Lovely Flawed Page 7

  The government put constant pressure on reformers. In time, Father grew worried for our safety. He sensed a government crackdown and wanted to protect us. He needed to get us out of Taiwan. We were smuggled into Sweden, where my father could work in exile. In Stockholm, my father found temporary asylum for us, continuing to write and publish in safety. Yu and I were so young we didn’t understand why we were there. He put us in school, but the shock at being ripped from our home was too much. We faltered. In time, he realized we needed more. He wanted us to live in a place where we could thrive. A place with more opportunity. The United States.

  After less than year in Sweden, again we were smuggled out. Father’s friends got us to New York City. We landed in Chinatown, where we shared a cramped two-bedroom apartment with two other families. Twelve of us were packed into an apartment with one bathroom and a built-in kitchen. Father took a job as a tailor on Canal Street to pay the bills, and continued to write and publish. Yu and I were put in public school and resumed playing music. At last, he found a place where we could live and work in safety. We thrived.

  • • •

  I’ve lived in the U.S. for nearly three decades—all of it illegally. I’ve held a dozen jobs since I’ve been here, but my paperwork has never been right. The man who smuggled us here got me my driver’s license and credit cards. My social security number and passport are fake. I’m an illegal alien.

  When the orchestra took me on, I thought they might be able to help me with my immigration problem. The key was telling them at the right time. I didn’t want to spook them. I’d heard that the government sometimes grants asylum or citizenship to political dissidents and their families. You see, I’ve always wanted to be a U.S. citizen. Not just because I wanted to live and work legally—but because I love it here. America gave my father the freedom to express his views. And it gave Yu and me the chance to develop our potential.

  But I joined the orchestra around the time of the terror attacks on 9/11. After that, the government cracked down on illegal immigrants. They poured over the rosters of the semi-legal and those with questionable paperwork. They tightened the reigns on everything related to immigration. I knew then, that I’d have to keep my mouth shut about my residency. I never gave up hope of being granted asylum in America. But I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  I actually feel more American than most Americans I know. I’m a fan of the U.S. military and I know the Bill of Rights. I’m removed from Taiwanese culture because I’ve been here so long. I didn’t grow up with Taiwanese ritual and ceremony like my relatives have. Nowadays, Taiwanese ideas are foreign to me. Taiwan is still me, but it’s not my frame of reference.

  Sometimes I have to remind myself of my Asian roots. I know when to wear red and white, what numbers are lucky, and what feng shui is. But those things don’t make a culture—or a people. How the Taiwanese speak to elders through our language is impossibly beautiful. There are no English words to describe it. And then there’s the most delicate of Taiwanese arts: nuance. Subtlety is the most Taiwanese of principles. But I never learned subtext. In that sense, I’m very American.

  These days, my sister, Yu, lives in Boston. She’s married and I have a nephew. My father lives in a nursing home in Chinatown. I visit him, but seeing him there depresses me. He looks so different now. It’s not that he’s old. He’s infirm. I remember him being so full of vitality.

  My life took a turn because of what my father believed in. He wanted independence for Taiwan and protection for our family. I’m proud of him for standing up for his beliefs. For standing up for Taiwan—and for us. I understand why we live in exile, but I still have hopes. I believe that one day we’ll all live legally in the United States.

  In my mind, Father will always be young and full of energy. I can still see him chasing me around the sand dunes back home, peals of laughter coming from my lips.

  HE BATTLE AXE. THE HEAVY. COMMANDANT NOTRABI. STRAP-ON NOTRABI. THERE ARE no rumors about Mrs. Notrabi. Just bad nicknames—and ruined musical careers.

  Dread is how every musician greets the news that they’ve been summoned to see her at the Dark Castle—the administration building. “So long,” we say, teasing them. “We’ll bury you in your instrument case,” we joke. “Are there any new vacancies in the group?” we say. Black humor is how we cope. We torment those on the way to the Dark Castle because we know we could befall similar fates.

  Some of the guys in the group take it a step further. They’ll steal the music stands and stools from the soon-to-be-departed. They’ll rip the name placards off their equipment lockers and stake claims on their property. Before the body is even cold. You know, gallows humor.

