Songs of Willow Frost

by Jamie Ford

  “You don’t cook. You don’t eat,” Auntie Eng said as she sat down at the table.

  The visitors looked at Liu Song as if she were the stranger in their home.

  “My sisters and my nephews,” Auntie Eng said. “They came up with me from Portland. My sisters will sleep in your room tonight. Their sons will share the couch.”

  Liu Song stood helpless and hungry as the visitors stared back; then they ignored her and continued eating and chattering about Leo and how fortunate he was that Auntie Eng had been able to finally come to the United States. The Chinese Exclusion Act had limited the flow of Chinese workers from hundreds of thousands twenty years ago to almost none today. Fortunately for Uncle Leo, his immigration records had been destroyed in the fires caused by the great San Francisco earthquake. After a three-day interrogation at Angel Island, he showed up on the steps of the newly rebuilt city hall with hundreds of other Chinese workers and posed as a paper son—claiming to have been born in the United States. Following a lengthy appeal, he was granted full citizenship, which allowed him to eventually bring over his paper wife, who lived with her sisters until Liu Song’s mother finally passed away.

  The notion of Uncle Leo marking time with each of her mother’s seizures, each fevered moment, made Liu Song sick to her stomach. He’d been waiting, barely able to contain his annoyance at having to care for her ailing mother. Liu Song went to her room to collect herself. Then she fixed up her bed and found blankets for the children. After that she went to the living room and sat quietly as Auntie Eng and her sisters played mah-jongg and gossiped and drank huangjiu from porcelain teacups that her mother had been given as a wedding present. The women talked about war and famine and the fall of the Manchus, and about family they had left behind and hadn’t seen for years. They clucked about Uncle Leo’s businesses. He’d opened hand laundries in Portland and Olympia, and had bought a used laundry truck, but still worried about losing business to the new treadle-driven machines. The women talked and smoked and belched and ate boiled peanuts, throwing the wet shells on the floor until the barley wine ran out and they all staggered off to bed, leaving Liu Song to sweep up. She ate the peanuts that remained in the bowl and then changed into her bedclothes. She curled up on the cold wooden floor, next to the hissing radiator, with only a sheet, listening to the children snore. She had terrible dreams, and when she woke in the morning she had strange bruises in hidden places and smelled like Uncle Leo.

  MR. BUTTERFIELD WAS right. The next day the rubbernecker bus came by twice. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon, loaded with gawkers who marveled at Liu Song. Some even got off the bus and had her sign their sheet music.

  One well-heeled blond woman handed her a small leather book and a pencil. “Just your name, dear,” she said. And after Liu Song wrote her name in Chinese, the woman asked again, “No, your real name. What’s your name in English?”

  Liu Song hesitated, confused, then signed Willow. She wondered if this was what it had been like for her ah-ma on the evening of her grand performance. She wondered if her mother had had any inkling of how bad things would soon get.

  BY DAY’S END, Mr. Butterfield was humming a happy tune and counting the money he’d made. “We’ll need to double our orders of sheet music,” he said as he sat down on an old leather stool and unscrewed his hip flask. He offered it to Liu Song, who shook her head and smiled politely.

  “I haven’t played that much since I was your age,” he said. “Who knows? We keep this up, kid—I might even sell a few of the new Weltes.”

  Liu Song took a dusting rag and wiped down one of the enormous pianolas. “Do I get a commission on one of these as well?” she asked.

  Mr. Butterfield took another swig. “Missy, if we sell one of the player pianos, I’ll give you ten percent, and ten percent of every roll of music that goes with it to boot. Though you might have to shorten your skirt a bit if you expect to attract those kinds of dollars. Your voice isn’t your only sales tool, you know.”

  Liu Song ignored his comment about her skirt and played a few notes on the piano. She didn’t know much, just some jazz stingers she’d heard in the neighborhood and had taught herself to play. She plunked away, then left the store on an open chord.

