by Jamie Ford
Inside, the apartment smelled like pungent dried herbs, old incense, and the ever-present camphor oil. Her mother hadn’t moved at all from when Liu Song left that morning. She adjusted the blankets and pillows to prevent bedsores, talking to her mother as if she could hear—as if there was a chance that she would come back to the world of the living. She noticed round mirrors on the window-sill, on the dresser, on the nightstand—mirrors her parents had used to symbolize a perfect marriage were now being used to ward off unwanted spirits. Uncle Leo was preparing for the worst. Whatever was happening to her mother, good or bad, would be reflected, magnified.
Liu Song pressed her face to her mother’s cheek. She felt heat from a rising fever and a wisp of her ah-ma’s breath on her ear. Liu Song closed her eyes wearily as she avoided looking into the mirrors.
Glory of Mourning
(1921)
Liu Song didn’t weep when Uncle Leo woke her up a week later and told her, “Your mother is in Heaven.” She didn’t whimper as she sat at the table and watched the undertaker bring in a pine casket while her breakfast grew cold. She didn’t even shed a tear as she dressed her mother’s frail body in an old gown she’d saved for this sad occasion, an elegant slip of ivory that now seemed three sizes too big. She did everything a dutiful, obedient, loving daughter was expected to do—without fuss or complaint. She brushed her mother’s remaining hair and carefully applied her makeup. She wore black for the wake and hung a dark wreath on the door. She burned incense and joss paper all day, sending riches to her mother in the afterlife. And she broke her mother’s favorite comb, placing half in the casket and keeping half for herself. She left the crying to the wailers. Uncle Leo had hired a trio of old women with missing teeth who were famous for their ability to sob for hours at a time, at great volume, shedding real tears.
As she sat in their living room and tried to block out the baleful noise, Liu Song wished her father and brothers had been given such a wake, but they weren’t even given proper funerals. They’d been laid to rest without caskets, since there were none to be found in the city. Instead, a truck had taken their bodies from a temporary morgue at the old city hall and delivered them to a potter’s field somewhere south of town, just past the county line. They were buried along with others who had died from influenza, without ceremony, in a massive unmarked grave.
Liu Song remembered that her father had been a pragmatic man. He always made sure he and his family wore their gauze masks. But he’d been stricken with fever and began coughing up blood two days after the Armistice celebration, when thousands of drunken revelers had taken to the streets without protection. Her brothers had died two weeks later, prompting her uncles and aunties to sell their belongings and flee with her cousins to Reno, Nevada, and Butte, Montana. Some even went back to China, leaving her alone with her widowed mother, grieving in a city overflowing with bodies, infected with mourning, prone to fevers of panic and despair.
Now she was even more alone, as Uncle Leo’s relatives, associates, and business partners came and paid their respects. To Liu Song they were a parade of strangers, who didn’t shy away from commenting in her presence.
“She didn’t even give him a son,” one woman complained bitterly.
“How terrible it must be,” another woman said, “to inherit a daughter who doesn’t carry your own blood, from a shameful mother with such bad luck! Who would want to marry Leo now—with her family’s ghosts around?”
“Maybe he’ll send the daughter away—marry her off quickly,” a man replied. “She’s too tall—her eyes too big, but there are so few girls, he’d get a nice dowry.”
Liu Song thought about her mother’s final words and her final warning as she weighed which might be worse: being stuck here, alone with Uncle Leo, or being betrothed to some unknown man, haphazardly chosen by her stepfather. She stared at the framed portrait of her mother and found no answers and little comfort.
“Ah, look at her.” A woman pointed at Liu Song. “She’s so skinny. She must be a terrible cook. No one will want her, and Leo will probably starve—that poor man.”
That poor man, Liu Song thought.
She heard laughing and cursing, and looked out the front window, watching as Uncle Leo and a group of men in shirttails and suspenders tossed dice in the alley. Her uncle had a fat pile of silver dollars and a wad of folding money in front of him as he knelt on one knee, chewing a cigar. He rolled again, smiling as the other men groaned and shook their heads, reaching into their billfolds for more cash.
