Shanghai Girl

by Vivian Yang

  Within a minute, a monkey’s crown was down on the table like a lid. The craftsman headed for the next table. White-gloved servers filled our bowls with polished silver ladles. The gray matter from was warm -- priceless. My father in-law believed that it promoted longevity.

  As the crown-less dying monkeys were being removed, another round of “A thousand-year-life without boundaries!” filled the air.

  I had no way of knowing whether that oozy, mucous drink has enhanced my intelligence. What I did know was that it would be impossible for me to outdo that party when it came to celebrating Marlene’s own big five. Still, as the only Koo daughter of her generation, she deserved something special.

  I picked the Waldorf because no two rooms there were the same. I had wanted to reserve a suite at the Waldorf Towers. The Towers' separate entrance and staff would give her an enhanced sense of uniqueness. So I called. After hearing my name, and my accent, I suppose, the clerk promised me the best suite "with an Oriental motif." It so happened that the suite’s decor was imitation Qing Dynasty. Chinese vases and rice paper lampshades abounded. Worse, a giant pair of scrolls of Emperor and Empress Kang Xi stared down at us in the sitting room, bringing back my boyhood terror upon seeing my great-grandfather and his third concubine before the family altar. I wondered if the clerk felt that anyone sounding Chinese would not have had enough good taste for the American Waldorf.

  Marlene promptly pronounced the suite tacky. For birthday wish, she had this to say: “I wish I were back in Shanghai, if only for a day.”

  I remember staring at her and forcing myself not to bring up the name Hong Tao. Three decades ago, Hong Tao was my pal at Columbia and Marlene was his girlfriend. Their disagreement over the future of China led Tao to return to Shanghai. It took me years to win Marlene over, but I am afraid I never completely won her heart. With all her family either in Hong Kong or in the States, her mentioning of Shanghai on a night like this could only bring me to one conclusion.

  Her beauty, it turned out, was as transient as my pride of having made a pile in America as an immigrant. Before we attempted sex that night, I buffed my slippers on the “WT” monogrammed bedside towel and made a silent wish of my own: power to go along with my money.

  Nothing came of the sex. It seemed to me that all her height had gone to her width. Seeing her lying there like a sacrificial lamb was instantly off-putting. I gave up, bid her good night, and sank into my half of the king bed. My more immediate wish was that we were back home, in our own separate beds.

  Within twenty months of my last attempt to romance her, she died of a rare form of cancer. I paraded her through the array of treatments: chemotherapy, herbal potions, yoga, and uptown shrinks. Lotus even offered her own mother to help take care of my dying wife for a handsome sum, which I accepted, only to be fired by Marlene within a week. “She is a butcher’s wife from Chinatown, not a servant. Nobody knows how to be a proper servant any more, not in New York, anyway. What is this world coming to?”

  In the end, nothing worked for Marlene. All the modern miracles stopped short of saving the "shining pearl on the palm" of a Hong Kong tycoon, the wife of a New York Seventh Avenue big shot in the making. She died unsung, un-mourned, unmentioned in The Gotham Tribune obituary page.

  I had wanted to draft something for Lotus to type up and send over to the paper. But when she said, "Are you sure you want to publicize this, Boss?" I changed my mind. I knew well that my success was partially attributable to my in-law's influence, at least during my pioneering days. I hated being reminded of that. Now that both the old man and my fair lady were gone, I had never felt freer. The watchful, disapproving patriarchal eyes from Hong Kong had finally closed.

  That sense of independence has continued since, until I accepted the Siew invitation to come here tonight. But I know I'm paying my dues for a different type of autonomy.

  The dinner is on the second floor in the grand ballroom. Surprised that I'm ushered to the center table, I look around to search for other Chinese faces planted by the Siew clan. There are pretty women and cheerful men everywhere. But no other Chinese.

  Like a beam from a searchlight, Leonardo DellaFave’s shining crown is the first thing I see. In a flashback, it reminds me those of the monkeys’. Short, stout, and lively, DellaFave is a political Danny DeVito. Gigi DellaFave, in two-inch heels and a black see-through gown, appears twice his height and half his age. The tabloids have hinted that this second wife was once a call girl.

