China Dog (10 page)

Sandra lay on the sofa with her arm over her eyes, tasting the salty tears that rolled down her cheeks. Everyone in her family understood all those rules of Chinese etiquette and protocol so naturally, so intuitively. Everyone, that is, except her. Sandra remembered once having dinner with her family at the home of a wealthy relative. She was eleven. Marilyn was twenty-one and Glen was twenty-four. They were both still living at home. Everyone was seated around a large oval-shaped
rosewood table covered with a thick white tablecloth. There was a Lazy Susan in the middle of the table with assorted barbecued meats, stir-fried shrimp with vegetables, a braised stew of beef and dried bean curd. Sandra was very careful not to move the Lazy Susan, to only take from the dishes that were in front of her, and to wait for the adults around the table to initiate the turns. She was also mindful of the way she held her chopsticks, keeping her palm facing up when she reached for food so that her elbow stayed at her side. Marilyn never failed to point out that when Sandra reached for food at the table, she stuck out her elbow, rudely interfering with the space of the person next to her. In her mind she could hear Marilyn admonishing her, “You idiot! Keep your elbow to your side before you jab somebody.” Afterwards her mother would shake her head and laugh, “What do you expect from these
hoo sung
, these Canadian-born?” And her father would add, “
Mo Yung
, useless!” and laugh again.

Throughout the entire meal, Sandra had remained very quiet. When the wealthy aunt asked her if she would like more rice, Sandra smiled and immediately replied yes. By the sudden silence in the room, Sandra knew she had committed a major gaffe. But what? Hadn’t she simply responded to a question? The wealthy aunt quickly smiled, took Sandra’s rice bowl, and returned it to her filled with steaming white rice. Everyone breathed a quiet, but audible sigh of relief.

Afterwards, as they were driving home, her mother explained to her, “When you’re having dinner in someone’s home and you’re asked if you’d like some more, you must always say no.”

Sandra looked puzzled. “But why?”

“Don’t you know anything?” Marilyn rolled her eyes.

Mrs. Low looked exasperated, but continued to explain. “You say no because she might not have enough food.”

“Well, if she doesn’t have enough, why did she ask in the first place?”

“Don’t you see? If the host doesn’t have enough food, she still has to ask in order to save face. But you’re supposed to say no, in case there’s no food. If there’s really enough food then she’ll offer again.”

“Then can I say yes?”

“No,” said Mrs. Low emphatically, with a deep sigh. “You still have to say no.”

“But why?” asked Sandra, sounding equally exasperated.

“Because when you accept so quickly you sound too eager and greedy.”

“You mean I have to be asked three times before I can say yes.”

“Don’t you see?” Marilyn chimed in. “That way everybody saves face. If the host doesn’t have enough food, she’s already asked, but you’ve said no. After she’s asked you three times, it means there’s lots of food and you don’t appear greedy by accepting too quickly.”

“These Canadian-born,
hoo sung, Mo Yung
, useless,” muttered Mrs. Low under her breath.

For the rest of the trip home, Sandra pressed her face against the window, looking out into the darkness, into the headlights of the oncoming cars. Well, if her family wished
she were more Chinese, she wished they were more Canadian.

As Sandra rested on her couch in the apartment on Howland Avenue, she realized that things hadn’t changed all that much. She still found Chinese etiquette and protocol a quagmire. It was true that once things were explained they made sense. But the problem was that so little came intuitively, the way it came to Marilyn. Everything was in code. It was all so unlike the Canadian way of doing things – forthright, open, a level playing field.

On the day that Sandra graduated from university, Glen had closed the restaurant, which otherwise happened only at Christmas. Marilyn had taken the day off work and had even insisted that Walter attend. To Sandra’s embarrassment, her mother had hired a photographer. Sandra knew that for her family she was a source of mixed feelings, a frog who couldn’t decide to live on land or swim in water; she was an object of love, pride, and jealousy. She was the only one born in Canada, and because of that, they continued to call her the
hoo sung
. Especially Marilyn. Marilyn was nine when she arrived in Canada and Glen was thirteen. Glen went to school for a few years, but quit after grade eight. Marilyn graduated from the four-year commercial course in high school. She worked for a while as a bank teller before marrying Walter. Her marriage to Walter had been considered a real triumph, a step into true white-collar middle-class life. But it was achieved through marriage, whereas Sandra was a member of the professional class because of her education. She was the one who moved with total ease through Canadian life. Her track was smooth
and straight; she never stumbled. It wasn’t that Glen and Marilyn hadn’t been blessed. It was just that Sandra had been blessed more. Their envy was never overwhelming. It came out obliquely, good-naturedly. They bragged to others about Sandra’s university degree, but then quickly added how much greater their accomplishments would be had they only had the same opportunities. Glen was always a highly paid engineer, building fantastic bridges and roads. And Marilyn would be a lawyer, faithfully serving the Chinese community.

