Chapter Seventeen
Hong Kong
The next year I grew three inches, then another two the next year, until at fifteen I surpassed Sai Ma by a good head.
She began wearing heels in the house, clacking everywhere she went and making offhand remarks about my “large and unfeminine” feet.
It was a little war between us, and I kept a mental tally of all the things she hated about me.
Some I would deliberately do to annoy her, like chewing loudly at dinner, and others I could naturally flaunt, like my height.
She would pettily remind Gu Ma that I’d outgrown yet another pair of shoes and to dock the new ones from my pay.
Sui Chan and I had become the two fastest seamstresses in the factory, averaging sixty slippers a day.
Though I hated the work, I couldn’t quit.
The shiver of pleasure that climbed up my spine at the end of every week, when Mrs. Dang handed me my hard-earned wages, was undeniable.
Even though Gu Ma continued taking most of my money to pay for the phonograph, the few coins I got to keep rattled in my pockets like the sweetest music.
Part of my money I saved for Mama. All anyone could talk about was the civil war in China, and whether it might spill into Hong Kong.
After four years of Japanese occupation, another war was everyone’s worst fear.
Mrs. Dang kept the radio on, listening to the news rather than her usual opera fare, and Sui Chan and I would whisper about whether we thought the Kuomintang would prevail over the Communists.
At home, it was a different story. Sai Ma complained that politics gave her a headache, so Baba and Gu Ma rarely discussed the mainland.
If Yi Gor or I brought up the war, they’d curtly state that it wouldn’t last long.
Never did they discuss their mother and brothers, who were still stuck in Guangdong, or the possibility of bringing them to safety in Hong Kong.
But I worried. I worried about Mama every day, hoping that her potatoes and soybeans had sprouted, that the tomatoes were thriving and the cows had given birth to new calves, and that there was enough rice.
I worried the Communists would arrest her because she was a Christian, I worried that she didn’t answer any of my letters.
I worried whether she’d foreseen something terrible and resigned herself to fate.
If things in China were as bad as everyone said, I’d need money to get Mama out. I squirreled away every coin, stashing my savings under my bed. I couldn’t rely on Baba to help. His whole life, he’d eaten “slipper rice,” cadging off Ah Ma then Gu Ma. I doubted he’d ever made a cent by himself.
“How much money do you still owe?” Tommy asked.
“Gu Ma says I’ve only paid off half of the phonograph,” I replied. “At this rate, I’ll be working at the factory until I’m eighteen.”
That was three more years, an eternity! I sighed. Many times I suspected that I had long since recouped the phonograph and Gu Ma was stealing my wages. But I had no way to prove it.
“I have an idea that might help.”
“I’m not taking your money. I’ve told you this before.”
“Just listen. Remember I told you my grandfather started a soymilk business? He’s trying to reach more customers by advertising.”
I was intrigued. “Like giving out flyers? I’ve seen people do that on Connaught.”
“No, a billboard. We hired a photographer who worked on Coca-Cola ads in the States, but Grandfather didn’t like the model he used. I said I knew a girl who might be a better fit.” Tommy waited a deliberate beat. “You.”
“You want me to model for Peaksoy?”
“You’ll get a free case,” he pitched. “And you’ll be well paid.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You’ve got the look he wants.”
“You mean I look like a village girl.”
“I didn’t say that, but even if it were so, is that so bad? I’d buy mud if you were selling it.”
“What flattery,” I said dryly, but there was a flip in my stomach that I buried deep. “How much is he paying?”
Tommy named a sum, and I whistled. It was more than I made in a month at the factory. “All I have to do is hold a bottle of soymilk and pose for a few pictures?”
“It would help if you smiled, too.”
I started to make a face at him before I suddenly turned somber. “I can’t do it. If my family found out . . .”
“They won’t. I’ll introduce you as someone else. You’ll wear makeup—a headscarf, too, if you want.”
The idea of being in disguise sent me aflutter with excitement. It was out of a fairy tale—I could become anyone: a university student, a tycoon’s daughter, even a nightclub singer. “Let’s give me an English name.”
“What about . . . Margaret?”
I wrinkled my nose. I could hardly say it, it was so guttural.
