Night of Many Dreams

by Gail Tsukiyama

  “Why does he keep all his food locked up with that huge padlock?” Joan asked, laughing, after one of their lessons. “He lives by himself, and anyone who wants to can just reach in and take his dry crackers and powdered milk through the missing glass panes in his cabinet.”

  Foon made a snickering sound.

  “Maybe it makes him feel better!” Emma snapped back, defending the professor, though she often wondered the same thing.

  Emma had heard stories from her mother and Auntie Go of how the war brought out hidden peculiarities in people. There was the woman who would no longer bathe or change her clothes because she had taped all her jewelry to her body, or the young boy who had suddenly become stone blind, though there was no medical reason. She knew that everyone had to find his own way to survive. Most of the time she tried to lose herself in a book, while Joan went to the movies as often as she could.

  “I think it’s absolutely crazy.” Joan laughed out loud. “I think Professor Ying’s crazy too!”

  Emma tried to keep a straight face until she felt Joan’s elbow nudge her lightly in the side. Then she elbowed her sister back, bursting out in laughter.

  Chapter 2

  Maiden in Armour—1942

  Joan

  All day long Joan pored over old Chinese and Hollywood movie magazines trying to catch something she might have missed the hundreds of times she’d studied them before. When she’d memorized the way Hedy Lamarr wore her hat tilted slightly to the left, or how Nancy Chan lifted her hand just so, Joan smiled to herself, then slapped the magazines shut and threw them onto the stack already on the floor. Restlessly, she got up from her bed and moved from one room to another, feeling caged. Most days she and Emma stayed close to home, but on this particularly humid April afternoon, after months of confinement, Joan needed to breathe again. Her parents were out helping friends deal with Japanese officials who were inspecting their homes, and Emma had gone with Auntie Go to wait in yet another line for a meager cup of rice or a box of powdered milk. Joan could hear Foon moving around in the kitchen, but knew better than to disturb her when she was trying to prepare dinner with what little she had.

  In the living room, Joan picked up a copy of the Hong Kong News, an English-language newspaper printed by the Japanese. It was still lying on the sofa, where earlier she’d heard Emma reading the Japanese propaganda and small advertisements out loud to Auntie Go. “Look!” Emma had said. “It says the Hong Kong Hotel’s snack bar has been turned into a tempura grill, and there’s a Japanese lesson here, ‘do-mo ar-ri-ga-to, thank you,’” she’d repeated several times.

  “Thank you for what?” Joan mumbled to herself. She turned the page and glanced down at a column called “About Town,” which read, Now with local hostilities laid to rest, Hong Kong movie theatres will begin operating again on a limited basis. Joan breathed in the stale air. It had been months since she’d last seen a movie, In Name Only, with Carole Lombard. Just the thought of going again lifted her spirits.

  Since the start of the occupation nearly five months ago, Joan and Emma had been forbidden by their parents to be out after dark, or to walk alone, without Foon. Still, at checkpoints along Robinson or Bonham Roads, Japanese soldiers whose rifles hung ominously from their shoulders often stopped and harassed Joan whenever she dared to venture out. “Shall I walk you home, sweet thing?” a snake-eyed soldier asked. “Wouldn’t you like to keep me warm tonight?” another whispered. When Joan came home anxious, Mah-mee shook her head and said, “No matter how you try to camouflage yourself under big coats and hats, those guards are like animals! You can’t hide yourself from them. Do as Ba ba says. Just stay indoors where you’ll be safe.”

  Joan sighed. In spite of Mah-mee’s warning, she wanted to go out more than ever. She put down the Hong Kong News, then moved gingerly toward the kitchen. It was a small, square, gray room toward the back of the flat, with stone-slab counters lining two walls, an enamel washbasin, and charcoal fires enough for two woks.

