“You were born in Wah Hong Village, weren’t you?”
The old man’s lizard eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter who told us. Is it true?” Sam asks.
The old man doesn’t respond. We wait. Around us, we hear laughing, chatting, and the sounds of chopsticks against bowls. Finally, the old man grunts.
“You’re not the only ones here on a lie,” he says in Sze Yup. “Look at the people in this restaurant. Look at the people who work in China City. Look at the people on our block and in our building. Everyone has a lie of some sort. Mine is I wasn’t born here. When the earthquake and fire in San Francisco destroyed all birth records, I was here and thirty-five years old by American counting. Like many others, I went to the authorities and told them I was born in San Francisco. I couldn’t prove I was, and they couldn’t prove I wasn’t. So now I am a citizen … on paper, just as you are my son on paper.”
“What about Yen-yen? She also came here before the earthquake. Does she claim to be a citizen too?”
The old man’s eyebrows furrow in disgust. “She’s a fu yen. She’s bad at telling lies and she can’t keep a secret. Obviously. Or you wouldn’t be here.”
Sam rubs his forehead as he absorbs the implications of all this. “If someone finds out you aren’t a real citizen, then Wilburt, Edfred—”
“Yes, all of us, including Pearl here, will be in trouble. This is why I hold you like this.” He closes his hand into a tight fist. “There can be no mistakes, no slips, eh?”
“What about me?” May asks, her voice tentative.
“Vern was born here, so you, my May, are the wife of a true citizen. You came legally and you are forever safe. But you need to watch your sister and her husband. One bad report from someone and they’ll be sent back. We could all be sent back, except for you, Vern, and Pan-di—although I’m sure the baby would go back to China with its parents and grandparents. I trust you, May, to help make sure that doesn’t happen.”
May pales at his words. “What could I ever do?”
A slight smile curls the corners of Old Man Louie’s lips, but for the first time I don’t see it as heartless. “Don’t worry too much,” he says. He turns to Sam. “Now you know my secret, and I know yours. Like a true father and son, we are bound together forever. The two of us not only protect each other but we also protect the uncles.”
“Why me?” Sam asks. “Why not one of them?”
“You know why. I need someone to care for my businesses, take care of my real son when I’m dead, and look after me as an ancestor when I go to the afterworld because Vern won’t be able to do that for me. I know you think I’m a cruel man and you probably don’t believe me, but I truly did choose you to be my replacement son. I will always look at you as my eldest son, my first son, which is why I’m so hard on you. I’m trying to be a proper father! I’m giving you everything, but you have to do three things. First, you must give up your plans to run away.” He puts up a hand to prevent any of us from speaking. “Don’t bother denying it. I’m not stupid, I know what’s happening in my home, and I’m tired of worrying about it all the time.” He pauses and then says, “You have to stop working at the Temple of Kwan Yin. That’s an embarrassment to me. My son shouldn’t need to do that job. And finally, you must promise to care for my boy when the time comes.”
Sam, May, and I look from one to the other of us. May sends me a message, almost pleading: I don’t want to keep moving. I want to stay in Haolaiwu. Sam, whom I still don’t know that well, takes my hand: Maybe this is an opportunity after all. He says he’ll treat me as the true first son. For myself… I’m tired of running. I’m not very good at it, and I have a baby to care for. But are we selling ourselves for less than what the old man already bought us for?
“If we stay,” Sam says, “you have to give us more freedom.”
“This is not a negotiation,” the old man shoots back. “You have nothing to bargain with.”
But Sam doesn’t surrender. “May is already working as an extra. This makes her happy. Now you must do the same for the sister. Let Pearl see what’s outside China City. And if you won’t let me work at the temple, then you need to pay me. If I am to be your first son, then you must treat me the same as my brother—”
“You two are not the same—”
“That’s right. I work much harder than he does. He gets paid from the family pot. I need to get paid too. Father,” Sam adds deferentially, “you know this is right.”
