Passing Strange

by Ellen Klages

  “Okay. I’ll clean up a bit.” Emily used the whisk broom to sweep up the shreds of paper that littered the floor. “This doesn’t—?”

  “No. There are other copies. Tomorrow night, Len’s ship will be on its way to South America. By the time he gets back, he’ll be single, whether he likes it or not.” She shook her head. “Poor Len. He’s a sad, bitter man on the wrong side of forty, lost in a bottle. I almost feel sorry for him, but he’s made his own bed. Now I just want it all behind me. Us.”

  “So do I.” Emily’s stomach growled as she emptied the dustpan. She rummaged on the curtained shelf and heated a can of stew on the hot plate. They ate cross-legged on the couch, with bowls and spoons, as if they were children in the nursery, having their tea, high up in the house, warm and safe and separate from all the rest of the world.

  They said little. When the window and skylight darkened, Emily turned on the lamp and made cocoa. No milk; she tempered the bitterness with bourbon and sugar. It had been fully night for more than an hour when Haskel sat up with a start.

  “You’re late for work,” she said.

  “Oh. Didn’t tell you. We’re closed, tonight and tomorrow. Busted sewer pipe.”

  “Ugh.” Haskel wrinkled her nose. She turned to put her empty mug on the table and noticed the large box by the door. “What’s that?”

  “White tie and tails. My brother outgrew his.”

  “Have you tried it on?”

  “No, I was waiting to dazzle you.”

  “I could use a little of that.”

  Emily took the box into the bedroom and set up the folding paper screen across the doorway. She’d always complained about how complicated women’s clothing was—so many hooks and buttons and laces—but formal menswear was just as bad, if not worse. Stiff layers and studs, suspenders to adjust, spats to fasten, pocket square folded just so. Still, it fit perfectly. When she was nearly done, she opened the small white box and used the bureau mirror and a dab of spirit gum to affix a thin mustache to her upper lip. Its shade matched her hair. “Let’s see if this one tickles,” she said, sotto voce. She stepped around the screen into the studio.

  Haskel looked up, did a double-take, and smiled for the first time since that morning. “Wowza.”

  “Like it?”

  “You are, without a doubt, the handsomest boy of the season.” She bit a knuckle, thinking. “I have an outfit—a gift from one of the Emporium buyers, years ago. I’ve never worn it, there hasn’t been an occasion, but—” She sighed. “Too bad. We’d be quite stunning together out on a dance floor.”

  “Let’s. Tomorrow night.”

  “Are you mad? Where? It’s taboo, even at Mona’s.” She made a face. “The law says that would be a—what do they call it? Ah, yes. A lewd and dissolute act. An outrage to public decency.”

  “Only if it’s two women dancing.”

  “Which, if you’ve noticed, we—” She stopped, her mouth open in shock and admiration. “You’re not thinking—?”

  “Why not?”

  “Hmm.” Haskel came closer, examining Emily from a few feet away.

  “Well?”

  “Walk. Across the room.”

  Emily did, her shoulders back, her hips taut, her feet in a slightly wider stance.

  “That’s very convincing.”

  “I told you I played all the boys’ parts on stage. I watched my brother and his friends when they weren’t paying attention.”

  “You look awfully young.”

  “I’ll take a leaf from Polly’s book. Posh accent. Second nature. I grew up around swells.”

  “With that, you might pass.”

  “I have, after Mona’s, coming home late. Not very often, but the mustache and the walk do keep the mashers away.” She laughed. “I disappointed one fancy boy something fierce. He was quite smitten.”

  “I can see why. Where should we go?”

  “Forbidden City? Dining, dancing, big crowds, and far enough from Mona’s we won’t run into anyone we know.”

  “Except Helen.”

  “She’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “You know, so will I. Makeup should cover this.” She touched her cheek. It was still red and angry-looking, but the swelling had gone down. “Besides, in the outfit I have in mind, no one’s going to be looking at my face.”

  “Haskel! I’m shocked.”

  “Good. I think a scandalous night is just what the doctor ordered.” Haskel leaned down and kissed her.

  “Does it tickle?”

  “Maybe. Let’s go find out.”

