Chapter 33: The Pitiful One

After returning to his room, Su Mu carefully hid the lottery ticket inside the book he had just bought, then placed it on the bookshelf. He turned on the old radio and sat at his desk, unable to suppress the wild beating of his heart. No matter what happened, the decision was made; now all he could do was wait for the outcome.

The radio broadcasted a weather report in perfect English. The strange programs he had heard in previous days had vanished, and Su Mu found the small notebook where he had recorded the interesting ideas he’d picked up from the radio. Reading through it again, he found it even more astonishing.

For instance, there was mention of a notebook computer called “Yoga 730.” The host described it as equipped with Intel’s eighth-generation Core i7 processor, available in both 13-inch and 15-inch versions, with options for FHD or UHD screens, up to 16GB of RAM, up to 512GB or 1TB of storage, and support for an Active Pen 2 stylus.

He hadn’t understood what those numbers meant at first, but after reading some books about computers in the library yesterday, he realized the specifications were astonishing. The computer he had played at Du Zhong’s house had only 128K of memory.

This meant that the Intel company would become popular, memory sellers would thrive, notebook computers would flourish, and, incredibly, one could write with a pen—perhaps directly on the screen.

His imagination was rich, and now it grew even richer, prompting him to suppose that these messages really came from the future. He began to fantasize, piecing together clues from the hosts’ words to envision what the world of tomorrow might look like.

Su Mu’s horizons were not broad; up to now, he couldn’t grasp the value of these scattered bits of information…

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The New York Times once described Chinatown, located just fifteen minutes from Wall Street, as “the dark side of Manhattan.” Its residents lived amid filth and chaos, and Los Angeles’s Chinatown was no exception.

Across the Pacific, compatriots often imagined the Chinese living in America enjoying comfortable and happy lives. Unfortunately, it was far from the idyllic picture they believed. There were certainly many opportunities to get rich, but considering the vast number of Chinese, most still lived in hardship.

The Su family was considered relatively well off—they owned a house, well-located and spacious. Many newly arrived immigrants could only afford tiny rooms, some families of four or five crammed into dilapidated houses of less than fifty square meters.

In the beginning, the Su family had nothing. Su Mu’s great-grandfather had once wandered the streets for a long time, and his grandfather, Old Su, had also endured days of hunger. Given their current circumstances, their standard of living in Chinatown was already above average. They didn’t have much money, but they weren’t worried about lacking food or clothing, and their home was comfortable.

Not far from the Su house, several shops selling GD pastries were packed with white customers, who queued for a taste of authentic “fried Jian Dui.”

Further away, a Chinese association was celebrating its fortieth anniversary. Well-dressed Chinese arrived in Rolls Royces and Mercedes, parking along the street. In stark contrast, Chinese laborers dragged heavy crates beside the factories hosting the celebration.

On August 11th, a light rain cooled the air. Su Mu rose early as usual, washed and dressed, preparing to work at the convenience store. Only two days remained before he would end his part-time job early—he needed to focus on school matters. American private high schools usually enrolled in the fall, and Su Dingcai didn’t want him to sacrifice the important for the trivial, so he planned to finish after a month and a half.

Last month, the Su family came into a windfall, but Su Mu’s elders remained busy. The Chinese liked to think long-term, unlike whites and blacks who cared only for present pleasure. They were working hard to earn money for Su Mu’s high school tuition and future college expenses, pinching pennies, leaving early and returning late. The summer heat had slimmed them all.

Perhaps because of a history of hardship, the word “saving” was etched deep into the Chinese bloodline. They would rather suffer now and save as much as possible for peace of mind.

After breakfast—a bowl of mung bean porridge and the lingering taste of salted duck egg—Su Mu left the house and saw an old woman, eighty or ninety years old, slowly making her way down the street. When she found a step, she sat down and, in a hoarse, weary voice, called out, “Zongzi! Fresh meat and duck egg zongzi!”

Her voice was so soft that only Su Mu could hear.

He remembered that since he was very young, Mrs. Lin had been selling zongzi along the street. She was already old then, her voice stronger than now, but much frailer today.

She had come to Chinatown in the 1920s. Not long after, her husband fell ill and died, leaving her alone in a shabby house for decades. She spoke no English and survived by selling zongzi.

Su Dingcai grew up eating her zongzi; so did Old Su, and Su Mu himself. The neighbors knew her plight, so even when tired of zongzi, they would buy some to help. The money she earned barely kept her alive; living well was impossible.

Thinking of a nearly ninety-year-old woman who rose early every day to make zongzi and struggled to sell them door to door, Su Mu, even though he was full, approached her with a smile and said, “Grandma Lin, give me four zongzi!”

Hearing someone wanted to buy, the old lady instantly revived, slowly turned her cloudy eyes toward Su Mu, and acknowledged him with a faint “Eh.”

Up close, he could smell the scent of age on her, but Su Mu didn’t mind—everyone grows old. He was simply saddened that someone so elderly still had to work, and wished he could help lonely elders like her.

Suddenly, he realized he might actually be able to help. He used to want to become a lawyer, and in his idle hours had read some books about law, including articles about elderly welfare. As she handed him the zongzi with trembling hands, he asked, “You’re a US citizen, aren’t you? Are you getting any relief payments now? A few hundred dollars a month—has anyone given you any?”

She was baffled for a moment; age clouded her mind. After a while she shook her head. “No. They said they’d give it, but then nothing came.”

“Nothing?” Su Mu raised his eyebrows.

“Mm. I earn it myself. Some people get money; I don’t. When someone talks to me, I can’t understand,” Mrs. Lin replied calmly…