'd allow them to sleep feet to face so he could dream cuddling her butt. "It was nice," Uncle Bo said.

  "Where do you work?" Louis asked.

  "A bakery." Uncle Bo spoke of his satisfaction with his job. He was a baker and worked from three in the morning until the afternoon. "It's peac
eful. Just me and the flour."

  Louis talked about his job at the magazine, which was not as satisfying, but which paid a salary that had afforded a studio apartment and food.

  Uncle Bo was surprised to hear that Louis's father was overweight, and happy to learn that Mick was lifting and in good shape.

  The waitress dropped off the check.

  "I'll get it," Uncle Bo said.

  Louis looked at the empty plates. "The food was delicious."

  "I'm sorry I didn't write back."

  "Thanks for dinner," Louis said.

  They shook hands in the lobby of the Grand Park Hotel.

  "I'm glad you're not dead," Louis said.

  "You can call Fei when you land. She'll let me know you've arrived home safely."

  "I don't want to trouble her any further," Louis said.

  "I'm sure you'll have no problems with your flight."

  "I'll be fine."

  "Take care." Uncle Bo turned to leave.

  "I have to run up and grab my camera," Louis said. "Come with me."

  "I'll wait down here," Uncle Bo said.

  "You'll leave."

  "I promise I'll be here."

  "I don't trust you," Louis said.

  "I'll be here. Hurry up and get the camera."

  Louis took the elevator up, ran to his room, picked up the camera, and ran back to the elevator, thinking on the way down, He won't be there.

  And he wasn't.

  Louis searched the lobby, looking behind the mermaids and the fountain before the concierge tapped his shoulder and said his uncle was outside.

  "Hey!" Uncle Bo called from across the street.

  Cars buzzed by. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks.

  "Take a long shot!" Uncle Bo waved for him to hurry up and take the picture.

  Louis looked through the viewfinder. His uncle's face was covered in shadow. He lowered the camera. "I'll come across!"

  "Do it from there!" Uncle Bo looked ready to run and Louis didn't want to chance having nothing.

  "Move to your right. By that sign!" Louis waved him to a spot in front of a restaurant window. Uncle Bo stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets, eyes glancing left and right, mouth an even line. The restaurant's white neon lights lit him from above. Taped to the window was a sign that read in big black letters:

  ROASTED DUCK & PORK! FRESH + FULLY INSPECTED MEAT!

  His uncle's face was small from this distance, but the light from the sign helped. Louis could at least make out facial expressions. He waited for human traffic to pass out of his frame. "One two three!" He snapped. He snapped again and again.

  "Are you done yet?" Uncle Bo asked.

  "Almost! Are you capable of smiling?"

  Uncle Bo forced a small grin that looked menacing.

  "Go back to your normal face!" Louis snapped several more times before his uncle started backing away.

  "Have a safe trip home!" Uncle Bo shouted, then turned and began to walk quickly.

  Louis lowered the camera. "You, too!" he shouted, but he didn't know if his voice carried over the car horns, over the bustle of the sidewalks, and across the street as his uncle rushed toward a corner, around which he disappeared.

  Louis called Grandma to report the finding.

  "Having a good trip so far?" she asked.

  "I spoke with the landlady."

  "Go on."

  "She showed me where Uncle Bo was," he said.

  "Can I talk to him?"

  "He's not here."

  "Can I talk to him tomorrow?"

  "I don't think I'll see him again. He wouldn't give me his phone number or address."

  "Why not?" she asked. "Is he okay?"

  There was a pause in which Louis considered telling her the facts of the past two days, and the words spoken by his uncle. He'd always been comforted by being able to separate factual truths from factual liberties, the way he'd differentiated Sung2 from a person who'd truly existed.

  People needed to know the truth, what they assumed indisputable. Ah-Kai's belief in Uncle Bo's death seemed to bring him peace, and Uncle Bo's belief that Sung2 was his ancestor gave him satisfaction and something to write about.

  Giving Grandma Uncle Bo's words would do her no good. They would bring no wisdom, no insight, and no knowledge worth the hurt they would cause.

  "He's safe?" she asked.

  "He's alive and in good health." Fact.

  "Did he mention me?"

  "He said he misses you." Factual liberty.

  He didn't want to fill in the sentiment for Uncle Bo. He hated the word practical, hated more the notion of practical lying, and hated most the alternative of saying Uncle Bo mentioned her only to say she caused him physical pain. But liberty also meant freedom, in this case freedom from Uncle Bo's blame.

  "He wishes you well." Factual liberty.

  "I appreciate your help, Louis." Liberty.