The old man’s knuckles tap on the table, weighing, weighing, weighing. He gives one final decisive rap, and then he stands. He reaches out his hand and squeezes Sam’s shoulder. Then he walks back to his tea cakes, tea, and friends.
The next day, I buy a newspaper, circle a classified ad, and walk to a phone booth, where I make a call about a position as a clerk in a refrigerator repair shop.
“You sound perfect, Mrs. Louie,” a pleasant voice says on the line. “Please come in for an interview.”
But when I get there and the man sees me, he says, “I didn’t realize you were Chinese. I thought you were Italian because of your name.”
I don’t get the job, and variations of this happen again and again. Finally, I put in an application at Bullock’s Wilshire Department Store. I’m hired to work in the storeroom, where no one will see me. I make eighteen dollars a week. After my time in China City, moving from the café to the various shops throughout the day, staying in one place is easy. I dress better than the other storeroom clerks and work harder too. One day the assistant manager releases me into the store proper to stack merchandise and keep it in order. After a couple of months—and intrigued by my British accent, which I use because it seems to please my Occidental boss—he promotes me to elevator operator. It can’t be easier or more mindless—-just up and down from ten in the morning until six at night—and I earn a few dollars more a month.
Then one day the assistant manager has a new idea. “We just got in a shipment of mah-jongg sets,” he says. “You’re going to help me sell them. You’re going to provide atmosphere.”
He has me change into a cheap cheongsam sent by the game’s manufacturer, and then he takes me to the ground floor just inside the main entrance and shows me a table—my table. By the end of the afternoon, I’ve sold eight sets. The following day, I come to work wearing one of my most beautiful cheongsams—bright red with embroidered peonies. I sell two dozen mah-jongg sets. When customers announce they want to learn how to play the game, the assistant manager asks me to teach a class once a week—for a fee, of which I receive a percentage. I’m doing so well that I ask the assistant manager if he’ll let me take the written test for another promotion. When his boss grades me down because of my Chinese hair, skin, and eyes, I know I’ve gone as far as I can at Bullock’s, even though I sell more mah-jongg sets than the other girls sell gloves or hats.
But what can I do? For now I’m happy with the money I make. I give a third to Father Louie, as we all have called him since he and Sam came to their agreement, for the family pot. Another third is put aside for Joy. And I keep a third to spend as I please.
SIX MONTHS AFTER the fire, on August 2, 1939, China City has its second Grand Opening, with an opera, dragon parade, lion dance, magicians, devil dancers, and carefully monitored firecrackers. In the months that follow, the fragrances of incense and gardenias perfume the air. Soft Chinese music wafts down the alleyways. Children dart among tourists. Mae West, Gene Tierney and Eleanor Roosevelt visit. Shriners host events, and fraternities come to rush. Other groups go to the Chinese Junk Café—modeled on the command ship of a pirate fleet led by the greatest pirate in the world, who just happened to be a Chinese woman—“docked” in the Harbor of Whangpoo to eat “pirate chow” and drink “pirate grog” prepared by “an expert mixologist, a man of soft words but loud concoctions.” The alleyways are full of Occidentals, but China City will never be what it was.
Perhaps people begin to stay away because ma
ny of the original sets that had been a big draw are now reproductions. Maybe they stay away because New Chinatown is seen as more modern and fun. While we were closed, New Chinatown and its neon lights seduced visitors with the promise of late nights, dancing, and amusement, while China City—no matter how much pirate grog you imbibe—is peaceful, quiet, and quaint, with its little alleyways and people dressed as villagers.
I quit my job at Bullock’s and resume my old routine of cleaning and serving in China City. This time I’m properly paid for the work I do. May, however, doesn’t want to go back to the Golden Pagoda.
“Bak Wah Tom has offered me a full-time job,” she tells Father Louie, “helping him find extras, making sure everyone arrives on time for the bus to take them to the studio, and translating on sets.”
I listen to this in surprise. I’d be better at that job. I’m fluent in Sze Yup, for one thing—something even my father-in-law understands.
“What about your sister? She’s the smart one. She should do this work.”
