Memoirs of a Eurasian

by Vivian Yang

  ……

  A time to build up, a time to break down

  A time to dance, a time to mourn

  ……

  A time of love, a time of hate

  A time you may embrace

  And a time you may kiss ...

  The Chinese say that the success of a venture depends on three factors: tianshi (heavenly timing), dili (advantageous location), and renhe (harmonious people). I was lucky to have simultaneously possessed all three.

  My return to Shanghai coincided with the early days of China’s market economy. Maison Jasmine could not have found a better venue. And the team of people had already begun some of the work without me.

  The weeks that followed were spent in a whirl of excitement in preparation for the grand opening.

  The first floor would house the bar and the jazz piano salon. The second floor would feature The Europa and La Changhaï, the two restaurants each occupying half the space. Anchoring the Art Deco-style Dragon Room, named in memory of Coach Long, was the Long (dragon) Bar with its copper and dark pomelo woods that were salvaged from the Church’s benches. Uncle Fly, however, insisted on interpreting the homonym Long as a throwback to the namesake longest bar in the world in the former British Men’s Club in Shanghai. On display in the foreground was the WWII-era Harley motorcycle that was donated by Uncle Fly.

  Salon Nadia was a tribute to Mother and the era during which her parents had met. Lining the walls were sepia toned photographs of the Bund, the Garden Bridge, the French Public Garden (today’s Fuxing Park), the original Pushkin statue, and the Ziccawei Ward of the St. Ignatius Cathedral where Nadia Molotova was born. The lounge conjured up a world reminiscent of the kind of nightclubs that Coco & Molo performed in during Shanghai’s glamorous “Paris of the East” days when guests could sway to the sounds of jazz and dance to a DJ’s spins.

  A lustrous birdcage-shaped chandelier was suspended from the soaring vault in the center of the 2,000 square meter space, giving off a romantic glow. The Europa served continental fusion amidst meticulously restored frescos in homage to Tsar Nicholas II, with the portrait of Madonna and Child smiling at diners from the alcove. Dishes ranged from Maison Rouge-inspired French to Russian to Xinjiang, all grounded in classical European techniques.

  La Changhaï featured authentic Shanghainese Benbangcai cuisine epitomized by the use of the cooking wine and soy sauce. The signature “Hairy Peas with Preserved Vegetables” used Ah Bu’s recipe. Baijiu was the default liquor of choice and yanqishui, the salty, carbonated Coca-Cola of Shanghai, the most welcomed soft drink.

  Uncle Fly had been on site to give advice on everything from interior décor to furnishings to crockery. Looking at him from a corner of the room, Wang Hong whispered into my ear, “I wouldn’t give him up for anything, Mo Mo. He’s the perfect Shanghai gentleman for you.”

  “You and Condiments are well matched, too, not to mention that Condiments doesn’t have a glint of gray hair at the temples.”

  “Not yet, but he’s already using Japanese dye to touch up his hair. But no matter what he does, there’ll only be one Renaissance Shanghainese, and he’s yours.”

  Uncle Fly had decided to introduce me to his fellow Christian and best friend Peter. We would meet for dinner.

  “So what have you told him about me?”

  Uncle Fly didn’t reply, only smiled.

  Suddenly I felt as if I was being taken to meet the family. “That’s unfair! What did you tell him about me?”

  “Peter has known of you for a long time. He works for the Conservatoire, remember?”

  “So he must have known my mother and her …?”

  “I would think so. They were colleagues. He was made a lyricist for proletariat marching songs during the Cultural Revolution, not his strongest suit apparently. He majored in English at St. John’s and used to dabble in writing love verses in English to the McTyeire School girls.”

  “Peter the poet.”

  “He’ll feel flattered if he hears you say that. Now don’t worry, darling. You’ll like him. He is a dear friend.”

  Peter said that he hadn’t seen the Renaissance Shanghainese this happy for decades, thanks to me.

  “What was he like at St. John’s?” I asked.

  The men exchanged a look.

