"What? Zey believe he's brave?" asked Nan.
"Sure, how could they think otherwise?"
"He might have meant to attract attention."
"Probably. Still, it takes a lot of guts to smuggle the journal into China personally, don't you think?"
"I guess all zer copies must have been back issues. Zer journal was dead long ago, you know zat."
"Maybe he meant to resurrect it in China."
"Well, I'm not sure."
"Jeez, Nan, you're too cynical. Come to think of it, the guy might do many years behind bars just because he believes in free speech and free press."
"It's not zat simple. I don't feel he'll become a prisoner of conscience."
"What makes you think that way?"
Nan couldn't explain it in detail on the phone, so he suggested they meet and talk about it. Dick was busy going through his copy-edited poetry manuscript, which he had to send back to his editor that weekend, so he couldn't come until the following Wednesday.
19
WHEN Dick came to the Gold Wok on Wednesday afternoon, Bao had just been released and expelled from China. It was reported that some in the U.S. Congress had pressured the Chinese government for his release. Nan felt vindicated and said to his friend, "See, I told you he wouldn't be in jail for long."
"I don't get it. Why wouldn't they sentence him to a prison term?" Dick shook his chin, on which sweat was beading.
"Zat would make him more famous," said Nan.
"I guess now he has quite a bit of material for a book."
"He was writing a memoir when I worked for him in New York."
"I know. I saw some chapters of it in translation. Utterly atrocious. I told him to scrap the whole thing and start over."
"Maybe he has finished it." Nan wanted to say that perhaps Bao could easily find a publisher now, but he checked himself.
Out of his back pocket Dick pulled a mock cover of his new book. It was a piece of glossy paper, fourteen by ten inches and divided down the middle, the right half red and the left half white. Two large handwritten words stood in the center of the right-hand side, Unexpected Gifts, above which was the author's name, "Dick Harrison," and below which was a basket of fruit: apples, pears, tomatoes, grapes. The opposite half of the paper bore some words of praise for Dick's other books and a blurb on this volume by Sam Fisher, commending Dick for "his unerring ear." Nan disliked the cover on the whole, but was impressed by the fruits embodying the gifts.
"How do you like this cover?" Dick asked.
"To tell zer truth, I don't like zer crimson, too loud, like a cover of a revolutionary book."
"The color's fine. Red is eye-catching and will help it sell better."
Dick's reply surprised Nan, who had never thought that a poet would be so concerned about the sales of his book. In spite of his own hard effort to make money, when it came to poetry Nan couldn't imagine it as a commodity. He didn't know how to say this to his friend, so he pointed at the wicker basket on the cover, saying, "Zese fruits look nice."
"I hate it!" said Dick.
"How come?"
"It's so banal. Why can't they have a basket of more peculiar things, like squash, or pinecones, or trout, or pheasants? I quarreled with the publisher this morning before I went to class. Gosh, he's impossible."
"Are they going to change zis?"
"I don't know. The guy said it was too late. I told him it wasn't too late because they just started working on this book. We yelled at each other on the phone. He's a schmuck, but he's my publisher. Maybe I shouldn't have had the altercation with him."
"A mediocre cahver shouldn't be a big deal. People will judge zer book by its content."
"I want everything to be perfect."
Nan said no more. He felt Dick had overreacted to the cover, trite though it might be. Dick told Nan that the first run of this volume would be one thousand and that if all the copies were sold, the book would be a success. Nan was surprised by the small number and couldn't figure out why Dick was so eager to sell the book if he could hardly make any money from the sale-the publisher had agreed to pay him merely five percent of the list price for royalties. Dick mentioned that some journals might write about Unexpected Gifts. If the reviews were positive, they'd bolster the sale of the book.
"Yes, a favorable reception is more important," Nan said.
"That's true," agreed Dick. "Actually, I care more about the reviews than about the sale."
"Zat's a right attitude. Poetry isn't profitable anyhow." Despite saying that, Nan didn't fully understand Dick's reasons. Neither did he know that Dick could make money indirectly if the book was well received, because his school would give him a bigger raise and he'd get invited more often to read and conduct writing seminars at colleges and writers' conferences.
While the two friends chatted away, Pingping and Niyan were wrapping wontons in a corner. Dick was the only customer in the room, so Nan could sit with him for a while before business picked up.
20
DICK had continued his weekend meditation with the Buddhist group at a temple north of Emory. He tried to persuade Nan to join him, saying it would alleviate stress and make him peaceful. Nan wondered why Dick needed peace of mind if he wanted to write poetry. Didn't the poet need strong creative impulses? Wasn't it true that the more explosive his emotions were, the more powerful his poems would be? Yet out of curiosity Nan went to see the Buddhist group one Sunday morning.
Their temple was just two long ranch houses in a large wooded yard. It had been built recently, and each house was surrounded by a veranda and had more than a dozen doors. The place reminded Nan of a motel, with a large paved parking lot in the front and a few flower beds grown with clematis, jasmine, and chrysanthemums. Except for some tiny paper lanterns hanging under the eaves, nothing seemed to differentiate this temple from a family-run motel. Dick took Nan to the second house, but on the way there, they came upon the group they meant to join. The disciples were all sitting cross-legged in the lotus position on the expanse of grass in between the two houses. About half of them were locals, but there were four Tibetan men among them, all with leathery but energetic faces. It was a splendid fall day, warm and dry without a single fly or midge in the air. The stalwart Nepalese master, wrapped in a mud-colored robe, waved at Dick and Nan and nodded smilingly. He had a wattled chin and prominent eyes, which broadened some when he smiled. He was sitting on a round cornhusk cushion, and beside him on the grass was a cassette player. In front of him sat a small brass pot containing sand, wherein were planted sticks of incense, sending up coils of smoke.
Dick and Nan sat down beside a young woman in a sweater vest and white slacks. Another few people arrived. When everyone was seated on a hempen hassock provided by the temple, the master began to speak about the day's exercise. His English was nasal and undulating, which made it hard for Nan to make out every word, but he could follow the drift of what the man was saying. He was talking about meditation as a way to cleanse one's mind. "In fact," the master said, "our minds are in a state of chaos before we make effort to improve them. An unimproved mind contains a mixture of many things, benign and destructive, base and noble, good and evil. We all know that a person has biological genes, but the truth is that one also has cultural genes and spiritual genes. All these inherited elements affect one's inner life…"