Look at this chinky tomato come to try out for the circus!
Her face was swabbed left to right with cold cream on a towelette. Although Anna May was indignant about having her handiwork ruined, having all these grown-ups fussing over her made her feel important, and she sat up straighter as her hair was pulled back into two tight braids. Then she was given a torn cotton smock with Chinese buttons to change into. When the costume designer wanted to add more dirt to the smock, Anna May tried to shrink away from the spray nozzle. Movies should make you more than you were, not less, and she did not want to look like a beggar. Anna May would have asked for her costume to be swapped, but all the other extras were in similar dress, and already they were being briefed. When you move across the street and hit this mark on cue, a tall man was saying loudly, you should not look like you are reaching a destination, and whatever you do, do not look into the camera.
After a few takes, the position of the camera would be changed, and they would have to do it again. Waiting and repeating, Anna May observed that all the movies she’d ever watched were no more than an hour long. Already they had been scuttling around for more than that. How many hours of footage made one movie?
She did not leave when the extras were dismissed.
Sitting very quietly on the edge of the set, she got to see Alla Nazimova rehearsing. Dressed like a goddess, she was the only person in her scene. How long did Miss Nazimova have to wait to be taken for a real actress, and when had she known?
* * *
—
SINCE AGE TEN Anna May had been practicing every day. The duration of her exercises depended on how long she could use unnoticed the one large mirror in their shared bedroom. Escaping from helping out in the laundry by invoking homework, she made up scenes in her head while lying on the bed. When she could hold it in no longer, she turned to the mirror, looked into her own eyes, and began.
Pursuant to her understanding, in crucial moments handsome men at least six feet tall walked into rooms with throwaway panache, fired pearl-handled pistols without missing their mark, cocked their heads as they saved the day, and kissed the girl. Looking into the mirror, Anna May urged them not to leave her behind with a well-turned-out shoulder, chemise slipping right off, close to fainting in their rugged arms, inhaling the note of aniseed in their pomade as she moved toward a declaration that would make them stay. I need this wild life, Anna May burst out once, hands draped around an imaginary neck, I need you! It was a line she’d memorized off an intertitle card in a movie. Opening her eyes she saw her father’s reflection in the mirror. How long her father had been watching, she did not know. She dropped the posture right away, faltering for something to say, but her father had already walked back out without saying a word.
The following Saturday Anna May was taken to the spirit medium in Chinatown, who gave her a paste of ash water to drink from. On Sunday to the reverend in the Chinese Baptist church, who preached in both Taishanese and English. Out! Out of this flower maiden, this tender child, they chanted respectively. Hungry ghost, craven Satan, out I say! When her father asked the reverend when the spirit possession would end, Anna May threw up her hands.
I am not possessed, Father, she said, addressing the reverend as she stared unblinkingly at her father looking on aghast at his lippy daughter, I’m an actress.
* * *
—
NOW THAT SHE was, in fact, an actress, it was undoubtedly glamorous to be attending an endless swathe of high-society parties, to be requested as a front-row presence at seasonal launches in designer ateliers, but Anna May found it strange that all these things were expected of her when none of them was in any way relevant or essential to acting itself. She supposed she could have said no to such invitations, but turning down these frivolous benefits was harder than she’d expected. She found this aspect of her character disappointing, though she reasoned that it was less a blanket greed than an anxiety over squandering away what had been hard earned. Having grown up so modestly, perhaps this was understandable. It was something to work on. She hoped in future to be a person who could say no without apology, and without regret. Was it not permissible to show up on set for work, but other than that, to have a perfectly ordinary private life?
You’ll grow into it, her agent said, this is part of your job.
He was arranging her publicity schedule in Europe—social events, photo shoots, interviews, meetings. Without the right image, he counseled, work ethic and natural talent come close to nothing. What’s the right image for me, Anna May wanted to know but did not dare ask her agent. There was no other actress who looked like her in Hollywood. Perhaps she could model herself after Dolores del Río, the Mexican crossover beauty, but even Dolores had tried to pass for white in L.A. At casting calls, Anna May had grown used to being the only Asian in the room, trying out for side characters, but surely there would come a point when she would get to audition for leading roles, too? Having not found that answer in Hollywood, Anna May was here to see if Europe would give her more latitude, but she felt overwhelmed in this bright ballroom in Berlin.
Now she was simply trying to make her way to the powder room, but someone had stepped up to her and was inquiring enthusiastically after “the Chinese way of life.” No reason to explain she knew more about Christopher Columbus than Confucius, not when it was so easy to enchant these people with a few choice nouns: dragon; kumquats; silkworm; chopsticks! This pantomime was disorienting for Anna May only because she’d striven so hard to rid herself of any trace of it back in L.A. The expensive face powder that was too light for her skin tone, the hot irons to curl her dead-straight black hair, studying glamour shots of Mary Pickford to paint on cherry lips, trying to contour in the impression, at a glance, of double lids with eye-shadow palettes.
Anna May hurried on but was waylaid again.