  The pair sits down at our table and begins to exchange pleasantries. "New York's back to the Republicans where it belongs," someone says. "Y-y-es," others echo. I stand up, conscious of my boarding school reach across the lazy Susan. "My name is Gordon Lou. I'm a Chinese-American businessman here in the city and a supporter of yours. I'm honored to meet you, Senator DellaFave."

  "Oh, the pleasure is mine, Mr. Bow. Welcome to the party, ha-ha. We need more supporters like yourself."

  I try to correct him on my name inconspicuously. "It's Lou, which means 'buildings'. My ancestors must have dealt in real estate near the Great Wall."

  "Oh, pardon me, Mr. Low. I like your sense of humor, a rare quality in the Orientals I've come into contact with," says the Governor aspirant. "My own ancestors owned a bakery. But now I’m all set to take over the State House’s kitchen cabinet."

  "And I’m here to cheer you on, Senator.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  A blond, tanned man sitting next to me holds out his hand. "Ted Cook," he declares, leaving no doubt what trade his ancestors engaged in. "Great suit you have on," he says. "You have to introduce me to your tailor someday."

  "Thank you. All my clothes are made in Hong Kong.”

  Ted smiles broadly and says, “Ah, they are quite a steal, I understand. My son traveled there and came back with half a dozen custom-made, hand-sewn suits with his initials stitched inside the lining – all for about a hundred bucks each. I wish I had this kind of a deal with my tailor.”

  The mention of the word “tailor” turns into a painful dagger in my underbelly. In a way, I had left China for the U.S. to flee an incident associated with the death of our family tailor. My father was the head of The House of Lou, a Colonial-style house in Shanghai’s International Settlement. In addition to the year-round staff of a servant, a maid, a cook, and a chauffeur, the house retained a seasonal, tubercular tailor. He would come from the countryside in late autumn each year and work until the Lunar New Year, when all three generations of Lou’s would don silk, cottonwood-wadded outfits hand-sewn by him. Little Jade, my father’s concubine then twenty years old, had recommended the tailor, who was from her village in Jiangsu. Known to us as Old Tailor, he wore a long strand of goatee, was hunchbacked, bamboo thin, and coughed all day. The small eyes on his dark and wrinkled face were forever squinting, possibly a condition caused by his line of work.

  It was during my sophomore year at St. John’s that Old Tailor brought to the House of Lou his apprentice son, Little Tailor. The young man, by contrast, was tall and muscular and had large shiny eyes with a ready smile.

  Run by the American Episcopal Mission, St. John’s on the surface was the elite school dubbed as the Harvard of Shanghai. But sentiment of resistance against the Japanese occupation was spreading on campus. I was among many who had spent more time being patriotic than studying. Whereas the Japs occupied much of Shanghai, the International Settlement where we lived and the French Concession were not touched. During one of my weekend visits home, I heard of two suicides. Our chauffeur had caught sight of Little Jade and Little Tailor holding hands in the garden and reported it to my father. My quinquagenarian old man vowed to kill his young competitor, prompting Little Tailor to jump into the well in the back of our garden. Knowing her days were numbered, Little Jade followed suit but not before slapping the face of the chauffeur.

  Subsequently, the informer got a generous cash award for his loyalty and my father got himself a new concubine, this time a 17-year-old. This one had
a sophisticated city appearance, with double eyelids and a powdered face, although the same tiny bound feet known appreciatively as the “three-inch golden lotuses”. They were what turned opium-smoking men on the most in those days.

  It was her heartrending, lychee eyes that had me increasingly worried that I, too, would someday be sucked into the same dark deep well in our garden. The shadow cast by my vegetarian father, who spent his days chanting the name of Buddha while fondling young feet for their fermenting aphrodisiac odor, was unbearable. It became clear that the escape was to go study in America. The family money was there. The old man would have squandered it all on drugs and girls anyway. I might as well use it for something good. Little did I expect that I would be stuck here due to the Communist takeover and become a yellow-skinned second-class citizen here. The garment business through which I made my fortune is a crude reminder of the business of tailoring.

  With these thoughts in mind, I turn to Cook and say, “I have to take care of business in Hong Kong anyway, so have suits made while I’m there."

  "Oh," Ted Cook nods intently. "What type of business?"

