Memoirs of a Eurasian

by Vivian Yang

  He gave me a meaningful smile and said, “What modern young things like you don’t realize is that cheongsam and qipao aren’t one and the same. The cheongsam, the ‘long dress’, is reminiscent of Shanghai’s past, always custom-made according to the lady’s exact measurements, form-fitting like the Victorian bodice. By contrast, the hem of the qipao they make nowadays is often raised above the knee so that it’s no longer a ‘long dress’, thus less elegant. You’re welcome to pick out a couple to try on and you’ll see what I mean. There’s a wardrobe mirror in the back.”

  Unable to contain my excitement after putting on the first one, I came out and struck a pose with a “Ta-Da! I’m going in this one!”

  He gazed at me with a subtle nod. “Clothes do make the man, as Mark Twain remarked. This will do for the concert. We’ll make sure to get one of your own in the future, though. I know a master tailor who custom-cuts the patterns you by plucking a chalked string to draw lines in the fabric. The fit is always perfect.”

  “Were all the splendid cheongsam in there made by the same tailor for your mother?”

  “They are not my mother’s. They … belong …”

  “… to?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Helen,” he said at last.

  “The same Helen who gave you the nickname?”

  “Yes, Helen Jen. The cheongsam and shoes were left by her ... I meant to tell you long …”

  I didn’t let him finish. “But why didn’t you? I feel so stupid … I’ve always assumed that those were your late mother’s. Who is she to you exactly that you’re keeping her personal belongings …?”

  “Listen to me, Mo Mo! I have been wanting to tell you but … she’s just an old friend who left Shanghai a long time ago, lived in California for years and only recently moved to Hong Kong after she was widowed, so you see ...”

  “Widowed? Oh good, so she’s lurking right outside the gateway to China and you still have all her things right here and …”

  He waved his hand to stop me. “If you’ll just calm down and listen to me from the beginning, will you please?”

  “Fine.”

  “Well, Helen Jen is the daughter of a Nationalist diplomat and his concubine whose great beauty matched her Chinese name, Hai-lun.”

  “Hai, as in Shanghai and lun, as in without peers?”

  “Precisely. Hence the peerless beauty of Shanghai, like Helen of Troy.”

  “Who’s Helen of Troy?”

  “Ever heard about the Trojan War? Helen of Troy’s exceptional beauty was the cause of the decade long conflict.”

  “Was Helen Jen that beautiful?” I asked, my jealousy evident in my tone.

  He paused, then admitted, “By the aesthetic standards in the mission schools at the time, yes. Her face was at once angular and possessing the exquisiteness characteristic of us southern Chinese. But … but you are stunning in a different way, with your high cheekbones and Cupid's bow lips … then you’re composed but at the same time you …” he stammered in search for the right words “… you flaunt your sensuality so effortlessly …”

  “Although not necessarily effectively.”

  “Oh yes,” he objected, suddenly blushing like a choirboy. “Forgive me. I have no right to entertain such thoughts ... I was just saying that after Helen graduated from McTyeire Girls’ School she entered St. John’s also and instantly became the darling of the campus. I was among several young men who fell for her, but she managed to keep us all on a short leash. Just before the Communist takeover, her father went to Taiwan with his first family. Her mother had been an addict used to quality opium and the Liberation ended her access. After withdrawal episodes involving drooling, diarrhea, and delirium, she swallowed a gold bar and ended her misery. She was branded a ‘class enemy’ posthumously, rendering Helen an ‘offspring of the class enemy’. She rang me up one morning and wanted to meet at the church at noon. I showed up in my usual suit to find her in a wedding gown. I was shocked beyond words when she said that the priest had been waiting inside to marry us, so I fled the scene without going in.”

  “You ‘fled the scene’?” I asked, almost laughing.

  “Yes, I did. Knowing her temper I thought she’d never forgive me for such a slight but to my great surprise, she phoned that very evening to say that I remained her favorite admirer. In the months that followed, she constantly complained to me about her financial distress so I offered ongoing help.”