  As she walked to the trolley stand, she contemplated earning twenty-five dollars per piano—fifty for a deluxe model, enough to move out on her own, for a while at least. She wondered if she’d be able to enroll in school again, or if she needed a parent, and would Uncle Leo and Auntie Eng even let her leave? She felt tightness in her chest, her gut. She hated the thought of being alone but hated the notion of going home even more. Then she remembered that even if she sold one of the autopianos, the money would probably go directly to her uncle. She slumped onto a cold iron bench next to a man reading a copy of The Seattle Star. As she glanced at the paper she recognized the dress on the back page—her mother’s dress, the same dress she was wearing. The feature photo was of her, singing in front of Butterfield’s. The man slowly lowered the newspaper. She recognized his eyes, his gentle smile.

  “Not bad for black-and-white,” Colin said with his curious accent as he folded the paper and handed it to her. “But you’d look much better in Kinemacolor.”

  Liu Song had seen only one moving picture in color—The Gulf Between, with Grace Darmond. Her father had taken her to a matinee of the sad tale of a young girl who falls in love with a man whose wealthy, disapproving family comes between them. As Liu Song delighted in Colin’s presence, her happiness flowing from her beating heart to her aching stomach, she worried about having feelings for someone—anyone—especially after losing so many people who had meant so much to her. She hesitated to hope and dream, unsure if she could take another loss—even a rejection seemed far beyond her capacity to endure.

  “Ngóh m’mìhng?” Liu Song was weary from singing all day, but now her tongue was tied in knots. She switched to English. “Why are you here?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that’s terribly rude …”

  “Well, aside from working on my American dialect, I had to see—no, I had to hear you for myself. After reading such a flattering write-up in the Star, I thought I’d pay you a visit. And to be honest, I think you even outdid your mother—may her spirit rest.”

  Liu Song’s smile faded as she looked down at her empty hands. “I can’t believe she’s gone. It’s better for her, I’m sure. But …”

  “Again, I’m so terribly sorry, Liu Song.”

  “My parents …”

  “Are proud of you.”

  Liu Song heard a brass bell as a streetcar came and went. It was getting late and her stomach was growling, but she didn’t want to go home. She felt grateful that Uncle Leo read the Post-Intelligencer instead of The Seattle Star.

  “I knew your parents well enough to know that they would want you to perform, onstage, singing, acting—any way you can. Even here.” He touched the newspaper. “This is a good start. I think your mother’s spirit has been busy.”

  Liu Song ached for her ah-ma’s presence. A Chinese spirit is said to come back in seven days, before departing. Perhaps her mother was looking out for her.

  “And what of your parents? Your family, back home, your wife?” As Liu Song asked, she could see the discomfort in Colin’s face. He frowned and exhaled slowly, staring up at the cloudy sky. She glanced at his finger and didn’t see a wedding ring, though they weren’t so common in China, where a dowry was more important. The gift of an appliance or a car wasn’t unheard of instead of a token piece of jewelry.

  “Ah, my parents,” Colin said. “My father is a banker. And Mother stays at home. Her skin is so pale—I don’t think she ever goes outside. She’s too busy tending to my brothers and sisters, and my grandparents. I’m the firstborn son, so I’m expected to take a part in my father’s business—to get married, to care for my mother and my siblings …”

  Liu Song was taken aback as Colin struggled to explain.

  “But, you’re here,” she said. />
  He nodded, slowly. “That I am. I’m here. I always wanted to perform—always wanted to be an actor.” The words came out almost as an apology. “First in the opera, like your lou dou—he was one of the first performers I had ever met. Your father encouraged me—jokingly of course, but I took him quite seriously. And growing up, I read constantly. I studied English. My father assumed it was to help in business, but I had other plans. While other men my age looked for an obedient wife, I watched every play, photoplay, and moving picture that I could. I wanted to be Chai Hong in An Oriental Romeo.”

  “And then you left your family?” Liu Song asked, astonished that a man his age would break with such traditions. She was different—she was an American. But most of the Chinese-born sons she knew would never think of leaving their families. Who would take care of their mothers when their fathers died?

