by Stacey Lee
Mr. Ng snorts. “That will never happen. Gwai lo do not respect us. They only seek to exploit us.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Ng, a trip of a thousand miles begins with one step.” Ma always says that when I don’t want to get out of bed.
The men begin to argue in Cantonese, but Mr. Leung puts his hand up for quiet. He addresses Elodie. “Please tell us about your father’s company so we know who we are dealing with.”
Elodie’s suit rustles as she shifts about on the bench. “Certainly. Our main manufacturing plant is off Bay Street, where we also run a very successful boutique. Most of the business, however, is distribution through grocers and luxury goods stores located throughout the country. Our sales average half a million dollars every year.”
Tom’s brush pauses as an appreciative murmur ripples through the room. Money follows money, as the saying goes.
After Mr. Chow translates, Ah-Suk’s gray eyes narrow. “Yes, but are you profitable?” His knobby fingers tap together. The doctor is the shrewdest of the Six.
I translate for Elodie. She arranges her gloved hands prettily in her lap. “We have been profitable for the past twenty-two years.”
“I heard that many of your workers jumped ship to Li’l Betties,” Mr. Ng says with a sneer. “Maybe your house is not so prosperous on the inside.”
I expect a sharp rebuke from Elodie, but instead, she tilts her chin, managing to look almost charming. “It is no secret that Li’l Betties poached some of our workers three months ago. They promised higher wages. But their facility has no safety protocols or industrial sickness funds—benefits that more than make up for our ‘lower wages.’ We are doing our best to find new workers, and expect to return to normal productivity in the next few months.”
The men begin to grumble in Cantonese.
Mr. Ng slices the air with his finger. “I would not trust her. Anyone can see the mark under that girl’s nose.” Everyone focuses on Elodie’s beauty mark.
“A mark like that can simply mean she doesn’t gossip,” I pipe up. If someone had told me I would one day be defending Elodie’s mole, I would’ve told him to go push a cow up a tree. “One would need to consult a fortune-teller to be sure.” Let them remember who my mother is, and who, by default, is the expert in this room.
Elodie rubs her nose, probably wondering why everyone is staring at it. “What are they saying?” she hisses at me.
“They are commiserating with your father’s troubles,” I whisper back. Before any further objections are raised, I say, “We have brought samples. You can judge the quality for yourself.”
Elodie carries the box to the table. With a flick of her wrist, she slips off the ribbon and unhinges the lid. Nestled like eggs in shredded wax paper lay a dozen bonbons, even more beautiful than the ones in the shop. “Our best sellers are caramel and strawberry cream.”
“Like gemstones,” breathes Mr. Chow, who in addition to the black tar, loves to eat.
Mr. Ng scowls. “Who will buy something so fancy?”
“If we wrapped them in white, they would make excellent offerings to the ancestors,” I volunteer.
Elodie shoots me a dirty look. “They make excellent gifts for your wives, and lady friends.”
“There are few wives or ladies here,” Mr. Ng snaps. “The government prohibits us from bringing them from China. You come to us without knowing this basic fact about our population? It’s an insult.”
Elodie’s face pinkens, and Mr. Leung chastises Mr. Ng in Cantonese.
“Of course Miss Du Lac knows this,” I jump in. “She is simply vouching for the high quality of the product.”
Mr. Leung rubs at his smooth chin, looking deep in thought. Without a caution, Mr. Chow plucks a bonbon out of Elodie’s box and pops it into his mouth. We all watch his round cheeks puff up as he chews, then swallows.
“Smooth as duck yolk,” he proclaims.
Mr. Leung points at the box. “How much do they cost?”
“They retail for fifty cents per bonbon,” chirps Elodie.
The men begin a loud protest in Cantonese.
“Highway robbery!”
“That’s a box of good Cubans, hey?”
Even the butcher scratches his head, his kind face crinkling.
Elodie, who can’t understand the men’s chattering, casts me a black look.
