Scents of Home I SHOULD BE plotting where May, Joy, and I will go, but I find that nothing drives me to explore more than my stomach, where my loneliness has settled. I miss things like honey-covered dough confections, sugared rose cakes, and spiced eggs boiled in tea. Having lost even more weight from Yen-yen's cooking than I did on Angel Island, I watch Uncle Wilburt and Uncle Charley, the first and second cooks at the Golden Dragon, and try to learn from them. They let me go with them to the Sam Sing Butcher Shop with its gold-leafed pig in the window to buy pork and duck. They take me to George Wong's fish market, which backs up to China City on Spring Street, to teach me to buy only what's still breathing. We cross the street to the International Grocery, and for the first time since being here, I smell the scents of home. Uncle Wilburt uses some of his own money to buy me a bag of salted black beans. I'm so grateful that after that the uncles take turns buying me other little treats: jujubes, honeyed dates, bamboo shoots, lotus buds, and mushrooms. Every few days, if we have a lull in the cafe, they let me join them behind the counter to show me how to cook a single and very quick dish using these special ingredients.

The uncles come to the apartment for dinner every Sunday night. I ask Yen-yen if she'll let me make the meal. The family eats it. After that, I make every Sunday dinner. Pretty soon I can make dinner in thirty minutes, as long as Vern washes the rice and Sam chops the vegetables. At first, Old Man Louie isn't pleased. "Why should I let you squander my money on food? Why should I let you out to buy food?" (This, although he doesn't mind that we walk to and from work, where we cater to total strangers, white ones at that.) I say, "I don't waste your money, because Uncle Wilburt and Uncle Charley pay for the food. And I don't walk alone, because I'm always with Uncle Wilburt and Uncle Charley."

"This is even worse! The uncles are saving their money to go home. Everyone-including me-has the desire to return to China, if not to live then to die, if not to die then to have his bones buried there." Like so many men, Old Man Louie wants to save ten thousand dollars and return a rich man to his ancestral village, where he'll acquire a few concubines, have more sons, and spend his days sipping tea. He also wants to be recognized as a "big man," which can't be more American. "Every time I go back, I buy more fields. If they won't let me own land here, then I'll own it in China. Oh, I know what you're thinking, Pearl. You're thinking, But you were born here! You're an American! I tell you, I may have been born here, but I'm Chinese in my heart. I will go back."

He's so predictable in his complaints and the way he can turn something about the uncles or anyone else into something about him, but I accept them, because he likes my cooking. He'll never say that, but he does something even better. After a few Sundays, he announces, "I will give you money every Monday to buy food for all our meals." Sometimes I'm tempted to put a little aside for myself, but I know how closely he watches every penny and receipt, and that he periodically checks with the people at the butcher, fish market, and dry goods store. He's so careful with his money that he refuses to keep it in a bank. It's all hidden, distributed in separate caches in the various Golden establishments to protect it from disaster and from lo fan bankers.

Now that I can go to the stores by myself, the shop owners begin to know me. They like my business-small as it is-and reward my loyalty to their roast duck, live fish, or pickled turnips by giving me calendars. The images are Chinafied, with brash reds, blues, and greens against harsh white backgrounds. Instead of beautiful girls reclining in their boudoirs, sending a feeling of ease, relaxation, and eroticism, the artists have chosen to paint uninspired landscapes of the Great Wall, the sacred mountain of Emei, the mystical karsts of Kweilin, or insipid-looking women wearing cheongsams made from shiny cloth in geometric patterns and sitting in poses meant to convey the virtues of moral rearmament. The artists' technique is garish and commercial, with no delicacy or emotion, but I hang the calendars on the walls of the apartment, just as the poorest of the poor in Shanghai hung them in their sad little huts to bring a little color and wishful hoping into their lives. These things brighten the apartment as much as my meals, and as long as they're given free, my father-in-law is satisfied.

CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING I wake at five, get dressed, give Joy to my mother-in-law, and then walk with Sam to China City. It's still early but strangely warm. Hot winds blew all night, leaving broken branches, dried leaves, confetti, and other trash from Olvera Street's holiday revelers scattered on the Plaza and along Main Street. We cross Macy, enter China City, and follow our usual route, starting by the rickshaw stand in the Court of the Four Seasons and then edging around the chickens and ducks that peck at the ground in front of w.a.n.g's Farmhouse. I still haven't seen The Good Earth, but Uncle Charley has told me I should, saying, "It's just like China." Uncle Wilburt also wants me to see the movie. "If you go, watch for the mob scene. I'm in that one! You'll see lots of uncles and aunties from Chinatown in that picture show." But I don't go to the movie and I don't enter the farmhouse, because every time I pa.s.s it I'm reminded of the shack outside Shanghai.

From w.a.n.g's Farmhouse, I follow Sam down Dragon Road. "Walk next to me," he invites me in Sze Yup, but I don't because I don't want to encourage him. If I make small talk with him during the day or do something like walk next to him, then he'll want to do the husband-wife thing.

Apart from the rickshaw rides, all the other Golden businesses are in the oval, where Dragon and Kwan Yin Roads meet. It's along this route that the rickshaws make their serpentine loop. Only twice in the six months I've worked here have I ventured over to the Lotus Pool or into the covered area that houses a theater for Chinese opera, a penny arcade, and Tom Gubbins's Asiatic Costume Company. China City may be one oddly shaped block bordered by Main, Macy, Spring, and Ord Streets-with over forty shops crammed together with all the cafes, restaurants, and other "tourist attractions" like w.a.n.g's Farmhouse-but there are distinct enclaves inside the walls, and the people within them rarely a.s.sociate with their neighbors.

Sam unlocks the door to the cafe, flips on the lights, and starts brewing coffee. As I refill the salt and pepper shakers, the uncles and the other workers straggle in and begin their ch.o.r.es. By the time the pies are sliced and put on display, the early-bird customers have arrived. I chat with our regulars-truck drivers and postal workers-take orders, and call them out to the cooks.

At nine, a pair of policemen come in and sit at the counter. I smooth my ap.r.o.n and allow my teeth to show in grinning welcome. If we don't fill their bellies for free, they follow our customers to their cars and give them tickets. These last two weeks have been particularly bad as the police walked from one store to the next, collecting Christmas "presents" until their arms were loaded. A week ago, after they decided they hadn't received enough gifts, they blocked the auto park, preventing customers from coming at all. Now everyone's cowed, obedient, and willing to give whatever the policemen ask for so long as they let us keep our doors open.

Just as the police leave, a truck driver calls out to Sam, "Hey, buddy get me a piece of that blueberry pie to go, will ya?"

Maybe Sam's still nervous about the policemen's visit, because he ignores the request and continues washing gla.s.ses. By now it seems like an eternity ago that I learned from my coaching book that Sam was to be the manager of the cafe, but actually his position is somewhere between a gla.s.s washer and a dish washer. I watch him as I serve eggs, potatoes, toast, and coffee for thirty-five cents or a jelly roll and coffee for a nickel. Someone asks Sam for a coffee refill, but he doesn't go over with the pot until the man taps the edge of his cup impatiently. A half hour later, that same man asks for his bill, and Sam points to me. Not once does he say a word to any of our customers.

The breakfast rush slows. Sam gathers dirty plates and silverware, while I follow after him with a wet cloth to wipe the tables and counters.

"Sam," I say in English, "why don't you talk to our customers?" When he doesn't respond, I go on, still in English. "In Shanghai, the lo fan always said that Chinese waiters were surly and bad-mannered. You don't want our customers to think that about you, do you?"

His look fades into nervousness, and he gnaws his lower lip.

I switch to Sze Yup. "You don't know English, do you?"

"I know some," he says. Then he amends this, smiling sheepishly. "A little. Very little."

"How can that be?"

"I was born in China. Why would I know it?"

"Because you lived here until you were seven."

"That was a long time ago. I don't remember the words from then."

"But didn't you study it in China?" I ask. Everyone I knew in Shanghai learned English. Even May who was a very poor student, knows the language.

Sam doesn't respond directly. "I can try to speak English, but the customers refuse to understand me. And when they talk to me, I don't understand them either." He nods to the wall clock. "You'd better go."

He's always pushing me out the door. I know he goes somewhere in the mornings and in the late afternoons, just as I do. As a fu yen it's not my place to ask where he goes. If Sam is gambling or has hired someone to do the husband-wife thing with him, what can I do? If he's one of those womanizer types, what can I do? If he's a gambler like my father, what can I do? I learned to be a wife from my mother and from watching Yen-yen, and I know there's nothing you can do if your husband wants to walk out on you. You don't know where he goes. He comes back when he comes back, and that's it.

