The wide, bright room hummed with passengers halfway into the second dinner seating. It felt hot and noisy and smelled like Foon’s steamed pork. Tall and rigid, the maître d’ scanned his list for a seat. Emma stared across the tables crowded with foreign faces and felt sick to her stomach again. She was just about to flee to her cabin when a smiling, uniformed man stepped forward.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, his voice calm and friendly.
“I’m trying to find the young lady a seat. She’s not on my list,” the maître d’ answered.
“Well, you can stop searching. She can sit with me.” The man turned to Emma. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Ron Stuart, the ship’s purser.”
Emma glanced up at his face. She guessed he was in his midthirties, though she knew white ghosts often looked older than they really were. He wasn’t handsome, but he had kind blue eyes and a boyish grin. She steadied herself, took another deep breath, and said, “I’m Emma Lew.”
“Well, Miss Lew, would you do me the honor of joining me at my table?”
Emma hesitated. “I…”
“I’m sitting with some people you might enjoy meeting. Please, you would be doing me a great favor,” he said, smiling kindly.
She could already tell his eyes were his best feature. “I just need something to settle my stomach.”
“I know just the thing. Some chicken broth and crackers, along with good company,” he said, stepping aside to allow her to walk first. “My table’s right over there.”
No one at home had ever thought to tell Emma how to handle such a problem. She knew Joan would know exactly what to do and say. “Just think of Lauren Bacall,” Joan had once told her. “She meets any situation head-on.” But this kind of predicament was new to Emma. She looked around the vibrating room, doubting she’d be able to handle any more new faces staring at her. She managed a shy smile, then took a step in the direction of the purser’s table.
Purser First Class Ron Stuart became Emma’s guardian angel aboard the President Coolidge. He had a wife and two young daughters at home in Seattle and didn’t ask Emma silly questions as did other good-intentioned Americans, such as “How can you speak English so well?” or “Have you ever eaten a steak before?” Most evenings, when Emma was well enough to sit for dinner, it was with Ron and two other students from Hong Kong who were on their way to Holy Names College in Oakland, across the bay from San Francisco. Other nights, when she couldn’t keep anything down, Ron stopped by her cabin to bring something to keep up her strength. His chicken-soup-and-crackers theory had failed miserably. Now he brought plain toast and tea.
Aside from his friendship, Emma feared her memory of the journey would be dominated by seasickness. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling well again, free of the queasiness that plagued her day and night. But, after nine days of rough waters, the sea calmed and Emma’s stomach settled along with it.
When the President Coolidge docked in Honolulu, Emma was enormously grateful she’d made it that far. They would remain in Hawaii for two days while some of the ship’s passengers disembarked and others boarded to sail on to San Francisco.
When Emma first set foot on land again, she felt the earth still swaying beneath her feet. She stood very still and closed her eyes until the dizziness passed.
After nine days of seasickness, Honolulu was heaven-sent. It reminded her of Macao, with its warm tropical air smelling of flowers, and the slow, easy pace. The Hawaiians were friendly and helpful. She saw hints of Lia everywhere in the dark-haired, smiling faces of the Polynesian girls. Yet, standing in the soft ocean breeze and feeling well again, Emma felt her first real stab of loneliness since leaving Tokyo.
On the final evening in Honolulu, Ron took Emma and the other two Hong Kong students to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. He told them it had been called the Pink Palace of the Pacific since 1927, for its unusual color and Spanish cupolas. Emma loved the lobby, with its high Moorish ceiling. The large open room bustled with Americans, flower leis and cameras hanging from their necks. Outside the hotel, it was warm and humid in the surrounding fragrant tropical gardens, filled with bird-of-paradise, red hibiscus, and sweet-smelling ginger flowers. The beach was just steps away. Emma heard the deep rhythmic beating of drums nearby.
Ron led them to a large, grassy area, where beautiful young women in grass skirts demonstrated the hula. They mesmerized Emma with graceful, swaying hands and hips, telling a story with each movement. Their hands shaped through the air, gesturing and beckoning, leading Emma through the tale of love and loss, then gently carrying her to its end. She couldn’t wait to write Joan and Lia about this wonderful island.
