Mambo in Chinatown

by Jean Kwok

  I was still puzzled about what a man like this was doing in our Chinatown school. “Are you Chinese?”

  “Korean. You’re trying to figure me out, right?”

  Taken aback, I nodded.

  “I want to make a difference to the kids here. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not the only one.” He stood and extended his hand. “Please talk to your parents about allowing Lisa to take the Hunter test. A few of her peers have qualified as well. Just give her the chance.”

  —

  I managed to get to Pa’s noodle restaurant before the noontime rush. When I gestured to Pa from the back alleyway, he nodded at his assistant to take over and stepped outside to talk to me.

  “What did the teacher want?” he asked.

  “He thinks Lisa is gifted. He wants her to take a test for a special school.”

  “Where is this school?”

  I knew what Pa meant. “I think it’s not in Chinatown.” He wanted to keep us close and protected.

  He shook his head. “Is this necessary?”

  “She doesn’t have to take the test but Mr. Song felt it would be a great opportunity for her if she got in.”

  “How would she get to this school? Take the subway alone? Now she can just walk. This city’s not safe for such a young girl.”

  Sometimes it felt as if Pa was still living in China, while Lisa and I were in America. “It’s for her future. Things are very competitive in this country. She could maybe get into a top college, and the right preparation could change her life. And Mr. Song said that she might not be accepted at all.”

  Pa bristled, as I knew he would. “Lisa is very smart!”

  “There are a lot of bright kids. Other students from her middle school will try for a spot too. There’s a good chance she won’t be admitted. But Pa, we need to give her the opportunity. Otherwise, she might end up as a dishwasher like me.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, waving his hands. “Let her try. Then we will decide what to do.”

  —

  I tried my hardest at my new job. I made a copy of the phone instruction sheet and took it home to study. For the first time, I understood how all of the buttons worked and made sure I could connect people and put them on hold. It worked most of the time until I was under stress, with students in front of me and someone on the phone line, and then things would go wrong.

  My main problem was the written work. Somehow, I would mix up times in the schedules. I checked and double-checked whenever I could, which meant I caught most of my own mistakes, but when I had a student on the phone who was in a hurry and dictating the changes to their appointments at lightning speed, I didn’t always manage to correctly record what they’d said. Even when I repeated it back to them right, I sometimes wrote it down wrong. I started to come to the studio early on a regular basis so I had more time to make up the sheets for each of the dancers with their schedules for the day. I filled them in twice: first in pencil, then after double-checking with the main appointment book, I finally put everything in pen.

  Several times, Simone had stormed up to my desk. “Where is this student I’m supposed to have now?”

  “I’m so sorry, let me check.”

  “You are supposed to get it right the first time! Why else are they paying you?”

  She normally didn’t waste too much time on me, thankfully, and stomped back into the main ballroom, where she could practice again. Although I made mistakes with the others’ schedules as well, everyone else remained quite kind to me, even Estella.

  Adrienne managed the business part of the studio while Dominic was its artistic soul. He taught most of the dance sessions for the professionals, except when they’d have a guest coach come in from outside the studio. Adrienne gave coaching sessions as well, but Dominic was the world-famous choreographer. He went through the studio making small adjustments to student and professional alike.

  “We are so lucky to be at Adrienne and Dominic’s studio,” Katerina told me once. “They were the reason we came from Russia. Every day, we can be trained by them.”

  Whenever I entered the studio, I breathed in the smell of it: air-conditioning, cologne and perfume. No food smells, no garlic oil, no dirty dishes waiting for me. I loved that my clothing no longer smelled like food. I smeared my hands with moisturizer every night and the skin began to knit together, the ridges in my nails filling out.

  When a student came in, he or she would report to me, then sit at one of the tables in the ballroom until the teacher was available. When I saw a teacher correcting a student’s body, moving a hip or shoulder back into place, I thought of Ma, and how safe I’d felt when she’d done that for me. I knew I would never be able to afford the lessons, and yet I spent as much time as I could watching at the glass doors to the ballroom, struggling to decipher the mysteries of dance.

  Mostly what I learned instead was the rhythm of the studio. Dance session was held daily in the early afternoon for any professional who wasn’t booked, and the sessions were taught by Adrienne, Dominic or an outside coach. I learned many dancers retired in their thirties or early forties. The ones who had won national or international titles became coaches and judges. The bulk of the student lessons were taught in the evenings, after people got off work.

  Social dancers came in for a small set of lessons or to reach a goal, like learning how to salsa in time for a party. Wedding couples usually wanted to avoid the “clutch and sway” syndrome for their first dance. Serious students, on the other hand, returned regularly. Some of these were social dancers, people who loved being at the studio every week to dance together. Most were competition students. Mateo’s Japanese student, Okina, booked double lessons several times a week with him. I heard that she had been winning competitions for years. Keith was Simone’s competition student and he was by far the best male student in our studio. Katerina and Viktor trained regularly with their serious students as well.

  I also finally figured out that Mateo and Nina weren’t a couple off of the dance floor.

  “You see him?” Mateo asked me when a good-looking guy wearing a T-shirt underneath a leather jacket strode into the ballroom. Estella greeted him and they stood chatting near the glass doors.

