Riding the Iron Rooster

He was married, he had three children. He was a taxi driver in Kowloon and had come to China for the same sentimental reasons that so many overseas Chinese had for making the journey. And practical reasons, too: the discounts, the freebies, the brotherly goodwill, the ease in making arrangements as a Foreign Compatriot, and all the other angles that went under the general heading of ethnic nepotism. In Xian he had met some Chinese taxi drivers and they had bought him enough beer to get him plastered.

"In ten years you'll be able to drive your taxi from Kowloon into China."

"Yes," he said. "But I don't want to."

"Chinese taxi drivers make money—didn't they tell you that?"

And because no Chinese could afford to ride in a Chinese taxi, the customers were always foreigners. This was what the Party would call a pernicious influence, and I agreed. Chinese taxi drivers, as a breed, seemed to me stubborn and grasping. And they weren't particularly skillful drivers. It was very rare to spend any length of time in Chinese taxis and not experience an accident—usually your taxi crashing into a cyclist.

Cheung said, "They have to earn seventy yuan a day. After they make that amount on the meter they get a percentage of the rest. But they only have to work eight hours. In Hong Kong we all work twelve hours. It's a very hard life. Food is expensive, rent is expensive, everything costs too much."

"Maybe the Chinese government will straighten things out when they take over Hong Kong.

"No. They will ruin it. No democracy."

"There's no democracy there now. It's a British Colony. The governor-general is appointed. And the strange thing is," I said, because I had suddenly realized what a political anachronism Hong Kong was, "very few people actually speak English in Hong Kong."

"We speak Cantonese."

"That's the point. It's part of Guangdong province, really. British culture didn't sink in. It's all Cantonese."

Cheung did not want to argue. He said, "I don't care. I am going to the United States."

"You mean, for good?"

"Yes. I have a sister in San Francisco. I also am getting a visa from the American embassy in Hong Kong."

"Will you be driving a taxi in the States?"

"No. I will get a job in a restaurant."

"A Chinese restaurant?"

"Of course. There are many. In Chinatown."

"Have you ever been to the United States?" I asked.

"No," Cheung said. "But I have spoken to my friends. I can earn eight hundred dollars a week."

"Doing what?"

"Maybe cooking."

"What do you mean 'maybe'? Can you cook?"

"I am Cantonese. I can cook Cantonese food, I think."

"Why not stay in Hong Kong?" I said. "Are you really afraid that things will change when the Chinese take over?"

He thought a moment, then said, "In Hong Kong is too hard work. America is better. Better living."

"Why not England?"

"I don't want England. Not good living."

"Have you been to England?"

"No. But my friends tell me."

He was packing up his gear. It was near eleven in the morning, and rice fields slid by in this green, steamy place. We would be in Chengdu soon. Anyway, Cheung was sick of my questions. But I was fascinated by this man who had already decided to chuck his life in Hong Kong and immigrate to a wonderful new existence in America—a little paradise called Chinatown, where Chinese people fitted in, earned American salaries and never had to integrate or make any concessions to this big, sheltering republic. It also interested me that this British colonial had rejected Britain.

"Who is the prime minister of Britain?"

"I don't know."

"Who is the leader of the Chinese people?"

"Deng Xiaoping."

"Who is the president of the United States?"

This puzzled him for a moment, but only a moment. "President," he began thoughtfully, and drew a breath. "Nixon."

Nixon had been out of office for twelve years.

"You think Nixon is president of the United States right now?"

"Yes. I think so. I like him. Do you like him?"

"Not very much."

"Which party do you support? Liberty Party, or the other one?"

"Liberty Party," I said. "We call them Democrats." But Mr. Cheung was not listening. He had hoisted his bags for our arrival in Chengdu. I said, "By the way, who is the governor-general of Hong Kong?"

"Sir Something," Mr. Cheung said, and hurried off the train.

***

At a dark, noisy garagelike restaurant called Pockmarked Mother Chen's (Chen Ma Po, home of hot bean curd), I looked into a mirror and saw Mr. Fang staring at the back of my head. After my bowl of bean curd was served to me I was given a plate of hot dumplings. I liked them, but I hadn't ordered them. They weren't on the menu; they had been bought at a stall.

"That man bought them for you," the waiter said, pointing to the back of the room.

But by then Mr. Fang had gone. He had been very observant over these past weeks: he knew of my fondness for dumplings. But he had never mentioned it. I was touched by his gesture, but then I became suspicious. What else had he noticed about me?