I wash my hands and take off my ap.r.o.n. As I walk to the Golden Lantern, I think about what Sam said. How can he not know English? My English is perfect-and I've learned it's polite to say Occidental instead of lo fan or fan gwaytze and Oriental instead of Chinaman or c.h.i.n.k-but I understand that isn't the way to get a tip or make a sale. People come to China City to be entertained. Customers like me to speak wantee-chop-suey English-and how easy that is, after I've listened to Vern, Old Man Louie, and so many others, who were born here but speak crooked, misshapen English. For me, it's an act; for Sam, it's ignorance-country, and as distasteful to me as his secret dalliances with who knows who.

I reach the Golden Lantern, where Yen-yen sells curios and babysits Joy. Together we polish, dust, and sweep. When I finish, I play with Joy for a while. At 11:30, I once again leave Joy with Yen-yen and go back to the cafe, where as fast as I can I serve hamburgers for fifteen cents. Our hamburgers aren't as popular as the Chinaburgers at f.o.o.k Gay's Cafe, with their stir-fried bean sprouts, black mushrooms, and soy sauce, but we do well with our bowls of salted fish with pork for ten cents, and plain bowls of rice and tea for five cents.

After lunch, I work at the Golden Lotus, selling silk flowers until Vern arrives from school. Then I go to the Golden PaG.o.da. I want to talk to my sister about our plans for Christmas Day, but she's busy convincing a customer that a piece of lacquer was painted on a raft in the middle of a lake lest a speck of dust mar the perfection of its surface, and I'm busy sweeping, dusting, polishing, and shining.

Before heading back to the cafe, I return to the Golden Lantern, pick up Joy, and take her for a short walk through China City's alleys. Much like the tourists, she loves to watch the rickshaws. Golden Rickshaw rides are hugely popular-they're Old Man Louie's most successful enterprise. Johnny Yee, one of the local boys, pulls rickshaws for celebrities or for promotional photographs, but usually Miguel, Jose, and Ramon do the job. They earn tips and a small percentage of the twenty-five-cent fare for each ride. They get a little more if they can persuade a customer to buy a photo for an extra twenty-five cents.

Today a woman pa.s.senger kicks Miguel and then swats him with her purse. Why would she do that? Because she can. The way pullers were treated in Shanghai never bothered me. Was it because my father owned the business? Because I was like this white woman-above the pullers? Because in Shanghai pullers were barely better than dogs, whereas here May and I are now in their cla.s.s? I have to say yes, yes, and yes again.

I drop Joy back with her grandmother, kiss my baby good night because I won't see her again until I go home, and then spend the rest of the evening serving sweet-and-sour pork, cashew chicken, and chop suey-all dishes I never saw or even heard of in Shanghai-until closing time at ten. Sam stays to lock up, and I start out for the apartment alone, wending my way through the festive Christmas Eve crowds on Olvera Street rather than walk alone on Main.

I'm ashamed that May and I have ended up here. I blame myself that we work so hard and never receive even one of the lo fan dimes. Once when I held out my hand to Old Man Louie and asked for pay, he spit on my palm. "You have food to eat and a place to sleep," he said. "You and your sister don't need any money." And that was the end of that, except that I'm starting to get a sense of what we might be worth. Most people in China City make thirty to fifty dollars a month. Gla.s.s washers make only twenty dollars a month, while dish washers and waiters take home between forty and fifty dollars a month. Uncle Wilburt earns seventy dollars a month, which is considered a very good wage.

"How much money did you make this week?" I ask Sam every Sat.u.r.day night. "Have you put any money aside?" I hope that someday, somehow, he will give me some of those funds to leave this place. But he never tells me what he earns. He just bends his head, cleans a table, scoops Joy off the floor, or goes down the hall to the bathroom and shuts the door.