  “You gave her money despite such crazy behavior on her part?”

  “Now it appears incredulous even to myself but at the time I was naïve and thought that was what romance was all about. Then one day in 1966, right around the Chinese New Year, she asked me to pick up two suitcases to store in my pavilion room as she had ‘run out of space’. Two days later when I called on her place, she had already moved out. I searched for her in agony for days before realizing that she had already left for Hong Kong. I found out later that a half brother of hers living abroad had sponsored her to marry a Chinese-Portuguese from Macao.”

  “She deserted her ‘favorite admirer’ just like that?” I asked, thinking of Coach Long. I was not the only one who had endured abandonment, I thought to myself. But his answer was surprisingly revelatory of him.

  “Well, as a Christian, I’ve since forgiven her. It was best for her to go then, what with the Cultural Revolution beginning in just a few months. She had no other way to leave China and she feared that I would not let her go had I known.”

  “You’re really a man with a golden heart, Uncle Fly. How did you later find out about all this?”

  “A letter with a stamp bearing the Queen’s silhouette arrived two weeks later. She apologized for taking French leave and said she didn’t get married but instead paid the fellow to disappear using all the money she had managed to bring out with her.”

  “In other words, the money you had given her.”

  “A good portion of it, I suppose. Either way, to me it was spilled milk, and at least it was put to good use. The Cultural Revolution soon became full blown. Letters were intercepted and we lost touch. Apparently she worked as an airline hostess until she met her restaurateur husband from San Francisco and settled down there. ”

  “It was almost the same time that my mother took me from Hong Kong to Shanghai when she went to Hong Kong. What a coincidence!” I exclaimed, hoping that he would follow up with something like “Perhaps you’re the present sent to me by God.”

  “The wheel of fortune is forever turning,” he said instead. “Life has a strange way of manifesting itself, doesn’t it?”

  On the day of the concerto, I went to Uncle Fly’s for an early dinner before getting changed. The black silk cheongsam with silver plum blossom embroidery and his suit hung side by side on the dry-cleaner’s hangers. His brogues were newly shined as well.

  “If a mosquito were to land on these shoes, I bet it would slide down,” I teased. “But all kidding aside, you look terribly smart, not a trace of the street cleaner I first saw.”

  “You don’t look bad yourself: dignified and …” he drew in a breath.

  “And what?”

  “God have mercy on me but you are bewitching!” he exclaimed.

  Blushing with joy, I said radiantly, “So you better watch out.”

  The Shanghai Concert Hall was the only Baroque structure designed by a Chinese architect during the 1930’s heyday of European-style architecture, Uncle Fly told me as we entered its granite archway. Although I had watched movies here before, this was my first time I had dressed up for an evening event. I admired the vaulted ceiling as we ascended the curved marble staircase. At the entrance, a gray-uniformed usher handed us each a program. Taking a birds’ eye view of the stage and the orchestra pit, Uncle Fly said, “It’s nice to be here with you, Mo Mo. Thanks again.”

  I imagined him reminiscing about his prior visits with Helen Jen, but I maintained my cool. “It’s nice to be with you, Uncle Fly. Can you tell me what to expect from a
violin concerto?”

  “I’ve not seen the score before.” He consulted the program. “Let’s see, one movement broken into sections. Pay attention to the melodies. They usually tell the story and advance the plot.”

  “Good thing I already know the storyline.”

  “Right, something of an ancient Chinese Romeo and Juliet. The violin represents the female protagonist and the cello represents the male, so listen for that. The violin and cello duet is the saddest part of the concerto. It says here that the flute is at the beginning of the concerto, and then the violinist comes in.”

  “Mother will let me meet him right after the show. Sorry I’m supposed to go alone.”

  He gave me a stern but fleeting look, the significance of which I was to realize only later.

  After the show, Uncle Fly and I parted company at the exit. He held my hand briefly and said, “I really enjoyed it. Please thank your mother for me and good night.”

