China Dolls A novel

Lisa See

Book - 2014

"The New York Times bestselling author of Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, Peony In Love, Shanghai Girls, and Dreams of Joy returns with her highly anticipated new novel. A bold and bittersweet story of secrets and sacrifice, love and betrayal, prejudice and passion, China Dolls reveals a rich portrait of female friendship, as three young women navigate the "Chop Suey Circuit"--America's extravagant all-Asian revues of the 1930s and '40s--and endure the attack on Pearl Harbor and the shadow of World War II"--

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Subjects
Genres
Historical fiction
Published
New York : Random House [2014]
Language
English
Main Author
Lisa See (author)
Edition
First edition
Physical Description
383 pages ; 25 cm
ISBN
9780812982824
9780812992892
Contents unavailable.
Review by New York Times Review

See brings her "Sex and the City"-meets-historical-fiction act to World War II-era San Francisco, focusing on three young women who come up together on the "Chop Suey Circuit" - all-Asian nightclub shows for mostly white audiences. The setup is familiar, with each girl a type: Helen comes from the traditional family of a well-heeled Chinatown merchant; Grace escaped an abusive home in the Midwest; and Ruby is a scrappy climber, a Japanese dancer "passing" as Chinese. They pledge everlasting friendship to one another, only to see their bond suffer the ravages of fame, time and war, particularly after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. There's also a boy to fight over, of course, and some serious spotlight hogging. The book can get a little soap-operatic, and each woman telling her story in the first person occasionally makes for some confusion, since none of their voices are truly distinct. The best bits come in the details, the way the girls simply accept being exoticized sex objects as the price of being an "Oriental" dancer - and often play to stereotypes in their desperation to be noticed. It all adds up to a fascinating portrait of life as a Chinese-American woman in the 1930s and '40s.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [April 24, 2019]
Review by Booklist Review

The lives of three young Chinese-American women Grace, Helen, and Ruby intersect in valuable and often violent ways in pre-WWII San Francisco as they shed their drab former lives to become glamorous entertainers at the city's rising hot spot, the Forbidden City nightclub. Despite their divergent backgrounds, a mutual desire to shatter the cultural stereotypes that doom them to lives of familial subservience feeds their ambition to prosper in a world in which the definition of success changes minute by minute. Though they've taken a one for all vow of eternal loyalty, each harbors secrets that cause a pervasive atmosphere of distrust to simmer just below the surface. When Ruby is revealed to actually be of Japanese heritage and deported to an internment camp, their friendships and fortunes suffer a mortal blow, one that only deepens as the war rages on. In her impeccably researched and distinctive historical saga of desire and ambition, betrayal and revenge set amid the glitz and debauchery of burlesque entertainment on the chop suey circuit, See (Dreams of Joy, 2011) again lavishly explores the thorny intricacies of female friendships. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: The alluring setting of always-popular Lisa See's latest work of women-oriented historical fiction will be vigorously promoted in print, radio, and online as the author embarks on a 10-city tour.--Haggas, Carol Copyright 2014 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In the beginning of See's (Snow Flower and the Secret Fan) stellar ninth book, three young women, Grace, Helen, and Ruby, meet and form an unlikely but strong bond in San Francisco in 1938, as the Golden Gate International Exhibition is about to open. Grace has run from an abusive father in the Midwest; Helen is trapped by her traditional family in Chinatown after a devastating loss; Ruby is Japanese, desperate to pass as Chinese to stay employed as the U.S. moves closer to war with Japan. They become performers at the Forbidden City Nightclub and face the difficulty of being Asian in an Occidental world, as well as the additional conflict of prejudice within their own community. The novel spans 50 years, following the women's tumultuous personal lives and roller-coaster career choices. Yet somehow the three always find a way back to each other, and come through for each other in the darkest of times. The story alternates between their viewpoints, with each woman's voice strong and dynamic, developing a multilayered richness as it progresses. The depth of See's characters and her winning prose makes this book a wonderful journey through love and loss. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

