by Lisa See
Annie peppers me with more questions. “Did you know you were perpetuating Asian stereotypes? How could you dance at a place called the China Doll or even tolerate being called a China doll?”
That smarts, and I glance at Tommy. I want to ask, “Have you not taught this girl any manners?” In response to my unspoken question, he says, “Annie’s doing research on the Forbidden City and the different clubs where you all performed.” He gestures to the others in the room. “She wants to capture this history before it’s lost.”
My eyes drift back to Annie. “We aren’t that old.”
“Things happen. People die,” Annie replies, and it seems pretty callous, given that the reason for today’s reunion is to help raise money for her ailing grandfather. “What you did was extraordinary for your time. Don’t you want there to be a record? Will you let me interview you? Wouldn’t you like to share your stories?”
Hell, no! Instead, I ask, “Is your grandmother here?”
“Not yet. She’s flying in from Miami.”
I’m saved from having to continue the conversation by Charlie Low, who claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. After I sit down, I notice a small dance floor and a piano, which give my heart a little hiccup. I shift my focus to Charlie—shrunken and frail now—to calm myself. If only he’d used his noodle, he would have been a rich man at the end of his life. Instead, he spent it all on wine, women, and song. Women, especially, were his downfall. Too many wives. (Fortunately, he still owns the Low Apartments, which continue to stand as a gleaming gem on the edge of Chinatown.) I peer around the room and spy Walton Biggerstaff, who taught me so much and choreographed our shows. Jack Mak and George Louie are gone, though. So many men have passed already, and that knowledge feels like a heavy weight.
“You all know why we’re here,” Charlie begins. “We’re going to raise money for our old friend, but no bake sales for us! I’ve come up with a better idea. The Forbidden City opened on December 22, 1938. Here we are in 1988. We’re going to put on a revue for the fiftieth anniversary. We’re going to re-create the Forbidden City and all our best acts. We’re going to put on a show!”
“Put on a show?” Bessie Lim drawls languidly. “Take a look around. We aren’t young Mickey Rooneys and Judy Garlands anymore.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to sing,” Charlie responds. “I know you girls. No one can keep the Lim Sisters from making harmonies as sweet as honey.”
“I wasn’t there the night the Forbidden City opened,” someone else calls out. “I didn’t work there until close to the end.”
“That’s all right,” Charlie says so quickly that I realize he’s come fully prepared to deal with all complaints and whiners. “We’re taking a broad approach. We’re going to use everyone we can, whether from the Forbidden City, the China Doll, or any of the other clubs some of you played in for one- and two-night stands out there on the road.”
“I haven’t performed in front of an audience in years,” Irene says, speaking for all of us. “I can’t do it.”
“Performed in front of an audience?” Charlie snorts. “What do you call all the magic shows you and Jack did at our kids’ and grandkids’ parties?” He then addresses the whole room. “Don’t be such a bunch of old ladies … and men. I know what Irene and the rest of you have been up to. You’ve been taking ukulele lessons, traditional Chinese dance, tai chi, yoga, maybe even learning how to moonwalk. So don’t tell me you can’t perform. We’re going to put on a show. We’re going to invite our friends and the press. We’re going to get even more people—old customers and total strangers—to come. And we’re going to raise money for our dear friend, like I said.”
“But what’s the show? Who’s going to write it? Who’s going to choreograph it?” a former chorus girl asks, and the ponies she sits with nod in agreement.
“We don’t need new material,” he answers. “We’re going to do the routines you were famous for—”
“I’m not going to work with any kittens!” a woman’s voice sirens through the air.
Everyone laughs. Charlie goes on: “Can’t you see it? Nostalgia! We’re going for an era that’s disappeared, see?”
I hear this with a good deal of anxiety. I want to help Eddie, and I’m perfectly willing to make a donation to his health fund, but dance? (And honestly, why do we have to do this at all? Helen and Eddie stayed married. He’s on her insurance policy, and she’s as rich as Croesus to boot. All right, I know the answer. We’re show kids. We want Eddie to know we’re with him 100 percent, even if we don’t understand this new disease.)
“There’s Ruby Tom!” Charlie suddenly exclaims.
