Between his rounds, Nan read a good deal, mainly poetry and novels, and if he didn't read or watch TV, he let his thoughts roam. Recently many Chinese students in the humanities and social sciences, having realized they might have to live in the United States for good, had changed their fields in order to make themselves more marketable. Nan knew that some people who had been writing dissertations on Shakespeare or Dewey or Tocqueville had decided to go to business or law school. More amazing, in some cases their advisors encouraged them to switch fields and even wrote recommendations for them. Nan's professor, Mr. Peterson, was different and said it was unfortunate that Nan would be leaving the Ph.D. program, because he believed Nan could have become an excellent political scientist if he had studied the subject devotedly. Professor Peterson even tried to dissuade him, but Nan wouldn't change his mind.
Nan was determined to quit political science, but deep down he was disappointed about leaving academia. He had written to Professor Clifford Stevens at the University of Chicago to inquire about the possibility of doing graduate work in Chinese poetry or comparative poetics under his guidance, but he never heard a word from that distinguished scholar. Nowadays most American graduate schools were inundated with applications from China. Worse yet, after the Tiananmen massacre, the student enrollments in the Chinese language and studies had dropped so drastically that many American colleges had begun to scale down their Chinese programs. So, for the time being, there was no way Nan could study Chinese poetry.
Four years ago, a former professor of his in China had visited the United States as part of a Chinese delegation of American Studies, as an expert in U.S. political history because he had translated some essays by Thomas Jefferson. When his former teacher came to visit Harvard, Nan went to the Holiday Inn in Somerville to see him. The old man, beardless and browless like an albino, told Nan about his meeting with Professor Carolyn Barrow at Harvard. He said, "The old lady was very nice and gave me six of her books. Do you know her writings?"
"I read some of her papers. She's well revered for her work in political theories."
"I guessed that," the teacher went on. "I gave her a stack of plates."
"What do you mean?"
"I brought with me some fine porcelain, and I gave her eight pieces." He smiled, his lips puckered.
That account had scandalized Nan. His old teacher hadn't shown any trace of discomfort, as if the fact that his porcelain and Professor Barrow's books were at least equal in monetary value had canceled all the difference in the nature of the two sets of presents. Nan was sure that some other Chinese scholars had done similar things. Without telling anybody, he had made up his mind that he'd write many books after he finished his Ph.D. and returned to his homeland to teach. Someday when he came to revisit the United States, he'd bring only his own works as gifts for American scholars. Yes, he'd write a whole shelf of books and would never subject himself to his teacher's kind of disgrace.
Now that ambition, inflated with a sense of national pride, was gone. He might never go back to his native land, and it would be unimaginable for him to write scholarly books in English if he was no longer in academia. Worse, he had little passion left for any field of study except for poetry. But that was impossible for now.
7
AT WORK the night watchmen were not supposed to leave the factory. Nan noticed, however, that Larry often went out to buy things. Larry said that as long as you made your hourly rounds on the dot, Don wouldn't care. Sometimes Nan didn't bring food with him and would steal out to get a hamburger or fried rice.
One night, the moment he finished the ten o'clock round, he drove to Riche Brothers, a nearby supermarket open around the clock. He picked up a can of luncheon meat, a jar of gherkins, and a French bread. Hurriedly he checked out of the express lane and then headed for the front entrance. As he was striding out the automatic door, he almost bumped into a couple, both thirtyish, who had just come out of the adjacent liquor store. The man, his chestnut mane reaching his shoulders, was tall, with an athletic build, and carried three video tapes in one hand, while the woman, wearing a baseball cap, had a bony face and a slim body and held a half-filled paper bag in her arms. They were both in black leather jackets and jeans with frayed cuffs, but she wore blue high-tops whereas he had on heavy-duty boots. Nan stepped aside as she did the same to avoid a collision. "Sorry," he said with a smile. She rolled her large watery eyes, then peered at him.
Nan walked away toward his car. Strangely enough, the couple turned back and came toward him. The woman whispered to the man, who was nodding. When they caught up with Nan, the man said in a raspy voice, "Hey, buddy, wanna come with us?"
"For what?" Nan was startled. A gust of wind swept up a few scraps of paper tumbling past a corral holding two rows of shopping carts.
"For fun." The man blinked his eyes, the left of which was black as if bruised, and he opened his mouth to laugh, but only a dry cough came out. There was enough alcohol on his breath to cover a few yards around him.
The woman smiled suggestively, showing the gaps between her teeth. Nan shook his head and said, "I have work to do."
"Wanna have a drink?" the man asked.
The woman took out a can of Coors, snapped it open, and took a swig. "Mmm… it's nice and cold. Have this." She handed the beer to Nan.
"No, sanks. I reelly cannot."
"C'mon, don't you want some fun?" The man grinned, the corners of his mouth going up.
"What fun?"
"With purty girls."
Nan was too shocked to answer, while the woman crooked her forefinger, wiggling it at him. He hated that gesture, which to him suggested he was an obedient dog.
She coaxed, "Please come with us. We've never had an Oriental man there."
"No, I mahst go!"
"Whoa!" the man shouted after him. "Don't run, you gook. Don't you want some young pussies?"
They both laughed. Nan started his car and pulled out of the parking lot. To his horror, the couple hopped into their pickup, backed it out, and followed him. Nan 's heart was throbbing, but he drove unhurriedly as if he hadn't noticed them. "Calm down, calm down," he repeated to himself while observing them in the rearview mirror. Their truck didn't accelerate and just followed behind at a distance of about two hundred feet. A white moth was trapped in Nan 's car, fluttering at the windshield. He brushed it away with one swipe.
After four turns Nan swerved into the factory's front yard. He sprang out of his car while the pickup was rolling into the parking lot too. He dashed away to the side entrance of the building. His flashlight fell on the ground with a clash, but he didn't stop to retrieve it and kept running. He thrust the key into the lock and opened the door. Rushing in, he snagged his windbreaker's pocket on the handle with a rasp. Without looking at the rip, he locked the door, switched off the lights, and turned left into the dark storage room with windows facing the yard. He saw the couple out there. They seemed puzzled. Their truck was idling, but its front lights were off. They each carried a baseball bat under an arm and eyed the side entrance as if on the defensive. They whispered to each other for a while; then the man crushed his beer can on the side window of Nan 's car. He picked up Nan 's long flashlight and waved it at the building.
The woman cupped her mouth with both hands and shouted at the entrance, "Come out, you dumb prick!"
"We're gonna come in and bust ya!" the man cried, and he kicked the side door of Nan 's car. He spat and blew his nose on the windshield.