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We could always trick Mama and outrun her, but Cook and the other servants had little patience for our mischief, and they didn’t hesitate to punish us.
“Pearl, remember when Cook taught us to make chiao-tzu?” May sits cross-legged on her bed across from me, her chin resting on her bunched fists, her elbows balanced on her knees. “He thought we should know how to make something. He said, ‘How are you girls going to get married if you don’t know how to make dumplings for your husbands?’ He didn’t know how hopeless we’d be.”
“He gave us aprons to wear, but they didn’t help.”
“They did when you started throwing flour at me!” May says.
What began as a lesson turned into a game and then finally into an all-out flour battle, with both of us getting really mad. Cook, who has lived with us since we moved to Shanghai, knew the difference between two sisters working together, two sisters playing, and two sisters fighting, and he didn’t like what he saw.
“Cook was so angry that he didn’t let us back in the kitchen for months,” May continues.
“I kept telling him I was just trying to powder your face.”
“No treats. No snacks. No special dishes.” May laughs at the memory. “Cook could be so stern. He said sisters who fight are not worth knowing.”
Mama and Baba knock on our door and ask us to come out, but we decline, saying we prefer to stay in our room awhile longer. Maybe it’s rude and childish, but May and I always deal with conflicts in the family this way—by holing up, and building a barricade between us and whatever has harmed us or we don’t like. We’re stronger together, united, a force that can’t be argued with or reasoned with, until others give in to our desires. But this calamity isn’t like wanting to visit your sister at camp or protecting each other from an angry parent, servant, or teacher.
May gets off her bed and brings back magazines, so we can look at the clothes and read the gossip. We comb each other’s hair. We look through our closet and drawers and try to assess how many new outfits we can make from what we have left. Old Man Louie seems to have taken almost all our Chinese clothes, leaving behind an assortment of Western-style dresses, blouses, skirts, and trousers. In Shanghai, where appearances are nearly everything, it will be important for us to look smart and not dowdy, fashionable and not last year. If our clothes seem old, not only will artists no longer hire us but streetcars won’t stop for us, doormen at hotels and clubs might not let us in, and attendants at movie theaters will double-check our tickets. This affects not only women but men too; they, even if they’re in the middle class, will sleep in lodgings plagued by bedbugs so they can afford to buy a nicer pair of trousers, which they put under their pillows each night to create sharp creases for the new day.
Does it sound like we lock ourselves away for weeks? Hardly. Just two days. Because we’re young, we’re easily cured. We’re also curious. We’ve heard noises outside the door, which we’ve ignored for hours at a time. We tried not to pay attention to the hammering and thumping that shook the house. We heard strange voices but pretended they belonged to the servants. When we finally open the door, our home has changed. Baba has sold most of our furniture to the local pawnshop. The gardener is gone, but Cook has stayed because he has nowhere else to go and he needs a place to sleep and food to eat. Our house has been chopped apart and walls added to make rooms for boarders: a policeman, his wife, and two daughters have moved into the back of the house; a student lives in the second-floor pavilion; a cobbler has taken the space under the stairs; and two dancing girls have moved into the attic. The rents will help, but they won’t be enough to care for us all.
WE THOUGHT OUR lives would go back to normal, and in many ways they do. Mama still orders around everyone, including our boarders, so we aren’t suddenly burdened with carrying out the nightstool, making beds, or sweeping. Still, we’re very aware of how far and how quickly we’ve fallen. Instead of soy milk, sesame cakes, and fried dough sticks for breakfast, Cook makes p’ao fan—leftover rice swimming in boiled water with some pickled vegetables on top for flavor. Cook’s austerity campaign shows in our lunch and dinner dishes too. We’ve always been one of those families who have wu hun pu ch’ih fan—no meal without meat. We now eat a coolie’s diet of bean sprouts, salt fish, ca
bbage, and preserved vegetables accompanied by lots and lots of rice.
Baba leaves the house every morning to look for work, but we don’t encourage him or ask him questions when he returns at night. In failing us, he’s become insignificant. If we ignore him—demeaning him by our inattention and lack of concern—then his downfall and ruin can’t harm us anymore. It’s our way of dealing with our anger and hurt.
May and I try to find jobs too, but it’s hard to get hired. You need to have kuang hsi, connections. You have to know the right people—a relative or someone you’ve courted for years—to get a recommendation. More important, you need to give a substantial gift—a leg of pork, a bedroom set, or the equivalent of two months’ salary—to the person who will make the introduction and another to the person who will hire you, even if it’s only to make matchboxes or hairnets in a factory. We don’t have money for that now, and people know it. In Shanghai, life flows like an endlessly serene river for the wealthy, the lucky, the fortunate. For those with bad fates, the smell of desperation is as strong as a rotting corpse.
