The Five Brothers' Dream

Early the next morning, the sky over New York was clearer than it had been the day before.
Yide came out of the small hotel near Chinatown. The street still carried the cold that had not yet dispersed from the previous night. One by one, iron gates along the roadside were being pulled up. From bakeries drifted a hot, sweet fragrance. Early-rising Chinese women walked past him carrying grocery bags, speaking familiar Cantonese. An old man sat at the entrance of a shop drinking tea. Seeing Yide lift his head to look at the sky, he smiled and asked, “Young man, where are you going?”
Yide said, “To Wall Street.”
The old man narrowed his eyes and laughed. “Going to make money?”
Yide laughed too. “First I’ll go see where the money is.”
The old man waved his hand. “Money? It isn’t in the street. It’s in the heart. If the heart is large, the street is large.”
The sentence carried the smoke-and-fire flavor of a Chinatown morning, yet it fell into Yide’s heart like a small copper coin, ringing with a clear ding. He drew his coat closer around him and walked south along the street. Winter sunlight slanted down between the buildings and shone upon the damp pavement, bright like a thin layer of silver.
He first reached the area around the World Trade Center.
That place was not as flamboyant as Fifth Avenue, nor as lively as Chinatown. It possessed a kind of strength that had stood up again after silence. High buildings rose from the ground; glass curtain walls reflected the cold blue sky. Pedestrians hurried across the plaza, their footsteps falling on the stone pavement, crisp and brief. Yide stood there, lifting his head to look upward, until his neck began to ache. New York’s buildings were not simply tall. They were tall enough to make one aware of one’s own smallness, and also tall enough to make a person suddenly wish to raise the things in his heart a little higher.
Nearby, there was a coffee cart, steam emerging from its small window. Yide bought a cup of black coffee. The paper cup was very hot, and he moved it from one hand to the other. The man selling coffee was a young Black fellow, quick in movement and bright in smile. He asked Yide, “Sugar?”
Yide thought for a moment and said, “A little. Life is already bitter enough.”
The young man burst out laughing. “Man, then you need more sugar in New York.”
Yide laughed too. When the coffee entered his mouth, the bitterness arrived first, and only afterward came a faint sweetness. He suddenly felt that this cup of coffee was very much like New York. First it gave you cold wind, then heat; first bitterness, and only afterward a little sweetness. And whether it was sweet or not still depended on whether you were willing to add sugar yourself.
Holding the coffee, he walked toward the water. In the distance, the surface of the river opened wide. Wind blew from the mouth of the Hudson, carrying a cold salty smell. Seabirds skimmed low over the water. Ferries moved slowly across it, and white lines of wake spread layer by layer. Across the gray-blue water, he finally saw the Statue of Liberty. She stood far away, not enormous, but very steady, like someone holding a lamp in the cold wind.
Yide looked for a long time.
In the past, the word freedom had mostly been something he had seen in books and heard in slogans. Only after traveling through America did he begin to feel that it was not simply romantic. Freedom too had to pay rent. It had to pay taxes. It had to stand in line. It had to endure loneliness. It had to find its own way through unfamiliar cities. Yet the preciousness of freedom lay precisely there: it did not guarantee that you would win, but it allowed you to try. It did not arrange a seat for you, but it allowed you to move a chair over and sit down by yourself.
Thinking of this, Yide suddenly smiled. He felt that the torch in the Statue of Liberty’s hand did not resemble a torch so much as an enormous investment advertisement:
Come.
Let the bold come.
Let those who can endure come.
Let those who can afford to lose and stand up again come.
After walking along the water for a while, he turned into Wall Street.
Wall Street was narrower than he had imagined. Tall buildings pressed close on both sides, cutting the sunlight into thin strips that fell upon the road. There was no neon of the gambling city here, no openness of Los Angeles, no laughter from Miami’s beaches. Yet in the air there was an invisible current. Men and women in suits walked quickly past him, leather shoes striking the ground, telephones pressed to their ears, coffee in hand, their eyes seeming to carry numbers. Yide felt that this street was too narrow to hold scenery, yet broad enough to hold the money of the world.
He walked near the New York Stock Exchange.
The building was solemn like a temple. Stone columns stood before it, and flags opened in the wind. Tourists raised cameras to take photographs. Security guards stood at the side, calm-faced. Yide stood in the crowd and looked up at that financial palace, and his heart suddenly grew hot. He thought of negotiations at banquet tables in China, of the dust upon the land of the Pearl River Delta, of the internet in the Stanford café, of the highways, casinos, ports, universities, and Chinatowns he had seen along the way. Everything seemed to flow here like water, becoming capital, stocks, valuations, listings, and ringing the bell.
Nearby, a white tourist was taking a photograph of his wife. Seeing Yide look so intently, he joked, “You look like you want to buy the building.”
