Night of Many Dreams

by Gail Tsukiyama

  “And what’s all this about art and a naked man?” Mah-mee asked, as if she were reading along with Joan.

  “It’s called life drawing.” Auntie Go laughed. “How are you going to draw something without seeing it? Just think of da Vinci, or Michelangelo.”

  “Well, I’m beginning to understand what she loves about art,” Mah-mee continued.

  “Don’t worry. It’s how every great artist gets started,” Auntie Go said.

  “Staring at naked men? Hah!” Mah-mee said. “I know what that gets started! You better worry too.”

  Joan had to smile. The push-and-pull pattern of conversation between her mother and her aunt had been that way for as long as she could remember. She read on.

  Of course, I was too embarrassed to get much drawing done, not wanting to stare at him. But imagine! He just sat there, like he was in his own room and there weren’t thirty gawking students just waiting for him to move a muscle. I suppose he’s a starving artist himself, and has to earn money some way or another!

  A starving artist. Joan stopped reading. Just like The Woman from Swan River. Imagine the courage it took to die for art! For something you believed in! Was she strong enough? Joan knew from the moment Swan River ended and the light filled the theatre again that she wanted to work with C. K. Chin. She would gladly sacrifice—work hard and suffer! Even starve!—for the chance. She was glad Emma hadn’t mentioned her acting ambitions in her letters. Joan could still feel the weight of Emma sitting on her bed that morning before her departure, the smell of My Sin in the air, the edge of fear in Emma’s voice. Joan knew how much Emma worried about her.

  But Joan also knew the dreams she’d been having were a sign, a “voice from heaven,” as Mah-mee would say. Joan unbuttoned the top frog on the collar of her cheungsam, then took a deep breath before raising her voice. “I have an announcement to make.”

  Mah-mee and Auntie Go stopped bickering, surprised into silence.

  “I want to become an actress,” Joan continued before they said anything. “I’d like to be in the movies.” She folded Emma’s letter against her knee and creased it with her thumb.

  “What are you talking about?” Mah-mee responded.

  Auntie Go remained silent.

  Joan swallowed. “It’s something I’ve given a great deal of thought to. I think I would be good at acting. It’s not as if I haven’t been doing it all my life!”

  Mah-mee leaned forward, placing her palms flat on the polished surface of the teak coffee table, and sighed. Joan thought Mah-mee might get angry, but instead, she looked at Joan for a long time, then said softly, “What kind of life is that? All make-believe.”

  “It’s real to me.” Joan felt the blood rush to her head. How had it taken her so long to realize something so simple?

  “Don’t you think you’re too old to begin now?” Mah-mee finally said.

  Joan felt stung. “I’m twenty-five. It may be too old for marriage, but not for acting. Ming Li is in her late twenties.” Joan had also read that Ming Li was just one of the twenty or thirty actresses C. K. Chin hired on contract and trained for his movies, but she didn’t mention that to Mah-mee.

  “You know that wasn’t what I meant,” Mah-mee flared. “You think it’s all glamour and movie magazines, but it’s a difficult life with a lot of hard work. Tell me, what do you really know about it? What will people say?”

  “I’ve always loved the movies. And I don’t care what people think!”

  Auntie Go stood up and grabbed her sweater and handbag from the chair. “I believe a person should always have the chance to follow her dreams,” she said, turning to leave.

  “You would,” Mah-mee mumbled.

  Joan took another deep breath, let it out slowly. For the first time in months, the dull ache in her stomach had lessened. She felt lighter now and less foolish than she had when she told Emma her secret desire.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Auntie Go said. Her steps rang out across the hardwood floor, until Joan heard the soft click of the front door closing.

  Mah-mee looked away from Joan and stalked off down the hall. The room, which had just been filled with voices, suddenly felt big and hollow.

  Joan opened Emma’s letter again and read to the bottom of the page: San Francisco is the most beautiful city! There’s so much open space here, Golden Gate Park is as big as Central and Wanchai put together. I spend half the time getting lost, and the other half finding my way again.