  The day after finding Uncle Bo, Louis received a call from the front desk. A package had been left for him.

  Down in the lobby, he was handed a cardboard box. Inside was a thick stack of paper bound by a rubber band, a red envelope with gold characters printed on the front, and a note from his uncle:

  Louis,

  I'm glad we saw each other. I wanted to say something about your mother, but you didn't seem to want to talk about her. Before she died she used to send me a birthday card every year. It probably meant nothing special to her because she sent birthday cards to many people. She was very good at remembering dates and numbers.

  Every year, she sent me a birthday card and a red envelope stuffed with money. The cards would be blank except for her signature, and your father's underneath hers. No message. Just their signatures and I knew it was really from her because your father never remembered my birthday when we were kids.

  They (the cards and envelopes/money) were some of my favorite gifts because they were practical and understated. Nonintrusive.

  I respected your mother and I had a lot of affection for her. I was very sad when I heard she passed away. This red envelope is the last one I received from her.

  P.S. I also included the second part of Sung2's life. It talks about how he got home. I thought you might want to read it.

  The pages were all handwritten, like the first fifty-five pages Louis had received years ago. The story of Sung2's journey back to China included ample descriptions of tatamis, shojis, and other Japanese home furnishings. It paid close attention to details of Japan's military hierarchy, peasant life, and farming tools in the thirteenth century. The story of Sung2's return was told in forty-five handwritten pages, but could be summed up in a paragraph.

  After the invading Mongolian fleet landed in Hakata Bay, Sung2 deserted his ship and hid in the nearby woods. His desertion came right before the typhoon of 1281 struck the Mongols and destroyed their invading army. Left alone, he wandered Japan until he met the beautiful daughter of a high-ranking court advisor in Kyoto. They fell in love and wanted to marry, but her father disapproved. Her father convinced the emperor to banish Sung2 from Japan, with the warning: "If you attempt to sneak the court advisor's daughter out of Japan with you, you will be beheaded." Sung2 decided to leave without her. She begged him to take her with him, but he refused. He said, "I don't want to lose my head, but I do love you, like a fisherman loves a net bursting with carp." Then he hopped on a merchant vessel, returned to China, married a Chinese girl, and sired another Lum, who would sire another Lum and so forth until Melvin Lum was born, married Esther Hsieh, and sired Bo Lum.

  The story reminded Louis of James Clavell's Shogun, which he hadn't enjoyed reading in high school. He'd found disappointingly improbable the premise of beautiful Japanese women from hundreds of years ago falling conveniently in love with a foreigner, one who probably couldn't speak their language correctly. A traveler, an immigrant, an illegal alien speaking with the accent and mastery of a native—that would be like Louis Lum speaking Cantonese well.

  But maybe there was a thr
ead of truth in that story. Louis recalled the letters Uncle Bo had written years ago, the details of his life in Hong Kong with Aunt Julie. One morning while on an acquisition trip for her museum, Aunt Julie had probably come across a scroll on which were written characters that told the story of a man named Lum Sung Sung.

  After work she took a double-decker bus home, stuffed inside the lower deck with other tired, sweaty commuters, and eager to tell Bo of her discovery.

  She got off after a few blocks and decided to hail a taxi instead, opting to spend a little more money for speed, privacy, and air-conditioning on a hot, humid day that reminded her of her honeymoon in Thailand.

  On the ride home, she could see heat waves rising off the cement and trailing after the blackened exhaust of squealing buses.

  She was surprised to find Bo already back. He usually returned a couple of hours after her, and today he was grinding whole bean coffee imported from Jamaica. The fine grinds let out a roasted scent that touched every corner of their tiny flat.

  That night, they took a ferry out to Hong Kong harbor. Tall skyscrapers stood like lit candles in the distance, and the cool sea breeze washed the day's heat away from their bodies.

  Afterward they went to a restaurant near Kowloon Bay and ordered steaks in black peppercorn sauce, a dish adopted from the British, and a bottle of red wine. He let her order because he still felt uncomfortable with his uneven Cantonese tones, and when she did order, she nudged his knee with hers and smiled, her way of signaling him to pay attention to her pronunciation, her way of teasing him.

  Their stomachs full and their heads swimming with alcohol and the lush neon city lights, they strolled slowly hand in hand along sidewalks overflowing with travelers and lovers.

  "You could be related," she said. "Would make sense. Another man who can't be bothered to stay in the place he was born."

  Hours later they found their way back to their small flat in this crowded, mazelike, nocturnal city.

  Lying in bed next to his wife, Bo Lum remembered the place he was born, and the thought of the thousands of miles of sea that separated his current position from that place sparked a bit of sadness.