“People are brave in different ways, Jade.”
Because it had been such a nice, sunny day, it stayed balmy even as the darkness ripened. Many young lovers were promenading on the boulevard, and the shops played their SP records outside so that passersby could join in. Soft, hazy, nocturnal noises—laughter, a car engine, a dog barking—broke through the calm surface of silence, like muffled voices behind a drawn curtain onstage. Jade breathed in deeply the mixture of sounds and the smell of lilac. Everywhere around them, life was happening without their knowing, and their lives were also happening in the presence of all else. All existences were touching lightly as air and leaving invisible fingerprints.
“It’s too dark now,” she said softly.
“Let’s get you home. But we’ll find her soon, Jade. I go everywhere in the city, and know many people besides. I’ll find her for you.”
They turned a corner and headed in the direction of Jade’s house. Somewhere nearby a record was playing and grew louder as they approached. A crowd of a few dozen people were standing in front of the record store, singing along to the latest hit. The SP had a vellum quality that caressed the atmosphere. The rounded plucking of the double bass was like rain pattering on water.
“It’s ‘Manchu Tango,’” Jade told him. “It wasn’t going to pass censorship with that title though, so they changed it to ‘Mandu Tango.’ But everyone knows it’s really about moving to Manchuria and missing home. Apparently the activists in the north took it up as their anthem.” The crowd was changing mandu to Manchu in the refrain, and young couples were discreetly swaying side by side with their hands intertwined.
JungHo turned to her and held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?” He had a nervous twinkle in his eyes. The crisp crease of his pants, the carefully combed hair—all the effort he made, principally, for her—made her wish she liked him that way.
“We can’t, we’ll get arrested.” She smiled in apology. Ballroom dancing was officially illegal, and although everyone knew that people danced in cafés and secret clubs, doing so on the streets was out of the question.
“It’s so dark and no one will notice,” JungHo said, hand still outstretched. He appeared determined but just under the surface she knew he was terrified of embarrassing himself. Even the darkness of the night and his own permanent tan couldn’t hide the redness rising to his cheeks. She took his right hand with her left, then they stood both facing the gramophone and rocked side to side.
Jade closed her eyes. JungHo’s hand locked around her own was hot and clammy. She tried to imagine that it was HanChol’s hand that she was holding, but nothing about their hands was alike. HanChol’s had been well shaped with long and sturdy fingers and she’d loved even the greenish veins that stood up under the skin. But more than their appearance it was the touch that revealed all their differences. The older courtesans used to joke that men were indistinguishable once you blew out the candle. In reality, when you stopped looking at their expressions and hearing their words and focused simply on how they felt, you perceived their disparity more keenly. If love was just the deepest shade of friendship, so deep as to look like a distinct color but actually on the same spectrum of loyalty, then she loved JungHo. So much. But if it was something else altogether, then she did not.
The calm fabric of the night was torn by a sound like an approaching thunderstorm. But the moon was still visible in the blue-black sky—it was the roar of engines that buried the music. People stopped singing and watched as army trucks rolled by, flying the Japanese flag on their hoods and carrying soldiers in the back. Suddenly, people were murmuring among themselves: “Japan is attacking Beijing. It’s finally happening.”
“China gave up Manchuria, but it will rouse itself for its mainland.”
“They’ve woken up the sleeping giant.”
“Shh, the birds and the mice have ears. Watch what you say.”
“It was bad enough as it is . . . A full-out war and we’ll likely all get killed.”
“What’s going on?” Jade asked, rapidly being pulled out of her dream world by the noises rushing around her. JungHo was saying something but his words were being drowned by the sirens. The yellow headlights of the trucks glared into her face and she closed her eyes once more. The only thing she felt sure of was the firm grip of JungHo’s hand, not letting go.
Part III
1941–1948
21
Purple Shadows
1941
WHEN JUNGHO ARRIVED AT THE BACK GATE OF THE OLD CHINESE RESTAURANT, an unfamiliar guard with a shaved head was posted outside.
“Password,” the guard said, crossing his arms over his vast chest. JungHo paused; he hadn’t heard that there was a new door policy.
“Nam JungHo,” he said at last.
“Ah, oyabun!” The numbskull—as JungHo called him in his mind—snapped to attention and bowed deeply from the waist. “Please forgive my ignorance!” He opened the door as wide as the hinges would allow, and the shorter man passed through.