  “You can mention Helen,” I said to Peter. “He’s told me about her.”

  “There’s no need to bring her up,” said Uncle Fly.

  “Except that Peter may be amused to hear what you told me she had said over the phone.”

  “Right. Helen Jen returned to California as you know, Peter, and called to scold me for having my soul snatched – if I ever had a soul to begin with -- her exact words.”

  “That’s what I want to know,” Peter said, laughing. “But seriously, little Mo Mo, he had made up his mind from the time you first rescued Daisy. He’s been raving about you to me ever since.”

  I stared at Uncle Fly. His eyes smiled back at me.

  “I have to confess … and to apologize to you now that I met the wonderful girl in person that I did have my doubts at the outset, but he assured me that it was a case of Like mother, unlike daughter.”

  “What do you mean? My mother …?”

  Uncle Fly interrupted. “I just wanted to tell him how fantastically different you were. And Peter, why don’t you show Mo Mo your hand and she’ll understand what I meant.”

  Peter hesitated, then said, “First of all Mo Mo, please accept my condolences, and you carry yourself unbelievably well. The Renaissance Shanghainese always has impeccable taste. Now please don’t take offence. What I’m going to tell you is in no way meant to tarnish the memory of Teacher Mo.”

  “Now, Mo Mo, I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a cast of Chopin’s left hand as sculptured by Auguste Clésinger, but it is perhaps the most famous representation of the pianist’s hand and …” Uncle Fly urged Peter to continue with a look.

  “… Teacher Mo used to have a replica cast on top of her piano. One day … at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, I was attending a criticism meeting organized by some Red Guard students, and my colleagues and I were all in her piano room. At one point Teacher Mo, to show how revolutionary she was, stood up to take the Chopin cast as if she wanted to smash it in front of everybody. I … I … this is difficult to say right now but … I had been quite infatuated with her beauty and talent at that time and had been watching her every move. So I charged toward the cast and hugged it to my chest before she could reach it. The Red Guards were infuriated. They grabbed the cast from me, put it on the piano keyboard and positioned my own left hand on it. Then … then they repeatedly slammed the piano shut. Instead of asking them to stop, she helped the Red Guards by pressing my hand down …”

  Peter showed me his hand: several finger joints appeared crooked.

  I touched them. “I am so very sorry, Peter. I’m sorry my mother hurt you so cruelly. I wish I …”

  Peter smiled weakly. “It was that time of pervasive madness ... I wouldn’t have brought it up had …”

  “… had I not insisted,” said Uncle Fly.

  “Thankfully, it’s all in the past. ‘Yesterday is History, 'Tis so far away.’”

  “Is that a quote?”

  “Yes. Emily Dickinson,” answered Uncle Fly.

  After saying goodbye to Peter, Uncle Fly and I went to Salon Nadia. The bandstand was already set up and soft music was playing. The candlelight from the wall sconces reflected the mosaic window panels, giving off a sense of tranquility.

  “Do you think Kirill Molotov fell for my Nga Bu because she was racially different or because she was an attractive girl who happened to be Shanghainese?” I asked after studying the sepia photo of the Garden Bridge where my grandparents had their first kiss.

  He considered for a moment. “While I cannot speak for another man, I would not fall for a girl because …” He stopped short as though he had an epiphany. “I see … and all your rants published in The Mandarin Litera
ti … but no, do not doubt for one moment how I feel for you …”

  He drew me close, took my hand, put my head on his chest where I could sense his heartbeats, and we swayed to the rhythm of the slow tune.

  “What do you say we host a literary salon here, darling? We can start with you and Peter with short pieces and grow into marathon readings of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin.”

  “That’s a great idea, my dear Renaissance Man.”

  For that night I had put on the black velvet cheongsam with silk charcoal gray piping custom-made by Uncle Fly’s master tailor. Chinese love-knot frogs secured the dress at my neck, bosom, armpit, and down my side where the slits began just inches below. I also wore matching jade earrings, bangle and ring – all heirlooms from him.

