Beautiful as Yesterday Read online

  Yet their admiration for the United States is betrayed by their eagerness to learn about college application procedures, tuition, school rankings, and programs—they know that having a U.S. education will give their children a big edge in the job market.

  How much has happened since she left China, Ingrid reflects. The Berlin Wall fell, the Soviet Union collapsed, Yugoslavia dissolved, China took over Hong Kong and Macau, and East Timor voted for independence from Indonesia. People now talk about globalization and the Internet era, instead of the “Cold War,” which used to divide the world into the East and the West. And of course, the start of a new millennium was just celebrated. It amazes her to think about having lived through all these events. She wonders what students study in their history and political science classes in China these days. If a student asked his teacher why Communist countries have collapsed if they held the most advanced social notions, how would the teacher reply? Do students still have to recite the Four Cardinal Principles—keeping to the socialist road and upholding the people’s democratic dictatorship, leadership by the Communist Party, and Marxism-Leninism and Mao thought—as she did? Her generation grew up with the propaganda of the Four Modernizations, which predicted that China would realize the modernization in four key areas by 2000. That had been the goal for every Chinese since the mid-1960s. She remembers in her first class at primary school, a few months before Mao died, the teacher taught her and her classmates to write “Long Live Chairman Mao” and “Four Modernizations.” But, on this sunny May day in 2000, Ingrid wonders how many Chinese still remember the Four Modernizations.

  At this moment, Ingrid hears a young man from her tour group say to a colleague, “Americans are immature.”

  He continues, “Americans spend money like there’s no tomorrow. They can’t survive without a credit card. The more they buy, the more they owe the bank. When they can’t afford to pay, they go bankrupt. They’re like little kids without discipline. On the other hand, Chinese live on a budget, know how to save, and are much more careful with their finances.”

  She smiles—he’s right. It is not only the Chinese; Asians in general seem to know how to increase their assets, though she cannot say the same about herself. In the United States, she reflects, among all the ethnic groups, don’t Asians have the highest average household income and the highest saving rate?

  After the Statue of Liberty, she drops the tour group at their hotel. Another guide will take them to dinner and show them the city’s nightlife.

  The next morning, Ingrid doesn’t get up until noon—one hour later than usual: she’s a night owl. Her room is chaotic, as if it’s been visited by a thief: books and clothes are lying around on the hardwood floor and on the red, modern-looking Nelson marshmallow sofa with crepe upholstery; two unmatched shoes sleep under her desk. Against the walls are several bookcases, in different sizes, and most of the books they hold are classics. All the walls are filled with lithographs and oil paintings acquired from her international trips.

  Thinking of her apartment in Astoria always cheers Ingrid: she has a roof over her head in this city that countless billionaires and millionaires call home. Her apartment is on Steinway Street, a two-story unit with stained glass windows, boasting a 120-year history. Reportedly the writer who received the National Book Award three years ago lived here when he was an office clerk. Not long ago, the landlord, a Korean, had the exterior walls and main entrance door painted bright green and the few big cracks on the cement stairs fixed. But nothing has been done to the old window frames, which have turned a dirty brown, chipped paint hanging in many places like tears running down cheeks. From the outside, the whole building looks like a garishly dressed and made-up showgirl.

  Inside, a square entryway is covered by a patch of wine-colored carpet. To the right, against the wall, is a Victorian-style buffet table with a dark, laminated-plywood surface, an apparent acquisition from a treasure-hunting trip to a flea market. On the table are old magazines—Time, The New Yorker—or expensive-looking ads from Saks Fifth Avenue or Tiffany. The main provider of these ads is a model, nicknamed Tooth, who lives on the first floor and sings three nights a week at a Brooklyn bar. The New Yorker is from Ingrid and her roommate, Angelina Pérez—they share the subscription. Angelina has been playing small off-Broadway roles for five years, but she has never abandoned the hope of becoming the lead in a major Broadway production. The hallways and stairs are narrow. Rather than using the wine-colored carpet in the entryway, the landlord has covered them with secondhand Persian rugs, whose intricate patterns of black and red flowers easily hide tracked-in dirt and mud.