Emma realized why Ron had told her to wear a loose dress, as after the hula demonstration they sat cross-legged on the grass. “It’s what the Hawaiians call a luau,” he explained as she adjusted to the awkwardness of sitting on the ground. An entire pig roasted in a large pit in the ground. It smelled delicious, like the roast pork with crispy skin she’d always eaten in Hong Kong. Emma’s stomach rumbled at the thought of biting into a thick, juicy piece, though she quickly learned that a sticky, gray paste called poi tasted exactly the way it looked—bland and gritty as wet cement. Emma took one taste and pretended to eat the gray paste, then spit it discreetly into her napkin. She did eat bowl after bowl of rice, as well as the fragrant and sweet mangoes and papaya, glad that Mah-mee and Foon weren’t around to see how much weight she’d lost from being seasick.
On the last leg of Emma’s journey to San Francisco, Ron said she had acquired her “sea legs,” since she no longer suffered from seasickness. And though it would be hard to leave the kindness and security he’d offered, Emma already felt the anxious stirring of her new life as they stood on deck and steamed under the Golden Gate Bridge. She leaned forward, gripping the rail, slightly apart from the rest of the crowd. The cool, crisp sea air stung her face as Emma’s first glimpse of the serene, elegant city left her speechless. San Francisco was just as beautiful as she had imagined it to be. She breathed in deeply, tasting the salty sea, her heart beating faster as the ship pushed closer to the dock. She loved the way the pastel-colored buildings caught the early-autumn light, revealing themselves one above another, stair-stepped up the sides of the hills. Then, beyond the rhythmic surging of the ship, and the buzz of other voices, Emma faintly heard Ron say, “It’s a sight that never fails to amaze me.”
Not quite three weeks after leaving Hong Kong, Emma changed into a cotton cheungsam and finally set foot on Pier 19 in San Francisco. The late-afternoon sun felt much cooler than she expected. By the time she said a tearful good-bye to Ron and the other students, then found her luggage waiting on the dock, Emma felt scared and alone. Sister Madeleine from the college had promised in her last letter to have someone waiting for her, but no one appeared. The air smelled salty and metallic. The sunlight had given way to shade. Emma waited as the passengers disembarked and the crowd dissipated. What would become of her? Alone on the pier, she listened for the voices of Mah-mee and Auntie Go telling her what to do, but they seemed lost across the ocean. Emma took a deep breath and thought of Joan’s advice: What would Lauren Bacall do? She decided to take a taxi to Lone Mountain College.
A sympathetic cabdriver, himself an immigrant from Russia, was kind and helpful. “You’re a smart one, taking taxi. These docks is no good at night,” he said, his thick, bushy mustache moving up and down as he talked. “Don’t worry, Sergei is getting you to your school nice and safe.”
Emma watched as he loaded her luggage into the trunk, then opened the rear door and waited for her to step in. He was short and heavyset, yet light and quick on his feet. His hair was longer than any other man’s she’d ever seen before, hanging in uneven strands below the back collar of his plaid shirt. She wrapped her sweater closer against the cold wind, happy to be in the safe confines of the cab.
Sergei turned around and looked over his shoulder. “We’ll take scenic route. I want to be first one to show you this great city!”
Emma suddenly felt warm. “No, I have to…”
“Don’t worry. No extra cost for you. Sit back! Enjoy!” He winked and started the car with a great roar of the engine.
Emma’s fear quickly disappeared as Sergei drove along the Embarcadero toward the bright lights of a place he called Fisherman’s Wharf. Emma fixed her gaze out the window at the large buildings and the big cars parked along the wide, open streets—so clean and uncluttered.
“This is where you can eat best crabs in all the world!” Sergei boasted.
When the cab turned down a narrow street toward the harbor, Emma had a full view of the small fishing boats docked in the crowded marina, and she smiled at the hopeful names painted on their bows—The Lucky Star, Mary’s Dream, The Full Catch, A Pot of Gold. She sat forward and rolled down her window, inhaling the distinct aromas of fresh fish and crabs. In the narrow street, Emma could almost reach out the window to touch the crabs that scrabbled over each other in boxes, waiting to be boiled in a large black pot.