I say in English, “While the cost may seem high, it is no higher than the prices paid for similar luxury goods already offered in Chinatown. A good bag of oolong tea. A single abalone. Chocolatier Du Lac is willing to make bulk discounts available. The benefits are numerous, starting with the merchants, who will not only get a share of profits but also increased traffic—”
“It is no good,” says Ah-Suk, holding a half-nibbled bonbon. He puts down the sweet and sips from his teacup, swishing a few times, as if trying to rid himself of the taste. “This food will lead to too much dampness in the gut, too much overstimulation of the heart doors.”
“Let’s take a vote,” says Mr. Ng.
“But—” I haven’t even gotten to my benefits analysis.
The door opens, and a man pokes in his head. “Are you ready for us?”
“Not yet,” Mr. Leung replies, consulting a clock on the wall. We have overstayed our welcome by ten minutes already.
The man nods and closes the door again.
“All in favor of approving this proposal, say hai,” instructs Mr. Ng.
Mr. Leung frowns at his colleague. “Who’s the chairman here?”
“If you please,” says a voice from the side of the room. Tom bows to his father and says in Cantonese, “Ba, you have taught me that no food is all good or all bad. How a particular food affects us depends on many factors, including the quantity, the health of the person, and the season. Have you not said that wine in proper amounts can aid energy circulation? Surely chocolate is no worse than wine.”
That’s my Tom. I give him a bright smile, though he’s locked in a gaze with his father. Ah-Suk holds his jaw so tightly that the joints bump out on either side.
A tense moment passes. Ah-Suk glowers at his son. “You are young and naïve, Tom, as are these schoolgirls.” His cold eyes flicker to me. “If the gwai lo truly had our interests at heart, they would be selling our products in their neighborhoods. Instead, they want to drain our dollars, and then buy our homes right from under our noses.”
Mr. Cruz tugs at his mustache, nodding. Just Bob gazes into his teacup. Mr. Chow snores softly, done in by a single bonbon. The only one who looks untroubled is Mr. Ng, who now stares into space with the serenity of Buddha.
I dig my arms into my rib cage. While it is true that wealthy businessmen have been pressuring the Chinese to sell their land for years, it is unfair to blame Chocolatier Du Lac. By “protecting” Chinatown they make it harder for us to interact with the rest of the world. Chinese should have the same freedom and choices available to whites, including where to live, where to go to school, and when to eat chocolate.
Elodie backs away from the table and plants herself on the bench.
“Now can we vote?” Mr. Ng gestures to the door. “We have more important matters to discuss with the Yu-Pei Family Association.”
Mr. Leung sighs. “All in favor of allowing the sale of Du Lac chocolates in Chinatown, say hai.”
Only one man says hai: Just Bob. Even if Mr. Chow were awake, we would still not have a majority. The frustration sits like a hot ball in my throat, and I watch my tenuous connection to St. Clare’s begin to break, thread by thread.
Elodie’s gaze leans heavy on me, and an idea suddenly comes. I feel for the Indian head penny in my pocket. “Mr. Ng, the issue of unemployment is of grave concern here in Chinatown, true?”
He cuts his jittery gaze to me. “One of many concerns, yes.”
“I believe there is an opportunity here. Mons
ieur Du Lac needs workers. We have workers in abundance, such as members of the Yu-Pei Family Association.”
Elodie tugs sharply at my uniform, and she hisses in my ear, “What are you doing?”
Mr. Leung rubs his finger along the edge of his teacup, nodding. Just Bob elbows Mr. Chow, who jerks awake, bloodshot eyes bobbing as he gets his bearings.
When I have everyone’s attention, I say, “I propose we provide workers for Chocolatier Du Lac, at the going wage, in return for giving them the right to sell chocolate in Chinatown.”
Elodie gasps. “But Papa would never, I can’t—” she begins to whisper.
Mr. Ng watches us carefully as Mr. Chow translates for Ah-Suk.
Before Elodie can erase our facade, I whisper, “It’s a bold move, but I have no doubt your father would benefit. Chinese are the hardest workers you’ll find. Loyal, too.”
