Songs of Willow Frost

by Jamie Ford

  As she regarded her reflection, Liu Song noticed that she wasn’t smiling. She realized she was wary of getting her hopes up. Happiness in her lifetime had been a scarce commodity, and she mistrusted not so much Colin’s intentions as her own turn of fortune. She’d been unlucky most of her life, the only exception being the smiling, raven-haired boy who sucked his thumb and waved at strangers as they passed. So Liu Song made small talk, trying not to reveal how deeply she cared, how complete she felt, even as they huffed and puffed up First Hill, which the locals called Profanity Hill because the street was so steep that men would curse their way to the top. Colin pushed the carriage, whistling a happy tune as he easily navigated the arduous incline.

  When they finally arrived at Smith Tower, Liu Song stared up and felt a wave of vertigo as clouds slowly drifted past the tip of the tallest building west of the Mississippi. She steadied herself and then reached into her purse. Colin stopped her and paid for their tickets with a twenty-dollar bill.

  The visit to the tower was William’s first time in an elevator. His eyes grew wide and he held Liu Song’s hand tightly as they peered through the windows of the latticed brass elevator doors, watching each floor disappear, revealing another level of smoke-filled offices, lobbies, suites—filled with busy, important-looking executives.

  Liu Song felt faint as they stepped off the elevator car onto the thirty-fifth floor. She’d never been higher than atop a seven-story building. The breathtaking views of the city, the Puget Sound, and the Olympic Mountains on the horizon made her knees go weak.

  “Just look at that,” Colin said. “Thirty years ago an aeronaut named Professor Pa Van Tassell floated out over the water beneath a balloon powered by the Seattle Gas Company. He jumped from two thousand feet up, with a parachute.”

  Liu Song thought he was teasing her, making up stories.

  “No, really. He landed safely near the shore.” Colin wrapped his arm around hers and pushed the carriage with one hand as an usher in a bright red uniform with gold epaulets welcomed visitors into the famed Chinese Room. “Sometimes you just have to go where the wind blows you.”

  As Liu Song stared in surprise and fascination at the Chinese furniture and the hand-carved ceiling, she asked Colin, “Did you know about all this?”

  “I did.” He nodded. “But I had to see it to believe it.”

  “Would you like to sit in the Wishing Chair?” another usher asked as he pointed to an ornate throne in the center of the room that had a gorgeous view of Mount Rainier. When Liu Song approached, she could see the intricate carving of a dragon swallowing the world on the backrest, while the armrests were serpents. A pair of fierce, crouching lions, carved from polished rosewood, flanked the throne. “Everything you see here was a gift given to the Smith family,” the usher said. “From Her Royal Highness Tzu-hsi the Empress of China, but I’m sure you know that.”

  Liu Song smiled politely. She didn’t know much Chinese history but did remember that, according to her father, the Dowager Empress had once been a concubine, elevated by the status of her son—the Emperor’s rightful heir. And she supported the Chinese Opera. Tzu-hsi had been hated and loved for that, among countless other reasons. Liu Song understood how that felt.

  Colin turned to Liu Song and said, “After you, Your Majesty,” but William had finally grasped the reality of how high they were and wanted to be held by his mother.

  “You first,” she said. “I insist. Besides, I’m hardly of noble birth.”

  She watched as Colin bowed, waved to the tourists out on the observation deck as though they were his honored guests. Then he sat down as the usher smiled.

  “Why is it called the Wishing Chair?” Liu Song asked. She set William down, and he walked around the room, timidly stepping toward the wraparound deck with its polished brass railings and the fresh, salty air. He came back and held her hand as she looked at Colin.

  “It’s called the Wishing Chair,” the usher said, “because legend has it that whoever sits in the chair will be married within a year. The Smiths’ daughter was the first to sit there. She ended up getting married a year later, in this very room.”

  Liu Song tried not to blush as Colin stared back at her, unblinking.

  “But,” the usher said, puncturing the awkward silence, “since you two are already married, perhaps some other good fortune will come your way.”

