Flower Net by Lisa See

Author:Lisa See [See, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General, Azizex666, Fiction
ISBN: 9781588366672
Google: s95PF8U9whYC
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 7143721
Publisher: Random House Digital, Inc.
Published: 1997-08-19T04:00:00+00:00

Silverlake is one of L.A.’s oldest neighborhoods. The lake itself is a reservoir nestled in low hills between Echo Park and Burbank, close to downtown. Narrow streets snake up hillsides on which classic Spanish-style and newer overbuilt, high-tech houses cling. Most of the residents are older, original buyers who raised their families here. Many of them are Chinese, since Silverlake was one of the first neighborhoods in Southern California outside of Chinatown to bend its residency requirements after World War II. This enclave appealed to the Chinese sensibilities of feng shui—wind and water; the wind rustled through the bamboo, bodhi, and persimmon trees they had planted to remind them of home, and the water of the lake glistened outside their picture windows.

After David parked, Hulan went through her morning’s purchases and pulled out a tin of Danish sugar cookies, saying, “It wouldn’t be polite if we didn’t bring a gift.” They walked down a short flight of stairs and banged the heavy wrought-iron knocker on the dark-stained paneled door. They waited, hearing nothing. David used the knocker again. They waited some more.

Finally the door opened. A tiny, ancient man stood before them. He was Sammy Guang, Guang Mingyun’s eldest brother. David and Hulan introduced themselves and gave him the box of cookies. He shuffled very slowly to the living room and motioned for them to sit on the loveseat. He asked if they wanted tea, and when they said yes, he snarled an order in Chinese to someone in the kitchen. His movements were painful to watch as he creaked to a sitting position on a straight-backed wooden chair.

As Sammy Guang did this, David and Hulan had time to take in their surroundings. The modest house had not been kept up. The living room had probably been decorated for the first and only time when the Guangs moved in. The low loveseat was covered in a practical but ugly fabric that had just barely held up for fifty years. The fireplace was composed of tiles in the muted colors so prevalent in the 1920s, but this was the only interior concession to the house’s original architecture. A few Chinese “antiques”—not good, just old—spotted the room. On the floor before the picture window sat several baskets of azaleas in full bloom and a potted kumquat tree draped with a red ribbon—the beginnings of the Guang family’s Chinese New Year celebration. On the mantel, in the place of honor, were graduation photographs of what Hulan presumed were Sammy Guang’s nine—if she was counting correctly—sons.

The old man squinted at them. “You want know about Number Four?” His accent was one of the densest David had ever heard.

“Is Guang Mingyun your fourth brother?” Hulan asked.

“Number Four is in China. I am Number One. Two brothers dead many years—one in America, one in China. One more brother, Number Five, he live over there.” Sammy raised a hand gnarled by arthritis and pointed across the lake. “You want to talk to Number Five, too?”

“Yes, your brother in China also gave us his name.

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