Mr. Cruz drums his large fingers on the table, making the teacups rattle. “If we were to consider this, we would need assurances of fair work practices, plus we would require Du Lac to consult with someone from Chinatown on hiring decisions.”
Elodie’s brow knits, and she tugs her gloves back on, as if getting ready to leave. She casts me an irritated gaze, and any hope I felt slinks away. She never wanted me at St. Clare’s. How could I fool myself into thinking that she might be an ally?
“We would need to hand-select this consultant,” she says.
I go still, not sure I heard correctly.
“Fair.” Mr. Leung looks down the table at the men. “Who is in favor?”
This time, three say hai: Mr. Chow, Mr. Cruz, and Just Bob, enough for a majority. Mr. Ng scowls, and Ah-Suk sits as still as one of the wood panels.
“Will your father honor this agreement?” asks Mr. Leung.
She throws back her shoulders and says primly, “Hai.”
13
I WANT TO TALK TO TOM BEFORE WE LEAVE, but he’s already bent over the minute book again as the Yu-Pei Family Association begins its meeting.
I catch his eye, and the shadow of a smile flickers over his face. In an instant, I feel as light as the Floating Island. I forget all about Ling-Ling and her buns, which are mostly air, anyway. I am two steps closer to full tenure at St. Clare’s, and my happiness from seeing Tom is hard to wipe off my face.
In the lobby, Elodie’s sails are as full as a clipper that has caught a fair wind. “We did it! Won’t Papa be surprised when he learns I’ve given him a present for my birthday?”
An unexpected rush of gratitude warms me. Because of her, may Chinatown be lifted one step higher in the world.
A quarter of an hour remains before William will fetch us. “Do you still need to visit Carmen?”
She looks at me for a moment, then laughs. “Carmen isn’t a person; it’s an opera. Papa was supposed to take Maman and me for my birthday.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, I need you to wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going? You can’t just leave me here by myself.”
“This is the safest spot in Chinatown. No one will harm you.” With that, I push open the heavy doors, then jog a block to Clay Street.
I knock lightly on our unpainted door. “Ma?”
“Mercy?” a voice calls from the other side.
“Yes, it’s me.”
The ropes are untied, and soon Ma’s round face is peering at me. “You look like my daughter, but she lives on Nob Hill now.”
“Western Addition is hardly Nob Hill,” I say, even though I know she’s teasing. She looks smaller than I remember. She pats me on the back, and tears spring to my eyes. I haven’t made it past my first week, but it feels like a lifetime. How do those St. Clare’s girls handle not seeing their families for months?
“What are you doing here? Are you hungry?”
I’m famished, but I shake my head. “Just a school project.”
“So late?” She clicks her tongue. “Early risers find gold in their wash buckets.”
I don’t have time to tell her about the hearing. “I can’t stay. The driver’s waiting for me. How are you?”
“Same, same. We can wake Jack.” She reads my mind.
“No, let him rest. I just want to see him.” I crack open the bedroom door. The soft light casts a warm glow over the bed. Jack sleeps on his stomach, a white starfish in his long johns with his limbs spread out, like he’s suctioned to the bed.
He’s kicked the quilt that Ma stitched together from old silk ties off him, and I place it back on while Ma waits in the doorway. He sleeps with his mouth open. A little white bud has started to grow in the space where he lost a tooth. That’s new. I’ve already missed something.
My rice bowl lies on a crate table, filled with a teaspoon of grains already. I’ve missed you just as much, Jack. One day, it will be worth it. I promise.
I kiss his downy cheek and quietly steal away so my wakeful energy doesn’t affect his sleep.
Before I leave, I kiss Ma as well. “How is Ba?”
“He has been walking lighter lately. The Valencia Hotel is hiring his services. He’s already dropped some of his more bothersome customers.” Ba has a lot of those—clients who conveniently “forget” the handkerchiefs tucked into their pants so that he launders and irons them, usually without payment.
“That’s good news,” I say.
“Yes, your father is a good provider.” Her eyes fall away from me, as if she is holding something back.
“What?”
