Chapter 53: Modest Dreams (2/10)

With the matter of Old Madam Lin’s relief funds settled, the marching crowd learned from Sumu that Attorney Jiang would represent the impoverished elders in court to help them secure their stipends. Satisfied, they dispersed in good spirits.

Aside from the reporters, no one cared much about who Sumu was. The adults simply regarded him as an enthusiastic youth, and his peers were unlikely to openly admire him—perhaps a few did so in secret, but no one would ever concede they were any less capable than he was. Regardless of age, those who marched and protested that day found deep satisfaction within themselves; after all, helping others is its own reward.

As for Sumu, he cared little about being overlooked. He never sought fame or recognition, and thus felt no disappointment. After expressing his thanks to Miss Lily and his fellow classmates, he too walked home, content with the day’s outcome.

On the way, he ran into Li Ping’an, who was hurrying over. They hadn’t seen each other the entire break, and Li Ping’an had grown noticeably plumper and tanner. When he learned that everything was already over, he grumbled about the traffic on California Highway 1, frustrated that he’d missed the excitement.

It is said that a cunning rabbit has three burrows. Old Gilry and the Ge father and son, who had pocketed the elderly’s life-saving money with no conscience, had been living in fear for years. Long ago, they had secured “legal false passports”—everything was fake except the photos.

At this time, with information transmission and storage technology still underdeveloped, acquiring such papers wasn’t difficult. Some specialized in collecting the records of those who had died unexpectedly and kept up the pretense that these people were still alive—filing taxes, enrolling in schools, renewing driver’s licenses. The personal information was flawless; once purchased, it was like assuming an entirely new, legal identity.

Old Gilry made a phone call to Ge Qiu’s father. Ge Dalong understood at once how dire things had become—matters had reached a point of no return. If the federal courts and prosecutors got involved, even their superiors wouldn’t be able to shield them; those in higher circles—mayors, state legislators, and the like—wouldn’t care to risk their positions for such petty sums.

The two decided to flee that very night, leaving behind houses, cars, everything. Even if it turned out to be a false alarm, it was better than being caught for real.

Unfortunately, just as Old Gilry was about to pack up and leave his office, having taken over two hundred thousand dollars in cash from the safe and stuffed it into a carry-on bag, cursing and sweating, the office door suddenly swung open. Two FBI agents entered. They glanced from the old man to the money, then both drew their handcuffs.

A middle-aged woman, introducing herself as a federal prosecutor, seemed a little surprised by the scene, and even managed a joke: “Sir, you forgot to lock your door. Do you know your rights? You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used as evidence against you. Looks like I won’t have to waste time searching for evidence after all—you’ve got it right here in your hands.”

Behind her stood a man in a sweat-soaked shirt named Sun Qicheng, a lawyer with a strong sense of justice. Seeing Old Gilry collapse onto the floor, he couldn’t help but laugh.

Regrettably, Sumu had already gone home and knew nothing of what had happened...

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Li Ping’an and Duzhong headed to the arcade to play games. Sumu excused himself, saying he had things to do at home, and promised to go out with them the next day.

He was a little worried on the way home, and sure enough, not long after arriving, Old Man Su first scolded him, then offered some veiled praise—a grandson as outstanding as this left little room for dissatisfaction.

It was an ordinary evening: Sumu, his parents, and his grandfather sat around a small table in the courtyard, eating a modest dinner. Before the meal was finished, Su Dingcai set down his bowl with a smile and jogged off to the restaurant to prepare dishes—customers had just arrived.

For Chinese immigrants without special skills, there weren’t many career paths to choose from. Sadly, Sumu’s family all worked at the bottom rung of society. Whether or not the work was hard, the little money they made was always a problem.

Watching his mother quickly finish her meal and rush off to help his father, Sumu was suddenly seized by the urge to tell them he’d already made some money and invested in a promising supermarket—so they wouldn’t have to save every penny, and he could support himself, maybe even give them a better life.

A good life, in Sumu’s mind, was simple: driving out to shop for clothes on Rodeo Drive at the foot of Beverly Hills, moving into a house with front and back gardens and a swimming pool, hiring a housekeeper to help with cleaning and cooking, and never having to worry about tuition or other small expenses again. That was all.

His dreams weren’t grand, yet they still seemed very far away.

He felt sorry for his father’s exhaustion—serving customers until two or three in the morning every night, unable to chase them out. The nightly strain was taking its toll; his hair fell out in handfuls when he washed it. Sometimes his father joked that if he really went bald, he’d just shave his head, but Sumu could sense the hardship and fatigue behind the words.

The old man had joked a few days ago that his son and daughter-in-law had become money-obsessed, always talking about money. But not long after, he sighed and muttered, “They say money is worthless, but without it, life is just too hard. Grandson, you must make something of yourself—four generations of poverty is enough. By your generation, things ought to change.”

...

During dinner, Sumu truly wanted to tell them.

He kept the supermarket plan to himself, treading carefully around his family lately—he was nearly driven mad with the secret. Yet seeing the deepening wrinkles on his grandfather’s stubborn old face, he hesitated. He thought, there would be plenty of time to tell them before the supermarket opened. It would be like cooking rice until it was done—by then, even if his grandfather and parents found out and made him kneel before his grandmother’s portrait, Sumu would accept it willingly.

“What are you thinking about?” Old Man Su asked, seeing his grandson lost in thought.

Sumu came back to himself, just as their orange cat Yuanbao scampered over. Using his chopsticks, he picked a fish head from his bowl and fed it to the cat, smiling, “Nothing, just thinking about that interview. Say, if one day—just suppose—our family had an extra hundred thousand dollars or so, wouldn’t that be nice?”

It was a way of priming them for the news. The orange cat Yuanbao was still hungry. After wolfing down the fish head, it looked up at Sumu again and got a piece of fish tail.

Hardly anyone in America eats freshwater fish, so carp was very cheap. Braised with pickled vegetables and served with a big bowl of thick cold porridge, it was a simple but flavorful meal. A land shapes its people, and some Chinese families, even after a hundred years in America, still ate the traditional dishes of their homeland.

Just thinking of an extra hundred thousand dollars made Old Man Su beam with delight, daydreaming aloud: “I’d grin so hard my teeth would fall out. Even selling me wouldn’t fetch that much. You’re still young—earn it slowly. Now, go take a shower and put on some clean clothes. I’ll take you over to pay respects at Old Master Qiao’s house. Let’s go after dinner so we don’t trouble him to treat us to a meal. You should really thank your Uncle Qiao for today—I heard it was your idea, and he agreed to help without a second thought...”