FORGET THE WHITE MONKEY

NIСK NEIM

“Do not think about the white monkey and you will live thousand years.”

 Ancient Chinese wisdom

Many of those living in Russia and the former Republics think that every Russian who comes to live in the States settles down in New York City, in Brighton Beach. If he happens to live in Manhattan rather than Brighton, then he must surely own a penthouse in a skyscraper, ride in a limousine and dine at the “Plaza”. That’s what many of my classmates back in Russia think, especially when they say, “Boris could add fractions faster than anyone while in fifth grade” or “He was the first person who passed Math exam during college freshman year.”  

It would be nice if Math actually helped to get a penthouse in a skyscraper, but it’s rather opposite. Well, I live in Manhattan, close to Chinatown in an ordinary six-story building for low income families, because my mom is handicapped.

“You are lucky!” the social worker said to my mom, referring to her rights for subsidized housing.

Back in September 1986 I was not quite eighteen, and so they placed us in a government-sponsored two-bedroom apartment. It sure was luck, as I never succeeded in becoming a rich man, and a cheap apartment close to downtown have been remained a financial blessing forever.

Living in the vicinity of Chinatown, I eventually became an expert in Chinese food, and easily distinguish dishes of fiery “peppered” Hunan cuisine from fiery “gingered” Szechwan cuisine. I should note that the majority of the Chinese restaurants in New York serve you Chinese-American food that is cooked to the taste of the average American, without any suspicious, looking strange or seemingly inedible ingredients in the dish. But the allure of the Chinese-Chinese restaurant is in its unconventional interior design and authentic food. It is not intended for the occasional hungry tourist, but rather for the true connoisseur of deep-fried quail beaks.

Well, exactly to such Chinese-Chinese restaurant called “The White Monkey”, I took my dear friend Aleksey, whom I had not seen for exactly fifteen years, ever since I emigrate to USA for permanent residency.

This restaurant had a cage in which they kept a rare white monkey, very popular with the locals. Also, here in the restaurant, you could buy a handful of roasted peanuts for one dollar and feed the animal. The visitors were not allowed to give it any other food, and the wise (or perhaps overly satiated) monkey packed the peanuts in a carved wooden box. This attraction, apart from good advertising, provided the owners of the restaurant with extra income, because a handful of peanuts that they sold for one dollar cost them ten cents, and small piles of peanuts was constantly replenished from the monkey’s box. It reminded me of the Russian fairy tale, in which the talking squirrel cracked golden hazelnuts and stored the emerald cores, making profit for her owner – the Prince. I just don’t know how to say in Chinese, “Profit for the Prince, for the Squirrel – Honor!”

Neither Aleksey nor I had changed significantly, at least not in looks, but both admitted the transformation from clumsy seventeen-year-old teenagers to thirty-two-year-old men “at the very prime of their lives”. During these years in America I had been living in a stable environment; and I had never taken a trip abroad, same as when I was living in the Soviet Union.

Aleksey, on the other hand, having stayed at home, lived through several changes of regime, from socialism to the debauch of democracy, racket, and then the beginning of stabilization, and had been able to visit ten countries on three continents. That’s why my intention of impressing Aleksey with foreign exoticism turned out to be futile, or at least became late for many years. During this time, he had accumulated experience much wider than mine, and to surprise him with a restaurant even Chinese-Chinese one, was already impossible.

In contrast, my jaw would have dropped even of a name like “General Tso’s chicken” fifteen years ago. For me these words were sounding the music of freedom! Speaking of freedom, after lunch we were planning on visiting the Statue of Liberty and later the top of the World Trade Center for a view of the City. Aleksey well done visiting New York now – the gorgeous weather making September one of the best seasons for tourism here.         

In the meantime, we were relaxing in the coolness of the room, enjoying our renewed communication, the food and weak Asian vodka – sake. Both of us were single. I was already thinking about getting married; Aleksey had been divorced and “didn’t even think about it.” Unlike me, my friend had successfully graduated from the Polytechnic College, but did not work as an engineer – the shallow stream of local commerce had carried him into the wide river of speculation, then the delta of marketing, and finally the sea of international business.

“My first serious business deal,” Aleksey told me, “was to deliver to a Singapore client Russian-made computer chips labeled as if they manufactured at Singapore. That’s where I really became familiar with Asian cuisine. We were extremely nervous – we ate and drank as if we were from famine land. But sake, you know… it’s like wine: good for pleasant conversation, but to relieve stress – forget it! And so, one event happened in Singapore that I cannot forget to this day.

Once, the four of us were having dinner in a cheap restaurant. No regular menu whatsoever. Instead there were strips of paper hanging on the walls, with some Chinese characters that revealed the names of the dishes and the prices. It did not help much, even when our translator could read the writing. The important thing was not the name of the dish, but what it means, right?  So we sat there and played Russian roulette, blindly pointing at the signs, and the waiters brought us what we ordered. But we were lucky; food was not bad at all.