  There was also a small space in back where Foon slept. Ever since they were little, Joan and Emma were forbidden to disturb Foon’s sleeping space. Originally a pantry, the narrow closet had been Foon’s room for as long as Joan could remember. Once, when Foon was at the market, Joan and Emma had stolen into the kitchen to peek behind the faded red curtain that draped the opening. It was like a game to them. Emma was only six or seven and had a hard time stifling her giggles. Joan turned and covered Emma’s mouth with the palm of her hand until she stopped laughing. The kitchen was cold and sterile, dark in the winter light. Joan grabbed the coarse cloth and pulled it slowly aside as Emma hovered behind her. A strong, musty smell hit them first, which Joan later discovered came from the dry mushrooms sitting on the shelf. There was no window, and the space was too dark for them to really see anything clearly.

  Joan turned and whispered to Emma, “Go watch out for Foon.”

  Then Joan sneaked forward, raising her hand in search of the string that turned on the light. With a quick click, Joan surveyed the cramped space, just enough room for a makeshift bunk bed on one side and shelves on the other. There was so little there, mostly dry foods Foon used for cooking. Only the bottom bunk had a sheet and blanket on it, the top holding Foon’s few possessions—two small piles of clothing, a padded jacket, a worn straw hat she wore to the market during the hot summer months. It was the first time Joan realized Foon existed on so little. It seemed barely enough to represent a life.

  “What’s in there?” Emma giggled. She didn’t dare to leave her place at the door.

  “Just a bed and some clothes.” Joan swallowed. She quickly turned off the light, but the memory of Foon’s spare life had always stayed with her.

  Joan pushed open the kitchen door slowly, and right away the rich, pungent smells of Foon’s herbs filled her with longing. Every night Foon would surprise them with culinary delights, despite the meager food rationing. Strange soups and vegetables appeared on the table, made from dry herbs and plants Joan could only guess at. It was as if Foon were a magician, creating something out of nothing. And if she was lucky enough to bargain through the black market for a chicken, or a piece of meat, they ate well and never questioned her sources.

  The windows facing the courtyard were open, but the kitchen still felt sweltering. Joan cleared her throat to let Foon know she was there.

  “What do you need?” Foon asked as she continued to mince garlic without looking up.

  Joan shifted from one foot to the other. At sixteen, she still felt like a little girl around her old servant. “When will dinner be?” she finally asked, thinking it better to ease into a conversation with Foon.

  “Same as always.” Foon raised her head and eyed Joan closely. “Why?”

  “I was wondering if I could go out for a little while. I’ll be home before it gets dark. I promise I’ll be very careful.”

  Foon looked back down and continued to mince. “Your mah-mee wants you to stay home.”

  “She won’t know. I’ll be back before she comes home.”

  “Too dangerous,” Foon said, never looking up.

  Joan lingered, watching the quick movements of Foon’s hands as she scooped the minced garlic into a bowl.

  “Can I just go to the end of Robinson Road to meet Auntie Go and Emma?” Joan asked. At least she would be outside.

  “No farther?”

  “No.”

  Foon picked up a wilted bunch of green onions. “Go then,” she said, holding up her cleaver and bringing it down with a swift chop.

  Joan skipped down the stone steps to the dark, cool entryway of their building, which always smelled of mildew and incense. She walked quickly down Conduit Road, wrapped in one of Mah-mee’s cashmere sweaters over her cotton cheungsam. She wished she could disguise herself as well as Hua Mulan, the maiden warrior. At the end of the block, Joan paused and looked around. The streets were empty of Japanese soldiers. Only a few women and servants hurried home with their precious rations. Joan hesitated a
moment, deciding whether to continue down to Central. Her mind raced with an urgency to know if the theatres were operating, hoping that the one thing she loved most might be returned to normal. The same road she had walked down thousands of times lay before her, quiet and inviting. She felt certain Kate Hepburn would keep walking, knew Hua Mulan would.