Looking back, I can see how Mama, Baba, May, and I believed Old Man Louie was wealthy. In Shanghai, our family had been well-to-do. Baba had his own business. We had a house and servants. We thought the old man had to be considerably richer than we were. Now I see things differently. An American dollar went a long way in Shanghai, where everything from housing and clothes to wives like us was cheap. In Shanghai, we looked at Old Man Louie and saw what we chose to see: a man who bragged through money. He made us look and feel insignificant by treating Baba with great disdain during his visits. But it was all a lie, because here in the Land of the Flowery Flag, Old Man Louie is better off than most in China City but poor nevertheless. Yes, he has five businesses, but they're small-minuscule really, at fifty square feet here and a hundred square feet there-and even together don't add up to much. After all, his fifty thousand dollars in merchandise has zero value if no one buys it. But if my family had come here, we would have been at the bottom of the heap with the laundrymen, gla.s.s washers, and vegetable peddlers.

On that dreary thought, I climb the stairs to the apartment, strip off my smelly clothes, and leave them in a pile in a corner of the room. I get in bed and try to stay awake to enjoy a few minutes of quiet and stillness with my baby already asleep in her drawer.

ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, we dress and join the others in the main room. Yen-yen and Old Man Louie repair broken vases that arrived in a shipment from a curio shop in San Francisco that went out of business. May stirs a pot of jook on the hot plate in the kitchen. Vern sits with his parents, looking around, hopeful yet forlorn. He's grown up here and goes to American school, so he knows about Christmas. In the last two weeks, he's brought home a few Christmas decorations that he made in art cla.s.s, but other than these there isn't a single thing to suggest the holiday: no stockings, no tree, and no gifts. Vern looks like he wants to celebrate, but what can he do or say? He's a son in his parents' home and he has to accept their rules. May and I glance at each other, then at Vern, and back at each other. We understand how he feels. In Shanghai, May and I celebrated the birth of the baby Jesus at the mission school, but it wasn't a holiday Mama and Papa acknowledged in any way. Now that we're here, we want to celebrate like lo fan.

"What shall we do today?" May asks optimistically. "Shall we go to the Plaza church and Olvera Street? They'll have festivities."

"We don't do things with those people," Old Man Louie says.

"I'm not saying we have to do something with them," May responds. "I just think it would be interesting to see how they celebrate."

But by now May and I have learned there's no point in arguing with our in-laws. We just have to be happy that we have a day off from work.

"I want to go to the beach," Vern suggests. He so rarely speaks that when he does we know he really wants something. "Take the streetcar."

"Too far," the old man objects.

"I don't need to see their ocean," Yen-yen scoffs. "Everything I want is right here."

"You stay home," Vern says, startling everyone in the room.

May raises her eyebrows. I can see she really wants to go, but I have no intention of dipping into our wedding money for something so frivolous, and I've never seen Sam with money in his hands other than at the restaurant.

"We can have a nice time here," I say. "We can walk along the lo fan part of Broadway and look in the department store windows. Everything is decorated for Christmas. You'll like that, Vern."

"I want the beach," he insists. "I want the ocean." When no one says anything, he sc.r.a.pes back his chair, trudges to his room, and slams the door. He emerges a few minutes later with several dollars crushed in his fist. "I will pay," he says shyly.

Yen-yen tries to take the money, telling the rest of us, "A Boar and his money are easily parted, but you shouldn't take advantage of him."

Vern shakes her hands off his and then holds his arm above his head so she can't reach the money. "It is a Christmas present for my brother, May, Pearl, and the baby. Mama and Baba, you stay home."

Not only is it the most I've ever heard him say, but it may be the most any of us have heard him say. So we do as he wants. The five of us go to the beach, stroll on the pier, and dip our toes in the freezing Pacific. We take care not to let Joy get burned by the unseasonably bright winter sun. The water shimmers against the sky. In the distance, green hills roll into the sea. May and I go for a walk by ourselves. We let the wind and sounds of the waves wash away our worries. On the way back to where Vern and Sam sit with the baby under an umbrella, May says, "It's sweet of Vern to do this for us." It's the first nice thing she's said about him.

TWO WEEKS LATER, a group of women from United China Relief invite Yen-yen to go to Wilmington to picket the shipyards for sending sc.r.a.p iron to j.a.pan. I'm sure Old Man Louie will say no when she asks permission to accompany them, but he surprises us all. "You can go if you take Pearl and May."

"It will leave you with too few workers," Yen-yen says, hope that this might happen and fear that he will change his mind glossing the edges of her voice.

"No matter. No matter," he says. "I'll have the uncles work extra hours."

