huh?”
Shan accepted, confounded by the gift. That was when he realized the moisture on his lip wasn’t just rain, but snot. Had it been there the whole time? He rushed to wipe his nose. When he looked up, the men were halfway to the corner, sharing the good umbrella.
Shan was losing his big chance. Quite possibly his only one.
“Mr. Cohan,” he called out, and a jagged pain gripped his throat.
“It’s okay, kid,” the man hollered through the rain. “You keep it!” Then he vanished around the building.
Shan clenched the fancy monogrammed handkerchief. The man probably owned a dozen others like it. Fighting a swell of tears, Shan shoved the cloth into his pocket and forced a swallow that burned all the way down.
A roar of thunder shook the sky.
As Shan turned to leave, he noted the theater door was open a crack. A theater … where heat enveloped the air. He imagined rows and rows of real chairs enclosed by solid walls and a high ceiling.
If only he could rest in a place such as this, a haven free of rats and rain, he could revive his strength, his will.
The open door practically seemed an invitation, not unlike that at the legal firm. He remembered how he and Nick had walked in and out, with nobody the wiser.
Shan scanned the alley and found no one around.
Get yourself out of this weather, Mr. Cohan had said.
So that was precisely what Shan did.
A pair of offices and a zigzag of dressing rooms lined the back hall of the playhouse. Some doors boasted names and gold stars. Shan considered finding a vacant corner behind any one of them, but then music entered the air. He perked at the sound of chimes and a flute, an Oriental melody.
If he was careful, he could blend into the audience. While thawing himself, he could enjoy part of a show. It would be a good while before he could afford a ticket of any kind.
Following the notes, he climbed a spiral staircase that wound up to the next level. A manager’s passageway, he guessed. From there he continued onto another set of twisting metal steps, up and up, until he reached the uppermost balcony.
A weekend picture show flickered through the darkness, projecting enough light to confirm that the seats on this floor were vacant. Shan surveyed the theater in awe. The plain exterior of the building gave little indication of the extravagance inside, with columns and box seats and a lush arch that framed the screen. All around, murals adorned the walls, though Shan couldn’t quite make them out.
He took a seat in the center of the balcony and melted into the cushion. He’d almost forgotten the luxury of sitting on something soft.
In the film, a white actor in Chinese clothing moved his mouth in conversation. Words of explanation flashed on the screen: The Yellow Man in the Temple of Buddha, before his contemplated journey to a foreign land.
Aside from its brownish tint, Shan had never seen a film look so real. Broken Blossoms was the title. He recalled it from the marquee.
He continued to watch as the monk realized the fruitlessness of his mission to bring peace to the West. For years, the man plunged into a pit of sin and opium, until crossing paths with Lucy, a fellow outcast who found splendor in simple flowers. And yet, her drunken prizefighting father made a habit of taking out his aggressions on the young girl.
The obvious similarities to Shan’s life should have caused him to look away. Instead, he was captivated by a glimpse of where his own journey might lead. He craved the promise of a joyous life in the end.
But that wasn’t what waited in the show. Shan learned this when the boxer used a hatchet to chop his way into a closet, where Lucy had sought safety. Though there were no voices, Shan could hear her screams. The audience on the main floor seemed to hear them too, for they shifted in their seats and whispered their discomfort. A few ladies walked out, looking sickened, followed by a couple more when Lucy forced a smile around a trickle of
Shan accepted, confounded by the gift. That was when he realized the moisture on his lip wasn’t just rain, but snot. Had it been there the whole time? He rushed to wipe his nose. When he looked up, the men were halfway to the corner, sharing the good umbrella.
Shan was losing his big chance. Quite possibly his only one.
“Mr. Cohan,” he called out, and a jagged pain gripped his throat.
“It’s okay, kid,” the man hollered through the rain. “You keep it!” Then he vanished around the building.
Shan clenched the fancy monogrammed handkerchief. The man probably owned a dozen others like it. Fighting a swell of tears, Shan shoved the cloth into his pocket and forced a swallow that burned all the way down.
A roar of thunder shook the sky.
As Shan turned to leave, he noted the theater door was open a crack. A theater … where heat enveloped the air. He imagined rows and rows of real chairs enclosed by solid walls and a high ceiling.
If only he could rest in a place such as this, a haven free of rats and rain, he could revive his strength, his will.
The open door practically seemed an invitation, not unlike that at the legal firm. He remembered how he and Nick had walked in and out, with nobody the wiser.
Shan scanned the alley and found no one around.
Get yourself out of this weather, Mr. Cohan had said.
So that was precisely what Shan did.
A pair of offices and a zigzag of dressing rooms lined the back hall of the playhouse. Some doors boasted names and gold stars. Shan considered finding a vacant corner behind any one of them, but then music entered the air. He perked at the sound of chimes and a flute, an Oriental melody.
If he was careful, he could blend into the audience. While thawing himself, he could enjoy part of a show. It would be a good while before he could afford a ticket of any kind.
Following the notes, he climbed a spiral staircase that wound up to the next level. A manager’s passageway, he guessed. From there he continued onto another set of twisting metal steps, up and up, until he reached the uppermost balcony.
A weekend picture show flickered through the darkness, projecting enough light to confirm that the seats on this floor were vacant. Shan surveyed the theater in awe. The plain exterior of the building gave little indication of the extravagance inside, with columns and box seats and a lush arch that framed the screen. All around, murals adorned the walls, though Shan couldn’t quite make them out.
He took a seat in the center of the balcony and melted into the cushion. He’d almost forgotten the luxury of sitting on something soft.
In the film, a white actor in Chinese clothing moved his mouth in conversation. Words of explanation flashed on the screen: The Yellow Man in the Temple of Buddha, before his contemplated journey to a foreign land.
Aside from its brownish tint, Shan had never seen a film look so real. Broken Blossoms was the title. He recalled it from the marquee.
He continued to watch as the monk realized the fruitlessness of his mission to bring peace to the West. For years, the man plunged into a pit of sin and opium, until crossing paths with Lucy, a fellow outcast who found splendor in simple flowers. And yet, her drunken prizefighting father made a habit of taking out his aggressions on the young girl.
The obvious similarities to Shan’s life should have caused him to look away. Instead, he was captivated by a glimpse of where his own journey might lead. He craved the promise of a joyous life in the end.
But that wasn’t what waited in the show. Shan learned this when the boxer used a hatchet to chop his way into a closet, where Lucy had sought safety. Though there were no voices, Shan could hear her screams. The audience on the main floor seemed to hear them too, for they shifted in their seats and whispered their discomfort. A few ladies walked out, looking sickened, followed by a couple more when Lucy forced a smile around a trickle of
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