Invisible: Part 2, in languor

Mom calls again in the late afternoon. "Are you eating well? Aiyah, Candy, why do you torture yourself? Just come back to Hong Kong lah?" Sitting against the wall on the tatami mat watching the setting sun, I crack my knuckles with one hand nonchalantly while I hold the phone with the other. In the distant, a steady train of steam rising out of a long white chimney of an old bath house smears the reddening sky with a stuttering pattern. Haphazardly scattered clouds lightly smudge the expanding rouge with a tinge of dirty grey like cotton puffs on a fresh pastel drawing. A neighboring dog wakes from his mid-afternoon nap and barks energetically at unsuspecting passerby to announce his mighty presence. Soon, the radiant sunlight shifts to cover the left half of my frozen head and blinds me temporarily. A wry smile breaks slightly across my face; I like it. "Let her be, Ma," My older brother Joe voices in the background over the phone. "If she wants to suffer with them beasts, let her suffer. She will learn. You'll see." It is no secret that my overachieving financial planner brother Joe has never liked his half-witted, troublemaking little sister. I couldn't care less; I have grown quite accustomed to his acerbic comments. "Joe, don't be mean!" My mother admolishes helplessly. "Ma, I gotta go to work." I try to end the uncomfortable conversation. "Candy, just call me if you need anything, okay?"

Jun's overbearing wife Minako comes to the store to see me again. Born and raised in Osaka, she is a self-proclaimed protector of Japanese traditions and finds it in her blood to educate each and every "gaijin" foreigner the intricacies of the Japanese way. Today she is dressed again in her favorite kimono and carries a large Mitsukoshi paper bag stuffed to the brim. The pale yellow kimono is covered from the waist down with classically drawn baby blue waterlilies; frail at the collar's edges and light brown on the inner sleeves from unremovable sweat stain, it betrays the owner's habit of overuse and abuse despite determined and periodic cleaning. Matching the outfit is a painted face of concentrated SKII makekup. Layers of whitening powder and semi-professionally drawn eyelines cannot revive a bygone youth that has long ago departed, leaving behind a weary, wrinkled, middle-aged kabuki puppet. Jun grimaces at the sight of his wife approaching the entrance and retreats stealthily to the back room.

"Konichiwa, Candy-chan!" From a brilliant smile on bright red lips booms the greeting across the store. "How is your Japanese study going along? Where is Jun? ... nevermind, guess what I brought with me today?" Laying the paper bag on the counter, she reveals a large stack of roughly cut Japanese paper. So it appears she has just returned from her "shodo" calligraphy class. "We started a new cursive style 'sosho' today. Too fast! The teacher is awfully demanding on us," She pulls a carefully marked piece out of the stack and holds it up against the sun. Her eyes glitter with pride in the bright light. "You know this character? It is pronounced 'oya' or 'shitashii'; it means 'parents' or 'intimate'. Why we practice such complex characters in sosho, I don't know. They are too hard for us mere beginners," she speaks humbly as she ostentatiously displays her masterpiece in grand view. I dare not to tell her that it is woefully slanted and off-balanced -- it is hideous. After staring at it for ten seconds, I utter in propriety, "It is beautiful," She glances sideways to take in fully my appreciative facial expression. Sufficiently satisfied with my reaction, she says, "Why don't I give it to you as a present? It may help your Japanese study," she hands the poorly scribbled blurb to me. Stupid woman. I could write that character in my sleep in 2nd grade. "Thank you so very much. I will hang it in my room." Staring at it for five more seconds, I accept it with two hands, row it up slowly and place it in my bag under the counter. "You are a lovely child. You will speak wonderful Japanese in no time. Tell Jun I dropped by." In triumph, she marches out of the store confidently in broad steps.

Seeing his wife has departed, Jun drifts slowly from the back room to the counter. Lost in thoughts straddling by the hot food stand -- hot dogs and red bean buns turn perpetually on round metal tops inside glass casing, he looks pensively at the rowed up calligraphy. Wrinkle lines begin to form on his large forehead as he narrows his fatigued eyes and rubs his stubbled chin in slow strokes. He senses my observing eyes and speaks in embarrassment, "Just ... just go back to work." He mechanically stacks the refrigirated section with newly delivered bentos.

