Night of Many Dreams

by Gail Tsukiyama

  Her father took off his glasses and smiled. He’d always been slight and trim, and his hair had begun turning gray before he was thirty. “I take care of our flat and wait for all of you to return.”

  “Aren’t you lonely?”

  “No more so than when I’m away from you in Japan.”

  “But you had your work there.”

  “My work now is in keeping what little we have.”

  “You won’t return to Japan, will you? I mean, when the Japanese leave Hong Kong?” Emma had heard on the radio how the Japanese were losing ground all over the Pacific.

  “That remains to be seen,” he answered calmly. “The Japanese aren’t all bad. They’re just people like us. It’s their leaders who…Now, we have to be quiet, moi-moi. Look, there’s your sister.”

  Emma nodded and looked up at the makeshift stage. Mrs. Chen, the principal, had stepped up to speak, followed by the graduates, dressed in yellow robes that Joan, at first, refused to wear. “They’re ugly,” she had complained. Emma smiled, wiping her sweaty palms against her cotton dress. Beyond the buzz of whispering voices, Joan stood calm and self-possessed. Her presence filled the stage. In the white haze of lights, Emma saw that even in her ugly yellow robe, Joan was stunning.

  Emma’s father’s last visit to Macao was in June of 1945. She was going to go bike riding with Lia when she heard Foon’s excited voice welcoming him. “Lew seen-san, welcome, welcome.”

  It was a warm, humid day, and Emma was happy her father had come to visit. He looked tired, but smiled warmly when she hugged him.

  “Moi-moi, you can start packing soon,” Ba ba said.

  “What?”

  “To return to Hong Kong.”

  Emma stood perfectly still, as if turned to stone. She had come to love Macao as her own, adapting to its lazy heat, thick as a blanket. But most of all, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Lia.

  “When?” Emma asked when she recovered her voice.

  “Come, let’s go tell the others.” Ba ba led her back into the house.

  As they sat around the dining room table, her father smiled and continued to tell them all his news.

  “The Japanese can’t go on much longer. Hong Kong is simply becoming too much of a nuisance to them. They never could Nipponize us. Even the Hong Kong News, their own propaganda sheet, can’t hide the fact that Hitler is being defeated in Europe, just as they are losing grasp of the Pacific.” Ba ba looked over at Emma and Joan. “You’ll be sleeping in your own beds sooner than you think.”

  “When will we return?” Joan spoke up first.

  “In a few months at most,” Ba ba answered.

  “May I be excused? I’d like to tell Foon,” Joan said, glancing at Emma. Joan stood up, ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, then disappeared through the kitchen door.

  Emma tried to smile. Given all the rumors and news bulletins, she knew her father was right. The war had turned, and the Japanese no longer had the resources to keep going. In the bathroom, Emma splashed cold water on her face and decided to go tell Lia. She looked in the mirror, surprised to see someone older and sadder staring back at her.

  By mid-August, the bombings at Hiroshima and Nagasaki had brought a final end to the war. The Lew family listened to the radio in stunned silence. Finally, Auntie Go shook her head and said aloud, “All those poor children.” Emma tried to imagine how it must feel to be enveloped in that hot flash of light, to feel your flesh melt away. The absolute horror of it chilled Emma to the marrow.

  Outside, another life prevailed. In this wet summer season, when storms typically raged through Macao, the day remained dry, and the sea unusually calm. In the stillness, Emma and Lia rode their bikes down to the harbor and then up to St. Paul’s together for the last time. Emma tried to commit everything to memory, the dying sweetness of Auntie Go’s garden of flowers, the salt-fish air, the solid facade of the church gleaming in the sunlight. It made her feel light and strong to see it standing there against all odds, yet the finality of leaving frightened her. After she said good-bye to Lia, nothing would be the same. Emma didn’t know what to expect after Macao, but she knew deep down that she hungered for something more than Hong Kong.

  “And what do we see when we enter through these doors?” Lia’s smooth voice filled the air.

  “A large, wood-beamed ceiling,” Emma was quick to answer.

  “And what else?”