  “My parents said I had been corrupted, that movies were filled with vice and carnality. I’m sorry. You must think dreadful things about me now,” Colin said, staring down at his polished shoes. “For my nineteenth birthday my father sent me to America on a business holiday, alone. He bought me a token partnership in a Chinese American business so I could come and go, in and out of the country, as a merchant. I handled his affairs—did everything I was supposed to do. The trip was a success. And then … I sent a letter home informing him that I wasn’t planning to return, that my younger brother should take my place.”

  Liu Song saw the sadness wash over him.

  “That was two years ago,” he said. “I hope to return one day as a famous actor, or at least a successful one. I hope that’s enough to save face—to be forgiven. I know. Foolish of me, yes? My father—he is a very wealthy man. But even as his firstborn son I was never afforded the simple luxury of … dreaming—of doing something on my own. But here, I can live my dream.” He wiped his hands on his pants.

  “Even on an actor’s wages?”

  “Even on an actor’s wages.” Colin laughed. “So I met with your father and he took me on as his understudy. I even met your uncle once. He was there for your mother’s performance. He was intrigued—everyone was.”

  “He’s not really my uncle.” Liu Song’s stomach turned as she thought of the man. “He had another wife in a village near Canton. He only married my mother to try and have a son. Now his first wife is here and I’m the servant, stepchild.” Brood mare.

  “You’re like Yeh-Shen.” Colin smiled.

  Liu Song shook her head. The only thing she had in common with the Chinese Cinderella was the part about the wicked stepmother. There was no golden slipper, no magic fish to clothe her in finery, no spring festival at which to find her prince. “There’s no happy ending to my fairy tale.”

  “Then you should leave,” he said, as if it were that simple.

  “And go where?”

  Colin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I know you’re hurting. But you could be like me and just follow your heart—who knows where it will take you?”

  Liu Song found comfort and solace in his sympathetic eyes.

  “This is Gum Shan. Your father knew this,” he whispered. “But the gold isn’t in the mountains anymore. It’s found on the streets. You saw it yourself—the way those people regarded you. Here, you can be anyone you want to be—it’s all about your performance. From the way you sing, the way you act, I think you know exactly what I’m referring to. I never feel more myself than when I’m pretending to be someone else. If I were to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a banker—that would be the illusion, that would be stage magic and acting, because that’s not who I am.”

  Liu Song hung on his every word.

  “Though I must admit I’m truly not much of an opera singer. I don’t think I have such a promising future onstage, but that’s not where the future is.”

  Liu Song followed his gaze as they both looked back down Second Avenue.

  “The Tillicum, the Clemmer, the Melbourne, the Alaska Theatre—there are eighty movie theaters in Seattle and they’re opening more every month, practically every week,” he said. “That’s the future.”

  The future, Liu Song thought. She imagined those enormous letters as a movie title on a twinkling marquee, with her name featured below. For the first time since her mother died, her timid hopes felt real—it felt possible to be something greater than a stepchild and a source of income for Uncle Leo, or a housemaid and nanny for Auntie Eng and her greedy, slovenly family.

  “The future”—Liu Song nodded slowly—“in black-and-white.”

  The Devil’s Claim

  (1921)

  In the future you can be anyone you want to be.

  Those words haunted Liu Song all the way home. That and the thought of Colin forsaking his father and his family for the stage and then giving up the stage for the silver screen—running toward an unknown future, arms outstretched, but alone.

  Liu Song had been so alone for so long. She’d been mired in sorrow, been beaten down with despair and hopelessness—to the point of numbness. Now she felt as though she were seeing the world with new eyes, her mother’s eyes.

  What would my father think? she wondered. Her parents had adored photoplays and motion picture shows even though the audiences were so modern, the themes so unconventional.

  The notion of Liu Song performing on-screen seemed as ridiculous, as unseemly, as that of her mother performing onstage. But as she passed a crowd of ticket buyers who patiently waited in line outside a theater showing The Devil’s Claim, her perspective shifted like a kaleidoscope, and she marveled at the new shapes, colors, and designs of the future that coalesced in her imagination. Especially when she noticed the enormous movie poster featuring the dashing Sessue Hayakawa. Her father had once raved about Hayakawa performing onstage in The Three Musketeers—in Japanese.

  “He wasn’t some coolie actor. His gestures were so dramatic, so poetic, you didn’t even need to understand the language—that’s great acting,” her father had said.