“Yes, my jie jie is very smart, but—”
Before she can make her arguments, he tries a different tack. “Why do you want to be apart from the family? Don’t you want to stay with your sister?”
“Pearl doesn’t mind,” May answers. “I’ve given her plenty of things she would never have otherwise.”
Lately, whenever May wants something, she reminds me that she gave me a child and all the many secrets that go with that. Is this meant to be a threat—that if I don’t let her do this she’ll tell the old man Joy isn’t mine? Not at all. This is one of those times when May has thought things through very clearly. This is her way of reminding me that I have a beautiful daughter, a husband who loves me, and a little home for the three of us in our room, while she has no one and nothing. Shouldn’t I help her get something to make her life more bearable?
“May already has experience with people from Haolaiwu,” I tell my father-in-law. “She’ll be good at this.”
So May goes to work for Tom Gubbins, and I take her place in the Golden Pagoda. I dust from one end of the store to the other. I wash the floor and windows. I make lunch for Father Louie and then scrub his dishes in a tub, throwing the dirty water outside the door as if I’m a peasant’s daughter. And I take care of Joy.
Like women everywhere, I wish I were a better mother. Joy is seventeen months old and still in diapers that have to be washed by hand. She often cries in the afternoons, and I have to walk her back and forth for what seems like hours to calm her. It isn’t her fault. Because of her filming schedules, she doesn’t sleep well at night and she barely naps during the day. She eats American food on the sets and spits out the Chinese food I make for her. I try to hold her, snuggle her, and do all the things a mother’s supposed to do, but there’s a part of me that still doesn’t like to touch or be touched. I love my daughter, but she’s a Tiger child and not easy. And then there’s May, who now spends a lot of time with Joy. A kernel of bitterness begins to grow, which Yen-yen feeds and nourishes. I shouldn’t listen to that old woman, but I can’t get away from her.
“That May thinks only of herself. Her beautiful face hides a devious heart. She has just one thing to do and she doesn’t do it. Pearl, Pearl, Pearl, you sit here and take care of a worthless girl all day. But where is your sister’s child? Why won’t she bring us a son? Why, Pearl, why? Because she’s selfish, because she doesn’t think of helping you or anyone else in the family.”
I don’t want to believe these things are true, but I can’t deny that May is changing. As her jie jie, I should try to stop it, but my parents and I didn’t know how to do it when May was a little girl and I don’t know how to do it now.
To make things more difficult, May often calls me from the set, lowers her voice, and then asks, “How in the H do I tell these people they have to carry their firearms over their shoulders?” Or “How in the H do I tell them to huddle together when they’re being beaten?” And I tell her the Sze Yup words, because I don’t know what else to do.
By Christmas, our lives have settled. May and I have been here twenty months. Making our own money allows us to slip away for excursions and treats. Father Louie calls us spendthrifts, but we always weigh how to spend our cash. I want a more stylish haircut than I can get in Chinatown, but every time I go to a beauty parlor in the Occidental part of town, they say, “We don’t cut Chinese hair.” I finally get someone to cut my hair after hours, when white customers won’t be offended by my presence. A car would be nice too—we could get a used four-door Plymouth for five hundred dollars—but we have a long way to save for that.
In the meantime, we go to the movie palaces on Broadway. Even if we pay for the best seats, we have to sit in the balcony. But we don’t care, because movies perk up the spirits. We cheer when we glimpse May as a fallen woman begging a missionary for forgiveness or Joy as an orphan being handed onto a sampan by Clark Gable. Seeing my daughter’s beautiful face on the screen, I’m embarrassed by my dark skin. I take some of my money to the apothecary and buy face cream embellished with ground pearls, hoping to make my face as fair as Joy’s mother’s should be.