  “I certainly will. Good night!”

  From the half drawn velvety curtain to the green room I saw Mother and the American expert sitting on stools facing each other, neither speaking. No celebratory mood could be detected after a successful concert.

  Mother stood up after she saw me and beckoned me in. The violinist shot up as well and stared at me.

  “This is the American expert Mee-ker Po-po-fuu, the star of tonight’s concert. Mee-ker, this is my daughter Mo Mo,” she introduced us in Chinese.

  The American expert strode over and gave my hand an engaging shake. “Ni hao, Miss Mo Mo! So nice to meet you. Teacher Mo never mentioned she had such a beautiful Chinese daughter until tonight.” Except for his How do you do in accented Chinese, he spoke English.

  “Ni hao! So nice to meet you, too, Professor Popov,” I replied in English.

  “Call me Mick, please. Your English pronunciation is very good. Who is your teacher?”

  “Thank you, Mick. Actually I followed the tongue position illustrations of the International Phonetic Alphabet chart in a textbook and practiced myself.”

  “Amazing. I wish I’d met you sooner – I could have been your teacher. What do you like to do when you ...”

  “O.K., O.K.!” Mother interrupted. Speaking to me in Shanghainese, she said, “You go home now. He and I have things to discuss.”

  I turned to smile at Mick and said, “It was very nice meeting you, Mick, and congratulations on the success of the concert. Goodbye.”

  “Zai jian,” he replied in another Chinese phrase he had learned.

  My heart singing like a magpie after receiving praise for my English from an American, I smiled all the way home. Once there, I got changed and lay the cheongsam flat on my bed where it wouldn’t get creased. While looking at it and trying to picture a cheongsam that Uncle Fly suggested would be custom-made for me, I had a strong urge to see all of Helen Jen’s things in his possession destroyed. He’s definitely downplaying his feeling for her before me, I thought. What else would make a man keep a woman’s clothes and shoes in his own closet for so long?

  Just then, Mother stormed in without a word, unlocked her bedroom and slammed the door behind her, sending the padlock rocking on the hinge.

  “You little seductive skank, are you deaf or mute?” Mother suddenly emerged from her room and yelled this at me. I said nothing. The next moment saw her sitting herself down on the stool next to the fluted column, and she began to weep.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “That Mee-ker, that American Mee-ker … he is a mean pathetic little prick ... like all of them, that Mee-ker …”

  “What did he do?”

  “He said no to me ... Mee-ker said he’s not returning to America yet …”

  “But to continue teaching in Shanghai?”

  “No, no! Mee-ker said Asian women behave differently in Asia than in America … Mee-ker said he loves Asia …”

  “Mick, not Mee-ker,” I couldn’t help but to correct her pronunciation. “And what did he say no to you for?”

  “Getting married and going to New York, of course!”

  “You wanted him to marry you?”

  Mother looked at me with her swollen red eyes. “Mee-ker was my only chance and he said no, right after such a successful concert. I went all out for him.”

  “What does that have to do with agreeing to marry you? He’s obviously not meek, nor stupid. He can see through your true motives.”

  “Whose side are you on? Can’t you see that my whole life has been ruined because of you and prickly male pigs like him? He saw you and began harping on how attractive Asiatic women in Asia are ... how stunning you look in a Chinese dress ... it’s all little devilish seductresses like you that ruined my chances.”

  “So this is my fault now?”

  “Are you laughing at me? Basking in the pleasure of your schadenfreude moments, are you, you ungrateful little temptress? He prefers these slit-eyed Japanese with chests as flat as a Hongqiao Airport runway and stout radish-like legs wrapped inside a kimono moving in little pigeon-toed steps … and Tokyo, Taipei, Thailand, any freaking Asian place that will take him …” Mother sounded like she was spitting. “And here you are, defending him!”

  “You are rambling nonsensically and your jealousy is utterly misplaced! Get hold of yourself, Mother!”

