our names on a clipboard. Gordon’s turn to see the Commerce Attaché comes first. Before rising to go, he says in Chinese, “Be calm and be yourself. Ask questions. See if you can take some printed material with you.”
"Sha-fei Hong!" someone calls me from behind what must be a bulletproof window. It’s my turn.
“ Here!" I raise my hand and jump up from the bench. I am told that the Cultural Attaché does not see Chinese students. However, an intern in the Consulate will answer my questions.
A man in his late twenties comes to the hallway and shakes my hand vigorously. "Miss Hong?" he asks, smiling broadly. "I'm Ed Cook. Come on in."
Ed Cook stands about six feet and has curly sandy hair. After we enter his office, he surprises me by walking towards his desk and perching a hip on one of its corners. He folds his arms and studies me from head to toe.
"I'm here to ask some questions," I begin boldly.
He waves his hand to interrupt. "I know, I know, Sha-fei. You’ll have a chance for your questions. Do sit down. Let me ask you something first. Where did you learn your English?"
"At Pujiang University. And I practice very hard at home."
Ed Cook grins, revealing his yellowish teeth. "You speak very good English," he compliments. "Since I’m a foreign language student myself, I know it's not easy."
I am about to say something modest in reply. But, remembering Gordon’s advice, I say instead, "Thank you, Mr. Cook. Which foreign language do you speak?"
"Well, a little Chinese, and a little Japanese. I have a Chinese name, too. It’s Kwok Ai-teh, as in Cook, the Virtue-loving."
"Are you really a virtuous man?" I ask, thinking about the meaning of his Chinese name.
Ed Cook says with a laugh, "You Chinese girls always ask the most interesting questions. A name's just a label. Nobody takes it literally." For the first time, I look at his eyes directly. They are green like a cat's. His appearance fascinates me.
He moves away from the desk and sits down on his chair. From the breast pocket of his blue-and-white pin striped shirt with an all white collar, he takes out a pack of Chinese "Peony" cigarettes. Tapping the bottom of the box, he fishes a cigarette out with his mouth and lights it. What a dashing American, like the movie star John Wayne that Father talked about when I was young. At that thought, I sense my cheeks warming up.
"Who gave you your Chinese name, Mr. Cook?" I ask.
"Call me Ed," he says, puffing out a circular cloud of smoke. "Well, it was given to me by a young and intelligent Chinese woman like you. She tutored me in Chinese while I was in college."
"You had a private language tutor?"
"More than one. God, Tai Duo Le - too many. I've had a whole bunch of them -- Taiwanese, Hong Kong Cantonese, Japanese, even a Singapore 'niece'," he boasts, indulging himself. "Come to think of it, I've never had a mainland Chinese tutor."
"I can be your mainland Chinese tutor. But you'd have to pay me in U.S. dollars."
Ed breaks out laughing. "No wonder they say Shanghai people are born businessmen! I'd love to have you tutor me if your government allows interaction between an American man and an attractive Chinese young woman. But, in ten days, Wo Yao Qu Dong Jing, I'm going to Tokyo and I'm out of here!" he concludes joyfully. The few Chinese words he said had the kind of accent only a Westerner learning Chinese would have.
Ed lifts his legs onto his desk and crosses his feet. I cannot be more surprised. We Chinese consider it very rude to allow the soles of one's shoes to face a visitor. Yet I would be equally ill mannered if I commented about it. Ed's posture allows me to see the long, yellow hairs on his shins, as well as the ones sticking out of his maroon argyle socks. I shift my eyes and think: How hairy he is ... and he doesn't even wear long johns in this cold weather! Then, of course, they are always in a heated environment like here in the U.S. Consulate. American gentlemen are so interesting, so
"Sha-fei Hong!" someone calls me from behind what must be a bulletproof window. It’s my turn.
“ Here!" I raise my hand and jump up from the bench. I am told that the Cultural Attaché does not see Chinese students. However, an intern in the Consulate will answer my questions.
A man in his late twenties comes to the hallway and shakes my hand vigorously. "Miss Hong?" he asks, smiling broadly. "I'm Ed Cook. Come on in."
Ed Cook stands about six feet and has curly sandy hair. After we enter his office, he surprises me by walking towards his desk and perching a hip on one of its corners. He folds his arms and studies me from head to toe.
"I'm here to ask some questions," I begin boldly.
He waves his hand to interrupt. "I know, I know, Sha-fei. You’ll have a chance for your questions. Do sit down. Let me ask you something first. Where did you learn your English?"
"At Pujiang University. And I practice very hard at home."
Ed Cook grins, revealing his yellowish teeth. "You speak very good English," he compliments. "Since I’m a foreign language student myself, I know it's not easy."
I am about to say something modest in reply. But, remembering Gordon’s advice, I say instead, "Thank you, Mr. Cook. Which foreign language do you speak?"
"Well, a little Chinese, and a little Japanese. I have a Chinese name, too. It’s Kwok Ai-teh, as in Cook, the Virtue-loving."
"Are you really a virtuous man?" I ask, thinking about the meaning of his Chinese name.
Ed Cook says with a laugh, "You Chinese girls always ask the most interesting questions. A name's just a label. Nobody takes it literally." For the first time, I look at his eyes directly. They are green like a cat's. His appearance fascinates me.
He moves away from the desk and sits down on his chair. From the breast pocket of his blue-and-white pin striped shirt with an all white collar, he takes out a pack of Chinese "Peony" cigarettes. Tapping the bottom of the box, he fishes a cigarette out with his mouth and lights it. What a dashing American, like the movie star John Wayne that Father talked about when I was young. At that thought, I sense my cheeks warming up.
"Who gave you your Chinese name, Mr. Cook?" I ask.
"Call me Ed," he says, puffing out a circular cloud of smoke. "Well, it was given to me by a young and intelligent Chinese woman like you. She tutored me in Chinese while I was in college."
"You had a private language tutor?"
"More than one. God, Tai Duo Le - too many. I've had a whole bunch of them -- Taiwanese, Hong Kong Cantonese, Japanese, even a Singapore 'niece'," he boasts, indulging himself. "Come to think of it, I've never had a mainland Chinese tutor."
"I can be your mainland Chinese tutor. But you'd have to pay me in U.S. dollars."
Ed breaks out laughing. "No wonder they say Shanghai people are born businessmen! I'd love to have you tutor me if your government allows interaction between an American man and an attractive Chinese young woman. But, in ten days, Wo Yao Qu Dong Jing, I'm going to Tokyo and I'm out of here!" he concludes joyfully. The few Chinese words he said had the kind of accent only a Westerner learning Chinese would have.
Ed lifts his legs onto his desk and crosses his feet. I cannot be more surprised. We Chinese consider it very rude to allow the soles of one's shoes to face a visitor. Yet I would be equally ill mannered if I commented about it. Ed's posture allows me to see the long, yellow hairs on his shins, as well as the ones sticking out of his maroon argyle socks. I shift my eyes and think: How hairy he is ... and he doesn't even wear long johns in this cold weather! Then, of course, they are always in a heated environment like here in the U.S. Consulate. American gentlemen are so interesting, so
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