During our time here, May and I have changed from beautiful girls buffeted by fate and looking for escape to young wives not completely happy with our lots—but what young wives are? Sam and I are doing the husband-wife thing, but so are May and Vern. I know because the walls are thin and I can hear everything. We have accepted and adapted to what’s safe, and we do our best to find pleasure where we can. On New Year’s Eve, we dress up and go to the Palomar Dance Hall, only to be turned away because we’re Chinese. Standing on the street corner, I gaze up and see a full moon that looks worn and blurred, dulled by the lights and the exhaust that hang in the air. As one poet wrote, Even the best of moons will be tinged with sadness.
Haolaiwu
WE ARE BACK in Shanghai. Rickshaws clatter past. Beggars squat on the ground, their arms outstretched, their palms open. Barbecued ducks hang in the windows. Street vendors hover over carts, boiling noodles, roasting nuts, frying bean curd. Peddlers sell bok choy and melons from baskets. Farmers have come into the city, carrying bundles of live chickens, ducks, and pig parts hanging from poles slung over their shoulders. Women drift past in skintight cheongsams. Old men sit on upturned crates, smoking pipes, their hands tucked into their sleeves for warmth. Thick fog drapes itself around our feet, oozing into alleys and dark corners. Red lanterns hang above us, turning everything into an eerie dream.
“Places! Places, everyone!”
Home vanishes from my mind, and I’m back on the movie set I’m visiting with May and Joy. Bright lights turn on the fake scene. A camera rolls across the floor. A man positions a sound boom overhead. It’s September 1941.
“You should be proud of Joy,” May says, brushing a loose strand of hair from my daughter’s face. “No matter what studio we go to, everyone loves her.”
Joy sits on her aunt’s lap, looking content but alert. She’s three and a half years old and beautiful; “just like her aunt,” people always say. And what a perfect auntie May is, getting Joy jobs, taking her to movie sets, making sure she has good costumes and is always in the exact right spot when the director looks for an innocent face on which to focus his camera lens. This past year or so, Joy has spent so much time with her auntie that being with me is like spending time with a bowl of rancid milk. I discipline Joy and make her eat her supper, dress properly, and show respect to her grandparents, her uncles, and every other person older than she. May prefers to indulge Joy with treats, kisses, and letting her stay up all night on shoots like this.
People have always called me the smart one—even my father-in-law says so—but what seemed like a good idea a couple of years ago has turned out to be a big mistake. When I said May could take Joy to movie sets, I didn’t fully understand that my sister was going to provide my daughter with a different world, which was fun and completely separate from me. When I mentioned this to May, she frowned and shook
her head. “It’s not like that. Come with us and watch what we do. You’ll see how good she is, and you’ll change your mind.” But this isn’t just about Joy. May wants to show off her importance, and I’m supposed to tell her how proud of her I am. We’ve followed this same pattern since we were children.
So today, in the late afternoon, we boarded a bus with neighbors for whom May had also gotten jobs. When we reached the studio, we drove through a gate and straight to the wardrobe department, where women shoved clothes at us with no regard to our sizes. I was handed a filthy jacket and a wrinkled pair of loose trousers. I hadn’t worn clothes like these since May and I crept out of China and then languished on Angel Island. When I tried to exchange them, the wardrobe girl said, “You’re supposed to look dirty, plenty dirty, understand?” May, who usually plays someone glamorous and naughty, also took a set of peasant clothes so we’d be together in the scene.
We changed in a big tent with no privacy and no heating. Somehow, although I dress my daughter every day, her auntie took charge, slipping off Joy’s felt jumper and helping her step into trousers that were as dark, dirty, and loose as the ones May and I wore. Then we went to hair and makeup. They hid our hair under black cloths wrapped tightly around our heads. They tied Joy’s hair with several rubber bands until her head looked like it was sprouting exotic black plants. They smeared our faces with brown makeup, bringing back memories of May coating my face with the mixture of cocoa and cold cream. Then we went back outside, so we could be spattered with mud from a spray gun. After that, we waited in the fake Shanghai, our wide black trousers fluttering in the breeze like dark spirits. For those born here, this is as close as they’ll ever get to the land of their ancestors. For those born in China, the set allows us a moment to feel as though we’ve been transported across the water and back in time.