©dross2017
Before office hours on a cold Monday morning Luc sits down with his client in a small hotel lobby near the American Consulate. His client, Zhang Ke Xi, wants to leave China and go to the U.S. as an undeclared immigrant. This morning she will walk into the consulate to have her visa interview. She has with her an American invitation and Chinese supporting documents. Some of her paperwork is genuine, not all.
Zhang Ke Xi glances at herself in the mirror behind Luc. She appears nervous – compliment Luc. “You look good. Did you sleep well?”
“So so.” She shifts on the lobby’s yellow sofa.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“I usually don’t eat in the mornings.” She looks down and moves her Fed Ex envelope and a plastic folder of documents from her left to her right. She looks at Luc, smiles – her face is taut.
“You’re going to be in the consulate for most of the morning. Do you want something to eat? A bowl of noodles or some dumplings around the corner?”
“No I’m fine.” She says – unconvincing. Luc’s walked so many clients to this step of the process. He knows her invitation and supporting documents are solid, he believes her friends waiting to field a call from the consulate are ready – but he can see Zhang Ke Xi’s head space is definitely not.
Luc was happy to take Zhang Ke Xi on as a client. The first time they met she looked as if she had just stepped off a plane from the U.S. She’s always well groomed – wears clean clothes which suit her – has a bright face, clear eyes and nice teeth. She’s a shorter woman whose body movements reflect good health and energy. But to Luc most impressive were her hands and voice. Zhang Ke Xi’s hands look used to driving an SUV with the week’s shopping in the back – not ones which pick through stalls at an open street market while haggling price before lugging it all home. And her voice is clear, confident, cheerful – like a helpful neighbor.
As a visa applicant she has one flaw an American consular officer wouldn’t fail to notice – she was previously rejected in 2002 trying to get a visa with a business group. This history will be in the consulate’s computer system. But by American law, visa officers are not supposed to let that influence future applications.
So this morning in the middle of January, as the snow storms in China are getting worse, Luc’s reasonably confident his client will be issued a U.S. tourist visa before the end of the day. He’s arranged for her interview first thing in the morning. She will enter the consulate with a group of locals, have her name checked off on a list and deposit her application form with others – Luc hopes it lands in the top half of the pile.
They have a half hour to pass before she should line up.
“Don’t worry Zhang Ke Xi. Your supporting documents and invitation are very good. You do have all your contacts ready to answer telephones if the consulate calls?”
“Yes, my husband said he would remind everybody and they all know how to handle a call.”
Zhang Ke Xi has said a number of times her husband supports her – Luc met him a few times and believes it. He has been very helpful during the process of preparing his wife for her visa interview today. In fact Luc thinks he’s probably looking forward to getting rid of her. Zhang Ke Xi seems to be a woman who’s not mistreated but rather taken for granted when not completely ignored – lonely yet used. It goes through Luc’s head that if she’s rejected today her husband will remind her for the rest of their lives how she failed and wasted money trying.
She spends more nervous energy fidgeting. “Let’s go over your documents one more time.” Luc suggests, though it’s hardly necessary. He’s drilled her on her documents, on her story, on her relationship with her American friends, and practiced interviews several times.
“Ok.” Her manicured nails flit from her lap to the plastic folder and the Fed Ex envelope. She passes them to Luc. He takes everything out and divides the documents into two piles – American and Chinese.
Luc asks again, “Are you sure you don’t want something. A juice perhaps?” Without waiting for an answer he asks a service person in the lobby what’s available – orders a small plate of stuffed steamed buns and two yogurt drinks, then says to her. “Zhang Ke Xi, please try to relax. If you’re nervous you’ll appear suspicious to the visa officer and you’ll get more questions and we don’t want that. When the officer looks at you we want him to feel there’s no worry for you to be issued a visa, right?”
“Of course.” She takes a deep breath – shuffles on the sofa – tries to smile. The drinks and buns are served and they review her documents one last time.
Chinese:
American:
The invitation package was put together in China and her American friends don’t exist. The invitation letter is hand written – nice touch – and is for the whole family, Zhang Ke Xi, husband and daughter. All American documents are on American sized paper which is wider and shorter than Chinese. She keeps these in the Fed Ex envelope which was mailed empty from the U.S. a few weeks ago by a friend of Luc's.