“Cynthia?”
I fluttered my hand. Next.
“Helen?” he suggested then. “We learned about a queen called Helen of Troy in school. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and kings fought a war over her.”
“What happened to her?” I asked, anxious to know that the story wasn’t an unhappy one.
“The war was long and complicated, I don’t recall the details,” admitted Tommy, “but her king won the war and she stayed a queen. It’s a pretty name, I say. It suits you.” He paused. “Helen of Soy not Troy.”
He smiled as he said so, and I couldn’t help smiling back.
“Helen,” I tried it out. “All right.” I inhaled. “Helen it is.”
In the photography studio the windows were as large as movie screens, and the sun spun a pale, pastel light. My bright-yellow dress made me stand out like a bee, and I felt keenly how much I preferred to be invisible.
“There’s my grandfather,” Tommy was saying as we entered. “You can call him Director Fung. Gong Gong!”
Director Fung faced us. My first impression was that he didn’t look like a farmer.
He had the backbone of a cypress tree, straight and unbendable—and his face carried the severity of a monk at prayer.
He wore a gray suit with white pinstripes, fashion I’d seen plenty of foreigners wear, but rarely a Chinese man.
There was no cigarette angled in the corner of his mouth, and he didn’t smell like shoe polish or incense.
He smelled like money. Crisp, fresh bills of it.
“This is the girl I told you about,” Tommy said, making the introductions. “Helen. Helen of Soy.”
The name brought chuckles from around the room, but Director Fung didn’t smile.
All morning I’d felt a tickle of pleasure whenever I remembered that Tommy had spoken about me to his family.
Now that tickle was replaced by a churning nervousness.
Never had I met anyone with an aura as intense as Tommy’s grandfather’s.
The way he flicked his dark eyes in my direction, I got the sense that he noticed everything—from my uncut fingernails to the loose button on my collar—and was making judgments.
I bowed as low as I could. “It’s an honor to meet you, Director Fung.”
He didn’t return the salutation. “How do you know my grandson?”
Tommy had prepared me for an interrogation. “A few years ago, I was walking down Sandy Mound Road and he almost hit me with his bicycle. He stopped to make sure I wasn’t hurt. After that, we became friends.”
Not a muscle gave away the old man’s reaction. “Where are you from?”
“Happy Valley. Sir.”
“That is not what I meant. Where were you raised?”
My Hong Kong accent hadn’t fooled him. “Tunglam Village, sir. It’s in Guangdong Province.”
“I know where that is,” he said. “Tommy says your mother used to make soymilk.”
“It didn’t taste as good as Peaksoy.” I boldly added, “Mama would say that if rice is China’s blood, then soybeans are its bones.”
At that, Director Fung made the slightest nod. “Take off your headscarf. I want a clear look at your face.”
I slipped it off, letting my hair tumble down behind my shoulders. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but my hair was my best feature. Smooth and black as a vinyl record, it draped the sides of my cheeks, highlighting the angles in my bones while bringing fullness to my face.
Director Fung’s brow furrowed. He raised two fingers.
His secretary appeared, carrying an opened bottle of Peaksoy on a tray. It had a shiny blue label of a painted mountain that I’d seen before—
“Tommy, your drawing!” I cried, forgetting my restraint. “It’s on the bottle!”
Tommy was beaming.
“Enough talking,” said Director Fung. I’d forgotten he was standing behind me. “I want to see you drink.”
It was my final test, whether I could sell Peaksoy to a customer as unyielding as Director Fung. No easy task.
I tipped the bottle to my lips and took a long sip.
The milk was warm, but I imagined I hadn’t eaten anything in days—which wasn’t hard, given my long hungry years in Tunglam and my meager portions at dinner.
I kept drinking until the whole bottle was finished, and then, as I set it down, licking my lips clean, I smiled with the true contentment of someone who was satisfied.
For a long moment, Director Fung said nothing. Then he lifted two fingers again.
The gesture sent the studio buzzing. A woman with peacock-blue earrings introduced herself as Joan and took my arm, ushering me to a chair by the window.