Yide smiled and shook his head. “No. Too expensive. Maybe just rent the bell for one morning.”
The man understood and laughed loudly. “That’s the spirit!”
Yide laughed too. But after the laughter passed, the sentence in his heart was no longer a joke. He thought that one day, he too would bring a real company here to ring the bell. Not as a tourist standing outside and looking up, but as a Chinese merchant who had walked out of the mud of the Pearl River Delta, wearing a proper suit, standing beneath the lights, listening as the bell rang. That bell would not sound only for money. It would sound also for a person’s courage, his path, his judgment, and his refusal to accept defeat.
Afterward, he went to see the bronze bull.
There were many people around the bull. Tourists lined up to take photographs. Some touched its horns, some touched its nose, some went around behind it, laughing. The bull lowered its head, muscles swelling, as though about to charge through every obstacle before it. Yide stood nearby and looked at this ambition cast in bronze, and felt it was interesting. The symbol of world finance was not an exquisite key, nor a thick account book, but a bull rushing forward with brute force.
A Chinese tourist saw him laughing and asked, “What are you laughing at?”
Yide said, “I’m laughing because this bull is very much like a person doing business. Usually it says nothing, but once it charges, no one can stop it.”
The tourist laughed too. “Then you should touch it as well, get a little of that bull energy.”
Yide walked forward and reached out to touch the cold bronze horn. Winter metal was very cold. The chill traveled upward from his fingertips, yet it made his heart clearer. He knew that capital markets were not mythology. Here too there were bubbles, greed, fraud, sudden wealth overnight, and ruin overnight. Behind the bronze bull’s high spirit, there must have been countless people who had fallen. Yet if business had not even a little bull nature, not even a little force of pushing forward, how could it possibly charge a path out from among the crowd?
At noon, he sat down in a small café nearby.
Outside the window, pedestrians came and went. Inside, the heating was very strong. At the next table, two young people were talking about a startup. One spoke of user growth, the other of the rhythm of financing, their speed of speech fast as a subway entering a station. Yide could not catch everything, but he could hear the force inside them. Their faces were young, their eyes bright, as though the entire world could be rearranged by a business plan. Yide lifted his coffee and felt both amused and envious. Young people always believed the future was willing to take orders from them. Only after truly entering the marketplace did one learn that the future had a strong temper and often turned around to give orders to people instead.
But if there were no such innocence, where would the new world come from?
He thought of his father’s words, and also of the Chinatown elder’s sentence that morning: if the heart is large, the street is large. Wall Street was very short, so short that one could soon walk through it on foot. But the world behind it was very long, long enough to connect banks, factories, docks, computers, mines, schools, households, and the desires of hundreds of millions. If a person’s eyes looked only at the surface of the street, he would see only tall buildings and tourists. Only if he could see the flow of money, people, information, and trust beneath the street could he truly be said to have arrived at Wall Street.
In the afternoon, the sea wind rose again.
Yide once more walked to the place where he could see the Statue of Liberty. The sky was brighter than in the morning. There was light upon the water. The statue still stood far away, like a sentence not yet finished. Yide threw his empty coffee cup into a trash can and put both hands into the pockets of his coat. Suddenly he felt that only here had his journey to America truly come full circle.
From the campuses of the West Coast to the beaches of the South; from the neon of the gambling city to the highways of Texas; from the human currents of New York to the bell of Wall Street, he had seen many faces of one country. It was rough, complicated, cold, passionate, at times even absurd, yet full of movement. It made a person understand clearly: the world will not willingly give you a place. But as long as you dare to walk, dare to try, dare to lose, and dare to stand again, some crack will always let light through.
Looking toward the distant sea, Yide suddenly said softly to himself, “One day, I too will ring the bell here.”
The wind was strong and scattered his voice.
But he knew that the sentence had already fallen into his heart. Like a seed, it had dropped into the cold New York winter. No sprout could yet be seen, but it had already begun to take root in the depths.
On the last day of his American journey, New York gave Yide a rare stretch of good weather.
The sky had been wiped clean by the winter wind. There were not many clouds, and the sunlight was not strong, only a thin layer falling upon rooftops, shopwindows, street corners, and the shoulders of pedestrians. The morning near Chinatown still carried the smoke and warmth of ordinary life. Steam from a steamed-bun shop pushed through the crack of its door. Someone was moving ice outside a seafood shop. A vegetable-selling auntie called out prices in Cantonese. Several young people, dragging suitcases, hurried toward the subway entrance. Standing at the hotel entrance, Yide suddenly felt a little reluctant to leave.
This journey, from California to New York, from campuses to the gambling city, from beaches to Wall Street, was like a book turned too quickly. Before he had time to read it carefully, the last page was already in his hand.