From the crowded wharf, Sergei turned onto a street he called Columbus. “Like the explorer,” he said, slowing down as he peeked at her in his rearview mirror. “And this is North Beach, where all the I-ta-lians live and eat.”
Emma quickly looked away from the mirror. “From Italy?”
He nodded. “At one time.”
“And where do all the Russians live and eat?”
“Wherever we can,” Sergei answered with a laugh.
“What street is that?” Emma asked, looking at all the glittering lights that ran up and down the block.
“That’s Broadway. Home of the sailor bars. No place for nice young lady like you,” Sergei said quickly, his eyes avoiding the mirror.
He drove several blocks, then turned right. “This is Washington Street. Just remember, the first American president.” Then he made another right turn onto Grant Avenue. “We are now in heart of Chinatown!” His thick eyebrows flashed upward as he again caught her eyes in the mirror.
Emma’s pulse raced. Chinatown appeared much smaller than she had expected. Restaurants and storefronts painted red, green, and gold were crowded together into several blocks. She turned from window to window, soaking in all she could, seeking echoes of the life she’d left behind. Preoccupied faces she might have seen in Wanchai, or down in Causeway Bay, rushed down the bustling Grant Avenue. Names of streets flashed by—Jackson, Pacific, and back to Broadway. As if he knew what she was thinking, Sergei circled and drove through Chinatown again. Emma smiled, finding comfort in the Chinese characters written on signs and windows: The Forbidden City Nightclub, Golden Harvest, Kuo Wah Restaurant, The Great Wall of China…As different as this was from Hong Kong, San Francisco’s Chinatown held the most familiar sights she’d seen in weeks.
Emma leaned forward and whispered to Sergei, “You are very kind.”
He quickly turned back with a smile, his warm cigarette breath touching her cheek. “I know how it feels. When I first come here from Moscow eleven years ago, I didn’t know if I should go left or right! Now you know Columbus, Washington, Grant…so you are one step ahead of Sergei. Now, I better get you to school before they wonder what happened to you!”
They drove up the winding hill and through the iron gates of Lone Mountain College. In the gray, murky light of early evening, the large stucco buildings loomed immense and intimidating. Sergei helped Emma with her luggage, then waited with her as a flustered nun hurried out to greet her.
“I’m Sister Madeleine. We’ve been so worried about you!” She smiled kindly, her wimple squeezing her cheeks pink. “I’m so sorry, my child. You were supposed to be picked up by another one of our Chinese students. I don’t know what could have happened to her. I do hope she’s all right,” Sister Madeleine mumbled, her long black robe billowing in the wind.
Emma returned a shy smile.
As Sergei drove slowly away, he stuck his head out the window and winked at her. Emma wanted to call out for him to wait. He was the only person she remotely knew in San Francisco, and she suddenly felt too tired to do anything but follow the tall, sturdy Sister Madeleine.
Emma tightly gripped the handle of her suitcase, while Sister Madeleine’s singsong voice filled the calm air with rules and regulations. Emma tried hard to pay attention to what the sister was saying: “We have about three hundred girls living here…. I’m sure you’ll make new friends in no time…. We eat at six…simple but nourishing…no visitors after ten o’clock on weekdays…eleven-thirty on weekends….”
But her instruction fell hard and flat against the words that turned over and over in Emma’s head.
Columbus, like the explorer. Washington, Jackson, and Grant, like the presidents. Broadway and Pacific…Pacific, the vast ocean that now separates me from Hong Kong…
Chapter 9
The Woman from Swan River—1951–53
Joan
Joan ran up the stone steps to the Lew flat, late as usual. Her head still swam from the vivid scenes in The Woman from Swan River, the latest film by C. K. Chin. Joan had read that the Hong Kong Cantonese movie industry was dominated by Chin and his Tiger Claw Film Company. It was said that he could churn out a movie in a matter of weeks. In the past year alone, he had released over twenty films to an increasingly appreciative Hong Kong audience. But seeing The Woman from Swan River convinced Joan that Chin was someone who might give Chinese filmmaking new credibility. Unlike Hollywood productions, his films were still grainy and amateurish, but lately were heavily influenced by the Shanghai filmmakers who had migrated to Hong Kong. Joan saw how Hong Kong films had grown in scope and insight.
