by Vivian Yang
Whether my race is black white brown yellow or red.
In a stage play about the Soviet partisan of the Great Patriotic War against the Germans, Mo Na-di was assigned to play the leading role of Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya. So heroic was the teenaged Zoya that despite torture, rape, and mutilation she refused to submit to the Germans, who hanged her in public and left her half-naked body on display. Na-di’s knack for portraying Zola won many an accolade. By year-end, she was chosen to be one of Shanghai’s twenty “Model Communist Young Pioneers” and declared a symbol of Sino-Soviet friendship.
The Affiliated Middle School of the Shanghai Conservatory of Music offered her, at age 12, a place for its fall enrollment. Over three thousand candidates nationwide had competed for the thirty places at this boarding school for the musically gifted.
She had dropped the Nadia Molotova part of her name at the first signs of a Sino-Soviet ideological rift in the late 1950’s. Just over seventeen and having been included in a rare performance tour to Hong Kong, she won approval from Municipal Cultural Bureau Chief Chen to have “Nadia” inserted to her name in the program to appeal to the local audience.
“That same Uncle Chief?” I asked.
Mother pulled out a box from under where we were sitting. “Yes, him. Look, this is the program for Hong Kong:”
Nadia’ Mo Na-di is the youngest musician in the delegation. She is a product of the New China. Her rendition of Liszt and Chopin is sure to raise eyebrows.
“How impressive, Mother, to think that you succeeded against all odds, from an orphan to an accomplished keyboard performance instructor,” I said. “And to have raised me all by yourself, of course,” I added immediately when I noticed the blank look on her face.
“You wouldn’t have wanted him for your father, anyway, a man who had abused his power and taken advantage of a teenage girl well on her way to a promising career,” Mother said flatly, retrieving from the box a set of 1967 newspaper clippings with headlines denouncing Bureau Chief Chen.
Flabbergasted, I simply stared at her. All my life I had imagined my father to be an elite Hong Kong Chinese gentleman fluent in English, perhaps a man who would have his photo taken under a Union Jack in a smart Western suit. But now I had been hit with a sledgehammer falling directly from the Hammer & Sickle Communist Party flag: my father was a detestable bureaucrat and I was the product of an unwanted sexual advance.
“This is not true! This is outrageous!” I screamed.
“But this IS true! I could never bare to tell you because I wanted to protect you. It’s bad enough to be part Russian. Imagine on top of that having a rapist and a capitalist-roader who committed suicide for a father?”
“But … but – how could you? I refuse to believe this! There must’ve been some mistake! Does Wang Hong’s dad know about this?” I asked in rapid fire.
“No, Old Wang doesn’t know about it. Nobody knows but him and me. He came into my piano room right in the middle of my practicing The Revolutionary Étude – I’ll never forget that – and locked the door behind him. He said he had been fancying me because I was so beautiful and so Occidental-looking, and that all he wanted was to …” she paused, fighting back a nightmarish vision. “And I was only seventeen, you know, and he said if I didn’t broadcast it he would make an exception to include me in the delegation to Hong Kong. I told myself I would ‘defect’ – as they would call this then – to the British imperialists after the performance so I complied and got to Hong Kong. It was all well initially. I found a job teaching the daughter of this Cantonese textile mogul but he paid me peanuts. But they told their friends that I was pure white and got them all envious. When my pregnancy was beginning to show the wife wanted to kick me out. It so happened that some relative of theirs, a boy who had fled China and found his way to a church was brought over by a Shanghainese lady. That was your Ah Bu. She took me in on account of us both being Shanghainese and because my mother had also been a Christian like her.”
“So Ah Bu was our savior.”
“She was in that sense, at least in the beginning. After you were born I returned to the family to teach until the inevitable happened. The man kept harassing me … the familiar story of how fascinated he was by my fair skin, high nose bridge, big eyes, long dancing fingers, etc. etc. His wife became suspicious and threatened to report me to the British Immigration if I didn’t quit. I had no choice but to contact your father and told him about you. And you know the rest …”
“I’m so sorry for what happened to you, Mother. Please forgive me if I’ve inadvertently said anything that hurt your feelings.”
“I know I wasn’t exactly transparent with you, but how could I be?”
“I’m not blaming you, Mother. I understand you wanted to protect me.”
“And myself, too” she admitted, letting out a snicker. “He committed suicide to escape punishment, which suited me fine. I think it’s high time you carried this cross, Mo Mo, and I’m out of here.”
“It’s better than being kept in the dark forever, I suppose. I think I’ll be fine.”
“Good. Case closed.” Mother suddenly clutched the newspaper clippings and charged towards the sink. I followed her, just in time to see her pouring what was left of a bottle of baijiu onto the paper and lighting a match over it. The sheets were devoured by the tongues of flame in an instant, permeating the room with the same burnt smell reminiscent of the small fire involving the turtle’s head gas range tube right here.
Alarmed at what was going on, I shouted, “There’s a photo of him there!”
Mother used a hardened piece of the leftover khleb and poked at the ashes in the sink. Not looking up, she deadpanned, “Not any more. Why would you want a picture of a dunce-hatted, faceless man with a placard hanging from his neck saying ‘Death to the Capitalist-Roader!’?”