Invisible: Part 1, in convenience store

My mother calls often and asks me why I am in Tokyo. I lazily murmur something barely discernable while staring blankly at meaningless Japanese variety shows running in mute on an old cathode ray tube television set. The tiny apartment, worn and poorly insulated, is cold and damp with paper-thin walls that every scream and shout in the neighborhood is audible. The building shakes slightly with every passing train. Why do I intentionally place my soul in the unwelcoming land of bloodless monsters?

Today is work day, and I dress myself in a poorly fitted gaudy red uniform and stand behind an overstocked counter in a corner covenience store. Above my right shirt pocket pins a ridiculously large circular tag displaying my surname in Katakana. In the day time, rowdy young crowds enter in groups, chatting and laughing boisterously, buy sodas and colorfully packaged junk food in large portion. In the evening, legions of middle-aged "salarymen", carrying nondescript black suitcases and dressed in dreary dark suits, march in single file with their heads hanging down. With heavy rings deeply carved under their eyes, they pick out one of many unhealthy, refrigerated bentos, perhaps a can of cheap beer or hot coffee, throw money on the counter and exit without muttering a word. At night, the barely employed young men in their twenties stroll in silently and line the magazine rack like bathroom's urinals. They hold the adult-targeted comics and fashion magazines closely, read and reread them till they are wrinkled and smeared, and after an hour or two, leave as aimlessly as they enter without any purchases. To all who come, I am neither male nor female, neither human nor machine; I am a pathetic wallflower -- spurred annoyingly out of an off-white cement wall crack -- that exists purely by accident and out-of-place, whose life is not celebrated, whose death is not mourned or noticed. I am invisible in a city of perpetually buzzing street cars and bright neon lights, in the heart of the empire of the sun.

At work I am most fascinated by the occasional young, fashionable Japanese women who pick out a warm bottle of hot green tea or a low-calorie nutrient bar during lunch or afternoon breaks. Rail thin and heavy with makeup, they are always impeccably dressed -- tightly wrapped fishnet stockings behind long polished leather boots, knee-long mini-skirts with wool blazers seem the popular items now in winter -- with seductive, elongated eyelashes and dyed-brown and perfectly iron-curled long wavy hair. Money, gripped loosely by slender fingers with carefully manicured, multiple-painted fingernails, is always taken out from the latest European handbag costing at least twice my monthly salary. To think we are the same-aged girls occupying the same time and dimension, to fathom we breathe the same city air only meters apart ...

"Hey!! She asked you if you have any cigarettes! Are you listening?!" The muscular young man standing next to the female customer shouts. Smelling of smoke and wearing tea-colored and gold-rimmed sunglasses, a black leather jacket and long shiny chains across his jeans' pockets, he tries hard to present a menacing appearance. You bastard. If I were six-foot tall, you would whimper meekly like a neutered dog trying hard not to pee on the spot. Sensing a sign of disturbance, the owner of the store rushes and steps in front of me immediately, "Cigarettes? Right away madam. What brand would you like?" The owner, Ozaki Jun, a balding, thin man in his 30's with no sense of humor speaks quickly in an overly obsequious manner. The couple, staring about in a newly acquired air of superiority, seems temporarily satisfied and leaves with their purchases in pretended triumph. "Go back to China if you can't speak Japanese, bitch." The young man mutters in a low tone audible enough for the store audience to hear as they exit the door. That's right, flee, you pathetic dog. Once a coward always a coward. I stare after him in hatred. Feeling a bit embarrassed, Jun whispers, "Just... just go back to work." I mechanically check out the next customer waiting anxiously and nervously in line.

Glorious Sunset: Part 5, to shoreline

Squeezed between the ultra-liberal politics and world-renowned academics driven Berkeley and the rough-and-tumble blue-collar industrial Oakland in the East Bay is the city of Emeryville, a small enclave of middle-upper class residential high-rises and yuppie upscale restaurants. Unabashedly staring at the city of San Francisco in its full glory from a sea-level ventage point, Martha and I have long ago found the shoreline of Emeryville a hidden gem for a reflective evening stroll after a subdued dinner for two. Driving alone from Ben's firm in San Francisco downtown over the worn and colorless Bay bridge, overlooking the infamous island prison Alcatraz, trespassing the historic Treasure Island on the way, places filled with long dormant memories flash by on my side like soulless black birds flying mindlessly to pre-destined, unescapable ends. Today's unsually strong melancholy has prompted me to our place of soul asylum, hoping it will rekindle a moment of serenity and peace. Times like this I admit guiltily that I miss my Martha very much.