  Liu Song looked at Colin, and he smiled; neither said a word until William spoke, furrowing his brow and pointing at Colin as he blurted, “Dadda?”

  AFTERWARD THEY ATE lunch at the Brooks Brothers restaurant, which drew stares from the other patrons, but Liu Song didn’t mind. Then Colin walked them back to the Bush Hotel. Liu Song invited him up for tea, but he declined with a polite smile.

  “I would love to, honestly, but you’re an unmarried woman with a child. I don’t want to overstay my welcome. Besides, it’s probably his nap time.”

  Liu Song was somewhat crestfallen when he kissed her on the cheek and waved goodbye. She felt slightly rejected after such a lovely time together—a perfect afternoon—but she knew he was right. He was looking out for her, worrying about her, because in a careless moment she might create more problems than she could handle. She remembered when she’d first moved into the hotel, how the gray-haired Chinese manager had assumed she was a rich man’s mistress. In retrospect she supposed that was the only reason he agreed to rent her the room. Either way, she was thankful that he let them live there, despite having to turn down his numerous advances and offers of opportunities to work off her rent.

  A single mother in a neighborhood filled with Chinese bachelors, she was grateful to have William, whose mere presence generally managed to keep those with less than honorable intentions at bay, as his smile softened hearts everywhere he went.

  As Liu Song walked down the hallway, she noticed that the door to her apartment was slightly ajar. She thought about going back downstairs and fetching the manager in case there was a burglar, but then she remembered the only other person who had a key. Liu Song slowly opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Mildred standing in the bathroom. Her friend had her face to the mirror as she painted her lips a bright shade of raspberry. Mildred smacked her lips together and then tucked the metal lipstick tube into a tiny sequined clasp. She turned to Liu Song and puckered her lips to show off a perfect Cupid’s bow.

  “Sorry, Willow. I didn’t mean to bust in, but I have another date and my mother wouldn’t let me out of the house if I had makeup on. How do I look?”

  Mildred was the only person who called her Willow outside the club. She was a senior in high school now and thought the moniker was such a modern name—a grown-up name, as if having a child wasn’t grown-up enough. Liu Song inspected Mildred’s thick eyeliner and eyelashes, painted black. She reached up and smoothed out the pinkish tone of her friend’s rouged cheeks.

  “Do I know the lucky fellow?” Liu Song asked in Chinese.

  “His name is Andy Stapleton,” Mildred answered in English. “In case you were wondering. Not that you need to know.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes. “He’s an incredible dancer—he knows the Charleston, the Lindy, and the tango.”

  Liu Song checked William’s diaper and then put him down for a nap. She turned back to Mildred and looked her up and down appraisingly. “And you thought your mother would be upset with just the makeup?” Liu Song knew that many girls Mildred’s age had already been betrothed by their parents. Dating, not to mention dancing, was a Western concept that good Chinese girls didn’t entertain.

  “So he’s a gwai lo.” Liu Song addressed the obvious as if saying it out loud, confronting Mildred with the truth, would somehow force her friend back to a point of reason.

  Mildred put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Oh, Willow, don’t be so crude. He’s not a round-eyed devil. He’s a sai yan. He’s an American. You dance with gentlemen just like him every weekend.”

  “I waltz—that’s a big differen
ce. And I don’t have parents to condemn me for it. Plus I have a child to feed and clothe.”

  “I’m just having fun. Aren’t I allowed? I would think that you of all people wouldn’t chastise me for this. I’ll be more careful …”

  “You can never marry him,” Liu Song stated. She didn’t want to argue, but she did hope to talk her dear friend away from the edge of the emotional cliff she was standing on. Both of them knew that there were laws preventing mixed-race marriages. Her parents had told her stories of wayward Chinese girls running off with their sai yan boyfriends. Even in states like Washington that didn’t have provisions preventing such marriages, the judges or justices of the peace could arbitrarily throw out requests for a marriage license at any time, for any reason. In a small community where a girl’s reputation was everything, Mildred was wading into the deep part of the ocean. She was a teenage girl splashing about, unaware of the big waves that could sweep her away. Which was why Liu Song was so grateful for Colin. He was perfect for her. He accepted who she was, where she’d been, and what she wanted to become one day. In fact, he encouraged her—he championed her every step.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Liu Song asked. “You can never marry a sai yan.”

