Read Online The Border of Paradise: A Novel by Esmé Weijun Wang - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Esmé Weijun Wang
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twitchy mouth, which jerked slightly as it smiled as if on a hook.
“Davy,” she said, hugging him, patting him on the back as though he could break, and then, looking over his shoulder: “You brought a friend.”
His father was dead and he had told his mother nothing about me. He was a simple man and had not wanted a big wedding, and we had gone to the town hall. He was passionate and had wanted to marry me as soon as possible, without his mother’s interference, and we had gone through all the hoops, the visa and paperwork, to do it. He loved his mother, but she had grown, in his words, difficult over the years. My English was both good enough to assume this was the case and bad enough to cause misunderstandings. This peculiar state of being in the vaguest language space was enough to paralyze me if I thought too much about it, because there was much that I could misunderstand. In TaiwanI had been proud of my ability to manipulate language to my advantage. Here I was lucky if I understood most of a sentence.
“Her name is Daisy,” he said.
“Charmed,” Mrs. Nowak said. “I didn’t ______ you were bringing someone. You really should have told me—I haven’t ______ prepared. I _____ she can sleep in the ______ room.”
David said, “It’s ______ hot.”
She backed into the hall, pulling the door open as she did so, and she stood behind the door as we entered until we were inside (her disappearance strange for a moment), at which point she pushed the door shut and double-bolted it. The air was cool and thick with pipe smoke—but who smoked a pipe in this house of a dead man? I looked deep into the brown stone house, which had entryways into other rooms on either side and opened into a large room at the end, where I saw plush green sofas and a lamp. In the safety of her home Mrs. Nowak now looked at me more closely.
“I cut this fruit for you,” I said, still holding the plate.
“You ______ did,” she said. “Bring it into the kitchen. I have some ______ ______ . David, I’ll bet you haven’t had a good ______ in _____.”
“Don’t you live alone?” David asked.
She nodded; she looked like he had accused her of something.
“Well, it ______ of pipe smoke,” he said.
“It’s a new bad habit, you could say. We all have them.”
“I suppose,” David said, “that we do.” He glanced at me briefly and smiled. Already I was unmoored. Mrs. Nowak began to walk down the long hall as we followed. I looked at the photographs on the red velvet walls, including one of David at a grand piano. The Nowaks used to make pianos and that was the source of the Nowak fortune; that much I knew. Then we turned to the right and entered a kitchen more glorious than any of the stony kitchens I had entered in my nineteen years. The stove gleamed white, with two oven doors beneath it. The cabinets were the pale pink of watermelon milk. Buttery containers of three sizes sat on the countertop, and they were the exact color of the yellow tiles.
“ ______ for your friend?” Mrs. Nowak asked, moving to the icebox. She removed a large bottle.
“She’s never had it,” David said. “I don’t think she has. Champaaaagne?” he asked. I shook my head, smiled. He asked if I wantedsome. I nodded. The less I said, the better it would be for all of us. “You can put that down,” he added, pointing at the platter, and I looked for a suitable surface.
Mrs. Nowak took the fruit from me. She was smiling again. She wanted to speak to David alone about me, but instead she retrieved three tall, thin glasses with single legs while David popped open the bottle, and he poured me a glass of something full of bubbles. I waited for them to drink first before I took a sip, but if there was anything I knew how to do, including crying only when I wanted to and dancing the twist, it was how to drink. I didn’t startle when it went down my throat and I felt like I was inhaling water.
“Delicious,” I said.
Mrs. Nowak said,
“Davy,” she said, hugging him, patting him on the back as though he could break, and then, looking over his shoulder: “You brought a friend.”
His father was dead and he had told his mother nothing about me. He was a simple man and had not wanted a big wedding, and we had gone to the town hall. He was passionate and had wanted to marry me as soon as possible, without his mother’s interference, and we had gone through all the hoops, the visa and paperwork, to do it. He loved his mother, but she had grown, in his words, difficult over the years. My English was both good enough to assume this was the case and bad enough to cause misunderstandings. This peculiar state of being in the vaguest language space was enough to paralyze me if I thought too much about it, because there was much that I could misunderstand. In TaiwanI had been proud of my ability to manipulate language to my advantage. Here I was lucky if I understood most of a sentence.
“Her name is Daisy,” he said.
“Charmed,” Mrs. Nowak said. “I didn’t ______ you were bringing someone. You really should have told me—I haven’t ______ prepared. I _____ she can sleep in the ______ room.”
David said, “It’s ______ hot.”
She backed into the hall, pulling the door open as she did so, and she stood behind the door as we entered until we were inside (her disappearance strange for a moment), at which point she pushed the door shut and double-bolted it. The air was cool and thick with pipe smoke—but who smoked a pipe in this house of a dead man? I looked deep into the brown stone house, which had entryways into other rooms on either side and opened into a large room at the end, where I saw plush green sofas and a lamp. In the safety of her home Mrs. Nowak now looked at me more closely.
“I cut this fruit for you,” I said, still holding the plate.
“You ______ did,” she said. “Bring it into the kitchen. I have some ______ ______ . David, I’ll bet you haven’t had a good ______ in _____.”
“Don’t you live alone?” David asked.
She nodded; she looked like he had accused her of something.
“Well, it ______ of pipe smoke,” he said.
“It’s a new bad habit, you could say. We all have them.”
“I suppose,” David said, “that we do.” He glanced at me briefly and smiled. Already I was unmoored. Mrs. Nowak began to walk down the long hall as we followed. I looked at the photographs on the red velvet walls, including one of David at a grand piano. The Nowaks used to make pianos and that was the source of the Nowak fortune; that much I knew. Then we turned to the right and entered a kitchen more glorious than any of the stony kitchens I had entered in my nineteen years. The stove gleamed white, with two oven doors beneath it. The cabinets were the pale pink of watermelon milk. Buttery containers of three sizes sat on the countertop, and they were the exact color of the yellow tiles.
“ ______ for your friend?” Mrs. Nowak asked, moving to the icebox. She removed a large bottle.
“She’s never had it,” David said. “I don’t think she has. Champaaaagne?” he asked. I shook my head, smiled. He asked if I wantedsome. I nodded. The less I said, the better it would be for all of us. “You can put that down,” he added, pointing at the platter, and I looked for a suitable surface.
Mrs. Nowak took the fruit from me. She was smiling again. She wanted to speak to David alone about me, but instead she retrieved three tall, thin glasses with single legs while David popped open the bottle, and he poured me a glass of something full of bubbles. I waited for them to drink first before I took a sip, but if there was anything I knew how to do, including crying only when I wanted to and dancing the twist, it was how to drink. I didn’t startle when it went down my throat and I felt like I was inhaling water.
“Delicious,” I said.
Mrs. Nowak said,
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