Shanghai Girl by Vivian Yang Page A

waitress, pail in hand, showing a nearby table a live fish ready to be cooked. "This one not fresh enough!" a diner protests. "Look at the eyes, they're glossed over." As the waitress refuses to switch the fish, an argument ensues.
    I say to Gordon quietly, "Nobody seems to be watching us or eavesdropping. I’m glad."
    "Sh-sh-u-u. You don't have to say it. I sized up the situation here as soon as we walked in. It was okay. Sha-fei, you should learn to 'Keep your eyes open to all four routes, and your ears tuned into all eight directions.'"
    "Have sharp eyes and keen ears. Be observant and alert."
    "Exactly. And shrewd."
    "Thank you, Uncle Gordon."
    "You're very welcome. Now, let me ask you something. How many dialects can you speak?" He takes off his bi-focal glasses as if it helps him think more clearly.
    "Obviously, Shanghainese,” I smile for stating the obvious. “Mandarin, and several Southeastern coastal dialects. I understand more than I can speak without accent. Why?"
    "No Cantonese?"
    "No, but I’m a fast learner of most things. But I want to go to America. All I need is English. Right?"
    “How good is your English?"
    "Oh! I think my English is pretty good," I switch to English. "Why don’t you be the judge? If you want, we can converse in English."
    "'Converse,'" Gordon repeats. "That’s bookish. Don't get me wrong. You speak good English. Yours reminds me of my own when I first went to New York. Once you live there, you'll pick up more colloquial words. I assume you can read and write English, too?"
    "Yes. I have pride in the fact that Father was America-educated, but I keep this quiet. I study English harder than anyone else to deserve Father in heaven. But in what way is Cantonese useful in America?"
    "Not that useful if you don't function in the Chinese-American community. I used to do business only with Americans, so the need to speak Cantonese was minimal. But recently, I’ve decided to branch out a bit with what I have been doing. I've begun to reach out to the Chinese-American community because the demographics in urban America are changing. Mandarin-speaking Taiwanese are now pouring new money into America, mostly in high-tech industry and real estate. They tend to be better educated, more politically conscious and fiscally conservative than immigrants from China in the past. I find myself having more in common with these people, so..." Perhaps finding himself babbling, Gordon stops, folds his arms, and grins at me.
    Although I cannot fully understand what he just said, I don't want to appear ignorant. "I'm sure I could be of service to your business in America," I volunteer.
    Gordon doesn’t answer directly, just smiles at me. "Now, let me show you something." From his brown, ox-hide wallet, he pulls out a tattered picture of a girl with Chinese features wearing a pair of thick, black-framed glasses. Her long black hair parts in the middle. No makeup and no jewelry. Yet she looks natural and unaffected.
    "This is Irene," Gordon says simply.
    "She's pretty. Must take after your wife," I say with a mischievous smile, expecting a retort from him. Instead, Gordon gazes into my eyes and says, “You are right. She takes after Marlene a lot.”
    My heart stops. “Marlene. Koo-oo?”
    He glares at me. “Tao told you about her, didn’t he?”
    I nod in shock.
    “What did he tell you?”
    “Not much. I never knew about her until Father was about to die. I didn’t know she’s married to.. you, Uncle Gor-”
    He interrupts me. “What did Tao tell you about Marlene?”
    I take in a deep breath and reply, “Father just said that …… that they were close friends in America, and that ... that if I ever saw her, tell her that Father was wrong to return to China –” I find myself unable to continue.
    Gordon’s demeanor is much softened. “He did end up thinking so, didn’t he?” He suddenly holds my hand gently and says, “Now we’re the two that are left.”
    “I feel so sad, Uncle