  Mildred smoothed out her lipstick with a tissue. “Good!” She laughed. “Because I’m never getting married—ever. Look around you. It’s 1924, not 1824. I’m American-born and so are you. I’m going to be a modern girl and live it up. All I want is to let my stockings down and have fun and do what I please, whenever I please, with whomever I please. I don’t care what my parents think. They’re stuck in the past. I’m not. That makes all the difference in the world. Don’t you think?”

  Like Mildred, Liu Song had been born here but raised in a family steeped in tradition. She was a citizen, Colin wasn’t. But in many ways he was more modern than she. Their relationship was all so confusing. She thought about the Wishing Chair and marriage, remembering that he was foreign-born. She wouldn’t be able to marry him either, without losing her citizenship. If that happened (as she dared to dream), what would become of William? What price might he have to pay?

  A WEEK LATER the hotel manager stopped Liu Song in the hallway as she was heading off to work and handed her an envelope. She felt dread in her stomach as she opened it beneath the man’s stern gaze. She’d lived with the lingering fear that her living arrangement would result in her eviction, or worse. She breathed a sigh of relief and even giggled as she held up a pair of movie tickets to the Coliseum Theatre. The tickets were for a Wednesday showing of The Thief of Bagdad, starring her favorite actress, Anna May Wong. There wasn’t a note, but Liu Song knew who they were from. She showed off the tickets to the manager, who grumbled and scratched his head as he walked away.

  On Wednesday night she had Mildred stay with William once again. In exchange, she let her friend use the telephone in the hallway to call her boyfriend, a suitable arrangement for both. Liu Song kissed William as he sat on the floor playing with a shoe box full of mismatched blocks. She helped him spell C-A-T and B-I-R-D. He was such a cheerful boy, given to only an occasional tantrum, which just made Liu Song laugh. To her that was the truest definition of a man, so stubborn but needy at the same time—he didn’t know what he wanted, and even when he did, he wouldn’t recognize it if it came up and bit him.

  Liu Song walked past the desk clerk of the hotel, down the steps, and out the door. She practically ran into Colin, who stood next to his car. She’d planned to walk, but like on so many of their occasions together, he’d planned ahead, leaving little to chance.

  “You didn’t have to,” Liu Song said.

  “I could drive alongside, serenading you through the window. Or you could rent a Packard across the street and follow me.”

  She shook her head as he opened the door for her. The car was already warm, and the leather seats felt supple and smooth.

  “Who’s watching the man of the house?”

  “A friend.”

  The comment hung between them like an uninvited passenger, lazing in the backseat, snoring, kicking, and distracting them from their pleasant evening.

  Liu Song spoke before he did. “Her name is Mildred Chew. I took correspondence courses and graduated not long after William was born. But she’s still in school. We stayed in touch, and we’ve become quite close. She watches William, but that’s not really what you wanted to ask me, is it?”

  “What do you think I want to ask?”

  The car stopped at a red light. Liu Song looked longingly out the window toward men and women, couples, families, all of them walking about with purpose, with hope, with places to go where they were wanted, even loved.

  “Well, I’ve wondered why you’ve never asked who William’s father is.” Liu Song felt regret that she’d steered the conversation in this direction, but she knew the delicate subject had to come up sooner or later. She’d thought about this dilemma and preferred to scare Colin away now, rather than spend these weeks titillating each other. “You’ve never asked if he’s still around. You’ve never asked anything …”

  “I won’t ask. It’s obvious that whoever it was, he isn’t around now. You have a handsome, healthy baby boy who fills you with pride. You’re a good mother. You have talent and youth and a future that I’m excited to watch unfold. Some things are best left in the past. It’s clear that you’ve left that part of your life behind. I see no need to dig up the bones of another man. And it’s not really any of my business …”

  “But …” Liu Song spoke, knowing that with each word she was giving him an opportunity to pull the car over, to let her off on some side street and drive away without looking back. “You come from a family of means. You’re kind. You’re more handsome than you realize. You’re a performer—there are plenty of girls out there who’d love for you to fill up their dance cards. Why …”

  “Why you?” He answered her question with a question. “Why not you?”