  “Is he one of Estella’s competition students?” I answered.

  “Oh yes, and she’s possessive too. Rushes to put on more makeup before he comes. He’s a big television producer, does half of the daytime soap operas. But he just doesn’t know that he’s gay yet. I can tell. If he ever got a chance to try me, he’d leave her skinny butt in a second,” Mateo said. He stood up and walked deliberately toward the pair, swinging his hips. As he passed, I saw him turn his head and catch the guy’s eye, giving the man a long wink that made him flush as red as his T-shirt. Estella’s lips thinned. Mateo glanced back at me through the glass and pretended to fan himself.

  My favorite time of day was before the studio opened, when the professionals were rehearsing. I thought to myself that this was when their true selves were revealed. When they were lounging around in the waiting area during the day, they were diminished, as colorless as the rest of us ordinary people. But then they stood up as dancers and started to move, and it was as if a light shone from within them. I held my breath at their swiftness, strength, grace and power. They were dressed in their rehearsal clothing then—sweats or plain T-shirts—but were all the more breathtaking for it.

  I realized that the professionals were not physically flawless. Nina really did have a perfectly proportioned face but Simone had bad skin underneath her makeup and her features were oversize. Estella’s nose was very sharp. Viktor had a long awkward face with uneven teeth. Mateo’s head was completely square and Katerina’s features were as full-blown as the rest of her.

  Yet when any of them walked into a room, heads turned. Their attractiveness had more to do with how they moved, how they held themselves, than how they looked.
Sometimes I would see Viktor on break, slumped in a chair like a puppet without a master, but then later he would flow across the dance floor with the controlled power of a storm. I began to see beauty as something that could be unleashed from within a person rather than a set of physical features like a perfect nose or big eyes. This was true of the students as well. It didn’t seem to matter whether they were tall or short, fat or thin, they all transformed within a few lessons. Something to do with the magic of coordinated movement, the choreography of two people together, the achievement of control over their bodies.

  Ma had said to me, “In the west, they believe in separation of body and soul. They think that the soul separated from the body will find enlightenment, but for the Chinese, we strive for unity. If you look at a child, you can see they are still struggling in their bodies, trying to master them. It is when you become one with your body and soul, that is when you will be whole. That is beauty.” I’d never fully understood the truth of that the way I did now.

  Later, for lessons, the male dancers would change into shirts and ties that they kept in the teachers’ room and the women would put on skirts or tailored pants, but during their own rehearsals, they were free to be as they were. They weren’t trying to be polite or charming. Viktor and Katerina cursed each other in Russian across the floor when parts of their routine didn’t work.

  I said once to Nina, “You and Mateo look different when you’re on the floor together. It’s like you are more.”

  She nodded. “When we dance together, we are at the edges of who we are. We have to push our own limits to find out who we can become, together.” Then she’d shaken her head and said, “Now I desperately need some more coffee.”

  Sometimes Simone practiced with her professional partner, Pierre, who was from Haiti. They were a breathtaking couple, with her white-blond hair against the ebony of his skin. Most of the time they rehearsed at his studio down in the Village. Simone, Pierre, Nina and Mateo were mainly Latin dancers, while Katerina and Viktor specialized in the smooth dances like waltz or foxtrot.

  Every day, I watched the dancers, hungry for something I hadn’t known I wanted, holding my breath for the day I would make a mistake so great I would be asked to leave.

  —

  As Estella and Simone lounged on the chairs in the reception area, I kept myself busy checking the appointment book. They were whispering to each other. I usually enjoyed it when the dancers hung out in my area but this looked serious. I’d seen Estella called into Adrienne’s office earlier and Dominic had followed them. I wondered what was going on.

  The doors to the ballroom opened and Nina stepped in. “I’m going out now. You want me to grab you some pizza, Charlie?” I was surprised by the type of food most of the dancers brought back to the studio: Chinese takeout, burgers and pasta. Nina had told me that the amount of exercise they got burned off the excess calories. Simone and Estella were the only ones who always purchased salads from the deli on the corner.

  “I brought something from home.” I’d hidden a box of rice and leftovers in the fridge.

  “Smart,” Nina said. “I should do that more. It’s hard planning ahead like that with the little guy at home.”

  I stared at her. “You have a child?” Nina appeared so young.

  She smiled. “Here, look.” She came around behind the desk, pulled out her cell phone and started showing me photos. “That’s Sammy.” There were pictures of Nina making funny faces with an adorable toddler who had her thick-lashed eyes. None of them included anyone who looked like he might be the father. I still couldn’t believe she was a mother. She didn’t look like any other mom I’d ever seen.

  “He’s wonderful,” Nina said. Her eyes lingered on my stocking feet. I often removed my heels behind the desk when no one else could see. I’d been flexing and pointing my feet automatically because the shoes hurt so much, but now I stilled them. Would she notice how old and worn my one pair of pumps was?

  Nina flipped her hair out of her jacket. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should come out with us sometime. Leave that desk behind.”

  Warmth rushed through me. I nodded, then looked away as the phone rang.

