"Shanghai Girls" - читать интересную книгу автора (See Lisa)

Moon Sisters

THE NEXT MORNING, May and I start out for the Dollar Steamship Line’s office, hoping to exchange our tickets-from Shanghai to Hong Kong, from Hong Kong to San Francisco, and from San Francisco to Los Angeles-for just four tickets to Hong Kong. Nanking Road and the area around the racecourse remain closed so workers can clear away the mangled corpses and body parts, but this is the least of the city’s concerns. Thousands upon thousands of refugees continue to arrive, trying to stay ahead of the advancing Japanese. So many infants have been left to die on the streets by desperate parents that the Chinese Benevolent Association has established a special “baby patrol” to pick up the forsaken remains, pile them onto trucks, and take them to the countryside to be burned.

But for all the people coming into the city, thousands more try to leave. Many of my countrymen take trains back to their home villages in the interior. Friends we’ve known in the cafés-writers, artists, and intellectuals-make choices that will determine the rest of their lives: to go to Chungking, where Chiang Kai-shek has established his wartime capital, or to Yunnan to join the Communists. The wealthiest families-foreign and Chinese-leave by international steamers, which chug defiantly past the Japanese warships anchored off the Bund.

We wait for hours in a long queue. By five o’clock, we’ve moved perhaps ten feet. We return home with nothing resolved. I’m worn out; May looks distraught and depleted. Baba spent the day visiting friends, hoping to borrow money to help with our escape, but in these suddenly uncertain times, who can afford to be generous to an ill-fated man? The trio of toughs isn’t surprised by our lack of progress, but they’re hardly happy. Even they seem unnerved by the chaos surrounding us.

That night the house jumps from explosions in Chapei and Hongkew. Billowing ashes from these neighborhoods mingle with the smoke from the baby fires and the great pyres the Japanese use to burn their own dead.

IN THE MORNING, I get up quietly so I won’t disturb my sister. Yesterday she accompanied me without complaint. But a few times, when she thought I wasn’t looking, I’d caught her rubbing her temples. Last night she’d taken some aspirin and promptly thrown them up. She must have a concussion. I hope it’s mild, but how can I know for sure? At the very least, after everything that’s happened the last two days, she needs to sleep, because today is going to be another hard one. Tommy Hu’s funeral is at ten.

I go downstairs and find Mama in the salon. She motions for me to join her. “Here’s a little money.” An unusual steeliness has taken over her voice. “Go out and bring back some sesame cakes and dough sticks.” This is more than we’ve eaten for breakfast since the morning our lives changed. “We should eat well. The funeral-”

I take the money and leave the house. I hear the din from naval guns bombarding our shore positions, the incessant rattle of machine-gun and rifle fire, explosions in Chapei, and battles raging in outlying districts. Pungent ashes from last night’s funerary fires blanket the city so clothes that were hung out to dry will need to be rewashed, stoops swept, and cars doused. My throat chokes on the taste. Plenty of people crowd the street. War may be happening, but we all have things we need to do. I walk to the corner, but instead of doing Mama’s errands I board a wheelbarrow to take me to Z.G.’s apartment. I may have acted girlishly before, but that was one moment out of years of friendship. He has to have some affection for May and me. Surely he’ll help us find a way to put our lives back together.

I knock on his door. When no one answers, I go back downstairs and find his landlady in the central courtyard.

“He’s gone,” she says. “But what do you care? Your beautiful-girl days are over. Do you think we can hold back the monkey people forever?

Once they have control, no one will need or want your beautiful-girl calendars.” Her hysteria grows. “Those monkey people might want you for something else though. Is that what you want for you and your sister?”

“Just tell me where he is,” I say wearily.

“He left to join the Communists,” she yaps, each syllable coming out like a bullet.

“He wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye,” I say, doubtful.

The old woman cackles. “What a stupid girl you are! He left without paying his rent. He left behind his paints and brushes. He left without taking a single thing.”

I bite my lip to keep from crying. I have to focus on my own survival now.

Still mindful of my money, I hire a wheelbarrow to take me home, squeezing on with three other riders. As we bump along the road, I make a mental list of people who might help us. The men we dance with? Betsy? One of the other artists we pose for? But everyone has their own worries.

