The Forbidden City USA, Circa 1942
“Contestaciones Silenciosas” by Vivian Calderón
The blood pooled above the Chinese Bing Crosby’s eyebrows and dripped onto the floor, puddling next to his shiny black shoes. He didn’t have time to get stitches.
Backstage, they had sopped as much blood out of his forehead as they could, then powdered the wound with makeup. He took his place on stage, in front of the red velvet curtains, in his pinstripe navy blue suit, and caressed the satin chrome microphone. His baritone rendition of Where The Blue Of The Night Meets The Gold Of The Day spread across the nightclub. His bushy eyebrows lifted above half-closed eyes—gracefully almond shaped, according to the reviews in the San Francisco Examiner—and with his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones, the illusion was complete. A debonaire Oriental man who could croon like Sinatra.
Out of towners mixed with soldiers from The Presidio at The Forbidden City USA Nightclub. They sat in rows of tables, with their bowls of stir-fried egg noodles. They were waiting for Joe’s China Dolls, the all-Far Eastern female dance revue, to take the stage. The Chinese Bing Crosby was a warm-up act. But even the army privates set their forks down as they watched the man sing.
***
The Cigarette Girl walked slowly through the aisles in her red cheongsam, palms under her tray, when one of the soldiers asked for a pack of smokes. When the soldier smiled at her, he looked like a young Ronald Reagan.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Bakersfield,” she said. She was ready for the response she’s heard so many times before: No, where are you really from?
“You must’ve been bored out of your mind in Bakersfield,” he said.
She laughed, handing him his Lucky Strikes.
The Cigarette Girl no longer talked to her family. The only Asian girl in her high school, she’d graduated first in her class, and should’ve been at Stanford right now, just a train ride down the Peninsula. But her father thought sending a girl to college was a waste. She wanted to be a doctor.
***
The Chinese Bing Crosby loved walking in San Francisco. The way the neighborhoods changed every few blocks, the decadence of North Beach giving way to the residential quiet of Russian Hill. So he always walked to work.
Occasionally, some clown would pass him on the street and yell Slanty eyed chink! or Go back to your country! before they pulled up the corners of their eyes, or assumed some mock Oriental fighting stance. He was prepared for them. He’d flick his pocketknife open, and watch the surprise on their faces. It usually sent them running for the nearest alley.
Tonight, his attacker just walked up behind him and shoved him to the ground. The Chinese Bing Crosby’s forehead hit the pavement. It took a moment to recover from the pain, and realize how much blood there was.
***
Backstage, after his performance was over, the Cigarette Girl washed the Chinese Bing Crosby’s wound. She dabbed his forehead with her vodka-soaked handkerchief. She opened her sewing kit, the one used for repairing the dancers’ dresses. White thread twirled around in a pot of boiling water.
“Nobody takes care of me better than you,” Larry said, his head in Francine’s lap.
“Don’t you know it,” Francine said, as she burned the sewing needle in her cigarette lighter’s flame.
Larry closed his eyes, waiting for the sting of Francine’s needle.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eliot Li is a Chinese American writer who lives in California. His grandmother was a cigarette girl who met his grandfather in the San Francisco nightclub where she worked. Eliot's work appears in SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, CRAFT, trampset, Atticus Review, The Pinch, and elsewhere. He's on twitter @EliotLi2.
About the artist
Vivian Calderón holds a bachelors in anthropology and history and a postgraduate degree in Journalism from Universidad de los Andes. Vivian has shown her work in United States, Spain and ColombiVivian has spent the last years investigating The Prints of the Earth.