“We’ve practiced interviews several times and you know your story.” Luc says. “Likely all that’ll happen is you’ll give him your invitation and he may ask to see your apartment deeds. Then he’ll take your passport and give you a receipt to pick it up in the afternoon with a visa issued in it. He may not even ask you a single question.”
“Luc, before I go in I want to thank you for all your help. Whether or not I get the visa, I know my best hope was with you.”
Luc’s heard this from clients before. “Have confidence. If I didn’t think you had a decent chance I wouldn’t have agreed to help you.” He puts everything back in the Fed Ex Envelope and plastic folder. “The documents you have are all good. On top of that you look great, like a Chinese American woman ready for fun in California and gambling in Las Vegas. That’s the best way to look for any American visa officer.”
They leave the hotel lobby and walk along a wet sidewalk to the consulate. Other Chinese are already lined up waiting in the cold. As Luc and Zhang Ke Xi approach the locals look at her and then at Luc. They walk past the queue causing a stir as the locals mutter among themselves – “I wished I had an American friend.” – “She’ll get a visa no problem!” At the end of the line Zhang Ke Xi turns to Luc and produces a genuine smile. He knows she’s ready. He leaves her.
Two or three or maybe four hours will pass before Zhang Ke Xi comes out.
Luc walks down the street to his parked bike – passes a husband and wife team selling dough sticks made and fried at a portable stand. The woman rolls out dough and cuts it – she smiles at customers. The man smokes a cigarette as he fries the sticks. Folks circle them, get served, more follow. The oil in their portable cooker is dark, well used – Luc can smell it as he passes. A couple pressed coal bricks wait beside the cooker. Folks stamp their feet – there’s no small talk. A customer smokes and spits and spits and smokes. Another’s grumbling on his cell – he has angry look.
Luc gets on his bike and rides to his apartment block in another district. He goes into the covered bike stand and parks it. Walks out and passes a grizzled old worker who steps back from a public announcement board – he’s just put up a poster. He snorts his nose and spits a rich one while taking out a pack of cigarettes. He sparks a cig and admires his work:
Hold high the great banner of socialism with Chinese characteristics!
Underneath are stock communist images – a sea of red flags, brawny gleeful workers, smart looking scientists and robust children with happy parents under clear skies and a radiant sun. The poster’s crooked. A squat woman limps by with a broom in hand – she stops, points this out. The old worker shrugs his shoulders and takes his little bucket of glue and walks away puffing his cig.
Luc picks up his gym bag he left at his apartment block’s gatehouse and walks to a nearby plaza. Arrives in the ground floor lobby and presses the lift’s up button – the gym’s on the third floor. Waiting – a tall security guard smiles at him – young kid in a dark blue uniform topped with a red beret. His pant legs are tucked into the tops of his black boots and he carries a handheld radio – behind him a splash of vomit paints a corner.
Luc takes the lift up – goes through the gym’s doors. A service person punches her card in the clock – her breakfast of take away noodles sits on the reception counter. Bleary eyed, she looks at Luc as he takes a sports drink out of the fridge. She’s yet to put her uniform on.
He walks through the gym to the locker rooms at the back. Passing treadmills – there’re a few joggers already – T.V.s blaring – wouldn’t want to be hung over this morning. The T.V.s are a mix of different channels but the message is the same. Featured this morning are smiling PLA soldiers serving the people shoveling snow off roads and highways and motorists happily waiting for them to finish. One’s interviewed and says, “I just called my leader and told him I’ll be late.” Big smile on his face. Everybody’s cheerful, sitting in their cars and watching soldiers shovel snow. Harmony reigns on the T.V.
Luc changes in the locker room then heads to a treadmill – passes a couple local guys – he’s known most of them for a half dozen years. One of the joggers staring at his T.V. horks up an oyster and spits it onto the palm plant next to him. Running – Luc surfs channels until he finds CCTV 5 and an NBA game – he keeps the volume off – watches Yao Ming play for the Rockets. Two treadmills down the local’s churning up oysters every few minutes. Luc does a few K then gets off – walks to the weight training area – sits on a bench trying not to think about Zhang Ke Xi. Sees his old friend Teacher Wang – he suffers from varicose veins. They greet each other.