The sun is setting as I park my car by the famed Chinese restaurant that has fortuitously found a home on rocky shores of west Emeryville. As I step out of the car, a cold wind welcomes me to the beaten narrow path by the shore lying and waiting in front of me, one that Martha and I have set foot together hand-in-hand hundreds of times. Like a passer-by searching for a lost gold coin he carelessly dropped, I pace the path cautiously, looking half-heartedly everywhere for something dear I cannot be sure. The sound of my shoes crunching meekly the sand below synchronizes with the perpetual and ceaseless waves; the retiring sun somehow inexplicably casts me two shadows -- one full-bodied and distinct, another elongated and faded. Suddenly, among the fast diminishing rays of a setting sun, images of our youthful past -- snuggling closely for warmth on the stone bench on the right, laughing to tears over a silly pun by the water fountain on the left, conversing giddly in excitement on the pending birth of our child -- appear sporatically like ghosts in front of my eyes. My walk has become a recounting of our short but cherished happenings in rapid and uncontrollable sequences. I watch these soundless wonderful illusions with a tender and broken heart, in awe and in infinite affection. Then my flashback comes to a poignant crescendo. Martha died in a car accident on her daily walk home from buying groceries for our evening supper. A drunk driver took her life and his own in a matter of seconds. If I had only taken Ben and her out for dinner that evening; if we had visited Mable; if I had only returned home early, caressed her, held her, kissed her... I once again torment myself with accusing questions I have tormented myself over and again the past nine years. However calmly and logically one can reason away guilt, I simply could not find the strength to speak to Ben about his mother's death because deep inside, I ultimately have succumbed to the weight of the consequence of my inability to protect my beloved wife. Martha is gone, and daily I pay for the sin from which I can never recover. I stop and stare blankly upwards as the darkening sky starts to fill itself with twinkling stars; the air is cool, crisp and light to the exposed skin. I long to be closer to her; I am ready to go whereever she is now.

I startle when my phone suddenly rings. I hurrily fumble the seldomly used phone out of my pocket and hear a familiar voice, "Dad, are you okay? I went to the cafe and they said you have long left." Ben has caught up to me. "Sorry, Ben ... just thinking about things today ... just thinking, I mean," I search for words clumsily as I struggle to regain my senses. A long silence ensues. How can I tell my son after all these years, after he has grown and matured into a man -- a well-educated, industrious professional in a modern world not my own, that as a father I have long ago failed him miserably, that I am sorry for not protecting his mother and save him from his deep sorrow?

Perhaps God was listening sympathetically from the stars; maybe Martha has whispered softly in the cold breeze; somehow the awkwardness has transmitted my pathos over the air. Ben finally speaks, "It's mom's birthday next Thursday, right? Why don't you come over for dinner? We can celebrate her life then ... you know, just talk about her." I stand motionless staring at the disappearing scarlet horizon; by grace, the black, heavy anvil I have endured for years is gently being lifted away from my aching back. It seems eternity has passed before I can utter a response, "I would like that, Ben ... thank you. See you next Thursday." I hang up the phone in darkness; the night stars barely illuminate my surrounding enough that I can discern my wrinkled hands clinching tightly to the phone. The sun has retired from another day of honest work and receives its rest for the following day. Perhaps after years of mourning, we can finally be a family of three again.

