"I wish I had more anger so that I could write genuine poetry. I feel crippled inside, numb here." Nan placed his hand on his chest.

"That's because you've tried to cut yourself off from your roots."

"Enough of that patriotic nonsense. Patriotism is the last stick in the authorities' hand. With it they strike whomever they don't like."

"All right, I won't argue with you about that, Nan. We're going our separate ways from now on. But we'll remain friends, won't we?"

"Yes, forever buddies. I wish you all good luck and a great success."

"I wish you a happy family. You have a lovely wife and a fine son. I envy you. You ought to cherish what you have." "I have trouble with Pingping."

"I sensed that, but that will pass. If you live in this land, a stable family means everything. It's like a sturdy boat in a rough sea, and you have to stay within the boat to cross the ocean."

"I'llremember that."

"Also, don't ever talk to any Chinese like you did just now. You'll get into more trouble. You don't know who will turn you in."

"I'll be more careful in front of others, of course."

On their way out, Nan said he was sick of his current job, which had turned him into a semi-coolie. Danning told him that a Chinese-language poetry magazine in New York City was looking for a managing editor, but he knew nothing about the pay and the workload. Nan was interested and got the phone number of the editor in chief from Danning. The two friends hugged and parted ways, walking in opposite directions along Massachusetts Avenue.

NAN decided to take the job in New York. The editor in chief, Bao Yuan, had said on the phone that he could pay Nan only $1,000 per issue of the quarterly, New Lines, but he could also offer him a small room, rent-free. And Bao might help him find work in Brooklyn or Manhattan. Pingping supported Nan's decision, fearing he might lose his mind if he didn't quit his job at Hampden Park soon. Also, New York must hold more opportunities for him. Though the managing editorship didn't pay much, Nan could use it as a foothold to get a start in something. The Wus had heard that a man from Shanghai, formerly a graduate student in anthropology at Tufts University, had gone to Wall Street and gotten so rich that he owned a huge apartment on Madison Avenue. Pingping's main concern, however, was health insurance, which Nan couldn't possibly get in New York for the family. But many immigrants without any coverage at all had managed to survive, so she let him take the job, which might be his only chance to get out of his plight.

"Daddy, I'll miss you," Taotao said to Nan as mother and son were seeing him off at the Greyhound station at Riverside.

"I'll miss you too. Listen to Mom when I'm not home, all right?"

"I will. When will you come back?"

"At the end of zis mons. Be a good boy. If you need anysing, let me know."

"Uh-huh."

Taotao, in knee-length shorts, looked sad, pressing his face against his mother's waist. He was two inches taller than the summer before, also a little thicker. Nan got on the bus, sat down in a window seat, and turned to his family. Taotao was waving his hand back and forth at him. Pingping smiled and blew him a kiss. Nan did the same, though his heart was sagging. Because he couldn't find a decent job in the Boston area, his family couldn't live in a place of their own, and Taotao from now on, without health insurance, would have to avoid taking part in sports at school in case he got hurt. If only he had been a better father. If only he hadn't been such a failure. He hoped he'd return soon, as a more capable man.

This was Nan's second trip to New York. Two years ago he had gone there to meet with a friend of his who was on a delegation of educators from China. The old guard at the entrance to the Chinese consulate wouldn't let him in even though Nan produced his passport and even though his friend stayed there. It was raining outside, and the guard insisted that no visitor was allowed to enter the interior of the building, so Nan and his friend could stand only in the doorway, which was already crowded with more than a dozen people. Outraged, Nan said to the gray-bearded guard, "You've made me feel ashamed of being a Chinese." "Be an American, then! As if you could," crowed the man, and his mouth jerked to the side. Later, Nan and his friend wandered along the Hudson in a steady drizzle without an umbrella. The memory of that miserable trip still rankled him.

This time he went to Brooklyn directly, taking the C train after alighting at Port Authority Bus Terminal. He got off at Utica Avenue and without difficulty found his destination, a house with a stone facade painted white, on Macdonough Street near an elementary school. Bao Yuan, the editor in chief of New Lines, welcomed him warmly. He was thirtyish and squarely built with a patchy beard and long hair that fell on his shoulders. He took Nan 's suitcase and said, "I have the room ready for you."

Together they went up the narrow stairs leading to the attic. Bao pushed the sloping-topped door, which opened with a rat-a-tat screech. On the floor of the slanting-pitched room spread a mattress. An oblong coffee table stood near the dormer window, beside which was a lamp with a tattered yellowish shade. A strong smell of mildew hung in here. "I hope this is all right," Bao said, licking his compressed teeth.

"This is fine." Nan liked that the floor was carpeted so he could sit on it and wouldn't have to look for a chair.

"You can use the kitchen and bathroom downstairs." "All right."

"People living in this house share the phone in the living room." "Fine, I'll pay my share."

"We'll talk about the editorial work this evening." "Great. I'm excited about it."

After unpacking, Nan went out to buy some groceries. He was struck by the garbage accumulated under the curbs-plastic bottles, Styrofoam cups, scraps of paper, blanched beer cans. The air was still rain-soaked, and a few sepia puddles interrupted the sidewalk, too long for him to jump across, so he skirted them. He walked along Malcolm X Boulevard toward the subway station, where he had seen some shops an hour ago. He entered a small supermarket and picked up a bar of cheese, a bunch of bananas, and a loaf of sourdough bread. On his way back, as he was passing a strip club bearing a flickering sign with an electric martini and triple neon X's, a paunchy black man accosted him, shouting, "Hey, do you have a quarter to spare?"

Nan shook his head no and hurried away with the paper bag in his arm. He hadn't expected to see so many blacks living in this area, but he felt lucky to have a room for himself, having heard that you'd pay three hundred a month to share a bedroom in New York.

That evening Nan and Bao had tea in the kitchen. The living room was noisy, occupied by two other tenants, who were watching a game between the Yankees and the White Sox. Bao's girlfriend, Wendy, sat with them at the kitchen table. She was a white woman with half-gray hair and a puffy face, almost twenty years older than Bao. She can easily be his mother, Nan thought. Why doesn't Bao have a younger girlfriend?

Bao didn't seem to mind the age difference, though he was reluctant to show his fondness for Wendy in Nan 's presence. Wendy drank decaf coffee in place of the Tuo tea Bao had made. The original tea had been pressed into a lump like a small bowl, from which Bao had broken a piece and brewed the chunk of leaves in a pot. It tasted a little bitter, but Nan enjoyed it. The last time he'd drunk this kind of tea had been in Nanjing, where he attended a conference on reforming the power structure in the state-owned enterprises. That was seven years before.