  * * *

  With no new assignment yet, Haskel tidied the drafting table, boxing the pastel sticks into groups of reds and blues and greens, putting brushes into one jelly jar, pencils and charcoal sticks into another. She swept the colorful dust and shavings into the wastebasket, stacked sheets of paper and sketchbooks.

  When she finished, they took two bags of laundry to Sung Mee, then ate at a nearby luncheonette, hamburger sandwiches and Coca-Colas. Haskel bought two packs of cigarettes at the newsstand at the corner while Emily used the pay phone to check in on the progress at Mona’s.

  “Still closed,” she said when she returned. “The game’s afoot.”

  They went back to the studio. Haskel smoked and sketched Emily, who lay on the couch reading the first issue of Diabolical Dr. Wu Yang, “to get into the mood for tonight.”

  Around six, they went down the hall to shower. In the bedroom, Emily finger-combed her hair, which dried in minutes. Haskel wrapped hers in a towel-turban while she put on makeup. It took both foundation and powder to cover the bruise, fading to a dusky lavender at the edges. She lined her eyes with pencil, mascaraed her lashes, and did her full lips in a deep, rich red.

  She unwound the turban, combing out her hair, letting it fall loose to her shoulders, a sleek tawny-gold waterfall with a slight wave.

  Emily stared, startled at the transformation. Haskel was a handsome woman but now she was—striking. Stunning.

  “You like?” Haskel asked, her throaty voice low. She smiled. “You do.” She tilted her head toward the studio. “Dress out there. Let me surprise you.”

  “You already have. There’s more?”

  “Wait and see.”

  “First, I need the mirror to do my—whiskers.”

  Mustache in place—looking very odd above her own striped bathrobe—Emily gathered her suit and all its various accoutrements and went into the studio. The paper screen slid across the doorway behind her. She heard the sound of the wardrobe opening, a shurring of fabrics and the clatter of wooden hangers, then a soft, “Ah, there you are.”

  It was easier to get into the tails the second time. She almost left her bra off—she was flat-chested enough that it wouldn’t matter under the starched layers of shirt and vest and jacket—but remembered the three-garment rule. Bra, panties, and her low-heeled black pumps, all of them with their ladies’ shop labels worn but legible. It was a silly law, but better safe than sorry, she thought as she buttoned the spats.

  She used a dab of Vaseline to slick her hair into a more masculine style—if they did this again, she’d invest in a tube of Brylcreem—and called, “Ready when you are, Millicent.”

  The screen slid open and Haskel stepped out.

  All Emily could do was whistle.

  Haskel wore a midnight-blue jumpsuit of iridescent, shimmery satin that clung to every curve. Padded shoulders, a plunging neckline, and a silver belt at her waist. The sleeves were long and form-fitting, the pants full and flowing, giving the illusion of a skirt. She wore her pendant and two tiny pieces of lapis at her ears.

  She looked like a movie star.

  “C’mere.” Haskel held out a hand and led them back into the bedroom, posing them in front of the mirror inside the wardrobe door.

  “You’re right,” Emily said. “No one’s going to pay me the slightest attention.”

  “I’m masquerading just as much as you are.”

  The evening wa
s warm. They decided to walk. More direct to go down Montgomery, the center of the financial district, but it was gray and shuttered after the close of business. Instead they strolled west, across Washington to Grant and into the heart of Chinatown.

  “I love this city,” Emily said. From the studio she could walk for ten minutes in one direction and be in an Italian village; in another she’d be on the docks, or in a world of stockbrokers. Every ramble was an adventure.

  Grant Avenue was the most colorful and exotic street in a city full of wonders. There be dragons. Lined with pagoda-topped buildings and crimson-coated doorways, every corner blazed with neon signs in English, Chinese, and the curious typographic hodgepodge of the two, spelling out CHOP SUEY, LOTUS ROOM, LI-PO, marketing its otherness.

  It was as if a bit of the Orient had been transplanted halfway around the world, making the very sidewalks seem alien. But unlike the exhibits at the fair, it was a real community, a city-within-a-city, the most densely populated square mile in San Francisco.