  “Ingrid!” It’s Angelina. She must be in the kitchen—Ingrid hears her open the fridge. Their apartment has thin walls.

  “What’s up?” Ingrid opens her door.

  Angelina leans against Ingrid’s doorframe, a bottle of Corona Extra in her hand. She has thick, wavy black hair and enormous brown eyes. Her nose is thin and straight, as if carved, a gift from her grandmother. Her full lips look as if they were about to burst from her skin. Her healthy dark brown complexion, inherited from her father, and her firm legs give her confident sex appeal. Typically she wears as little as she can without risking arrest, often meaning that half her chest is exposed beyond her tight top or dress. As she walks in high heels, her breasts rise and fall like two wild animals breathing. Whether you know her or not, man or woman, the moment you see her you notice her deep cleavage. She has less desirable features—stubborn, light gray freckles, slightly crooked front teeth—but these defects are minor compared with her overall charm. Today she wears a knee-length, strapless black dress that clings to her hips like another layer of skin.

  Ingrid whistles. “You look fantastic! What’s special?”

  “I lost the role in The Wild Party to Teresa Lurie. That fucking bitch!” Her voice sounds dulcet even when she is cursing. “Carl just told me. He sounded plenty sorry for me, offering all kinds of explanations. You know, all the poppycock.” Angelina is fond of picking up words from her performances.

  “Hmm, I thought you had it.”

  “I thought so too. But she’s probably slept with Carl. You know that fox.” She giggles, her breasts shaking. She takes a swig from the bottle. “If he were a bit taller and his legs a little thicker, I might have slept with him. Then I’d have the role. But no, thanks. I can’t imagine screwing him. Anyway, I thought I’d boost my morale a bit by putting on something…comfortable. How about a little party next week? Maybe not an orgy like that in the show. No guns, no fights. The usual crowd.”

  “Swell! I need that. I’ve been working like a dog.”

  “Written much lately?”

  “I wish. Haven’t had the time.”

  “Heard anything from that New Voice something short story contest?”

  “It’s probably bogus, you know. A bunch of poor writers putting together some event to make money. Twenty-five bucks per submission. If they got one hundred fools like me, that’s twenty-five hundred bucks.”

  “I never believe these contests anyway. Don’t let Molly talk you into that kind of shit next time.”

  “Molly just loves these contests. I don’t blame her. It’s like buying lottery tickets—there is always hope.”

  “That’s right, hope. We all need that.” Angelina holds the bottle up, moving the thumb and index finger of her other hand up and down it suggestively. “I need to get drunk…and laid.”

  “Good luck!” Ingrid says.

  “You betcha, honey.” A ripple of laughter. “I’ll leave you alone. I’d better make some calls.”

  Ingrid had found the apartment through a newspaper classified ad: low rent, easy-going and artsy roommate, it had said. The day she moved in, she caught Angelina making love to a man on the sofa in the living room, both naked. They were so passionately engaged, like two hungry lion cubs, that they didn’t hear Ingrid open the door. At the sight of Ingrid, Angelina got off the man slowly, calmly, covering her breasts with her right
arm and her crotch with her left hand, smiling charmingly as if she had been expecting her. The man snatched Angelina’s lace bra from the floor and threw it on his erection—the whole thing looked like a funny-shaped mushroom.

  “Oh, darling, you timed it perfectly!” Angelina said to Ingrid, as the latter tripped over her luggage trying to back out the door. After Angelina and her lover got dressed, they introduced themselves properly. Angelina gave Ingrid a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, while the man offered a handshake. “Tolstoy, nice to meet you.” As if knowing that Ingrid would ask his name again, he repeated, “Tolstoy, that’s my name. I’m a TV producer.” There was a shrewd smile on his face, and he gave her a wink.

  Later, at various times of day, Ingrid encountered more of Angelina’s lovers just as she had met Tolstoy. Some of the men were embarrassed, others weren’t. One suggested, half-jokingly, a threesome, which received a long and hearty laugh from Angelina and a cold shrug from Ingrid. Angelina once confessed to Ingrid that the danger of being caught having sex stimulated extra pleasure. “Danger and excitement are brothers,” she said. “Adrenaline, you know.”

