A Bend in the River

 

 

      

                    

    

                                                    A Bend in the River                                      by lee choy

 

 

     In 1959, there was this Chinese restaurant in Berkley that was between a dress shop and an ice cream parlor.  It was two stories high and I presumed that the owners of the restaurant lived on that second story.  I found the prices unbelievably cheap so I was able to eat there at least once a week.  I discovered it during my last semester in art school and it  was just a few blocks from my campus,   It had a lunch counter and booths padded with green naugahyde that was cracked and worn thin from constant usage.  I can still see the yellowish strings of cotton peeking out from the seams of the pads.  The place had the ambiance of aged grease, but the food was good: it served fresh instead of canned vegetables.  It offered both Chinese and American food, and I always ordered leg of lamb because it was a rare item on menus in restaurants of such plebian status.
 
    What I really remember was this landscape painting, high on the far wall, facing the front entrance.  It showed a boatman pushing a long pole, guiding his small sampan  
toward a sharp bend in the river.   It was done in the typical Chinese Restaurant style: flowing lines with little attempt at perspective, lots of dull grays and pinkish reds.  Hokusai figures amateurishly painted, were  standing on the banks, going on about their business and staying quiet.  Sitting in the booth, eating my lunch, I would fantasize that these crudely painted figures could think.  I would fantasize them thinking about the real people below, like me, eating, opening fortune cookies, drinking hot tea, then going out the door, leaving them behind, silently objecting, trapped forever on that plastered, painted wall.  It did seem so unfair. 

        
      Sylvia was her name.  She was in her middle thirties, and was the waitress that worked the lunch hour.  She had thick black hair, cut in a page boy style, high cheek bones, thin lips and a boney shape, creating a striking figure of a Mongolian mystic.  Her moves were quick and with a sharpness that belied her tired, dull eyes.  I tried speaking to her in Cantonese but she countered in Mandarin, a dialect I did not understand. The few Chinese living in the area spoke Cantonese, a dialect she was not proficient in, so she had few friends.  She knew her English but it was awkward and spoken haltingly, which isolated her even more.  I wanted to impress her that I still speak the language of my forbearers.  She was not impress.  And although she was married (her husband was the cook and owner) and a decade and a half my senior, I tried flirting with her because it's what art students do...with attractive waitresses. My overtures ceased when I was met with total indifference. 

     Since my class schedule allowed me to come way past the lunch hour, the place would be deserted when I arrive.  We had time to chat when she came over to take my order.  She would stand over me, her elbow on the back rest, and her hands with pad and pencil on the ready.  In that one semester, we would tell our life stories in small increments to each other.  We would have our litter of small talk with personal confessions mingled in.   Knowing our paths would never cross, other than in that small café, we tended to be more honest than we would normally.  We became unfrocked confessors.  We became, what I would call, friendly strangers.         

       She described her difficulties, living in communist China: working on the family farm, attending school, studying for exams in the dim of lighted candles, washing in cold water, the stink of animals, the outdoor privies, the flies.  She described the dirt floor in the family compound and how it was her job to sprinkle water on it nightly to keep it packed down...and always, that smell of mildew.  She described her mother, in her early fifties, already tired of life when she was born.  Both her father, and much older brothers, treated her like a distant cousin, a working donkey, only there for a prolong visit. There was no closeness in that family.  Just peasant farmers.  Her tone of voice, during most of our conversations, was like  asking...if I was ready to order!  And that I had made an excellent choice!  It was entirely neutral.
 
       I remembered her reminiscing about the time she was applying to a local university and the boundless joy she felt when she was admitted.  She said those were the most idyllic days of her entire life: listening to lectures, students mulling about, heated discussions of Mao's thoughts, drinking German brewed beers, attending English classes, the debates, the friendships, the freedom.  And always, that hope of a new life and of a bright and exciting  future.

       After graduation, she left the country side for urban Shanghai where she had high expectations of getting a job starting out as cub reporter.  It was at the dawn of the "Cultural Revolution" when things were still fairly normal.  She applied to the Jiefang Daily, the Wen Hui Boa, and the China Youth Daily. Those names were meaningless to me, but she mentioned them, nevertheless.   She never did receive a reply from any of the newspapers.  She blame her lack of connections, her not being a party member, and her diploma from a rural university for not getting an interview ( I suspect she wasn't bright as she claimed to be, and it probably showed on her resume).  She worked from clerical job to clerical job.  The closes she got to journalism was writing copy for a small pharmaceutical company.  Her trophy was a pamphlet on public latrine etiquette and where to get vaccination shots.  They printed over ten thousand copies.  We both laughed.