  On a Friday night, the streets were jammed with tourists, mingling with sharp-dressed modern young Chinese and elderly women in drab black. Storefronts selling cheap souvenirs stood next to acrid-smelling shops of pickled fish, dried herbs, and ancient remedies. Brightly lit windows displayed edible marvels: hanging rows of golden roasted ducks, flattened as if starched and ironed; decorated cakes with elaborate icing and elusive flavors; tubs of snails, eels, octopus. Even fruit and vegetable stands were stacked with colorful, unidentifiable delicacies.

  Side streets told another story, glimpses of overcrowded tenements, small dingy shops, laundry hanging from open windows, smells of incense and garbage, garlic and ginger, hot fry-oil and urine.

  At the southern end of Grant, just before the huge dragon gates that marked the boundary between this and the ordinary city, the shops were smaller, less flashy. They carried Japanese goods—kimonos, antiques, silk stockings. One store had plywood nailed over a broken window; red paint in dripping letters said NO JAP GOODS! An adjacent store had a neatly printed sign on its door: BOYCOTT SILK. BE IN STYLE, WEAR LISLE. Japan and China had been at war for a decade. The protests had appeared after the massacre at Nanking.

  Emily and Haskel walked through the dragon gates, crossed Bush Street. One block farther was Sutter. They turned the corner. The two-story neon column for Forbidden City bathed the stone walls of an otherwise unremarkable commercial block in green, red, and gold light.

  Sedans and taxis queued in front of the building. A uniform-clad doorman ushered well-dressed couples through bright scarlet double doors ornamented with gold medallions.

  “Walter, are you sure this is safe?” asked a woman in a silver gown.

  “It’s fine, dear. It’s not like we’re in Chinatown.”

  The doorman gave a small bow to Emily and held the door for Haskel. They climbed the stairs, lined with silk hangings and brush-and-ink paintings, to the second-floor lobby. Its bamboo-paneled walls held more Oriental decor, interspersed with framed photos of Hollywood celebrities who had visited the nightclub. To their left was a long bar, already four deep with customers.

  “We’ll never get a seat,” Haskel said.

  Emily pitched her voice low for the benefit of the people around them. “Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” she said, patting Haskel’s arm. She stepped up to the tuxedoed maitre d’. “Fitzbottom. Table for two.”

  He looked down at a list. “Very good, sir. Right this way.” He led them through the round moon-gate entrance to the club itself and pulled out a chair at one of the floor-side tables. “Madam.” Haskel sat and he returned to his station.

  “How did you pull that off?” she asked, smiling.

  “The call from the newsstand.”

  “Will wonders never cease?”

  They sat on the rim of the dance floor, facing the stage, its red velvet curtains closed. Behind them rose two horseshoe tiers of tables. The room was full, nearly three hundred people; except for the staff, everyone was white.

  A waiter in a red silk uniform and tasseled cap came by with menus and took their drink orders. “Gin fizz for the lady?”

  Haskel shook her head. “Bourbon on the rocks.”

  The right side of the menu offered Chinese dinners—all of them variations on chop suey and egg fu yeong. The American side boasted fried chicken, steaks, and chops. Either dinner cost a dollar, including a relish tray and dessert.

  “Fried chicken, the international delicacy,” Emily said. They each ordered a steak. The meals came on platters with silver domes that the waiter removed with a polished flourish.

  Haskel cut into her meat. “I could get used to this.”

  “You’ll have to paint faster, then. This one’s my treat—Ned left a tenner in the suit pocket—but my piggy bank doesn’t rattle much.”

  “Your Ned is a sweet boy.”

  “He is indeed.”

  They’d finished their supper and ordered a second round of drinks when the curtains parted and a short, dapper Chinese man stepped out.

  “Welcome to the Forbidden City,” he said into the microphone. “I am your Celestial host, Charlie Low. Tonight you’ll enjoy a new slant in entertainment.” He beamed and waited for the chuckles to subside. “We have singers, dancers, every kind of show you want. I don’t know about you, but a couple of Wong numbers sound right to me!” More laughter. “So please, welcome to the stage, the Chinese Ethel Merman, Miss Dorothy Chow!”

  A well-built young woman came out in a sequined gown. The band struck up a tune, and she began to belt out “I Got Rhythm.” Her voice was strong and sure and would have reached to the back tier of seats even without a mike.