I return to an empty house. I’ve been gone so long I missed going to Tommy’s funeral.

May and Mama come home a couple of hours later. They’re both dressed in funeral white. May’s eyes are as swollen as overripe peaches from crying, and Mama looks old and tired, but they don’t ask where I was or why I didn’t go to the memorial. Baba isn’t with them. He must have lingered with the other fathers at the funeral banquet.

“How was it?” I ask.

May shrugs, and I don’t press. She leans against the doorjamb, crosses her arms, and stares at her feet. “We have to go back to the docks.”

I don’t want to go out. I’m heartsick over Z.G. I want to tell May he’s gone, but what good will it do? I despair over what’s happening to us. I want to be rescued. If not that, then I want to go back to bed, lie under the covers, and sob until I have no tears left. But I’m May’s older sister. I have to be braver than my emotions. I have to help us fight our bad fates. I take a deep breath and stand. “Let’s go. I’m ready.”

We return to the Dollar Steamship Line. The queue moves today, and when we get to the front we understand why. The clerk is useless. We show him our tickets, but exhaustion has robbed him of grammar and his temper.

“What you want me do with these?” he demands loudly.

“Can we exchange them for four tickets to Hong Kong?” I ask, sure that he’ll see this as a good deal for the company.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he waves to the people behind us. “Next!”

I don’t move.

“Can we get on a new ship?” I ask.

He hits the grate that separates us. “You stupid!” It seems everyone feels the same way about me today. Then he grabs the grate and shakes it. “No tickets left! All gone! Next! Next!”

I see in him the same frustration and hysteria I saw in Z.G.’s landlady. May reaches out and puts her fingers on his. Touching between sexes-strangers!-is frowned upon. Her act stuns him into silence. Or maybe he’s suddenly calmed by the beautiful girl who speaks to him in a mellifluous voice.

“I know you can help us.” She tilts her head and lets a small smile transform her face from desperation to serenity. The effect is immediate.

“Let me see your tickets,” the clerk says. He studies them intently and checks a couple of logbooks. “I’m sorry, but these won’t help you leave Shanghai,” he says at last. He pulls out a pad, fills in a form, and then passes it and our tickets back to May. “If you can get to Hong Kong, go to our office there and give them this. You’ll be able to trade your tickets for new berths to San Francisco.” After a long pause, he repeats, “If you can get to Hong Kong.”

We thank him, but he hasn’t helped us at all. We don’t want to go to San Francisco. We want to go south to escape the Green Gang’s reach.

Feeling defeated, we start home. Never has the traffic noise, the smell of exhaust, and the stink of perfume seemed so oppressive. Never has the unscratchable itch for money, the flagrant openness of criminal behavior, and the dissolution of the spirit seemed so forlorn and futile.

We find Mama sitting on the front steps, where once our servants pridefully ate their meals.

“Did they come back?” I ask. I don’t have to specify who. The only people we’re truly afraid of are the Green Gang thugs. Mama nods. May and I let that sink in. What Mama says next sends a ripple of dread down my spine.

“And your father still hasn’t returned.”

We sit on either side of our mother. We wait, searching both ends of the street, hoping to see Baba turn the corner. But he doesn’t come home. Darkness falls and with it intensified bombardment. The night glows from fires raging in Chapei. Searchlights streak across the sky. Whatever happens, the International Settlement and the French Concession, as foreign territories, will be safe.

“Did he say if he was going somewhere after the funeral?” May asks, her voice as tiny as a girl’s.

Mama shakes her head. “Maybe he’s looking for a job. Maybe he’s gambling. Maybe he’s seeing a woman.”

Other options flash through my mind, and when I look over Mama’s head to May, I see she shares them with me. Has he deserted us, leaving his wife and daughters to deal with the consequences? Has the Green Gang decided to kill Baba before the deadline as a warning to us? Or has antiaircraft fire or shrapnel fallen to earth and found him?

At about two in the morning, Mama pats her thighs decisively. “We should get some sleep. If your father doesn’t come home-” Her voice catches. She takes a deep breath. “If he doesn’t come home, then we’ll still go ahead with my plan. Your father’s family will take us in. We belong to them now.”

“But how are we going to get there? We can’t change our tickets.”

