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532 pages, Paperback
First published September 7, 2004
It was while living in this flat that I first got the idea that I might try to write and sell science fiction stories. The reason was simple. I needed the money. ... We had been squeaking by for years on nothing much. I think it may have been easier in those days than it is today to exist with no visible means of support. ... In all my meanderings I had never held an actual job for more than a few weeks.
I got [Picnic on Nearside] down to pretty much exactly 10,000 words... and discovered that I had accidentally improved the story tremendously. I sent it back, and a few months later got a check for $200. That was a whole month’s rent, with $25 left over to buy records! I decided this was the life for me.
Where does one start in describing Lisa Foo? Remember when newspapers used to run editorial cartoons of Hirohito and Tojo, when the Times used the word “Jap” without embarrassment? Little guys with faces wide as footballs, ears like jug handles, thick glasses, two big rabbity buck teeth, and pencil-thin moustaches …
Leaving out only the moustache, she was a dead ringer for a cartoon Tojo. She had the glasses, and the ears, and the teeth. But her teeth had braces, like piano keys wrapped in barbed wire. And she was five-eight or five-nine and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and ten. I’d have said a hundred, but added five pounds each for her breasts, so improbably large on her scrawny frame that all I could read of the message on her T-shirt was “POCK LIVE.” It was only when she turned sideways that I saw the esses before and after.
“Do I frighten you, Victor?”
“You did at first.”
“It’s my face, isn’t it?”
“It’s a generalized phobia of Orientals. I suppose I’m a racist. Not because I want to be.”
She nodded slowly, there in the dark. We were on the patio again, but the sun had gone down a long time ago. I can’t recall what we had talked about for all those hours. It had kept us busy, anyway.
“I have the same problem,” she said.
“Fear of Orientals?” I had meant it as a joke.
“Of Cambodians.” She let me take that in for a while, then went on. “When Saigon fell, I fled to Cambodia. It took me two years with stops when the Khmer Rouge put me in labor camps. I’m lucky to be alive, really.”
“I thought they called it Kampuchea now.”
She spat. I’m not even sure she was aware she had done it.
“It’s the People’s Republic of Syphilitic Dogs. The North Koreans treated you very badly, didn’t they, Victor?”
“That’s right.”
“Koreans are pus suckers.” I must have looked surprised, because she chuckled.
“You Americans feel so guilty about racism. As if you had invented it and nobody else—except maybe the South Africans and the Nazis—had ever practiced it as heinously as you. And you can’t tell one yellow face from another, so you think of the yellow races as one homogeneous block. When in fact Orientals are among the most racist peoples on the earth. The Vietnamese have hated the Cambodians for a thousand years. The Chinese hate the Japanese. The Koreans hate everybody. And everybody hates the ‘ethnic Chinese.’ The Chinese are the Jews of the east.”
“I’ve heard that.”
She nodded, lost in her own thoughts.
“And I hate all Cambodians,” she said, at last. “Like you, I don’t wish to. Most of the people who suffered in the camps were Cambodians. It was the genocidal leaders, the Pol Pot scum, who I should hate.” She looked at me. “But sometimes we don’t get a lot of choice about things like that, do we, Yank?”