Glorious Sunset: Part 4, to office

Ben does not talk much. When he was a child, on sunny Saturday afternoons when neighborhood kids were out in the graffiti-smeared playground chasing strayed cats on fences and hitting teeballs with wooden sticks, he would dress himself in a white checkered shirt and a grey sweater, and follow Martha docilely to museums. Staring blankly at giant paintings that dwarfed his skinny frame, he squeezed his mother's hand tightly as if to secure his place in the crowded gallery, and pushed his spectacles up his nose to ensure he did not miss a single detail. Returning home when the sun set, while Martha prepared our Saturday special mu-shu pork and chicken soup in the kitchen, Ben sat silently at the dinner table with a set of well chewed color pencils and a large white sheet of paper, and tried to recreate the vision he captured meticulously during the outing. Martha slipped unintrusively to his side, witnessed his progression with an intrigued smile, and gently stroked his jet-black hair in slow palsating rhythm. His works of art, simple, innocent and abstract all at the same time, filled up the entire kitchen door, until new ones replaced them a few months later.

Situated in Embarcadero, the architectural firm that hired Ben two years ago is one of three biggest in San Francisco. At the entrance sit two blond-hair receptionists in grey suits who instantaneously notice my arrival the moment I exit the elevator. "May I ... speak with Benjamin Li please?" I ask meekly. "Certainly. Which time slot is your arranged appointment?" The younger one on the right replies in a well practiced rhythm. Sensing a split second of indecision, the older one rescues me in a reassuring tone, "I will notify him right away, sir. Please wait a minute," sending a glance of admonition to the other. In a minute, Ben appears from the buzzing corridors in a navy blue blazer and blue jeans sans necktie. "Dad, is everything okay?" Ben inquires with sincere concern. Standing tall and muscular, Ben towers over me; my aged and weathered frame is a dwindling shadow to his formidable presence. "Nothing is the matter. I just had dim sum with Auntie Mable." Ben narrows his eyes; Mable's far-reaching manipulation is notorious. "You are busy... I will drop by another time." I begin to take my leave. "No please, I am finishing a meeting, why don't you wait at my cube?" Without waiting for a response, he leads me by the arm to a larger-than-average unit in the middle of the cubicle fortress. As he disppears into a conference room, I lower myself to a guest chair nudged between his large beige office desk and a pot of oversized synthetic evergreen. Secretaries, draftmen, architects and managers continue to stream pass the hallway in fast and purposeful motion. Feeling slightly out-of-place, I survey my surrounding in slow and deliberate movements. Besides the office desk that sits in the middle, a tilted drafting table hides further in the back corner. The charcoal cubicle walls are pinned full of roughly scribbled reminders in pastel colors. On the desktop are mountains of official documents, architectural drawings and a cantankeriously humming computer. At the corner of his desk, half covered by his black overcoat, sits a small, old photo of Martha in a dark wooden frame. I suppose she still smiles at him when he draws.

Ben returns a little more than ten minutes later. "I am sorry, the meeting is extended another 30 minutes. Why don't you wait at the coffee shop at the street corner? It's warm and quiet, and Chai tea is great there. Nancy will guide you." Not wanting to cause any more disturbance, I retreat subserviently from the premise with the older receptionist Nancy. Along the way, Nancy tells how diligent and valuable Ben has been to the firm, having just completed a large IT facility project in San Jose. "The firm will take care of the bill. Please make yourself at home," She smiles warmly when we reach the posh cafe, nods and returns to the office.

The sun is beginning to set, laying a long shadow from the door on the Persian carpet that hugs the sandy parquet floor. The sound of coffee cups lightly clanging against each other can be heard with a steady flow of running water as they are carefully handwashed. Next to traces of bagel crumbs deserted by earlier patrons, I sip a warm cup of tea alone on a corner stool; businessmen are still hard at work while housewives have long returned home from shopping to prepare evening dinners. Big yellow taxis, carrying homeward-bound mothers and school children in uniforms, pass by in synchrony with the periodic color changes of the street traffic signals.
Since when has Ben grown from an introverted boy to a factory-made white collar contributor to great American enterprises? It is as if all these years of family life, even the years while Martha was still alive, had been compressed into a single hour of movie clip, and flashed before ones' eyes without a chance for cherished rememberance. Ben grew even quieter after Martha's passing, focused on his schoolwork and his drawings. He always excelled, never complained, and never voiced an objective of any kind. As a single father, I could not possibly ask for a more obedient son, yet in a singular momentary lapse, he has become a faceless stranger, one who exists in a foreign dimension than my own. I reconsider my hidden fear that I am now unable to surpress: Do my failure to protect Martha and subsequent silence mean an eventual loss of my own son as well?

