Night of Many Dreams

by Gail Tsukiyama

  Go seized every word her mother said. They were so few, so precious, that she held on to each one like a jewel.

  In Macao they all began to heal. Away from Hong Kong and the constant terrors the Japanese soldiers had instilled in them, Emma no longer had nightmares, while Go and Kum Ling gradually grew less suspect of every sound they heard. Even Foon appeared less anxious, smiling wide enough to show the glint of her gold tooth.

  But most of all, Auntie Go delighted in seeing Joan gradually emerge from her shell, as she worked each day in the kitchen with Foon. In the kitchen, Joan began to thrive again. She had steadfastly refused to speak about what had happened the night she returned home late and frightened. From then on, the silence that Joan had chosen was deep and profound. After that night, Auntie Go realized there were many ways to lose a child.

  When they’d first arrived in Macao, Kum Ling wanted to put a stop to what she saw as Joan’s “cooking foolishness.” Auntie Go bit her tongue for as long as she could, but one day she pulled her cousin into the small room they shared and closed the door behind them, shutting them in together with the smell of Shalimar and Revlon powder. Again they disagreed. Again they had words.

  “She shouldn’t be in the kitchen,” Kum Ling said, “like a servant, slicing black mushrooms! Lotus roots! Green onions! It isn’t right. I should put an end to it. I’m only glad Hing isn’t here to see his daughter!”

  Auntie Go walked to the window of their bedroom. She knew Hing wouldn’t mind one bit. She hated it when her cousin acted like something, or someone, was beneath them, an irritating affectation that Kum Ling had acquired through the social ties she had made.

  “It’s good for her,” Auntie Go said, controlling her voice.

  “In what way?” Kum Ling snapped.

  Go turned back toward her cousin. In the sunlight, she could see faint lines along Kum Ling’s forehead. “It’s a skill she can always use, both for her family and for herself.” Then in words soft and measured, yet insistent, Go added, “You must keep silent about this, Kum Ling. Joan needs something right now. It can’t hurt.”

  Gazing back at Auntie Go, Kum Ling’s eyes turned moist and luminous. “I suppose you’re right,” she said at last. “It’s just a passing phase.”

  In the days to follow, there were a few long sighs from Kum Ling, and the impatient shaking of her head, but she remained silent, while Joan continued to cook in the kitchen with Foon.

  Very slowly the Joan they all knew returned to them. One afternoon, when Kum Ling was at the Miramar Hotel playing mah-jongg and Emma was next door at Lia’s, Auntie Go heard voices coming from Joan’s room. The door was ajar, so she peeked in. Joan was seated in front of her mirror, speaking passionately to her reflection.

  Auntie Go knocked lightly. “What are you doing?”

  Joan eyed her in the mirror, smiled. “Just seeing how the expressions on my face change when I say different lines. Watch this: I hate you!” she said at the mirror. “See how my eyebrows went up and my nose flared?”

  Auntie Go smiled. “Do it again.”

  “I hate you! I’ve always hated you.”

  “You’re right,” Auntie Go agreed, sitting next to Joan.

  Joan leaned closer to the mirror. “It’s amazing how much a face can show.”

  “Or not show.” Auntie Go caught Joan’s dark eyes in the mirror, held on to them.

  “Or not show,” Joan repeated, pulling her gaze away.

  During their days in Macao, while Kum Ling occupied herself with afternoon mah-jongg games, Auntie Go spent her time reading and caring for the little garden in back of the house. It was no bigger than a small square patch of dirt, overgrown with shrubbery, yet Auntie Go was grateful to give it her attention. It bloomed under her hands, springing up like Joan and Emma. She couldn’t believe how quickly her nieces were growing. Soon, marriage and their own families would take them away. Go had given up worrying about the knitting business she’d left behind. Its loss lessened as their days in Macao lengthened. She knew the Japanese had no intention of leaving her business intact. They would pilfer all they wanted, then destroy everything else. But even when these dark thoughts gathered, Go pushed them away, refusing to let hopelessness overwhelm her. She could do nothing from so far but prepare herself for the worst.

  Meanwhile, she spent every day on her hands and knees, digging deep into the dark soil, pulling out weeds and dead shrubs by their roots. By spring, she was determined to have the garden blooming again.