Our writer friends take us to Russian restaurants and treat us to bowls of borscht and cheap vodka. Playboys—our countrymen who come from wealthy families, study in America, and go to Paris on vacation—take us to the Paramount, the city’s biggest nightclub, for joy, gin, and jazz. We hang out in dark cafés with Betsy and her American friends. The boys are handsome and adamant, and we soak them up. May disappears for hours at a time. I don’t ask where she goes or with whom. It’s better that way.
We can’t escape the sense that we’re slipping, dropping, falling.
May never stops sitting for Z.G., but I’m uncomfortable going back to his studio after having made such a scene. They finish the advertisement for My Dear cigarettes, with May doing double duty, modeling for Z.G. in her original spot and then taking my position on the back of the chair. She tells me this and encourages me to help with another calendar Z.G.’s been commissioned to do. I sit for other artists instead, but most of them just want to shoot a quick photo and work from that. I make money, but not much. Now, instead of getting new students, I lose my only student. When I tell Captain Yamasaki that May won’t accept his marriage proposal, he fires me. But that’s only an excuse. Across the city, the Japanese are acting strangely. Those who live in Little Tokyo pack up and leave their apartments. Wives, children, and other civilians return to Japan. When many of our neighbors desert Hongkew, cross Soochow Creek, and take temporary quarters in the main part of the International Settlement, I attribute it to the usual superstitious nature of my countrymen, especially the poor, who fear the known and the unknown, the worldly and the unworldly, the living and the dead.
To me, it feels as if everything has changed. The city I always loved pays no attention to death, despair, disaster, or poverty. Where once I saw neon and glamour, I now see gray: gray slate, gray stone, the gray river. Where once the Whangpoo appeared almost festive with its warships from many nations, each flying colorful flags, now the river seems choked by the arrival of over a dozen imposing Japanese naval vessels. Where once I saw wide avenues and shimmering moonlight, I now see piles of garbage, rodents boldly scurrying and scavenging, and Pockmarked Huang and his Green Gang thugs roughing up debtors and prostitutes. Shanghai, as grand as it is, is built on shifting silt. Nothing stays where it’s supposed to. Coffins buried without lead weights drift. Banks hire men to check their foundations daily to make sure that the tonnage of silver and gold hasn’t caused the building to tilt. May and I have slid from safe, cosmopolitan Shanghai to a place that’s as sure as quicksand.
May’s and my earnings are our own now, but it’s hard to save. After giving Cook money to buy food, we’re left with practically nothing. I can’t sleep for all the worry I feel. If things continue this way, soon we’ll be subsisting on bone soup. If I’m to save anything, I’ll have to go back to Z.G.’s.
“I’m over him,” I tell May. “I don’t know what I ever saw in him. He’s too thin, and I don’t like his glasses. I don’t think I’ll ever marry for real. That’s so bourgeois. Everyone says so.”
I don’t mean a word I say, but May, who I think knows me so well, responds, “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I really am. True love will find you. I know it will.”
But true love has found me. Inside I continue to suffer with thoughts of Z.G., but I hide my feelings. May and I get dressed, then pay a few coppers to ride in a passenger wheelbarrow to Z.G.’s apartment. On the way, as the wheelbarrow pusher picks up and drops off others, I agonize that seeing Z.G. in his rooms, where I held such girlish dreams, will leave me shredded with embarrassment. But once we arrive, he acts as if nothing’s happened.
“Pearl, I’m almost finished with a new kite. It’s a flock of orioles. Come take a look.”
I go to his side, feeling awkward to be standing so close to him. He chats on about the kite, which is exquisite. The eyes of each oriole have been fashioned so that they’ll spin in the wind. On each segment of the body Z.G. has attached articulated wings that will flap in the breeze. On the tips are little feathers that will quiver in the air.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“The three of us are going to fly it once it’s done,” Z.G. announces.
It isn’t an invitation, just a statement of fact. I think, if it doesn’t bother him that I made a fool of myself, then I can’t let it bother me either. I have to be tough to bear my deeper feelings, which threaten to overwhelm me.
“I’d love to do that,” I say. “May and I both would.”
They smile at each other, clearly relieved. “Great,” Z.G. says, rubbing his hands together. “Now let’s get to work.”
