THENEWYORKER,NOVEMBER18, 2019 67
Can I interest you in some yogurt?
Maybe we should go see a doctor.
No, I am not a doctor, but thanks for
asking. That’s so kind of you. One of my
aunts is a doctor, except she is not here
right now. What is your emergency?
Did he have an emergency? He shook
his head. She handed him a prune that
was wrapped in waxed paper. He didn’t
like it but ate two more. She poured
sunflower seeds into his hand, and he
ate them, too. They spat the shells into
a metal bowl. Afterward, they spent
some time looking for a canvas hat that
would fit him.
My head is too big, he said.
No, Google Translate replied, it’s
just that your head is too big and shaped
like a triangle. But do not fret, we will
find a triangle hat for you and, once
we do, you shall wear it while we eat
more prunes.
They wore their hats for the rest of
the day. Her family complimented the
look and took photos. He and his wife
posed with their arms each forming a
half heart and linked at the hands. In
this country, young couples like to dress
the same, one aunt said as the cousin
translated. It is silly, and we don’t un-
derstand it. Maybe they’re awkward
people. Or maybe they just want to
merge. Yes, we don’t understand it, but
I suppose merging can be good, or it
can be frightening. Please keep the hat,
it suits you.H
e spent half of their last day in the
bathroom, the other half at the
dinner table. It seemed that his wife’s
Chinese had improved. Her cousin said
that it was now at the level of a first
grader. Her cousin also had a message
for him from his wife. His wife was sit-
ting right across from him.
How would you feel if you went back
first and I stayed a little longer?
What?
Her cousin repeated the message but
now mimicked his wife’s voice.
No, he said, no way.
He looked at his wife, and she tilted
her head. Only when her cousin trans-
lated did his wife go, Ah.What would you do here? he asked.
His wife showed him her phone,
which was logged into WeChat. She
scrolled through all the people she had
been chatting with on this app.
Who are these people? he asked, tak-
ing the phone away from her.
One was her cousin, her cousin said.
Aunts, uncles, both grandmothers, her
parents in the States. And friends she’d
made here.
Here? he asked. Which friends?
Her cousin listed them. Felix the
Cat. Helen of Troy. Shirley Temple.
Our guides? You’re talking with our
tour guides?
And someone named Karl.
Oh, my God.
His wife beamed. She could type
Chinese a bit, and the others humored
her. Animated emojis filled in what she
could not yet say. She was considering
becoming a tour guide herself, here in
Hangzhou. She could show Americans
the pagoda and tell them the legend.
Eventually, she hoped to read the orig-
inal, ancient text.
Although, her cousin said, that would
require college-level literacy. But, given
her rate of progress, it would take her
only a few months to achieve.
A few months? he said. No, no way.
His wife’s hand covered his. She
looked sad again.
What about me? he was about to say.
I am lonely, too. Then he thought about
it more. He looked at his wife’s face,
which was open and smooth. His wife
spoke and her cousin translated. I will
come back, but I need some time. I would
like to do this on my own, but also with
this family. Family is a choice, you’ve
said. I am proud of you just as I hope
you are of me. No fears, no tears. If you
can, please add me on WeChat as well.
He nodded. That day, he flew alone.O
n WeChat, she had a blog. He fol-
lowed her posts, pictures of West
Lake and the tourists she led around it,
pictures of food, of pets, a talking par-
rot, a box of chicks, a pickup truck. She
began to use some English again and
he learned some Chinese.
Ku, she wrote.
Ku back. ♦NEWYORKER.COM
Weike Wang on culture clashes and identity.that I had forgotten Terry O’Shea
as well as the bananas and the bread.It was pouring by then,
spilling, as they say in Ireland,
people splashing across the lot to their cars.
And that is when I set out,
walking slowly and precisely,
a soaking-wet man
bearing bags of groceries,
walking as if in a procession honoring the dead.I felt I owed this to Terry,
who was such a strong painter,
for almost forgetting him
and to all the others who had formed
a circle around him on the screen in my head.I was walking more slowly now
in the presence of the compassion
the dead were extending to a comrade,plus I was in no hurry to return
to the kitchen, where I would have to tell you
all about Terry and the bananas and the bread.—Billy Collins