Liu Song knew that it was customary for at least one person to remain awake nearby to guard the body and that men sometimes played poker and faro, mah-jongg or cribbage—anything to stay vigilant. And while Uncle Leo was extremely traditional and very superstitious by nature, she’d never heard of the husband taking on that responsibility, or enjoying it so much.
She put her head in her hands, wondering how her mother had been able to marry such a man. But after the run-in with Mildred’s mother, Liu Song finally understood—that most Chinese, even in America, regarded a woman onstage as no better than a prostitute. Her mother probably couldn’t even find a job as a maid. What choice did she have? She gave up performing, pawned her dreams, and finally lost her voice.
“Hahng’wúih?” Someone spoke. Then he switched to English. “I hope you don’t mind if I practice my American?”
Liu Song peeked through her fingers and saw pristinely polished wingtips. Then she looked up at a man in a dark wool suit and striped tie, which made him seem older than the youthful appearance of his clean-shaven face. She blinked, rubbing a bit of mascara from the corner of her eye. “Excuse me?”
The young man spoke fluently but with a strange accent. “You must be Liu Song. I could tell by the resemblance. Your mother was the most beautiful woman in Chinatown. The most talented too, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Much to her surprise, the curious man offered to pour Liu Song a cup of tea. She held the warm porcelain teacup with both hands as she noticed that the sleeves of his dress shirt hung open at the wrists. He’d removed his cuff links, all jewelry, in fact, out of respect for the dead. His simple manner was a stark contrast to the older women, who wore pieces of carved jade and decorative hatpins, dabbing the corners of their eyes with monogrammed lace.
“If I may introduce myself, I’m Colin Kwan.” He exhaled and looked as grief-stricken as she felt. “I’m … humbled by your staggering loss.”
Liu Song regarded the man and said, “Do jeh.” And then, “Thank you,” as she nodded in solemn appreciation.
“We’ve never actually met, but I was one of your father’s understudies. I came here from Hong Kong. I trained with him.” Colin cleared his throat, then removed his fedora and ran his finger along the brim. “It didn’t … work out the way I had hoped.”
Liu Song invited him to sit down and thanked him as he poured more tea into her cup. From the corner of her eye she regarded his Chinese features, his dark hair, which was neatly parted to the side and slicked back. “Your accent, is so unusual …”
“Ah, that. My English teacher was a colonial, originally from Bristol, England. Perhaps I sound more Anglo when I speak my American, yes?”
Liu Song nodded again, smiling slightly at the musical cadence of his voice. She looked around the room and realized that they were probably the only ones here who spoke English well enough to carry on a conversation. She found strange comfort in that.
“The man was an excellent teacher, but I learned a great deal more in the short time I worked with your father. And I was fortunate enough to see your mother’s remarkable performance at the Grand Opera House, before it burned down, of course.”
Liu Song’s heart ached. “Her only performance.”
“That too. Still, it was … magnificent … groundbreaking.”
“I wish I could have been there.”
Liu Song remembered staying home with her brothers that night, four years ago, when her mother took the stage am
id a kaleidoscope of giant silk flags and twirling swords—the first woman to appear in a Chinese opera in Seattle.
“It was my father’s idea. He was so excited when he saw the film version of Zhuangzi Tests His Wife, where Yan Shanshan played the servant girl. He thought he would do one better and actually have a woman play the Widow of Zhuangzi.”
A moment of silence lingered between them, and Liu Song wondered if Colin felt the biting irony as well. Her mother had played a woman whose husband faked his death to test her loyalty, to see if she would remarry. Liu Song took another sip and then stared into her half-empty teacup, watching bits of peony swirl and settle to the bottom.
The wailers began crying again in earnest, one of them tearing her clothes.
Liu Song looked at Colin as he jumped in his seat and then fanned himself with his hat. His other hand patted his heart. Liu Song tried not to laugh. She sat back in her chair and exhaled, long and slow, relaxing, remembering what it was like to be happy. Since her father had died, she’d barely known comfort or contentment.
“I brought a few things for your mother, out of respect for your father.” He reached into a leather briefcase and withdrew a small statue of T’ang Ming Huang, the patron saint of Chinese opera. He held it up for her approval. She nodded and watched him place the clay figurine on the shrine near the casket, next to offerings of food, money, and smoldering joss paper.