So she came. I process that information before glancing over to where Charlie points. Ruby sits at a table on the far side of the room. She still has her figure, and her skin looks great. She wears a sequined gown … in the middle of the day … with sparkling clips in her hair … and diamond and ruby bracelets climbing her arm. What a spectacle. Even at—what?—seventy?—Ruby has to show off. But damn, she looks good—still seeking the spotlight, still addicted to glitter, and still sly as ever. I notice that my old pal is peeking at me out of the corners of her eyes. I keep my face bland.
I’ve had other friends—mothers to be when I was pregnant with Ben and Stephen, moms of the other boys in my sons’ schools, and the gals I played tennis with over the years—but none of those women knew me as a girl. None of them could ever really know me, not like Ruby and Helen know me. I’m convinced this is so, because I’m staring at Ruby and seeing not the sexed-up old woman who is just this side of grotesque, if I’m honest, but the girl who loved to laugh with her two best friends.
“And, of course, our beloved Grace Lee,” Charlie barrels along. “Still famous. Still a lady.”
I nod politely at the acknowledgment, but inside I’m gloating like I’m seventeen, because I received more applause than Ruby. If Helen were here, I think, she might be smiling too.
Right then I see Helen, standing in the doorway, wearing a Chanel suit, with matching purse and shoes. She somehow manages to appear bemused, critical, and bitter. With another of those hiccups in my heart, I remember when Helen and I were the very best of friends, sure that no one could come between us, and then later when the deepest friendship was between Ruby and Helen, and how much that hurt me. I loved those two, but together and separately, they caused me some of the worst pain of my life.
Charlie, in the astute way he handled a room in the old days, has noticed Helen too. “Ruby Tom, Grace Lee, and Helen Fong! Come up here! Let’s see if you three still have it.”
Ruby is first on the dance floor, naturally. More applause as Helen comes to stand next to Ruby. Now everyone stares at me. I don’t want to get up, but how can I not? It would be rude not to participate. So I find myself joining Ruby and Helen. Goose bumps rise on my arms from the pleasure of having so many pairs of eyes on the three of us.
“Shall I do my Princess Tai act?” Ruby asks. Yes, she still plays clubs way off the Strip and senior centers, where, as I’ve heard her say, “I put a little bump in those old geezers.” But the idea that she might take off all her clothes is horrifying.
“I don’t want to be seen in a show with a stringy and naked old bird,” Helen states, half in jest, half on the square. She’s probably thinking of her political ambitions. She’s put together an exploratory committee to look at the feasibility of running for an open congressional seat in Florida. She won’t win, but I’m proud to say I was the first person to write a check.
“I have a different idea,” Charlie says diplomatically. “Will my glamour girls do me the honor of performing ‘Let Me Play with It’?”
It would have to be that. If I first became famous for the dance I did in Aloha, Boys!, then the Swing Sisters became even more renowned for the routine we did for Ed Sullivan. Best known for singing and dancing to “Let Me Play with It” will be in each of our obituaries and probably end up on our tombstones as well.
Beyond Ruby and Helen, I see the faces of people I’ve admired, envied, and maybe even hated on occasion in a fractured kaleidoscope of images. They’re smiling at me, and I decide against everything that tells me this is a terrible mistake that I’ll be a part of this revue or follies or whatever they want to call this reunion show we’re going to mount. I wonder if Joe will still be awake when I get home. Will he run his hand through his hair, throw his head back, and laugh when I tell him how I stumbled through the old routine? When I announce that I’ve decided to be in this performance thing for Eddie after all, will he say “I told you so”? Of course, because Joe loves me, I am his China doll, and he knows that Helen and Ruby will be the sisters of my heart for all eternity. In my mind, I count. One, two, three, four. As I make the slow turn that initiates the break, I glimpse Ruby and Helen making their turns as well. After all this time—despite the secrets revealed and the hearts broken—we are still in sync on the dance floor. Love envelops us, and we dance and dance and dance.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The characters in China Dolls—apart from Charlie Low, Walton Biggerstaff, David Butler, Ming and Ling, Dorothy Toy, Lee Mortimer, Tom Ball, and Ed Sullivan—are wholly fictional. That said, I have incorporated many anecdotes from people who lived through the Chinese-American nightclub era to create my fictional characters. I’d like to start by thanking Jodi Long, daughter of Larry and Trudi Long (nightclub performers); Michael Ching, son of Larry Ching (the Chinese Frank Sinatra, who in real life was much nicer than the one portrayed in this novel); and Nellie Lew (a Forbidden City chorus girl); and Joyce Narlock, whose mother, Betty Wong, danced at the China Doll and moved on to the Forbidden City, where she married Charlie Low. Their behind-the-scenes stories and Jodi’s documentary Long Story Short gave me a kid’s-eye view of these two clubs and what it was like to travel on the Chop-Suey Circuit.
