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 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.
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