The Chinese American nightclub era comes to life in See's (Snow Flower and the Secret Fan) latest novel, which revolves around three young women coming of age in San Francisco during World War II. Grace, Helen, and Ruby meet and become instant friends while auditioning as showgirls at the Forbidden City, a Chinese nightclub and cabaret. But then the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor happens, and everything changes. The girls soon discover that they each carry secrets that will shake one another to the core. As the world slips further into war and tensions regarding Asian Americans rise, each woman's livelihood, heart, and strength will be tested. Can the seductive Ruby, dutiful Helen, and "white-washed" Grace find a way to keep their friendship alive? -VERDICT While this novel is definitely slower paced than the author's prior works, See's many fans will still enjoy watching each protagonist's true story unfold; they will also be intrigued by the vivacity of the "Chop Suey Circuit." These colorful and fascinating historical touches tie the story together perfectly and form an exquisite backdrop for the adventures of the three friends. [See Prepub Alert, 12/16/13.]-Chelsie Harris, San Diego Cty. Lib. (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

See's latest follows three Asian-American showgirls whose dreams are derailed then reset by the onset of World War II.In the late 1930s, Grace, a talented dancer, comes to San Francisco from Ohio to flee the beatings of her father. Helen, who fled China under circumstances not immediately revealed, lives with her parents and extended family in a Chinatown compound. Ruby defies her parents, who plan to return to Japan, by staying in San Francisco to pursue a showbiz career. The three young women meet while auditioning for jobs in a new "Oriental" nightclub, Charlie Low's Forbidden City, which will feature an all-Asian cast of chorines, ballroom dancers, chanteuses and crooners. Grace and Helen are cast, but Ruby is notbecause of Japanese aggression in China, Chinatown is hostile toward all Japanese. She finds a job dancing semi-nude in Sally Rand's traveling show. Ruby and Grace fall out over a man, Joe, a lo fan ("white ghost," or Caucasian), and Grace and Helen strive to break into movie musicals. However, racial barriers in Hollywood are insurmountable, and they return to Forbidden City. There, Ruby, now headlining as Chinese Princess Tai, performs a Rand-inspired bubble dance, employing a large beach ball as her gimmick. Grace becomes Ruby's dresser, and Helen dances backward in high heels as the partner of Eddie, billed as the Chinese Fred Astaire, whom she marries. After Pearl Harbor, the U.S. government, fearing an enemy invasion, interns all Japanese residents of the West Coast, whether U.S. citizens or not, in camps. Ruby's Chinese disguise works for a while, until it doesn't, and she's arrested and interned in Utah. For Grace, Ruby and Helen, the war will bring more upheavalsand opportunities. The episodic and creaky plot staggers under the weight of See's considerable research into the careers and lifestyles of the actual stars of the all-Asian revue craze of the 1930s and '40s.Still, a welcome spotlight on an overlooked segment of showbiz history. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Part One The Sun October 1938-- July 1940 Grace A Measly Girl I traveled west---alone---on the cheapest bus routes I could find. Every mile took me farther from Plain City, Ohio, where I'd been a flyspeck on the wallpaper of small--town life. Each new state I passed throughloosened another rope around my heart, my legs, my arms, yet my whole body ached and I couldn't shake my vertigo. I lived on aspirin, crackers, and soda pop. I cried and cried and cried. On the eighth day, California. Many hours after crossing the boundary,I got off the bus and pulled my sweater a little more tightly around me. I expected sun and warmth, but on that October afternoon, fog hung over San Francisco, damp, and shockingly cold. Picking up my suitcase, I left the bus station and started to walk. The receptionists at the cheap hotels I visited told me they were full. "Go to Chinatown," they suggested. "You can get a room there." I had noidea where Chinatown was, so that didn't help me. And I'll say this about San Francisco: lots of hills, water on practically every side, and, it seemed to me, not a single street ran purely in any one direction. Finally, a man at a fleabag took my money---adollar a day, in advance---and gave me a key to a room. I washed my hair in the basin and put it up in pin curls, then leaned in to the mirror to examine what remained of my injuries. My forehead had healed completely, but the inside of my skull continued to swim frombeing banged against the kitchen floor. The skin over my ribs was mottled green, gray, and