Desperation grips Mama’s features as she hastily tosses out an idea. “We could go to Woosong. That’s only a few miles from here. I could walk it if I had to. Standard Oil has a wharf there. With your marriage papers, maybe they’ll give us space on one of their launches to some other city. From there we could go south.”

“I don’t think that will work,” I say. “Why would the oil company want to help us?”

Mama comes back with another proposal. “We could try to find a boat to take us up the Yangtze-”

“What about the monkey people?” May asks. “There are a lot of them on the river. Even the lo fan are leaving the interior to come here.”

“We could go north to Tientsin and look for passage on a ship,” Mama tries again, but this time she holds up a hand to keep my sister and me from speaking. “I know. The monkey people are there already. We could go east, but how long before those areas are invaded?” She pauses to think. It’s as though I can see through her skull and into her brain as she anticipates the dangers of different ways out of Shanghai. Finally, she leans forward and confides in a low but steady voice, “Let’s go southwest to the Grand Canal. Once we reach the canal, we ought to be able to get a boat-a sampan, anything-and continue on to Hangchow. From there we can hire a fishing boat to take us to Hong Kong or Canton.” She looks from me to May and then back. “Do you agree?”

My head swims. I have no idea what we should do.

“Thank you, Mama,” May whispers. “Thank you for taking such good care of us.”

We go inside. Moonlight streams through the windows. Only when we say good night does Mama’s voice break, but then she goes into her room and shuts the door.

In the darkness, May looks at me. “What are we going to do?”

I think the better question is, What’s going to happen to us? But I don’t ask it. As May’s jie jie, I have to hide my fears.

The next morning, we hurriedly pack what we consider to be practical and useful: sanitary supplies, three pounds of rice per person, a pot and eating utensils, sheets, dresses, and shoes. At the last minute, Mama calls me to her room. From a dresser drawer she pulls out some papers, including our coaching book and marriage certificates. On her vanity, she’s gathered together our photo albums. They’ll be too heavy to carry so I think Mama’s going to take a few photos as memories. She pulls one from the black paper. Behind it is a folded bill. She repeats the process again and again until she’s put together a small stack of bills. She tucks the cash in her pocket, then asks me to help her move the dresser away from the wall. Hanging from a nail is a small bag, which she takes. “This is all that remains of my bride-price,” she tells me.

“How could you have kept these things hidden?” I ask indignantly. “Why didn’t you offer to pay off the Green Gang?”

“It wouldn’t have been enough.”

“But it might have helped.”

“My mother always said, ‘Keep something for yourself,’” Mama explains. “I knew I might have to use these things one day. Now that day is here.”

She leaves the room. I linger, staring at the photos: May as a baby, the two of us dressed for a party, Mama and Baba’s wedding photo. Happy memories, silly memories, dance before me. My eyes blur, and I blink back tears. I grab a couple photos, put them in my bag, and go downstairs. Mama and May wait for me on the front steps.

“Pearl, find us a wheelbarrow man,” Mama orders. Because she’s my mother and we don’t have any other options, I obey her-a bound-footed woman who never before had a plan for anything beyond her mah-jongg strategy.

I wait on the corner, watching for a wheelbarrow pusher who looks strong and whose cart appears sturdy and large. Wheelbarrow pushers are below rickshaw pullers and just slightly above nightsoil men. They’re considered part of the coolie class-poor enough that they’ll do anything to make a little money or receive a few bowls of rice. After several attempts, I find a pusher, so thin the skin on his belly seems to meet his spine, willing to enter serious negotiations.

“Who would try to leave Shanghai now?” he asks wisely. “I don’t want to be killed by the monkey people.”

I don’t tell him that the Green Gang is after us. Instead, I say, “We’re going home to Kwangtung province.”

“I’m not pushing you that far!”

“Of course not. But if you could get us to the Grand Canal…”

I agree to pay double his daily take.

We go back to the house. He packs our bags into the wheelbarrow. We prop the cloth-wrapped satchels filled with our dresses on the back of the wheelbarrow so Mama will have something to lean on.

