Last Night at the Telegraph Club(21)

After a few more minutes of banal conversation, Reverend Hubbard excused himself to continue on his rounds, and Mrs. Woo invited Joseph to join her and Grace. Grace was sure he would politely decline—a man like him surely had more important things to do—but he agreed without hesitation, and soon the three of them were seated together in the corner, sipping their coffees.

“Reverend Hubbard said you are a nursing student?” Joseph said, turning to Grace.

“Yes. Up at Parnassus,” Grace said. They talked about her nursing program for a few minutes while Mrs. Woo watched the two of them cannily.

“Tell me about your family, Mr. Hu,” Mrs. Woo said when they came to a pause. “Your father—he is a . . . ?”

“He is a professor at Nan Yang College in Shanghai.”

Grace imagined a mandarin wearing a round cap and sporting a long white beard, but then she chastised herself; he probably wore modern suits like Joseph.

“And you are the oldest son?” Mrs. Woo asked.

Joseph nodded. “I have two younger brothers and two younger sisters.”

“Are any of them in the United States?”

“No. It’s only me right now. But my younger brother Arthur hopes to come over in the next year or two.”

“To study medicine as well?”

“Perhaps. He is also considering engineering.” Joseph gave Grace a brief glance, and once again she suspected that he was containing himself. She began to think he might enjoy discussing scandalous Shanghai actresses more than his brother’s educational goals.

“Ah. And are you here on a Boxer scholarship?”

Joseph smiled. “No, I’m afraid I am not.”

“Some other scholarship, then?” Mrs. Woo pressed.

Grace shot Joseph a pained smile as Mrs. Woo continued to question him about his financial situation, but Joseph either didn’t mind or he was doing a good job of pretending. It turned out that his travel to the United States was supported by a scholarship from a Presbyterian mission in Shanghai, which explained why he had come to the Chinese Presbyterian Church today. But his tuition was privately funded, which meant Joseph Hu’s family was probably well-off. Grace thought again about glamour, about Anna May Wong in Shanghai Express, her seductive silk gowns and coy dark eyes wreathed in cigarette smoke. She’d liked the film a lot when she saw it a few years ago, though she couldn’t admit that at church. (Her mother refused to see it because their Chinese minister condemned it as immoral.) But Joseph’s family was likely extremely respectable and had nothing to do with the dramatic world of warlords and fallen women depicted onscreen. She felt a slight disappointment at the self-inflicted puncturing of her fantasy.

Mrs. Woo turned to Grace and said, “Miss Wing, you are the oldest daughter in your family, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Grace said, though Mrs. Woo knew this already.

“Grace is the star of her family,” Mrs. Woo said to Joseph. “Not many girls graduate from college, and even fewer enter nursing school.”

“Mrs. Woo, you’re flattering me.”

“But it’s true. Mr. Hu should know he is speaking with one of San Francisco’s smartest young ladies.”

Mrs. Woo beamed at the two of them, and Grace was both embarrassed and a little pleased by how obvious Mrs. Woo’s matchmaking attempts were. “I’ve only tried to make my parents proud,” Grace said, attempting humility.

“And I’m sure they are,” Joseph said.

Did he sound admiring or amused? Grace wasn’t sure.

Mrs. Woo abruptly said, “Oh, look at the time! I must go and see Mrs. Leong before she leaves today. It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Hu. And, Miss Wing, thank you for your medical advice.”

Grace and Joseph both stood as Mrs. Woo rose to leave, and then they looked at each other, holding their empty coffee cups awkwardly, and Joseph said, “Well, now that you know everything about me, do you feel safe sitting down with me alone?”

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch and thought, He’s definitely amused now. “Of course, let’s sit,” Grace said. He made her a little nervous, but in a pleasant way.

They took their seats again, and she put her empty cup and saucer on Mrs. Woo’s abandoned chair, and Joseph set his down beside it. She glanced around the fellowship hall, where the rest of the congregation was milling about with their coffees and sandwiches. None of them seemed to be looking at her and Joseph in their corner, but Grace had the feeling that everyone knew they were there. When she turned back to Joseph, his expression had changed to one of curiosity.

“You said you came here only a few months ago,” Joseph said. “Where did you move from? Not China?”

“No, Santa Barbara. I was born there.”

“An American girl,” he said. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“我係唐人,”* she said in Cantonese, a little pertly.

“你們老家在哪裡?”* Joseph asked in Mandarin.

“你話咩話?”* Grace asked. She did not understand.

His smile turned regretful. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak your dialect.”

She knew only a little about the Chinese scholars who came to America to study. They were mostly from Shanghai, usually from well-connected or wealthy families, and they didn’t mingle much with the American Chinese—at least not the American Chinese that Grace knew. Joseph was the first such student she had spoken to directly, and she found him difficult to categorize. He didn’t fulfill her image of a mandarin; he was too young and too Westernized. Nor did he seem American, exactly, though he spoke English with hardly a trace of an accent.