Everything has a price. It needn’t be printed on a label or concealed in a bar code. The price is there – and if you want it, you must pay.
Time was, we realized that. We called it “reality.” Hey, that’s the root of “realize,” isn’t it? To confront an immutable fact and acknowledge that it’s independent of our desires and opinions? My word, what insights spring from a little thought, even at this hour!
Smith wants a raise. What’s the price? How should he proffer it? Why, by being more valuable to his employer than he is today. Then he must demonstrate that fact to his supervisor and ask, nicely, for the appropriate compensation.
Jones wants a promotion. What’s the price? That’s harder, since that promotion would entail exercising authority that Jones doesn’t yet have. But Jones can distinguish himself by the excellence of his organization and the management of his responsibilities. Management above his head is likely to notice – and if it doesn’t, he can always pursue the position he wants at another firm.
Davis wants love: the love of a good, attractive, affectionate, loyal woman. What’s the price? This one comes in stages. First, he must become the sort of man a good woman would love. Then he must “put himself out there,” accepting the inconvenience and enduring the indifference of many in the hope that one will notice. When one does notice, he must accept that she’s not the fantasy creature that lurks in his dreams.
Marie wants her husband to pay more attention to her: to stay home at night, to oblige her desire for his company, and to show her affection. What’s the price? Well, she could stop wearing stained and baggy sweat clothes all the time. She could take more care with her hair and skin. She could resist the urge to nag him. She could show him the woman he courted – the woman whose appeal he found impossible to resist.
Those prices aren’t dollar-denominated. They’re simply what the above-named must do to get what they want. Yet they’re as real as any amount of any currency proffered for an item on a store shelf.
Common knowledge? Folk wisdom? Perhaps. But a lot of people seem not to know it. Whatever you want, it will come at a price. Wanting isn’t enough. Demanding isn’t enough. You must discern the price – possibly negotiate it – and you must contrive to pay it.
And of course, there’s always the possibility that the price will be beyond your means.
It’s usual when I’m off on such a tirade that some Gentle Reader will ask why this subject at this time. It’s simple: I’ve been listening to unhappy people. They don’t have what they want and have been whining about it. I resist the urge to lecture them; I’ve learned from long and painful experience that it seldom does any good. Instead I come here and write it down.
Time was, I wrote a few pieces about “sturdy wisdoms:” bits of knowledge that have proved themselves over the centuries. The most reliable of all such wisdoms is this one:
Know its price.
Make ready to pay or forgo it.
Herewith, an old story of mine.
It was Alex's habit to arrive early for class, especially a class where he expected to be conspicuous. Analysis II might be one such, attended mostly by Chinese who had been sent to the university because of its reputation in mathematics. He might well be the only Caucasian enrolled in it. It had been that way in Analysis I, the semester before.
There were only two others in the classroom when he arrived. He took a seat against the windows, near the front, and busied himself arranging his notebook and writing tools. The classroom filled steadily with students and the low gabble characteristic of an as-yet-unconvened lecture class. He paid no attention.
The last student to arrive was a young Chinese woman, the only female in the class. She was beautiful in the subtle, delicate way of her people, with flawless features, porcelain skin, a gently curved figure, and straight, shiny black hair that fell just past her shoulders. Alex looked up just as she walked in. Her eyes met his briefly; then she turned away and took one of the few seats remaining, on the far side of the room.
As he'd expected, the class was entirely Chinese except for himself. He had nothing against the Chinese, but it grieved him that his countrymen showed so little interest in the queen of the sciences. As he surveyed the room, he noticed that the young woman was looking at him. Their eyes met again for an instant. He felt a pang pass through him that was unrelated to the study of mathematics. Most of the other students were appraising the young woman as well.
The instructor swept in and tossed a large briefcase on the table at the front of the classroom. Alex collected himself and made ready to concentrate.
Alex arrived early for the next meeting of the class as well, and settled again into a seat against the windows. He was startled when the girl walked in thirty seconds later.
At the previous session, her clothes and grooming had been college-student normal: denim and loafers, and no makeup at all. Today she was garbed in a black silk blouse with a cowl collar, a black leather skirt that came to just above the knee, sheer stockings, and black leather high heels. More than that, she had made herself up. Her face, which had been beautiful even without cosmetics, had become a glowing song of subtle reds and yellows. It was a look a woman might take hours to perfect, and it was unheard of among the Chinese.