“There you are!” Mah-mee said as Joan closed the door behind her. Her mother was sitting in the living room with Auntie Go.
“Sorry I’m late,” Joan said, breathless, putting down her purse. “I just saw the most wonderful movie.”
“I thought that must be it.” Mah-mee held up a blue airmail envelope. “A letter from Emma came today.”
Joan took the letter from her mother. Since Emma left Hong Kong for San Francisco almost three months ago, her letters had arrived almost every week. The wrinkled blue sheets felt light in Joan’s hand.
“What did you see?” Auntie Go asked, the pages of her fashion magazine slapping shut, sliding from her lap.
“The Woman from Swan River, with Ming Li.”
“I think I just read about that movie.” Auntie Go’s eyes widened with recognition. “The Chin movie about the woman who forsakes her family and village to seek a better life in some city.”
“That’s it,” Joan said, falling onto the sofa next to Auntie Go. “You have to see it! Ming Li’s just perfect in the role. The haunting expression in her eyes could tell a hundred stories. And it’s not one of those typical family dramas like those churned out by other studios. There’s so much more to her. There’s hope, even in her shame and disillusionment!” Joan said in one excited breath.
“Certainly not like real life,” Mah-mee added, clearing her throat and pointing at the blue sheets. “Hurry, read moi-moi’s letter.”
Joan leaned back on the sofa, glanced down at the familiar fine strokes of Emma’s handwriting, and wished the letter hadn’t come today of all days. Joan wanted to hold on to the images of Ming Li for as long as she could.
Joan had never imagined she would miss Emma so much. Now at times she couldn’t help but envy her sister’s new life. She realized lately that, different as they were, a measure of her own identity was that of Emma’s older sister; the sudden realization frightened her. She dragged herself from day to day with no direction, while the hard facts became more and more evident—she was twenty-five, still unmarried, and without a profession.
She looked up and smiled at Mah-mee and Auntie Go, who had already read the letter and now anxiously waited for her to join them in conversation, first repeating everything Emma had told them, then scrutinizing between the lines at all she hadn’t said.
Ever since Emma left for
America, Joan had had trouble sleeping, her restlessness punctuated by early-morning dreams of running toward someone or something she never reached. Once, her dream led her to a large warehouse where a yellow-red light flickered from underneath the door. Joan entered to see Emma and an enraptured audience staring at a movie screen where someone who looked just like Joan in a fur coat sat sandwiched between Celeste Holm and Hugh Marlowe in All About Eve.
Then, within weeks of Emma’s leaving, Joan began experiencing a dull ache in the middle of her stomach. She thought it might be her ulcer returning, though it wasn’t the same sour, burning sensation. This ache throbbed quieter and deeper, like a seed she had swallowed from the dried plums she loved to suck on—solid and annoying. She wondered if fear and loneliness could be physical ailments that settled and grew in her stomach.
Through these weeks, Joan tried to eat and behave as she always did, hoping not to worry Mah-mee and Auntie Go any more than she already had. With Emma away, Joan and Mah-mee had grown even further apart. They stood on opposite sides of a rushing river that Emma had always bridged. With her sister in America, Joan struggled to find her way across.
Without saying a word, Foon began brewing Joan a foul-smelling tea. Each evening for a week, Joan found a bowl of bitter-root, black tea waiting for her on the table by her bed. “Drink,” Foon said. “Cures all. Even makes hair grow on a bald dog!”
As Joan read her sister’s letter, Emma’s voice behind the words grew stronger: I’m taking all the basic requirements—Math, Science, English, American History. But it’s Art that I love the most! It’s a universal language that I don’t have to sit for hours trying to understand. I’m taking a wonderful drawing class that allows me to express myself in ways I never thought possible. How can lines from a pencil or piece of charcoal suddenly come alive? And you won’t believe this, but the other day when I walked into my drawing class, a naked man was sitting there, waiting for us to draw him!
Night of Many Dreams Page 14
