Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls 1)

“Not now. Not here.”

But the three of us aren’t going anywhere without answers. Old Man Louie motions us to a booth far enough from his friends that they won’t hear the conversation. It’s been months since the New Year’s Day fight, but Chinatown’s gossips haven’t stopped murmuring about it. Old Man Louie has tried to be more congenial, but an awkwardness lingers between him and Sam, who doesn’t waste time with niceties.

“You were born in Wah Hong Village, weren’t you?”

The old man’s lizard eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter who told us. Is it true?” Sam asks.

The old man doesn’t respond. We wait. Around us, we hear laughing, chatting, and the sounds of chopsticks against bowls. Finally, the old man grunts.

“You’re not the only ones here on a lie,” he says in Sze Yup. “Look at the people in this restaurant. Look at the people who work in China City. Look at the people on our block and in our building. Everyone has a lie of some sort. Mine is I wasn’t born here. When the earthquake and fire in San Francisco destroyed all birth records, I was here and thirty-five years old by American counting. Like many others, I went to the authorities and told them I was born in San Francisco. I couldn’t prove I was, and they couldn’t prove I wasn’t. So now I am a citizen … on paper, just as you are my son on paper.”

“What about Yen-yen? She also came here before the earthquake. Does she claim to be a citizen too?”

The old man’s eyebrows furrow in disgust. “She’s a fu yen. She’s bad at telling lies and she can’t keep a secret. Obviously. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

Sam rubs his forehead as he absorbs the implications of all this. “If someone finds out you aren’t a real citizen, then Wilburt, Edfred—”

“Yes, all of us, including Pearl here, will be in trouble. This is why I hold you like this.” He closes his hand into a tight fist. “There can be no mistakes, no slips, eh?”

“What about me?” May asks, her voice tentative.

“Vern was born here, so you, my May, are the wife of a true citizen. You came legally and you are forever safe. But you need to watch your sister and her husband. One bad report from someone and they’ll be sent back. We could all be sent back, except for you, Vern, and Pan-di—although I’m sure the baby would go back to China with its parents and grandparents. I trust you, May, to help make sure that doesn’t happen.”

May pales at his words. “What could I ever do?”

A slight smile curls the corners of Old Man Louie’s lips, but for the first time I don’t see it as heartless. “Don’t worry too much,” he says. He turns to Sam. “Now you know my secret, and I know yours. Like a true father and son, we are bound together forever. The two of us not only protect each other but we also protect the uncles.”

“Why me?” Sam asks. “Why not one of them?”

“You know why. I need someone to care for my businesses, take care of my real son when I’m dead, and look after me as an ancestor when I go to the afterworld because Vern won’t be able to do that for me. I know you think I’m a cruel man and you probably don’t believe me, but I truly did choose you to be my replacement son. I will always look at you as my eldest son, my first son, which is why I’m so hard on you. I’m trying to be a proper father! I’m giving you everything, but you have to do three things. First, you must give up your plans to run away.” He puts up a hand to prevent any of us from speaking. “Don’t bother denying it. I’m not stupid, I know what’s happening in my home, and I’m tired of worrying about it all the time.” He pauses and then says, “You have to stop working at the Temple of Kwan Yin. That’s an embarrassment to me. My son shouldn’t need to do that job. And finally, you must promise to care for my boy when the time comes.”

Sam, May, and I look from one to the other of us. May sends me a message, almost pleading: I don’t want to keep moving. I want to stay in Haolaiwu. Sam, whom I still don’t know that well, takes my hand: Maybe this is an opportunity after all. He says he’ll treat me as the true first son. For myself… I’m tired of running. I’m not very good at it, and I have a baby to care for. But are we selling ourselves for less than what the old man already bought us for?

“If we stay,” Sam says, “you have to give us more freedom.”

“This is not a negotiation,” the old man shoots back. “You have nothing to bargain with.”

But Sam doesn’t surrender. “May is already working as an extra. This makes her happy. Now you must do the same for the sister. Let Pearl see what’s outside China City. And if you won’t let me work at the temple, then you need to pay me. If I am to be your first son, then you must treat me the same as my brother—”

“You two are not the same—”

“That’s right. I work much harder than he does. He gets paid from the family pot. I need to get paid too. Father,” Sam adds deferentially, “you know this is right.”

The old man’s knuckles tap on the table, weighing, weighing, weighing. He gives one final decisive rap, and then he stands. He reaches out his hand and squeezes Sam’s shoulder. Then he walks back to his tea cakes, tea, and friends.

The next day, I buy a newspaper, circle a classified ad, and walk to a phone booth, where I make a call about a position as a clerk in a refrigerator repair shop.

“You sound perfect, Mrs. Louie,” a pleasant voice says on the line. “Please come in for an interview.”

But when I get there and the man sees me, he says, “I didn’t realize you were Chinese. I thought you were Italian because of your name.”

I don’t get the job, and variations of this happen again and again. Finally, I put in an application at Bullock’s Wilshire Department Store. I’m hired to work in the storeroom, where no one will see me. I make eighteen dollars a week. After my time in China City, moving from the café to the various shops throughout the day, staying in one place is easy. I dress better than the other storeroom clerks and work harder too. One day the assistant manager releases me into the store proper to stack merchandise and keep it in order. After a couple of months—and intrigued by my British accent, which I use because it seems to please my Occidental boss—he promotes me to elevator operator. It can’t be easier or more mindless—-just up and down from ten in the morning until six at night—and I earn a few dollars more a month.

Then one day the assistant manager has a new idea. “We just got in a shipment of mah-jongg sets,” he says. “You’re going to help me sell them. You’re going to provide atmosphere.”

He has me change into a cheap cheongsam sent by the game’s manufacturer, and then he takes me to the ground floor just inside the main entrance and shows me a table—my table. By the end of the afternoon, I’ve sold eight sets. The following day, I come to work wearing one of my most beautiful cheongsams—bright red with embroidered peonies. I sell two dozen mah-jongg sets. When customers announce they want to learn how to play the game, the assistant manager asks me to teach a class once a week—for a fee, of which I receive a percentage. I’m doing so well that I ask the assistant manager if he’ll let me take the written test for another promotion. When his boss grades me down because of my Chinese hair, skin, and eyes, I know I’ve gone as far as I can at Bullock’s, even though I sell more mah-jongg sets than the other girls sell gloves or hats.