  On one cool morning in March, Auntie Go went to work early on her spring planting. She wasn’t expecting any company when she heard Emma’s light footsteps come from around the house. Under her arm she carried a small sketch pad she’d begun drawing in lately. Go was just happy that Emma had found an artistic outlet for her emotions. Sometimes, Go feared all Joan’s dramatics overshadowed her younger niece.

  “I thought you were going bike riding.” Go smiled, lifting her hand up against the morning sun.

  “Later. Lia has to go to church with her family now.” Emma dropped the sketch pad and fell to her knees next to Go. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to plant.”

  “Can I help you?”

  Auntie Go smiled. “Of course you can. Here, start digging.” She handed Emma a trowel.

  “Can I ask you something?” Emma picked up the trowel, tested its edge.

  “Of course, anything.”

  “What was Mah-mee’s younger brother like? I found a family photo with him in it, but all Mah-mee told me was that he died here in Macao when he was a young boy.”

  Startled, Auntie Go crouched next to Emma and began digging a hole in the dirt, avoiding Emma’s gaze. A sudden cold breeze chilled her neck.

  “It was an accident down by a creek where we used to play. Senseless,” she finally answered matter-of-factly.

  “Were you and Mah-mee there?” Emma glanced over at Auntie Go while keeping her hands busy digging.

  “Yes, we were.” Auntie Go rose up onto her knees. She pushed the fallen strands of hair away from her eyes. “So was Uncle Tong. We were all there swimming.”

  “And he drowned?”

  “He fell from a rope we were using to swing into the creek.” Auntie Go felt a strange sense of release, as if someone else would now help her carry the burden. “He broke his neck.”

  Emma gripped the trowel tighter. “Why doesn’t Mah-mee ever talk about him? Wouldn’t it be better to keep his spirit alive?”

  Auntie Go smiled. She realized again that Emma, at thirteen, wasn’t much older than she had been then, though she seemed so much wiser. “For the longest time we only knew how to keep the horror of it silent. I suppose we hoped if we didn’t say anything, it might all just go away. We were all very young when we witnessed it. By the time we grew up, it was all buried too deep inside of us.”

  “And now that you’ve returned to Macao?” Emma asked as she began digging again. “Do you ever think about him?”

  Auntie Go nodded. “All the time. He adored your uncle Tong. He was a precocious little boy, with boundless energy. You would have liked him.”

  “It’s sad to think that he never had a chance to grow up.”

  “Yes. It would have been nice to see what kind of man he’d have been.” Auntie Go smiled, then looked up. The bright light of the sun stung her eyes, and for a moment everything fell into shadows. “He might have been someone who used his hands—an architect, builder, or engineer.” Then Auntie Go bent over again and ran her fingers through the dirt. “We’ve kept silent much too long. Perhaps it’s time to set Sai-lo’s spirit free.”

  “Somehow, I think you just have.” Emma smiled. Then she sat up. “When this garden is in full bloom I’ll draw a picture of it for you.”

  Auntie Go put her dirt-stained hand on top of Emma’s and smiled. “I’d like nothing more.”

  That night, Auntie Go dreamed of Sai-lo once more. She saw his foot slip from the rope again, but instead of falling, he
floated upward, laughing and buoyant in the heavy summer air.

  Chapter 5

  Wildfire and Spring Wind—1946

  Joan

  Joan’s bedroom door creaked open. She turned around to see her fifteen-year-old sister come in. “You could knock first,” Joan said, turning back to her mirror.

  “Sorry,” Emma said, plopping down on Joan’s bed. “Where are you going?”

  “Out,” Joan answered, glancing up to see her sister staring at her.

  It made Joan feel hot and uncomfortable now, not like when Emma was a little girl of nine watching her get ready to go out to collect their father’s debts. Then, Emma’s eyes were filled with anxiousness and admiration, and all Joan wanted was to protect her. Since they’d returned to Hong Kong last year, she couldn’t tell what Emma was thinking, and her curious gaze only made her nervous.

  “Where?” Emma asked.

  Joan twisted open a jar of cream. “The Gloucester Hotel,” she answered, looking away.