Alex watched the young woman in fascination as she scanned the almost empty classroom, found him, and walked directly toward him. She took the seat at his elbow. She seated herself in silence and extracted a notebook and pen from her large purse. Alex noticed that she was also wearing fragrance, a light but musky scent that would be impossible to ignore. When the instructor arrived ten minutes later, it was all Alex could do to tear his eyes and thoughts away from her.
An hour later, as the class dispersed, he tried to shovel his materials into his backpack and exit without looking at her again. She did not permit it.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes?" He hoped his internal turmoil was not evident from his face or voice.
"What was the reading assignment again, please?" Though her English was perfect, the lilt on her words made it plain that she had not been born in America.
He waved toward the blackboard, where the assignment was still on display, and started away, hoping to lose himself in the rush of bodies seeking nothing but the next class of the day.
She laid a hand on his arm. The gentle touch rocked him more than any blow could have done.
"Have I made you uncomfortable? Please tell me how." Midnight black eyes opened wide looked straight into his own, threatening to drown him.
He felt himself becoming light-headed, losing control not only of events but of his rationality. His breath seemed caught in his chest. He was able to produce only the falsest of smiles, no poise in it at all.
"No, it's all right, really, excuse me please, I have to go." He turned and tried to hurry away, but the strap of his pack caught on the arm of the chair. The chair went over with a crash, and the contents of the pack distributed themselves over the classroom floor. Heedless of everything but the need to escape, he scooped up his belongings, jammed them into his pack, and darted for the door, not daring to try for a more dignified exit. The other students tittered at his back.
She continued to arrive just after he did and to seat herself next to him. He could have sworn she was following him. When he chose a seat at the back of the room, so did she. She also continued to dress as if she were on her way to a high-society dinner party. A number of the Chinese men tried to attract her interest. She disregarded them completely.
She made no attempt to conceal her interest in him. He could not help sneaking glances her way. Almost always, she would be doing the same.
Alex began to dread the class. Mathematics, his major, was becoming his least favorite subject, for he could no longer think of it without thinking of her. She began to intrude upon his thoughts at all hours and occasions. He, who had prided himself upon his ability to focus, was having trouble clearing his thoughts of a young woman whose name he did not know.
After a month he could bear it no longer. Instead of hurrying from the class at its conclusion, as had become his habit, he steeled himself and turned toward her, and found her already looking at him. She showed no sign of surprise.
"Why?"
He hated himself for the tremor in his voice. He had never had any luck with girls in the past, but at least he could be proud that he had never lost his head over one. Now it was all going wrong.
"Will you come and talk with me?"
There was no special intensity in the words. She seemed to have been waiting for this. He clenched his teeth and nodded once.
She rose and reached out toward him. He took her hand and allowed her to lead him from the room, acutely conscious of the many pairs of eyes that followed.
The coffeehouse was almost empty that afternoon. Alex and the girl had seated themselves in a corner recess. Even had the shop been filled with patrons, they would have been hidden from most and turned away from the rest. A single waitress sat at the counter, reading a romance novel. Soft folk music issued from an unseen source.
"Will you tell me why? Please?"
She looked down at the table and the untouched cinnamon roll he had bought her. "It's not easy to explain."
He waited in silence. She looked up and said, "Have you ever been to China?"
"No, of course not."
She smiled sadly. " 'Of course not' ? But you are an American and can go anywhere, while I am only here because the People's Republic of China thinks I am likely to repay its investment."
He said nothing, fingers playing idly with his sticky bun.
"Most Americans know very little of my country. Women are not respected there as they are here."
He grinned at that. "You might hear a different opinion from some of the feminists."
She sneered, and his grin slipped away. "Then they are fools. They do not appreciate America. One week in the People's Republic would teach them to love it."
She looked down. "More than anything else in the world, I want to be an American girl. I want to feel the freedom they feel, and have the same sense of possibilities." She hesitated, then looked directly into his eyes. "At least, I want an American boyfriend."
Alex sat motionless, hands folded before him on the table, as he groped for some purchase on this incredible conversation.
"You want . . . me."
She nodded, face serious. "Yes."
You'd like to remain in America, wouldn't you?
"You haven't told me your name, you know."
"Chen Hsiao-ling."
"Hsiao-ling, my name is Alex Betancourt." He wiped his hand clean of frosting on his jeans, then extended it across the table for her to shake. She did not shake it. She clutched at it with both of her own and pulled it to her cheek. Her expression was absurdly, dreamily blissful. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled their joined hands down to the surface of the table and waited for her to calm down.
