assess how many new outfits we can make from what we have left. Old Man Louie seems to have taken almost all our Chinese clothes, leaving behind an assortment of Western-style dresses, blouses, skirts, and trousers. In Shanghai, where appearances are nearly everything, it will be important for us to look smart and not dowdy, fashionable and not last year. If our clothes seem old, not only will artists no longer hire us but streetcars won’t stop for us, doormen at hotels and clubs might not let us in, and attendants at movie theaters will double-check our tickets. This affects not only women but men too; they, even if they’re in the middle class, will sleep in lodgings plagued by bedbugs so they can afford to buy a nicer pair of trousers, which they put under their pillows each night to create sharp creases for the new day.
Does it sound like we lock ourselves away for weeks? Hardly. Just two days. Because we’re young, we’re easily cured. We’re also curious. We’ve heard noises outside the door, which we’ve ignored for hours at a time. We tried not to pay attention to the hammering and thumping that shook the house. We heard strange voices but pretended they belonged to the servants. When we finally open the door, our home has changed. Baba has sold most of our furniture to the local pawnshop. The gardener is gone, but Cook has stayed because he has nowhere else to go and he needs a place to sleep and food to eat. Our house has been chopped apart and walls added to make rooms for boarders: a policeman, his wife, and two daughters have moved into the back of the house; a student lives in the second-floor pavilion; a cobbler has taken the space under the stairs; and two dancing girls have moved into the attic. The rents will help, but they won’t be enough to care for us all.
WE THOUGHT OUR lives would go back to normal, and in many ways they do. Mama still orders around everyone, including our boarders, so we aren’t suddenly burdened with carrying out the nightstool, making beds, or sweeping. Still, we’re very aware of how far and how quickly we’ve fallen. Instead of soy milk, sesame cakes, and fried dough sticks for breakfast, Cook makes p’ao fan— leftover rice swimming in boiled water with some pickled vegetables on top for flavor. Cook’s austerity campaign shows in our lunch and dinner dishes too. We’ve always been one of those families who have wu hun pu ch’ih fan— no meal without meat. We now eat a coolie’s diet of bean sprouts, salt fish, cabbage, and preserved vegetables accompanied by lots and lots of rice.
Baba leaves the house every morning to look for work, but we don’t encourage him or ask him questions when he returns at night. In failing us, he’s become insignificant. If we ignore him—demeaning him by our inattention and lack of concern—then his downfall and ruin can’t harm us anymore. It’s our way of dealing with our anger and hurt.
May and I try to find jobs too, but it’s hard to get hired. You need to have kuang hsi , connections. You have to know the right people—a relative or someone you’ve courted for years—to get a recommendation. More important, you need to give a substantial gift—a leg of pork, a bedroom set, or the equivalent of two months’ salary—to the person who will make the introduction and another to the person who will hire you, even if it’s only to make matchboxes or hairnets in a factory. We don’t have money for that now, and people know it. In Shanghai, life flows like an endlessly serene river for the wealthy, the lucky, the fortunate. For those with bad fates, the smell of desperation is as strong as a rotting corpse.
Our writer friends take us to Russian restaurants and treat us to bowls of borscht and cheap vodka. Playboys—our countrymen who come from wealthy families, study in America, and go to Paris on vacation—take us to the Paramount, the city’s biggest nightclub, for joy, gin, and jazz. We hang out in dark
Does it sound like we lock ourselves away for weeks? Hardly. Just two days. Because we’re young, we’re easily cured. We’re also curious. We’ve heard noises outside the door, which we’ve ignored for hours at a time. We tried not to pay attention to the hammering and thumping that shook the house. We heard strange voices but pretended they belonged to the servants. When we finally open the door, our home has changed. Baba has sold most of our furniture to the local pawnshop. The gardener is gone, but Cook has stayed because he has nowhere else to go and he needs a place to sleep and food to eat. Our house has been chopped apart and walls added to make rooms for boarders: a policeman, his wife, and two daughters have moved into the back of the house; a student lives in the second-floor pavilion; a cobbler has taken the space under the stairs; and two dancing girls have moved into the attic. The rents will help, but they won’t be enough to care for us all.
WE THOUGHT OUR lives would go back to normal, and in many ways they do. Mama still orders around everyone, including our boarders, so we aren’t suddenly burdened with carrying out the nightstool, making beds, or sweeping. Still, we’re very aware of how far and how quickly we’ve fallen. Instead of soy milk, sesame cakes, and fried dough sticks for breakfast, Cook makes p’ao fan— leftover rice swimming in boiled water with some pickled vegetables on top for flavor. Cook’s austerity campaign shows in our lunch and dinner dishes too. We’ve always been one of those families who have wu hun pu ch’ih fan— no meal without meat. We now eat a coolie’s diet of bean sprouts, salt fish, cabbage, and preserved vegetables accompanied by lots and lots of rice.
Baba leaves the house every morning to look for work, but we don’t encourage him or ask him questions when he returns at night. In failing us, he’s become insignificant. If we ignore him—demeaning him by our inattention and lack of concern—then his downfall and ruin can’t harm us anymore. It’s our way of dealing with our anger and hurt.
May and I try to find jobs too, but it’s hard to get hired. You need to have kuang hsi , connections. You have to know the right people—a relative or someone you’ve courted for years—to get a recommendation. More important, you need to give a substantial gift—a leg of pork, a bedroom set, or the equivalent of two months’ salary—to the person who will make the introduction and another to the person who will hire you, even if it’s only to make matchboxes or hairnets in a factory. We don’t have money for that now, and people know it. In Shanghai, life flows like an endlessly serene river for the wealthy, the lucky, the fortunate. For those with bad fates, the smell of desperation is as strong as a rotting corpse.
Our writer friends take us to Russian restaurants and treat us to bowls of borscht and cheap vodka. Playboys—our countrymen who come from wealthy families, study in America, and go to Paris on vacation—take us to the Paramount, the city’s biggest nightclub, for joy, gin, and jazz. We hang out in dark
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