Night of Many Dreams

by Gail Tsukiyama

  That night at dinner, Foon and Joan sat Mah-mee, Auntie Go, and Emma down at the table, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Foon, what are you two up to?” Mah-mee called out, tapping impatiently on the arm of her chair.

  “Be patient, they have a surprise for us,” Auntie Go said.

  “What kind of surprise takes so long?” Mah-mee paused for a moment, then rose from her chair just as the kitchen door swung open.

  “Coming, coming,” Foon said, holding open the door.

  Joan emerged carefully carrying a large, covered bowl. Heat and steam had pressed her short hair close to her head. She placed the bowl on the table, stepped back, and said, “Portuguese chicken, made from the freshest Macao ingredients!”

  Auntie Go clapped first, followed by Emma, then, at last, by Mah-mee. Joan smiled at her applause, bowed, and sat down next to Emma.

  Foon carried in a plate of Chinese mustard greens and a large container of rice. “Eat, eat,” she commanded.

  “What’s in it?” Emma asked.

  Joan smiled and rattled off a list of ingredients in her calm, steady voice. “Chicken, potatoes, coconut, tomato, olive oil, curry, olives, and saffron.”

  Foon hovered over them as they ate. Even Mah-mee seemed to loosen up and enjoy herself once she had tasted Joan’s Portuguese chicken. “Very good,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Excellent!” Auntie Go said. She dished more sauce over her rice.

  Emma turned to Joan and nodded her head in approval, careful not to talk with her mouth full. Joan smiled back. In the short silence between them, Emma once again caught a glimpse of the confident, bill-collecting actress who was her sister.

  They had almost finished eating when they heard the first scream, high and harsh, so unexpected, so out of place, that no one moved at first. When the second scream pierced the air, Auntie Go leapt from her chair and ran to the window.

  “Something’s happening next door,” she said, hurrying toward the front door.

  Emma and Joan dropped their napkins and followed without a word. The air was still thick and wet as they rushed toward Lia’s house. Emma felt the earth soft beneath her shoes. Seeing the big, rambling house, she felt odd intruding on her new friend’s family, but a third scream that raised the hairs on the back of her neck convinced her something was terribly wrong.

  The door to the house was standing wide open as they approached the front steps, but the loud screams had become a muted, almost rhythmic crying. Auntie Go turned around and told them to wait for her outside, just as Lia came shuffling out of the house, pulling and pushing three boys and a girl with her.

  “Are you all right?” Auntie Go asked, her voice calm yet urgent.

  Lia looked up, and when she saw them, Emma thought her friend was going to burst into tears. Instead, Lia swallowed and said in a soft, distant voice, “My brother José.”

  Auntie Go ran up the steps and into the house. Emma and Joan didn’t move, though Emma felt Joan take hold of her arm. Lia, her sister, and the three boys stayed huddled on the porch, as if they’d forgotten that Emma and Joan were there. Emma tried to say something, but her mouth felt dry and useless. She stood there staring at Lia, watching as she calmed the four children, wiping their noses and pressing down stray hairs. In that moment, she seemed much older to Emma than the girl she had watched singing and jumping rope.

  That night in bed, Emma relived the entire story told by Auntie Go. José, the three-year-old, youngest brother of Lia, was eating dinner and laughing as usual when he suddenly became quiet. No one paid attention at first. Six children at the table were often noisy and boisterous. By the time Lia’s mother turned around, she could see that José had turned beet red. She jumped up and began pounding the little boy on the back. Lia opened his mouth and tried to dislodge what had become stuck, but it was no use. They turned José over and held him upside down, slapping his back and coaxing him to spit it out. “José, minha menino,” Lia’s mother yelled over and over. “Spit it out!” First red. Then blue. José began to turn gray and his arms twitched. His legs jerked. His eyes rolled back. Lia’s mother screamed. By the time Auntie Go arrived, José lay quietly in his mother’s arms as if he were asleep.

