The crab arrives, his otherworldly face deep-fried and facing them with all the wisdom of sea and wok. He waves his antennae at them in the air-conditioned breeze. Beside his wise and knowing face sits a massive claw, bigger than any Ophelia has seen in her life. The head itself is propped up on a heap of fragrant crab pieces still in their bright orange shells, but smashed with the flat side of a cleaver so it’s easy to get the meat out. Deep-fried garlic, chilies, and shallots are piled to overflowing atop the crab. The whole concoction smells irresistibly delicious.

Out on the street a car alarm goes off. A customer rushes out of the restaurant to see if it’s hers, and the shock of rain hitting her face makes her shriek as the sliding doors close. Ophelia glances over, glad to be inside.

“Here,” says Great-Aunt Violet, plunking one of the juicy claws onto Ophelia’s plate. “Try this. Best in Hong Kong.”

1936–1937

CHAPTER 2TUITION

December 12, 1936

When I was seven and Emily was eight, our father announced his modernity. “You can marry, or you can go to university. I’ve put aside a decent sum for each of you—wedding gift or tuition, your choice.”

There was no real choice.

It was obvious who would receive the money as wedding gift: beautiful Emily, lovely as the moon in spring, gorgeous as a pink peony at the height of bloom, even at seven. What Emily had received in beauty, however, was taken from her account in wisdom. Worse, it was eclipsed by her vanity. The only knowledge she had, and the only knowledge she cared about, was the knowledge of her own beauty. Her beauty was immense, and her knowledge of it deeper than the South China Sea. She understood that beauty was a kind of currency better than money, at least for women of our generation. She knew she had to use it to get what she wanted, everyone else be damned. If only she’d had the wisdom to make better choices. But no one talked about choices in those days—that’s a Generation X thing. My generation talked about desire and death, and got plenty of both.

It was obvious, too, who would receive the money as tuition: yours truly, Violet Mah, bright as the sun and sharp as the edge of a pork cleaver, but ugly as the butcher’s chopping block. I mean ugly: square face, pointy nose, small eyes, gigantic mouth full of teeth so big they barely fit. You think I’m ugly now because you think all old ladies are ugly. It was more obvious when I was young.