Excuse me, an elderly woman in a heavily embroidered shawl exclaimed. You look just like one of those porcelain figurines in the shop window at KaDeWe.
Thank you, Anna May said.
Also, the stranger went on beaming, you speak such good English!
Part of Anna May wanted the elderly woman to know English was the only language she spoke well. Killing off her half-past-six Cantonese had been fuss-free, it faded on its own accord as soon as she moved out of her family home; as for Mandarin, she’d only ever been able to count from one to ten and pronounce her own name. Another part of her did not see what the point of telling this lady would be. After all, it was clear she hadn’t meant any of the things she was saying in a bad way. Thank you very much, Anna May said to the elderly woman and bowed out of her way. People were slick, she stank of champagne. Strangers were tripping over themselves to accost her not because she was attractive, no: she was impossible to miss because she was different. The dress stuck uncomfortably to her skin. She’d almost reached the powder room when someone touched her shoulder.
To Anna May’s surprise, it was the blonde who’d spilled the drink on her. Almost lost you there, the woman said with a smile.
What is it? Anna May said, more brusquely than she’d intended.
The blonde was holding up a glass of water. Here, she said, thrusting it toward Anna May, I heard you calling after the waiter earlier. He never got back to you, did he? Fancy being at a party where there’s enough cuvée to fill a spa town, the blonde went on, but not a drop of still water to be had. Anna May drained the glass in two mouthfuls. Then she did not know what to do with the empty receptacle.
The blonde took it from her hand.
Come now, she said to Anna May, are you quite all right?
三
The powder room was very fine: marble sinks, polished fixtures.
So, the blonde said jauntily, it’s your first time in town? Let me take you out. I’ve got a fantastic clothier. Affordable, too. We’ll make you a new dress—my way of apologizing. Anna May told her that wasn’t necessary
, she just wanted to get rid of the champagne smell for now.
What smell? the blonde asked, genuinely curious. She sniffed at Anna May. The other women in the bathroom stared at the blonde. Anna May tried to ignore their gaze as she thought about how to describe the scent of champagne exposed to air. Like wet limestone, she said. For some reason the blonde found this funny and started to laugh. Her laugh sounded like a goose honk, and she did nothing to suppress it into something more seemly. Now she was leaning closer to Anna May and taking a big whiff. I must be a plebeian, the blonde finally declared, smells like freshly baked bread to me. Anyway, she suggested, if you remove your dress, I can help you wash and dry it off. Anna May passed her dress to the blonde as she stood half naked in the cubicle, feeling like a fool in nothing but her long string of pearls and an underskirt slip. Soon she heard the floor pedal and the hand dryer, then the knock on the door. Opening the door a slice, the woman slid into the cubicle like a cat. Toasty, she said, holding the dress up to her cheek.
She presented the dress, clean and warm.
Thank you, Anna May said. As she breathed, the long string of pearls rose and fell ever so slightly against her skin. The blonde reached out and touched her necklace.
Saltwater pearls?
In fact they were freshwater, but she found herself wanting to please the woman.
Yes, she said, South Sea.
The blonde was touching the necklace without touching Anna May’s skin, instead allowing each bead she had fingered and warmed to fall back onto her body.
South of what?
* * *
—
WHEN THE BLONDE put a hand under her slip, Anna May stiffened, but she did not ask her to stop. Firstly because she was rude and attractive, a combination Anna May disliked in men but had yet to come across in a woman; secondly, it was clear that the woman had done this before; and finally, far from home for the first time, it struck Anna May that the last thing she wanted was to come across as conventional. Let no one think that all Chinese were wet socks from the boondocks on her account. She was a city girl, and faster than most. Besides, it was safe: there was no chance of running into this woman once she got back. Berlin was Berlin. L.A. was L.A.
The woman was smiling.
She must have discovered that Anna May was not wearing drawers or panties. Anna May wanted to explain that she was not a minx who went to parties naked down there; she’d been worried that underwear would show beneath her dress, but the slip had already been unloosed. It fell, soft and useless, around her ankles, and now the woman was a halo of blond on knees, bringing a warm tongue and cold fingers to her in considered succession, as women entered and exited the powder room outside, carefully gathering up silk and taffeta and velvet skirts in their hands as they lowered themselves over toilets, minding their multifarious rings and bracelets as they soaped and washed their hands, arranging their hair in the mirror as they exchanged notes on so-and-so’s dress pattern, a clear copy of the latest display in Paul Poiret’s atelier, and did you see that low décolletage on Jeanne? How repellent it looks on her with breasts so proud! The blonde had hardened her tongue, egging Anna May on till she broke to exclaim an amorphous semivowel much too loud for a public bathroom.
She caught herself immediately, afraid.
The blonde wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and the back of her hand on Anna May’s slip. Don’t you worry, pet, she said, as she took out her rouge case for a two-stroke touchup, smacking her mouth to spread the color, Berlin is a noisy city.
* * *
—
THE BLONDE LIVED in a modest but charming apartment.
