by Vivian Yang
WH was really not that sophisticated after all, I thought to myself, not without glee. “Not so fast. How do I know anything you claimed is true?”
“Swear to Buddha it’s true. I know because Hideo asked my old boyfriend to go talk to Teacher Mo at The Snow White but was scolded by the Mama-san as this ‘was no place for a Chinaman to show your filthy face.’ He was so enraged that he hit a Japanese bouncer there and left. Hideo was in turn angry with him for risking us all and arranged to have him sent back.”
“Sent back?”
“To China. Anyway, Makoto Mori made lots of money in real estate during the bubble years and he was hooked by Teacher Mo’s Caucasian looks from the start. You would know, right, that her skin was as smooth as the surface of the cheese cakes they sell at the Mitsukoshi bakery, only whiter and smoother.”
I uttered a sigh of recognition, remembering Nadia’s silky skin that I always associated with being Oriental. At this point I began to take WH seriously. This had been an all too familiar a story: some Japanese man meets a Caucasian woman in a hostess bar and pays her upkeep in an upscale neighborhood. It is common knowledge that Caucasian hostesses, rather than their Asian counterparts, are paid significantly higher due to sexual fantasies associated with their race. WH’s depiction of Nadia sounded like it was straight out of Kazumasa Sagawa’s books. The Japanese and many other Asians share the same aesthetic attitude towards facial and physical appearances: the more Caucasian, the more desirable. In a Japan that obsessed over appearance and worshiped Caucasian looks, it was not unthinkable that Makoto Mori’s victim was indeed …
I froze at the thought, horrified by the morbid conclusion. I came to an uncanny realization that Mori, while a common Japanese last name consisting of three characters for wood stacked together to indicate a forest, was also the Latin word for death.
Memento mori -- Be mindful of death.
I shelled out another 40,000 yen -- all the cash I had on me save change -- to WH for the information, adding that it was the maximum sum I could give without having her invited to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police for interrogation. Her parting shot was not something I would have expected from our conversation up to that point.
“You don’t have to sink so low. We both know you would have nothing to gain to report me to the Japanese. Count yourself lucky as a white man who enjoys all the privileges in Asia. Fifty-thousand yen can do little for me and you Western imperialists are known for your stinginess, you pathetic white prince riding on your moral high horse. If you had any feelings for Teacher Mo, if you have any conscience at all, you shall pay for the rest of your life knowing that you could have prevented her from this tragic ending to her life. Now sayonara, Popov-sensei!”
When I recovered from WH’s outburst, she was out of sight. I convinced myself that it was Nadia’s own unique heritage that proved to be the real curse of her life among predatory Asian men, and that I had nothing to do with her ultimate downfall, if indeed she had fallen. I believe that Asian men have a sexually charged fascination with Caucasian looks. To them, a salad of racial genes was tastier than a steamy hot bowl of rice. North Korea’s stout, bespectacled, and illusive “Dear Leader”-turned-“Great Leader” Kim Jong Il, notwithstanding his being perpetually clad in a drab olive leisure suit, is legendary for his taste for Caucasian women and is an avowed Liz Taylor fan.
Ever since my encounter with WH, images of Nadia Mo kept penetrating into my consciousness. I cannot help but wonder about the goings-on in a high-end hostess bar catering to an almost exclusively Japanese male clientele – the ice-breaking, the sake-pouring, the bowing, the half-smiling, the chit-chatting, the fondling, the picking and choosing of the “ordinary” girls versus the “extraordinary” white girls, and the cut-throat, behind the scenes rivalry for top customers. I speculate on Mori’s fantasies for Nadia and his expectations from her, however perverse.
