Songs of Willow Frost (19 page)

Colin smiled, wide-eyed. “And I’m not asking. Not that there’s anything wrong with you. I’m sure you’ll find someone worthy. Speaking of marriage, your uncle sold this along with you.” Colin reached into his pocket and then held out his hand. Her mother’s ring rested in his palm.

Liu Song felt relieved but also sick to her stomach. She took the ring, grateful to have it but feeling the urge to cleanse it in boiling water. She stared at her muddled reflection in the tarnished gold, then slipped it on the ring finger of her right hand.

Colin changed the subject by offering to help clean up. He went upstairs to find a janitor’s closet, returned with a broom and dustpan, and began to sweep up the talcum-covered mess on the floor. He laughed and applauded when Liu Song told him how she had painted her mother’s mask and what she’d done to Auntie Eng and Uncle Leo. They joked about Uncle Leo and his old-world superstitions. They talked about music and movies and the families they missed, the good times, and the moments filled with sorrow and regret. And as sunset approached, Colin looked at his watch and let himself out.

“I really shouldn’t be here if your stepparents aren’t home anymore,” he said. “This is a small neighborhood, and I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. Will you be okay by yourself for a while? Perhaps you’ll find a roommate.”

Liu Song nodded, though she wasn’t sure what that wrong idea was exactly. But she understood by his body language that he was reluctant to be here after dark. Then she looked up and understood as she saw the cherry-red embers of cigarettes that dangled from the hands and mouths of the many men who lived upstairs. The top two floors of her building were occupied by the Freeman Hotel, a flophouse filled with bachelors, cannery workers and lumbermen, laundry hands and fry cooks, who lingered on the fire escape in the
evening. The men smoked and talked about money and women, longing for both. Liu Song had for so long been so worried about her mother and preoccupied with avoiding her uncle that she rarely gave the men upstairs a passing thought, and when she did she merely thought of them as neighbors—ones who shared a common tongue, like the other families who lived across the alley. Those innocent notions faded as Liu Song realized that these lonely, unbuttoned men looking down on her probably thought about her quite often. The idea sent a chill up her spine, and she shivered in the cool evening air.

“Does that mean I won’t see you again?” she asked Colin, aching for him to stay but not wanting to sound as desperate as she felt.

He paused. “It just means that we probably should see each other in public, to avoid the gossipy hens that cluck around here.” He nodded toward the other alleyway apartments and the clotheslines dangling with laundry. “And the vultures.” He didn’t look up, but she knew who he was referring to.

“How about next Friday?” Liu Song blurted in a way that surprised her. She wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t want to let him go, or because she simply enjoyed the protection of his company. “On my way home the other day I noticed an early show playing at the Moore Theatre. It’s a new movie, I think you’ll like it.”

To her delight he didn’t even ask what the film was. He immediately said yes.

Liu Song had never been to a first-run theater before. The second-run storefront theaters showing last year’s movies were all her family could afford. But she assumed they’d go
qu helan
and was fine with that. Going to the movies and paying her own way wasn’t actually a date, and she was comforted by that fact as she remembered her mother’s worrisome admonitions about being alone with a man—any man.

Colin tipped his hat. “Perfect. I’ll meet you there.”

Lovesick

(1921)

When Liu Song arrived at the Moore Theatre, Colin was already there with tickets in hand. He took off his hat and fanned his face, even in the cool air.

“Is that a new dress?”

Liu Song tried to smile demurely, but she nervously blushed instead. “I sold a grand pianola this week, can you believe it? So I went a little crazy and bought a brand-new outfit. Do I look au courant?” She had bought modish stockings and fashionable heels too. They were the first new clothes she’d ever owned—the first to actually fit her in all the right places. She chewed her lip, then stopped when she worried she might be smearing her lipstick. She thought it would make her feel grown-up, but instead it only made her more self-conscious, especially in front of the other theater patrons, none of whom were Chinese. She looked down as the lacy fringe that graced her hips fluttered in the breeze and swayed with each hesitant step.

Colin paused as though speechless. “I … don’t believe there are adequate words in the English tongue,” he said. “All I can say is
nei hau leng
.”

You look beautiful too
, Liu Song thought.
I wish I could tell you
.

Liu Song could hardly believe that he saw her as anything other
than an awkward, damaged, lowborn girl—someone who spoke her parents’ country Cantonese, and was a dropout on top of that.

“You are more than you know,” he said. “Your future …” He whistled. “I just hope I’m around to see it.”

Liu Song remembered something else and asked, “Do you have plans for after the movie?” She then realized how unflatteringly forward that sounded. Her parents had been modern in their vocation and manner of dress, but she’d still come from a traditional household, where girls did not invite boys—let alone men—to anything.

“It’s just that I have a commitment,” she quickly added. “Mr. Butterfield sold that pianola this week to one of the owners of the Stacy Mansion—he closed the deal by telling them I would perform at its unveiling, which is later tonight. I thought it would be prudent to have someone escort me …”

“Ah, of course. That explains the dress,” Colin said, nodding in agreement.

I
NSIDE THE THEATER
Colin tipped the usher, who led them with a Matchless flashlight to a pair of first-row balcony seats. Liu Song marveled at the view. Not only was she eye level with the screen but also from that vantage point she could see the packed main floor and look directly into the pit, where a seven-piece orchestra tuned up their instruments and an organist sat stretching his fingers. Colin mentioned that he’d read that the tuxedoed musicians were from Russia and the highest paid in the city.