“Because he was my father,” I rasped. “And why did you burn that news story about his last days?”
“Because it’s the best way. Now that you’ve seen the headlines, we can all have closure. I’m leaving tomorrow and I have no need to take all this baggage with me as I said.”
“Tomorrow? And you’ve waited until this very last minute to tell me? And where to?”
“Japan. Tokyo, to be exact – I’m going for a symposium.”
“For how long?”
“The symposium visa was for three months but thanks to Secretary-General Zhao’s strong recommendation, I got a six-month visiting scholar’s visa. By the way, what is your relationship with the athlete who used to live in Shanghai but is now in Tokyo?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I don’t know his Chinese name as he now uses his Japanese alias Ryu Hideo, but I’m sure you can tell me who he is.”
I suppressed my instinctive desire to gasp: Coach Long! Wang Hong’s sponsor is Coach Long!
“How did you know about him? How do you know his name is Ryu Hideo now?” I demanded.
“You tell me his real name and your relationship first,” she insisted.
But I ignored her. “You tell me! How do you know about him?”
Mother backed down. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t do it on purpose. I happened to be home when this letter postmarked from Tokyo came and I … it was a wrong thought at the spur of the moment and my first thought was that maybe it’s from Mee-ker and I opened it …”
I waited for her to continue, holding my breath.
“… I had just heard Secretary-General Zhao mentioning a symposium in Tokyo … anyway, it was not premeditated. Here you are.” She handed a letter addressed to me in Chinese. The substandard, familiar penmanship reminding me of the time Wang Hong and I copied the underground novella popped in front of my eyes:
Dear Mo Mo,
Things have been hectic for me since we arrived here (more below), but I have something urgent to tell you. My sponsor said he knew you from his days as an athlete in Shanghai and he wanted to sponsor you to Japan ASAP (see the enclosed partially filled out form).
Hideo-san knew the neighborhood we’re from and asked if I’d heard of you and I said of course we are best friends. He said you’re the smartest and most beautiful girl he ever knew. In Japan, a photo is attached to job applications and girls with Western features are highly prized. You can earn lots of yen here, I’m sure. You should fill out your part of the visa application and send to his friend’s address here. Don’t write Ryu Hideo on it since it’s his fake Japanese name. His friend will forward him the letter.
He lives in a manshon (I was told it’s an English word so you must know it) with an elevator, it’s considered high-end here but actually it’s something we would call a flat in Shanghai, nothing like your fancy white house. Manshon is unaffordable so I share a room in the international house dorm with two other Chinese girls. My goal is to rent in a tatami-ed Japanese place myself eventually. For that, I need to put in many more hours in the Shinjuku restaurant as a waitress. I’m beginning to learn the concept of service. We have to yell “Irashaimas” (Welcome) every time a customer walks in. The Japanese are ultra rich by our standards. Dark-suited salariman (another English word you would know) spend like there’s no tomorrow drinking, singing karaoke, and visiting hostess bars after work. No wonder we’ve been taught since our childhood that capitalism is decadent but few of us mind as long as we get compensated well. We all work like crazy but still don’t have enough, as everything is so expensive.
Too bad you don’t have a private phone or I would have called you. Although international calls are expensive and even the Japanese don’t do it much, I can get calling cards from people who work for Hideo-san and call from any of the ubiquitous pay phones in Tokyo for free. Obviously these are contraband cards so if you don’t use it up within a few hours, the number will expire.
You probably guessed that Condiments and I have broken up. Despite what they say about male chauvinism in Japan, it’s actually a lot easier to be a girl than a boy if you are an immigrant. I’m doing just fine and enjoying myself. I don’t need to have him burden me anymore now that I’m here.
Got to go now. Remember to send the application back ASAP so I’ll look good before Hideo-san. He’s really a powerful man here.
Hope to see you soon in Tokyo!
Yours affectionately,
Wang Hong
“I’m speechless … This is so beneath you! Do you seriously believe that I would tell you about him after you did this to me?”
“Come on, Mo Mo. I gave birth to you, sacrificed for you and protected you all these years. This may be my only chance, and all I want is a contact in Japan ... to know who this powerful man is, just in case I have to …”
“… overstay your visa to become the most sought-after Eurasian in Tokyo? What has gotten into your head, Mother? You’ve not learned anything from life. You still think you can play your good looks card?”
She charged towards me, snatched the sheets from me, tore them up into pieces, and tossed them over my head like confetti. “Forget it! Forget about Ryu Hideo! I’ve come along all by myself and nobody ever helped me. I’ve come this far and I’m not turning back! Don’t you dare follow me and show your repulsive little face in Japan!”
Surprising myself, I stood there, collected. “What made you think I’m interested in going there?”
Her pale face flushed scarlet, Mother reached over to help dust the scattered paper off of me. “I’m sorry, Mo Mo … just promise one thing, my child, do not tell anyone we had this conversation. I’ll be back on time after the symposium.”
I clasped her hands. “Don’t you worry a thing, Mother. Please believe I am genuinely happy for you for this opportunity and I will not ruin it for you. You’ve earned it the hard way and you deserve it. Have a good trip ... a good journey. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. Thank you. Take care of yourself, and best of luck!”