Yen-yen would never do anything like smile broadly to let us see how happy she is, but we all hear the lilt in her voice as she asks May and me, "Will you come?"

"Absolutely," I say. I'll do everything I can to raise money to fight the j.a.panese, who've been brutal and systematic in their policy of "the three alls"-kill all, burn all, and destroy all. It's my duty to help women who are being raped and killed. I turn to May. Surely she'll want to join us, if for nothing else than that she'll get out of China City for a day, but she shrugs off the invitation.

"What can we do? We're only women," she says.

But it's because I'm a woman that I dare to go. Yen-yen and I walk to the meeting place and board a bus to drive us to the shipyards. The organizers hand us printed placards. We march, we shout our slogans, and I experience a sense of freedom, which I owe entirely to my mother-in-law.

"China is my home," she says on the bus back to Chinatown. "It will always be my home."

After that day, I keep a cup on the counter in the cafe for people to put their change. I wear a United China Relief pin on my dress. I picket to stop those sc.r.a.p-iron shipments and join other demonstrations to stop the sale of aviation fuel for the monkey people's planes. I do all this because Shanghai and China are never far from my heart.

Eating Bitterness to Find Gold CHINESE NEW YEAR arrives. We follow all the traditions. Old Man Louie gives us money to buy new clothes. I put together an outfit for Joy that will celebrate her Tiger sign: a pair of baby slippers shaped like Tiger cubs and an orange-and-gold baby hat with little ears on top and a tail made from twisted embroidery thread coming out the back. May and I pick out American cotton dresses in floral prints. Then we have our hair washed and styled. At home, we take down the picture of the Kitchen G.o.d and burn it in the alley so he'll travel to the afterworld to report on our activities during the past year. We put away knives and scissors to make sure we won't cut our good fortune. Yen-yen makes offerings to the Louie ancestors. Her wishes and prayers are simple. "Bring a son to Boy-husband. Make that wife of his pregnant. Give me a grandson."

In China City, we hang red gauze lanterns and couplets in red and gold paper. We arrange for dancers, singers, and acrobats to entertain children and their parents. We search out special ingredients to make holiday dishes in the cafe that will be Chinese in feeling but appeal to Occidental palates. We expect big crowds, so Old Man Louie hires extra help for his various enterprises, but he needs even more people to a.s.sist with what he antic.i.p.ates will be the most profitable business on New Year's Day: the rickshaw rides.

"We have to beat the people in New Chinatown," he tells Sam on New Year's Eve. "How can we do that if I have Mexican boys pulling my rickshaws on the most Chinese day of the year? Vern's not strong enough, but you are."

"I'll be too busy in the cafe," Sam says.

My father-in-law has asked Sam to pull rickshaws other times, and he always has some excuse not to do it. I can't say what it will be like on New Year's, but I know how busy we've been on other festival days. We've never been so overwhelmed that I haven't been able to follow my usual routine of working in the cafe, the flower shop, the curio shop, and the antiques store. I know Sam's lying, and so does Old Man Louie. Ordinarily my father-in-law's anger would be great, but this is New Year's, when no harsh words should be spoken.

On New Year's morning, we dress in our new clothes, putting Chinese custom above Mrs. Sterling's rules about wearing costumes to work. These things are factory-made, but it's wonderful to have something fresh and Western on our skins again. Joy, who's eleven months old, looks adorable in her Tiger hat and slippers. I'm her mother, so of course I think she's beautiful. Her face is round like the moon. White as clean as new snow circles the black of her eyes. Her hair is wispy and soft. Her skin is as pale and translucent as rice milk.

I didn't believe in the Chinese zodiac when Mama talked about it, but the more time that's pa.s.sed since her death, the more I understand that the things she said about May and me might have been true. Now when I hear Yen-yen talk about a Tiger's traits, I see my daughter very clearly. Like a Tiger, Joy can be temperamental and volatile. One minute she's br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with giddiness; the next she can dissolve into tears. A minute later, she might try to climb up her grandfather's legs, wanting and getting his attention. She may be a worthless girl in his eyes-forever Pan-di, Hope-for-a-Brother-but the Tiger in her has pounced into his heart. Her temper is greater than his. I think he respects that.

I know the exact moment when New Year's Day starts to turn rotten. While May and I fix each other's hair in the main room, Yen-yen has Joy on her back on the floor, tickling her stomach, building antic.i.p.ation by zooming in and out with her fingers and by raising and lowering her voice, only the words that come out of her mouth do not match her happy actions.