Pudgy, muscular, one-earringed, with dark chin pubes and plucked eyebrows? I try to picture Mori as if he were still alive and an archrival in my winning back Nadia’s affection. A man infatuated with the West, no doubt, or the image of it. Was Mori the kind of Tokyo man who, as I have regularly read about here, would make weekly visits to salons to have his hands massaged, cuticles trimmed, nails scrubbed, bluffed, and transparent-lacquer polished? Would Mori be showing off as well his bleached, frosted, and permed wavy locks à la Richard Gere? Would he be wearing those white patent-leather shoes with shiny metal logos and custom made two-inch heels to compensate his height? Would he, in fact, be so obsessed with approximating the Caucasian physique as to have sought intrusive augmentations as some here men have done?
Yesterday, I found myself in the Aoyama Reien Cemetery, strolling along a myriad of trails paved with ancient stone slabs smoothed by many a passerby before me. Under the lazy winter sunlight filtered through the maple trees and pines, I drifted aimlessly, thinking about Nadia and curiously, Ryu Hideo, the Chinese man who has killed Mori for Nadia. Jealousy surged in me.
Then I laughed at myself. The guy is on death row in a Japanese cell with no television and a maximum of three books, for goodness sake, not that I would assume that he is any kind of a reader. One thing is clear: there is no crime of passion argument in Japan. Capital punishment is standard for such offenses and executions are carried out by hanging. Family and legal representatives will only be informed of the condemned convict’s death afterwards.
The sun, devoid of warmth, streamed through the foliage upon me. I was thrown back to an afternoon I spent with Nadia in our favorite piano practicing room when she tried to explain to me a 300 A.D. love song written by the Chinese poetess Tzu Yeh. Nadia at these moments epitomized for me the most charismatic qualities of the “East meets West” Shanghainese femininity. I later managed to find an English translation of the song in The Hong Kong Library, and here it is:
I let down my silken hair
Over my shoulders
And open my thighs
Over my lover.
“Tell me, is there any part of me
That is not lovable?”
Dear editor, I am in a cauldron of emotional turmoil and moral dilemma. Part of me wants to alert the authorities that the Aokigahara victim could be Nadia Molotova even at the risk of endangering WH and potentially other Chinese residents in Japan. Another part of me is praying and making believe that Nadia is still alive and that this appalling case has nothing to do with her.
Whereas this query may appear unconventional, it fits into your guideline that “it has a strong Asian theme or connection.” Whether or not Mo Na-di will prove to be the victim, my unique relationship with her and the experiences we have shared in Shanghai should make a fascinating read.
Sincerely,
Mick Popov
Mick Popov
Tokyo
At some point of my reading, the typed writing grew so misty it felt like I was deciphering the tiniest prints down an optometrist’s chart. When I finished, tears had stained the pages as I sobbed “Mother, oh Mother”, drawing a blank to my surroundings.
Man came over and gave me a consoling hug. “I am sorry ... I was so buried in work that I didn’t give it a second thought when I first received it.”
“So you were the one she taught?”
“No, it was actually my cousin that Miss Nadia taught, and of course with all the seduction thing and then my uncle sending me off to England, I never did know her.”
“Seduction?”
“Oh, cat out of the bag again, I’m sorry, but that’s why she had to leave Hong Kong. It was my auntie’s condition for not going to court, and of course Miss Nadia had failed to put you up for adoption … you know how some Hong Kongers think, a girl and mixed-blood on top of it.”
“Well, thank you for enlightening me,” I snapped, shaking. My mother has just been murdered because she was Eurasian and I’m hearing this kind of nonsense!
“Sorry, Mo Mo,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’m as shocked as you are and
you have my complete sympathy, but I have an appointment outside now. Why don’t you come with me and Ah John can drop you off afterwards. Take the rest of the week off to sort things out and call if there’s anything I can do.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you. Sorry, could I have the letter for now?”
“Yes, of course. You can keep it. I just wish its content were different.”
“So do I. I think I’ll just go home myself. Thanks again for everything.”
19 Fortune Alley Revisited
I did not return to the apartment right away. A taxi dropped me off in Sheung Wan’s Fortune-Telling Alley. I came to the place where Mother had sought to have our future told.
