Free White Tiger on Snow Mountain by David Gordon Page B

fool.”
    “Well . . .” I decided to keep silent. She stood up.
    “I have to see him.”
    “No, Nina, wait.” I followed her out. “It’s no use, I told you. He can’t even swallow. He’s dying.”
    “Good,” Nina said, hailing a taxi. “He should have died sixty-nine years ago. With me.”
    I tried reasoning with her in the cab, but she just worked herself up even more, eventually turning on me, if only because I was there: I was, she declared, secretly pleased at this outcome. I had never believed her and had been snidely playing along, mocking her the whole time in my pompous, bookish way. I was completely closed off to spiritual ideas and emotionally shut down as well. I did think she was a prostitute. I had never loved her at all.
    “Who do you think you are anyway?” she demanded.
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. No one.”
    It must have been Durel’s day off because when we got to 7402 and Nina banged on the door, a small, round Latina lady answered.
    “Yes? Can I help you?”
    “Liu Ping!” Nina shouted and ran past her.
    “Sorry,” I said, “she’s family,” which was ludicrous. Nina looked like the pep squad captain in a cable movie about All-American cheerleaders. We followed to the alcove where Liu Ping lay dying. He was definitely dying—that anyone could see. His shriveled head seemed no bigger than my palm, the features all folded into each other, like a fist. His body was just sticks and plaid pajamas. There was really almost nothing left of him, some skin, a few white hairs, two stunningly beautiful brown hands, and that slow breath like a wind from the other side. Instinctively we all stopped, Nina, the lady, and I. We stopped and stared, in awe, at the dark majesty of death. ThenNina started to berate Liu Ping in fluent Mandarin, screeching and waving her arms. And the lady started yelling in Spanish. So I yelled too, in English, for everyone to stop yelling.
    That’s when Liu Ping awoke. Just like that, two of the crumples in his face parted, revealing two wet brown stones. We all shut up and went back to staring, while his eyes swam around, as if landing from outer space. When they focused on Nina, they widened crazily, showing their whites. Suddenly, he sat up, pointing a tremulous finger. Nina froze. The nurse gasped. Liu Ping began to speak, in a rasping, dust-choked voice, unused and abandoned for years.
    “Su Li-Zhen,” he croaked. “Su Li-Zhen.”
    Then he died. Or he started to anyway. He started to finish dying. He fell back into the pillow, and his eyes rolled back, and his throat began to gurgle. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911, but the nurse was on the phone already, talking while she loaded a syringe. That’s when I realized Nina was gone. The nurse squeezed my arm.
    “Please,” she said. “Help him.”
    “What should I do?”
    “He shirt.”
    While she readied the shot, I struggled with his pajama buttons, firing one into the wall. Finally, I got his top open, and there it was, tattooed on his sad, emaciated wreck of a chest, crossed with the lumpy scar of a lung repair: a dragon wrapped around a yin-yang symbol, with glinting, narrow eyes. I was so busy gaping, I got caught off guard when Liu Ping lurched forward and grabbed my sleeve, yanking me toward him with surprising strength. I panicked and began to wrestle with the poor old man, as if he were trying to pull me down with him into thegrave. He clutched at my shirt, and I realized he wanted my pen, a felt-tip marker clipped in the pocket. I watched in fascination while he grabbed it and, with desperate haste, scratched something onto the back of my hand, tracing the figure until the paramedics pushed me aside.
    I waited in the kitchenette while the medics and the Spanish lady worked, but it was no use. I went downstairs and called Nina. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message on her voice mail. I thought about Durel getting the news the same way or maybe showing up for work tomorrow. I