  From that evening on, Joan immersed herself in every film she could, not just for the stories, which ranged from political and family dramas to historical and horror films, but for how subtle expressions and movements of the actors added texture and depth. Gradually the dull pain in her stomach disappeared as her ambition grew.

  Though not yet noon it was already hot as Joan walked down Nathan Road in Kowloon. She turned the corner and stopped in front of the Tiger Claw Film Company. On two large wooden gates TIGER CLAW appeared in faded red characters. Joan paused long enough to see what lay behind the gates, which were slightly ajar. The studio consisted of several large stucco buildings surrounded by tall walls—plain and unobtrusive. She was so close, she could see costumed actors walking from one set to another. Joan stood melting in the blistering heat. Perspiration ran down her neck, damp linen clinging against her back.

  She looked over at the small wooden cubicle by the doors, then straightened her green cheungsam and walked casually past the guard and back toward Nathan Road.

  Joan imagined hundreds of young women must try to call on Chin, using every excuse possible: Didn’t he leave my name at the gate? Mr. Chin’s expecting me…. I’m due on the set at any minute…. I’m his long-lost daughter…. Joan swallowed the sour taste that rose to her mouth. She would have to find another way in.

  Most of Chin’s actresses were handpicked and trained on the job, while she couldn’t even get through the front gate. The major movie studios in Hong Kong were all like tight-knit Chinese families—unwilling to accept new blood, but once embraced, there was no turning back.

  Still, acting didn’t seem anywhere near as daunting as convincing Mah-mee of her desire to act. Although after months of watching movies and reading everything she could find about Chin and his studio, Joan was beginning to doubt whether she had what it took to get into the Tiger Claw family.

  The next morning at breakfast, Joan drank down her coffee, swallowed her pride, and asked nonchalantly, “Do you think Auntie Kao knows C. K. Chin?”

  She watched as Mah-mee spooned some marmalade onto her plate. “She might. Auntie Kao knows everyone through her family connections.”

  Joan handed her mother a piece of toast. “Do you think she might introduce me to him?”

  “When will you stop all this nonsense about being an actress?” Mah-mee said, her eyebrows arching upward. She sounded more exhausted than angry and put her spoon down with a quick clink on the side of her plate.

  “It’s what I want. Why can’t you see that?”

  Mah-mee sat back in her chair, her dark eyes focused on Joan. “I just don’t want to see you disappointed.”

  “Are you sure it’s me you don’t want to see disappointed?”

  Mah-mee remained quiet for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we both weren’t disappointed?”

  Joan tried hard to smile and keep her voice steady. “Then you’ll just have to trust me.” Her eyes felt puffy from sleep. She ran her fingers through the dark strands of her shoulder-length hair.

  Mah-mee watched Joan over the rim of her cup for the longest time, neither of them looking away. Then she lowered the cup slowly, depositing it back on its saucer. “I’ll talk to Auntie Kao,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Joan leaned back and smiled. Mah-mee looked older and tired in the harsh morning light, yet even without makeup she was still beautiful. Joan thought it was a pity Mah-mee had never been an actress. She would have been perfect for the screen.

  On
e morning less than a week later, Joan came into the dining room to find her mother up early and waiting for her. Mah-mee sipped her tea, the remains of her breakfast—orange skins, toast crumbs, and marmalade—still on her plate. A blue airmail letter lay unfolded on the table before her.

  “Tso sun,” Mah-mee said.

  “Good morning.” Joan sat down and poured herself some coffee, its rich aroma waking her. She needed something stronger than Mah-mee’s English tea to get up and going each morning. Joan glanced down at the letter to see Ba ba’s small, even handwriting.

  Outside, she heard the high, whining voice of the fruit man. She knew that Foon would handpick the best of the season from his baskets for her and Mah-mee.

  “Or-anges!”