  I hesitate for a second and reply, “Eveningwear. We've been a vendor for Bergdorf, Bonwit’s, and B. Altman for a couple of decades now."

  "I see," Ted raises his pitch to acknowledge. "Both of my ex's were fans of Bergdorf eveningwear. Women," he says as he shakes his head and pulls out a cigar from his black tux. "But that's where the money is, supplying to the big names, right?"

  "I suppose. But materials and labor are getting pricier nowadays."

  "Absolutely. Manufacturers have largely gone abroad where labor's cheap. The rent hike on commercial real estate in Manhattan doesn’t help, either.”

  “That’s right. But I’m lucky in this respect. I own my factory building.”

  Not impressed, Ted Cook continues on his thought. “It's a shame that the city has nothing left but services. One thing Lenny and I agree on is that concrete measures should be taken to stop the outflow of American jobs."

  I don't want to argue with him, but he’s criticizing exactly what I'm about to do: Buy a plant in China to cut my labor costs in the U.S. and boost the company’s value by listing it in the Hong Kong’s Hang Seng Stock Exchange.

  “So what do you do, Mr. Cook?”

  “Ted,” he says. “Believe it or not, I’m the bum here, at least that’s what Lenny thinks. My old man left me some assets to play with, as well as his name -- I happen to be Edward Johnson Cook, Jr. I guess I deal overseas in a different way. I manage assets offshore, but not so much in your part of the world.”

  I paste on a smile. “Hey, my world is here in America. What do you suppose I'm here for tonight?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I didn't mean it in that way, Mr. Low. I was just...” Ted gives DellaFave a look for help.

  DellaFave interjects from across the table, "Just ignore him, Gordon, will you? He doesn't know how to talk to people of substance. Ted’s just a party animal." I notice with pleasure that DellaFave is using my first name. Perhaps it's easier than distinguishing Lou from Bow or Low.

  Ted, red-faced, yells back, "You ought to be grateful I still come to yours. I'm a party animal, all right. But at least I'm a Republican Party animal."

  "All right!" the table cheers.

  The Senator laughs and raises his glass. "You gentlemen - and ladies - are all greatly appreciated. I want to thank you all for coming tonight. And I'm looking forward to your continued support."

  "Come payoff time, will you make sure we deport this Teddy boy over to Bermuda for good?" jokes another cigar-chomper in a three-piece suit.

  "Shut up!" shouts Ted Cook, pointing his finger at the man like an “Uncle Sam Wants You” poster.

  DellaFave calls for a ceasefire. "Okay, gentlemen. Why don't we stop the pissing game and give the floor to our new friend so we can all get to know him."

  With that, I am put on the spot to explain in twenty words or less who the 55-year-old Chinese-American Republican Gordon Kuo-Teh Lou is. Clearing my throat, I begin, “I'm Gordon Lou, President of Evening Pearls, a formal wear manufacturer in New York. I consider myself fiscally conservative but socially moderate. My background differs from most of you sitting here tonight, but we have some common ground. I’m a self-made man in an adoptive land. Although I was trained as an engineer at Columbia, I got into the garment business due to circumstances. When I started, being called a Chink or a Jap was still the norm in this town. For three decades I persisted, and I ended up where I am today.”

  Pausing to survey the many sets of attentive eyes on me, I continue, “My years in the business world have led me to believe that this country needs some serious social engineering, and it is Republican politics I have gravitated toward. Like many of you, I'm tired of being on the receiving end of rules and regulations and not having my voice heard. I don’t appreciate the fact that my tax dollars go to support the welfare state, which is increasingly plagued by crime and poverty. Able-bodied individuals depend on the state’s handout while pursuing their idealistic dreams of change. Crime rates are so high here that law-abiding citizens live in fear. The greatest metropolis in the world has almost become unlivable. As unpopular as it may be, I’m for the reinstatement of the death penalty in New York State. This belief of mine happens to coincide with the traditional Chinese legal codes that advocated that those who kill, die. Public security and order is the basis for a sound society.”

  A few people begin to clap, DellaFave included. I know he has spoken on the record for the death penalty. A George Burns look-alike, completely missing the gist of my argument, cups his chin and pops out, “Smart move from engineering to business. There's no money to be made in engineering.”

