The Valley of Amazement. Amy Tan

month, on the first of January, we had learned that the Republic had been officially declared and Dr. Sun Yat-sen had been made the provisional president. Mother’s smarmy lover Fairweather had come by, unannounced, as usual. Of all the men she had taken to her bed, he was the one who remained in her life, as persistent as a wart. I hated him even more than I had when Mother used me as her pawn to meet him. Fairweather had sat in an armchair in the salon, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigar in the other. Between sips and puffs, he had made pronouncements: “The servants in your house have the fervor of heathens newly converted by the missionaries. Saved! Dr. Sun may be a Christian, but do your servants really believe he can perform God’s miracle and change the color of their yellow hides?” He had spotted me and grinned. “What do you say, Violet?”

      Mother must have told him that my father was Chinese. I couldn’t stomach the sight of that worm and had left the room, nearly blind with anger. I had marched down Nanking Road. The sides of British tramcars had been plastered with newspapers that flapped like scales. Civil disobedience had come into fashion over the last year, a daredevil kind of patriotism that delivered symbolic slaps to the imperialists. My Chinese blood had surged, and I’d wanted to punch Fairweather’s face. The street had been flowing with students who ran from corner to corner to put up fresh sheets of news on the public walls. The crowds had rushed forward, and the literate ones had read aloud the article about the new president Sun Yat-sen. His words of vision and promise had sent the crowd swooning with optimism. “He’s the father of the new Republic,” I had heard one man say. I had scanned the wall for a picture of this revolutionary father. Golden Dove had once told me that you could recognize a person’s character by examining his face. I had stared at Dr. Sun’s photograph and seen he was honest and kind, calm and intelligent. I had heard that he also spoke perfect English from having grown up in Hawaii. If Dr. Sun had been my father, I would have been proud to tell everyone I was half-Chinese. That last thought had caught me by surprise, and I’d quickly tamped it down.

      I was never able to talk to Mother about my feelings over having a Chinese father. We could not admit to each other what I knew. And these days, she held back her true feelings on just about everything. China was going through a revolution, and she acted like a spectator at the races—at the ready to bet on the probable winner. She claimed confidence that the new Republic would have no bearing on matters in the International Settlement, where we lived. “The Settlement is its own oasis,” she would point out to her clients, “under its own laws and government.”

      But I could tell that her seeming lack of concern was to mask worry. She, in fact, had given me the skill to discern true feelings by noticing the great efforts used to conceal them. I had often overheard what she and Golden Dove had observed among their customers: bluster that had compensated for fear, a flourish of courtesy that had masked a cheat, indignation that had confirmed wrongdoing.

      I, too, had been making great efforts to hide the half-Chinese part of me, and I was always on guard that I had failed to do so. Look how easily I had succumbed to my inborn mind. I had just wished that Dr. Sun had been my father. I had found the students’ passion to be admirable. It was increasingly difficult to contort my heart and mind to appear to be a foreigner through and through. I often studied myself in a mirror to learn how to smile without crinkling my eyes into an Oriental angle. I copied my mother’s erect posture, the way she walked with a foreigner’s assurance of her place in the world. Like her, I greeted new people by looking them straight in the eye, saying, “I am Violet Minturn and I’m most pleased to know you.” I used pidgin to compliment the servants on their obedience and quickness. I was more courteous with the beauties than I had been when I was younger, but I did not speak to them in Chinese, unless I forgot, which I did more often than I would have liked. I was not uppity, however, with Golden Dove or Cracked Egg. Nor was I cool-hearted with Snowy Cloud’s attendant, Piety, who had a daughter, Little Ocean, whom Carlotta liked.

      Ever since my scuffle with Misty Cloud six years ago, no one in the house had mentioned anything that suggested I was of mixed race. Then again, they would not dare to do so after what had happened to Misty Cloud. Yet I was constantly aware of the danger of someone wounding me with the awful truth. Whenever I met strangers, I was shaken by any remarks about my looks.

      It had happened not long ago when I met Mother’s new friend, a British suffragette, who was fascinated to be in a “Pleasure Palace,” as she called Hidden Jade Path. When I was introduced to her, she complimented me on the unusual color of my eyes. “I’ve never seen that shade of green,” she said. “It reminds me of serpentine. The color changes according to the light.” Had she also noticed the shape of my eyes? I avoided smiling. My nervousness grew worse a moment later when she told my mother she had volunteered to raise money for an orphanage for mixed-race girls.

      “They will never be adopted,” she said. “If it weren’t for the orphanage and generous women like you, it would have been the streets for them.”

      Mother opened her purse and handed the woman a donation.

      ON THE DAY of the abdication, I welcomed being part of the hated lot of foreigners. Let the Chinese despise me! I ran to the balcony on the east wing of our house. I saw the sparks of firecrackers and shreds of wrappers floating in the air. The paper was imperial yellow and not the usual celebratory red, as if to signal that the Ching dynasty had been blown to pieces.

      Throngs were growing by the second, a sea of people with victory banners, their fists punching upward, showing black armbands painted with antiforeign slogans. “End the port treaties!” A chorus of cheers broke out and echoed the words. “No more tra-la-la boom-dee-ay! “The crowd roared with laughter. “Kick out those who love the foreign!” Jeers followed.

      Who still loved us? Golden Dove? Did she love us enough to risk being kicked out of China?

      The streets were so clogged the rickshaw pullers could no longer move forward. From my perch, I spotted one with a Western man and woman who waved madly to their puller to run over the people blocking their way. The rickshaw puller let go of the handles, and the cab suddenly fell backward and nearly bounced the couple out. He threw his fists up, and the people leapt off. I could not see their faces, but I knew they must have been terrified as they were bumped and pushed about in the mob.

      I turned to my mother. “Are we in danger?”

      “Of course not,” she snapped. She had a knot between her eyebrows. She was lying.

      “The greedy ones didn’t wait a minute to change colors,” Cracked Egg said. “You can hear them everywhere in the market square. Two bottles of New Republic wine for the price of one! And then they joke: Two bottles of Ching wine for the price of three.” He looked at me. “It’s not safe right now for you to go outside. Listen to me, ah?” He handed my mother a packet of letters and the North China Herald. “I was able to get them from the post office before the streets closed. But if the riots go on, it may be days before we receive anything else.”

      “Do what you can to get the newspapers, English and Chinese ones. They’ll probably be littering the streets later in the day. I want to see what cartoons and stories appear in the mosquito press. That will give us some idea what we’re facing before things settle.”

      I searched through the house to see if anyone else was worried. Three of the menservants and the cook were smoking in the front courtyard. Confetti from yellow paper littered the ground. They were the ones who had set off the firecrackers, and they were now gloating over the powerlessness of the little Manchu emperor and his haughty eunuchs. No longer would the empress and her Pekingese dogs be more important than starving people!

      “My uncle became a Boxer after half our family starved to death,” said one servant. “It was the worst flood in a hundred years—maybe even two hundred. It came over us quick as swamp fog. Then came the dry year. Not a drop of rain. One disaster after another.” They took turns with a match to light their pipes.

      The cook chimed in: “If a man has lost everything, he fights back without fear.”

      “We’ve kicked out the Ching,” another man said, “and the foreigners are next.”

      The cook