  Halfway down to Central, Joan was perspiring from the late-afternoon warmth, and the guilt of having lied to Foon. She wanted to take off her sweater, but decided against it. So far, she’d found it easy to avoid all the Japanese checkpoints, but there was something unsettling in the sticky air that made her keep Mah-mee’s sweater wrapped around her. When she walked past St. Paul’s Middle School, Joan thought she heard someone call out her name and stopped long enough to realize it must have been her imagination. The closer she came to Central, the more sounds and activity besieged her. High-crying voices pierced the air, while the squeaking wheels of hand-pulled carts moved all around her. She looked down and walked carefully around the concrete rubble still littering the streets from the countless bombings. Storefronts she had walked past since childhood stood ransacked, their broken windows boarded up against the light. Bone-thin vendors sat slumped against walls selling their meager, unwanted wares of pencils and combs. When she came to the end of Flower Street, Joan saw a group of Japanese soldiers loitering a half block away. They appeared no older than she was, dressed in uniforms that didn’t seem to fit, that sagged or pulled at places they shouldn’t. She quickly looked away and crossed the street toward the Queen’s Theatre. For a moment, Joan wondered if she’d made a mistake going out alone, but her heart raced when she looked up and saw the marquee still advertising His Girl Friday, starring Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. As she entered the cool shade of the theatre, Joan glanced around, hoping the soldiers hadn’t spotted her. Satisfied that she was alone, Joan walked up to a piece of paper posted on the theatre door. Written in both Chinese characters and English, it read, Queen’s Theatre will reopen by the end of the week. Now under Japanese management, a series of Japanese films will be shown first, as a way to acquaint those in Hong Kong with the Japanese ways. Joan stepped back, disappointed that it wouldn’t be a Hollywood film, angry that the Japanese devils had taken even the movies away from her. She was about to turn around when someone grabbed her arm from behind. Impulsively, she pulled away, but the grip only closed tighter, twisting painfully. She jerked around to face a young Japanese soldier, and the thought flashed through her mind that he looked like a boy who might be in her class.

  “Come with me,” he snapped in Japanese.

  Joan’s stomach began to turn. The heat felt oppressive as she tried once more to pull away from the soldier’s grip. She couldn’t help but think how angry Mah-mee would be that she’d gone off alone.

  “What do you want?” she whispered hoarsely.

  Grasping the back of her sweater, the soldier swung her around and half-dragged her back into the doorway of the theatre. When she tried to scream, he covered her mouth and yanked her hair back with such force, she thought he would break her neck. For a moment, Joan’s mind went blank. She smelled the oily scent of metal and faintly heard the soldier hiss something in Japanese. When he slammed her against the wall and pressed himself against her, Joan thought, It can’t be like this; it’s never like this in the movies! He clawed at her clothes, trying to pull up her cheungsam. Then, as if suddenly awakening, Joan struggled against him, pushing and scratching at his face. He swore at her, but when Joan knocked off his glasses, he fell back enough for her to jerk up her knee hard into his groin. Her heart jumped at the sound of his low grunt and the sharp intake of air that might have been her own as he stumbled back just enough for her to push him hard and run.

  Joan ran blindly until her lungs felt as if they would burst. Faces blurred as she passed them. She looked back once or twice, but there was no sign the Japanese soldier was following her. Still, she couldn’t take any chances. She dodged in and out of buildings and down narrow alleys. Hiding in a bathroom stall at the Hong Kong Hotel, she couldn’t stop shaking for almost an hour. At last, in a hot rush, she jumped into a taxi and returned home, sick to her stomach.

  By the time Joan arrived home, the sky had turned a dusty gray. A dull ache was in her muscles and her legs felt as heavy as lead. She straightened her hair. Her clothes felt disgustingly dirty. Joan didn’t think she would ever forget the soldier’s oily-metal smell. Slowly she pushed open the front door and stepped inside. From the hall she saw Foon in the living room pacing back and forth, muttering to Emma, “Good thing your mah-mee’s not back yet.” Joan had never seen Foon so worried, and it sent a terrifying numbness through her to think about what could have happened in that watery light of night if she hadn’t escaped.

  “I’m so sorry.” Joan stepped into the living room. “I didn’t mean to go so far.”

  Foon looked up, her gold tooth fully exposed. Emma ran to Joan, but stopped when she held out her arm as if to keep Emma at a safe distance.

  “Auntie Go’s out looking for you,” Emma said, her voice high and excited.

  Whatever Foon was thinking, she remained silent. Joan saw the glaze of fear in her eyes and the thin film of sweat on her forehead as she continued to pace back and forth across the room. Her eyes narrowed as she looked Joan up and down for what seemed like a long time, then she stopped and said, “Hurry! Go change before your mah-mee returns.”