  A long-stemmed red rose in hand and chin held high, I strode to the center of Salon Nadia’s bandstand wearing a smile. From the middle of the front row where Uncle Fly and Peter sat, people started clapping. Within seconds it turned into full applause.

  I noticed Chinese as well as Western faces in the audience, with some couples bringing their biracial kids along. A toddler with curly locks, pacifier in the mouth, waved enthusiastically from the lap of her Chinese Mom as her Western father clapped. Holding the smile, I acknowledged the audience with brisk side-to-side nods, sensing the return of my Film Studio training.

  In Mandarin, English, and Shanghainese, I welcomed everyone and thanked them for their presence. They would be vital to the making or breaking of Maison Jasmine. If I did the right thing, there might be people among this international crowd who would patronize a restaurant of mine in another city or another country.

  New York.

  St. Petersburg.

  Man Wah had said that expanding into such a Westerner-dominated metropolis would be difficult from a marketing standpoint but therein would lie the challenges for me.

  I began reciting the Emily Dickinson poem:

  Yesterday is History,

  'Tis so far away

  Yesterday is Poetry

  'Tis Philosophy

  Yesterday is mystery

  Where it is Today

  While we shrewdly speculate

  Flutter both away.

  Beyond the confines of this room in this historic edifice, beyond the former “Neva Street” in the Western concessions of the Native City, Shanghai met the tide of its mother river Huangpu, ebbing and flowing out of the East China Sea into the other coast of the vast Pacific Ocean ...

  I, the confessional raconteur, began my story with a quote from Anton Chekhov who said that what he believed to be reality was a dream, and vice versa. Let me end it with something from his theater director friend Konstantin Stanislavsky. “The ultimate goal of a thespian is to be believed rather than to be recognized or understood by the audience,” Si-tan-ni-si-la-fu-si-ji had said.

  You, my dear Western friend, have loaned me your attentive ears and your captivated eyes. What you now need to do for this life is to believe.

  -- The End –

  Appendix A: A conversation with Vivian Yang,

  author of Memoirs of a Eurasian and Shanghai Girl

  Q. MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN and SHANGHAI GIRL both tell unusual stories set in Shanghai and cities outside China. What are they each about?

  A. Both are about a strong heroine with roots in Shanghai’s former French Concession overcoming extraordinary odds in pursuit of a dream. MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN is set in Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Tokyo, with snippets of St. Petersburg and Warsaw. It is about the vicissitudes of three generations of a Eurasian family beginning with the Russian branch fleeing the Bolshevik Revolution to 1930s Shanghai, to the fate of its descendants during the radical Cultural Revolution and finally to the economic boom of more recent times. SHANGHAI GIRL is set in Shanghai and New York in the 1980s and early 1990s. It’s a story of love, ambition, intrigue, interracial relations, and the American Dream that is narrated by a post-adolescent girl from Shanghai, a Shanghai-born American businessman, and a young American Asia-aficionado.

  Q. The political nature of the Cultural Revolution features prominently especially in MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN. Can the novel be seen as yet another book about that period in China?

  A. I wouldn’t say so. MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN is a historical novel about the vicissitudes of three generations of a Eurasian family in the Far East. The Cultural Revolution is just an anchoring point and it certainly was a very political time. But the novel is really about unique individual experiences of the characters that are not familiar to a Western reader. And I want to evoke a sense of time, place, and culture – a kind of unique reading experience, if you will.

  Q. Both novels have murders in them and involve the Chinese, Japanese, and Caucasians in some way. How did this come about?

  A. Interracial relations is one of the multifaceted themes in both books. In a way, MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN is an exploration of the Asian male psyche when it comes to the Caucasian female and SHANGHAI GIRL is the opposite – that of the Caucasian obsession with the Asian female. I wanted to examine the universality of humanity and the complexity of the world without sacrificing the novels’ entertainment value.