He thought that on the last day he ought to buy some things. For his parents, for his younger brothers and sisters, for the family, and also to leave himself something by which to remember. So he did not go again to those grand places. He did not look again at tall buildings or the stock exchange. Instead, he took a car to the Broadway and SoHo area. He had heard there were many shops, many people, and many things there—the most suitable place for someone about to leave America to fill his suitcase before parting.
When the car entered SoHo, the feeling of the streets changed at once.
This place was not as noble and cold as Fifth Avenue, nor as tense and severe as Wall Street. The buildings in SoHo were not especially tall, yet they possessed a kind of beauty left from the old industrial age. Iron fire escapes hung against exterior walls. Windows were high and broad. Brick walls stood with a quiet weight. Shop after shop lined the streets, their windows arranged like small exhibitions. Famous-brand stores, designer boutiques, galleries, cafés, vintage shops, bookstores—each stood there without making a sound, yet each secretly competed with the next to see who had more style, who could make a passerby’s heart move and push open the door, taking out a credit card.
Yide walked along Broadway, and the flow of people was like a warm river.
There were New York women in black coats, their steps so quick they seemed to be rushing to an important meeting. There were tourists carrying cameras, stopping every two steps to photograph everything. There were young people wearing wool hats, coffee in hand, laughing as they walked. There were also street vendors laying out scarves, hats, and postcards by the roadside, calling to customers in an unhurried voice. Though New York’s winter was cold, its people refused to be quiet. Everyone here seemed to be hurrying somewhere, yet somehow, while hurrying, they still shopped, ate, talked, took photographs, kissed, argued, and dreamed.
Yide entered a leather-goods shop.
The heating inside was strong, and the air carried the smell of leather. A blond saleswoman smiled and came over. “Looking for something special?”
Yide thought for a moment and said, “For family. Not too expensive. But looks expensive.”
The saleswoman froze for a second, then laughed aloud. “That is the most honest request today.”
Yide laughed too. “Chinese businessman. Honest first.”
She took him to look at several wallets, belts, and small bags. Yide chose very carefully. One moment he thought of his father, who used things plainly and would not like anything too flashy. Another moment he thought of his mother, who liked practicality but also beauty. Then he thought of his younger brother Zhide studying in America, and that perhaps a simple, durable scarf would suit him. When he chose things, he was not like an ordinary tourist who looked only at price and style. He turned the items over to examine stitching, leather quality, zippers, and even asked the saleswoman, “How many years can this last?”
The saleswoman smiled. “Depends. If you use gently, many years. If you fight with it, maybe less.”
Yide said, “For a businessman, a wallet goes to war every day.”
She did not entirely understand, but seeing his serious expression, she laughed again. That laughter made the shopping easy. Yide suddenly discovered that the warmth of American salespeople was sometimes professional training, but sometimes it also carried a little sincere joking. Buying and selling were not entirely accounting. One well-placed joke could make a person buy one more thing.
He entered several more shops and bought chocolates, perfume, silk scarves, children’s toys, and small gifts with the word New York on them. With each item he bought, he placed someone in his heart. The scarf for his mother had to be soft in color. The belt for his father had to be sturdy and not showy. The fountain pen for Lide had to carry a little of a judge’s composure. The notebook for Zhide—he would keep it for him first—had to be light, suitable for writing down those internet ideas no one else could understand. By the end, his hands were full of bags, like a victorious purchasing agent, and also like an out-of-towner gently robbed by New York commerce.
At noon, he walked toward Little Italy.
After turning from SoHo, the smell in the air soon changed. Italian restaurants stood one beside another, with red-white-green signboards, narrow storefronts, and small tables at outdoor seats. Even in winter, there remained a lively warmth. Waiters stood at the door greeting customers, their voices loud, their gestures exaggerated, as though they were not inviting you to eat, but inviting you to join their family lunch.
A middle-aged waiter saw Yide hesitating at the entrance and immediately came over. “Come in, my friend! Best pasta in New York!”
Yide laughed and asked, “Every restaurant says best.”
The man placed a hand over his chest, his face full of injury. “They lie. I only exaggerate.”
Yide was amused into laughter and entered the restaurant.
Inside, the restaurant was warm. Old photographs and wine bottles hung upon the walls. The tablecloths were red and white checks. In the corner, people spoke and laughed quietly. Yide ordered pasta, roasted chicken, and a glass of red wine. When the waiter brought them over, he deliberately lowered his voice and said, “For you, businessman discount. Same price, bigger smile.”
Yide lifted his glass. “Then I have profited.”
The man did not understand the Chinese, but understood his expression, and lifted the tray in his hand as though completing a pleasant transaction.