"Fu yen or yen fu?" Yen-yen asks, as Joy squeals in expectation. "Would you rather be a wife or a servant? Women everywhere would rather be a servant."

Joy's giggles do not have their usual melting effect on her grandfather, who watches sourly from a chair.

"A wife has a mother-in-law," Yen-yen trills. "A wife has the despair of her children. She must obey her husband even when he is wrong. A wife must work and work but never receive a word of thanks. It's better to be a servant and the mistress of yourself. Then, if you want, you can jump in the well. If only we had a well..."

Old Man Louie pushes himself away from the table. Wordlessly, he gestures to the door, and we leave the apartment. It's still early morning, and already ill-omened words have been spoken.

Thousands of people come to China City, and the festivities are great. The firecrackers are loud and plentiful. The dragon and lion dancers wiggle and squirm from shop to shop. Everyone wears such bright colors it's as if a great rainbow has come to earth. In the afternoon even more people come. Whenever I look out the window, another rickshaw rushes past. By evening, the Mexican pullers look exhausted.

During dinner, the Golden Dragon is completely full, and perhaps two dozen people stand just inside the door, waiting for a table to become free. Around 7:30, my father-in-law enters and pushes his way through the cl.u.s.tered customers.

"I need Sam," he says.

I look around and spot Sam setting a table for eight. Old Man Louie follows my glance, strides across the room, and speaks to Sam. I can't hear what he says, but Sam shakes his head no. Old Man Louie says something else, and Sam shakes his head again. At the third refusal, my father-in-law grabs Sam's shirt. Sam pushes his hand away. Our customers stare.

The old man raises his voice, spitting the Sze Yup dialect out of his mouth like phlegm. "Don't disobey me!"

"I told you I won't do it."

"Toh gee! Chok gin!"

I've been working at Sam's side for months now, and I know he's neither lazy nor empty-headed. Old Man Louie yanks his son across the room, b.u.mping past tables and through the crowd by the door. I follow them outside, where my father-in-law shoves Sam to the ground.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it! Our other pullers are tired, and you know how to do this."

"No."

"You're my son and you'll do as I say," my father-in-law pleads. His face quavers, and then his moment of weakness hardens. When he next speaks, his voice sounds like grinding rocks. "I've promised everything to you."

This is not one of the pretty dramas with singing and dancing that are happening elsewhere in China City as part of tonight's festivities. The tourists don't understand what's being said. Still, this is a captivating and entertaining spectacle. When my father-in-law begins to kick Sam down the alley, I trail along with the others. Sam doesn't fight or cry out. He just takes it. What kind of man is he?

When we reach the rickshaw stand in the Court of the Four Seasons, Old Man Louie looks down at Sam and says, "You're a rickshaw puller and an Ox. That's why I brought you here. Now do your job!"

Fear and shame wash the color from Sam's face. Slowly he gets to his feet. He's taller than his father, and for the first time I see that this is as distressing to the old man as my height was to Baba. Sam takes a step toward his father, looks down at him, and says in a trembling voice, "I won't pull your rickshaw. Not now. Not ever."

Then it's as though both men become aware of the silence around them. My father-in-law brushes at his mandarin robe. Sam's eyes dart about uncomfortably. When he sees me, his whole body cringes. Then he takes off, sprinting through the gawking tourists and our curious neighbors. I run after him.

I find him in our windowless room in the apartment. His fists are bunched. His face is red with anger and hurt, but his shoulders are back, his posture upright, and his tone defiant.

"For so long I've been embarra.s.sed and ashamed before you, but now you know," he says. "You married a rickshaw puller."

In my heart I believe him, but my mind thinks otherwise. "But you're the fourth son-"

"Only a paper son. Always in China people ask, 'Kuei hsing?'-What's your name?-but really it means, 'What is your precious family name?' Louie is just a chi ming-a paper name. I'm actually a Wong. I was born in Low Tin Village, not far from your home village in the Four Districts. My father was a farmer."

I sit on the edge of the bed. My mind spins: a rickshaw puller and a paper son. This makes me a paper wife, so we're both here illegally. I feel sick to my stomach. Still, I recite the facts from the coaching book: "Your father is the old man. You were born in Wah Hong. You came here as a baby-"

Sam shakes his head. "That boy died in China many years ago. I traveled here using his papers."

