Fallen in Shanghai, Rising in New York

New York, January 2000

The key stuck halfway round. Mike Chen eased it back, tried again, and felt the lock give.

Keeping one hand on his suitcase, he pushed the door with his shoulder. It scraped across the floor. The room was about the size of his bedroom in Shanghai, but there was no wardrobe here, no desk. A metal bedframe stood against one wall. There was a small table and a radiator beneath a low window. The fresh paint smelled sharp over the damp plaster.

He left the suitcase on the threshold while he looked around.

A pair of black shoes passed the window. The glass was level with the sidewalk; he could see the heels, the ankles, the hem of a wool coat. Rainwater trembled in the gutter as a car went by.

“This is it,” the landlord had said upstairs.

Before bringing him down, the man had called something up the stairs in Cantonese. A woman answered from the floor above. Mike understood neither of them. The landlord turned back to him and went over the terms in English: separate entrance, heat included, no cooking after eleven. One month’s rent and a month’s deposit. The subway was not far.

Mike had agreed. He could check the walk to the station later.

The rent was more than he had hoped to pay, though the cheaper places had been worse. In Queens, he had seen a clean room with a kitchen barely wide enough for two people, which three tenants would have to share. Another place smelled of frying oil; a man lay asleep on the mattress while the landlord showed Mike around. One room he could comfortably afford was more than an hour and a half from Manhattan. He had thanked the landlords and kept looking.

For six days he had paid by the night at a small Chinese-run hotel near Chinatown. He carried his towel down the hall to a shared bathroom. A television played above the lobby, where guests sat waiting to make long-distance calls. Through the bedroom walls he heard a baby crying next door and an old man coughing two doors down.

Each morning he bought World Journal near Canal Street and circled the room advertisements. He copied addresses into his notebook, then called from payphones with a handful of coins. He knew the English words—basement, utilities, deposit—but sometimes had to ask people to slow down so he could write the figures. At one address an older man answered the door in Cantonese. Mike tried Mandarin, then English. The man shook his head and closed the door. There were rooms Mike never got to see.

He learned to confirm the rent before setting out, and to ask about a window.

This room had one. It also had a lock that worked, a bathroom behind a second door, and space to get past the bed. He had counted out the rent and deposit twice. The landlord gave him two keys, which now lay on the table beneath the ceiling light.

Mike pulled the suitcase inside and closed the door.

Pipes clicked overhead. A child ran across the floor upstairs. Then a refrigerator motor started somewhere, and for a while that was all he heard. He bent to undo the suitcase.

He had packed and repacked it the night before his flight. His mother put in an extra sweater. His father checked the travel documents, returned them to their envelope, then took them out to change the order. Mike had let him finish.

Under the clothes were two paperbacks and his notebook. He stacked the books beside the radiator and set the notebook on the table. With nowhere to hang his shirts, he laid them flat on the bed. The sweater could stay in the case.

He held his palm against the radiator. It was barely warm.

White-soled sneakers went past the window, too quickly for him to see anything else. He sat on the edge of the bed, his coat still on, then took a blue phone card from his wallet. The Statue of Liberty was printed on the front. He had bought it on Mott Street that morning and asked the clerk to show him how to use it. The instructions were in English, Chinese, and Spanish. He had copied the access number into his notebook.

The landlord had pointed out a payphone at the corner. Mike put the card in his coat pocket and went back up to the street.

The rain had thinned to mist. Chinatown was close, but this street was quieter, with fire escapes down the fronts of the brick buildings. The phone stood beneath a grocery-store awning. Beside it, clear plastic covered a crate of oranges.

His first attempt did not connect. He hung up, checked the instructions and dialed again. This time he heard ringing. He held the receiver closer.

His mother answered.

“Hello?”

“Ma. It’s me.”

“Yu-jian?” A pause, then: “Have you eaten? Is it cold there?”

“I’ve eaten. It’s cold, but I’ve got my coat.”

“Where are you calling from? Did you find a place?”

Through the glass he could see the steps down to his new room.

“Yes. I moved in today.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s fine. Very clean.”

She asked about the heat, then the lock. He told her both worked. Behind her he heard a pot lid clatter and the television in the living room. His father cleared his throat before taking the receiver.

“You found it yourself?” Chen Yuhao asked.

“I looked at a few. I can manage the rent on this one.”

“How far from the subway?”

“Not too far.”

His father was quiet. Mike pictured him at the little folding table, one hand resting beside the phone.

“Find the station before you need to use it,” his father said. “And keep your documents with you.”

“I will.”

“Don’t spend everything at once.”

“I know.”

His mother took the receiver again. “Call when you can. Don’t leave it too long.”

“I won’t.”

He had not told them about the steps, or the feet passing his window. His mother was asking again whether he had enough warm clothes.

“I have the sweater. Take care of yourselves.”

“You too,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

After the line went dead, Mike stood in the booth with the receiver against his ear. Then he hung it up and went back to the basement.

He locked the door and took off his coat. Sitting on the bed, he turned the phone card over and wrote the remaining minutes on the back, beside the printed numbers. He set it on the table with the keys.

Feet kept passing the window.

He lay back without turning off the light. A crack ran from one corner of the ceiling toward the middle. He followed it with his eyes, listening to the traffic above.

He had not always lived below street level.