Still baffled, Nan said, "Zis shouldn't be zee end of the world. As long as you keep trying, there will be a way to get your book pahblished."
"You've no idea how the poetry world works. It will take me at least half a year to find another press willing to consider the manuscript, if I'm lucky. This winter I'll be up for the pretenure review. If I don't have a book accepted soon, Emory might fire me. If that happens, I'll be half dead as a poet and will have to start my career all over again."
At last Nan realized the enormity of his friend's setback. He asked, "Did zer series editor know zis would damage your career so much?"
"Of course he knew. He must be gloating over my suffering. Poets can be more vicious than politicians."
"It's disgusting."
"I may have to file for Chapter Eleven soon." "You mean zer bookstore in Decatur? How can Chapter Eleven help you?"
Dick broke out laughing, his eyes suddenly filled with sparkling tears. His laughter perplexed Nan. Dick explained, "To file for Chapter Eleven means to declare bankruptcy. You're such a funny guy, Nan."
"I see. But you reelly haven't lawst any capital. No need for Chapter Eleven. Just try and wait."
"Yes, I'm not dead yet." Dick thumped the table. "I have to pull myself together and put up a fight. I'll start looking for a new publisher right away."
Since it wasn't the busy hour yet, Nan asked Pingping to cook some noodles for Dick and himself. Together the two friends had a late lunch, with a plate of roast duck and Kung Pao Chicken between them. Dick cheered up a little as he was eating. He said he was going to ask Sam Fisher to help him. He had to get his manuscript accepted by the end of the year so that he could become ready for the pretenure review. Nan assured him that he'd definitely find a new publisher.
Dick's setback upset Nan. It offered him a glimpse of the strife in the poetry world. If Dick was this vulnerable, what about a budding poet like Nan himself, unconnected and unpublished? Still, uncertainty and lack of luck shouldn't be the excuse for him not to try. He must try and try harder.
Despite his tough-mindedness, he actually avoided using any spare moment to write, because his wife was pregnant and needed care. For several weeks he fussed over Pingping so much, even patting her belly or hooking his arm around her in the presence of others, that at times she'd shoo him away, though whenever he wanted to kiss her she'd tilt her face for him to peck.
8
PINGPING was happy with Nan 's sudden transformation into a devoted husband. She reveled in his attention and small loving gestures. He loved their baby girl so much that he often smiled for no apparent reason, as if relishing something secret. She was still unsure if he loved her, but with this new baby she'd be able to keep him occupied for many years. She knew he might still miss Beina even though he wouldn't let on about it. A few days ago she had looked through some drafts of his poems, some of which were evidently addressed to his first love. She was still hurt by his feelings for that coldhearted woman, who had probably forgotten him long ago. Sometimes Pingping couldn't help but believe that Nan just imagined a lover in order to fill his soul with sorrow so that he could suffer more.
These days she felt out of sorts, her body lacking strength and her mind agitated. She'd be thirsty no matter how much water she drank. A checkup indicated that she suffered from type 2 diabetes. The diagnosis frightened Nan and Taotao. Having heard that some people died of the disease, the boy was afraid he might lose his mother. He cried and blamed his father for making her pregnant. "I hate you! I hate you!" he yelled at Nan.
Though also worried, Nan believed that Pingping's diabetes would probably be temporary. The nutritionist had said that many pregnant women were afflicted with this disease, especially Asians, whose diet contained too much starch, but most of them would recover soon after they gave birth.
Following the menu provided by the nutritionist, Pingping ate five meals a day, all of low carbohydrates and high protein. She didn't like the prescribed food but dared not eat what Nan cooked at the restaurant, fearful of messing up her blood sugar. Despite being careful about her diet, she was still ill, always exhausted and sleepy during the day. Her face was swollen and her eyes watery. Every night she got up many times to vomit into the toilet. She suffered so much that she claimed the baby meant to torture her and wear her down.
Nan often begged her to stay home in the afternoons. Shubo had lost his job at Grand Buddha, which had just folded, and could fill in for her. In fact, Shubo disliked bartending and preferred to be a chef, so he often came to the Gold Wok to learn how to cook from Nan. He was picking up the skill quickly and was delighted whenever Nan asked him to cook an order. "You're a born chef" Nan bantered one day.
"I shouldn't have acted on your advice, playing ducks and drakes with my money on the bartending school," said Shubo.
Whenever Nan asked him to come and help, he'd show up readily. Pingping often noticed Shubo caress his wife's arm or peck her on the cheek when they were alone. It would be more appropriate to say that he came to help Niyan rather than relieve Pingping. He'd seek every opportunity to be with his wife, as if the two were newlyweds. Pingping and Nan were amused, saying they were like a pair of mandarin ducks that always accompanied each other.
Shubo suggested that Nan get a karaoke machine, which might attract more customers and make the Gold Wok a lively spot where a lot of people would gather in the evenings, especially those professionals who, after speaking English all day long at work, needed to unwind some in a Chinese-language environment. "To make this place popular, you need to put an accent on atmosphere," he said to Nan.
"I don't want to turn this place into bedlam. I'm afraid of crowds, you know." Nan smiled and refilled Shubo's teacup.
"Then how can you attract more business?"
"We have enough customers."
"If more people come, you'll make more money."
"God, you're such a party animal," Nan said in English. Seeing his friend flummoxed, he added, "Never heard that expression, huh? Write it down in your notebook-a party animal."
"You're an awful man."
Shubo knew many people in the Chinese community here, most of whom were lonely souls and would have come in and sung the old-time songs and opera snatches with which they had grown up. But Nan wouldn't buy a karaoke machine, because most of his clientele were Americans who might dislike a noisy Gold Wok. Besides, he hated noise. Once he had dined in a Taiwanese restaurant where some well-dressed college students sang so loudly that his ears kept buzzing the next morning and he never set foot in that place again. In addition, he was reluctant to rub shoulders with the Chinese professionals here, some of whom might look down on him. In Nan 's eyes they were just clever snobs, full of themselves. Once they began singing at this restaurant, they might want to drag on into the small hours. He couldn't possibly keep this place open that late for them. He joked with Shubo that if he promised to come every night, he, Nan, would install a karaoke machine. That was impossible, since two nights a week Shubo had to go to a part-time job in Atlanta. Later, Nan explained to his friend that he ought not to create more work at the moment so that Pingping wouldn't be stressed. Shubo smiled, saying to Nan, "You're a model husband."
Niyan said, "Yes, you must learn from Nan."