  Mah-mee sat back and watched Joan closely. “Your ba ba is happy you’ve found something you want to pursue with such passion.” She tapped the thin pages in front of her. “I also spoke with Auntie Kao. She told me last night Uncle Kao has spoken to Chin, and that you can have a bit-part position at his studio if you want it.”

  “Man-goes!”

  Joan stopped drinking and looked up at her mother. “Are you sure?” she asked, holding her cup in midair. “Of course I want it!”

  “Ba-na-nas!”

  Mah-mee smiled and poured herself some more tea. “Now you will see if this is really what you want.”

  For the first time in years, Joan rushed over to hug Mah-mee, her warmth smelling of lavender soap and oranges. When Joan pulled away, she already missed the soft, creamy touch of her mother’s skin.

  When the heavyset guard at the Tiger Claw Film Company found her name on the list, he banged his way out of his cubicle and opened the gate for her.

  Once through the gate, Joan found the studio bigger than she had expected. Three large whitewashed buildings stood side by side, surrounded by big lots for the filming of outdoor scenes. Joan squared her shoulders and headed toward the building nearest to her.

  Inside, she stepped into a dark, high-ceilinged room, cool and cavernous. Joan watched from the door, nervous and uneasy, her eyes momentarily blind in the dim light, as costumed actors brushed past her, hurrying from one makeshift set to another. Joan strained to see if she recognized any stars, but their faces blurred before her adjusting eyes. Hammers pounded out a hollow rhythm, while voices echoing from every direction made Joan dizzy.

  “Are you looking for someone?” a woman’s high, tight voice asked.

  A short, thin woman about her own age was carrying an armful of ornate robes and bloodied rags.

  “Yes, yes, I am,” Joan answered, grateful for the help and attention. “I’m looking for the office of Mr. Chin. I’m supposed to begin working here today.”

  The young woman smiled. “Let me get rid of these costumes, and I’ll take you to the main building.” She turned away, then back again. “Oh, my name is Jade Wind.”

  “Joan Lew.” She smiled.

  “Nice to meet you. I’ll be right back.”

  Joan watched Jade Wind move swiftly from one set to another—individual worlds divided by thin plywood walls. From where Joan stood, she saw an emperor’s throne room and a modern living room just steps away from each other. Jade Wind dropped off costumes and collected others. She returned and deposited her new armload on a wooden chair.

  “It’s this way,” Jade Wind said, already heading out the door.

  Joan hurried into the bright sun, her eyes blinking against the harsh light.

  “That’s the main building over there.” Jade Wind pointed to the plain building next door. “You’ll find the offices and classrooms where the actors and actresses train on the top floor. The building we just left and the one over there are divided into different sound-stages.”

  “It’s bigger than I thought.”

  “I work in costuming. We’re at the back of the building you were just in. You must be an actress.”

  Joan hesitated, then said, “Bit parts.”

  “A trainee. Well, you might see Chin more than you expect then.” Jade Wind laughed. She stopped at the entrance of the main building.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see. The offices are just right up those steps.” Jade Wind glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Jade Wind smiled reassuringly before she turned around and disappeared between the two buildings.

  It didn’t take Joan long to learn what Jade Wind meant. She was given a stack of rules and procedures by Chin’s secretary, Mei, a slightly older, statuesque woman with a serious demeanor.

  “You’re to report next Wednesday morning at wardrobe for a crowd scene in The Blind Swordsman, Stage Eight.” Mei eyed Joan up and down. “Mr. Chin would prefer it if you didn’t date other personnel at the Tiger Claw while working on a movie together. And when you aren’t scheduled for any set work, you’ll be attending voice and acting classes and be assigned other duties to help Mr. Chin.”

  “Of course,” Joan said, clutching the papers in her hands, wondering just what those duties were. “Will I be meeting Mr. Chin?”

  Mei smiled. “Not today.”