  As she dressed for her afternoon out, it gave Joan strength to think of Gene Tierney in Laura. Joan hoped to have the same air of mystery that kept men wanting to find out who Laura really was. Keep them guessing, she thought to herself. But lately, Joan was tired of the acting and had just been going through the motions of dating, carrying with her an indifference she couldn’t at times hide. Usually she ended her evenings by flagging down a taxi and saying to heir date, “You aren’t coming, are you?”

  Sometimes Joan wondered how she would ever keep up with all her mother expected of her: the endless array of prearranged dates, the quick scrutiny of another new “auntie” in Mah-mee’s mah-jongg group, and their boring conversation leading up to a perfect marriage into a good family.

  Last week Mah-mee had come home with another marriage prospect. “Mrs. Chun’s son is coming back from America. Do you remember him? I think you met him when you were about six or seven. And now he’s graduating from Harvard! The Chuns are one of the first Chinese families to live on the Peak. Before the war, they wouldn’t allow Chinese to buy there.”

  Joan smiled, remaining silent, listening to Mah-mee’s words running on like a travelogue before a movie. All the finest features were listed. She shuddered to think what Mrs. Chun and all the others had said about her. She’s a beauty like her mother…think what beautiful children…they say she studied poetry with Professor Ying…. Joan knew that Mah-mee’s weekly mah-jongg games centered on which family had money, and whose son was going to be a doctor, as if that guaranteed his being in love, or making a good husband. And while Joan never shared her mother’s social ambitions, she at least humored Mah-mee by going out and being seen.

  Sometimes one of Mah-mee’s prearranged movie dates turned out to be particularly distasteful—such as the opinionated, overweight nephew of Mah-mee’s mah-jongg friend Auntie Lai. That evening, Joan took Emma along with them to see Another Thin Man.

  “Sit here,” Joan said sweetly, placing Emma strategically between them in one of the plush, red-cushioned seats.

  “But…” the nephew protested.

  “Her eyes are bad,” Joan quickly added, pushing Emma down. “She’ll see the screen much better from here.”

  The nephew slumped in his chair and began sucking loudly on dried plums. Joan felt Emma’s elbow nudge her in the side, and it was all they could do to keep from giggling.

  Afterward, when Joan and Emma returned home, Joan kept a straight face as she mimicked Myrna Loy from the movie they’d just seen. “And bing! Another murder!” she said, covering her heart and falling onto the bed. Emma laughed out loud.

  At twenty, Joan was bored by talk of marriage, although she knew Mah-mee was nervous about her future. Since returning from Macao, several boys from good families had dated her. But after a few months, each became just another friend to see a movie or have tea with. Not one would she consider marrying. Most were spoiled and childish, all hands and hot breath. None of them swept her off her feet, as she’d seen in the movies.

  Joan typically spent her afternoons having tea with friends at the Hong King Hotel, or sitting in movie theatres where she dreamed of being an actress in Hollywood. Romantic adventures played through her mind like music. She envisioned herself as the clever, beautiful female lead alongside Errol Flynn or Tyrone Power, enveloped by flowers, perfume, and wine. It struck her at odd moments that this was how it felt to be in love, and her legs grew weak at the thought as she tasted the richness of it in her mouth.

  Joan pushed the jars of cream and bottles of perfume back in place. In the mirror, Emma’s gaze followed her every move as she plucked her eyebrows, shaping them into perfect arcs, then wiped the corner of her eye with a tissue and blotted her deep red lipstick.

  “Do you like this shade?” Joan asked, opening a tube of eye shadow.

  Emma shrugged. “It’s fine.”

  Joan stroked a pale blue-gray streak across her lids with the tip of her little finger. She brushed her dark hair. It was long and luxurious, hanging just below her shoulder blades. She studied her sister’s reflection and wondered how she’d look with a little eye shadow. With her pageboy haircut and no makeup, Emma looked much younger than fifteen. Still, she had a wonderful fair complexion. Joan pulled back her own hair, twisting it into a chignon. No, she decided, makeup would only make Emma’s features look rounder and plainer, as if she were the older sister. Which was how she behaved, sometimes.

  Joan remembered how Emma had worried and fussed over her on the ferry from Macao back to Hong Kong. It was less than a year ago, September of 1945, after the Japanese surrender. Joan had pretended everything was fine, but inside, her stomach was in knots, uncertain what to expect. When they entered the silent harbor and Joan glimpsed the shadowy outlines of buildings against the gray sky, her fears were not eased.