“Before we go,” Mama says, “I want to give you girls these.” She loops a tiny cloth pouch hanging from a string around May’s neck and another around mine. “I bought them from a diviner. They hold three coppers, three sesame seeds, and three green beans. He said they will keep you safe from evil spirits, illness, and the dwarf bandits’ flying machines.”

My mother’s so susceptible, gullible, and old-fashioned. How much did she pay for this nonsense-fifty coppers apiece? More?

She climbs in the wheelbarrow and wiggles her bottom to get comfortable. In her hands she clasps our papers-the boat tickets, our marriage certificates, and the coaching book-wrapped in a piece of silk and tied with silk tape. Then we take one last look at the house. Neither Cook nor our boarders have come outside to wave good-bye or wish us luck.

“Are you sure we should leave?” May asks anxiously. “What about Baba? What if he comes home? What if he’s hurt somewhere?”

“Your father has a hyena’s heart and a python’s lungs,” Mama says. “Would he stay here for you? Would he come looking for you? If so, then why isn’t he here?”

I don’t believe Mama means to be so callous. Baba has lied to us and put us in a desperate situation, but he’s still her husband and our father. But Mama is right. If Baba is alive, he probably isn’t thinking about us. We can’t worry about him either, if we’re going to have any chance at survival.

The pusher grabs the wheelbarrow’s handles, Mama grips the sides, and they begin to move. For now, May and I walk on either side. We have a long way to go, and we don’t want the boy to tire too quickly. As they say, there is no light load if one has to carry it for a hundred paces.

We cross the Garden Bridge. Around us men and women dressed in thickly padded cotton carry everything they own: birdcages, dolls, sacks of rice, clocks, rolled up posters. As we walk along the Bund, I stare across the Whangpoo. Foreign cruisers gleam in the sun, black clouds streaming from their smokestacks. The Idzumo and her accompaniment sit on the water-solid, gray and still undamaged by Chinese fire. Junks and sampans bob on wakes. Everywhere, even now that war is upon us, coolies trudge back and forth, carrying heavy loads.

We turn right on Nanking Road, where sand and disinfectant have been used to clean away the blood and stink of death. Eventually, Nanking Road turns into Bubbling Well Road. The tree-shaded street is busy and hard to navigate all the way to the West Train Station, where we see people loaded onto railroad cars on four levels: the floors, the seats, the berths, and the roofs. Our pusher keeps going. Surprisingly quickly, concrete and granite give way to rice and cotton fields. Mama pulls out snacks for us to eat, making sure to give our pusher a generous portion. We stop a few times to relieve ourselves behind a bush or a tree. We walk through the heat of the day. I look back every once in a while and see smoke billowing from Chapei and Hongkew, and I wonder idly when the fires will burn themselves out.

Blisters form on our heels and toes, but we haven’t thought to bring bandages or medicine. When the shadows grow long, the pusher-without asking our opinions-turns down a dirt path that leads to a small farmhouse with a thatched roof. A tethered horse nibbles yellow beans from a bucket, and chickens peck the ground before the open door. As the pusher sets down the wheelbarrow and shakes out his arms, a woman emerges from the house.

“I have three women here,” our pusher says in his rough country dialect. “We need food and a place to sleep.”

The woman doesn’t speak but motions us to come inside. She pours hot water into a tub and points to May’s and my feet. We take off our shoes and put our feet in the water. The woman returns with an earthenware jar. She uses her fingers to slather a foul-smelling homemade poultice on our broken blisters. Then she turns her attention to Mama. She helps my mother to a stool in the corner of the room, pours more hot water into a tub, and then stands in such a way that she shields Mama from us. Even so, I can see Mama bend over and begin to unwrap her bindings. I turn away. Mama’s care of her feet is the most private and intimate thing she can do. I’ve never seen them naked, and I don’t want to.

Once Mama’s feet are washed and wrapped in clean bindings, the woman sets to making dinner. We give her some of our rice, which she pours into a pot of boiling water, and she begins the constant stirring that will turn the two ingredients into jook.

For the first time, I allow myself to look around. The place is filthy and I dread eating or drinking anything in this room. The woman seems to sense this. She puts empty bowls and tin soupspoons on the table along with a pot of hot water. She gestures to us.

“What does she want us to do?” May asks.