The food was fragrant. The tomato sauce was rich, sour and sweet. The pasta had bite. The skin of the roasted chicken was slightly charred, and hot juices flowed from the meat. As Yide ate, he looked out the window. People passed along the small street. Couples leaned against each other. Old people walked dogs. Tourists checked maps while arguing over direction. New Yorkers seemed very accustomed to eating outside. Even when the weather was cold, even when the hour was not early, there were always people in restaurants. The larger a city became, the smaller home sometimes seemed. People ate outside not only to fill their stomachs, but also to find a temporary table in the city, to find a little light and sound, and to set down loneliness for a moment.
After the meal, the waiter came to collect the plates and asked, “Where are you going next?”
Yide said, “Back to China.”
“Vacation over?”
Yide thought for a moment. “Maybe business begins.”
The waiter smiled. “Good. Then New York did its job.”
This sentence made Yide pause. Was New York’s job to make people still think of beginning as they left? He found it interesting, and also accurate. Many cities made people want to stay, but New York made people want to act. It was like a cold-faced teacher. It spoke no sweet words; it only pushed you into the street and made you see, think, and fight for yourself.
After lunch, he went to the famous dessert and pastry shop nearby.
At the entrance, there indeed stood a large ice cream cone model, planted in the winter wind, both ridiculous and tempting. Though the weather was clearly cold, there were still people lining up at the door. Some held cupcakes in paper cups. Some bought boxes of pastries. Young girls took photographs while waiting in line. An elderly couple stood in the queue as though awaiting some important ceremony. Looking at that big ice cream cone, Yide could not help laughing.
He asked the young girl ahead of him, who wore a wool hat, “So cold, and still eating ice cream?”
The girl turned back to look at him and said seriously, “Ice cream is not weather. It’s mood.”
Yide laughed even more happily. “That should be printed on an advertisement.”
The girl shrugged. “Maybe they already did.”
New Yorkers lined up with their own sort of bearing. No one was too irritated. People talked, looked at their phones, took photographs, complained once or twice, and then continued waiting. Yide thought of many places in China where, as soon as there was a line, someone would try to push in, find an acquaintance, or circle to the front. Of course, New York too might not have everyone obeying rules. But in many details, this city made one understand: a line was a kind of default contract. You could come from anywhere, speak any language, have any identity. But at this moment you stood at the end of the line. Those ahead arrived first, those behind arrived later. This was a small form of fairness.
When it was his turn, he bought a small box of pastries and an ice cream. Eating ice cream in winter, the first bite was so cold his teeth trembled, yet the fragrance of milk soon melted open. Standing at the shop entrance, with gift bags in one hand and ice cream in the other, he suddenly felt like a big child. He had walked across half of America, talked of investment, thought about going public, touched the bronze bull, and seen the Statue of Liberty. Yet before leaving, he stood on a New York street eating ice cream. Life was truly interesting. No matter how great one’s ambition, one still needed a little sweetness at the end.
In the afternoon, he slowly walked to a small garden between SoHo and Little Italy.
The place was not large, and could hardly be called a real park. It was only a quiet corner enclosed by buildings and streets. Several small trees stood in the winter wind, their branches and leaves sparse. Beneath them were several benches. Someone passed by walking a dog; the little dog wore a red coat and looked proud as a little boss. On the wall there was graffiti, bold in color and extravagant in line. Beside it was pasted a famous-brand advertisement, the model dressed in splendid clothing, expressionless. Street art and commercial advertising were squeezed onto the same wall, neither yielding to the other, and together they formed a picture very much like New York.
Yide found a small bench and sat down, placing the shopping bags at his feet.
He sat there and watched people come and go. A young mother slowly pushed a stroller past, lowering her head to speak to her child. Two boys on skateboards swept past the edge of the garden, their laughter light as wind. An old man in a long coat stopped beneath a tree with his dog; the dog sniffed carefully near the roots, while the old man lifted his head to look at the sky, as though waiting for snow that would not come. Several tourists carrying shopping bags sat down to rest and showed one another what they had just bought. The noise of the city, arriving here, seemed to be filtered once, leaving only its softer part.
A small dog ran to Yide’s feet and sniffed his shoes.
The owner, a young woman, quickly pulled the leash. “Sorry, he thinks every bag has food.”
Yide looked down at the dog and smiled. “Smart dog. In New York, every bag has business.”
The woman froze for a moment, then laughed. “That’s true. Even dogs know capitalism here.”
Yide laughed too. The little dog wagged its tail, as though it understood capitalism. After the woman led the dog away, Yide was still smiling. New York humor was often like this: it rose from a casual sentence, and for one brief instant, turned strangers into people who could laugh together.
Wind entered the little garden from the street corner, carrying coffee, pastries, automobile exhaust, and the garlic fragrance of restaurants in the distance. Yide buttoned his coat a little tighter, and his heart slowly quieted.