The Cooked Seed (21 page)

“What if nobody takes it?” I asked.

“The boat will straighten itself,” he smiled. Once again he pointed out that I had become a slave to my constant worry.

We cooked Chinese cup noodles mixed with fresh green vegetables. It had been a long time since I had eaten at a table with another person, and it felt wonderful. After dinner, Qigu worked on his paintings. When he invited friends over, the discussion turned to literature, art, and poetry. Classical music played and sometimes we all danced. Margaret continued to come for her brush-painting lessons. Qigu captivated people. Taoism and Zen philosophy became organic flowers that branched out and blossomed as he interpreted them.

“Why don’t you take the extra bedroom?” Qigu asked me one day. “Your lease is ending, and I need a roommate. It’s a good deal.”

It was true. For the same amount of money, $150, I would gain a larger bedroom with a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. But the invitation upset me. I felt that Qigu was taking advantage of our relationship. He didn’t want to visit me and leave my place in the middle of
the night to walk back to his place in the bitter cold. It seemed more for his own convenience.

I let Qigu know that his offer made me feel cheap.

“Please don’t misunderstand me!” Qigu said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He defended himself by saying that he was conducting himself in a Chinese manner. “It’s unfair that you expect me to behave in the American way.”

I asked what he meant by “the American way.”

“The American way means saying ‘I love you,’ with a fifty percent divorce rate.” Qigu explained that behind his proposal was his desire for me to be his girlfriend.

I told him that I needed time to think about it. I was unsure about what might happen if I moved in with him. Sadly, the only determining factor of how I lived at that moment was money. I never dared forget my duty to my family. My father told me in his letters that after another failed attempt to obtain an American visa, my brother had gone to Japan, where he worked as a dishwasher to support his study in college. I knew that my father had bitter feelings toward Japan. He would never forget the murder he witnessed in his own backyard. My father dreamed that one day I would pave the way for my brother in America. My father reported that my younger sister had been trying to leave China for Australia because she had lost hope that I would ever help get her to America. This news made me feel terrible.

Moving in with Qigu would save me time as well as money, because his place was closer to school. I could not deny the fact that I sought comfort as well. In the short time we had known each another, I had come to depend on Qigu for his ability to put me at ease.

What finally got me to move in with Qigu was an art fair we participated in at the Bloomingdale’s mall in downtown Chicago. I didn’t believe we stood a chance to sell any paintings. I told Qigu that it would be a waste of the sixty-five-dollar booth fee. But Qigu was confident. He insisted that I bring my paintings.

A Chinese master would consider the artwork I produced awful. But Qigu believed that I was good enough to fool the Americans. Jokingly, he called me a “Matisse reborn.”

I watched as Qigu played a trick on his customers. First he laid out
his paintings and priced them for $150 each. He then placed my paintings next to his and priced them at $5 to $10 each. I was so uncomfortable that I hid behind the booth and watched the shoppers strolling by. Qigu had to drag me back into the booth to give a “live demonstration of Chinese brush painting.”

As I worked on the paintings, Qigu called out to the people passing, “Chinese art! Traditional Chinese art!”

A little old lady stood in front of me and watched as I painted. She asked Qigu why the prices were so different. She said, “I don’t see that much of a difference between the five-dollar paintings and the hundred-and-fifty-dollar paintings except the price.”

Qigu explained that he had painted the ones marked $150.

“Why?” the old lady demanded.

“Because I am a master,” Qigu said. “I have trained for twenty years in traditional brush painting. You see, the five-dollar and ten-dollar ones have been painted by an amateur.” He pointed at me. “This beautiful lady who is an art student. Right here, madam, look this way. Promising, isn’t she? You think that she can paint, don’t you? But she is really an amateur and can only command five dollars a piece.”

The woman did not like what Qigu said. “To be honest,” she remarked, “I actually like the amateur’s paintings better than the so-called master’s. The amateur’s work reminds me of Henry Matisse, the great master, and my personal favorite!” The woman reached for her purse. “In fact, I am going to purchase all of her paintings for ten dollars each! I just finished remodeling my bathrooms, and these images of beautiful herbs in bright colors will be perfect!”

