Mr. Wiley pushed up his glasses and gazed at the dark drink in the bottle. “You continued to issue them visas for two years after I left. How many visas did you issue?”
“Thousands.”
“How did you withstand the pressure?”
“There was no other option. Each visa was a life.”
“Do you have regrets, Dr. Ho?”
Fengshan thought about this. “You know this well, Mr. Wiley—as diplomats, we do what is right for our country, and as men, we do what is right to our hearts.”
Mr. Wiley nodded. “Did you know Dr. Freud was euthanized a year after his arrival in England? His cancer was too painful to bear. He was eighty-three. His family let me know.”
None of his visa holders would think of contacting him, understandably. Most had not met him, and few even knew how to pronounce his name. That was just as well. He had never sought friendship or recognition. He had accomplished what he wanted to accomplish and rescued the lives that he needed to rescue, and as a result, he came to Brooklyn as a civilian Chinese. There was nothing heroic about it, and therefore there was nothing more to be said and nothing more to discuss.
Mr. Wiley raised the bottle in a toast. “You’re an indomitable man, Dr. Ho. It’s China’s loss that you’re no longer advocating for its welfare. I do hope we will sit in a conference room in the future.”
“I shall only wish the same. Please.” He stopped Mr. Wiley as he reached for his suit pocket. Americans. They took pride in paying for their own drinks and meals, but he still believed in his Hunan hospitality—that you never allowed your friends to pay for their drinks. “It’ll be my treat.”
Fengshan dug into his wallet but only found seven cents. All he had left for this month’s expenses. His face grew hot. He was short three cents.
Mr. Wiley put a dime on the table and patted his shoulder. “Take care, Dr. Ho.”
Fengshan sat there long after Mr. Wiley left, mortified. Never had he thought this would happen to him—too broke to pay for his friend’s drink. And all these months of worry and Grace’s complaints about money came to haunt him. The monthly rent of sixty dollars was draining his savings, and for months he’d had nothing but his paltry income from the Institute. In two weeks, the reporting would end too, and he would need to find a job.
Another job. What would he do other than be a diplomat who fought for his country? But in Brooklyn, he could never work for his country. Brooklyn might be a haven for many immigrants and people of color, but it was not for him. He was the son of China and the warrior of China. His future lay in China—even if it was wreckage, a dangerous battleground.
In their small apartment, Fengshan sat at the dining table with a wobbly leg wedged with a stack of newspapers. Monto was still at school; it was just Grace and him.
She was washing dishes at the sink, wearing a flowery cotton dress reaching her calves. At twenty-eight, she was still beautiful and graceful, still had a body like a girl’s. She had fully recovered from the hysterectomy and was now active and involved with housework and Monto’s school. Frequently, she cooked Chinese dishes—sliced pork stir-fried with green onion and garlic or pork belly stewed in sugar and soy sauce; sometimes she hummed the popular tunes she heard on the TV and radio.
But life had not been as peaceful as he had hoped. They had disagreements about Monto’s schooling, arguments about money, quibbles about food, and even quarrels over the choice of soap. Their relationship would have been improved, he believed, if he could make her happy in bed. So he went to bed early, put down whatever book he was reading, and turned to her when she entered the bedroom, but she turned off the lights and moved to her side. When he initiated, Grace appeared to be uncomfortable. Their moment of intimacy, of healing rapture, of spiritual union that once had captivated her and invigorated him became a confusing chore. Until finally, he stopped trying. Had the hysterectomy changed her body and affected her mood? He searched for an answer.
They were still husband and wife, though, and he would like to have her opinion.
He cleared his throat. “Grace, I ran into Mr. Wiley today.”
“Who?” She set the dishes down on the counter and wiped her hands on her apron but didn’t turn around.
“Consul General Wiley from Vienna, remember him?”
She nodded, her back still facing him, the red strings of her apron a tight, inscrutable knot. Since when did she turn her back on him? Since when did they turn their backs on each other?
He cleared his throat again. “I’ve been thinking, Grace, and this is a difficult decision, but I think I’d like to return to China.”
She finally turned around, her beautiful eyes wide with dismay. “China.”
It still irked him that China was like a footnote that she skipped when reading, but for him, China was his entire thesis. Writing the reports for the Institute had been an integral exercise for his patriotism, but she had shown little enthusiasm.
“Why?”
“My assignments will complete soon. There’s no more work left for me to do.”
“But you can find a job here. You speak three foreign languages.”
“I can’t work here.”
“But . . .” She put her hand on the edge of the table and scratched a dot of dried ketchup stuck on the surface. “But I don’t want to go to China.”
His heart dropped. This was precisely the response he had predicted. She was happy, healthy, and here in America she never lost her way home. In China, she would need to start over again, learning the language, learning how to make friends, how to catch chickens and cook, just like what she had gone through years ago, and that was China before the war with Japan started. Now, with the Japanese bombers hovering in the sky, China wouldn’t be a safe home for her. Asking her to go to China with him would be asking her to go to a war zone.
But her reply also confirmed the thought that had haunted him for the past year. They had come to America together, but they had gone separate ways in Brooklyn. “Then you may stay here. I’ll give you half of what is left of my savings, not much, so you can have something to start your life.”
Her face turned pale. “Are you divorcing me? After all these years together?”
Helplessly, he stared at her. He didn’t want to part with bitterness, with acrimony, with hatred. “Grace . . .”
She stood up and went into their bedroom.
He looked around the kitchen, cleanly swept, spotless. Grace had become a capable housekeeper, sweeping, dusting, keeping the apartment tidy. The life of a housekeeper was a major departure from that of a diplomat’s wife, yet she had not complained. She had cleaned, shopped, and cooked. She had been a good wife. What should he do?
“I’m sorry I lost my temper. I don’t know what happened. Please forgive me.” Grace appeared at the bedroom door.
He looked at her. She was crying. Oh, she had not changed, still a little girl, a capricious mind. How he had loved her, showing her off in China, in Istanbul, in Vienna.
“But . . . but . . . must we part ways? Can’t we do something, my dear?”
“Of course we can.” He squeezed out a smile, looking at her, searching for a clue on her face, a clue to the real, meaningful question that could have made them whole again—would she like to?