  The next afternoon Emma and her family sat in the Barbosa living room, along with other friends and relatives who had come to pay their respect. The drawn damask curtains and heavy wood furniture made the room dark and solemn. Emma breathed in the painfully sweet scent of fresh flowers. Lia’s mother was upstairs resting, leaving Lia to stoically accept the tearful kisses, and basket after basket of fruits and vegetables. Her three younger brothers and sister sat quietly with aunts and uncles.

  Emma watched her somber friend move politely from one person to the next. Just as Lia approached them, Emma heard Mahmee whisper, “The poor girl, she has to do her mother’s job,” to Auntie Go.

  A soft, quick, mechanical “Thank you for coming” emerged from Lia.

  She moved in a dull, heavy manner, like someone Emma had never met. Lia’s wild hair was combed tightly against her head, and she wore an ill-fitting, long-sleeved white blouse, rolled up at the sleeves, and black skirt. Emma kept her gaze focused on Lia, hoping to gain her new friend’s attention for just a moment. But in her face Emma saw the same dazed look of disbelief that she’d seen just after the occupation, when so many in Hong Kong had lost someone they loved.

  For weeks after, the Barbosa house seemed lifeless, as if Lia and her family had all vanished into its dark rooms. Emma longed to hear the singing voices and the high squeal of laughter that used to draw her to the window, but each day she was greeted with an empty, silent yard.

  The only time Emma caught a glimpse of Lia was when she left for school in the mornings. Lia looked pale and drawn as she shepherded her sister and brothers out of the house for the short walk to the Portuguese Catholic school they attended. Before Emma could speak, Lia brushed her aside with a wave of her hand, leaving Emma to watch as Lia disappeared down the dirt road with her sister and brothers. She never looked back.

  Emma and Joan walked in the opposite direction to Poi Do, the Chinese girls’ school that many of Emma’s Hong Kong friends also attended. It was nothing more than a few neighboring houses, whose upstairs and downstairs rooms were transformed into a temporary school. Many of the teachers were the same ones Emma and Joan had had in Hong Kong before the occupation. Sometimes, when Emma sat in the classroom and listened to the familiar whisper of voices around her, she shuddered to think she might still be in Hong Kong. But when she left the confines of Poi Do and stepped out into the soft air smelling faintly of the sea, she breathed a sigh of relief. She walked quickly down the uneven pavement toward home, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lia.

  One month later, Emma was surprised to find Lia waiting for her when she arrived home from school. Lia looked thinner and older, as if she had just pulled through some great illness. Her wild hair flew in all directions as she stood by one of the large palm trees. Two old bicycles leaned against the tree.

  “Our month of mourning is over,” Lia said shyly. Then before Emma could say anything, she asked, “Would you like to go bicycle riding?”

  “Yes,” Emma answered, happy she hadn’t followed Joan and Foon to the market. “Just let me change my clothes.”

  Emma ran into the house, dropped her knapsack on the hall table, then slipped out of her dress and into a pair of overalls. From her bedroom window she peeked outside to make sure Lia was still waiting for her. When she glimpsed her friend’s dark hair, Emma swallowed her happiness and ran outside.

  “I’m sorry about José,” Emma said as they pushed their bikes out to the main road. She gripped the handlebars tighter as she spoke the little boy’s name.

  Lia stopped and closed the gate behind them. She smoothed her hair away from her face and took her time answering. “Mamae thinks it was the fantasma,” she said, turning to Emma.

  “What?”

  “It’s a ghost. Mamae
thinks a ghost killed José.” Lia swung her leg over the bicycle seat, which creaked a long sigh as she settled onto it.

  Emma hesitated. “There’s a ghost in your house?”

  Lia nodded. “First, it took my papai, now José. The house is very old and the spirit refuses to leave.”

  Emma straddled her bike, letting it lean against her leg. “Why haven’t you moved if your house is haunted?”

  “It was left to us by my mamae’s great-aunt Carmelita. We wouldn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s her ghost that refuses to leave.”

  “But why would she kill her own family?”

  “Mamae says her great-aunt Carmelita always acted strange around my papai. She would stare at him for the longest time, then whisper how he had only married my mamae for the house.”