“Where’s Old Huang?” asks Luc.
“He’s not here yet. Maybe he played with the whores last night. He’s probably yellowed himself tired (tired from sex).” Teacher Wang shakes his head again and chuckles. “He told me he found a cheap brothel. He wanted me to go with him but I wouldn’t.” Teacher Wang shakes his head again – formerly a PLA Airforce man, he was moved into civil aviation in the nineties. He’s retired now.
Luc smiles – preoccupied, he knows there’re no guarantees. He’s done his best for Zhang Ke Xi. And it doesn’t matter what he does, the waiting is always the same – taxing. Today she could get her visa and he could gross twelve thousand USD, deduct an introduction fee and a cost, and net nine and a half – or simply keep his five hundred USD service fee.
From a corner door another older man emerges in a whirl of smoke. He smiles at Luc and Teacher Wang with soft puppy dog eyes. “Old Huang’s not coming in today, his wife’s sick.” He says – his mid-workout cigarette break over.
“Oh, what’s she sick with?” Teacher Wang asks.
“Pneumonia.”
Luc does some lifting and talks with Teacher Wang and Smoker.
Finished, he goes into the locker room – can hear the hair dryer’s on. Passes another morning regular – the Chinese Cop. He’s sitting naked with his butt on the end of a bench and belly hanging in front of a mirror. The hair dryer chained to the wall lays on the vanity blowing un-used. He carefully brushes his hair – always dyed black right to the roots. He stops – looks at Luc, rakes his throat, turns his head and spits – resumes grooming.
Smoker shuffles by Luc heading to the showers in socks, briefs and flip-flops. He carries a small Tupperware container – same routine every day. He turns on a shower – takes the wooden sauna bucket, fills it up and dumps in some powdered detergent – takes off his briefs, tosses them in – lights a cig and places the pack on a nearby window sill – nicks a short stool from a corner – sits, smokes and hand washes – briefs first, socks second – probably just like his mom taught him.
Luc showers and Smoker scrubs – his brown butt squashed on a light green stool – it has a Mickey Mouse print all over it. Luc gets wet, soaps down, rinses off and steps out of the stall. Smoker rinses out his briefs and wrings them dry – then starts on his socks. Turns and smiles at Luc – puffs his cig – ash falls.
Luc walks to the lockers – dries off. The Cop puts the hair brush down and picks up the blow dryer. Starts going over his body – does it every time. He moves it over his genitalia – gives it a jiggle – then he lifts a leg, foot on the bench – moves the blow dryer down below his crotch. Yanks the chain as far as he can get it and dries his crack. Done, he puts it down – glimpses in the mirror to admire his work. Then from deep within his gullet he horks up an oyster and spits it with gusto into the little garbage can on the vanity. Walks away to dress – leaves the blow dryer on.
Luc checks his watch – ninety minutes have passed. Zhang Ke Xi could call any time now or after another full hour. He dresses – no rush. Exits the locker room and passes men grunting and banging weights. Sees the morning’s belly dancing lessons have started in the mirrored room. Women dressed in exotic costumes with jangles follow their teacher. Music plays and they start, then stop. Look at each other and at themselves. Compare bodies, compare moves – then the music re-starts and the routine’s repeated.
Luc pays for his sports drink and heads out the door. His cell rings as he takes the stairs down.
“Hello Jason.” Luc’s old friend from his single year in Seoul – Jason arrived in China last summer. He’s booked some time in Asia – two years in South Korea, one in Japan, two in Thailand, then decided to give China a try. He teaches English at a college and lives in a decent apartment on a beautiful campus. When Luc knew him in Seoul he was good natured and fun, he had a dry wit. But China’s changed him – now he’s bitter, sometimes depressing. On his third day here Jason asked, ‘Why are the Chinese always scowling?’
“Any news?”
“No. She could call any moment though she might not call until noon. When I know something I’ll let you know, ok?”
“Ok. How’d she look this morning?”
“She didn’t sleep very well last night nor did she eat much this morning. In fact she looked nervous but she was dressed like she was ready to visit friends in the U.S. I suppose she’ll look like a lot of other applicants this morning. I’m hoping she speaks with confidence and her paperwork stands out from the rest. Now I want to hang up and I’ll call you later.”