Our fate.
Hers, mostly.
I looked at the fortune-telling stands before me, seeing but not registering.
Montages:
May 15th, 1962. The Royal Hong Kong Observatory forecast 70 millimeters per hour of rain falling on the Crown Colony.
By late morning, the sky was the color of steel and pedestrians were seeking shelters. The cloth umbrella she brought from Shanghai was flipped inside out. She waved it like a flag for a cab. Many whizzed by her until one finally stopped. The driver took pity on the frantic Eurasian chick who by then looked more like a drowning hen. She realized that her own water might soon break and converge with the downpour.
“Quick, please, to that Catholic hospital on Old Peak Road!” she called out in Chinese.
“Missee richee En-ga-leash lay-dee. Big rain big wind. You pay now, three time.” The Cantonese cabbie negotiated in his broken English based on the face he saw rather than the tongue he heard.
“I’m neither rich nor English but I’ll pay you three times the fare now. Here, just go, please! Only a church hospital will take me in for free.”
My mother was put on a gurney when she arrived at Canossa, skipping the front desk registration altogether. At one point during her contractions, she sensed a nurse drifting about her bed, a clipboard in hand.
“How old are you, Mrs. …?” the sister asked, staring down on the contorted young face, expecting a European surname.
Beads of sweat rolled down from the unwed girl’s forehead, blurring her vision. “Mo!” she heaved at the figure whose nurse’s cap was floating in front of her like a large dumpling. “I’m Mo Na-di, Miss Mo!” A brief hesitation later, she added, “I’m eighteen and I’m by myself!”
The Cantonese nun’s surgical mask concealed whatever feelings of disapproval she might have. She dutifully jotted down the information before making a name tag for the maternity ward. It had me down as “Baby Mo.”
When the moment finally arrived, the starched wonton cap declared, “It’s a girl.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be a son,” sighed my mother in resignation. “Perhaps it’s my retribution.”
“Oh, please don’t say that, miss. All children are our Lord’s creation.”
She did not concur, biting her thin shapely lips to refrain from a rejoinder. What Chinese family wouldn’t want a son if it were to resort to adopting? -- this accidental mother retorted in silence. Back home in Shanghai, God as her mother and grandfather had known Him had been banned. She had intended to start life anew here where Caucasians still ruled. The discovery of the pregnancy and the Hong Kong Chinese’ disdain for “half-breeds” put her in this dilemma.
A few days after her discharge, my mother brought me here to the Fortune-Telling Alley. Then, as now, the pungency of salted fish and seasoned octopus permeated the atmosphere. Black snakes and white ginseng roots in sorghum liquor provided a visual association of male virility. Bowls of brown-colored medicinal tea brewed from turtle shells cooled on square kitchen block tables, which doubled as mahjong battlegrounds by night. Open stalls displayed air-dried deer penises and seahorses. South China Sea tropical mosquitoes and Pearl River Delta fruit flies buzzed around. Shirtless, toothless men in raw silk boxer shorts and open-toed rattan slippers called out to their male customers:
“Must have! Must have! Our secret recipe concoction will light your fire like nobody’s business!”
Such a potion had no practical value to my mother. Her future as a budding pianist may have already been ruined by someone who had never had such a drink. She had come to the Fortune-Telling Alley for a dose of superstitious guidance that was no longer available in her native land.
“Lai! Lai! Come over here!” She heard the beckoning of a blind man in wire-rimmed dark glasses and turned to look at his brush-written sign: Name Giving. Fate Analysis. Life Advice.
His weather-beaten skin was just a shade lighter than his spectacles, his chin hanging like the wattle of a cock. My mother equated his age with wisdom.
One by one she handed him Hong Kong dollar coins. The sage clenched the embossed heads of Queen Elizabeth II with his thumb and finger. “Sit on the stool, sister. Let old blind man feel your baby for proper naming. Ah … straight nose bridge and high cheekbones … baby has beautiful white girl features. Daddy English gentleman?”
