“That’s because Dagou was his favorite. Their favorite. Still is.”
It seems perverse, given how different his parents are, to imagine that any of their sons could be the favorite of them both. Yet, as usual, Ming speaks with authority, as if relating an established piece of history. Ming can remember. Six years older than James, he has had firsthand experience of things James will only hear about. James has the crushing sense that he was born too late to understand the real story of the Chaos—that the great passions, the bedrock promises and betrayals that formed the basis of whatever lies among the members of his family, have long since taken place. Does their father disdain Dagou because he once had such high hopes for him? Surely their mother doesn’t feel that way.
Ming says, “Whatever else you can say about her, Ma is just as traditional as Dad. Dagou’s their oldest son. He was supposed to be the crowning achievement of their lives in the U.S.”
He takes a bite and chews calmly, observing James, assessing his reaction. James stares at the table.
“Think back thirty-five years,” Ming says. “They’ve moved to this lousy town, they hate their lives, they hate the villagers, they hate the weather, they hate each other—but their oldest son? He’s going to be a winner. You can tell by the way Ma talks about how Dagou was as a baby. The way her voice will sweeten. The way she says he was ‘such a precious baby.’ Her ‘baobei.’ So bright. So large. So talented. Of course he would grow up and prove their lives were worth something. And Dagou is large. And smart. But he’s turned out to be such a disappointment.”
As usual, James cannot read Ming’s eyes, flinty, fathomless, deliberately still. Ming seems even more detached than usual. Or has the scene with Katherine made James forget the exceptional nature of his middle brother’s superpower: his impenetrability?
James picks up his fork, testing its weight. He spreads the dark green napkin on his lap. He slides his hand into the pouch of his hoodie, touches the piece of candy from the temple and a tiny slip of paper he’s certain is an old fortune cookie fortune. Lamely he says, “He’s really excited about the Christmas party. Maybe he’s satisfied with how things are now. Who says he has to—”
“Is he satisfied? With the way he is now?”
The server arrives, carrying James’s plate of eggs. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks perfunctorily.
Ming asks for another cup of coffee. When the server leaves, he murmurs, “I don’t know, can you?”
James forks a bite of egg and crisp potatoes. It’s delicious. He tries again. “Maybe he’s working on something—not the party, but another, bigger project—and he’ll show us someday, and he’ll surprise us. Or he could be thinking of applying to culinary school—”
“Don’t you understand, James, he’s never going to change? It’s too late for him. Too late.”
Dagou’s words come back to James—It’s as if none of us can bear to be in our present lives—and James feels a sudden constriction in the area of his heart and lungs. Is it really true, he wonders, that there might be, in any human life, a certain window of time that matters more than any other? That he could be passing through it now as he sits holding a forkful of eggs, glimpsing it around him, as through the window of a train, and then leaving it behind, irretrievable, disappeared?
“I don’t believe it,” he says aloud. “It’s impossible that a person could get to be thirty-three and have already lost his hope for the future.”
“Almost thirty-four,” Ming says. “Youth is over at thirty-four. By then you’ve lost the gleam and possibility of youth, and most Americans couldn’t give a shit about you.
“There are only certain times in life when emergence is possible. The life strategy for children of immigrants, starting with nothing, is to use that time to build social, educational, and financial capital on which to ride out the rest of their lives. Dagou has blown it. He’s now interested in salvaging his middle age by becoming a member of the petite bourgeoisie. But he doesn’t have the capital to be a member of the petite bourgeoisie.”
James sets down his fork. He feels, to his confusion, the pressure of tears against his lids, but Ming is checking his phone and doesn’t notice. “It’s no surprise,” Ming says, putting down the phone. “Of course he would decide to settle down, to make ‘a commitment to Haven.’ He has most of what he needs here: a place to live, a job. People to love and hate.”
“A job? But the restaurant isn’t really his career. It’s just where he’s working now, until—” James’s words catch in his throat.
“Don’t be a snob, James,” Ming says mildly. “Of course it’s his career.”
“What I mean”—James casts about—“is, Dagou must still have other plans.”
“If you’re as close to him as you think you are,” says Ming, “you’d have noticed a while ago that he really doesn’t have other plans. Oh, at first he used to say he was practicing to audition for the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra or whatever, and then for a while he was talking about moving back to New York, or to somewhere warmer, like Austin, and opening up a record store. But now, after six years, I think he’s gotten used to the idea of being a villager, working at the restaurant. Dagou’s given up. He’s even found some kind of pride and honor, some dignity in giving up: he’s telling himself he’s helping Mom and Dad, he’s their only truly filial son. He thinks the time he’s putting into the restaurant is a kind of payment for the sacrifice Dad thinks Dad’s made, something Dad thinks Dad deserves. But of course he can’t settle for having the most filial piety: he wants Dad to recognize him as a partner in the business. What Dagou doesn’t understand is that, even if he settles here, Dad is never going to let him get his hands on the restaurant or on the pile of cash he’s no doubt hoarding. At least, not while he’s alive.”
James asks a question he has never thought about before. “Does Ba have a will?”
“He’s too confident to make a will.” Ming grins. “According to state law, everything will go to Ma when he’s dead. Anyway, Ba would never give anything to Dagou.”
“But Ba needs Dagou.” As he speaks, James knows this is true. “And Dagou’s been putting everything into the restaurant for six years.”
“That was a self-destructive decision on his part. And he’s nuts if he thought Gu Ling Zhu Chi was ever going to side with him. I told you, these spiritual types side with the cash. I get a New Year card from the abbess, every year since I started working in New York.”
“How’s everything tasting?” At the sound of the server’s voice, they both start.
“I asked for a cup of coffee,” Ming says.
When she’s gone, they put their heads together again.
“He should have negotiated a deal with Dad in writing,” Ming says. “It’s his fault if he didn’t.”