  I nod at him. "As a matter of fact, I was forced to make the switch. In my field, the juiciest contracts all came from the Pentagon. Back in the fifties, nobody would give a Chinese security clearance. The Korea War was still fresh memory, and many believed that the Koreans, the Chinese, and the Japanese were all the same." Exhaling, I look around the table and see an embarrassing avoidance of eye contact. "I had no choice but to start something entirely different, even something I had to teach myself."

  "But you made it." Gigi DellaFave exclaims, breaking the awkwardness. Fingering her long, curly, fiery hair, Gigi tilts her head toward me. "You must be some smart guy, then."

  I smile. "Thank you, Ma'am. I'm flattered. Back to the topic, I'm not a fan of politics. I’m a religious man. I follow Confucius and Buddha. Confucius places high importance on the family. His teaching ‘The father disciplines, the mother nurtures’ designates a balanced parental responsibilities in educating children and maintaining family harmony. I see some of my ideals represented in Senator DellaFave's promises. That’s why I'm here."

  Standing up, DellaFave starts to applaud. Others follow. Handshakes and business cards are exchanged. Ted Cook pats me on the shoulder. "I didn't know Confucius the Sage was a Republican."

  "Now you do," I reply dryly.

  "Very good," says DellaFave. "See whether we can get you on some task force for these people in Chinatown, or Flushing, or whatever. We need their votes as well, you know."

  "A PAC of Chinatown folks can certainly use a guy like you, I’m sure," Ted Cook snaps.

  "Beg your pardon?" I ask, frowning.

  "Oh, he meant a political action committee," someone explains.

  “Ta ma de,” I curse in Chinese under my breath – Blast your mother.

  With dinner winding up, a Gotham Tribune photographer grabs DellaFave and me to click an official handshake in front of the American flag. "I'll make sure they send you a copy, Gordon," DellaFave assures me.

  "By all means, do, Senator."

  The JAL Business Class check-in counters are swarmed Tokyo bound passengers, with more whites than Asians, oddly enough. I suddenly appreciate the First Class ticket I hold. No waiting for me.

  "Would you like a cocktail or sake before we take off, Mr. Lou?" the flig
ht attendant asks with a bow and a smile. The nameplate identifies her as "Ito".

  "Sake, please."

  "Thank you," says Ito, bowing some more smile. Her demeanor, so very staged, has an uneasy familiarity to me. In the late thirties, Shanghai schoolchildren were forced to learn Japanese, even in the American mission school for boys that I attended. Our teacher, Miss Mitsuko Tanaka, had fair skin and narrow, reddish eyes like these of a lab rat. She wore thick black-framed eyeglasses and never spoke to us outside the classroom. Once, she used a pointer to slap my palm ten times after she had overheard me referring to her, in Shanghai dialect, without the honorific suffix "san".

  "Don't you know that only Japanese is allowed in my class?" she snapped at me. "And don't bring your disrespectful Chinese manners here! Where's your hand?"

  I stuck out my right hand, not looking at her. At Tanaka's order, the entire class stood near their desks to watch the punishment, shouting in Japanese at each strike, "Ichi, Ni, San, …… JU-u-u-u!"

  Holding back my tears, I looked at my hand -- swollen like a red bean bun fresh out of the bamboo steamer. The class was in a silent anticipation. I squeezed out the expected "Thank you very much" to Tanaka, "Arigato gozaimas." Miraculously, I got away without simultaneously bowing to her.

  I was ordered to stand in the corner of the classroom for the rest of the session. From an angle, I kept seeing a pair of short, sturdy, and inward-turned legs in nylons. Japanese women's legs. Called the "see-through-glass-silk stockings," these nylons were priceless then. Only a few fashionable foreign female faculty members wore them.

  Perhaps due to my professional instinct as an eveningwear manufacturer, women's legs are the first thing I look at. The legs long, the dresses lithe -- now revealing, now concealed. Unfortunately, Miss Ito, standing in front of me, has the same kind of stout legs Tanaka had, like a toddler's legs in the stage before they're toilet trained. Irene had those legs until she was four. One afternoon, when we were strolling in Gramercy Park, a lady in a beige hat came up to us as we sat on a bench and said, "What a cute little girl. Are you people Japanese?"