“I know where that is,” he said. “Tommy says your mother used to make soymilk.”
“It didn’t taste as good as Peaksoy.” I boldly added, “Mama would say that if rice is China’s blood, then soybeans are its bones.”
At that, Director Fung made the slightest nod. “Take off your headscarf. I want a clear look at your face.”
I slipped it off, letting my hair tumble down behind my shoulders. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but my hair was my best feature. Smooth and black as a vinyl record, it draped the sides of my cheeks, highlighting the angles in my bones while bringing fullness to my face.
Director Fung’s brow furrowed. He raised two fingers.
His secretary appeared, carrying an opened bottle of Peaksoy on a tray. It had a shiny blue label of a painted mountain that I’d seen before—
“Tommy, your drawing!” I cried, forgetting my restraint. “It’s on the bottle!”
Tommy was beaming.
“Enough talking,” said Director Fung. I’d forgotten he was standing behind me. “I want to see you drink.”
It was my final test, whether I could sell Peaksoy to a customer as unyielding as Director Fung. No easy task.
I tipped the bottle to my lips and took a long sip. The milk was warm, but I imagined I hadn’t eaten anything in days—which wasn’t hard, given my long hungry years in Tunglam and my meager portions at dinner. I kept drinking until the whole bottle was finished, and then, as I set it down, licking my lips clean, I smiled with the true contentment of someone who was satisfied.
For a long moment, Director Fung said nothing. Then he lifted two fingers again.
The gesture sent the studio buzzing. A woman with peacock-blue earrings introduced herself as Joan and took my arm, ushering me to a chair by the window. That was when I realized I had the job. She dusted powder over my skin, plucked my caterpillar brows, and applied rouge on my cheeks. I giggled at the cool touch of the makeup she painted on my eyelids.
When she finished with my face, she frowned at what I was wearing. “The dress is too bright. Should we change her?”
I was wearing my favorite dress, yellow with purple polka dots. The fabric was cheap and flimsy, but looking at it made me feel sunny, the opposite of my name. I wore it often when I was with Tommy.
“No need,” the photographer spoke up. He was the shortest gweilo I’d seen, dressed like a traffic controller with his black socks and shorts. He had spoken in perfect Cantonese!
“Don’t look too impressed,” murmured Tommy. “Those are the only two words Gary knows. I’ll translate for you.”
“Director Fung doesn’t like yellow,” Joan was telling Gary.
“He might change his mind,” Gary replied. “The polka dots are neat. They add character.” Gary glanced at Tommy’s grandfather. “That’s my opinion, sir. I can take a couple shots in color, so you can see.”
The old man’s eyes shifted in my direction. “Braid her hair, it’s too long. And tie the scarf to the bicycle.”
Joan did as she was told, but she kept my braid loose and ran her fingers through my bangs, making them look wispier. “More romantic,” she said.
Someone rolled out a bicycle while someone else hung a backdrop of Victoria Peak. The famous landmark was painted as it must have looked a century ago, lush and green and uninhabited by roads or houses.
“Helen of Soy.” The photographer gave me a pleasant smile. “Sounds like you were made for this job. I’m Gary. This your first time?”
I nodded as Tommy translated.
“Don’t look so nervous, the camera doesn’t bite. Only Director Fung does.”
That made me laugh.
Director Fung cleared his throat, sending a stern look that made Gary straighten.
The photographer’s demeanor turned professional once more. “Stand here.” He gestured. “Hold the bicycle. Pretend like you’re walking it. Can you do it with one hand?”
I couldn’t, so Tommy grabbed the back tire, stabilizing it so I could hold the bottle of Peaksoy.
“That’s good,” he said, backing up quickly to the camera. “Now hold the bottle to your lips.”
