The Sorrows of Others, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE SORROWS OF OTHERS
“Every once in a while, a new writer comes along whose stories are so naturally perceptive, empathetic, and intelligent that reading them feels like falling in love with the form all over again. The relationships Ada Zhang’s characters navigate are full of quiet ardor and tangled duties; at the heart of each story is an urgent, private world rendered with care and skill. The Sorrows of Others announces Ada Zhang as a major literary talent, one anyone who loves reading should experience.”
—ARNA BONTEMPS HEMENWAY, AUTHOR OF ELEGY ON KINDERKLAVIER
“In these marvelous stories, Ada Zhang writes with ferocity and precision about feelings and situations I have seldom seen captured in fiction before: a woman caring for the dying husband who has abandoned her, a girl glimpsing what her grandparents have endured in China. Each story offers a deeply satisfying world, one I never wanted to leave. The Sorrows of Others is a brilliant debut.”
—MARGOT LIVESEY, AUTHOR OF THE BOY IN THE FIELD
“These stories contain a rare and profound understanding of loneliness, in all its gestures, nuances, and variations: the loneliness of aging, of being othered, within families or in solitude. Above all, Ada Zhang has captured the essential loneliness of human interiority, the experience of being alone in one’s mind. Every story is written with grace and a light touch, scenes subtly washed with feeling as a skilled watercolorist floods a landscape with color. A wonderful debut.”
—KIM FU, AUTHOR OF LESSER KNOWN MONSTERS OF THE 21ST CENTURY
“To read Ada Zhang’s collection The Sorrows of Others is to be in sublime relationship to human follies and to wisdom and to the silence that is cultivated between lines and after a story ends. This is a collection to savor and to reread.”
—JAI CHAKRABARTI, AUTHOR OF A PLAY FOR THE END OF THE WORLD
“Each story in The Sorrows of Others is elegantly braided and brushed with a careful hand. This debut collection resists the temptations of flash and clamor, embracing a more modulated, substantial prose that resonates richly, with a deep understanding of character and of true mystery. Prepare to be ushered into the everyday fascinations of the various lives depicted here, and prepare at each story’s end to be left wondering and aching.”
—JAMEL BRINKLEY, AUTHOR OF A LUCKY MAN
The Sorrows of Others
Ada Zhang
A Public Space Books
A Public Space Books
PO Box B
New York, NY 10159
Copyright ©2023 by Ada Zhang
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION, 2023
Stories from this collection appeared, in earlier forms, in the following publications:
“Compromise” in A Public Space No. 29
“Knowing” as “Goldfish” in Alaska Quarterly Review
“The Subject” in American Short Fiction
“Sister Machinery” in Catapult
“Any Good Wife” in the Rumpus
“The Sorrows of Others” in McSweeney’s
“Propriety” in Witness
A Public Space gratefully acknowledges the support of the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York State Council on the Arts, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and the corporations, foundations, and individuals whose contributions have helped to make this book possible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022942307
ISBN: 9781736370964
eISBN: 9781736370971
www.apublicspace.org
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my aunt, whose love endures
distance, language, and time
谨以此书献给我的大姑姑，
她的爱跨越了时间，空间，语言和文化。
You don’t have a home until you leave it
and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.
—James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room
Contents
The Subject
The Sorrows of Others
Propriety
Silence
One Day
Julia
Any Good Wife
Sister Machinery
Knowing
Compromise
Acknowledgments
The Subject
The summer before my junior year, I moved out of the dorms in Baxter Hall on the corner of Broadway and East Tenth and took a room in a small house on Cherry Avenue, Flushing, Queens. I told my friends it was to save money, and they didn’t ask why I didn’t move to Brooklyn or Long Island City. Anywhere would have been closer. I suppose it was a point of pride among my college friends to live frugally even if it was selective. Even if it was abstract, since it was our parents’ money we were spending every time we went out, our parents who paid our rents. But we were all very young back then, and I regarded hardship the same way I regarded my own shadow. I was aware of it but rarely thought of it. Either way, it did not frighten me.
The house was a low, squat rectangle with a patchy yard and a maroon awning over the front door. The windows were barred. A chain-link fence wrapped around the house, separating it from the sidewalk and from the homes on either side, which looked more or less the same as ours, the two-bedroom I shared with Granny Tan: red brick with asphalt shingles scaling the roof, all faded and curling around the edges. At parties that summer, my living situation lent me an air of authenticity. I’d recently bleached my hair and dyed it blue to make up for the fact that I did not grow up in a progressive household. My parents are Chinese immigrants. We were middle class. Their politics were what you might expect. They believed in taxing the rich but not in affirmative action. At the time, this brought me a deep sense of shame.
