Eat a Bowl of Tea. Louis Chu

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      “Later on the police came and separated the two men,” Chong Loo continued. “Heh heh. Women nowadays are not to be trusted.”

      If the rent collector weren’t so old, people might mistake him for a student, with his ever-present brief case. His head was big at the top and tapered off almost to a point at the chin. He had no hair on the dome, but sparsely-scattered long black hair mixed with grey on the circumference.

      “Remember a year ago some Lao Tsuey ran down to South Carolina with Lao Ning’s wife? She’s the niece of the president of the Bank of Kwai Chow,” Chong Loo persisted. “Have you heard the latest about …?”

      “Wow your mother,” said Ah Song, this time a little louder than before.

      Across from Ah Song, sitting on the couch, the proprietor, Wang Wah Gay, smiled his agreement. “You many-mouthed bird, go sell your ass.”

      “Heh heh. See you on the fifteenth, Mr. Wang.”

      His stooped shoulders and large head and brief case disappeared out the door and he began mounting the steep steps that led to the sidewalk. Wah Gay, from his half-reclining position on the sofa, could follow his exit until the rent collector’s unpressed pants gradually ascended out of sight.

      “Wow his mother,” exclaimed Wah Gay, stretching himself. “He never fails to show up on the first of the month. You don’t have to look at the calendar. When he arrives, you know it’s the first.” He crossed his legs and flicked the ash from his cigar on the tray.

      “Chong Loo is all right,” said Ah Song. He turned another page of the Chinese Compass. The circle of light from the over-hanging lamp played on the newspaper. “Wow your mother. That’s his job. It’s his responsibility to show up on the first of every month to collect rent. Maybe he is a many-mouthed bird but he works for a living.”

      Ah Song let the newspaper drop flat on the table. Usually he read with glasses, but today he had been looking at the big letters in the advertisements. “Wow your mother, Wah Gay, do you think he’s like you, never worked in your life?”

      They both chuckled. “You dead boy,” said Wah Gay. “You’re still young yet. Why don’t you go to work?”

      “Who, me? I’ve worked more than you ever hope to work, you sonavabitch.” Ah Song was a youthful-looking man in his mid-forties, with just a touch of grey at the temples. His neatly combed black hair had the effect of a crew-cut. A white handkerchief always adorned his breast pocket. Even on the hottest days he would never roll up his shirt sleeves or be caught without a necktie.

      “When did you ever work?” replied Wah Gay. “I’ve known you for almost twenty years.” He pointed a finger at Ah Song. “You sonavabitch, if you ever worked at all, you must have worked when you were a mere boy. Ever since I’ve known you, you haven’t done a single day’s work.”

      “Shut up your mouth. Do I have to tell you when I go to work?”

      The basement club house was cool. Compared to the heat and humidity of the street, it was a refreshing paradise. The sudden intensity of the early summer heat had caught everyone unprepared. A few days before, it had been so damp and chilly and windy that Wah Gay had to turn on the gas heater.

      The door creaked open.

      “Nice and cool here,” said the newcomer. He turned and made sure the door closed tight.

      “Thought you went to the race track,” said Wah Gay.

      “I overslept,” replied the man. “Might just as well. On a day like this.” He looked around the room. “Where is everybody? Still early, huh?” He walked over to an easy chair in the corner and sat down. He took out a cigar and lit it. “You know, on a day like this, I think this is the best place in the city. Nice and cool, with natural air conditioning.”

      Lee Gong was slight of build, with silvery black hair. He continued puffing on the Admiration which had been given him at a banquet the night before. He and Wah Gay had come over to America from China on the President Madison together and had shared the confined quarters of Ellis Island as two teen-age immigrants many springs ago.

      In his early days in the United States, Lee Gong worked in various laundries in New York. Later he, himself, owned one in the Bronx. In 1928, he went back to China. He remained there only long enough to marry. Then he returned to the Golden Mountain, leaving his wife in China. He received the news of the birth of his daughter, Mei Oi, several months after he had returned to the United States.

      Some ten years later, he sold his laundry. With the proceeds from the sale of the laundry plus his small savings, he had planned to spend the late evening of his life in the rural quiet of Sunwei. The Sino-Japanese War had prevented him from realizing this long-cherished goal. The unsettled conditions of subsequent years in the Far East, which saw Mao Tse-tung grab control of the Central Government of China from Chiang Kai-shek, had weighed heavily in his decision not to return to Sunwei. While there were intermittent periods of peaceful travel in China for those who wanted it, Lee Gong could not bring himself to see anything permanently stable for a retired Gimshunhock in China. So reluctantly he remained in New York.

      “Ah Song, my boy,” said Lee Gong from his easy chair. “You have good results lately?”

      “What good results? I haven’t been to the tracks for a whole week. No luck and no money.”

      “Ah Song is a smart boy,” said Wah Gay. “He wouldn’t go to the races unless he’s lucky, heh heh.”

      “You go to hell.” Ah Song folded his paper, got up and stretched his arms. He yawned. Yawning was a habit with him, almost as natural as breathing. “It’s so hot you don’t want to move.”

      “You just moved, you sonovabitch,” said Wah Gay.

      Ah Song ignored the remark and started toward the door.

      “Where are you going to die?” Wah Gay called after him. “Be smart. Go get someone down here and start a little game. Where can you go in this hot weather?”

      “To the race tracks!” Ah Song slammed the door behind him.

      Lee Gong went over to the mah-jong table and sat in the chair that Ah Song had just vacated. He picked up the paper. “That sonovabitch Ah Song eats good, dresses good, and he never works!”

      “He’s got what you’d call Life of the Peach Blossoms,” chuckled Wah Gay. “The women like him. He’s a beautiful boy.”

      “Maybe he was born under the right stars.”

      “Three years ago he went to Canada and I’ve heard he married a rich widow from Vancouver and she bought him a car and gave him money.”

      “What has happened to the widow now?” Lee Gong asked, surprised that Ah Song was ever married. As far as he knew, Ah Song was living the life of a bachelor in New York.

      “Nobody knows,” the club house proprietor shook his head. “You know Ah Song’s type. He never tells you anything. I heard he had some trouble with the police out in Portland when they caught him without proper registration for his car two years ago.”

      “I’ve never heard of that,” said Lee Gong. “But you СКАЧАТЬ