Nan tried to calm her down. He wouldn't let her do any heavy work in the restaurant. All of a sudden his life seemed to have a purpose, a center, and he felt invigorated. He was grateful for a second opportunity, because he hadn't helped his wife much in raising Tao-tao. This time he was determined to be a better father.

7

NAN wrote four short poems in English. He was pleased with them and wondered if he should show them to Dick. He decided not to for the time being; instead, he mailed them to Sam Fisher and Edward Neary, since both poets had told him to send them his work. He hoped they would comment on his poems and ideally help him publish one or two.

A few months earlier Dick had suggested that Nan write a memoir. Nan was bemused by the idea and shook his head, saying he had no such intention and couldn't imagine being a memoirist. To him, such a book should be written by someone who had experienced something extraordinary. But Dick said, "Your life can be a very interesting subject according to what I've heard." Still, Nan didn't want to attempt that. Besides, a book of prose would demand a lot of the author-a long-lasting concentration and total immersion in the writing. It meant he'd have to live as a full-time writer for a year or two, a luxury he couldn't afford. He'd better focus on poetry, which mainly needed short bursts of energy.

Now that the poems had been mailed out, he expected to hear from the two poets any day. But three weeks passed without a word from them. He was puzzled, wondering if he should write to them again, but his good sense got the better of him, so he waited patiently.

One afternoon Dick arrived at the Gold Wok with a sullen face and puffy eyes. He looked a few years older than the cheerful Dick that Nan had last seen. Nan drew up a chair upholstered with red vinyl and sat down at the table across from his friend. "What's eating you?" he asked, using the expression he had just learned from Shubo.

Dick uttered a long sigh. "My publisher is eating me. Oh, help!" His face contorted as he suddenly began sobbing. He stretched out his hand and held Nan 's forearm as though intending to stand up but unable to. Surprised, Nan handed him a paper napkin, which Dick took and used to blow his nose.

"They want you to sell more books?" asked Nan a moment later.

"No. They refused to publish Unexpected Gifts."

"Why? I wondered what happened to zer book. It should have come out long ago."

"First they postponed its publication, then they decided not to do it at all."

"How come?"

"They said my last book hadn't reached the sales standard. That's just an excuse. I know some books they published have done much worse than mine. They just wanted to get rid of me, probably because I quarreled with them about that cover."

"Don't you have a contract?"

"I signed the contract, but they've never sent me the cosigned copy. So the contract isn't valid."

"Zat's awful!" Despite saying that, Nan didn't fully understand why his friend was so heartbroken. He asked again, "Didn't they already cawpyedit it?"

"Yes, but the publisher changed his mind. I'm through, Nan. I'll never recover from this blow."

"Don't be so pessimistic. You can always look for anozzer publisher, can't you?"

"You don't get it, Nan. Once you've lost your publisher, you're ruined."

"How so?"

"You belong to a different category of poets now and few publishers will take your work seriously. It's like you've become homeless." "There's no room for negotiation?" "With whom?" "Zer publisher."

"No. The series editor was a sorry poet whose book I once reviewed negatively, because he'd lifted lines from others' poems. This made the whole thing worse. I knew that snot might stab me in the back, but I didn't expect he and the publisher would connive to destroy me. This got me right here." He pointed at his heart. By now he had stopped sobbing, though his eyes were still misty.

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.