The more Nan thought, the more upset he became.

WITH a sadness induced by those thoughts, with the conviction that the cultural center wouldn't hire him, Nan entered Ding's Dumplings on Pell Street. The owner of this place was Howard Ding, who looked weary, sitting behind the counter with his legs crossed and reading the New York Times. But when he raised his eyes to glance at Nan, his face turned alert and intelligent. He stood up and shook hands with the applicant. Though already in his fifties, he had a straight back and a full head of dark hair, which Nan thought might be dyed. Howard stood almost six feet, but every part of him was thin-thin eyes, thin nose, thin chest, thin limbs, and thin extremities. After talking with Nan for a few minutes, he handed him a book that had a gray cover and a red title: Practical English for Restaurant Personnel. He told Nan, "Your English is pretty fluent, but you may still need to familiarize yourself with some of the words and expressions in our business."

"Does zis mean you're going to hire me?"

"Yes. I like you." Howard was soft-spoken, but his voice was clear. "Let me ask you one more question, because I hate to change my staff too often. How long will you live in New York?"

"I don't know, probably a year or two."

"I won't hire temporary workers. We just lost two people who started only three months ago."

"You mean they're cawllege students." "Right. They went back to Maryland."

"Zen I will stay longer. I don't go to school. No need to worry." "Good, I'm glad to hear that. Have you waited tables before?"

"No."

"What kind of work experience do you have in a Chinese restaurant?"

"I don't have any."

"I like your candor. How about starting as a busboy?"

"Zat's fine." Nan frowned in spite of himself.

"Don't be discouraged. Everybody here starts from the bottom. I'm always fair with my employees. You can also help the chef in the kitchen. Your English is good, so you can wait tables, filling in for someone now and then. If you're really capable, you may end up a manager eventually. I have other restaurants in town and need all kinds of help." Howard peered at Nan.

"All right, I'll begin as a busboy."

"Keep in mind that you're also a helper in the kitchen." "It seems you want me to know every part of zis business." "That's exactly what I mean."

Nan had on his mind a newspaper job he had applied for, but he wouldn't let this opportunity slip away. He said, "When should I start?"

"Tomorrow morning at ten." "All right, I'll be here on time."

Despite saying that, he wasn't certain whether he really wanted the job. He was going to call the newspaper today to find out his chances with them.

He crossed Canal Street and somehow wandered onto Mott Street, where crowds of people gathered at a fair. Many of them clustered around jugglers, palm readers, quoit throwers, toy gun shooters, psychics arranging tarot cards, even a fire-eater wearing a red cape. A lot of foods were for sale on the sidewalks: sausages as thick as a human leg, giant pretzels revolving in glass ovens, kebabs sizzling on skewers, ravioli bobbing in boiling pots. Three young men in black T-shirts with the ideogram for "tolerance" printed on the front were performing kung fu massage on the people straddling the chairs that all had a ring affixed to the top for the customers to rest their faces on. Toward the end of the fair, two Chinese painters sat on canvas stools, one in his early thirties and the other middle-aged, both wearing Chicago Bulls caps. The older man was crying, "Anyone want a portrait?"

Few people paid heed to them. A flock of fat pigeons landed nearby, strutting nonchalantly, pecking at bread crumbs and popcorn and sending out a koo-koo-koo sound. Nan looked at the large sample portrait standing between the two painters. Beneath it were listed the prices: black and white-$20, colored-$40, frame-$8.So cheap. How could they make a living by doing this? The middle-aged painter tilted his lumpy chin and asked Nan, "Want a portrait, brother?"

" No. " He shook his head.

The man smiled and whispered, "Please sit down for us. We won't charge you."

"I can't do that." Nan was amazed by his offer.

"Please help us. We have to work on somebody to attract customers. Sit down, please."

"I'll pay you ten dollars if you do a good portrait of me. How's that?"

"Fine, just sit on that."

The younger man handed him a folding stool. As soon as Nan sat down, people began gathering around to watch. The older painter wielded a charcoal pencil, and with a few strokes sketched out the contour of Nan 's face. Then he proceeded to draw his bushy hair and broad forehead. From time to time he used a napkin to wipe his own pug nose, which somehow wouldn't stop dripping. He now lifted his head to observe Nan, and now bent forward, scratching the paper rapidly.

"Where are you from?" Nan asked the younger painter. " Wuhan. We used to teach at Hubei Institute of Fine Arts." " You were professors?" "He was. I was a lecturer."

"Can you make a living by drawing portraits on the street?"

"It's not easy, but we've been doing this for several years."

The older painter raised his eyes, his brow furrowed. "Don't talk too much. Keep still, or the portrait may not resemble you."

Nan stopped. He looked away. In the distance two trees grew on a rooftop, beyond which a jumbo jet was sailing noiselessly through the fleecy clouds. He wondered whether the trees were planted in pots or in a flower bed on the roof. Three seagulls were wheeling in the air on sickle wings, squawking like babies in pain. Around Nan, people were palavering about the portrait in the making. "It's really like him," said a girl.

"A fabulous job," echoed another voice.

"For twenty dollars, not a bad deal."

"Maybe I should have a portrait done here."

"Yes, just twenty bucks."

"Look et de nose, exectly like de guy's."

"Hey, smile," a jug-eared man yelped at Nan.

"I'm not taking a photo." Nan purposely set his face straight while fiddling with the strap of his bag.

Twenty minutes later the portrait was done. Nan looked at it and was surprised by his own face, which was as forlorn as though he had just missed a train or boat, too muddled to know where to go or what to do. In the drawing his eyes gazed into the distance while his mouth was set as if he were suppressing some anguish or pain. This face belonged to a lost, exhausted man. Obviously the painter had captured the actual state of his mind. A miserable feeling surged in Nan 's chest and his eyes misted over, but he managed a grimace- his cheeks twitched. The older painter bent down and inscribed the date and place at the right-hand bottom corner of the portrait. "Here you are," he said, rubbing his hands while the younger man took the sketch off the easel and rolled it up for Nan.

Nan paid the older man ten dollars and walked away with the drawing under his arm. On the train he wondered what to do with it. Who wanted to see such a woeful face? It would remind people of bad luck! On no account would he show it to his wife and son- Taotao might laugh about it, whereas Pingping would be disappointed. So when he got off at Utica Avenue, he dropped it into a trash can at the station.

In Wendy's house, a letter from the North Star Times was awaiting him, which informed him that the newspaper had picked someone else for the assistant editorship it had advertised. Nan was upset, suspecting that they might already have decided on the hire before they put out the ad. An applicant like himself must have been needed just to fill a quota. Now he had no alternative but to start at Ding's Dumplings the next day.