  Salazar De La Gottari, our conductor, gives you the good news. He hires you. He’s the one who gives you plane tickets for the world tour. He hands you the most beautiful piece of paper you’ve ever seen: the international touring schedule. On this sheet, you’ll gaze upon the names of places you’ve dreamed of. Places of romance and intrigue: PARIS, AMSTERDAM, MADRID, MUNICH, ATHENS, VENICE, BRUSSELS, ISTANBUL, TOKYO. And then there are the specials.

  You may find yourself at rehearsal one day and feel someone tap you on the shoulder. You’ll turn and find De La Gottari standing next to you. You’ll stand there puzzled, surprised that the maestro wants to speak with you personally. You’ll start worrying, concerned that you’re going to be dressed down or dismissed. But, instead, De La Gottari will apologize to you. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” he’ll say. “Would you mind terribly coming with us to Los Angeles tomorrow for a special trip? A handful of members will be scoring a new Oscar contender and we could use your help. The studio’s providing a private jet for our use. Could you make it to JFK by, say, 8 A.M.?”

  And during the summer, the De La Gottari love fest continues. He hands you The Invite.

  He’ll ask as you to join him at the annual orchestra summer party as if it’s an imposition. “Would you be so kind as to join us at the summer party?” In your mind, you imagine you’ve been invited to a backyard BBQ in Brooklyn to drink beer and eat undercooked chicken.

  You’ll actually be joining him and his wife at their villa in Camogli, Italy, for a week of bacchanalia. You know, to drink wine, play music, swim in the sea, dance, eat seafood, and do god knows what else. In Italy. Airfare included. On his dime.

  Then there’s Mrs. Notrabi. Our feared orchestra business manager’s reputation precedes her. A trip to her office rattles even the most confident players. With your stomach in knots, you look back over your career, trying to spot your screw up. Did you break a string during a solo? Insult the great De La Gottari? Maybe you offended someone higher up the food chain or made a social gaffe. Did you confuse someone’s girlfriend with their wife?

  Hopefully you didn’t speak of the closeted De La Gottari—his wife is the biggest beard in NYC classical music. The fact that he’s a friend of Dorothy is apparently known to everyone in the music community—except her. There are nearly a dozen reports of De La Gottari’s wine and cheese auditions. Auditions where he’s tried to seduce male musicians. There are even rumblings that he’s actually dropped trou during a few private sessions. But, we musicians are discrete. We don’t speak of this hanky-panky.

  The minutes before your meeting with Mrs. Notrabi tick by with ominous foreshadowing. You trip on the stairs. You drop your instrument case. You’re circling the drain. You imagine being face-to-face with her, holding your own. But, she turns the tables on you, and you land flat on your back. You look up and see her jackboot wedged on your windpipe. She laughs maniacally as you take your last curtain call.

  This morning, I enter the Dark Castle in a bright mood. I have no fear because I have nothing to lose. I’m already fired. I have one goal today: get my job back.

  Truthfully, I was surprised that she heard me out when I called her to schedule the appointment. I expected her to simply put me off with no more than a NO, but she listened on the phone. I explained to her that I had extenuating c
ircumstances. Circumstances that would merit a reevaluation of my case. She offered me the opportunity to sit down and talk about it.

  Another reason I’m feeling bright is because my manager called. She told me about a new recording opportunity. An agent from PGMR Records, a pop label in New York City with several big name international stars, contacted her about a project for one of their acts.

  PGMR wants to expand their reach, my manager tells me. In particular, they want to bring classical music to younger listeners. They’ve heard me play and think I might work well with someone big they’re representing. Someone really big. All I can get out of my manager is that the artist is a huge pop diva with an ego to match. She’s triple platinum on the charts and her international tours sell out in minutes. This female star wants to work with a female violinist to expand her reach. That’s where I come in. Everyone thinks I could be a good fit for the diva’s new album and her upcoming world tour.