"Hsiao-ling, have you ever dated? Anybody?"
She shook her head.
His grin returned. "Neither have I, really. Why did you choose me?"
The question seemed to puzzle her.
"Why should I not choose you? You are bright, handsome, and a good mathematician. Are you damaged in some way that does not show?"
He had no answer to that.
At first Alex assumed that it would not last more than a week or two. He might be only nineteen, but he was a realist. He knew nothing of her, and it seemed obvious that her fancy for him was based on her fantasy of life in America, not on any attributes he possessed. Nevertheless, he took it, and her, seriously; it was his nature.
He saw her as often as possible, and took her everywhere he could think of. The coffeehouse during the week. Museums, restaurants and movies on the weekends. When the weather warmed, they began to sojourn into New York City, sometimes to shop, sometimes simply to stroll, enjoying the pulse of so much human activity. The income provided by his part-time job was not large, but his tuition was covered by a scholarship, and he had practiced thrift all his life. He could afford to entertain her in these and other ways, and so he did.
They talked of many things. She told him of her upbringing in China, of the bleak years of her childhood on a tea farm where there was always too much work and seldom enough to eat, of her slow discovery of her intellect and her love for mathematics. Then came the glimmer of hope: the competition to be selected to go to college in America and drink of the intellectual riches of the West, to bring them back to the parched and destitute East. It was not easy to gain permission to leave the People's Republic. One had to promise many things. But no promise would be considered sufficient if there were not at least one living relative from the immediate family to remain behind as surety for one's eventual return. Family feeling being as strong as it was among the Chinese, it was an inducement to return that few could resist.
Hsiao-ling's surety was her mother. A widow at fifty-two, she now worked the tea farm with occasional assistance from two distant cousins and continuous obstruction from two government-provided "helpers."
He told her of his own childhood, which seemed banal and carefree when compared to hers. Only the loss of his father when he was fifteen could match the least of her stories in poignancy. Yet she listened with complete attention. She probed for details, always relating them to her own experiences. She marveled that there were no ideological monitors in the grade schools. She reeled in shock upon being told that the State permitted schools other than its own to exist. And she could not quite believe that upon graduation, Alex was not to be assigned willy-nilly to a post of the State's choosing.
He came to know and admire her with a speed as uncanny as the manner of their connection. Soon he had ceased to think about that at all. Their time together passed swiftly.
The assaults began shortly thereafter.
At first he paid no mind to the jostlings and impacts, assuming they were only the usual consequence of the press of bodies one had to endure just before and after a large class. But the frequency and severity of the incidents increased, and became difficult to ignore.
He was tripped many times. He suffered several sharp blows to his back and to the back of his head. Two of them were powerful and unexpected enough to send him sprawling to the floor. When he looked about for an explanation, none was evident. No one stood there to confront him. He would find himself standing apart, the faces of his classmates turned away from him, as if he were the least noteworthy thing in the room.
Once it happened in the open, as he was going from one building to another. The impact was to his lower back, near his kidneys, and was sharp enough to pitch him face-first into a patch of mud. He turned without rising, and saw a tall male figure receding from him at good speed. The young man's shoulders were hunched forward, denying Alex the sight of his face. His skin was Oriental in tone, and his short, glossy black hair was hardly disturbed by the early spring breeze.
He thought about telling Hsiao-ling, and decided against it.
She was always radiant when he was with her. He could not imagine a more beautiful, more vital, or happier woman. She continued to dress and make herself up for every meeting with him as if they were headed to a White House ball. Once he asked her why.
"It's for you."
"It's not necessary, you know."
She smiled. "Yes, Alex, I know. But do you like it?"
He stared at her. "What's the superlative of 'Christ, yes' ?"
Despite a powerful reluctance to draw attention to himself, he resolved to try to match her. Over a period of weeks, the contents of his closet changed completely. A barber cut and tamed his rough blond hair. A manicurist brought refinement to his hands. He added cologne to his morning grooming ritual. She said nothing, but there was no concealing the delight she took in his efforts to make himself over for her.
On the night of his twentieth birthday, after they had been seeing one another for about three months, they were walking back from their restaurant to his car, when she bade him to stop and look at an image on a television in a store window. It was of the two of them, captured by a video camera trained on the sidewalk.
The tall young man in the picture was the image of youthful male elegance. He wore his navy blue blazer, his sharply creased gray trousers and his highly polished black Oxfords as if he'd been born to them. His grooming was immaculate, and his bearing was rich with self-assurance and pride. Alex could hardly believe that it was he.