In 2011–2012, I also met performers: Trudi Long, eighty-eight, shared stories of being interned, Lee Mortimer sponsoring her to go to New York, and life on the road; Mai Tai Sing, eighty-eight, recounted her childhood love of glitter and dancing in a gown made from monkey fur; Mary Ong Tom, ninety-three, spoke about her journey from Arizona to California, where she became one of the eight original Forbidden City chorus girls; and Dorothy Toy, ninety-two, the first and forever best Chinese Ginger Rogers, had me laughing at her exploits. I feel extraordinarily fortunate—and honored—to have met these inspiring, audacious, humorous, and energetic women.
I wouldn’t have met Dorothy or Mai Tai if not for a great group of women, some of whom danced at the Forbidden City and the China Doll, and traveled the circuit themselves, who are keeping the flame alive with their troupe, the Grant Avenue Follies: Pat Chin (I loved our extra e-mail exchange), Lillian Poon (with a special thank-you for making the initial introductions), Ivy Tam (one of Charlie Low’s ex-wives), and Cynthia Yee (who grew up in the apartment building where Dorothy Toy and so many performers lived). We met at San Francisco’s Hotel Whitcomb, where there is a continuing exhibit on the Forbidden City, and where the hotel’s manager, Ralph Lee, graciously treated us to tea and desserts. That afternoon was further highlighted by Chuck Gee’s hilarious stories of costume malfunctions and such.
I wish to acknowledge several others who consented to be interviewed: Phil Choy, for his historical perspective on San Francisco Chinatown; Susan Lee Colby, who grew up in a traditional family compound in San Francisco Chinatown; Florence Helzel, for her memories of Treasure Island and San Francisco during World War II; Deborah Kirshman, who took me on a tour of San Francisco architecture and introduced me to her mom; Mei Ling Moore, for her photographs and encouragement; and Karen and Bernie Vance of the Plain City Historical Society, who shared memories and details of their town. (Please forgive me for the unpleasant characters I made up for my version of Plain City.)
I wouldn’t have been able to capture the details of the Chinese-American nightclub scene if others hadn’t interviewed performers and collected materials in years past. (All locations are real except Pieces O’Eight in Norfolk.) Arthur Dong paved the way with his 1989 documentary Forbidden City, U.S.A. He found clips from long-forgotten movies, and he filmed Noel Toy, the Chinese Sally Rand, as she recited her classic line about “eating corn on the cob.” He has been astute and insightful, always seeming to e-mail me drink menus, photographs, or an anecdote at just the right moment. Ben Fong-Torres, the music journalist, shared with me the time he spent with Larry Ching as they recorded the singer’s first and only CD, Till the End of Time. I’m deeply indebted to Eddie Wong for giving me transcripts of his 1981–82 interviews with Forbidden City performers. Trina Robbins interviewed two dozen people and gathered nightclub ephemera for her oral-history volume, Forbidden City. I also found online interviews with Mary Tom, Noel Toy, and Dorothy Toy. For those who’d like to see some of the performers in their heyday, allow me to recommend David Wells’s postings on YouTube and his website: softfilm.blogspot.com.
