Pingping didn't know what a bar would entail, so Nan explained everything to her. He even thought of finding a Chinese fellow, sending him to a bartending school in Atlanta and then hiring him afterward. But Pingping was adamantly against setting up a bar, which she said would throw their business out of kilter. Since physically the restaurant couldn't be expanded any more, there shouldn't be a bar that might destroy their peace of mind. What they needed most was a stable clientele, which didn't even have to be large. Nan agreed.

For months Nan had been working at least fourteen hours a day, sometimes without seeing the sun for a whole week, as he had to go to the Gold Wok early in the morning to get things ready. He'd slice beef, cut chickens, boil the bones to make stock, heat up a samovar for tea, chop broccoli and scallions, steam rice, deep-fry pork and chicken cubes. In the afternoons his legs often felt heavy and bloated; he'd sit down whenever he could, even when working at the wok, so as to avoid developing varicose veins. The restaurant had fully occupied his body and mind. Even at night he often dreamed of greeting customers and cooking their orders, his head full of the din of the kitchen while his limbs remained hot and sore as a result of the long working hours. His hands, always marked by nicks or burns or blisters, would throb a little whenever he woke up in the morning. Despite the hard work, despite his fatigue, he felt content and was determined to succeed. At long last life had become simple and clear to him, as if all the confusion and uncertainties had never befogged his mind.

One afternoon Pingping handed Nan a letter. "It's for you." "For me? From whom?"

"How can I know? Must be from a secret lover of yours." She tittered, seeing his eyes flash with annoyance.

He hadn't expected that Sam Fisher would write back. A month earlier Nan had sent the poet a letter to inform him of his move to Georgia. He told Sam about the Gold Wok and his intention to continue to write poetry, which he had almost stopped doing, actually. He just meant to keep in touch with Sam in case he might consult him on the craft of poetry writing. Besides telling Sam that he loved his book Fire Sutra, he also took the occasion to send his greetings to Dick Harrison, the tall young poet, who had been friendly to him when Nan was in New York. In his reply Sam Fisher encouraged Nan to write more poetry, saying that he had talent and should persevere to develop it, and that what was fundamental was "to sustain a great sentiment" in his heart. Sam also mentioned that he had lately fallen in love with some of Tu Fu's poems, which he hoped he could translate someday.

The letter touched and upset Nan at the same time. He had been so devoted to making money lately that his desire to be a poet was almost gone, though he still read poetry before going to sleep at night. He was very fond of a thick anthology called Great Poems, especially the short explanatory essays before each poem, and he pored over the book whenever he had time. He knew some of the poems, but some he had never read before. He wrote back to Sam Fisher and offered to help if Sam did embark on translating Tu Fu.

20

THE WUS knew very few Chinese living in this area. Neither had they gone to any Chinese church or visited the community center in Chinatown. They just wanted to lead an undisturbed life and didn't mind their isolation.

However, one afternoon in mid-March, two Chinese, a young man and a woman in her mid-thirties, came to the Gold Wok. They ignored Tammie's greetings and went straight to Pingping and Nan at the counter. The woman, who had a bony face, glossy skin, fierce eyes, and permed hair, introduced herself as the wife of a graduate student at Georgia Tech, whereas the man said he was a leader of the Chinese student association of that same school. They had come here to solicit a donation for the flood victims in mainland China. Nan wasn't interested and said he had no money.

The woman, named Mei Hong, persisted, "Look, Mr. Wu, you're from China, aren't you? Even if you're a rich American businessman now, you shouldn't forget your ancestors and homeland. Think about what you can do for your country."

"China is not my country anymore, and I'm not a rich man," Nan said. "I've been working my ass off day in and day out to keep this place alive. Besides, you shouldn't parrot that JFK crap here. Every citizen has the right to ask what my country can do for me."

Stumped, she stared at him for a moment, then kept on, "Do you know how much damage the Yangtze flood did last autumn?"

"I know, but it's over. It's spring now."

"No. Seventy million victims are still suffering from the aftermath of the calamity. Tens of thousands of them are homeless and waiting for your help. Eighteen provinces are still struggling to recover from the losses-"

"Give me a break! How can I be a savior of so many people? We've separated ourselves from China long ago, and for good. We don't owe it anything."

The young man tugged at Mei Hong's elbow, saying, "Let's go. It's no use arguing with such a miser who has forgotten his roots." His eyebrows were tilting as he kept pushing his flat nose with his knuckle.

Pingping said to Nan, " Why not give them a few dollars and send them away?"

"No, this is a matter of principle. I won't spend money this way." Mei Hong went on, "You act like the U.S. government. Don't you feel ashamed?"

"I'm not as rich as Uncle Sam." Nan raised his voice. "I don't collect taxes from others."

"All right, do you know China appealed to the United States for help last autumn? Guess how much the U.S. government offered our country."

"How much?"

"Twenty thousand dollars."

"Yes, that's just enough for one of those cars," the young man said, pointing at the parking lot. "The United States, the richest country in the world, meant to humiliate China with that piddling amount of money."

"What does this have to do with me?" Nan asked. "If my business went belly-up, China wouldn't come to my rescue, would it? Where could I get even one dollar?"

"But you're a Chinese and obligated to do something," Mei Hong said.

"I've done enough for China. Don't want to be charitable anymore." "Don't you have your parents and family back home?" " Yes, I do. "

"Then how can you be so cold and cut yourself off completely? How can you see your own people suffering and dying without lifting a finger to help?"

" Because even if I donated millions, the money would never reach the victims, and the officials would gobble it up. I don't want to fatten those parasites."

"We know what you're saying might be true to some degree, but we have made sure that the money we give will be spent on the victims. That's why so many people have contributed. One fellow at Georgia State is so poor that he lives in a decrepit van, but even he gave twenty dollars."

"Yes," the young man added, "a chemistry professor donated a thousand. He's from Nanjing originally."

Mei Hong went on, "We ought to separate the Chinese government from the common people. In this case, we're helping the victims."

Their words mollified Nan some. Pingping put in, "How about fifty dollars?"

Mei Hong said, "How about sixty? I gave seventy, but I'm not as rich as you. I came to America only last summer. Even my daughter gave twelve dollars-that was all she had for pocket money."

"Give them sixty and let them go," Nan grunted to Pingping.

She opened their checkbook. "Who do I make the check out to?"

"The Georgia Tech Chinese Student Association."

While his wife was writing the check, Nan said to the solicitors, " We give this money not because the victims are mainlanders. If they were people in Hong Kong or Taiwan or elsewhere, we would do the same. We just don't want to have anything to do with the Chinese government."