But gradually Sandra began to appreciate her position of ignorance. Not knowing, not being able to negotiate her way around the intricacies of Chinese social behaviour, gave her protection. No one really held her accountable. She was not taken as a serious player in the game of family politics and diplomacy.

Sandra got up from the couch and walked stiffly to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, then she splashed cold water on her face.

The next day, Sandra spent her lunch hour poring over the blank cards at Eaton’s. She spent the next two nights rewriting the invitations to the Chinese guests on cards with two birds on the cover. She wasn’t going to be responsible for a curse on anybody’s life.

The parents of Sandra’s best friend, Gail, lived in a large spacious house in the Kingsway. They generously agreed to hold the reception in their home. There was a magnificent foyer
with a winding staircase. The living room was filled with overstuffed couches and chairs covered in flowered chintz. The bay window overlooked a hedge of spirea. The dining room opened onto a cedar deck that in the summer flowed into smooth green lawns and beds of roses. But it was the middle of March, and the backyard was covered with melting piles of darkly speckled granular snow. The flowering shrubs looked bare and skeletal.

Sandra and Victor wanted a simple reception of wine, beer, and hors d’oeuvres. On the day of the reception, everything looked perfect. The dining table was covered with a thick white damask tablecloth, with a centrepiece of elegant white calla lilies. There were vases of flowers everywhere – yellow and white lilies, blue irises, many coloured snapdragons. The waiters were ready in their black trousers and vests and white shirts. A small folk group with a singer, guitar player, and violinist provided sweet, gentle music. Sandra was eager to show her family that she, the little sister, really did know how to pull off a big social affair. She even made sure that there were nibbles like deep-fried wontons, chicken and shrimp satays, so that the Chinese guests would be comfortable with the food.

Sandra squeezed Victor’s hand as she surveyed the surroundings. She was pleased with what she saw. People gradually started to arrive. Everything appeared to be going smoothly. Their friends and Victor’s family arrived first. Then Sandra’s relatives started to slowly trickle in. Her nieces and nephews, who were all Canadian-born, warmly but quickly greeted her and Victor, before attaching themselves to the buffet table.

Marilyn, all smiles, rushed over and gave Victor a quick peck on the cheek. She put her arm around Sandra and beamed at her in her special loving big-sisterly way. “Well done, Sandra. Very high-class. Walter and I have been to parties like this before, you know. The
lo fons
will love it.” Then she took Walter’s arm and they started mingling. Sandra turned to Victor and grinned. She heard Marilyn speaking on the other side of the room. “I’m the bride’s sister. My husband, Walter.… What do we do? … Oh, we have a bookkeeping company. Very small, not much business,” as she gestured with her left hand, a large diamond and emerald ring glittering on her wedding finger.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sandra caught a glimpse of Glen and May looking at the buffet table. Her brother was wearing a suit that probably hadn’t been worn in fifteen years. There was something about the way they were huddling and whispering that immediately sent waves of uncertainty through Sandra’s body. Glen ate three bowls of steamed rice at every meal. He stared in disbelief at the trays of tiny nibbles that were being offered.

Suddenly Sandra’s mother was standing next to her, taking her aside. Her body stiffened as she listened to her mother’s hoarse whisper. “Sanda
-ah
, Sanda
-ah
. You have too many white flowers. For the Chinese, white is the colour of death. You should’ve checked with me first. And don’t you know that Chinese people expect to come to a sit-down banquet.
Eiiyah
! People are going to think you’re stingy. Take their gifts and give them so little to eat.”

For the rest of the reception, Sandra found herself acutely aware of all the conversation. Every voice seemed magnified. There was lavish praise. “What a lovely reception. Great place. Great food.” And there were uncomfortable whispers and furtive glances. “What’s this? Is this all we’re eating?”