  Though Ingrid was a little put off initially by Angelina and had considered moving, she has since learned to appreciate her as someone who is genuine and enthusiastic about life. Her generous hugs and kisses warm Ingrid’s heart. She feels comfortable being with Angelina and her friends, knowing that they accept her for who she is.

  “Hope, my sweet New York hope,” she hears Angelina singing theatrically from her room. Then her voice turns into an indolent “mi amorsito”—her phone call has gone through.

  Ingrid smiles. She’d better call her mother today. It’s been a while.

  FOUR

  November

  ANOTHER WEEK GOES BY, and it’s Saturday again. At noon, Mingyi and Yaya arrive at Mary’s house. Julia shows up a short while later, explaining that she just squabbled with her husband.

  Today’s menu is steamed dumplings. Mary has prepared three kinds of stuffing, shrimp with baichai, ground beef with chives, and mixed vegetables. Julia has brought the handmade wrappings from home. They sit at the dinner table, making dumplings.

  Since stepping into the house, Yaya has been talking, first about an eccentric ex-colleague who sold everything he owned on eBay and bought a boat, planning to sail alone through the Caribbean, then about a piece of lingerie she recently purchased at Victoria’s Secret at Valley Fair Mall. Short and slightly chubby, Yaya has an animated face that never seems to show tiredness. The youngest of the four, she just turned thirty-five, and the birthday gift she got from Mary, Mingyi, and Julia was a limited-edition pink Hello Kitty watch. She is fanatic about Hello Kitty, a baffling hobby in Mary’s opinion since Yaya is a senior graphic designer at a major architectural firm in San Francisco. Though she is married, her husband spends most of his time in Beijing, where he founded an investment management company half a year ago, after he quit Microsoft, with two ex-classmates from the Wharton business school. While listening to Yaya talk, Mary admires her friend’s energy and enthusiasm: how fast she talks! Like a quick summer shower. And the way she bursts into laughter is reminiscent of thunder in a blue sky.

  “Pink again?” Mary winks at Julia. “Looks like our pinky girl cannot wait for her man to return.”

  “I didn’t buy it for Daming. It’s for my own enjoyment. It’s a beautiful piece. Silk, well-designed, with a nice pattern,” Yaya responds, then adds, “Daming likes white laced lingerie anyway.”

  “Mary, is the heater on? It’s hot!” Mingyi waves her hand exaggeratedly. Mary laughs: it’s always nice to see Mingyi lighten up. Mingyi is the only single among them. Secretly Mary views her as her closest friend and wishes she could be like her. Though they are both quiet and good listeners, Mingyi acts like a big sister to her friends, and her quietness, seems to be part of her upbringing, consistent and in character, unlike Mary’s own, which one might associate with a bashful yet sociable person who can become lively if the occasion is right.

  “What a beautiful jasmine flower! So fresh, so fragrant.” Julia begins to sing a Chinese song popular in the eighties.

  “What did you suggest?” Yaya guffaws. “At least I didn’t read O magazine or Marie Claire to get the tips about firming breasts and toning hips and thighs.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, I didn’t say anything. I was just singing,” Julia replies, scooping some stuffing from a bowl into a wrapping with a pair of chopsticks. “When I brought over the articles, who was the one so eager to borrow them to make copies?”

  “Neither do I use egg white and fresh cucumber slices to clean my face every week,” Yaya continues, smiling brilliantly. “Or eat black sesame seeds and weird herbs to make my hair black.”

  Julia holds up the chopsticks, threatening Yaya. “Just wait until you’re forty.”

  “What are you fighting about? I’m the oldest here, and I haven’t said a word about aging,” Mingyi says. “Want to hear? I have plenty to tell.”

  “You’re the last person who can say anything about aging. You simply don’t age!” Yaya exclaims. “Your face is smoother than mine. That’s so unfair. Just look at mine. It’s like the surface of the moon. And I got another zit yesterday.” She turns toward Mingyi and closes her eyes. “Here, did you see? Right on my eyelid.”