  Hong Kong was in shambles. Damage from the bombs appeared even worse than Joan remembered. The harbor was eerily asleep, filled with the remains of sunken ships, reduced to pieces of scrap metal. Not one sampan moved on the dark waters. Joan tried not to breathe the lifeless air as they stepped onto the dock. She looked up toward Victoria Peak in the dead silence and wanted to cry. The large buildings she once thought so stately and grand looked old and tired, stark in the rubble. Mah-mee, Auntie Go, and Emma also remained quiet. Only Foon raised her head and muttered, “Too many ghosts, too many ghosts.”

  Joan pushed the last bottle against her mirror and stood up. She swallowed hard and felt a dull ache move through her stomach. The gnawing pains had begun to worry her, but they usually subsided if she ate something or paused for a moment. When she felt better again, Joan turned toward Emma and smiled. “I’m ready to go.”

  Emma looked up at her. Joan saw again a quick flash of the admiring little sister Emma had once been. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

  “Tired of what?” Joan asked, looking for her purse.

  “Doing the same thing. Just going to tea or the movies week after week.”

  Joan hesitated, felt a rush of heat rise up in her. She hadn’t thought of her life as repetitious. It was simply the path she was supposed to follow until she married. Mah-mee had done much the same. “No, why?”

  Emma leaned forward. “There’s just so much more to do and see in the world.”

  Joan’s eyes pulled away from her sister’s gaze. “I’ve seen enough, thanks. The war and Macao have satisfied my wanderlust. I’m just glad we survived, and that our lives are back to normal again.”

  “Normal doesn’t have to be boring,” Emma said, getting up from the bed. “I want to see it all. Paris, New York, San Francisco…”

  “Well, I like it right here in Hong Kong,” Joan said, even as she thought, What am I supposed to do? I’m waiting, waiting for someone or something. “What did I do with my handbag?” She glanced quickly around the room.

  “Aren’t you curious about how other people live?”

  Joan laughed. “I can barely keep track of my own life!” She located her handba
g on the bedside table. “One day I know you’ll see it all, moi-moi.” She forced a smile. “But until then, I’ll pick you up after your piano lesson.” Joan moved quickly past Emma and patted her gently on the cheek on the way out.

  “Where are you going?” Mah-mee’s high voice suddenly rang out in the hallway.

  Joan paused, startled. “I thought you’d already left.”

  “I’m running late,” Mah-mee said, staring into the bathroom mirror.

  “I’m going to meet some friends. Then I thought I’d pick up Emma, from her piano lesson later,” Joan answered carefully. She knew Mah-mee was delighted with Emma’s gift for music.

  Mah-mee nodded.

  Joan braced herself for a waterfall of questions, another one of their “little talks.” Whom are you meeting? Where are you going? Lately, Mah-mee often called Joan aside, speaking to her in a low confident voice, like Mah-mee’s serious discussions with Ba ba or Auntie Go.

  But now, Mah-mee remained quiet, distracted. “Your ba ba will be home early this evening, so I want you both here for dinner on time.” Dabbing more Shalimar onto her neck, Mah-mee waved Joan closer. “Here, use some of this. A man remembers a young woman by the perfume she wears. You are lucky, you have the skin of Tai Pao. Your great-grandmother was known for her flawless skin.”

  “Mine isn’t so smooth.” Joan’s fingers swept lightly across the small sprinkling of blemishes on her forehead.

  “Just temporary. You’ll soon grow out of it. And when you meet the right young man, you’ll blossom all over again.”

  Joan glanced into the bathroom mirror and caught the determination of her mother’s stare, then felt her stomach grind again as she looked quickly away.

  When Joan heard the taxi arrive, she ran down the stone steps, opened the car door, and slid in. “The Gloucester Hotel,” she said quickly to the pale, thin driver. It was a relief just to be out of the house where she could breathe once more. She sat back in the seat and rolled down the window. April had hardly begun, but already the air felt sticky and humid. When the car started moving, Joan loosened the collar of her silk cheungsam, then leaned toward the warm wind, letting it embrace her.