66 THENEWYORKER,NOVEMBER18, 2019
house—each family member had a
house for his wife and him to see and
sit in, and a television to turn on so
they could watch a variety show. The
shows confused him, not just the lan-
guage but the thought bubbles and com-
mentary that exploded onscreen, over
the actors’ faces.
Do we find any of this bizarre? he
asked, but his wife just yelled ha-ha-ha
alongside her aunts. Because her fam-
ily sat around her, he was pushed to the
other end of the room. A grandmother
would sit next to her and stroke her
arm. His wife didn’t seem to mind. One
afternoon, a white man appeared on
television. The white man spoke Chi-
nese and wore rectangular glasses. Her
cousin told him that this was Dashan,
or Big Mountain, the most famous Chi-
nese-speaking Caucasian in China. He
spoke like a native. The American who
ran the pie shop had decent Chinese,
but not as good, so she called him Small
Mountain. You could become either of
them, her cousin said, or you could be-
come Average Mountain. He said that
this was not his plan.
His mother called and he answered
so as not to watch more TV. What did
you do today? What did you eat? He
told her. And the day before? He told
her. And what about tomorrow? He
told her. Send me pictures of where they
live. He asked why. She said she wanted
to see what a Chinese town looked like.
Do they have big kitchens and big
couches, or no kitchens and floor mats?
Do they buy their own produce or grow
it themselves? Are there bazaars? Do
they love dogs? Send me a picture of a
well-loved dog. Does she come from a
village? his mother asked. She does not,
he said. But have they been nice to you?
Have they treated you well? Are you
eating enough? Is it too hot? How’s the
air? Are you allergic to anything? Have
you seen a hospital? A pharmacy? Are
the police dangerous? Did you meet
Chairman Mao? He’s dead, he said. But
are there pictures of him up? Do they
talk about him a lot? Do they pray?
Have you seen a church? When are you
coming back? When are you coming to
visit? We can’t wait for you to visit. The
next time you do, we’ll all go camping.
Remember when you loved that? Re-
member cowboys and Indians and you
would put mud on your face to— Mom,
he said. Well, she continued, have you
seen a park? Are there cars? Does her
family have a car? Is it new? Send me
a picture of a brand-new car. Are you
getting around O.K.? Do you feel less
free? Less free? he asked. Do you feel
less free over there? He hung up.
When her cousin wasn’t there, they
used Google Translate. They would
speak into the phone mike and it would,
supposedly, tell them each what the
other had said.
I’m going out now, she said.
Where? he asked.
Out for a walk.
Do you want me to come?
Yes, but no, thanks, have a very nice
day but you are not welcomed.
Then his wife put on a canvas bucket
hat—there were many in the house—
and went out for a stroll.
He looked online to see if this be-
havior was common. Of the medical
causes, she could have had heat stroke
or just a regular stroke. Had she con-
cussed herself? Had there been a mo-
ment of trauma? On a husband forum,husbands offered theories about why
their wives had stopped talking to them.
There was another forum, directly
linked, of husbands seeking advice on
how to make their wives talk less.
She came back from the stroll with
more food. Everything was in a bag,
even her cup of coffee was in a bag,
which she held by the handles as she
drank. She sat down next to him with
a huge bag of prunes and a medium
bag of sunflower seeds. Did you have a
nice time? he asked. She didn’t respond.
Did you have a nice time?
She took out her phone and spoke
into it. Can I interest you in a prune?
But did you have a nice time?
Can I interest you in a sunflower
seed?
Why is this happening? he asked.
Sometimes a thing just needs to
happen.
Is this about my mother? Are you
angry with me?
No harm, no foul. No pain, no gain.
I think you might be suffering from
heat stroke.DOWNPOUR
Last night we ended up on the couch
trying to remember
all of the friends who had died so far,and this morning I wrote them down
in alphabetical order
on the flip side of a shopping list
you had left on the kitchen table.So many of them had been swept away
as if by a hand from the sky,
it was good to recall them,
I was thinking
under the cold lights of a supermarket
as I guided a cart with a wobbly wheel
up and down the long strident aisles.I was on the lookout for blueberries,
English muffins, linguini, heavy cream,
light bulbs, apples, Canadian bacon,
and whatever else was on the list,
which I managed to keep grocery side up,until I had passed through the electric doors,
where I stopped to realize,
as I turned the list over,