Laura asked the poet casually, "Does your babysitter write poems too?"
"No, not now. She might have in her teens."
The women glanced at one another. The short Anita smirked, then covered her mouth with a napkin. Mr. Neary said to them again, "Feel free to send me your work. I'm a maker and breaker of poets. I'm a powerful man, you know."
Nan could see that the poet was tipsy. He caught a dubious expression flitting across Dick's face. Mr. Neary smiled to himself as if to recall something, his hand holding a barbecued chicken nugget. Then he lifted his head and asked the women, "So you don't believe me? You think I'm just an old loony?"
Emily Choi said, "You're not old. Your poems are wonderful and powerful."
"I'm also a rich man, you know," Mr. Neary went on. "Imagine, a poet paid sixty thousand dollars for federal tax last year. This is indeed a great country where even a poet can become a millionaire."
"Amazing," Emily mumbled, lowering her eyes.
Anita put in, "So Canada is no longer your homeland?"
"No. I'm an American."
Dick winked at Nan, who was bemused, knowing Neary had been born in Ontario and had come to the United States in his early thirties. He wondered why the poet would talk so much about power and money. How did those bear on his poetry? Why was he acting more like a business magnate?
A waitress came and placed the bill on the table, which Mr. Neary picked up. Nan noticed that it was more than eighty dollars. The young women looked at one another. Anita said, "Mr. Neary, let us take care of it. We're taking you out."
"No, no." The poet waved, licking his upper teeth. "This is on me. But I'm open to another drink with you at another place, individually or collectively." He laughed and screwed up his eye as he folded the receipt and placed five twenties in the bill sleeve.
The women said no more. They all got up, ready to leave. The bar was closing, and together they made for the door.
Outside, the night was clear, the street shimmering in the whitish moonlight. A breeze came, shaking the sprouting aspens a little. The traffic was still droning in the distance. The women said good-bye to Mr. Neary and presently faded into the darkness beyond North Decatur Road. Dick was going to walk his guest all the way back to the Emory Inn, which was about half a mile to the north. Nan kept them company for about two hundred yards, then parted from them and veered toward the garage behind the university's main library, where he had parked. He turned his head to look at them while walking away.
He overheard Mr. Neary say, "Let me give you the receipt for tonight."
"Sure." Dick took the slip from the poet.
18
DURING the next few days Nan thought a lot about his meeting with Edward Neary, about what the poet had said at the bar. When Dick came to the restaurant on Friday afternoon, Nan asked him what Mr. Neary had meant by being "a maker and breaker of poets." Dick explained that generally speaking, the inclusion of a young poet's work in a significant anthology could help establish the poet. As the editor, Edward Neary decided whom to include, so he was a maker of poets. Conversely, he'd have to exclude some people from the book-those poets, once left out, would suffer a setback in their careers. Therefore he was also a breaker of poets.
"Do you sink he'll leave someone out on purpose?"
"Sure, everyone does that to his enemies and people he doesn't like."
Nan was surprised that poets could be so vindictive and malevolent. "Is he reelly so well endowed as he bragged?" he asked again.
"Ha ha ha!" Dick laughed. "You're so funny. I don't know if Ed has a big penis, but he's a MacArthur fellow."
"What's that? He's related to General MacArthur's family?"
"No, no, it's a foundation that gives huge fellowships to talented individuals, at least three hundred thousand dollars. For Ed's age, it must be worth more than that, because the older a fellow is, the more money he gets."
"I never imagined a poet could be zat rich."
"Some poets live like a prince or princess."
"How about Sam?"
"He makes a lot too."
Nan thought it rather absurd that Mr. Neary was so powerful that he could decide the fates of some young poets. "Will he include your poems in his anthology?" he asked Dick.
"You bet, or I wouldn't have had him invited over and paid three thousand dollars."
"Reelly! He made mahney so easily? He just worked two or three hours and made more zan Pingping and I can make in a month."
"Life's unfair, isn't it? But that's the price for poets of his stature."
"How about you?"
"I'll be lucky if a school invites me just to read. Occasionally I get five hundred dollars for a visit." "Zat's not bad."
"No, I can't complain. I can't think of money and power at this point in my career."
"You're right," Nan said sincerely. "If you reelly like power, you should run for zer governor."
Dick chortled. "I'll remember that." He turned his fork to twist some noodles into a bundle, then added, "Because what's at stake is so piddling in the poetry world, the competition is all the more fierce. In fact, it's a rough-and-tumble territory. Also, most poets live in cliques, otherwise it would be hard for us to survive. The network is essential."
"So you belong to Sam's group?"
"You can say that."
To some extent Nan was disillusioned by what Dick said. To him the poetry world should be relatively pure, and genuine poets free spirits, passionate but disinterested. Yet according to Dick, many of them were territorial and xenophobic. Could someone like himself ever belong to a coterie? Unlikely. He couldn't imagine being accepted by any clique. Besides, above all, he wanted to become a self-sufficient individual.
Dick lifted the teacup and took a swallow. He grinned at Nan while dipping his pointed chin. He looked secretive and leaned forward, whispering, "I want to show you something, Nan." He fished out of his hip pocket two small tubers like shriveled ginger roots, dried thoroughly. They looked familiar to Nan, but he couldn't remember what they were called. Dick asked, "Do you use this herb too?"
"What are these?"
"Dong quai, a kind of aphrodisiac. I thought you Chinese all used it."
Nan broke into laughter, which baffled his friend. "What's so funny?" Dick said.
Instead of answering, Nan asked, "You have used Tiger Balm for sex too?"
"Sure, but that's not as good as Indian God Lotion and burns your skin like hell."
Nan cracked up again, his eyes squeezed shut. "To tell zer truth, in China women use dong quai to regulate menstruation. It nurtures zer yin in your body, not zer yang. I've never heard zat any man eats zis herb to strengthen a dick."
Dick was amazed, then grinned. " Nan, you're a poet."
"How so?"
"You just made a pun with my name."
"Oh yes." Nan was surprised by his unintended feat.
"To be fair, this is powerful stuff," Dick went on. "I've used it for a while and it has really improved my performance and made me feel strong. It helps my writing too. As for Tiger Balm, I've removed it from my medicine cabinet."
"People in China mainly rub zer balm on zeir foreheads to prevent sunstroke, or on their temples to sooze headaches. Even kids use it too. We call it 'fresh and cool ointment.' Nobody trits it as somesing zat can increase sexual pleasure."