I leave before Ben's arrival.

Glorious Sunset: Part 3, to dim sum

I have never particularly liked dining in old Chinatown in San Francisco; if I want to enjoy a sumptuous, authetic Chinese meal, besides the new wave of countless neo-Asian hideaways run by young and ambitious entrepreneurs in the heart of the city (I wonder if Ben is an occasion patron), there are a handful of mom-and-pop establishments in the South Bay, whose familiar faces and congenial conversations more than make up for the gaudy red draperies and smoke-stained yellow walls. I don't know what it is really, but perhaps it is the old retired coolies wearing skinny and weather-hardened faces, strolling the narrow cobbled streets endlessly on bended backs, that remind me too much of the hardship of the first Chinese pioneers paving the way before me: laying down wood planks for the trans-American railroad, sieving for gold dust in collapsible mines, handwashing mountains of laundry with bleached hands. But Mable has again insisted on Ming's, so here I am sitting opposite Martha's sententious older sister on our regular table in the fish tank corner for early dim sum on a breezy Friday morning.

"How are your kids... Jasmine and Jasabelle?" Very proud that I can finally manage to spit out her daughters' names without stuttering in embarrassment after all these years. I know one is a tea name and the other rhymes with the first. "Aiyah, Bo, they don't like to be called kids anymore. they are in college already. 'Young adults' they call themselves nowadays," both of Mable's daughters are attending University of California, Berkeley across the bay. I don't think I have seen them in over a year. As Mable continues her oration on the lives of young ones -- her favorite subject -- about their unfathomably hectic schoolwork, their recent fashion purchases, their active social lives, my eyes unconciously drift to the nondescript metal carts steadily passing by in the aisles. Stacked with round bamboo containers of steaming hot shrimp dumplings, chicken feet and cha-siu-bao, pushing these carts are often plump middle-aged Chinese women with no makeup and ivory white bracelets that they have worn since they were children, a symbol of devotion more to Chinese traditions than to the Bhuddist temples from which they were purchased. Many of them speak little English, never have married and will spend the majority of their lives rising and sinking in the echelons of microcosmic Chinatown. Behind the emotionless facets, what kind of lives are lived daily away from the Chinese restaurant running precisely and mechanically like clockwork? What dreams and hopes can be held in the land of opportunities when so few can be seen in this segregated enclave? Like Martha, do they steal time one day of the month, walk the sandy shores alone to the sound of gently beating waves, stare at the radiant setting sun, wine red like a blooming rose and glorious like a gigantic sunflower, and ponder about life's mysterious creator?

"Are you listening, Bo? Where are you looking at?" As Mable wakes me from my procrastination, I sip the chrysanthemum tea in earnest -- it is so hot it burns my tongue. Like Martha, Mable often reads my mind, "Martha has been gone for nine years, Bo ... it is not easy for me either," Her eyes begin to water. Needless to say that she loves her sister as much as I do. Physically, Mable and Martha bear little resemblence; Mable is a tea cup shorter but sturdily built, and has grown even sturdier over the years. Sporting a traditional perm and a neatly pressed China dress, she laughs loudly, cries bravely, and loves passionately each and everyone within ten feet of her existence. She is Picasso to Martha's Bonnard. Obviously my pedantic and subdued demeanor does not fall in her region of interest. But Chinese are a strange bunch that adheres faithfully (dogmatically) to social conventions, so as Martha loved me, Mable loves me also. For her persistent meddlings, I am forever grateful.

"Now that you are retired what are you doing to yourself?" After a couple of serving of fresh egg tarts, she has regained her composure and inquires with her exploring eyes. I utter the standard reponse: gardening, walking the parks, enjoying life in general. "I worry about you. Maybe having too much free time is not good for you." Lowering my head, I sit squarely on my seat. "Why don't you go see Ben, huh? He would be glad to see you." Truth be told that Ben and I have been distant. Martha was the glue that binded us, and since her death, the sudden emptiness, which was first overwhelming, was subsequently replaced by walls of unspeakable silence. Sure, we share the loss of a loved one, but we mourn differently, and perhaps our differences have driven us apart slowly over time.

I decide to visit Ben's office after lunch.