The maid showed me to a dimly lit room where I was to wait. The parlor, she called it. Its door had a bronze feather-shaped lock on the outside, and it made a click when she left me.
Inside was a rosewood settee with two matching armchairs and lace curtains over the windows. Gilt-bronze mirrors and long scroll paintings of the four seasons adorned the walls, and on each wooden coffer was a selection of magazines, along with a cloisonne bottle—not for perfume, I later learned, but snuff.
As the minutes ticked by, I grew restless. I explored, flipping through the magazines and pinching the oranges that were laid out in a porcelain bowl. In the corner farthest from the windows stood a rattan table with some sort of wooden contraption resting on it. Its base was a mahogany box, and the rest wascovered by a velvet cloth. At first I thought it might be a birdcage until I spied a black crank on one side.
My heart skipped, and I darted a glance at the door. No one was coming. It couldn’t hurt to take a closer look.
I inched toward the box, vibrating with excitement as I swept away the velvet.
A record player!
I’d never seen one before. It was beautiful, its brass horn fashioned like a jasmine flower. A pile of records sat nearby, and I picked one up, cautiously pulling the shiny black disc out of its sleeve. I wished I could read the label and know what song this precious record played.
“The song’s called ‘Dreaming by the Winter Blossoms,’” spoke a voice from behind.
My heels popped into a little jump.
A slender young woman stood at the door, two maids close behind her. She looked like she’d stepped out of the record I was holding. With her finely plucked eyebrows, dew-painted lips, and birdlike bones, her very presence was glamorous. Her belly was swollen, but you wouldn’t notice it unless you saw her from the side. A lace shawl was draped over her torso, secured by a moon-white pearl brooch, and her black silk cheongsam hung loosely, heeled slippers peeking out from under the hem.
“You must be Yut Ying,” she said. “My new daughter.”
My jaw fell at the sight of her. This was Baba’s new wife?
Caught off guard, I bowed and stuttered a greeting.
“No need to be so proper.” Sai Ma sat on one end of the settee and beckoned me close. “Your Gu Ma had some business to attend in Macau, otherwise she’d be here to welcome you. I’m sorry I kept you waiting in the meantime, but I see you’ve found the phonograph. Do you know what it is?”
I was shy. “It . . . it plays songs.”
“Songs,” she repeated. “From the way you spoke just now, I can tell you like music.”
“Ilovemusic.”
“So do I.” Sai Ma looked young when she smiled. “It’s one of life’s great pleasures. My little Lily’s recently begun piano lessons.”
I perked. So, my sister’s name was Lily. I wanted to ask more about her, but I didn’t dare. Maybe it was Sai Ma’s beauty, or maybe it was because she was my new mother. I only knew I very much wanted her approval.
Eagerly I took the teapot that the maid had set down and poured Sai Ma a brimming cup.
“That’s enough,” said Sai Ma, touching my arm. “In Hong Kong, we pour to three quarters full. Too much, and you’ll burn your guest to death.”
“Oh.” I flushed, feeling like a fool. We had no such rule in Tunglam, but it made sense. My fingers were used to scalding temperatures; for a dainty woman like Sai Ma, she’d burn herself simply picking up the cup. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ll learn,” Sai Ma said warmly. She left the tea alone. “Now tell me, have you learned an instrument?”
“N-No. I sing, though. Only a little, mostly to myself.”
“You sing?” Sai Ma’s expression brightened. “I used to be an opera singer. I was even onstage a few times before the war. That was how I met your father.”
I found it difficult to picture my playboy father attending a Cantonese opera, but what did I know? I smiled politely. “Will you sing again now that the war is over?”
“Hong Kong belongs to the British, and the British have no appreciation for our music.” She released a sigh, her shoulders dropping as she touched her belly. “Besides, I have children now. That life is over for me.
“Now enough about that. Sit with me, I want to look at you properly.”
I took the chair beside her. This close, she smelled of lavender—rich, clean, and sweet. Never had I been more self-conscious of the caterpillar brows I’d inherited from Mama, or the acute whiff of vinegar that emanated off my dress, making me smell like a pickle.
Sai Ma was kind. “You have dimples when you smile, like peaches,” she murmured with approval, “and good teeth, too. No wonder your ah ma sent you here. You’re going to be a beauty one day.”