  I’m thrilled at the opportunity, but daunted by all of the hoops. First, they need to listen to some of my recordings. If that goes well, I’ll meet the big star’s agent and manager. Then, I’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement so I won’t be able to say a peep about what I learn. After that, there will be a blind audition where I’ll play with some of her musicians. And if all of that goes well, I’ll meet HER. I’m excited, but nervous. I have a meeting later in the week to discuss timing. This could be huge.

  I turn right off the building lobby and head down the hall. I notice the polished brass banisters that line the dark wood paneling of the hallway. I see plaques and photos that document the history of the orchestra, including notable conductors and soloists.

  The highly polished floors of the Dark Castle are smooth underfoot, but my flats barely make a peep. That’s intentional. I chose a muted ensemble for today’s meeting. I’m wearing a dark business suit, a plain top, flats, and very little makeup. I’m trying to look like a charity case, not a prima donna. There’s no reason to intimidate Mrs. Notrabi. Maybe she’ll even take pity on me.

  I find her office and am greeted by a friendly receptionist. I state my name and she takes me into the main office. “She’ll be right with you,” the woman says cheerfully. “Please, have a seat.” I sit down in the chair across from Mrs. Notrabi’s desk and note the muted earth tones and soft pastel décor of the tastefully appointed office. On the credenza behind her desk are several photos of Mrs. Notrabi with her grandkids on vacation. In one shot, I see her wearing a set of Mickey Mouse ears. Maybe the rumors about her were wrong.

  “Hello, Li Hua,” says a voice behind me. I stand up, turn around, smile—and look down at Mrs. Notrabi. She’s a lot shorter than I remember. I’ve got a good two inches on her—good thing I wore flats.

  Her long hair is dyed a chestnut brown and has been pulled back tightly into a bun. She has on a conservative navy blazer with sensible black pants and low-heeled pumps. She wears bright red lipstick and her nails are done in a French manicure. Her small, ceramic, yellow earrings look like little Post-It notes glued to her ear lobes. She wears several gold chains around her neck and a huge diamond on her right ring finger. I’d guess her to be sixty or seventy years old.

  I extend my hand and she takes it in both of hers with a double-clasp. She shakes my hand firmly with several pumps like a long lost friend. That’s a little odd. “Please, have a seat, Ms. Hui” she says. She circles around me, then takes a seat behind her desk.

  I look across at her as she sits, eager to state my case. I move forward to the edge of my seat, ready to begin, rubbing my palms on my thighs nervously.

  “I agreed to this meeting, Ms. Hui, because I believe in our process. Every employee has a right to bring their case to me for additional adjudication. We are proud of our policy of fairness and redress.”

  “I understand and appreciate that,” I begin. “I’m very sorry about what happened. I made some bad decisions,” I offer, stating the obvious. “I’m working hard to fix my problems. I’m human. I don’t mean to be out of line, but I was never offered a probationary period. I wasn’t given a chance to correct my–”

  “–I need to stop you. I can’t go into the particulars of your case, but I’ve spoken to Mr. De La Gottari already. We’ve reviewed your case and have spoken to the union. We believe you’re correct.”

  “I’m, uh...I’m correct?”

  “Your behavior must change, Ms. Hui. Mr. De La Gottari and Mr. Chow deserve your full cooperation in this organization. I need to remind you, Ms. Hui, we are a professional organization. We expect our members to carry themselves professionally both on and off the stage.”

  “Of course. Does this mean that–”

  “–We’re granting you a thirty-day probationary period. It is contingent on you acting–” she pauses. “Appropriately. You will be reinstated effective immediately, and gain permanent status after thirty days, provided your probationary period passes without incident. The orchestra is about to leave on tour, Ms. Hui. Are you able to travel and perform?”

  “Absolutely,” I say cheerfully.

  “Good. It’s settled.” She pushes back from her desk and opens her top drawer. She pulls out a sealed envelope, stands up, and hands it to me. “Here’s your security pass, the tour schedule, and your plane ticket. You’re leaving for Tokyo tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t believe. I mean, I’m just so—I’m so happy.” I stand up and do a little jump for joy.