  That afternoon, I stepped into the teachers’ room to find Estella huddled by the fire escape at the back, crying. Simone had her arms wrapped around her.

  “What do you want?” Simone’s lip curled.

  “Estella has a phone call,” I said. “It’s from her competition student. He said he couldn’t get through on her cell.”

  Estella ran a tissue underneath her smeared mascara, powdered her face quickly and then stepped out.

  —

  Later that week, I was handing Nina a mug of coffee when my fingers slipped and I spilled it. It didn’t burn me but splashed across my orange shirt.

  “I’m so sorry, Charlie,” Nina said, dabbing at me with a paper towel.

  “It’s not your fault. I did this to myself.” We tried wetting the stains. They didn’t budge. I rubbed at them with all my strength. What would happen when the others saw me? “I can’t go through the whole day like this.”

  “Come with me,” Nina said, and led me to the teachers’ room. She pulled a light cotton cardigan out of her locker. “I use this to warm up before rehearsal.”

  When I slipped off my wet shirt, I caught a shift in Nina’s face, a widening of her eyes. I quickly changed into her cardigan and buttoned it up all the way, conscious of my worn T-shirt underneath. It even had tiny holes in it. I hadn’t intended for it to be seen by anyone. Even though she was a bit shorter than me, her cardigan fit me fairly well.

  Nina didn’t say anything about my clothing and just gave me her usual smile. “I like that on you.”

  —

  The biting October rain cascaded over the small yellow and green canopy of Zan’s cart. It hit the back of the plastic poncho Zan was wearing and poured off of her in a constant stream. When I could, I tried to stop by her cart before I left for the studio. Despite the weather, several customers stood in line, huddled underneath their black umbrellas. I watched her as I waited for my turn.

  She wore fingerless gloves, which she used even during the bitter New York blizzards. If her entire hands were covered, she couldn’t get her work done quickly enough. She brushed oil on the rounded indentations of the hot egg cake molds, then ladled in the pale golden batter she kept in a large plastic tub. Deftly, she flipped the molds as the batter started to set. When the cakes were crispy, she eased them out with a fork onto a scratched steel pan. Then she jabbed at the egg cakes with tongs to separate them and counted them with lightning speed one by one into waxed paper bags. One dollar for twenty egg cakes. Then it was on to the next customer and she would do it all again.

  When I finally stood in front of her, I said, “Hey, you want me to take over for you so you can take a break?”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Charlie, but I’m all right.” Zan and I had this interchange every time. She always refused whatever I offered. I didn’t know how she managed to use the bathroom or eat lunch.

  “Do you want my umbrella?”

  “I don’t have a hand free to hold it but it’s nice of you.”

  I glanced behind me. There were only three other customers in line. I stepped around her and held my umbrella over her. “I’ll wait until you’re done with the others.”

  “You’re a pal.” Zan turned her attention to the next man in line. I looked around. The fried tofu cart was a few yards away from us. The man who ran it dumped more tofu into the hot oil as I watched. The smell of grease mingled with the damp musk of Zan’s wet clothing. Her cart was sandwiched between the fried-tofu guy and the steamed-food lady. That cart offered rice noodle rolls, pig skin, fish balls, beef tripe and lo mein. It worked out, since people would get their lunch from the steamed-food cart, then come to Zan for egg
cakes for dessert.

  As Zan was serving a well-dressed woman, a man in a rain poncho stuck his head in and hissed to Zan’s customer, “Chanel, Gucci! Just like the real thing!”

  “Get out of here!” Zan snapped.

  Finally, there were no more customers.

  Zan said, “How’s the new job?”

  “I’m barely managing not to get fired.”

  She chuckled. “So what else is new?” She looked up, and for a moment, she met my eyes. “The important thing is, are you happy?”

  I blinked as a horn blared and a passing car splashed us both. “I am. I love it there. It’s a whole world in itself. I can’t believe I’m free of the noodle shop. I feel like I’m going to mess up, get fired and wind up doing dishes again.”

  “Well, I was pretty impressed with you in that tai chi class. I never knew you could move like that.”

  “That’s just a bunch of exercises. Anyone could learn. How’s it going with your learner’s permit?”

  “I need to be really ready.”

  “What are you waiting for? You know that written test inside out.”

  “Come on, I was never that good at tests and it’s so expensive. I’m allowed to retake it for free but if I flunk the first time, it’ll just seem like a bad sign. And you always said the driving thing was a dumb idea.”

  “I guess I’m figuring out that if I can stumble along in a dance studio, you can pass that test.”

  Zan grinned. “Maybe.”

  “Lisa has the chance to take the Hunter test. You know, one of those special schools for gifted kids.”

  “Wow.” Zan stirred her batter, not meeting my eyes. “You ever mind?”

  I knew what she meant. “Not really. Sometimes. We can’t all be special.”

  Rain poured off of her rickety metal cart as an elderly woman approached. Zan gave my arm a quick squeeze, then turned to help her next customer.

  —

  It was Monday again. All of the staff sat on the folding chairs in a circle in the smaller ballroom. Estella wasn’t there. There wasn’t even an empty chair for her.