  For the first time Liu Song realized why her parents had been so close. They’d both been actors, products of the stage. They’d lived in a world that few appreciated. Liu Song thought about her own disconnection from her peers, from her traditional Chinese community, and knew that Colin must feel the same way. But what about William, she asked herself, what kind of reputation would he inherit? What am I burdening him with?

  Liu Song’s worries vanished when they arrived at the Coliseum, which was like no movie palace she’d ever seen. She marveled at the ornate lobby, filled with brass cages that hung from the vaulted ceiling. Dozens of songbirds chirped and cooed as the orchestra tuned their instruments to the biggest pipe organ she’d ever seen, or heard.

  “It’s the largest musical instrument in the world,” Colin said as they found their seats. “It’s only appropriate for the most expensive film ever made. They spent two million, if you can believe it.”

  Liu Song couldn’t. That much money seemed unfathomable. Colin came from wealth. Perhaps this whole business could impress his family after all.

  In the dark they listened to the rhapsodic score, which filled the house and swept them to someplace far away where men climbed magic ropes, horses flew, and a shirtless Douglas Fairbanks rode through the air atop a magic carpet. But the best part, the most memorable moment, etched into Liu Song’s imagination, was the first scene, when she felt Colin’s arm around her. She could smell the woolen fabric of his suit and the spice of his cologne. She felt joy, but also tremors of doubt and tendrils of dread, as she watched an old mage on-screen who sat on a hillside directing smoke into the heavens, where the aphorism “Happiness must be earned” lay written in the stars.

  Stand-Ins

  (1924)

  Liu Song inhaled, trying not to worry. The strange neighborhood she found herself in was redolent of pine trees, gasoline, and bleach—lots of bleach. The pungent smell tickled her nose and reminded her of Uncle Leo’s laundry business—a memory she didn’t care to relive as she waited for Colin to arrive. For the past two w
eeks he’d seen her off and on, though lately more off than on. He’d been haunting a local film production and had finally landed a small role and invited her to join him on the set—extras were always needed and he’d talked her up as some kind of seasoned performer, even though her venue had merely been a sidewalk and her audience, passing motorists.

  Liu Song waited on the corner of Virginia and Third Avenue, looking away and fidgeting as men drove by and tooted their horns, until Colin finally arrived.

  “Ah … can you smell that?” Colin said, smiling as delivery trucks rattled by.

  Liu Song wrinkled her nose. She’d never been to Seattle’s Film Row, which was located in the northern tip of Belltown, where the streets were lined with long rows of cozy brick offices and small warehouses.

  “That’s our future,” Colin said, breathing it in, savoring the chemical stench, and exhaling slowly.

  Liu Song had hoped their future together was something less toxic.

  “Nitrocellulose film. That’s what money smells like. A few small production companies are located here,” Colin said as they walked. “But most of these buildings are just administrative offices and film exchanges—where the larger studios house their movie reels, all except the U.S. Army Motion Picture Service and the Kodascope Library, which are located on Cherry Street. Local authorities felt it was safer to group these places together in one part of the city—film is a fire hazard, you know.”

  Liu Song noted the exchange offices for Columbia Pictures, Universal, and MGM, among others, nestled between the William Tell Hotel and the Jewel Box Theatre. She stopped counting after twenty.

  “What’s the matter?” Colin asked as he noticed the concern on her face.

  Where do I begin? Liu Song thought. Her doubts had taken root. “I’m not certain that I’m cut out for this kind of work.” She thought about her mother. “I’ve grown up around the stage, but this moviemaking is all so strange.”