Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(17)

I returned my focus to Mr. Shen and my task at hand. “This is going to be awkward,” I whispered to myself. Still, I had to persevere. I had to find out what had gone wrong in the neighborhood before I could open the restaurant. Had the neighbors simply given up? I’d assumed that they stayed because they either wanted to help the incoming immigrants or weren’t successful enough to move away to the suburbs. Aside from the obvious financial ones, what other problems did they have? They were strangers to me, as I had become a stranger to them. Listen to their problems and then cook for them, I said to myself. Laolao’s recipes would provide the solutions, but I must determine the neighbors’ dilemmas on my own.

A set of bells tinkled as I pushed the glass door open. The blast of the air conditioner set off rows of goose bumps on my skin. The bookstore was three times larger than Laolao’s restaurant. Every available wall was covered with bookcases, but most of them were empty. I remembered when magazines, newspapers, journals, and classic novels like Romance of the Three Kingdoms crammed every shelf. Now, every periodical was dated from months or years ago. Some of the overhead fluorescent lights were dead, and the remaining ones flickered in an erratic pattern. What had happened here?

Mr. Fai Shen, the older brother, was perched atop a worn bar stool. As I approached, the scent of pistachios and candied ginger overpowered the more subtle smells of paper and dust. Shen’s stained fingers pried shells open, pinching the green nutmeat as he pored over his daily newspaper. Scraggly whiskers graced his upper lip, and a brown bubble of a mole sprouted near his left nostril.

He chewed on the pistachios, setting aside the shavings in a pile while pushing the shells into floral patterns. Today’s display was chrysanthemums in a basket.

“Mr. Shen?” I asked.

He dropped his pistachio shell and blinked rapidly a few times. Finally, he squinted at me, smiling. “Hello there, young lady. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to thank you for attending Ma-ma’s funeral,” I began. “How have you been? How is business?”

Older Shen mustered a weak smile. “I’m doing okay. As for business, you don’t have to worry yourself about that. We are managing fine.”

Denial to save face. It was a tactic I knew too well. I opened my mouth to protest, but that avenue of argument would be unfruitful or, at worst, cause offense. I decided to take a different course. “I wanted to let you know that I’m staying and working toward reopening the restaurant.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you to follow your laolao’s path.” He paused and scratched his temple. “That’s a hard endeavor. A restaurant is a difficult business to run, and most don’t survive within their first year.”

“I have to try. I really want this.”

Older Shen’s eyes grew wide. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I couldn’t answer him with the truth that I was terrified of failing. My failure at culinary school haunted my every step. Three heartbeats of awkward silence followed until I shattered it. “Have you read any new, exciting books lately?”

“People don’t want to buy books anymore, or if they do, they don’t want to buy them from me. The tourists seem to be passing by instead of lingering. It wasn’t always like this. In the old days when your laolao had her restaurant open, the street was so full that we had festivals. I wish . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving me leaning over the counter.

“What do you wish for?”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t burden you with my problems. It’s not right.”

The Chinese custom of swallowing one’s misery was keeping me from what I wanted—a detailed description of what ailed him so I could figure out which recipe to use. If only I could reach across the counter and shake his confession loose.

The phone rang on the counter. Older Shen held up his finger, excusing himself. I ducked into one of the empty book aisles. Picking up an old copy of Reader’s Digest, I flipped through the pages while I eavesdropped.

“Hello?”

“I told you to sign off on the advertisements. Why haven’t you done it yet?” The booming voice across the line left no doubt as to who was calling. It was Older Shen’s twin brother, Guang, the owner of the herbal shop across the street. His voice was so loud he may as well have been on speakerphone. The twins were the last in a prosperous family, descended from wealthy merchants of Shanghai.

Older Shen sighed. “I can’t afford it, Guang. You know business hasn’t been—”

“We will waste this opportunity if you don’t sign off,” the disembodied voice on the phone thundered back. “The paperwork is due tomorrow.”

The fluorescent lights overhead began to fizzle out, one by one. If it weren’t for the sunlight streaming through the windows, the store would have been shuttered in darkness. Tiny crackles of electricity emanated from the receiver in Older Shen’s hand.

“I can’t justify the costs—”

A bright spark of energy leaped from the receiver, forming a glowing chain before wrapping itself like a shackle around Older Shen’s forearm. He pulled at his forearm, trying to dislodge the intruding force. The voice on the other end boomed. “If you don’t spend money, you’re not going to get anyone into your store. Advertising is the way to go.”