Throughout it all, Sandra remained the perfectly composed bride. But her palms grew clammy and her stomach tightened as she realized the extent of her social blunder. Her ignorance of Chinese traditions had until now been grudgingly forgiven, considered even a part of her charm. But marriage was a major life decision. By not doing things properly, she was tempting fate. She knew that her mother would be phoning.

Three weeks later, Mrs. Low held a dinner in honour of her daughter’s marriage to Victor. It was a nine-course, sit-down banquet at a Chinese restaurant. Sandra arrived in a long-sleeved shift of red fluid silk. Around her neck she wore a large jade pendant on a heavy gold chain, a gift from her mother. All the Chinese guests were invited, along with Victor’s family. For good luck, there were plates of oranges. There were bowls of steaming shark’s fin soup, lobster with ginger, crispy-skin chicken, delicate stir-fried scallops with smoky mushrooms, noodles for long life, and more. In the middle of each round table proudly stood a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label Scotch, for more good luck.

Mrs. Low, wearing a rose-coloured brocade suit, led Sandra and Victor from table to table, offering their welcome to all
the guests. Mrs. Yee, the matchmaker, was sitting at the first table. She turned and smiled at Mrs. Low, Sandra, and Victor. Then she looked directly at Mrs. Low, “You must be so happy. Finally, Sandra married.
Lo fons
not all bad, you know.…”

Mrs. Low was prepared. “Oh, you know young people today. They want to decide themselves.
Lo fons
aren’t all bad, just like Chinese aren’t all good. The good thing, though –
half-and-half
children are the most beautiful. They have the best of both worlds.”

Mrs. Yee nodded in agreement. “Nothing we can do about it if young people want to choose themselves.” She shrugged her shoulders. “My daughter is going with a
lo fon
. As long as you have a good son-in-law. Doesn’t matter Chinese or
lo fon
.”

Mrs. Low relaxed a little and smiled. “Well, you know, people pay money for his paintings. He can do so much around the house. Very hard-working, good with his hands. And he loves Chinese food, even the fermented black beans. He even uses chopsticks like a Chinaman. If you can get a son-in-law like that,
lo fon
is okay.”

Sandra was grateful that Victor didn’t understand Chinese. She smiled to herself at the irony of those comments. Only a few months ago, her mother was calling Victor that
gwei loh
, that devil man. Now she was touting him as the catch of the century. But as they exchanged greetings with guests, table after table, Sandra couldn’t help but notice the tightly stitched smile on her mother’s face and the words occasionally catching in her throat. When she returned to the head table, she opened her palm and saw that she was clutching several red lucky
money envelopes, pressed into her hand by the older Chinese guests while she was making the rounds. Sandra unzipped a secret pocket in the back of her purse and carefully placed the gifts of luck inside.

THE NIGHT JOHNNY SUE
fell from the third floor of his restaurant was like any other night. After he and his son, Tony, closed the dining room and cleaned up, Tony went to bed. Johnny went up to the roof with a bottle of Scotch. Nobody knew whether he fell or leaped. When a cop found him at four in the morning, he had to bang for more than twenty minutes on the restaurant door to wake Tony up. Everyone thought he must have died right away after falling three floors, but nobody knew for sure. How long had he lain there? Was he moaning?

When Tony saw his father’s body in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk, he was unable to utter a single sound. When he finally found his voice, the words erupted in a stammer, like the rapid teeth-tapping of a trapped animal. The stutter remained for the rest of his life. Sometimes it diminished but it never entirely left – a rat gnawing inside his throat.

After the funeral, Tony called the real estate agent and left town. Nothing was disturbed, nothing touched. Upstairs there
were three bedrooms, two of them facing the brick wall of the furniture store. The room at the front looked across the road to the Urquhart bus station. Each room had a single bed with a twisted wire frame and a narrow mattress, covered with thin sheets and moth-eaten blankets. In the front room there was a chest of drawers with a splotchy mirror. Downstairs, everything remained ready for business. A few ashtrays needed to be emptied, but the cooler was stocked with milk and cream. The refrigerator was filled with hamburger patties, strips of halibut, iceberg lettuce, cole slaw, and bean sprouts. Jammed in the back were egg rolls, breaded chicken balls, and breaded spare ribs, all partly cooked and ready for the deep fryer, though the place stood empty. The stained walls, the ceiling tiles, and the very air smelled of stale tobacco, rotting food, and death.