  “Who asked you to eat so much spicy food?” Julia says, dipping her fingers into the flour spread thin on the plate to keep the dumplings from sticking and marking two white lines on Yaya’s forehead. Yaya pops open her eyes, jumps up, and takes revenge by splashing a few drops of water from her drinking glass onto Julia’s face. Laughter fills the house.

  Mary stands and places two plates of dumplings on a bed of lettuce inside a multilevel bamboo steamer, then walks to the stove to steam it. As she brings a pot of water to boil, she is surprised as always at how much she enjoys chats with these friends and how intimately they share. Though they meet at the church every Sunday, it’s the Saturday rendezvous that she anticipates the most, in which they rarely talk about God, the Bible, or other religious topics but indulge in gossiping and sharing their thoughts on varied matters. Not all their thoughts are in line with Christian values, she is aware; sometimes they get so carried away by their conversations that they simply forget they are Christians. But that doesn’t bother Mary; on the contrary, she feels that she and her friends are like girls from a college sorority who have sworn honesty and loyalty to one another, who share secrets and speak their minds candidly. That kind of trust, makes her feel young and lively. How lucky she is to have these friends!

  As they wait for the dumplings to cook, Julia talks about her work. A real estate agent specializing in the South Bay area around Sunnyvale, Santa Clara, and San Jose, Julia has helped both Yaya and Mary buy their houses. She has a girlish voice, slight but high-pitched, giving the impression that she is much younger—in fact, she’s forty-two and has two kids, George fourteen, Sophie eleven. She is as talkative as Yaya, sometimes losing all sense of time, but her subjects tend to be practical, related to investments, housework, shopping bargains, children’s education, and so on. Whenever Mary has questions in those areas, she turns to Julia for help.

  “I was busy all day yesterday, showing houses to five different clients. The first was a Taiwanese couple with four children. The wife doesn’t have a job and the husband is just a normal engineer. They wanted to buy a house in Saratoga with five percent down. I suggested more affordable areas, like Milpitas, San Jose, or Santa Clara, so they wouldn’t have to worry about interest rate hikes. But the wife was angry with my suggestion, as if I were looking down on them. Then there were three Vietnamese families buying a house together. They told me that they would buy one first and live together, then buy another with the equity from the first house, then buy third in the same way. In the end, each family would have a house. Smart, isn’t it? Another client was a flipper, looking for houses to sell within three months at a profit. I’m telling you, people here are crazy.”

>   “This kind of double-digit annual growth can’t last forever,” Mary says and looks concerned. “Don’t you think the housing market will crash soon?”

  “No, I don’t.” Julia shakes her head firmly. “Where can you find a better place on the earth than California? It has great weather, beautiful mountains and oceans, and countless scenic attractions. Not to mention Silicon Valley’s huge job market. Also, homeowners here account for less than twenty percent of the population, and if prices drop only a little, many renters will rush into the market and that will raise prices in no time. Though your school district can’t be compared with those in Cupertino and Palo Alto, it’s good enough to attract buyers with children. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Cupertino is a no-no,” Yaya says. “A friend of mine showed me her daughter’s class photo. Except for two white boys, the students were all Asians, most Chinese and Indians. Sisters, wake up, give kids some fun and childhood. Life is not all about the Ivy League.”

  Julia ignores Yaya and continues, “Mary, your house sits in the south and faces north and gets a lot of sunlight. That’s good feng shui.”

  “Oh, my goodness, not feng shui again!” Yaya laughs. “All the crap about not buying a house with stairs aligned directly with the entrance door, or not with a 4 in the number, or not with a severely sloping roof. I don’t believe any of this for a minute. It’s all superstition among Chinese. In my opinion, wherever there are a lot of immigrants, the housing market will hold firm. The first thing immigrants do when they arrive in a new country is try to buy property, either for themselves or for investment. They can’t sleep tight unless they have a piece of paper under their pillows proving that they own a property somewhere. Chinese, Indians, Vietnamese, Mexicans, they’re all like that. I bet you a million dollars that if Chairman Mao were still alive and had emigrated to the U.S., the first thing he’d do would be to buy a house. He had a peasant’s blood, you know.”