  “Ms. Hui, do I need to remind you that you’re on probation? Your behavior will be monitored very closely.” Mrs. Notrabi extends her hand to me and I notice a faint smile on her lips. “Welcome back to the New York City De La Gottari Orchestra, Ms. Hui.” I shake her hand vigorously and my eyes well up with tears of joy.

  HERE’S A SPECIAL DRAWER THE FLIGHT ATTENDANTS USE TO STORE DEAD BODIES. It’s where they put you if you die on a non-stop flight. You know, when you die in the air!” Mingmei yells to be heard. She projects her voice past her seatmate, Zheng, and across the aisle to me. I lean closer to her from across the aisle straining to make out the syllables over the din of the engines. Mingmei pantomimes death by holding an imaginary noose above her head, dropping her head to her shoulders, closing her eyes, and sticking out her tongue.

  I nod my head politely as she talks, but I’m not present. Our jet is lumbering over the Bering Sea right now. But in my mind, I’m still stuck in the security line at JFK. I sit back in my seat, pull my airplane blanket up over my body, and sigh.

  Getting my spot back in the orchestra was great, but taking care of my passport was a nightmare. The fact that I’m sitting on this flight right now is nothing short of a miracle. After my meeting with Mrs. Notrabi, I realized my passport was out of date. The passport I would need for this flight. My fake passport.

  After leaving the Dark Castle, I rushed to Chinatown to see Father at his nursing home. I told him I needed the name of the man who got us into the U.S. I told him I needed someone who could do something enterprising on short notice. Someone discrete. He gave me the name.

  I spent the next seven hours running around Chinatown, flirting with the underworld. The guy my father knew was long since dead. But I found someone who knew of him. That guy led me to another guy who used to work with him. I went from one sunglassed ne’er do well to another, trying to find a good document procurer—a counterfeiter. I needed a valid U.S. passport that I could use for the tour. And I needed it now.

  I have to hand it to the Chinese gangs; the forgery shop I used was a classy operation. “Shop” is the wrong word—I never saw an operation. What I experienced was obfuscation and misdirection. The triads are professionals. They made me visit six separate storefronts in a ten block radius, just to make sure I wasn’t a fed—or a member of Al-Qaeda. I talked to ten different people before they even considered my request. Then they took my photo and fingerprints and made me write down everything I wanted the passport to say. And they wouldn’t do anything without $10,000 in cash. In advanc
e.

  I went to my bank and took the sum off my credit card. At 27% interest. I told “Johnny,” the boyish triad contact, that I needed the passport to look used, and showed him the international stamps from my old fake. The new passport had to show my trip history, including stops in Cancun, London, Paris, and other destinations.

  The result was a museum-quality piece worthy of a docent-led exhibit. These guys are artisans.

  But nothing prepared me for the terror of waiting in the security line at JFK. It was the scariest thirty minutes of my life. I imagined being plucked from the line, then hooded, transported, incarcerated, sodomized, and waterboarded before being taken to a secret CIA prison. I couldn’t even string together two coherent syllables, let alone make small talk with Mingmei.

  As we approached the TSA guy at the podium, I was sweating like crazy. My underwear and bra were soaked through and every inch of me was covered in perspiration. I stank. Thank god they didn’t have any of those psychological profilers on duty. I’m sure the look on my face told the whole story. As we neared podium guy, I had a sudden thought: Don’t they microchip the passports these days? I hoped the triads were tech savvy.

  The truth is, I was doubtful my travel documents would hold up. I knew the TSA had invested heavily in infrastructure. I’d read the news reports about their battery of laser scanners, fingerprint identifiers, document authentication equipment, and databases.

  When I finally got to the podium, I handed over my documents and held my breath. The agent flipped through my paperwork methodically, fingering my documents in his blue-gloved hands. He held my boarding pass and passport and shined his special flashlight on them, one at a time. I saw him carefully check the details between the two documents. He flipped the pages of my passport carefully then angled it this way and that, finally moving it under his scanner thingamajig. I watched all of this happen as if in slow motion, and then his scanner bleeped. The agent just grunted, circled some things on my paperwork with his pen, then handed everything back to me. I walked right on by.