The audience twittered with excitement when the conductor struck up the opening fanfare and the houselights dimmed. Liu Song stared wide-eyed into pitch black as the music filled the theater. She felt herself being transported elsewhere as her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, as the curtain rose and a projector’s beam split the void, illuminating particles of dust suspended in the air, gently swirling like glitter in a snow globe. The orchestra moved deftly through
the overture, as the words
Bits of Life
appeared on-screen, followed by the opening credits.

“It’s an
anthology
,” she whispered. It was a new word, one she struggled to pronounce but hoped would impress. “Four movies in one.”

Colin nodded and smiled. “You’re becoming an expert already.”

Liu Song delighted in each short film, occasionally peeking at Colin, who watched with a seriousness beyond the simple entertainment on-screen.

She watched as Colin leaned forward in his seat when he saw the Chinese clothing and Oriental set pieces. Lon Chaney appeared as the main character, Chin Chow. He was a fairly well-known actor, to be sure, but even with his makeup and beard, Liu Song thought he looked awkward and pretentious. Fortunately his fatally flawed wife was played by a new actress, Anna May Wong, who stole the screen from her more famous counterpart.

She leaned over. “They saved the best for last.”

As Liu Song watched, she couldn’t help but think of her mother—not the sickly woman slowly dying but the proud woman onstage—victorious, if only for one night.

“You know, that could be you up there,” Colin whispered. When their hands touched on the armrest, they each pulled away, embarrassed, just as Anna May died on-screen. The radiant Chinese starlet swooned, inhaled dramatically, flaring her nostrils as the orchestra played to a crescendo. Then she batted her eyes and collapsed as the curtain fell and the audience clapped and cheered. Colin gave the show a standing ovation.

A
FTERWARD THEY CAUGHT
a jitney cab to the Stacy Mansion. Colin led her past the doorman to the parlor, where a few of the younger men recognized him, which surprised and impressed Liu Song. The men in blue blazers spoke of yacht racing and rowing, and of course acting, theater, photoplays, and moviemaking.

“They finance films. Union money,” Colin said afterward.

“Are you a member here?” she asked.

“No.” He laughed at the thought. “They have certain membership requirements that I am unable to meet. But they do have a splendid pub in the basement, which is open to the public—the Rathskellar. Of course they no longer serve strong spirits, but it’s still a nice place
to see or be seen
, if you catch my meaning?”

Liu Song did. And then again, she didn’t. Not firsthand anyway. She’d seen places like this only from the outside—the Stacy, the Carkeek Mansion, the Seattle Tennis Club, with their iron fences, topiary, fancy roadsters, and elegant women in diamonds, pearls, and sheared mink boleros. She felt like a pauper in her gauche three-dollar dress. Even the coat-check girls looked more fetching, more becoming. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the men and women of the club asked her to run along and find a lint brush, a cigarette lighter, or perhaps the humidor from the gentlemen’s smoking lounge.

“Ah, you must be Liu Song—what a clever name. Stupendously appropriate, don’t you think?” A man with a finely manicured silver beard and gold spectacles took her hand and touched it to his lips. “I’m Marty Van Buren Stacy. Thank you so much for agreeing to grace my humble little establishment with your presence.”

“I’m …” Liu Song was overwhelmed by his hospitality, unsure of how he’d recognized her. Then she felt silly as she realized she was the only Chinese woman in the room—probably the only one ever to have set foot in the club. “Thank you.”

“And Master Colin, it’s good to see you again. I can’t say that I’m surprised to see you here attending to this young songstress. Birds of a feather—as they say.”

Liu Song watched in awe while Colin mingled among Seattle’s royalty as though he were one of them. It became obvious that behind Colin’s modesty lay more affluence than he’d initially let on—
not that it mattered to her. If anything, his lofty status only confirmed the gulf of culture and society that separated them. He had more familial obligations than he’d probably let on as well. Back in China he must have been a prince among men, from a family with generations of servants attending to their every need. She knew that he was well beyond her social status, that to be here with her was a tremendous act of charity. Plus, while he was still regarded as someone of value in a place like this, he would never be fully accepted—which must have been humbling.
To come here
, Liu Song thought—
to be seen with me, he must have owed my father a great deal
.

“We have a special room all set up for you,” Mr. Stacy said.

Liu Song looked at Colin, who seemed unsurprised.

“You
will
stay for dinner, won’t you?” Mr. Stacy asked. “Then after dessert and all the guests have arrived, you’ll favor us with that exquisite voice of yours, yes?”

“We’re honored,” Colin said. “Thank you for your generosity.”

A maître d’ led them to a private room near the back that had elegant furnishings and a formal setting for two with flowers and a lit candelabrum. But the wallpaper was old and tobacco-stained, and there were cracks in the wainscoting.

The maître d’ held the chair for Liu Song and gently placed a fine lace napkin in her lap. She felt naked for not having worn evening gloves. She looked up at Colin, who was masking a frown as they were left alone with the prix fixe menu.

“Is something the matter?” she asked hesitantly, worried that he was now embarrassed by the dress she wore or that her table manners were somehow flawed.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “This is splendid.”

“No, really. You can tell me …”

He set down the menu. “Have you not noticed?”

“Noticed what?” she asked.

“That we’re sitting in the servants’ dining room.” He regarded
the wallpaper, the worn carpet with cigarette burns. “We’re not normally allowed in a club like this—not out there anyway, so they’ve fancied up this … place …”

It wasn’t shocking news to Liu Song. She’d hardly believed it when they accepted Mr. Butterfield’s offer. But perhaps talent, she’d thought, whatever little she might have, transcended class and social standing—even race, perhaps.

“It’s just one evening,” she said optimistically. “They get me for a five-hundred-dollar piano. They can keep the piano. You get me for a song.”

Colin found his smile, then looked at his menu. “Well, what’s for dinner?”