After a hesitance she answered, “The family name in Chinese is Mo, shortened from Molotov.”
The man uttered an instant snicker. “Ahh -- Russian --”
Silence ensued.
My mother tugged his sleeve. He made no move. She rested me on her forearm and fumbled in her pocket. Coins rattled. She looked on as the master turned his head skywards in a circular motion and began to drone a litany of the Eight Characters System pairing the Heavenly Stems and the Earthly Branches. As he unleashed a long exhalation he reached forward, palms up. Taking the cue, my mother placed one shining head of Elizabeth II on either hand.
“She should be named Mo, the character for Jasmine, the kind with the fragrant white flowers and evergreen bushes.”
“Mo Mo?” My mother repeated, her tone rising.
Noting her doubt, the master affirmed his choice. “A beautiful girl needs a feminine name to match and …” he paused.
She produced a note bearing the Queen then repeated, “And …?”
A faint smile. “And sister should flaunt what you have to get ahead.”
“I know that and I’ve used my assets all along, but it’s so hard for me to carry on here ... and with this burden …”
“Sister must have heard of the saying ‘Of the thirty-six stratagems, to leave is the best’?”
“Of course, but wouldn’t that make me a cop out?”
“Come. Let me feel your beautiful face to confirm that you are not a cop out.”
She flung her free arm at him and knocked his glasses off.
The sage fumbled on the ground for his eyewear and stood up. Then he laughed. Turning in the direction of a tea stand, he hollered, “Bring me a bowl here, now!”
I returned to the flat still in a trance. A red light on the phone was blinking. I pressed the button.
“It’s me, darling. Please call as soon as you can. I’ve got something to tell you.” The tone was a bit tense. Uncle Fly must have also heard the news.
I called.
“Hello, Mo Mo?”
The familiar mellifluous baritone opened the floodgate of bereavement in me. “Un-uncle Fly …”
“Darling … you heard?”
I continued to weep, struggling to resume talking. “Y-yes ... I think she’s really dead … How did you find out?”
“Your friend Wang Hong came here this morning and dropped off a letter for you. It was sent from a maximum security prison in Tokyo to your former address. She had just returned from Japan last week and told me about your mother and the man who sent the letter.”
“Wang Hong’s back, too? And what does the letter say?”
“It’s sealed of course but she claims to know its contents. She said that your condemned friend has registered the Russian Orthodox Church under your name as a parting gift.”
“What? That’s not possible … He jilted me years ago … before you and I met … and … I can’t believe this!”
There was no respo
nse from his end.
“But if this were true, then I would be the owner of the old church, wouldn’t I? Why don’t you open the letter for me?”
“It’s addressed to you.”
“But I’m anxious to verify. Wouldn’t it be great if … anyway, he’s on death row and he means nothing to me anymore. Please open the letter for me, Uncle Fly.”
“I can forward it to you in Hong Kong.”
“Why do you do this to me? It’ll be faster if I just return to Shanghai to read it.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “The fellow means nothing to you anymore?”
“No.”
“Even if turns out to be true that he’ll give the place?”
“Oh, Uncle Fly, I’m all muddle-headed and I’m still in shock from it all! What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? Just tell me!”
Another spell of quietness.
With a little catch in his voice, he asked, “Is there … someone in Hong Kong that you cannot part with … or in Japan that you would like to see?”
“No.”
His exhalation was audible.
“Would you consider returning to Shanghai, then? This could be an opportunity for you to shine. Ah Fang can tidy up the spare room ...”
Hot, fresh tears sprang to my eyes.
“Sleep over it, darling.” His tone was affectionate.
“Yes … thanks … I will. Besides, I need to give my notice.”
“Only if you do make that decision, and be sure to tie up the loose ends and thank Mr. Hua for what he has done for you.”
“I know. I won’t burn my bridges.”