The young woman who held his hand and rested her cheek against his shoulder was the essence of youthful female beauty. Her gaze was not upon the image in the monitor, but upon him. It spoke of a devotion that bordered on adoration.
He turned to face her, and she slid into his arms, face uptilted. When their lips met, the current that surged through him made him press the length of her body against his own. Her arms tightened around him in response. Neither of them noticed that dozens of passers-by had stopped to watch that kiss.
She came back with him to his room that night, and they made love for the first time. He had never before done more than hold her hand. He could not bring himself to tell her that he was a virgin. He could hardly bring himself to think about what it would be like or what he would have to do. She guided him silently, her manner more comforting than any words.
Afterward they held one another, weeping softly from pleasure and relief. Presently he said three words, in a voice that quivered only a little. Without inflection, she said them back to him, and the world was made new.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mom."
"Alex! How are you, dear?"
"Terrific." He paused. "Mom, I'm in love."
There was a moment's silence on the line.
"That's wonderful, dear. Where did you meet her?"
"In class. She's a math major too."
"How long have you been seeing one another?"
"About four months now."
"Well? Aren't you going to tell me about her? What's her name?"
"Hsiao-ling." He did his best to pronounce it as she would have.
"Charlene? A very pretty name. What does her family do?"
"Uh, they're in . . . agriculture."
Another pause. "Farmers, Alex?"
"Well, yes."
"I suppose it's respectable enough. But you said she's headed into mathematics, too?"
"Yes, she's really smart."
Mrs. Andrew Betancourt of Washington, D.C., nee Angela Tessier of Niagara Falls, New York, chuckled dryly. "I don't suppose you'll be willing to consider medical school now, if there'll be another mathematician in the family?"
"Mom—!"
She chuckled again. "I've missed you, Alex. I've even missed that tone of exasperation of yours. I only ask because your father wanted it so much. But even he wouldn't have tried too hard to talk you out of mathematics. He knew how much you loved it, and I do too."
He sighed. "I know, Mom. It's okay."
"But let's get to the important matters now. Is your Charlene a Catholic? And will I get to meet her soon?"
As the end of the semester approached, Alex found himself unwilling to face the prospect of a separation from Hsiao-ling. Yet it seemed inevitable. He would return to Washington, and she would return to the People's Republic of China. It took him a long time to work up the courage to ask her if she could contrive a way to stay.
"I will be back in September, Alex, just as you will."
They were seated on his bed, having passed the afternoon in study. Textbooks and notes were spread all around them.
"Are you sure?"
She shrugged. "Not perfectly sure. Sometimes the government changes its mind. But it has no reason to do that to me. My grades are good, and I have shown no sign of disloyalty."
"Oh, you haven't? What about your relationship with me?"
She said nothing.
"Well, how would they know about anything you've done here?"
She pursed her lips. "One or two of the students from the People's Republic are monitors. I don't know which ones, of course. Their duties include keeping watch on the rest of us. They would report any indication that I was about to request political asylum, or had filed for permanent residence, or..."
"Or had gotten involved with an American?"
She sat unmoving for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps, if they knew."
He took her hands between his own. "Hsiao-ling, when we first met, I assumed that what you liked best about me was that I'm an American citizen. That may have been callous of me, but a lot of girls from other countries do marry American men just for the right to stay here. That never occurred to you . . . did it?"
Her eyes had gone very wide. Mutely, she shook her head. After a moment she tried to pull her hands from his. He did not permit it. She looked down into her lap, face red with shame she did not deserve.
He began to speak, and found that his tongue had cleaved to the bottom of his mouth. His throat had gone completely dry, and his pulse had begun to pound in his ears.
"Hsiao-ling, will you marry me?" It came out as a croak.
She looked up at him, astonished. "What did you say?"
Without releasing her hands, he rose from the bed, moved to face her, and sank awkwardly to his knees. Her eyes were riveted to his.
"Chen Hsiao-ling, will you marry me and be my wife? Come live with me and be my love for all the days and nights of our lives? Share my successes and failures? Bear my children? Grow old with me? For ever and ever, till death do us part?"
He had never seen a human being so taken by surprise. Her eyes had opened so wide that her epicanthic folds had disappeared. Her mouth was open, but no sound issued forth. She was shaking from head to toe.
"Hsiao-ling, will you marry me? I won't ask again."