  She stopped talking and stared at me as though stunned. In a flash, she charged at my bed to snatch the cheongsam and started to pull it in an effort to rip it. I sprang over to rescue it and my cheek was scratched by her fingernails. “Get out! Get out of my house!” she screamed, flinging out her arms and shaking her pianist fingers about like two possessed octopuses.

  I grabbed the cheongsam and dashed out to the street.

  How I ended up in Uncle Fly’s place late that night was all a blur to me now. I must have run all the way through the dimly lit streets and lanes, clutching onto the cheongsam as if it were something alive. As I approached his house, a ground floor neighbor returning from his factory night shift happened to be unlocking the communal door. I made a sprint and followed him in, panting my way up and breaking the door open.

  The pavilion room was dark except for a pyramidal stream of light from the lamp next to the wing chair. Uncle Fly rose in a start, dropping a hard cover book he was reading.

  “What happened?”

  Staring at the blood-streaked cheongsam in amazement, I leaned on the door, gasping for air.

  “What happened to your face?”

  He took the cheongsam and began blotting my cheek. Only then did I experience a sharp sting.

  Too ashamed to tell the truth, I told a white lie on the spur of the moment, “Nothing … it’s nothing serious … it m-must be the ivy d-downstairs ...”

  “Enough,” he said, angry. “Did she do that?”

  A sharp tingle rose up my nostril. The tears I had been holding back rolled down. I nodded emphatically. “She blamed me for everything when the American declined to marry her so that she could go to the U.S.”

  “She should not have pinned her hopes of going abroad on that bloke. She can’t possibly serve two masters with opposing needs and expect to get away with both. As an early product of the Soviet Russia himself, the violinist may very well be aware that her role was more to spy on him than to be an accompanist but he just went along, playing a little seduction game on the side.”

  “Mother serving two masters?”

  “I had the Venetian playwright Carlo Goldoni’s The Servant of Two Masters in mind. Truffaldino, the servant, juggles between two masters to comic effect. What your mother attempted was not as funny, I’m afraid.”

  “Mother wanted to please the School authority and Mick Popov at the same time and it backfired. But she always blames me for everything … everything! I wish I knew who my father was. I’m sure he wouldn’t let me suffer from my mother’s abuse like this …” I choke up.

  Uncle Fly stepped closer and let me rest my head on his chest. As I sobbed on his burgundy cardigan, he hugged me.
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  12 Heart on Top, Friend at the Bottom

  The emotional gulf between Mother and me widened further after our latest confrontation. For months now, she had treated me with civil detachment, not that I had ever experienced a close bond with her. Uncle Fly’s friend reported that Mother had received praises for her work with Mick Popov. During a Municipal Cultural Bureau conferring session Secretary-General Zhao cited her and was in turn commended for his own leadership. Like she had done before, Mother had reinvented herself and become a star of a different kind at age thirty-nine.

  Alone in the all-purpose room of ours, I felt as if I were living in a void, the black FOREVER padlock an apparition. Mother was hardly around. The thought of Uncle Fly filled my mind.

  Ai, Chinese for love, is a combination of two parts forming one character: heart on top; friend at the bottom. According to Uncle Fly, the American poet Ezra Pound was called “The Genius” for his interpretation of the Chinese ideogram as a vehicle for meaning, both linguistically and visually. Some Westerners regard Pound’s theory to be an earth-shattering discovery, and rightly so. Occidentals like you whose languages are alphabet-based may find it inconceivable that strokes coming and going in all directions could be sandwiched into a tiny space the size of a Chinese character, and that any sense could be made out of it. Growing up comprehending concepts through images, I was always in search for signs of the man who would put his heart above the friend for me.

  Would he be Uncle Fly?

  “One rain and it’s autumn,” so states a Shanghainese saying about our weather. With each late summer rain the temperature dips down a notch on the thermometer. Autumn is the time when Shanghai recovers from its heat and humidity for the season of harvest. This would be the time, I had wished, that my association with Uncle Fly would bear fruit.