Mama and I don’t know, but our wheelbarrow pusher picks up the pot, pours it into the bowls, dips our spoons in the hot water, swirls the liquid, and then tosses the water on the hard-packed earthen floor, where it’s absorbed. The woman then serves us the jook, onto which she floats some stir-fried carrot greens. The greens are bitter in the mouth and sour on swallowing. The woman steps away and returns a moment later with some dried fish, which she drops into May’s bowl. Then she stands behind May and kneads her shoulders.

I have a flash of irritation. This woman-poor, obviously uneducated, and a total stranger-gave the wheelbarrow pusher the largest bowl of jook, provided Mama with privacy, and now frets over May. What is it about me that even strangers recognize as not being worthy?

After dinner, our pusher goes outside to sleep by his wheelbarrow, while we stretch out on straw mats laid on the floor. I’m exhausted, but Mama seems to burn with a deep fire. The petulance that’s always been so much a part of her character disappears as she talks about her own childhood and the house where she was raised.

“In the summer when I was a girl, my mama, aunties, my sisters, and all my girl cousins used to sleep outside on mats just like this,” Mama remembers, speaking low so as not to disturb our hostess, who rests on a raised platform by the stove. “You’ve never met my sisters, but we were a lot like the two of you.” She laughs ruefully. “We loved each other and we knew how to argue. But on those summer nights when we were out under the sky we didn’t fight. We listened to my mother tell us stories.”

Outside cicadas hum. From the far distance comes the concussion of bombs being dropped on our home city. The explosions reverberate through the ground and into our bodies. When May whimpers, Mama says, “I guess you’re not too old to hear one now…”

“Oh, yes, Mama, please,” May urges. “Tell us the one about the moon sisters.”

Mama reaches over and pats May lovingly. “In ancient days,” she begins in a voice that transports me back to my childhood, “two sisters lived on the moon. They were wonderful girls.” I wait, knowing exactly what she’ll say next. “They were beautiful like May-slender as bamboo, graceful as willow branches swaying in the breeze, with faces like the oval seeds of a melon. And they were clever and industrious like Pearl -embroidering their lily shoes with ten thousand stitches. All night the sisters embroidered, using their seventy embroidery needles. Their fame grew, and soon people on earth gathered to stare at them.”

I know by heart the fate that awaits the two mythical sisters, but I feel Mama wants us to hear the story differently tonight.

“The two sisters knew the rules for maidenly conduct,” she goes on. “No man should see them. No man should stare at them. Each night, they became more and more unhappy. The older sister had an idea. We shall change places with our brother.’ The younger sister wasn’t so sure, for she had a tiny bit of vanity in her, but it was her duty to follow her jie jie’s instructions. The sisters put on their most beautiful red gowns embroidered with dragons dashing through fiery blooms and went to visit their brother, who lived in the sun. They asked to trade places with him.”

May, who’s always liked this part, picks up the story. “‘More people walk the earth by day than by night,’ their brother scoffed. ‘You will have more eyes on you than ever before.’”

“The sisters wept, much like you used to, May, when you wanted something from your father,” Mama continues.

Here I am, lying on a dirt floor in some hovel, listening to my mother trying to comfort us with childhood stories, and my heart wrinkles with bitter thoughts. How can Mama talk about Baba so easily? As bad as he is-was?-shouldn’t she be grieving? And, worse, how can she choose this time to remind me that I’m less precious to him? Even when I cried, Baba never gave in to my tears. I shake my head, trying to expel the unkind thoughts I have about my father when I should be worrying about him, and telling myself that I’m too tired and scared to be thinking properly. But it hurts, even in this moment of hardship, to know I’m not as loved as my sister.

“The brother adored his sisters and finally agreed to change places with them,” Mama says. “The sisters packed up their embroidery needles and went to their new home. Down on earth, the people looked up and saw a man in the moon. ‘Where are the sisters?’ they asked. ‘Where have they gone?’ Now when anyone looks at the sun, the sisters use their seventy embroidery needles to stab at those who dare to stare too long. Those who refuse to turn away go blind.”

May lets her breath out slowly. I know her so well. In moments she’ll be asleep. From the platform in the corner, our hostess grunts. Did she not like the story either? I ache all over, and now my heart aches too. I close my eyes to keep the tears from falling.