  Emma followed Joan into her room and quickly closed the door behind them. “What happened? Where were you?” Emma asked in one breath.

  Joan began unbuttoning her cheungsam, her fingers numb and clumsy. Her tongue felt thick. “I was followed by a soldier,” she whispered.

  Emma moved closer. “Are you all right?”

  Joan nodded her head and tried to remain calm. “Yes. Of course. I lost him. I hid in the ladies’ room at the Hong Kong Hotel. I caught a taxi from there.”

  The smell of the humid streets still lingered on her sweater and cheungsam. Joan took them off and wrapped herself in an old robe. Her hair hung heavy down her back. She lifted it off her neck, then let it drop again at the thought of the soldier’s oily fingers tangled in its length. She steadied herself as a wave of nausea passed over her. Faintly she heard Emma asking again if she was all right. But when Joan saw how scared her sister looked, she avoided Emma’s large, questioning eyes, pressed her lips together, and kept quiet. Then, instead of placing her clothes neatly on the bed as she usually did, Joan flung them in a pile on the floor next to the black lacquer chest.

  Joan took a deep breath to calm herself. She opened the door and, with Emma following closely behind, stumbled out of her room into the bathroom. From the teak cabinet, she took Mah-mee’s steel shears, then turned to face the mirror. Slowly and deliberately, she cut her hair as short as a boy’s. Watching her hair fall away, Joan was surprised at how easy it was to become someone else. The face that stared back at her in the mirror already appeared younger, lighter. With each quick, sharp snip of the scissors, more and more silky black hair lay coiled and limp on the floor, like a dead animal.

  That evening at dinner Joan ate little. It was hard to follow the conversation. Auntie Go’s and Emma’s words seemed to float all around her. When Mah-mee saw Joan’s short hair, she simply said, “Short hair is much easier to take care of. Besides, it will grow out again when the time is right.”

  Joan breathed a sigh of relief when she closed the door to her room. She somehow felt safer in the small, familiar space. She prayed that the soldier would soon fade from her mind like a bad nightmare. A sourness rose up into her throat and she swallowed it back down. She touched her naked neck, then the close-cropped head of hair that felt as if it belonged to someone else. Not until hours later, when the milky, gray light of morning filled the room, did Joan dare to reach over and turn off the light.

  On a hot, airless afternoon toward the end of July, Mah-mee called Joan and Emma into the living room. Joan glanced at the piano, the pearl-inlaid
lacquered boxes sitting on the table, and the vase she had collected a few years ago from a store that owed her father money. They remained untouched. Joan held her breath for the day when their house would be inspected by the Japanese. In one quick sweep, they would take everything they wanted, until all that was left were empty walls. She had heard rumors that even bathroom fixtures were being removed and sent back to Japan.

  Mah-mee had just arrived home and was still clutching her handbag as she waited by the tall terrace windows. In the slant of sunlight that fell around her, Joan thought how Mah-mee, who had just turned thirty-eight, looked not much older than herself.

  “I’ve applied to the Japanese government for permission to move to Macao,” she said as soon as they sat down. “Ba ba and I think it would be much better for the two of you.”

  “When?” Emma asked.

  “As soon as possible,” Mah-mee said.

  Joan glanced over at Emma, who was smiling and clapping her hands in excitement. Joan swallowed hard. Trying to remember what it was like to feel that happy took all her strength. It had been weeks since the Japanese soldier had left her feeling anesthetized. Joan watched as Emma ran to hug Mah-mee, whose handbag dropped heavily to the floor.

  While they talked, Joan gradually let the idea sink in. She and Emma had gone to Macao several times as young girls to visit friends and relatives. The sweet taste of fresh mango pudding and coconut candy came to mind. Her mouth almost watered. The Portuguese colony had long been neutral territory, as well as a gamblers’ haven for the Chinese. According to the papers, the Japanese had more than welcomed their exodus, hoping to reduce the Chinese population and replace it with their own. Macao had a romantic feel that reminded Joan of the movie Algiers, with Charles Boyer. For the first time in weeks, something inside her stirred.