purple. My shoulder still felt swollen and stiff from being dislocated and then jammed back into place, but the cut on my lip had nearly disappeared. I turned away andsat on the edge of the bed, hungry but too frightened to go out, and listening to the sound of God knows what coming through the walls. I opened my purse and pulled out the magazine clipping Miss Miller, who'd taught me dance from the age of four, had torn from a magazine and given to me a few months earlier. I smoothed the advertisement with mypalm so I could study the artist's sketch of the Golden Gate International Exposition. Even its location on Treasure Island seemed to beckon. "See, Grace, they're looking for six thousand workers," Miss Miller had said. "Dancers, singers, welders, carpenters.The whole works." She'd sighed then. "I wanted to go so many places when I was young, but it takes guts---and talent---to leave everything and everyone you know. You could do it, though." Her few words and that slip of paper had given me the courage to believeI actually could. After all, I'd won first prize at the Plain City Fair for my tap dancing and singing when I was seven and had held the title ever since. You always planned to leave home, I told myself. Just because you had to escape sooner than expected doesn't mean you can't still fly to the stars. But my pep talk---in a scary hotel room, in a strange city, in the middle of the night---did little to ease my fears. Once in bed, I could practically see the walls closing in around me. To calm myself, I began aroutine I'd invented as a small child, running my hands the length of my arms (a broken tibia when I was three; my mom told Doc Haverford I fell down the stairs), slipping along my sides (several broken and fractured ribs over the years), and then lifting eachleg and squeezing all the way to my feet (my legs had been a frequent target until I started dancing). The ritual both strengthened and soothed me. I was now alone in the world, with no home to return to and no one to rely on, but if I could survive my father'sbeatings and the petty prejudices of my hometown, then I could triumph over whatever obstacles the future threw my way. Maybe. Hopefully. The next morning, I combed out my hair, sweeping up the sides and letting the curls billow below, the way Carole Lombard did in My Man Godfrey. I put on the dress my dad bought for me when he took us toCincinnati to buy supplies for the laundry. I'd chosen a dusty--rose--colored cotton frock, with a geometric print composed of interlocking mustard--yellow and steel--gray squares. Mom said the pattern of the fabric and cut of the dress looked too mature forme---and maybe that was so---but now I considered myself lucky to be wearing something so sophisticated. Filled with a sense of determination, I went downstairs and onto the street. I asked directions on nearly every corner and managed to find my way to the Ferry Building, where I boarded the boat to Treasure Island,about halfway across the bay and just under the Bay Bridge. I imagined everyone onboard was seeking a job at the Golden Gate International Exposition. As excited as I was, the pulse of the ferry through the choppy water roused my vertigo and my hunger untilI felt, once again, dizzy and sick. Once we reached the dock, everyone walked fast, wanting to be first in line for interviews. Me too. I spotted my first palm trees, which was thrilling because they meant I surely was in California. I'd never seen anythinglike the fair's entrance. Giant towers composed of stacked cubes crowned by stylized elephants bookended the gate. Beyond, I glimpsed spires still clothed in scaffolding. My ears pounded from the sounds of hammers, the buzz of electric saws, the rumble of tractors,bulldozers, and flatbed trucks, and the shouts of men calling out orders and cursing the way they do on construction sites. "Will they be done on time?" a man's voice asked very close to my ear. I jumped, spiraling into the terror I experienced around my dad. I swung around to find a young Occidental man about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and sandy--colored hair. He put up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry I scared you." His mouth spread into a contrite smile as I met his deep blue eyes. He looked older than I---maybe around twenty. He extended his hand. "My name's Joe." "I'm Grace." No last names. I liked that. "I'm looking for a job as a rolling--chair boy." He didn't bother to explain what that was. "But the real reason I'm here is that I love planes, and I love to fly." Up ahead, the others from the ferry disappeared through the gate. "I love planes so much that my parents told me if I got straight A s in high school they'd let me take flying lessons," Joe continued, sure of my interest. "I trained in a Piper Cub. I learned how to takeoff, land, what