  By the end of her first week, Joan learned her duties included fetching a tray of tea and cake for C. K. Chin, and opening and closing the door as quietly as possible when she left his office. The tray of hot tea Joan was carrying felt heavier by the minute. Her quick, solid knocks on the large wooden door echoed through the hollow building. Each deep strike resonated through her body as she nervously waited. Jade Wind had warned her that wearing a cheungsam was not conducive to carrying trays of tea and running errands. So, while most of the other actresses still wore cheungsams, Joan began wearing wide, Western-style skirts with matching cardigan sweaters. She shuffled from one foot to the other, waiting for the door to open, so she could finally come face-to-face with Chin. Instead, Joan heard a muffled voice telling her to come in. Her sweaty hand gripped the doorknob as she balanced the tray she was carrying in her other hand. She stepped forward and pushed, only to realize the door opened outward. “Bloody hell,” she whispered under her breath.

  The tray rattled as she stepped back and pulled open the door. The room was dim and reeked of smoke. Framed posters of Chin’s movie successes hung along one wood-paneled wall. Among them was Ming Li in The Woman from Swan River. Chin sat at his desk flicking ashes from his cigarette into a silver ashtray. Through the haze, Joan saw that he was thin and balding, looking every bit his sixty years. He waved his other hand and talked rapid fire at the two men who sat beyond his desk. His secretary, Mei, in a tight red silk-satin cheungsam, sat to one side, taking notes.

  “Your tea,” Joan said in a loud, clear voice.

  “Put it right here,” Chin said, sucking on a cigarette and waving at the side of his large desk.

  Joan did as she was told.

  “Good, good,” he mumbled, waving her off.

  As she turned to leave, Joan caught Chin giving her the once-over, his narrow bird’s eyes sliding quickly from head to toe and back again.

  Classes were held in small, windowless rooms upstairs in the main building. “Mr. Chin doesn’t want anyone distracted,” the thin, serious acting coach explained at Joan’s first class. Most of the other eight trainees gathered around the large table in the middle of the airless room were slightly younger and had been recruited by Chin or someone else from the studio. While they nodded or greeted her politely, Joan noticed each person kept their distance. She sat at the far end of the table near the door and felt nervous and fragile in the hard wooden chair.

  The acting coach walked down the length of the table and passed out a short script to each of them.

  “Take some time to look at your scripts. They’re all different excerpts from A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. Most of you must be familiar with the play or movie. Then, I’d like you to come up front and read your assigned piece,” the coach said, his hands grasping the back of a chair.

  Joan stared down at her exce
rpt and smiled. It was from one of her favorite scenes. She closed her eyes and imagined herself as Vivien Leigh playing Blanche Dubois.

  Joan followed two other actors. “Miss Lew,” she heard her name called out.

  “Yes?” she looked up startled at the sound of her name, her heart beating fast when she saw all the staring eyes.

  “Would you like to take a turn?”

  Joan scraped her chair back, stood up, and took off her cardigan sweater, draping it over the back of the chair. She was glad she’d worn a loose chiffon dress, a simple string of pearls. At the front of the room, Joan raised her chin, fingered her pearls, and read loud and clear in her best Blanche Dubois:

  “…Physical beauty is passing. But beauty of the mind and richness of the spirit and tenderness of the heart—increase with the years!”

  When Joan finished, she felt chilled with perspiration, her legs weak and wobbly. She looked around. The room was completely silent, the faces of the other students engrossed, upturned. All Joan heard was the richness of the words she’d spoken, still alive in her mind.

  The Blind Swordsman was a period piece in which Joan was to play one of the frightened villagers. On her way to costuming, Joan walked past the sets of various movies. Costumed martial arts scenes seemed to be on the day’s agenda. Joan marveled at the actors’ elaborate, antique costumes—the thick, rich white makeup recreating the ghostly past, the bodies jumping from trampolines, flipping through the air, and landing gracefully as if in a dance. She knew fantasies were realized through the construction of fragile sets, held together by nails and glue, castles and monasteries built and torn down within hours, men and women changing costumes and makeup to play different characters in the same movie. While Joan had lost her belief in the movie magic she had worshiped on the screen, she was still fascinated by all that was created through illusion.