“I live in Flushing,” I would tell a room full of hipsters, most of them art students like me. They all stepped closer. “My roommate is this old Chinese lady.”
“How old?” someone would ask.
“In her seventies I think.”
“Why does she need a roommate?”
“To save money I guess,” I would say, and shrug. “Same reason as anybody else.”
The hipsters would nod and drink their beers, smug in the idea that there was a real one among us. There was a palpable fear in every young liberal back then that one could never be poor enough or of-color enough to outweigh whatever privileges one had. Even those on scholarship felt insecure. We talked our heads off about gentrification but said nothing when friends moved to Bushwick or Ridgewood, the then up-and-coming neighborhoods. It was amid such confusion and self-loathing that I began searching for a new place to live.
I loved Flushing because I chose to be there, but at the time I believed I loved it for different reasons. The food, Chinese restaurants all up and down Main Street, noodles and dumplings next to Thai restaurants, Korean, Vietnamese; and the people, who looked like they could be my relatives, the aunts and uncles and cousins I saw once every three or four years. We lived close to the botanical garden where it was quiet. I figured that was why the streets had such names as Maple, Blossom, Dahlia, Elder.
I wanted to be an artist. A painter. It requires a certain amount of idealism to make art, and that comes more easily to some than others. The more privilege you had, the more ideal you ought to be and the more you should be expected to suffer; that was what I thought. Portraiture was a dying form—and still is—but I decided that if I was going to make a name for myself, painting faces was the only way. It was political and also romantic, my desire to suffer. It served me well while I had few responsibilities.
I took a job at the bubble tea shop next to the Flushing station, making twelve dollars an hour scooping tapioca balls inside a shoebox that fit three customers at a time. I didn’t need the work, but it felt in line with who I thought I was becoming. At night, in the blue darkness of my room in that house, with one fan blowing on me from the nightstand and another rotating around the room, I wrote my obituary: “In college she lived in Flushing, Queens, the last stop on the 7 train, in a predominantly Chinese immigrant community.… She lived prudently and apart from distractions, so she could focus on her art.…”
I used to recall fantasizing about death and cringe, but not anymore. Now I think how lovely it is that even death was dressed in the glamour of my dreams.
Granny Tan was short and wide, with brown skin that was crumpled all over but nowhere so much as her face. Her hair was like a rain cloud, white at the top and dark near the scalp. She kept it in a tight bun that frizzed from the humidity that was particularly bad that summer, small hairs springing from her head like the whiskers on a roused cat. She left every morning in a pair of pink Adidas slides, holding a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. She picked up napkins, MetroCards, chip bags scuttling around on the street, as well as trash stuck inside our fence, candy wrappers and other miscellaneous scraps woven into the silver fishnet, paper cups jammed into the holes, suspended in the shapes of diamonds. She wore gloves and a surgical mask while she worked. Afternoons she went out in tennis shoes, collecting bottles and cans from our neighbors’ trash and carting them to the redemption center on Maple Avenue, a twenty-five-minute walk away.
She ignored me, not out of rudeness or even indifference but because she had her routine an
What I did know:
There was a woman named Sharon, who’d posted the Craigslist ad and to whom I paid rent.
Subletting was technically not allowed, and while this seemed sketchy to me, I also saw it as an advantage. I could rent month to month and leave whenever I wanted.
There was a boy. He looked about five or six. His photo, showing wet lips and missing teeth, stayed taped onto the refrigerator.
The photo was a personal detail in an otherwise anonymous home. All the furniture was the same color, brown, and the carpet was so off-white it was beige. I wanted to ask about the photo, but Granny Tan was always so busy. For weeks it seemed I scarcely saw her beyond our polite greetings in the living room, either at noon when I left for my classes in the city or in the evenings before she went to bed.
“Is the landlord paying you for the work you do?” I finally asked on our first real night together. I’d been in Flushing for six weeks. I was conducting the first of our many interviews.
She scoffed. “Na li, na li. I just have nothing else to do. I’m old.”
“Shouldn’t old people rest?” I had heard the neighbors advising Granny Tan to take it easy, but at this she laughed, a hoarse wail that fell quickly into a cough, and I worried I had somehow offended her. She cleared her throat, then leaned forward so her chin was nearly touching my phone resting between us on the table. “It’s recording, right?” She lifted her head so that our eyes met. I told her that it was, and that she didn’t need to be so close for it to catch the sound, but she just hunched lower.
“Listen to me, ah, young people. Don’t spend your time wisely, as many will try and tell you. Wisdom is for people like me, who are old, who are trying to make up in utility what we’ve lost in time. Be frivolous while your body and spirit can keep up.” She nodded and smiled, as though affirming herself. Through the open windows, the vague melody of Mandarin drifted in from our neighbor’s CCTV.
