Nan marveled at the master's expanded notion of the genes. The man must be quite learned, he decided. Nan glanced at the white woman sitting beside him, her face smiling with innocence and joy. "In our exercise today," the master went on, "we shall try to empty our minds and hearts. Forget everything and try not to feel any emotion, neither happiness nor sadness. Above all, forget yourself and who you are. In this way we can sink deep into our origins, experience total emptiness, and achieve genuine tranquillity."
A pair of cymbals started tinkling, and then from the cassette player came the slow, gentle, aerial music played on the bamboo flute. The sound often subsided as if about to disappear, but it always swelled back. The master's voice turned inaudible, though his lips were still stirring. All the disciples, eyes shut, were breathing re-laxedly with their hands on their laps, their palms upward. Nan followed suit. But he closed his eyes only halfway and felt as if the master were levitating.
Unlike the others, Nan couldn't concentrate on his breathing. He opened his eyes and looked around. Every face seemed carefree and serene, and many of them wore a knowing, inward smile that looked a bit mysterious. Nan shut his eyes and tried to let himself be transported by the music; still he couldn't get close to the nirvana that seemed to be admitting the others. His thoughts couldn't help but wander. He wondered if he should continue to write in Chinese. He had mailed out three poems to a literary journal in Taiwan two months earlier, but so far he hadn't heard from it. As for the magazines in mainland China, he wouldn't send them his work anymore after an editor had once written back and asked him to delete several lines that were too sensitive politically. Nan hadn't responded to that, so the poem had never seen print. Maybe he should translate some of his poems into English and try his luck with small magazines in America. Probably the miserable feelings that often surged in him originated from the fact that he couldn't see any possibility of publishing in Chinese, let alone establishing himself as a poet here. It was as if in front of him stood a stone wall inviting him to bump his head against it. If only he had come to America ten years earlier! Then he could definitely have given up his mother tongue and blazed his trail in English…
Somehow two ancient lines cropped up in his mind: "No prairie fire can burn the grass up / When the spring breeze blows, it will again sprout." Yes, he must have the spirit of the wild grass. However thick and impenetrable the wall before him, he must grow beneath it and even on it, like the invincible grass with blades that eventually would dislodge the rocks. This was the American spirit Whitman eulogized, wasn't it? Yes, definitely. He must figure out his own way of making poetry, and-
"All right, you can wake up now," said the master in an even voice.
All the people opened their eyes, their faces softened and their voices smaller. The master told them, "May you hold the peace in you. See you next Sunday."
When all in the group were on their feet, Dick asked Nan, "Well, what do you think?"
"I can see it works on everyone except me."
Dick laughed and slapped his back. "Come, let me introduce you to a few friends."
Nan looked at his wristwatch and said, "I have to go now. It's already past eleven." The Gold Wok opened at twelve noon on Sundays, so he had to rush back.
Dick didn't insist but asked Nan to join him here the next Sunday. Nan said he'd try his best. Actually, he wasn't interested in meditation. He wouldn't join the group again.
21
FINALLY Gerald's house was put up for auction, TO BE SOLD ON PREMISES as the sign on the lawn announced. For weeks people would stop by to look at the property, and when they saw the Wus in the front yard, they'd ask them about the neighborhood and the former owner of the home. Although empty of all the junk at last, the house looked more dilapidated than before. A pipe had burst in the basement and flooded a good part of the floor; the unfinished glassed-in porch looked like a boat cut in half, displaying a dark, gaping cabin. Worse yet, two of the windows had smashed panes now- someone had thrown rocks into the house. The neighbors all looked forward to the auction, which had been postponed once already.
One Saturday morning Alan said to Nan about the house, "I won't buy it unless it's under ten grand."
"Eef you can fix it and sell it to someone, you can make a lawt of money," said Nan.
"But the renovation will cost a fortune. Too many things have to be replaced." Alan slapped his thigh as if an insect had gotten into his pant leg, and his other hand was holding a tiny spade with which he dug dandelions out of his lawn.
Nan went on, "My friend Shubo may be interested in buying it, but he doesn't know how to repair a house."
"Who's your friend?"
"You know zer waitress at my restaurant?"
"Yes, she's a pretty gal." Alan swatted a mosquito that had landed on his sinewy neck.
"Shubo is her hahsband. Zey live outside Lawrenceville and want to move closer."
"I think I met the guy. Well, tell him he's not welcome." Alan's tone was rather casual, but he seemed to speak accidentally on purpose.
Nan was taken aback. "Why?"
"I like you and Pingping, to be frank, and you're good neighbors. But there're too many Chinese in this neighborhood already. We need diversity, don't we?"
"But we are probably zee only Chinese here."
"How about the big family across the lake?"
"Oh, they're Vietnamese." Nan remembered seeing seven or eight cars parked in the yard of that brick raised ranch the other day. He had also noticed two young Asian couples in this area, but he was sure they weren't Chinese.
Alan continued, "Mrs. Lodge, Fred, Terry, and Nate, we all talked about this. We don't want this subdivision to become a Chinatown."
Nan was scandalized but didn't know how to argue with him. He managed to say, "All right, I will tell Shubo what you said. You want to keep Chinese as minority here, but don't you sink our neighborhood should be a melting pot?"
"But some people are not meltable."
"Maybe the pot is not big enough. Make it a cauldron, zen everybody can melt in it, yourself included."
They both laughed. Alan said, "To be honest, the worst-case scenario is that a slumlord will buy this house, fix it up, and rent it out. That'll cause a lot of trouble to our neighborhood."
"See, my friend will be a mahch better choice."
"Sure, compared with a slumlord."
The thought flashed through Nan's mind that some people in the neighborhood had taken his family to be interlopers all along and probably would continue to do so whether they were naturalized or not. When he passed Alan's words on to Shubo, his friend was so outraged that his eyes turned rhomboidal and his face nearly purple. The opposition from the neighborhood made Shubo all the more determined to bid for the house, even though he was uncertain how to renovate it and even though originally he and Niyan had worried that the property might depreciate in value because it was right next to the Wus'. He didn't know anyone in the house-repairing business and would have to use a contractor, who might rip him off. Worse still, it would be impossible for him to keep a close watch on the renovation because he'd have to bartend at Grand Buddha six days a week. All the same, his anger didn't abate, and the more he thought about Alan's words, the more resolved he was-he and his wife must enter into the neighborhood like a thorn stuck in those racists' flesh.
By now Niyan had befriended Janet, so Janet volunteered to accompany her and Shubo to the sale on November 6, which they all expected would be something like a Dutch auction. Shubo had drawn a certified check for $15,000 from the bank, as the flyer had indicated would be needed in order to seal the bargain on the spot. Nan urged the couple to be cool-headed about this matter, advising that they should treat it just as a regular business deal. After exchanging views, everybody agreed that Shubo and Niyan should pay no more than $40,000 for the house. If it went higher than that, they should forget it.