14 Like Sleeping in Heaven
A woman had left for the foreign city where a younger man I had once loved and now loathed also lived. A long dead man of whom I had little memory had newly shattered my dream of the sanctity of fatherhood. The younger man had made it big and now sought my return. The woman wanted me out of sight. Never had I felt so orphaned yet so grown.
The Conservatory would repossess our two-room flat as soon as it was established that the woman would not return. I needed a roof over my head elsewhere, somewhere, near or far.
If I filled out the forms and mailed them out, I could be in the presence – and arms -- of my onetime hero.
Simple.
But I would not be the lamb to this wolf again! Coach Long, or Ryu Hideo for that matter, had long been out of my system. Even though there would be no elite Hong Kong Chinese father to be found, I still wanted to return to my birthplace, where the lingo I had taught myself was an official language and where people would judge me not on the basis of my appearance but my abilities. There, I could bloom like a flower bud professionally, Uncle Fly said.
Helen Jen came to mind as the only possible financial sponsor. Uncle Fly’s home telephone service disconnected since the Cultural Revolution had just been restored and he had exchanged calls with her. When I went to Uncle Fly’s to explore this possibility, Ah Fang answered the door and warned me about his foul mood.
“Daisy has been missing for two days and we’ve searching all over. I asked around at the market and this Ah Zheng said that a neighborhood young man who had returned from Tokyo with some dough is starting a game restaurant. Last night he treated his buddies with a bizarre feast and one of the dishes was ‘Soy Canine’.”
From Ah Fang’s gesticulating description I could almost hear Ah Zheng’s screeching voice coming out of her head of plastic curlers.
“What? She meant Daisy could have been …?”
“Wait, there’s more. Ah Zheng said the boy who lives on our first floor is a member of the clique. She thought he might have snatched Daisy... anyway, they smoked and quaffed pitchers of draft Tsingtao beer until early this morning ...”
I couldn’t bear to hear more. “Did you tell him that yet?”
“I had to. He was aghast and promptly asked me to leave all her shoes in a sack outside for the trash collection. There’s no point keeping them as gnaw-bones anymore, you see.”
The irony of Helen’s fancy pumps being kept for years to serve that purpose was not lost on me. Her cheongsam would be the next to go, I thought to myself, after I secured the sponsorship.
“That’s right, Ah Bu Fang. Thank you.”
I went up the stairs and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he said, listless.
The gabled room was nearly dark but for the pyramidal stream of light thrown from the lamp-shaded bulb. He did not move from his wing chair.
“It’s me.”
He shot up and turned. “Darling … oh, I … I was just thinking about you.”
I met his intensity with a smile. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“You’re not disturbing me at all. Welcome.” He walked towards me, somewhat recovered.
“I heard from Ah Fang … I’m so sorry, Uncle Fly … Daisy was our ‘matchmaker’ when we reunited ...”
He smiled faintly. “That’s a good way to put it. She was a sweetheart, but gone like that ...”
“It’s not confirmed yet ... some aging dogs will go off to die by themselves and she was getting old. Anyway, you doted on her and took good care of her … may she rest in peace.”
“Thank you. I’m not blaming myself. Now, what’s on your mind today, my dear?”
“Actually I’m here to ask for a big favor. Next time when you talk to Helen, I wonder if you could ask her to be my sponsor to Hong Kong.”
He studied me, wistful. “I’ve had the premonition that this was going to come sooner or later. ‘It never rains but pours.’”
“Meaning?”
No reply.
“I’ll look into that for you,” he said finally.
“And you don’t even ask why I want to leave?” I
shot back, suddenly offended.
“Ecclesiastes says there is a time for everything: a time to get and a time to lose, a time to keep, and a time to cast away. Perhaps it’s time for you to see the world. You are beautiful and intelligent and you deserve better. As much as it hurts me to see you go, it is the best thing for you. That’s what I was thinking about when you came in just now.”
My eyes well up. “You are my guardian angel, Uncle Fly.”
“Thank you for thinking of me this way, but I’m afraid I don’t deserve it. Helen may not be the right person. I’ll try my best to find you a suitable sponsor.”
“Whether or not a sponsor could be found, I’m forever indebted to you, Uncle Fly. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“You’re most welcome. What would you do if you managed to go there?”
I poured my heart out to the most trusted person in my life. “Getting my Hong Kong-born status validated will be a priority. I can then live and work in Hong Kong legally. I want to maximize any opportunity to build a resume and apprentice in a field that can utilize my training in performing arts. I want to improve my English so that I can work with both the Chinese and Westerners in the future, and who knows? -- some of my former schoolmates who are in Japan plan to return to start a business. I may end up doing the same.”
“Or simply being homesick:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn.”
“Are these lines from a famous poet?”
“Yes, from John Keats’ Ode to A Nightingale, but the story about Ruth is biblical.”
He went on to tell me the story.
“But I don’t think I would be in tears like Ruth,” I said. “If I decided to return, it would be for a bigger reason, like having my own venture and realizing my own dreams.”