  “But what about José? He was just a little boy.”

  “José was the spitting image of my papai as a boy. My mamae thinks Carmelita simply disliked him for that reason and no longer wanted José in her house.”

  “She must have been an awful person!” Emma said, lowering her voice. A sudden shiver moved through her body. She turned back to look at the old, rambling Barbosa house. Other than needing a new coat of paint, it appeared ordinary and harmless.

  “I never knew her,” Lia said, pushing down on the pedal of her bike. “She died the year I was born.” She turned back as she began gliding away. “Come on, I’ll race you down to Avenida Amizade!”

  Emma paused a minute to digest the story about Lia’s great-great-aunt Carmelita. Emma wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but she supposed Lia’s mother had to find some excuse to live with José’s senseless death. Besides, the idea of a ghost roaming the dark rooms of the Barbosa house captivated Emma’s imagination. She looked ahead and saw Lia already creating a distance between them. A sudden, cold wind brushed the back of Emma’s head, and the sweet, rotting smell of flowers filled the air, even though the first spring blossoms had yet to bloom. Emma glanced back into the empty yard where the two looming palm trees stood guard, then quickly jumped onto her bicycle and began pedaling as fast as she could.

  Emma and Lia rode their bikes to the Avenida Amizade. Down by the harbor, they watched entire lives pass before them. Vendors lived behind crates and boxes, hustling everything from noodles in watery soup to thick ceramic teacups. They cried out in high, strained voices, hoping someone might stop long enough to listen. The ferries moaned and inched their way into the narrow docks to unload passengers. Emma was surprised to see refugees still coming. She easily recognized which families came from Hong Kong—their concerned, slightly dazed faces standing out among the others. She wanted to take their hands and lead them through the wonderful maze of Macao streets, but knew that they, like her own family, would soon find their way.

  Emma had brought along some money Auntie Go had given her, so they bought coconut candy from a vendor who was kind to them. The thin, old man gave them an additional piece for free. “For the pretty one, and for the smart one,” he said, holding the candy out between the two of them. Emma and Lia shared the extra piece of candy equally, never doubting who was who. All that mattered was that it afforded them the extra energy to ride up to Monte Hill. Perched on top was the stone facade of St. Paul’s Catholic Church. A plaque commemorated all that remained of the magnificent baroque church built by the Portuguese in the 1600s. The rest of the chapel, having survived two hundred years of wars and pirates, was destroyed by a fire. But the facade remained as a symbol of strength and resilience. Emma and Lia immediately claimed it as their own, imagining as they passed through its large front doors that they were entering a glorious nave with a high, wood-beamed ceiling and tall, stained-glass windows. And for a moment, they could have been anywhere, done anything, forgotten everyone.

  That night at dinner, as every night, Emma’s family came together like a flock of birds around the dining room table. With the soft clicking of chopsticks against bowls, each told the story of her day.

  Mah-mee and Auntie Go had had lunch with a distant cousin on Ba ba’s side. They had never met before and both sides were under the careful scrutiny of watchful eyes.

  “She looks nothing like the Lew side of the family. Much bigger-framed,” Mah-mee said. She palmed her rice bowl with her left hand as the chopsticks in her other moved through the air like magic wands.

  “Could have come from her other side of the family,” Auntie Go said.

  Joan looked up and asked, “Where did you eat?”

  “Mandalays,” Mah-mee answered.

  “What did you eat?” Joan continued.

  “Sticky rice…dim sum…nothing special,” Auntie Go answered.

  Emma listened, thankful that cooking had replaced Joan’s passion for the movies. Mah-mee held out a thin sliver of pork between her chopsticks, waving it through the air as she spoke before it landed safely in Emma’s bowl.

  Then Mah-mee turned her attention toward Joan. “I told this cousin you’ll be graduating from Poi Do soon. She has a son studying to be a solicitor. Not married yet.”

  Joan coughed, then sipped her tea, half-hiding her face behind her cup.

  “I was out with Lia this afternoon,” Emma said, quickly changing the subject. She had waited anxiously to tell them about Lia’s great-great-aunt Carmelita.

