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would include everything I haven’t: the woman named An Yi I met later that year in the International House cafeteria, and how we struggled for five years in New York while I finished my degree; how Mei-ling was born one night in the Columbia Presbyterian hospital during a driving rainstorm in June. How we came here, to Hong Kong, and how the cancer in An Yi’s breast took her and left me alone with two small children and a heart as hollow as a Buddhist’s wooden drum. I try to hold it all in my mind at once, and it slips away from me, like my shadow; as if I’d raised my hands to cup the light that falls across the floor.

Where is Heaven Lake?

In the ancient tale, it was the home of the Immortals; a place we humans could never reach. But this is what I think: in this world there are no more Immortals. We cross the oceans in a matter of hours; we talk to people thousands of miles away; we even visit the moon. So if Heaven Lake exists, it is wherever we are, right in front of us. Even here, in this strange city, where I so often wake up and wonder if I am still dreaming. And it may be that stories do not have to have endings we understand, any more than human lives do. Perhaps beginnings are enough.

It is four o’clock. My daughters are on their way home; standing together in a crowded subway car, rolling up the sleeves of their uniforms, loosening their Peter Pan collars. Mei-ling is listening to her Walkman, and reading a fashion magazine; Mei-po pages quickly through a Japanese comic book she’s borrowed from a friend, the kind I won’t let her read. If my wife were alive, I would ask her: is this what it means to have children? To be able to see them so clearly, and never know what to say? I am not any kind of storyteller, but my daughters are coming to my door, in these precious last days, and I have to give them something. They come in, and let their heavy bags drop with a thud that shakes the apartment, and turn to see an old man standing with his arms open, and his mouth is open, as if he is about to sing.

Notes

“Revolutions”: The epigraph of this story is taken from an essay attributed to Bodhidharma, “The Twofold Entrance to the Tao,” translated by John C. H. Wu in The Golden Age of Zen. The line from the Great Dharani (shin-myo jang-gu dae-da-ra-ni) is taken from the daily liturgy of the Kwan Um School of Zen.

“Heaven Lake”: The story of the fish turning into a bird is taken from the first sentence of the “Free and Easy Wandering” chapter of the Zhuangzi (Chuang-tzu), interpreted by the author.

In writing “The American Girl,” I was aided greatly by two oral histories of the Cultural Revolution: Anne Aitken’s Enemies of the People and Feng Jicai’s Voices from the Whirl-wind. I would like to express my gratitude for their work.

Acknowledgments

This book would not have been possible without the support of the Yale-China Association and the Chinese University of Hong Kong, who made it possible for me to live and work in Hong Kong from 1997 to 1999. Zen Master Dae Kwan (formerly Ven. Hyang Um Sunim) and the sangha of the Su Bong Zen Monastery provided invaluable support during my time there, as did, in different ways, David Bailey, Caroline Ross, Brian Seibert, Yonnie Kwok, Youru Wang, Mimi Ho, and Bill and Chenghui Watkins. Many thanks, also, to Charles Baxter, Nicholas Delbanco, Peter Ho Davies, and Reginald McKnight, and to Sean Norton, Jennifer Metsker, Aaron Matz, and Melanie Conroy-Goldman. Maybelle Hsueh and Christina Thompson provided vital editorial assistance. I’m deeply grateful to Elyse Cheney, my agent, who has worked tirelessly on my behalf, and Susan Kamil, my editor, who has an uncompromising eye and a fierce dedication to literature. My parents, Constance and Clark Row, have been as generous with their support and love as any parents could possibly be. Last, my greatest thanks go to my wife and best friend, Sonya Posmentier, who believed in these stories before I did.

About the Author

Jess Row taught English at the Chinese University of Hong Kong from 1997 to 1999, the two years