  “Stained-glass windows of every color. Reds, blues, greens, and yellows. And on the altar sits a gold chalice, and above it, a large wooden cross.”

  Lia closed her eyes against the sun. “Yes. Yes, I can see it all.”

  Chapter 4

  Daydream—1942–45

  Auntie Go

  Over the years, whenever Auntie Go’s thoughts drifted back to her childhood summer in Macao, the memories seemed to move in slow motion. The quick, frantic pace of Hong Kong gave way to a lazy dance of tropical heat, sweet coconut milk, simmering black beans, the high, shrill call of Portuguese voices, the damp, moldy smell down by the creek, a child’s contagious laughter, the cool water, the dull thumping…thumping…thumping…

  Since escaping to Macao from the terrors of Japanese-occupied Hong Kong, Auntie Go had felt that faraway summer more strongly than ever. Her first month back on Macao, Go found herself dreaming of events long forgotten, the faces and voices of her parents returning with such clarity they’d startle her awake.

  Most mornings she rose early, careful not to wake her cousin Kum Ling, and walked along Macao’s tree-lined streets, watching the Macanese women and servants rushing back from the market. Occasionally, she would see Foon from a distance, scurrying home with fruits and vegetables, one bag clutched in each hand. If Foon saw Auntie Go, she never let on, respectful of her privacy, even in public, for that was what these morning walks meant to Go. It was the privilege of being by herself, of simply smelling summer’s sweet tropical perfumes emanating from the fruits and flowers that grew in abundance everywhere.

  And along with each scent, a memory flowed through her of the young girl who had come to Macao so many summers ago. Although her nieces were living proof of all the years that had gone by, Go’s recollection of that summer intensified with every day that passed.

  After twenty-five years, Auntie Go once again shared a small room with Kum Ling. And each night, as they lay in bed listening to the gentle sway of the palm trees, Go could almost feel her cousin’s thoughts move away from her husband, daughters, and the Japanese occupation, drifting back to the stifling afternoon of which they had never spoken.

  Auntie Go waited patiently, the memory heavy in her heart. Then on one particularly warm and airless night, a restless rustling of sheets moved through the room. Auntie Go turned onto her side, the faint, transulucent threads of her mosquito net barely visible. Suddenly, Kum Ling’s low whisper startled the distance between their beds: “Do you remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you ever wish you hadn’t spent the summer with us?”

  Go stayed quiet for a moment. “It was my choice,” she answered, taking full responsibility. She heard her cousin’s slow breathing from the bed next to hers, felt the thick darkness around them.

  “I should have made him stop, when the rest of us did. He would have listened to me. But he was having such a good time, I didn’t think…” Kum Ling stopped.

  “No one could have known. We were no older than moi-moi is now. Just children,” Go said. Outside she heard the soft hum of the crickets.

  “But I was the oldest, I should have known better,” Kum Ling said, her voice small and strained.

  Auntie Go stayed silent. She had grown up with Kum Ling, who had always been outspoken and fearless since she was a child. Now Go was struck by her cousin’s soft words of defeat. It felt strange to refer to the past without really addressing it. Still, it was the first time they had spoken of that summer to each other. For twenty-five years, the silence had grown louder in Go’s head. S
o many times she had longed to take Kum Ling’s hand and recall the past, finally bringing it out in the open, so they could put the ghost of her brother to rest. In Macao again, the memory seemed always hovering around them, and though they’d never really talked about Sai-lo’s death, neither could they erase it.

  “We were just children,” Go repeated, her fingers reaching out as if to meet Kum Ling’s, touching gauzy net instead.

  Auntie Go was the sole child of Kum Ling’s mother’s younger sister. Their mothers were the second and third daughters of their grandfather’s second concubine. Go couldn’t fathom how they could have all lived together within one compound—her grandfather, his five wives, and his seventeen children. Her mother was happy to move away after marrying Go’s father, who owned a store that sold rice and barley. Perhaps that was why Go’s mother always cherished her solitude and could often be found in their courtyard, knitting by herself, a serene smile pressed between her lips. “Silence is the greatest gift your ba ba has given me,” she often said throughout the years.