  And though Hayakawa must have spoken English with a lingering accent, it didn’t matter in silent films. The performance spoke for itself. All that mattered were his handsome looks, his brooding presence, and his piercing eyes, which made even the most matronly of American women swoon. He’d appeared in dozens of films, and Liu Song’s father had said he was as famous as Douglas Fairbanks and Charlie Chaplin.

  Colin reminded her of Hayakawa, but the similarities went beyond mysterious eyes and a perfect smile. As she daydreamed about Colin, she didn’t know what she liked more, his ambition—his willingness to follow his dreams—or his quiet sadness—his reluctance and guilt at having to forsake his familial obligations. His conflict was real. He wore his lament. And he didn’t hide the fact that his dreams were burdened with a heavy price. It was a peculiar kind of integrity; it reminded her of her father.

  As Liu Song passed the boarded-up remains of the old Opera House, the cold wind carried the smell of rain-soaked soot and ash. The brick structure had survived, but the wooden joists, rafters, and parquet flooring had gone up in a tremendous blaze. Now the building was being rebuilt, repurposed as a parking garage.

  Liu Song stopped and stared at one of the brick walls, which still had the pasted remnants of a poster for Zhuangzi Tests His Wife. The years had faded the colors, which made the Widow of Zhuangzi look even more heartbroken; the expression of her mask showcased her misery—her tortured soul put to the test. The gown in the painting was the one her mother had worn—the one Liu Song kept beneath her bed. As she stared at the poster, she thought about her mother’s presence—her ah-ma’s busy spirit, as Colin had said. Liu Song was so grateful to have the mask her mother had worn. In the drizzling rain, Liu Song said a silent prayer to the remains of the theater, as Yeh-Shen had prayed above the bones of her past, hoping for new clothes and a new life. “Ah-ma, you wore the colors of sickness and despair,” Liu Song said as she remembered what the colors represented onstage—the symbolism her father had taught her.
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  As she passed a Buddhist church and a Shinto temple and walked through the Japanese settlement past Cherry Land Florist, Liu Song remembered her mother’s favorite tea, made from the seeds of a blue flower. She stopped at the Murakami Store on Weller and wandered the aisles, which were crowded with crates and boxes of dry goods. She was looking for the seeds and perhaps an answer to her prayer. Instead she found something that would suffice—an assortment of ceramic paints. Liu Song carefully selected two small jars, one gold, the other silver. She had just enough money to buy both.

  Satisfied, she walked down the alley to her apartment, thinking, Ah-ma, soon you’ll perform again. Soon you’ll wear the colors you deserve.

  THE APARTMENT WAS crowded and smelled like cigarettes, flatulence, and sweaty feet. Auntie Eng’s sisters were still there. They’d made themselves at home, stringing wet laundry across the alley while their children cut paper dolls out of newspaper, leaving the remains all over the floor. One of them had even bought a turtle from the pet store in the alley and let the reptile creep around Liu Song’s room. If I’m lucky, Auntie Eng will cook it, Liu Song thought.

  Despite this chaos, Liu Song bridled her anger and her fear. She remained silent, and like Yeh-Shen, she did what she was told. She helped cook dinner and doted on Auntie Eng’s family. Liu Song played with the children, even though none of them knew how to share and cried when they didn’t get their way, drawing stern reprimands from Auntie Eng and her sisters. They blamed Liu Song for being a poor, undisciplined caretaker. Liu Song even went to the store to buy a tin of wet snuff for Auntie Eng’s sister, who chewed the ground tobacco and then spat the vile, pungent remains into a Folgers coffee can.

  Fortunately for Liu Song, Uncle Leo cared for their slovenly houseguests even less than she did. He popped in to eat, shave, and mask his stench with a splash of bay rum cologne. He’d light prayer sticks in his family shrine, asking for good fortune. Then he would depart for a meeting at the Eng Suey Sun Benevolent Association or catch up to a poker game at the Wah Mee, often returning just before sunrise. Sometimes he would wake her up, but even then she would pretend she was asleep—dead to the world, a part of her dying each time.