         In 1957, her parent's farm, like thousands of others, was turned into a commune, a social experiment that failed from the start.  The ensuing years brought on mass starvation for the rural farmers, including her family. Everywhere millions died.  It was known in China as the "Great Famine".  During that excruciating time, Sylvia met up with a former fellow student whose family resided in the United States.  His parents had a restaurant business here in Berkley.  They married, I suppose, because she was desperate to escape a country in chaos, and he wanted a helpmate and children. It was a practical arrangement. (I have no idea why her husband's family choose to send him overseas to get educated.)  And like any arranged marriage, which I suspect that it was, there would be little or no love in the beginning and, in Sylvia's case, I presumed there was little or no love in the end.  

     She arrived in Berkley in 1959 and had to set up housekeeping in the flat above the Restaurant.   The rooms were dingy, dusty and dark having only two windows in the front to admit light.  It was used for storage before they moved in. The building was rented, not owned by her husband's parents.  They had operated the business for years and had now retired leaving the business to him.  The husband had no other plans other than to work in his restaurant, save his capital, buy a house nearby, and raise a family. To succeed in this, the restaurant would have to be open for long hours and Sylvia would have to do most of the waitressing.  He would stay in the kitchen cooking and doing most of the cleaning.  Only part time help was hired.  Sylvia kept her feelings from her husband that, for her, this terrifying situation was to be temporary.  On her days off, she would look for another job, preferably in journalism.     At the time of my patronage, only his plan was on going, while her plan was on hold.  She rarely had a day off.  And when she did, it was only to go upstairs and collapse. 

     On weekends, when I was with my parents or with friends, relaxing or doing things under an open sky, a thought would flash through my mind and I would look at my watch.  No matter what time it was, I realize that Sylvia was still in that dreary restaurant, standing under the painting behind the counter, wiping it down, or waiting on a customer, or standing on aching feet washing glasses, or looking out of the front window watching people walking by, and wishing she was with them.  It was a cerebral vision tinted with horror and sadness... and quietly I turned my thoughts to the living.  The last time we spoke, she still had high hopes of working for a local newspaper.  See, she showed me her English grammar book and said her conversations with me, short but many, have improved her English.  It did not.  

     Our acquaintance ended when I graduated and went on with my life. 

     Years later, I drove back to Berkley with my wife and kids for a reunion at my old art school.  On the way, I thought it would be a good idea to take the family to lunch at the restaurant of my youth.  It was still there with the same booths and tattered pads of green.  My children express their disdain and said the place was "yuky".  The painting was yellowed with age and grease buildup from gas ranges.  Leg of Lamb was not on the menu, I was not surprised. Sylvia wasn't there and I didn't think she would be.  In a way, I was disappointed yet glad.  The waitress was white and had a Scottish accent. She was friendly and I introduce her to my family.  I told her that I ate there frequently, years ago, when I was a student.  She showed interest, and not because I might be a big tipper, not with three kids, a wife, and worn out jeans.  We became chatty between courses. So when the dessert was served, I asked her.  Did she know of a former waitress that use to work here by the name of Sylvia?

     "Oh, you mean the bosses' wife?  Her name was Sylvia."
    
     I became excited. "Yes, that's her.  Last I heard she wanted to be a newspaper reporter.  Did she ever make it?"

     She looked back to see if the cook was listening.  She lowered her voice and said, "Oh, I see you haven't heard.  Sorry, but that poor lass died years ago.  Left a grieving husband and two little kids.  Saddest thing you ever did see."

     "How did it happened?"

     "Well now, they bought a house, you know.   Those old track houses near the campus, mighty flimsy ones, if you ask me.  You know the place?" I nodded.  She continued, "They have attached garages.......and one day she went into the garage, took a rope and threw it over an exposed rafter.  Then she tied it around her neck, I suppose, climbed onto the hood of her car, and then jumped off.  It was all in the newspapers, and not just in the obituary column, I might add."

     I thanked her and as we were leaving, I looked up at the painting and thought sadly that, like the boatman with the pole, Sylvia never got closer to the bend of the river than he did.  In fact, in all that time, he never moved at all.
  

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