Qigu beamed with joy. “What a sharp eye you have, madam! What a wise investment! I agree with you wholeheartedly! This art student, by the way, her name is Anchee Min, and she is truly a gem in the rough.”

The woman nodded. “I know what I’m doing!”

Winking at me, Qigu went on. “Madam, I have no doubt that this amateur artist will one day become famous. Do remember her name, Anchee Min. It is spelled A-n-c-h-e-e M-i-n. What you have purchased here at my booth for ten dollars each will one day be worth hundreds
and perhaps thousands of dollars! Your bathroom walls will be lovely indeed!”

A warm feeling caught me as I watched Qigu entertain the little lady. He thanked her as he wrapped each painting in newsprint. By the end of the day, we had sold most of our brush paintings, except those priced for $150. We made nearly $300 after the booth fee. With childlike elation and excitement, Qigu asked if I’d do it again with him. I nodded. We celebrated our success by going to Chinatown for shrimp wonton soup.

There was no gown and no cap at my graduation ceremony. The school had decided to respect the students’ wishes to do away with tradition. To me the ceremony looked more like the protest I had seen in front of Chicago’s city hall. Some graduates wore their everyday jeans and sneakers. Others were more creative. I dared not send my photos home to China. My folks might have thought I was making a joke.

I wished that I could have been in a cap and gown. I wished to make my family proud. But I was not given a choice.

“That’s not true, Miss Min,” the school adviser said. “You do have a choice. You have the right to dress in anything you like. You can rent a cap and gown anywhere.”

Imagine being the only one dressed in the traditional manner. I would look silly and out of place. It would seem like I was making a “statement,” and I would offend my fellow students. Besides, it wouldn’t look real in a photo. Folks back in China would point out, “That’s a fake graduation! Look, people in the background didn’t wear the same gown and cap!”

I wore the costume I had made myself. It was a white satin gown with Chinese calligraphy painted in black ink. The winglike sleeves were made for dancing and showing off the calligraphy. It was not made for walking or standing still. I looked silly, but not out of place.

My diploma didn’t make me feel accomplished. Neither did it comfort me that I had been accepted for a graduate program, which would extend my visa for two more years. I recalled the president’s speech on orientation day four years earlier. I was now one of the 99 percent of graduates who could not find a job in the field of my degree. If I had spoken better English and been able to transfer to another college, I never would have stayed.

When the new semester started I looked for professors who were “flexible,” who would give me the credit while leaving me alone. The
school offered little help on the job-seeking front. My classmates were dreamers. And the professors made sure to keep them in the dreaming state. Everyone was encouraged to live a poetic life, to point at a horse and say that it was a dragon. In Qigu’s view, the school was a “nurturing and necessary environment” because “common sense kills art.”

Once after I showed my homework, a documentary video featuring my friend Joan Chen, I was criticized as being “ridiculous” and “commercial.” It wasn’t until I learned to speak the “same language” that I was accepted and respected as a “serious artist.”

I learned to fake it. I joined the crowd and cheered when the American master John Cage visited our school. Mr. Cage was known for his famous stage performance—sitting frozen in front of a piano for twenty minutes. He was held in the highest regard for having performed a masterpiece without producing a note.

In my film history class, the professor made us sit through a three-hour movie with a single scene—a woman in her kitchen peeling potatoes. It was a “conceptual statement,” but it put me to sleep. I dreamt that I became homeless. I woke up thinking: My schoolmates could get food stamps and shelter from the American government. I would be deported back to China.

From the very beginning, Qigu knew not to take the schoolwork seriously. He approached galleries. He submitted his work to national and international competitions. He was always positive, calm, and pleasant even after repeated rejections. Professors and classmates adored him. With the touch of an Eastern sage, Qigu spoke thoughtfully and elegantly. Compared to Qigu, I sounded like an imbecile.
Sign, signifier,
and
signified
were terms I used during critiques. To compensate for my critical shortcomings, I attempted to dress the part. I made holes in my jeans and wore them with my knees exposed. I ink-dripped half of my clothes, claiming to be inspired by Jackson Pollock.