  Auntie Go wondered if her mother had ever wished the same for her—a husband to lavish her with such special gifts. If so, Go’s mother had kept such thoughts secret, never once saying them aloud for fear they might hurt Go or stir the fates. Go learned from her how silence could sometimes be a kindness.

  Auntie Go had just turned twelve when her mother said Go had been invited to visit Macao with her aunt and uncle, Kum Ling, and her two brothers for a month’s summer holiday. Go balanced her decision for days, wanting to see Macao, yet not wanting to leave her parents.

  As small girls, the cousins had been as close as sisters. Kum Ling, older by two years, was the prettier of the two, but Auntie Go was blessed with height and intelligence. In fact, by the time she was twelve, Go was as tall as many men. And while Go’s mother blamed it on all the good soups she’d made her daughter as a child, Go secretly relished one of the few things she had over her cousin—Kum Ling would always have to look up to her.

  But despite Go’s height, Kum Ling always had the last word when they argued. After all, she had had the distinction of having two younger brothers. And by nature Go was shy, loved by her parents for her patience and diligence. As a girl, she spoke little, often teased by Kum Ling’s little brothers for having lost her tongue.

  “I can’t hear you up there,” Sai-lo taunted her.

  “Did you say something?” Tong added, teasing.

  It only made Go quieter. “I…” she said.

  “I…what?” they pursued.

  “Leave her alone,” Kum Ling demanded, her pale arms crossed over her chest.

  “Leave her alone,” they echoed. But no sooner had the words left their mouths, then they would run off, obeying Kum Ling in their own way.

  What they couldn’t understand was that, like her mother, Go found great comfort in silence. Auntie Go learned what her mother had told her: “Some words are meant to be kept inside; if you let them out, they might wound someone deeply. Or fly away forever.”

  In spite of that, Auntie Go learned as she grew older that some words needed to be let out, or else they simmered inside, waiting to boil. Now she found herself wanting to translate their childhood nightmare into words that would fly away forever.

  This is what I remember, Go thought to herself as she walked down the narrow, stone streets every morning.

  She remembered the hot, sticky heat of that afternoon, and how it had drenched their skin by the time she and Kum Ling had made their way across the yard with her two younger cousins, Tong and Sai-lo. They were supposed to be playing in the backyard, but often wandered off through the tall kuku trees to a more adventurous spot down by a running creek. Go lagged behind. The newness of her sudden height had left her feeling awkward in her own body. Even waking up that morning, she felt a dull ache pulling against her bones and wondered when all her growing would stop.

  Go heard Kum Ling call to her from the creek, then the cracking voice of Tong. “This way!” he yelled.

  “I’m coming,” she answered, in no hurry to catch up. Go felt the July sun beating down on her back and neck, like a heavy hand pushing her forward. She didn’t like the mosquitoes, nor the damp, moist smell of the earth and trees down by the water. Most of all, after almost two weeks surrounded by her boisterous cousins, Go relished some time to herself.

  As she made her way down the slope to where her cousins played on the embankment, Go was thankful for the tall pine trees that grew by the creek. In their cool shade, Sai-lo was laughing and pointing upward to a large tree whose thick branches hung over the creek. “There! There!” he yelled. At nine, he was still the baby of the family. He looked over at his eleven-year-old brother, Tong, who smiled and nodded his head.

  Kum Ling stood next to her brothers, hands on her hips, looking up at the old tree.

  “What are you doing?” Go asked.

  “You’ll see,” Tong answered.

  He lifted his loose shirt to show her the tight coil of rope wrapped around his thin body. He handed the end of it to Sai-lo, who began to run around him in circles, unwinding the rope from his brother’s body.

  Go laughed, hardly believing that Tong had worn the heavy rope around his body in such heat. When the rope lay on the ground like a sleeping snake, they all looked upward to find the best branch from which to swing. All around them buzzed a thick cloud of mosquitoes, which Go tried in vain to swat away.