She doesn’t answer, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about her own death again. She shakes her head and smiles. “You look like a fine lady in this dress.”
On the way back to St. Clare’s, Elodie chats gaily about her impressive performance. My heart feels heavy despite our victory. I should not have stopped home. It has only made me miss my family more. I watch the paper lanterns between the streetlamps sway until they’re the size of fireflies.
Once back in our room, Elodie tosses her beaded bag onto her bed. “I had them eating out of my hand.” She slips off her ring and then her gloves. “They loved the product. Well, maybe not that old stick of a man, but I bet he wouldn’t know good chocolate if it pulled his chin hair.”
“Dr. Gunn is a respected elder. Do not talk that way about him.”
She looks up sharply, and the room temperature plummets. “It is a free country, and I can talk about anyone I choose, to anyone I choose.” She rakes her gaze over my uniform. “Even . . . Headmistress Grouch.”
She wouldn’t blow the whistle on me now, would she? A chill snakes through me. Monsieur now has what he wants—exclusive chocolate rights in Chinatown, and new workers to boot. Tom recorded those terms in the association’s minutes, but I have nothing to show Monsieur’s promise to me.
“Let’s be clear here. We are not friends.” Elodie paws a brush through her curls, watching me out of the corner of her eye. “We are only temporary business associates, nothing more.”
“Suits me fine.” I fumble with the buttons of my uniform, the smell of my own anxiety lifting off me.
“What was the name of that young man? Tom? He seems well-mannered and bright.” Her voice coats his name like cream on a cat’s tongue. “Mercy, are you blushing?”
“Certainly not.”
A smile lurks around her mouth. “I think Tom would make an excellent consultant for the Chinese workers, don’t you?”
In the history of ideas, that ranks up there with floating shoes. “Impossible. Tom will be our herbalist someday. He has no interest in business affairs.”
“Maybe he would if he knew the overseer is paid five dollars a day. If he does well, it may even lead to a permanent position.”
I keep my features tied tight, though five dollars is a heavenly wage. He could start a nest egg for the glider he wants to build. But the thought o
f him working for the Du Lacs makes my tongue peel, like I’ve sucked on one of the bitter roots in Ah-Suk’s store.
As Elodie flits around the room, any last feelings of victory seep out of me like suds through the floor drains at Ba’s laundry. Suddenly, I’m desperate to see Tom again. Not just to foil Elodie’s self-serving plans, but because I could use a friend right now. He knows just how to shake the wrinkles out of any situation.
When I first started working at the laundry, my fingers were cracked and wouldn’t stop bleeding. He rubbed an ointment of beeswax and cork bark into my skin, telling me, “You want to climb to the top, you’ll have to pass through some rough stretches. They won’t last forever. Just make it through today.” That was Tom, never seeing the glass as half-full, or half-empty, but just drinking the water.
I pull off my stockings, nearly poking my thumb through the wool. Headmistress Crouch won’t grant permission for me to leave again after tonight’s outing, even if I could think of a plausible excuse. And I can’t just waltz out of here without anyone noticing.
It occurs to me that in two days it will be Easter Sunday. Tom and I hadn’t discussed whether we would have our annual meeting, but what if he did plan to meet me on Laurel Hill? After all, I’m closer to the cemetery now than when I lived in Chinatown. And he mentioned last year’s hike when we were at the docks, so it was in his mind. Maybe I can sneak out after chapel.
14
ON EASTER SUNDAY, FATHER GOODWIN delivers a passionate sermon on the wrath of God smiting the sons of disobedience, and I rethink my decision to sneak out. No doubt God’s wrath includes daughters, too. If I get expelled, I will have pulled the window open, just to have it slam down on my fingers.
Then again, the thought of Tom working for Elodie brings my blood to a simmer. Plus, I would hate for him to go all that way and me to not show up.
Francesca plays the organ with enough ferocity to march all the saints back home. We file out, and the girls head to the salon, where Headmistress Crouch rehearses them. Not even the Lord’s resurrection can make her skip rehearsal.