“Ok.”
Jason’s interest in this is five hundred USD – he’s the American in Zhang Ke Xi’s photos. Jason and a friend of Zhang Ke Xi’s posed as the American-Chinese couple visiting their old friends in China while Luc took pictures. They met at a park, a shopping mall, a tea house, a restaurant, any place – on some days they would take a change of clothing with them and switch venues. Zhang Ke Xi would stand beside them while Luc snapped away – a few times her husband and daughter posed as well. Jason’s done this with Luc since he arrived in China. He spends time with locals in a way most foreigners never have a chance to. If Zhang Ke Xi’s rejected Jason gets nothing.
Luc goes down the stairs – hears an argument before he sees it – into the lobby. The young security guard barks at a man delivering four five gallon containers of water. “The elevators aren’t for you to deliver water on! Use the stairs!” The water delivery man is short, stocky and older. He points to the elevators with a thick finger and speaks local dialect – easy enough to understand if you’ve been around. The young guard feigns incomprehension and tells Water Man to repeat himself – his own Mandarin less than standard. He talks like he’s superior and points with his radio while ordering – its black antennae wiggles. Water Man repeats himself but the guard interrupts and again orders him to take the stairs – he ends with a comment about Water Man stinking. It goes through Luc’s head the young guard’s just a generation away from the rice paddies himself.
Luc returns home. June’s drinking coffee and on the ’net buying something off of Tao Bao – she doesn’t bother asking anything. He puts together a load of laundry and tosses it into the machine. Makes a sandwich and has a vitamin.
“I’m going back to the consulate area.”
“Ok.”
Downstairs – he unlocks his bike and pulls it out from the rest in the stand. Pleasant ride – traffic thinner since the chaos of the morning – brisk weather – still feel the warmth in his body from the workout. Parks his bike at a stand near the consulate – walks along until he’s across the street from it – plenty of others there – family and friends waiting outside to see if their loved ones inside got a visa to go.
“What’s it been like this morning?” Luc asks a local middle aged man bundled against the cold.
“Hard to say. There’ve been some small business groups which were rejected but one big one got through. There was an older couple who were rejected. They have a daughter in the States and they’re very surprised they didn’t get visas. They’re over there.” He points down the sidewalk to a small crowd circled around a short, grey haired old couple.
Luc goes over – listens in. The old lady laments; “…our daughter has an American green card and invited us. We were rejected. She’s worked there ever since she graduated from university in California. We were rejected. All we wanted to do was visit. She’s had her green card for some time now. We were rejected.”
Luc asks, “When did your daughter go to America?”
The old man answers, “She went six years ago to study at Berkeley.”
“What’d she study?”
“Engineering.”
“Was she a post graduate student?”
“Yes, and she got her Masters Degree at the American university.” Said just a little louder so all in the crowd can hear – the old lady nods her head and looks around to see if others appreciate this.
“She works as an engineer now?”
“Yes, she works for…” and the old man mentions the name of a company Luc doesn’t recognize. He can see Luc doesn’t know the name and he pulls out his daughter’s business card.
“Did she also give you a letter from her employer on her company’s letterhead?”
“Yes.” The old man starts to dig for it in his Fed Ex envelope – Luc says not to bother.
“Do you know when she got her green card?”
“A couple years ago.”
“Did the visa officer ask you any questions about her green card, like when she got it?”
“Yes.” Says the old man.
The old lady adds. “He spent a lot of time on his computer. He wasn’t interested in what we had to say.” Luc can see when they get back to their neighborhood she’s going to retell this tale again and again – go through the gates of their apartment block and complain to the neighbors – go home and chalk several hours on the phone and complain to friends and relatives. Luc looks at the old man – his face is grey and he has basset hound eyes – looks like there’s an ocean of pain behind them – no doubt he’s been with her since before the Cultural Revolution.
A bystander asks the old lady if it was difficult for them to send her daughter to Berkeley. She announces their daughter had a scholarship and gives the crowd another look around to see who’s impressed.
Luc asks the old man, “When she applied for her student visa, was it at this consulate?”
“Yes.”
“Did she return to China after she finished her degree?”
