High moon

Bright stars

Milky Way’s a river

Flowin’ to the galax-sea

Just for me and my baby

Just for my baby and me

For a few years, before our world collapsed, I danced on the roof of the Repulse Bay Hotel, and then later at the Gripps in the Hong Kong and Shanghai Hotel and the Rose Room at the Peninsula until my feet were sore. I sang until my throat ached. I laughed and ate Quails Juniper and shrimp salad. I drank as much champagne and oolong tea as my belly could hold. Best of all, the handsome cricket, football, and tennis player Cheung Tak-Wing, secret star of the Hong Kong Cricket Club and golden boy of the Chinese Recreation Club in Tai Hang, whom I’d met at Tiger Balm Gardens, came to see me at the Repulse Bay Hotel whenever he could, in the company of his more progressive cricket playing friends, who loved Isadore Davis Wong and His Cosmopolitan Elites.

Old Mah was horrified, but in those days it was the job of Chinese daughters to horrify their fathers.

“My English friend Hancock says he saw you at the Repulse Bay Hotel. Dancing. Please tell me it that isn’t true.”

I said nothing.

“Emily would never do such a thing,” Violet said.

Father scowled. “You know very well that she would, Violet. Let her speak for herself. Is it true, Emily?”

“It’s a little bit true.”

“What do you mean a little bit true?”

“Well …”

“Well, what?”

“I danced a little bit. But mostly I sang.”

“You sang?” His face began to flush.

“She’s the singer in a band called the Cosmopolitan Elites,” Violet explained, helpfully.

“What’s wrong with singing?” I said. “Second Mother Polly was a singer.”

Father’s face turned a very worrisome shade of purple. I fled the room while Violet stayed to receive his wrath.

CHAPTER 4LETTERS ACROSS OCEANS

164 Water Street

St. John’s, Newfoundland

March 11, 1937

Dear Izzy,

Donkey years since I saw you last. When was it you left us? 1932? Isn’t five years long enough to get married and come back home? Well, who am I to talk, since I’m not there either. I sure miss those days of eating chow mein, fried vegetables, and roasted pork while we sat on those little stools at the back of your daddy’s store. And those little dried plums your mama would give us for a snack later, so salty and so sour—Lord! I know your mama misses you something fierce. She’s still mad at your daddy for sending you away. You could have married a nice Jamaican girl instead of some foreigner who doesn’t even speak your language. Her words, not mine. Well, I haven’t seen her myself for a while, nor my own mama, whom I miss too.