This Old Man by Lois Ruby Read Free Book Online Page A

poem.
    THE VALLEY WIND BY LU YUN
    Living in retirement beyond the World ,
    Silently enjoying isolation ,
    I pull the rope of my door tighter
    And stuff my window with roots and ferns .
    My spirit is tuned to the Spring-season;
    At the fall of the year there is autumn in my heart .
    Thus imitating cosmic changes
    My cottage becomes a Universe .
    When Wing finished reading it, I waited for his pudgy smile. Instead he looked worried.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with it?”
    â€œNothing, nothing. It’s a good poem for him.”
    â€œWell, it should be,” I said hotly. “It’s by some guy who wrote in the second century, Lu Yun, or however you pronounce it. Old Man’s probably heard of him, even if you haven’t. Old Man’s probably related to him.” I felt a familiar fog of anger rising higher, Hackey anger. “What’s the matter? Am I only One Thousand Pieces of Gold?”
    â€œThis poem is just fine, Greta.”
    No, it was better than fine. It was perfect. Wing just wouldn’t admit it. He was jealous, that’s what he was, jealous that he hadn’t found the poem first. With his brow set, he took it in to Old Man.
    I paced outside the room. All I heard was silence. Maybe Old Man was reading it over and over. Then I heard Wing’s voice, soft, slow, halting. Silence again. Then Old Man began to yell, in the thick, fuzzy voice of age. All that I could make out clearly was his usual “ Kyi, kyi, ” which I’d heard a dozen times. I released a deep sigh of relief. It was always a good sign when Old Man yelled.
    â€œHe likes it,” I whispered to myself. The Chinese nurse walked by on her soundless crepe soles. “Listen to him, he likes my poem!”
    When Wing came out of the room, he looked forlorn.
    â€œWhat did Old Man say?”
    â€œThe poem was perfect, Greta.”
    â€œIs that why he was yelling like a madman? What did he say? ”
    â€œI read him every word, and he—”
    It was only then—stupid, how stupid could I be—that I realized what was wrong. Old Man couldn’t even understand the English, much less read it.
    â€œI translated it into Chinese, as well as I could. I’m not so good at it yet. He liked the poem, though, I can tell you that.”
    â€œWhen did he start yelling?” I felt defeated; I wanted to get to the good part.
    â€œHe asked to see the poem. He doesn’t wear his glasses anymore. He couldn’t have read it anyway, but he wanted to see how it was arranged on the page.”
    â€œNo problem there. It was in perfect balance. It took me fourteen typings. That’s when he started yelling?”
    â€œYes.” Wing hesitated. Something else was wrong. “He saw that it wasn’t written in the old language. He, well, he got furious. He wants to know why Fragrant Blossom doesn’t write in Chinese.”
    â€œWhat?” I shouted. The little nurse had to signal for me to be quiet.
    â€œNow he knows you’re not Chinese,” Wing said sadly.
    â€œCouldn’t you just tell him I didn’t learn to write the stuff?”
    â€œIt would be worse. To be Chinese and not write the language? Unthinkable. It’s like being the foreign doctor. Worse than being a Westerner.”
    â€œI hate him, Wing, I can’t help it. He’s an intolerant tyrant.”
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s his way.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” I was swallowing fast, trying to remember that I was in a hospital, a quiet zone.
    Wing let out a deep sigh and turned his back to me. “Tonight he was looking away from me, pointing his finger at the door. He was yelling kyi, kyi , ‘get out, go!’ without tsing , without even a please, as if I were a creature that revolted him.”
    It was bad enough what he did to me, but to Wing, to his own grandson? “Let’s get out of this place. I can’t explode in here.” We rode down the elevator in