“No, she got a job immediately and stayed.”
“So your daughter entered the U.S. on a student visa, and then changed her visa status and got her green card while in the U.S.?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes that’s a problem for visa officers. She didn’t really break the law, she just found a loop hole between two American government bureaus. A lot of Chinese students do this.”
Locals in the crowd mutter and nod heads about government bureaus. The old man asks what to do. “The consulate suggests to wait a few months or half a year but you don’t need to. Ask your daughter to send you copies of the documents regarding her change of status in the U.S., that might help. But all you really need is a nice visa officer who thinks you deserve to travel to the States to visit your daughter, just a little good luck.”
A little good luck – that’s all you really need. Christ… Did the visa officer have an argument with his spouse this morning – is he tired of the endless lines of Chinese people trying for visas – is he hung over and bitchy – thinking about lunch while sifting through genuine and bogus applications.
Luc leaves the old couple. He passes another half hour stamping his feet and listening to others. Then he sees Zhang Ke Xi leaving the security shack of the consulate compound – hard to read face. About to jay-walk across the street, Luc looks at what she’s holding. She moves her body to the left and checks for traffic – still has her passport – rejected. She crosses and steps onto the pavement – Luc walks up to her as she’s about to make a call.
She sees him. “I was rejected.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“You still have your passport with you. What happened?”
“There was a woman who was having her interview with a visa officer. He rejected her. She caused a big fuss and argued with him. Then she demanded that he look at all her documents. She was rude and speaking loudly. He was polite and said her interview was finished. She was still causing problems. He told her to go away. She wouldn’t and then she said some really rude things to him, very vulgar very shocking. He called a guard to have her taken away. And then I was called to the same window. Of course he rejected me. He hardly looked at anything. He just did a few things with his computer and that was it.”
They walk along the sidewalk. “Did he look at your invitation?” Zhang Ke Xi isn’t crying – yet.
“No. He had my application form in front of him and was at his computer for less than a minute, then it was over. He gave me this.” Luc’s seen it before, a letter known as 214-b – it’s the American State Department’s politely worded rejection. “He didn’t ask me a single question.” Her voice breaks.
“Don’t worry. We’ll make another appointment right away and try again. I’ll have some documents added to what you already have. We’ll do it in less than a month, ok?”
She looks at him – seems surprised, “Really?” Her eyes are welling up.
“Yeah. I’ll make another appointment this afternoon. Do you need a taxi cab?”
Zhang Ke Xi says yes. Luc hails a passing hack and she gets into it. She looks at Luc through the window – a couple tears roll down her face – the taxi leaves.
Luc turns around – grey snow falling – is it ever white here? Walks to his bike – brushes the seat clean – street noise is muted by this unhappy result. Knows he should call Q.Y. – the person who introduced Zhang Ke Xi to him. She’s had several successes and a few failures doing this with Luc. He already knows the only thing Q.Y. will do is blame the rejection on Zhang Ke Xi – she’ll find an excuse, impossible to either prove or refute, and pin the blame and drop her without question. He takes out his cell and calls.
“Q.Y.”
“Luc.”
“Zhang Ke Xi was rejected. She said the visa officer didn’t look at any of her documents. He just looked at her application form, checked a few things on his computer, didn’t ask any questions and it was over.”
She’s quiet for a second then says, “What do you think?”
“We’ll set another appointment for her. I’ll add a letter to her application. I’m surprised she was rejected but it sounds like the visa officer hardly gave her a chance. Do you want to say something?”
“No.”
“Ok. I’ll meet with her later this week. I’ll call you if I need help.”
Luc rides back home. Stopped at an intersection he watches a woman bent over rummaging through a trash can. She digs – garbage falls out. Locals waiting to cross step away from her. She stands up – dressed well enough not to be homeless. She stops and looks at Luc the way a cat watches a dog. Then bends over again and peers into the trash. She turns her face aside and shoves her arm in deeper. Digs out a liquor bottle – the heavy glass clinks as she drops it into her burlap bag with others. Locals look at her then look away – she continues rooting through the garbage. Luc thinks of what an old friend said when he first arrived in China fifteen years ago. ‘With there being so many Chinese, if you don’t cherish yourself you might as well die.’