The Museum of Chinese in America proved to be an invaluable resource. Alice Mong, then executive director, and Yue Ma, archive librarian, opened all the museum’s research materials that had been brought together for a 2002 exhibition entitled Gotta Sing, Gotta Dance: Chinese America in the Nightclub Era, which included Lee Mortimer’s collected columns, costumes and headdresses, videos, programs, articles, photographs, Jadin Wong’s scrapbooks (great for piecing together daily life on the Chop-Suey Circuit), contemporaneous interviews with stars, Walter Winchell’s musings, and the coverage of the murder of dancer Midi Takaoka, which served as the inspiration for Ida’s death. The museum also provided me with transcripts of the oral histories it conducted with fourteen Chinese-American performers and New York Chinatown locals who were familiar with the China Doll. Sue Lee, executive director of the Chinese Historical Society of America, opened those archives, allowing me to pore over the Kubla Khan nightclub collection, Forbidden City waitress costumes, and old issues of the Chinese Digest, as well as other materials on Charlie Low and the Forbidden City.
I also relied on the works (and numerous personal kindnesses) of others. Ben Shahn’s 1938 photographs of Plain City taken for the Farm Security Administration put me on Grace’s hometown streets. For information on Treasure Island, I’m obliged to the writings of Patricia F. Carpenter and Paul Totah (The San Francisco Fair), Jack James and Earle Vonard Weller (Treasure Island: “The Magic City,” 1939–1940), Jason Pipe (Images of San Francisco’s Treasure Island), and Richard Reinhardt (Treasure Island—1939–1940). Treasure Island’s website and the exhibition in the old Administration Building / Air Terminal were also helpful. For details on clothes and theatrical costumes, I looked to works by Joan Nunn, Jonathan Walford, and Doreen Yarwood. For general information on nightclubs, dance, dancers, and San Francisco Chinatown, thank-yous to Raymond Chung (who sent me an early draft of his article on the Kubla Khan), Gloria Heyung Chun (Of Orphans & Warriors), Lorraine Dong (“The Forbidden City Legacy”), Amy Gorman (Aging Artfully), San-San Kwan (“Performing a Geography of Asian America”), Him Mark Lai (Him Mark Lai: Autobiography of a Chinese American Historian), Anthony W. Lee (Picturing Chinatown), Dugal O’Liam (“Playboy of the Eastern World”), Harley Spiller (“Late Night in the Lion’s Den”), Rusty E. Frank (Tap!), Susan Waggoner (Nightclub Nights), Leong Gor Yun (Chinatown Inside Out), and Judy Yung (Unbound Feet and Images of America: San Francisco’s Chinatown).
Much has been written about the Sino-Japanese War and World War II. I relied on the following works for historical accuracy: Honda Katsuich
i’s The Nanjing Massacre, Iris Chang’s The Rape of Nanking, Marjorie Lee’s Duty & Honor, the essays in The Home-Front War (edited by Kenneth Paul O’Brien and Lynn Hudson Parsons), and the remarkable (if bigoted) coverage in Time and Life. The Virtual Museum of the City of San Francisco was invaluable for its time line and details of events that happened in the Bay Area during the war. Patsy Sumie Saiki’s Ganbare! and Yasutaro Soga’s Life Behind Barbed Wire gave me a vivid sense of what life was like for Issei and Nisei in Hawaii in the hours and days immediately following the bombing of Pearl Harbor, as well as the experience of those who were sent to internment camps.
I grew up hearing stories of internment from friends and family, but I’d also like to acknowledge the wonderful oral histories of Janet Daijogo, Fumi Hayashi, Chizu Iiyama, and Masaru Kawaguichi about their experiences at Topaz, which can be found on the Telling Stories website. I have long been a fan of Kyoko Mori’s memoir, Polite Lies, in which she writes about the differences between American and Japanese culture. Writer Naomi Hirahara gave me some eleventh-hour advice on Japanese words and phrases. You Don’t Know Jack, a documentary about Jack Soo, né Goro Suzuki, illustrated how yet another performer was able to navigate difficult times. Regarding the concept of “they all look alike,” I recommend the following website to see how good you are at telling the differences: http://alllooksame.com/exam_room.php.
A few special words about Bob Loomis, my longtime editor, now retired. Bob spent a lot of time in Plain City as a little boy, and he filled my head with many colorful stories. Bob was also an airman, who visited Los Angeles (and its myriad nightclubs) during the war. I studied his The Story of the U.S. Air Force, and asked him dozens of questions about training and planes. Beyond all that, I’m grateful for his friendship, generosity, and encouragement to me over the years. I would not be the writer I am if not for him.