Her voice was the faintest of whispers.
"Yes."
He rose and pulled her into his arms. She continued to shake. He waited, holding her close. Presently she spoke again, her voice still whisper-faint but piercing from grief.
"My mother."
The next day was the final examination for Analysis II. Alex and Hsiao-ling arrived together and were heading for their usual seats when he received a savage blow in the small of the back.
Rage too long repressed flared within him. He whirled and flailed a tightly balled fist. By luck he caught his assailant across the face. The young Chinese staggered back and righted himself, but the target who had been so passive until now charged and took him by the throat.
Alex gave the thug no time to react. He shoved the young man's head into the wall of the classroom with all his strength. The crack of the impact rang through the room. The Chinese slid down the wall and lay there, slumped against its base.
"Get up."
The boy didn't move. Perhaps he was too dazed to make sense of the words. While the rest of the class watched, Alex reached down and grabbed his attacker's shirt front, hoisted and heaved him into a vacant seat at the front of the room.
Alex breathed once deeply, pulled himself upright and turned to face the rest of the class.
"Is there anyone else here who'd like to lay his hands on me?"
Silence gripped the room. At that moment the instructor arrived. He stopped in the doorway, examination papers clutched in one hand. Alex ignored him.
"I have been struck from behind too many times this semester for this piece of garbage to be the only one who was doing it. Who else is involved? Are you willing to face me openly, or is your government unable to afford the services of men?"
After a moment, a student near the back of the room rose.
"We are not in the employ of our government. We are only students."
Alex scowled as contempt rose within him.
"That would only make it worse. That would mean that all of this has been because you don't want your countrywoman to be involved with a white man."
The boy sat. Alex went to where Hsiao-ling stood, well away from where the violence had occurred, and led her by the hand to stand before their classmates.
"This lady is my fiancée. In a week she'll be my wife. If any of you have a problem with that for any reason at all, I'll be happy to give you satisfaction." He waved at his assailant, who had slumped forward in his seat. "I believe I've satisfied him."
He waited a moment more before leading Hsiao-ling back to their seats. They sat and waited as the instructor, himself of Chinese birth, moved falteringly among them to distribute the examinations.
She finished the examination before him and hurried from the classroom, leaving him to finish alone. Everyone else in the room turned to look at him. He ignored them.
When he had finished, he went to her room. She admitted him in silence. She had begun to pack her belongings. Apart from her clothes, there wasn't much to pack.
"Have I done something to offend you?"
"No." She would not meet his eyes.
"Are you frightened of something? Maybe of me?"
"No."
He moved forward and took her by the shoulders. "Hsiao-ling, I've grown accustomed to longer sentences. I should tell you that in this country, it's customary for husbands and wives to talk to one another. At least, I expect it."
She looked up at him then. "You still mean to do that."
"Of course I do!"
"But the price is so high!"
He started to expostulate, then stopped and forced calm upon himself.
"Yes, it is. The prices of valuable things usually are. Even today, there's enough racism left in America to make trouble for us. A lot of people who think of themselves as tolerant sorts get all bent out of shape at the sight of an interracial couple. There probably won't be any more violence, but we'll have to deal with snide comments and gestures of contempt for as long as we live. We might have professional difficulties. There are neighborhoods in which we wouldn't be accepted and could never live. You're worth it to me."
He heard his voice rise with his emotions, and forced himself to calm down once again.
"It's worse among your people than mine. Much worse, or so I've been told. Am I worth it to you?"
In response she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. Neither spoke for a long time.
Presently he said, "You haven't heard about your wedding gift."
She pulled back and looked up at him. "What?"
"I've got a little something picked out for you. Hope you like it. I'm afraid it's going to be very hard to wrap."
She sputtered. "I thought wedding presents came from the rest of the family."
"Yes, and that's sort of where this one is coming from, too. Did I ever tell you that my father worked for the State Department his whole life?"
She gaped. He smiled.
"There are still quite a few people in State who knew Dad and liked him a lot. I've been in touch with a few of them. They've told me that an exit visa for your mother won't pose much of a problem, once we're married. And she'll automatically have permanent resident status here, too. So that part of the price you won't have to pay at all."
He had thought her beautiful before, but it was as nothing to the light of joy that transfigured her features then.
"Of course, there is another price we'll have to pay."
She cocked her head, wary once more. "Another price?"
He swallowed hard and forced a smile.
"Hsiao-ling, have I ever told you about my mother?"
Copyright © 1995 Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.
