For whatever reason, though, I felt I owed that Chinaman an explanation . . . Him and his wooden cart, like a miniature temple on wheels, intricately carved with script in bas-relief, and with no other obvious function than to provide a place for him to crawl into and sleep there on the breezeway. So far, it was this old man who had been my inscrutable orient, my conscience, maybe, my svengali, as well as an unblinking sentinel to all those limitless nights. For instance: That morning I finally picked up and left Ching Wren's place, after all the silence had bled into too many doubts and there was nothing left but to give up, to let go, slip out while she slept, to stumble all night through the streets until I found my way back to Changking mansions with dawn spilling into the courtyard . . . There as always, it was the old man, not waiting, just watching, arms at ease, perched on his little stool. That morning, the same as the many times afterward when I'd have given anything for some sane word of reproach! I'd tell him that it was as if I'd been using her, I felt that way about it, only I couldn't figure out exactly how. Then again, where was the whimsy, the sage-like smirk and knowing cadence leading into little word-poems about rustling leaves assuaging guilt? Now more than ever, when I could've used a Chinese sage, here was this guy, still mute, and looking pretty satisfied with himself . . . And how many nights, in the throes of that guilt, had I thrown myself down to sit across from him on the concrete—hoping for what, to go back in time? I'd tell him, if I could, that it wasn't until months later I found out from my Chinese pal that her name was actually Chien Lien, and that I'd burst out laughing because it was like the emblem of how much I'd been wrong about everything. Maybe if I could get him to laugh too, or to cringe, thinking about me and Ching Wren hugging and mooning over each other, maybe then I could wash it out of my system. Or at least this was what I'd think to myself sitting across from him. While he was a rock, perched in boxer shorts, just nodding occasionally, as he always did, smoking his pipe . . .
I was down in the chute, the narrow chasm made where the inside facing walls from the three towers of Changking Mansions almost touched. It was still night, still wet, as I plowed around and climbed through that ocean of stinking plastic sacks. The rain was soaking my A-shirt, running down my face in rivulets. The mound of garbage was almost seven feet, some in bags, some loose, spilling from dumpsters, riding along the walls like ivy. I cut a mean swath, throwing aside bundles and rotting clumps as I made my way toward the center, because it had to be there somewhere on top . . . And because I'd lost count, I wondered how many nights had that old man seen my sketchbook come flying from the window on the eleventh floor, down into the chute, then hours later watched me go tearing up that mountain of garbage like a man on fire? I could feel him watching me, his eyes on my back as I found it mashed in with a sopping wad of newspapers, still half dry. The truth was that sketchbook was full of nothing but failure, and maybe that's what I wanted to hear, that every mistake has meaning. He could have told me anything, in English or otherwise, I'd tack on the divine part, but he just stood down there on the ramp, unblinking as always and with his hands clasped, as if it was the closing seconds of some rousing event. Still no smile, no nothing, still nodding, but because it seemed like he was expecting something big I held up the book . . .
"Old man." I said, "What else is there?"
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