  They all took turns trying to throw the rope up and over a thick branch jutting out over the water. Go’s height gave her the advantage, and the rope cleared the branch with a quick whip and snap.

  “Go did it!” Sai-lo’s high voice called out happily.

  She stood among them, suddenly unaware of the damp smell and mosquitoes, accepted for the first time by all her cousins.

  “I want to go first!” Sai-lo said.

  Tong tied the two ends of the rope together, then stripped off his shirt. “Not until I test it out,” he said, slipping his foot into the loop. With all his weight he stepped down once, twice, to make sure the rope was strong enough to hold them all.

  “Be careful,” Kum Ling said.

  Tong pulled on it again. Then he drew the rope back as far as it would go up the slope of the hill, stepped into the loop, and swung off the embankment, splashing into the creek not ten feet below them.

  All afternoon they took turns swinging from the rope into the creek, climbing and falling in perfect rhythm. Go was hesitant at first, but was finally persuaded by Kum Ling and Tong to give it a try.

  “Don’t be afraid, the water won’t hurt you,” they urged.

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, keeping her voice strong and steady, leaving out any trace of the fear she felt.

  When she let go of the rope and her long limbs fell into the cool water, Go thrilled, victorious over the heat and fear. She couldn’t wait to try it again.

  Auntie Go still remembered it as an afternoon of perfect harmony. She, Kum Ling, and Tong finally lay exhausted on the slope of the creek in their wet clothes, laughing and trying to figure out how to get back into the house and into dry clothes without being caught by Go’s aunt and uncle.

  It was a short, sudden scream that changed everything—more of a cry caught in the throat, which you might hear from an animal in pain. Their heads jerked upward just in time to see Sai-lo falling, his foot slipping from the rope, his arms extended at his side, flapping up and down as if he might really fly, then falling hard and heavy onto the bank. A second later, Go’s nine-year-old cousin lay motionless on the embankment, halfway in the creek, his neck twisted cruelly to one side. Tong scrambled down the slope, while Kum Ling stood up and began to cry, softly at first, then wild and frantic. Go followed Tong as fast as she could, sliding down the embankment, the mosquitoes as loud in her ears as Kum Ling’s cries.

  The silence that came afterward lingered for days, long after the hot, pink pain of the mosquito bites had faded. Grief and shock made Go and Kum Ling want to
sleep, though, hours later, they’d wake up just as tired as before. During those lucid moments, she heard something thumping against the wall in the next room. “You’ll hurt yourself,” her aunt pleaded with Tong. The sound stopped only for short intervals, then the rhythmic thumping began again, at last lulling her to sleep.

  Years later, Sai-lo’s death had become a quiet memory, a thin shadow that remained in the back of the mind.

  “A child should never die before his parents,” Kum Ling once told Auntie Go. Her brother had been dead for years, and Joan was just a baby they were watching in amazement.

  “No, it’s too cruel,” Auntie Go added.

  Joan slept, her lips still sucking in a dream.

  “I would die too,” Kum Ling said, smoothing the pink blanket across the beautiful baby she’d finally brought into the world after so many disappointments.

  “Don’t speak of such bad omens,” Go whispered, hoping the gods hadn’t heard them. It was so delicate—this thin line between life and death.

  Auntie Go’s parents died in 1933, within ten months of each other. Go had just turned twenty-eight and was working in her father’s store. His death was sudden, from a heart attack that struck without warning. Her mother’s cancer moved slowly, giving her time to take care of business, and to speak more words to Go than she’d ever said in a lifetime.

  One night, at dinner, her mother stared a long time at her before saying anything.

  “What is it? Are you in pain?” Go asked, worried.

  Her mother smiled. “I hate to leave you alone,” she finally said.

  Go felt a lump in her throat. “But I won’t be…there’s Kum Ling and the girls,” was all she managed to say, though she thought, Part of me will go with you.

  Her mother looked up at her. “You’re different from them. Stronger. So tall and independent like a stalk of bamboo. But still not meant to grow alone.” Her mother dished more bitter mustard greens into her bowl. “Never mind me. I’m just talking too much. Getting old.”