That was when I realized I had the job. She dusted powder over my skin, plucked my caterpillar brows, and applied rouge on my cheeks.
I giggled at the cool touch of the makeup she painted on my eyelids.
When she finished with my face, she frowned at what I was wearing. “The dress is too bright. Should we change her?”
I was wearing my favorite dress, yellow with purple polka dots. The fabric was cheap and flimsy, but looking at it made me feel sunny, the opposite of my name. I wore it often when I was with Tommy.
“No need,” the photographer spoke up. He was the shortest gweilo I’d seen, dressed like a traffic controller with his black socks and shorts. He had spoken in perfect Cantonese!
“Don’t look too impressed,” murmured Tommy. “Those are the only two words Gary knows. I’ll translate for you.”
“Director Fung doesn’t like yellow,” Joan was telling Gary.
“He might change his mind,” Gary replied. “The polka dots are neat. They add character.” Gary glanced at Tommy’s grandfather. “That’s my opinion, sir. I can take a couple shots in color, so you can see.”
The old man’s eyes shifted in my direction. “Braid her hair, it’s too long. And tie the scarf to the bicycle.”
Joan did as she was told, but she kept my braid loose and ran her fingers through my bangs, making them look wispier. “More romantic,” she said.
Someone rolled out a bicycle while someone else hung a backdrop of Victoria Peak. The famous landmark was painted as it must have looked a century ago, lush and green and uninhabited by roads or houses.
“Helen of Soy.” The photographer gave me a pleasant smile. “Sounds like you were made for this job. I’m Gary. This your first time?”
I nodded as Tommy translated.
“Don’t look so nervous, the camera doesn’t bite. Only Director Fung does.”
That made me laugh.
Director Fung cleared his throat, sending a stern look that made Gary straighten.
The photographer’s demeanor turned professional once more. “Stand here.” He gestured. “Hold the bicycle. Pretend like you’re walking it. Can you do it with one hand?”
I couldn’t, so Tommy grabbed the back tire, stabilizing it so I could hold the bottle of Peaksoy.
“That’s good,” he said, backing up quickly to the camera. “Now hold the bottle to your lips.”
I did as he asked, but my hands shook and the glaring lights made me blink at all the wrong times. My smiles felt forced.
“Don’t look at the strobes,” called Gary. “Ignore me.”
How could I ignore the camera? It was pointed at me like a gun and captured my every flinch. Worse yet was Director Fung, standing in the corner with his arms crossed, his hawk-sharp eyes unreadable.
Tommy sensed my discomfort. “Can you put on some music?” he asked Joan.
Some minutes later, “The Evening Primrose” filled the room.
It was a popular song that I recognized right away, and it was nothing short of magic, at least to me, how the mood in the studio shifted—becoming resonant and alive.
I focused on the familiar chirp of the flutes, the lulling beat of the drums. When Ye Lai Xiang’s voice arrived, saturating the air, I relaxed and forgot about the camera.
I sang along with her, quietly under my breath at first, then, hearing Tommy whistle along, mimicking a hwamei, I glanced over my shoulder and gifted him a small smile.
The camera lights flashed.
My voice gained confidence. Soon I was singing over Ye Lai Xiang, making the song my own.
I pretended the bottle of soymilk was my microphone, and I held it close as I sang, my voice gliding with an acrobat’s precision across each leap in the melody, fraught with the emotion and intimacy of a secret love.
When I reached the highest note—the climax—I held it an extra tremulous beat before I finished the phrase all in one breath.
A little thrill coursed inside me when Gary and Joan burst into applause.
Director Fung signaled the barest nod to Gary, and I knew that I’d done it. The session was a success.
As I lowered my bottle of Peaksoy, Tommy planted a kiss on my cheek.
I glanced up at him, startled.
He looked away as if nothing had happened. We were still under his grandfather’s gaze. But behind my skirt, his hand reached for mine, fingers interlacing, and a happiness I’d never known bubbled up inside me. I couldn’t help it, my heart sang and all of me beamed like sunshine.
It was simply a smile, the crumb of a fairy tale that had been told a thousand times—when a girl discovered she was in love. I didn’t hear the click of the camera that would immortalize it and turn it into my legacy.