Fully cut books and half-smoked cigarettes with lipsticked ends littered a large table and several shelves. The woman had touched each part of her more boldly than a man would, but without pugnacity. Or perhaps the woman was utterly pugnacious, but the softness of her eyes and cheeks and arms was enough to beguile another woman into mistaking her pugnacity for something gentler. The champagne-stained dress was limp over the back of a chair, and everything smelled of tuberoses. Dashed to the ground early on by one of their wrists from the bedside table, a broken vase pooled petals on the floor.
You’re a fast learner. The blonde laughed. Can you stay the night?
Anna May’s bangs were damp as she pressed her forehead against the blonde’s shoulder. Every other part of you is soft, the blonde said, but your hands are rough. Why is that? Laundry hands, Anna May said, as she ran her chapped palm up and down the blonde’s bare leg. Keep going, the blonde said with a shiver, I like your laundry hands.
* * *
—
ANNA MAY’S LAUNDRY hands had been many years in the making, roughened from scrubbing on washboards. Not allowed out to play till she had finished up the daily load of tablecloths, uniforms, and bed linen, she still had her fun wending through drying sheets in the lukewarm comfort of lye and soap. Hide-and-seek with her sister could last for hours. There were so many choice spots for hiding. She’d once fallen asleep under an ironing mangle. Aerating the sad iron with a bellows to crease that neat line down the front of customers’ trousers, she’d learned to be careful of hot coal chips. She knew how to press her own cotton tunics flawlessly, to make them look more expensive than they really were.
There was a living space above the laundry, with one bed. Although her mother was the one who insisted the children must have the bed and would not allow them—especially her baobei erzi, her youngest son—on the floor under any circumstances, that did not stop her from being full of complaints. The wind in her achy bones came from the cold hard floor, she moaned, but that was necessary, absolutely. Parents have to eat bitterness so their children can taste a sweet future. You’ll understand this when you’re a mother, she said to Anna May. What Anna May wanted to know was: What’s so great about being a mother? Silly girl, her mother said. It’s not about greatness. It’s the natural way of things. They had one rickety table, two chairs, and a few stools. This was where they ate, and also where they did their homework. To store their belongings, each member of the family had a wooden crate, gathered by her father behind a fruit grocer’s.
Anna May thought everyone else lived the same way, till the day she was invited to a classmate’s birthday party. It was the only party she’d ever received an invitation to, and she put on her Sunday best. At the entrance to her friend’s house there was no counter—only a fence, a lawn, a front door. Inside, it was not humid. The air was cool, and there were no hanging clothes, no exposed lightbulbs. There was a leather sofa set in a well-lit living room, which led to a dining room and a patio. There was an upright piano, a black nanny, and a fluffy-haired dog. Anna May thought that the living room was where they all slept, but later she saw that there were individual bedrooms for every member of the family. Each room had its own door, bed, dresser, and wardrobe. When the nanny noticed her admiring a sterling silver hand mirror in her friend’s bedroom, she told Anna May that she might please return to the parlor. After that party, Anna May couldn’t look at her own home the same way again. Each time she walked past the hand-painted sign for WONG SAM SING’S CHINESE HAND LAUNDRY, horizontally in English and vertically in Chinese characters, it did not fail to embarrass her, even if she was alone on the street.
Because she had not told anyone in class how her father earned his keep, Anna May had assumed that no one knew he was a laundryman. By the time she found out everyone knew, courtesy of the craniometrist’s son, the class had already constructed a jingle: All you have to do is shake her sandpaper hand / To know her father is a laundryman.
While making her delivery rounds after school one afternoon, she received a few coins from a nice white lady who sent them her bedsheets. She smelled of hot scones and answered the door in a frilled apron. Anna May hid the money in her shoe, under the insole. She was walking home by a roundabout route, prolonging her enjoyment of the uncomfortable sensat
ion of coins under her heel, testing out how it would look and feel to walk with a limping gait, when she saw an advertisement in the front of a shop for Thomas Edison’s “Chinese Laundry.” Magic for a nickel, it promised, they move like rubber!
Anna May did not know who Thomas Edison was, or why there was a sign for a Chinese laundry here, and besides, this did not look like a laundry at all. It did not have steamy windows, or the overhanging maze of damp clothes visible behind the counter of Wong Sam Sing’s Chinese Hand Laundry. She stepped in and found the space dimly lit, with two rows of machines flanking the walls. A man collected a nickel and told her to step up. She needed a stool to be level with the machine. When she put her eyes to the sights, there was a tiny black-and-white Chinese laundry shop just a few feet from her face. Two men were in a thrilling chase. How could they be moving in there? She’d seen photographs and was fairly certain that the uncanny lookalikes had remained completely still. Her father had taken her to open-air Taishanese opera shows in Chinatown some Sundays, but it was clear that the men in costume were standing before them. This was a machine, the men were tiny, and they repeated their actions as long as you continued watching. In class the next day, she boasted to her classmates of what she had seen. Magic for a nickel, she repeated the tagline, trying to make the words sound like they were her own. Everyone knows about the nickelodeon, the craniometrist’s son said. Guess you haven’t been to the theater down North Main.
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