I remember Chairman Plumb showing me a picture of a little boy and thinking that it didn't look all that much like Sam. Why hadn't I questioned that more? I need to hear the truth. I need it for me, for my sister, and for Joy. And I need him to tell me everything-without having him close up and slump away as he usually does. I use a tactic I learned from my weeks of interrogations at Angel Island.

"Tell me about your village and your real family," I say, hoping my voice doesn't shake too much from the emotions I feel and believing if he talks about these comfortable things, then maybe he'll tell me the truth about how he came to be a paper son to the Louies. He doesn't answer right away. He stares at me in the way he has so many times since the first day we met. Always I've seen that look as sympathy for me, but maybe he's been trying to show compa.s.sion for our shared troubles and secrets. Now I try to match his expression. The funny thing is, I mean it.

"We had a pond in front of our house," he murmurs at last. "Anyone could throw fish in it and raise them. You could dip a crock in the water, pull it out, and there'd be fish in your crock. No one had to pay. When the pond ran dry, you could pick up fish sitting in the mud. Still, no one had to pay. In the field behind our house, we grew vegetables and melons. We raised two pigs a year. We were not rich, but we were not poor either."

It sounds poor to me. His family had lived from dirt to mouth. He seems to sense my understanding as he goes on haltingly.

"When the drought came, my grandfather, father, and I worked hard, trying to make the ground yield to our desires. Mama went to other villages to earn money by helping others plant or harvest rice, but those places also suffered from no rain. She wove cloth and took it to market. She tried to help our family, but it wasn't enough. You can't live on air and sunshine. When two of my sisters died, my father, my second brother, and I went to Shanghai. We wanted to earn enough to go back to Low Tin Village and farm again. Mama stayed home with my youngest brother and sister."

In Shanghai, they found not promise but hardship. They didn't have connections, so they couldn't get factory jobs. Sam's father took work as a rickshaw puller, while Sam, who'd just turned twelve, and his brother, who was two years younger, scavenged for small jobs. Sam sold matches on street corners; his brother ran after coal trucks to pick up pieces that fell from the beds to sell to the poor. They ate watermelon rinds plucked from trash pits in summer and watered down jook in winter.

"My father pulled and pulled," Sam continues. "At first he drank tea with two lumps of sugar to restore his strength and cool his skin. When money ran low, he could only afford cheap tea made from dust and stems and no sugar. Then, like so many pullers, he began smoking opium. Not real opium! He couldn't afford that! And not for pleasure either. He needed it for stimulation, to keep pulling in the hottest weather or if there was a typhoon. He bought the dregs left over from the rich and sold by servants. The opium gave my father false vigor, but his strength was eaten and his heart shriveled. Pretty soon he began to cough blood. They say that you never see a rickshaw puller reach age fifty and that most pullers are already past their best days by the time they turn thirty. My father died when he was thirty-five. I wrapped him in a straw mat and put him on the street. Then I took his place, selling my sweat by pulling a rickshaw. I was seventeen and my brother was fifteen."

As he talks, I think about all the rickshaws I've ridden in and how I never really thought about the men who pulled them. I hadn't considered pullers actual people. They'd seemed barely human. I remember how many of them had not owned shirts or shoes, the way their spines and shoulder blades had protruded from their skin, and the sweat that had oozed from their bodies even in winter.

"I learned all the tricks," Sam goes on. "I learned I could get an extra tip if I carried a man or woman from my rickshaw to the door during typhoon season so they wouldn't ruin their shoes. I learned to bow to women and men, invite them to ride in my li-ke-xi, call them Mai-da-mu for Madame or Mai-se-dan for Master. I hid my shame when they laughed at my bad English. I made nine silver dollars a month, but I still couldn't afford to send money home to my family in Low Tin. I don't know what happened to them. They're probably dead. I couldn't even take care of my brother, who joined other poor children helping to push rickshaws over the arched bridges at Soochow Creek for a few coppers a day. He died of the blood-lung disease the next winter." He pauses, his mind back in Shanghai. Then he asks, "Did you ever hear the rickshaw pullers' song?" He doesn't wait for me to answer but begins to sing: "To buy rice, his cap is the container.