Meanwhile three Poles sat next to the table. To be more exact, two guys and one girl – a rare beauty, with steel-colored hair and coal-black eyes. Where did a Slavic girl get eyes like that? They got their food the same way as we did, by pointing randomly at some of the strips. But on the second run a hitch has happened.

The girl pointed to a pretty golden strip that hung at the very top, right underneath the portrait of a white monkey that looked just like the one they have in the cage here. The waiter in a stale white shirt mumbled something and shook his head, but the girl stubbornly continued to point at that golden strip. Then the waiter disappeared, still chirping continuously and in a half of a minute returned with a fat red-faced giant who looked like a sumo wrestler. He looked carefully at the girl and silently nodded his head. Soon she was brought a small bowl covered with a golden lid. The beauty carefully opened the lid, and a cloud of spicy steam escaped from under it. The small piece of meat or mushroom was floated in the aroma broth. After cooling the dish, the girl emptied the bowl in one gulp. Judging by the expression of her face, she liked the food.

Everyone relaxed. Forgetting for a while about our own problems, we wondered why there had been a delay, who the fat man was, and what the girl ate. But after a short time it seemed to me that the girl was becoming nauseous. She quickly left the table and rushed to the restroom. I had been there earlier: it was a dirty and foul-smelling room, designed for either sex, a place that anyone would be eager to leave as soon as possible. But the girl did not return for a long time.

One of her friends, concerned about her absence, went up to the restroom door and yelled, “Wanda, Wanda!”

There was no answer. Then he started to knock on the door, calling her name loudly. The second friend joined him. Together they put their weight against the door, and the feeble lock gave in. There was nobody inside.

At this point we could not just stand by. Here in Singapore, far away from home, the Poles felt not like brothers, but like cousins to us, and to help them was our duty in conscience. Jumping out of our chairs, we rushed to the rear of the restaurant where the bathroom, kitchen and storage rooms were located. The one thing that amazed me was that the bathroom shone with cleanliness; its glittering walls looked like a TV commercial.

What can I say? We searched the kitchen and the storage rooms. Everything was empty. Nobody tried to stop us. In the utility room, the “wrestler” was eating noodles with chopsticks and washing them down with a sort of broth. Next to him a white monkey slept in its cage. The Polish guys were going crazy. We were also pretty upset, but when it came to calling the police, we cooled down a bit and left before we got tangled up in any unnecessary trouble.

Two days later, when we were getting paid for the chips, we could not resist telling the story about the girl to our Singapore partners. They took us very seriously and complained about rampant crime, but one of them said,

“My brother is a Buddhist monk. Let me ask him for advice”.

We just glanced at each other – we didn’t need his advice.

On the morning of our departure, the Singaporean called the hotel and told our interpreter the monk’s opinion,

“The girl was given a potion that turned her into a white monkey! The antidote is ginseng root. She needs to eat some of it immediately!”

There was nothing to discuss.

“Either a sucker or… even worse!” said our boss, Mark.

“They all are monkeys,” added the bodyguard Kolya, “And they may stick ginseng roots … you all know where!”

And we flew away home.”

I listened to the story very attentively. Like Aleksey, I did not take the monk’s explanation seriously, though it was a touching story.

“You know,” my friend said, “Every time I see a monkey, I want to treat it to some ginseng… just to clear my conscience.”

 “Have you ever tried that?”

“Of course, not. Besides, this is second time in my life that I’ve ever even see a white monkey.”

“Wanna try it?” I offered. It turns out, that sake was not so harmless after all.

“You have ginseng?” Aleksey was surprised.

“No, but we’re in Chinatown!”

I ran outside and came back a couple of minutes later with a ginseng root that I had bought in the store next door. We walked up to the cage and poked the root into the cage, offering it to the monkey. She sniffed it: the white fur bristled, the black little eyes goggling out.

“Wanda!” I called, and the small animal screamed in reply.

Then the waiters, under the owners’ command, attacked us, grabbed our arms, took away the ginseng, and pushed us out of the door.

“Wait, wait!” I protested. I was gonna pay for the lunch, but they wouldn’t listen. Oh, well, even better!

The whole way to the Statue of Liberty we howled with laughter at what had just happened. Now I know how to eat for free. You just try to feed some ginseng to the animal at the restaurant “The White Monkey” and the owners provide you with a free meal!

The effects of the alcohol have been waning: the situation now seemed comical, and two of us, forgetting the white monkey, were enjoying the fresh air, the blue waves splashing against the sides of the orange ferry, the screaming seagulls overhead, and the view of New York City – shining golden from the ocean, and the green statue against pink clouds…

We spent too much time at the restaurant of course and it was getting dark when we returned from the Statue of Liberty. When we arrived at the World Trade Center night had already fallen. They still allowed people up to the observation deck, but what could Aleksey have distinguished from above except a sea of lights? I glanced at the large digital screen. It showed “8:45, September 10, 2001”.

“You know, we’ll get to the Twin Towers tomorrow, bright and early, O. K?” I said.

“Sure, the morning brings counsel! If not for the white monkey we could’ve made it today!”

The wise man is right: stop thinking of odd and worrying things and your life will become happy and long!