A Long Stay in a Distant Land Read online

  "Just hope it doesn't happen to you," she said.

  "Whatever," Mick said, but a few minutes later Louis caught him checking his hair in the rearview.

  A small crowd had formed around the restaurant's entrance, which faced Westminster Avenue. Louis stood next to Grandma and Mick. They were on the outskirts of Little Saigon, home to the largest Vietnamese community outside of Vietnam, right in the heart of Orange County.

  As a child Louis had come to this area often with his parents, lunching on four-dollar bowls of pho and French-style Vietnamese sandwhiches stuffed with pate, beef, cilantro, and pickled carrots. Now gawking at the lion dance preparations with the rest of the crowd, he felt like a tourist again.

  There were four lion costumes, one green and three red. The lions had a head and butt section each controlled by a boy in a white T-shirt and jeans,, One man assisted the dancers with putting on their costumes. Another set up a ladder and climbed it to tie a string of firecrackers and a head of lettuce over the restaurant's front doors. A third man set up two large cylindrical drums off to the side while the boys stretched their legs, their Nikes visible underneath the sides of the lion suits.

  Saangchoi, depending on the tone, meant either lettuce or make money. The head of lettuce the green lion would devour signified good fortune. The red envelopes the assistants would pass out to the restaurant's customers for them to fill with money were intended to buy good fortune. Good fortune was also brought about by the dance, which began when the two drummers started pounding a beat with thick wooden drumsticks shaped like cigars.

  The boys shimmied under the lion suits, reminding Louis of the family meeting years ago when Mick shook and twisted to Grandma's James Brown album. Mick had especially enjoyed the song about having ants in his pants and wanting to dance.

  "In China, the dancers can balance themselves on top of poles and do flips," Grandma said as the lions swept past her.

  "These dancers are twelve," Mick said.

  "The ones in China are eight," Grandma said.

  Mick held Larry's leash, the dog sitting quietly at his feet. The lions snaked into the restaurant in single file while the two drummers continued pounding away, creating vibrations that shook the ground.

  Mick yawned.

  The lions came back out and the green one climbed the ladder over the restaurant's entrance. The boy's hand poked through the gaping jaws and pulled the head of lettuce into the lion's head.

  Back on the ground the boy shredded the lettuce, throwing pieces out of the mouth. The lions shimmied some more and then backed away from the entrance.

  A man with a cigarette lighter stepped forward and lit the string of firecrackers, which looked like a belt of bullets. He ran back to stand with the crowd.

  Everyone plugged their ears.

  The firecrackers exploded, snapping and popping.

  Louis turned around to check on Grandma and saw Larry, startled by the commotion, jump up and bite Mick on the ass.

  Surprised, Mick dropped the leash and Larry ran into the street.

  The cars added to the crackle of the firecrackers. Bleeping horns filled the air as Mick chased after Larry, who was heading toward the concrete center divider that separated the eight-lane street.

  Mick pursued in zigzag fashion, stopping, starting, stopping again to avoid getting struck.

  Let them live, Louis thought. If they made it across safely, he would balance all the losses he'd suffered with this twist of good fortune. He would learn not to fear that portrait of Grandpa. He would order burgers with the patties. He would not hope and not wish, but expect his father to return safely from his trip. He would measure this moment against all the deaths, and take hope in it.

  The firecrackers spent and their loud popping stopped, the crowd turned to gawk at Larry and Mick dodging cars on the opposite side of the street.

  "Larry!" Mick shouted. "Fuck off!" he shouted at the drivers who were honking their horns, screeching to full stops, and shouting at him to get off the road.

  "Stupid idiot," somebody next to Louis whispered.

  Louis turned to tell that person to shut up and saw Grandma, who said again, "Stupid idiot. So stupid." Her voiced carried affection and worry. She took his hand and squeezed it.

  When both dog and man made it safely to the other sidewalk, she exhaled and let go of his hand.

  The dog hesitated. He poked his nose up in the air and sniffed. He looked at Mick fifteen feet away and then in the other direction. As Louis and Grandma watched, Larry trotted back to Mick, who bent down with open arms to receive him.

  Grandma shook her head in disbelief, and Louis understood that she'd been by his side the entire time, seeing everything he'd seen.

  Acknowledgments

  From the beginning Lance Uyeda, John Doan, and Robin Page provided constant friendship and encouragement, believing in my work when I often didn't.

  Michelle Latiolais read more drafts of this novel than anyone should have to. Her dedication saved Bo Lum and her faith in the book was inspiring.

  My agent, Dorian Karchmar at Lowenstein-Yost Associates, took a chance on me, and her enthusiasm and optimism provided me with a much needed second wind. My editor, Gillian Blake, asked me to spend more time with my characters and not to shortchange their lives, and the book is better for her contributions. My thanks also to Marisa Pagano, the rest of the staff at Bloomsbury USA, and Virginia McRae for their help.

  Dr. Alvina Leung gave good counsel and had to convince me on more than one occasion that I didn't actually have a brain tumor. Dr. Peter Le has been a stalwart friend through the years, and is a constant source of beautifully bizarre stories.

  Thanks to Geoffrey Wolff for welcoming me into the UCI writing program, and thanks to Arielle Read for helping me get through it.

  In the program, Terence Mickey introduced me to many fantastic stories and novels I probably wouldn't have found on my own, and Mary Waters offered valuable advice and lessons on practicality.

  NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Chieh Chieng was born in Hong Kong and moved to

  Orange County, California, at the age of seven. He

  graduated from the creative writing program at the

  University of California, Irvine, and has been published

  in Glimmer Train, The Threepenny Review, and the

  Santa Monica Review. He is twenty-nine years old.

  NOTE ON THE TYPE

  The text of this book is set in Linotype Sabon, named

  after the type founder Jacques Sabon. It was designed

  by Jan Tschichold and jointly developed by Linotype,

  Monotype, and Stempel in response to a need for

  a typeface to be available in identical form for

  mechanical hot metal composition and hand

  composition using foundry type.

  Tschichold based his design for Sabon roman on a

  font engraved by Garamond, and Sabon italic on a font

  by Granjon. It was first used in 1966 and has proved

  an enduring modern classic.