“And I’ve had this for some time, but I’d rather it belong to your family now.” He held out an opera mask with both hands. “It was …”
“My mother’s.” Liu Song took the mask, gently, looking at the ornate design—dramatic features painted in red, green, and black.
“This is the one she wore …”
“As Zhuangzi’s wife,” Colin said with a polite smile.
Liu Song touched the wooden mask as though she were caressing her mother’s cheek. She brought it to her nose, and for a moment she thought it even smelled like her mother’s perfume, or at least the greasy black eye makeup that she wore.
“The art director took ill,” Colin said. “So I offered to take it home and replace the straps on the back. I was eager to do anything to impress your father. But then the fire—I know your father looked for another venue …”
“And then the quarantines.”
Colin frowned and nodded. “I was unable to return it. I sent letters to Leo—your stepfather. I told him that I had something that belonged to your mother, but either he never received the missives or he never bothered to reply.”
Liu Song knew the answer. She thanked him, then excused herself for a moment and walked to her mother’s open casket, lingering, looking at her ah-ma’s hands. Her fingers, which had been long and graceful, now looked aged, withered. Liu Song reached out to touch them, but stopped an inch away when she felt the absence of warmth and noticed that her mother’s favorite ring had been removed—the ring that she had been given by Liu Song’s father after they were wed. Her mother had continued to wear it, since Uncle Leo never gave her a new one.
Liu Song held the mask and ground her teeth, her heart pounding, angry and laden with guilt—she shook her head and wondered why she hadn’t cried. What kind of shameful daughter was she? She should be on her knees in a pool of tears, pulling out her hair and screaming. Instead she drifted to her bedroom, unnoticed, a specter in a room full of shadows. She hid the mask in the valise under her bed with her mother’s other precious possessions, a photo of her father, her mother’s favorite brooch, her brother’s empty cologne bottle, and odds and ends from a life she was orphaned from.
When she returned to the living room, her heart sank as she realized the young man was gone; his chair and teacup were empty. She felt more alone than before.
Most of the visitors had left or were in the process of leaving, all but a handful of men that Uncle Leo had selected as pallbearers, toothless men who worked in his laundry. None of them had known Liu Song, or her parents. If they seemed unaffected by their duties, the three wailers more than made up for their stoic expressions. As the casket was slowly closed, the three old women cried and screamed hysterically, their shoulders heaving with a crescendo of violent sobs. Uncle Leo covered his ears and yawned.
Liu Song took one final look at her mother’s face and then stepped back.
“Goodbye, Ah-ma,” she whispered.
Everyone turned their backs since it was terribly unlucky to watch a coffin being nailed shut. All but Liu Song, who numbly watched a white-haired man in an old suit swing a small hammer again and again. The pounding reminded her of the rhythmic sound of coiled bedsprings.
Liu Song watched each nail sink deeper.
I’m already cloaked in bad luck, what more can be done to me? she thought. I have no one else—no one left to lose. I have nothing.
As Liu Song stared at the casket, she imagined her mother inside, her eyes opening again, filled with tears. Her mother’s cracked lips, her frail voice urging, pleading, “Run away, Liu Song. Run away.”
Big Mother
(1921)
After Liu Song’s mother was lowered into the ground, Uncle Leo went out to dinner with his family and friends. He didn’t bother to invite Liu Song, so she stayed at the cemetery and picked wildflowers. She placed them on the tiny slab of marble that marked her mother’s grave. As she regarded the elaborate, towering headstones to the left and right of her mother’s humble plot, she tried to remember how her ah-ma had looked when she left for her performance—so alive, so vibrant, larger than life; no stage seemed too grand for her. But now there was no audience, no curtain call. Now her ah-ma would remain in the wings, the backstage of a sodden hill, a forgotten bit player, forever.
