The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
“Yes, sir,” said Wang, materializing helpfully at his elbow. “What you eat
tonight?”
“What are those other fellas having?” he asked loudly.
Yaofan looked over his shoulder at Chet and replied in an even, slithery
voice, “Stewed pig’s intestines with dried shrimp and fermented black beans.
I doubt you would like it.” His voice was as polished, dark, and hard as a gun
barrel, with the musical English clip of an educated Hong Kong Chinese.
Wang, whose clueless unctuosity perfectly fit his role of troublesome but
endearing sidekick, broke in, “No, no, Mr. Chet has Chinese stomach.
Guolin face and Chinese stomach.” He laughed until Yaofan glared at him,
whereupon he went instantly silent, as though he had been punched. Yaofan
glanced back at Chet, shrugged, and began speaking to his wife in Chinese.
Chet gestured at Yaofan’s plate and gave Wang a thumbs-up, which Wang
returned, grinning.
“Yep, I come here just about every day,” Chet said, looking at the back of
Yaofan’s head. “It’s near work for me, which is good, and the food’s good,
too. Pretty waitresses, too.” He had hoped to elicit a reaction with the last
aside, but still nothing. “They your daughters or something?”
At that, Yaofan swiveled around in his chair toward Chet, his face as
placid and expressionless as a wooden carving. “They are not.”
“Ah, well, just thought you kinda looked alike. The other thing I like
about this place is the music. You know, I don’t know much about music—
well, I guess I know some, ’cause I played accordion and harmonica in the
marching band back home in Walleye Creek, and I still play a little for my
nieces’ birthdays and such—but like I said, I don’t really know much about
music compared with anyone who knows anything, but I sure do like the stuff
they play here. Do you have any of it for sale or anything?”
“I am afraid we don’t. You’ll have to excuse me now; my dinner seems to
be cooling.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem, I don’t mean to keep you. But it’s just this thing
I read the other day; my buddy, the guy who I first started taking accordion
lessons with, he still plays a bunch, you know—he’s got this Creole-zydeco
thing going on in St. Paul, and they’re getting pretty big, at least for the Twin
Cities—but anyways, he’s the kind of guy who does a lot of reading, so he
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