  “Umh…” Mah-mee responded, pushing rice into her mouth. The click-click of her chopsticks filled the air.

  “How is her mother feeling?” Joan asked, smiling at Emma.

  “Lia’s mother thinks the ghost of her great-aunt Carmelita killed José!”

  “Aii-ya!” Mah-mee exclaimed. “Is she filling your head with stories again?” She put down her bowl and scraped back her chair.

  “It sounds like it could be a movie. What did Carmelita look like?” Joan asked.

  “She died before Lia was born, but she never liked Lia’s father, and José looked just like him!” Emma explained.

  Auntie Go began to say something, but held back her words.

  “Ghosts like to linger in old houses,” Foon suddenly interrupted, clearing an empty bowl from the table. Her tongue flicked across her gold tooth. “Others say so all the time. Mostly playful. They take things, move them around.”

  “Foon, you’re scaring the girls,” Mah-mee snapped.

  Foon gathered up the rest of the bowls, stacking them neatly on her tray. Only then did she answer: “Better they know. Silence would scare them more.”

  Every so often Emma discovered subtle changes in the faces of her family. After just two years in Macao, they had all grown older. Auntie Go had gained then lost weight worrying about her knitting business and working in the garden behind the house, while Joan grew steadily more self-assured with each new dish she mastered under Foon’s supervision. Even Mah-mee had changed. Emma saw thread-fine lines around her eyes and lips every time she smiled. But the only change for the better that Emma noticed in herself at fourteen was that she’d nearly caught up in height with Joan.

  During their first year’s stay in Macao, Emma had rarely seen her father. “Ba ba’s too busy with his business,” Mah-mee would say, the few times Emma asked. Emma knew that Ten Thousand Profits had all but failed with the Japanese invasion and wondered what he did day after day in their Hong Kong flat. Joan said he was guarding their family heirlooms. Emma couldn’t imagine him wasting away his days playing mah-jongg and having long lunches. Without work, she somehow thought he would blow away like dust.

  The few times Emma saw Ba ba, he seemed to have lost weight, his hair a tinge grayer. She began to note how he’d changed in a journal she kept, as if by writing it down she could prevent his shrinking away. Still, when she entered their small, stucco house and smelled her father’s sharp, flowery cologne, Emma knew that for at least a little while they would be a family again.

  From her father, they heard firsthand accounts of Hong Kong. “Chaos reigns everywhere,” Ba ba said, sipping from his tea. “Most of the city still stands in ruins from the bombing.
Everything good has been confiscated. The Japanese have done little to remedy the food and fuel shortage. If it weren’t for the black market run by the triads, we would have nothing.”

  Emma’s mouth felt dry and bitter listening, while Mah-mee and Auntie Go whispered quietly to him, and Joan stayed silent, her dark eyes dazed with a faraway look.

  The stories Emma had heard from her grandmother about her father as a young boy didn’t make him seem to differ much from her father as a man. His head had always been tilled with numbers and sums. Calculations didn’t fool him, as they sometimes fooled Emma in her math classes. He thought in numbers the way she thought in color or words. “You’ve grown a half inch taller,” he would say, or, “Bring me two feet of that string.”

  Emma often thought about what brought her quiet father and beautiful mother together. Watching them closely held no answers. Two people couldn’t be more opposite in nature. Her father’s calmness could settle an entire room, whereas her mother’s passionate temperament was catlike and might flare at any time. In her father’s eyes, they must have added up to the right equation, like two fractions equaling a whole number.

  During their second year in Macao, Ba ba began visiting them every few months. At the end of May, he came back for Joan’s graduation from Poi Do. In the cramped front room of their temporary school, Emma and her family sat on uncomfortable metal chairs waiting for the program to begin. Sitting quietly next to Auntie Go, even Foon attended, her hands wrapped around a jar of kumquat soup she’d specially brewed for Joan.

  As they waited, Emma leaned over and asked her father, “Ba ba, what do you do all by yourself in Hong Kong?” The palms of her hands felt hot and sticky.