Liu Song walked home alone in the rain, down King Street, beneath a blizzard of painted signs and hanging lanterns. As she passed the Twin Dragons Restaurant, she could see Uncle Leo and his family through the rain-streaked glass, sitting at round tables, crowded with platters of food on spinning lazy Susans. But instead of eating tofu, boiled white chicken, and jai choy, the heavenly vegetables one would normally eat after a funeral, the mourners laughed as they feasted on roast duck with ginger and chives, oily rock cod, served whole, and tureens of oxtail soup. They were enjoying a celebratory dinner. Liu Song smelled sesame oil and heard the sizzle and pinging of a cast-iron wok in the kitchen as more dishes were brought out, but she had no appetite. Her belly was full of grief. She had feasted on the bitter rind of sorrow.
At home, she left the lights off. She donned a nightgown and then crawled into bed, tucking her head beneath the covers. She imagined the blankets were shovelfuls of dirt, burying herself in darkness as her wet hair dampened the sheets. She curled up so tightly she could feel the beat of her heart, her blood pulsing in her legs. She slapped her face and pinched her cheeks, hoping to make herself cry—wishing the knot of grief inside her chest could be expelled, cut off, cauterized. She’d watched her mother slip away, one piece, one touch, and one memory at a time. Liu Song had lived for the past four years in a state of perpetual mourning—maybe she’d already exhausted a lifetime supply of tears.
As she drifted to sleep she thought about the comfort of the earth, the ground, where her family had all been laid to rest. Then her thoughts drifted to the strange young man—her father’s understudy. She wondered how old he must be, perhaps in his mid-twenties, too old, perhaps. She doubted he would call on her again. Why would he? Though she certainly entertained the notion of finding him—just to see him perform, of course. She could allow herself that. She knew that a schoolgirl crush was foolish, but the theater community was small, competitive, and well connected—there had even been talk in the newspaper of building a Chinese opera house. If Colin Kwan was in town, she could find him. That wouldn’t be too desperate, would it? As she slept, she dreamt of her father, strong and passionate, wearing the mask and gown of a qing yi—a noblewoman, exuding grace and virtue. And she fantasized about her parents bringing the young understudy to America as Liu Song’s t
utor—and suitor, for an arranged marriage that would play out onstage, in three acts plus an encore. But as much as she wanted it to be a hero’s story, even in a dream, she knew that tale could only end in tragedy.
With her family gone she was certain no man would want her. Her parents would have discouraged all of the Chinese-born suitors, knowing that if she married one of them she risked losing her status as an American-born citizen. Plus the students who spoke Mandarin had always looked down on her, while the Cantonese men all wanted wives born in China—versed in the traditions of submission and subservience. They regarded her as too tall; or too skinny, her eyes were too round, or she was too ugly, too modern, too American. And no one wanted a shameful performer for a daughter-in-law.
But this is only Act One, she thought, still dreaming.
In a lucid state, she wondered what it might be like to see Colin perform to a packed house—perhaps she’d join him in front of the footlights one day at the Moore Theatre or the Palace up north, in Vancouver, where she first saw her father perform. The notion of klieg lights and plush velvet curtains only made her ache for her mother—for her family. And when she imagined Colin onstage, she also saw her father, and then her uncle. Drunk with sadness, she felt a stranger’s breath on her neck and turned her head, sure that she was still dreaming, until she felt the covers pulled back and smelled barley wine, and ginger, and sesame oil. She sensed thick fingers, tugging, rending the fabric of her bedclothes. She felt a calloused hand over her mouth as a man’s knees parted hers. “M`h’gōi bōng ngóh!” Her scream for help was muffled as she struggled to fight him off. Liu Song stared at the shadowy tin ceiling, horrified. She felt pain and grief, shock and sorrow, and crushing, suffocating humiliation amid the bristling whiskers on his chin, the hair on his legs, and the sweaty folds of his unwashed skin. She felt him tugging on the wide elastic of her sanitary belt, pausing, then pulling it aside. She thrashed with all her might, hysterically, but she was almost as small as her mother. She felt stabbing pain, tearing, but she couldn’t cry. She closed her eyes and was someplace else—someone else, an actress in a silent film. She was Pearl White in Perils of Pauline, tied to a train track as a hulking steam locomotive chugged through a cloud of coal smoke, bearing down on her. Then the scene faded to black.