Shanghai Girl by Vivian Yang Page A

business, so Dad didn't do much about looking into the accident overseas.
    At the time, Dad had just divorced Mom and was head over heels in love with a Japanese woman, a design student at Gotham U. But he decided not to marry her, and passed Michiko on to me upon my return from the Far East. That’s when I first learned about the Japanese practice of erasing women’s pubic hair from shunga magazines. It was the Japanese way of censoring adult material, I was told. The Japs’ hypocrisy didn’t bother me, though. I developed something of a fetish for a sushi-tasting cunt with pubic hairs clipped off. One got the sensation of processing raw yellowtail, wasabi, soy, and ginger all in one mouthful. Sashimi deluxe.
    It’s obvious that this fascination with Orientals runs in the family. I had my first Chinese lay as a junior in college and I've been hooked ever since. The girl's name was Irene Lou, then a freshman at Gotham. Her body was as smooth as golden jade. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to her. I was the first man she had slept with. I used to be so cocky about that.
    The Cook family learned over time that you really couldn’t exclude the Chinese any more effectively than Hitler's fantasy of exterminating the Jews. Nor can you, for that matter, really beat the Japs by rounding up all the Isseis and Niseis in the camps. I laugh invariably every time someone tells me the joke "Once upon a time, there were two Chinese. Look now, how many?" There are just too many of them. One might as well make use of them. And we certainly did. We had them build the railroads, have them cook and deliver mouth-watering food in handy pagoda boxes, and we have them tell us our fortunes in cute little cookies. Like the words on this T-shirts I have which says something like Oriental women are better than beers - you drink them and you throw them out. They'd never mention Betty Friedan or their proprietary rights to their reproductive systems. I can just imagine representing a steady stream of bedmates as these eager clients entrust their bodies and souls to their immigration lawyer.
    The phone on my desk rings as I chuckle to myself. Would I spare a moment to answer some questions for a Chinese student interested in studying in the U.S.? "Sure," I reply. Unbeknownst to the receptionist, I’m not otherwise occupied. "Send him over."
    "It's a girl. Her name is Sha-fei Hong."
    I light a cigarette and smile to myself. So much the better.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    5 Sha-Fei Hong: Bound To Meet On a Narrow Alley
     
    I see Gordon arriving in a taxi at the gate of the U.S. Consulate. He is dressed in a gray plaid business suit and a light brown camel’s hair coat. His red and silver striped tie sports a gold stickpin. The burgundy, leather briefcase he’s carrying bears a metal plaque with his initials “G.L.” Such style! How I wish I’d seen Father in this kind of outfit.
    Seeing me, he throws his arm around my shoulder in a quick hug and says, “Waiting here long?”
    “ Not really,” I reply. His presence warms my half-frozen body.
    Taking my hand in his, Gordon walks past the throng of Chinese people waiting in line and heads directly toward one iron-jawed sentry. Squeezing my hand to assuage my fears, Gordon patiently waits for the sentry to address us. Rifle clutched in between his legs, the guard examines Gordon’s passport and grunts in Chinese, “Lou Guo Deng, American citizen, uh?”
    “ Yes,” Gordon replies in an even tone. “We have an appointment. This is my niece. She’s with me.”
    The sentry checks a piece of paper in his hand with a list of names. “Oh, yes, your name is here. Two persons. You may go in.”
    I secretly utter a sigh of relief. Gordon seems to me to be so smart, so reliable, and so protective. I’m lucky to be with him.
    Once inside, Gordon exchanges pleasantries with a blonde receptionist who puts