I wanted to know what Granny Tan was like when she was young. Instead I asked what picking up other people’s garbage had to do with wisdom.
“It’s a wise way to use one’s time, don’t you think?” She leaned back in her chair, a peeling leather office chair on wheels, which made her look strangely official. “Time slows when you’re by yourself. It gets harder to feel useful.”
I was just thinking that she wasn’t by herself when she asked, “Why do you paint?”
“It’s a way of using my time too, I guess.” I was hoping to win her favor.
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s my passion,” I said.
“Then perhaps it’s frivolous as well.”
Hold on, let me get closer. Okay. Ask me again.
How long have you been retired?
Two years, technically, if you don’t count what I do now as a job, even though some days I’m busier than when I had a paycheck. I worked at a nail salon. I had to stop because of my eyesight and my shaky hands. It’s detailed work, painting nails, and depending on the customer, it can get very intricate.
Intricate how?
There are all sorts of details, flourishes, but that wasn’t the hard part. People are paying you money to pay them attention. That’s what it’s really about, that’s the exchange, not the nails. People come in needing to feel cared for. The streets need to be cared for, too. You wouldn’t believe how filthy they get! Anyways, that was my job, but it got harder once my eyes and hands started going. My boss was a kind lady. She kept me on for as long as she could. My daughter still works there. She’s been there for as long as I’ve lived in this house. Twelve years.
It sounds like you enjoyed the work on some level.
Of course. I find pleasure in whatever it is I’m doing. If I hate something, I can’t expect to do it well. It’s the same for most people, I think. I believe excellence is a basic human desire.
That’s optimistic of you. What were you doing before you came to the US?
I delivered babies. I was the midwife in the village where I lived. It’s what my mother did, what her mother did before her. Our family trade, you could say. I always knew it was what I was going to do. I saw my first birth when I was nine years old. Would you like to have kids one day?
I’m not sure.
Well, don’t wait until you’re my age.
How many babies did you deliver?
I’ve lost count. There’s nothing like a baby’s first cry. I never got used to the sound. It’s the mother who’s doing all the work. Pushing and pushing, until her face is as red as a sweet potato. But from the crying you’d think that the baby emerged out of the sheer force of its own will, its determination to be part of the world. Wahhh! Wahhhhh!
Do you miss it?
Miss what?
Being a midwife. Delivering children.
You seem to associate things a lot with emotions. Talking about liking this and missing that. It’s just work. I do what I have to do to the best of my ability. It doesn’t bring me great anguish, nor great joy. It’s a livelihood. It’s not love. Then when it’s time to move on, I move on.
I would like to tell myself now that I was interested in Granny Tan for who she was. She was compelling to me, and the paintings and interviews were a way for me to get to know her, that was what I’d thought, but what ended up happening tells a different story. The portraits I did imitated three of the most well-known portraits in the world: Girl with a Pearl Earring by Vermeer, Kahlo’s Las dos Fridas, and of course, the Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci. I painted in acrylic. The integrity of the replications was in the positioning of the subject and nothing else, no frills or tricks, I didn’t try emulating the artists’ styles. We recreated the poses at night in the living room with all the curtains drawn, using a single naked bulb for light.
“Like this?” Granny had said, twisting her neck to face me.
“Perfect,” I said, and snapped a photo. “Just like that.”
At the senior gallery, one of the things people talked about the most was the light. One person, a stranger, said this was most striking in the homage of Las dos Fridas, where two identical Granny Tans sat side by side holding hands, and the light spilled from both faces, as though emerging from within.
Experiences and fun are for the young. Understanding is for the old.
Can you say a little more about that?
What more is there to say?
Tell me about something fun.
Summers in my village were very hot and wet. I guess not so unlike how it is here. One day, my friend and I had the idea to steal a watermelon from my neighbor’s yard. It was risky. We knew we could get in a lot of trouble. I’m not sure what made us want to do it except that we’d heard her brother and his friends bragging about stealing one before. I guess we thought if they could pull it off, why not us?
How old were you?
Ten, eleven.
We waited until dusk then snuck into his yard. He was a very skilled grower, this Uncle, and watermelons were his specialty. We pulled the first one we saw and ran off with it in my shirt. We couldn’t go home, so we went to an area where farmers took their sheep. My friend had a pocketknife. She cut around the melon and then dropped it on the ground so it split into perfect halves. We ate using our hands. We got lucky it was so red and sweet. We raised our melon halves in a toast before drinking the juice at the bottom.