  “Nice vibrato,” Emily whispered. From behind them, she heard a woman say, shrill and inconsiderately loud, “Harry! She sings just like a white girl!”

  Haskel made a face. “And tomorrow, they’ll go to the aquarium to see the trained seals.”

  The next act was a magician, demonstrating the Mysterious Secrets of the Far East, the Chinese Harry Houdini. Following him were “those Oriental Rug-cutters, the Chinese Fred and Ginger—Eddie and Helen Young!”

  Helen wore a flowing pale green gown with a full skirt that billowed when she twirled around her partner in his sleek black tuxedo. They did a slow rumba to “Begin the Beguine,” moving elegantly, effortlessly to the Cole Porter tune until the band began an up-tempo rhythm. In one fluid motion, Helen tore away her skirt to reveal a pair of green satin shorts, her shapely legs clad in fishnet stockings.

  She and Eddie began to tap-dance, their feet a syncopated accompaniment to the music. The dance grew more and more physical as Eddie did a backflip and Helen leapt over him, landing in a full splits, all in rhythm, never missing a beat. The audience’s applause was long and loud.

  The emcee stepped up again. “Now, we have an act you won’t see anywhere else. You know what they say about Chinese girls—down there?” He leered genially at the audience.

  A soldier to Emily’s left said, “Hey, Ralphie, what’s he mean?”

  His buddy replied in a loud whisper, “Don’ you know nothin’, Pat? They got slanted pussies, too. Goes from side to side, not front to back.”

  “That so?”

  “Yep. Like eatin’ corn on the cob.”

  The emcee had continued his introduction throughout the crude soldier’s explanation, and announced, “The Chinese Sally Rand!” The lights dimmed and a diffused pink spot highlighted a beautiful young girl, naked except for silver high heels. She held a translucent balloon a yard in diameter, walking and turning so that there was never more than a partial glimpse of her body.

  Half the men in the room were on their feet, clapping and shouting. The dancer lifted the bubble over her head for a brief second before the stage went dark and the curtain closed. As the applause died down, the band began playing “Dancing Cheek to Cheek,” and couples got up from their tables and headed to the dance floor.

  “May I have this number?�
� Emily stood and held out her hand, a grin playing at the corner of her mouth.

  “Let me check my dance card,” Haskel replied. “Ah, I have an open spot. Do you know how to lead?”

  “Fifteen years of girls’ schools? I can manage.” She took Haskel’s arm and led her onto the floor, put a hand at the small of her back, and twirled her expertly. For the next ten minutes, the world fell away. There was nothing but the music, satin on skin, warm breath on a cheek. They danced, holding each other close, even kissing once, as if they were an ordinary couple. No one stared. No one paid the slightest attention. Emily had never felt so happy. She tilted her head up and was about to be kissed again when a nearby voice said softly, “Haskel?”

  Emily’s grip tightened. She turned them slowly and let out a sigh of relief when she saw it was Helen, wearing a tight cheongsam, deep green with gold embroidery, a long slit up the side. She wore heavy makeup that emphasized the shape of her eyes.

  “Who’s your fella—?” Helen’s mouth opened in surprise. “Well, butter my butt and call me popcorn!” She shook a scolding finger at them. “It’s not what I think, huh?”

  “It wasn’t—then,” Emily replied. “Come back to our table. Don’t you showgirls let the fellows buy you drinks?”

  “That’s the idea. We’re supposed to dance with them, too, but—”

  “That’s okay. I’ll pass.” They all sat down.

  “What on god’s green earth are you two doing?” Helen asked after the waiter had taken drink orders and the cigarette girl had come and gone.

  Haskel smiled. “Seeing how the other half lives.” She pointed to the stage. “Some of that must be pretty hard to take.”

  “The slant-eye crap?” Helen shrugged. “It’s what the tourists come for. You learn to roll with the punches.” She saw the doubt on her friend’s face. “Look, it’s Hollywood and your magazines that sell all that Yellow Peril, Fu Manchu stuff. These folks have bought into it hook, line, and sinker. They come here to be titillated and terrified, expecting the depraved Dragon Lady in her opium den. Instead they get show tunes and some pretty good dancing.”

  “Pretty good? You and Eddie were outstanding.”