By now I was comfortable with the extravagant works of the “action artists.” Nothing surprised me anymore. I snuck out of the classroom when a professor’s praise got to be too much. There were some brilliant pieces, I must admit, but most work was plain garbage, mine included. “Anything goes” meant one could spit and pee on the canvas and call it art.

Qigu and I searched trash bins and Dumpsters looking for throw-away furniture. We hunted Bridgeport’s backstreets and alleys. We picked up stained mattresses and broken furniture. Coming home, we cleaned what we found. Qigu was handy when it came to fixing furniture with nails and glue. By the time winter arrived, we had filled our nest with found objects. Besides mattresses, we had bed frames, sheets, pots, cook-ware, buckets, stools, chairs, tables, lamps, and bookshelves.

One day an artist friend of Qigu’s arrived from California. We picked him up at the airport. I sat in the passenger seat, with Qigu behind me in the back while the friend drove. It was a small car, so I pulled my seat up to make space for Qigu. To fit, I raised my knees against the dashboard. Qigu and his friend chatted as we entered downtown.

At the intersection of Columbus Drive and Jackson Avenue, Qigu’s friend rushed to catch the tail of a yellow traffic light. But he changed his mind at the last second and slammed on the brakes as the red light came on. The car behind us smashed into our rear. The impact knocked Qigu unconscious instantly. None of us knew that we ought to wear seat belts. I was blessed by the way I sat—my knees against the dashboard, forcing my neck to press against the back of the seat, bracing me. I got out of the car, ran to the phone booth, and dialed 911.

Qigu survived, although the doctors were unsure of the extent of the damage. Friends, professors, and schoolmates surrounded Qigu in the hospital room. He wore a foam neck brace when I visited. I didn’t expect to be treated as Qigu’s wife, but I was. The nurses and doctors took me aside and filled me in with information on his condition. One physical therapist even called me Mrs. Jiang. I thought I’d play the role until Qigu recovered.

Qigu became more dependent on me after he left the hospital. The compensation from the insurance company barely covered the medical costs. The driver who hit us was himself living off a government disability pension. He had no assets or income and had already been sued by his fellow passengers. Since Qigu had no broken bones, the neck pain he complained of was ignored and his claim disregarded.

We moved on. At Chicago’s annual Blues Festival, Qigu and I did portraits. As I kept an eye out for the police, Qigu drew. His neck became so stiff and hurt so much that he could no longer turn his head.
When he gave me the stacks of one-dollar bills to count, I broke into tears. I felt like a Chinese village wife who made a fortune at the market selling her yams. The day we made the most, we were caught by a police officer. Every dollar we earned was confiscated. In addition, we were fined for working without a permit.

To save on our heating bills, Qigu and I sealed our apartment windows with sheets of plastic. Going further, we used more plastic to create a cocoonlike interior space in the corner of the living room right next to the heater. We ran the heater ten minutes a day. Five minutes in the morning when we woke, and five minutes at night before we settled in bed. I found myself worrying less about deportation and a green card. Qigu convinced me that there was no reason to be so frightened.

I was beginning to adore Qigu, although I felt confused from time to time and questioned my own judgment.

Qigu was not interested in discussing our relationship. He said that he liked to keep it “poetic.” He criticized the shallow culture of America.

“We are from China and carry different values and principles,” Qigu said. I interpreted his words as a personal commitment. Qigu led me to believe that he was the opposite of America’s shallowness.

Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night tormented with doubt. I wondered if I was digging my own grave. I was not the liberal-minded woman Qigu believed me to be. I had the commonest thoughts of a conventional Chinese woman. I desired a family, for instance. I was dying to know if I meant anything to Qigu—if he loved me enough to propose marriage in the future. My biggest trouble was that I didn’t find our relationship “poetic.”

My insecurity about money bothered Qigu. He asked me to quit bugging him, because he would never be interested in becoming a waiter. “Tips will never get you rich,” he said. He was looking into other ways of finding success.