  Q. Are you suggesting that Asian ideas about eroticism differ from Western ones?

  A. I’m suggesting nothing of that sort. Ideas about beauty, sensuality, romantic engagements, and sexuality can be highly personal and individualistic. A novelist is neither a moralist nor a social scientist. Her role as a literary artist is to create a world which the readers can be transported to and experience vicariously.

  Q. MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN describes racially motivated cannibalism in the contemporary developed world. Is it pure fiction?

  A. Unfortunately, the incident that is fictionalized in the book was based on true crimes committed in Asia and Europe. Richard Lloyd Parry’s book People Who Eat Darkness and Mick Jagger’s song Too Much Blood, for instance, deal with this matter. While a novelist is subject to the same stringent requirements for accuracy as a historian, she has no business perpetuating falsehoods.

  Q. Both protagonists in MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN and SHANGHAI GIRL are young Shanghai girls who go to the West, at least for a sojourn – just as you did. Can they be seen as your alter-egos?

  A. The writer James Baldwin said that all first novels are autobiographical to a certain extent. So SHANGHAI GIRL’s Sha-fei Hong, who was named after the famous the French Concession’s Avenue Joffre, shares some of my emotional growth experiences, as I was born in the former International Settlement and grew up in the French Concession. I am also the only child of parents who were university professors, and I later came to America for graduate school, just like Sha-fei. But the story proper is fictional. Mo Mo in MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN, by contrast, bears little biographical resemblance to me.

  Q. You have created original characters one seldom comes across in existing literature – including the principled and helplessly romantic “Renaissance Shanghainese” flâneur, the Eurasian orphan with pianist Van Cliburn as her unlikely hero who debases herself to survive the Communist regime in MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN, and the pre-Communist mission-schooled Chinese-American businessman Gordon Lou in SHANGHAI GIRL. How did those unique fictional people come to you? Who is your favorite character in each?

  A. My characters are composites of people I knew growing up in the 1970s and 80s in Shanghai’s former European quarters. Many were disenfranchised former elites who had gone to Western mission schools, like the “Renaissance Shanghainese” and Gordon Lou. Others were working-class Christian converts who had to survive and adapt to the new Communist regime. Still others – the few but memorable ones I knew – were Eurasians who continued to live in Shanghai after the 1949 Liberation. Most Westerners, of course, had long been “shanghaied” out of China by the time I was born, and anything not regarded as proletariat was banned during that period - particularly English and Western culture. “Renaissance Shanghainese” is my personal favorite in MEMOIRS OF A EURASIAN, and Sha-fei Hong, the first-pers
on female narrator of SHANGHAI GIRL, is the character I feel most attached to. The other two narrators of that novel are men, although Gordon Lou and Ed Cook are both distinctive and strong characters in their own right.

  Q. Is the Shanghai you write about consistent with the West’s image of this Chinese city?

  A. While I don’t believe that there exists one codified image of Shanghai even among the Chinese, I imagine that some Western readers may think of China as being culturally and ethnically homogeneous. By setting my novels partly in its former French Concession, Shanghai’s unique position in China can be fleshed out, and its less-known but fascinating stories can be told in an entertaining way. I’ll leave it to my readers to judge whether or not my Shanghai matches their own vision of it, but I certainly hope they’ll enjoy the stories no matter what their notion of the city is, glamorous or otherwise.

  Appendix B: A Brief Timeline for Memoirs of a Eurasian

  Actual Historical Events in the 20th Century

  As depicted in Memoirs of a Eurasian (chapters mentioned are in parentheses)

  In 1917, The Russian Bolshevik (Communist) Revolution succeeded in overthrowing the Tsar and founded the Soviet Union. A sizable Russian Diaspora flourished in Shanghai’s European quarters, notably the French Concession, a key setting of the novel. By 1937, an estimated 25,000 anti-Bolshevik Russians were living in Shanghai.

  Kirill Molotov, the protagonist Mo Mo(lotova)'s maternal grandfather, is one of the Russians in the French Concession and presumed to have been involved in the erection of the Pushkin Statue in 1937, the centenary of the Russian poet’s death. (3, 6, 15)