to do in a stall, and how to pull out of a spin. Now I have my pilot's license." This told me, among other things, that his family had to be pretty well--off. "What does that have to do with rolling chairs?" He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "Pan Am's Clipper ships are going to be taking off and landing right here at Treasure Island!" I nodded, pretending interest when I didn't know what in the heck he was talking about. "I've been chewing your ear off," Joe acknowledged. "Sorry about that. What are you doing here?" "I'm a dancer." "Neat." He pointed his chin toward the gate. "We'd better catch up." When I stumbled a bit in my low--slung heels, he grabbed my arm to steady me, and I instinctively pulled away. His eyes went banjo big. I could tell he was about to apologize again. "Where are you from?" I blurted, hoping to shift his attention. "Winnetka, Illinois. I'm going to Cal." Seeing my confusion, he explained, "The University of California. It's over there." He pointed east. "In Berkeley. I live in a fraternity house. How about you?" "Plain City, Ohio." "Haven't heard of it, but we're both from the Midwest, and our states are practically neighbors. Friends?" I nodded. He sure was a nice guy---good--looking, and I liked the way the left side of his mouth tweaked up when he smiled. "Whew!" He wiped his forehead in mock relief. He was funny too. When we had all reached the trailer, a man---wearing gray flannel trousers, a leather jacket zipped halfway up his chest, and a charcoal--colored trilby pulled down to shield his eyes from the sun---jumped on a crateand spoke above the din around us: "A lot of you have come from far away. That's great! We need plenty of folks to get this place up and running. If you're a painter, electrician, or plumber, head over to the Court of the Seven Seas. Harry will lead the way." Half the folks followed the man pointed out as Harry. "I figure the rest of you are here to apply for either service or performance jobs," the man in the trilby continued. "If you want to drive one of the elephant trams, work in a concession, become a rolling--chairboy, barker, waitress, fireman, or cop, then go to the Court of Flowers. No flowers there yet, just another trailer like this one." "That's my cue," Joe whispered. Then, "Good luck!" He peeled away with a large group. He turned to look back at me, gave me a thumbs--up and another smile, both of which I returned. He strode with such confidence that dust kicked up around his shoes. Through theracket around me, I could just make out him whistling "All of Me." I loved that song. The man in the hat sized up those who remained. "All right then," he said. "If you're here to be models, dancers, or musicians, you're with me. I'll see you one at a time. After a preliminary look--see, I'll sendyou on to auditions. If you make the cut . . . Aw, hell," he said with a casual wave of his hand. "You know the drill. Line up here." One person after another entered the trailer and then exited five or so minutes later with either a grin or a grimace. I tried to prepare myself for the questions I might be asked about my dance experience, andonce again my father came into my mind. He may have beat me at home, but he liked to boast to others about how many ribbons and apple--pie prizes I'd won. He'd pushed me to be an "all--American girl," which meant that he let me go to the Rialto to watch musicalsto inspire me to practice even harder. I adored Eleanor Powell in Broadway Melody of 1936, in which she danced without music. I saw that movie maybe ten times, and then tried to re--create her steps at every opportunity: on the sidewalk outside the theater,at Miss Mil-ler's studio, and in our family's laundry. Of course, the kids in school made fun of me when I said I wanted to be a star. "You? An Oriental girl?" They had a point. It wasn't like there were any famous Chinese movie stars apart from Anna May Wong,and she didn't sing or dance as far as I knew. Then I saw Dorothy Toy and Paul Wing---a Chinese dance team---in the whimsically titled With Best Dishes. I decided if they could make it, why not me? But would any of that help me now? I suddenly feltvery apprehensive and very alone. When my turn came, I entered the trailer and closed the door behind me as I'd seen others do. The man motioned for me to sit. "Your name?" "Grace Lee." "How old are you?" "Old enough to sing and dance," I answered pertly. I wanted to be a star, so no matter how desperate I was, I had to act like one. "I'm good." The man pinched his chin as he considered my response. "You're Oriental," he observed, "and you're quite the knockout. Problem is, I don't have anything for you." I opened my purse, pulled out Miss Miller's clipping, and pushed it across the desk. "It says here you need performers for the Cavalcade of the Golden West---" "That's a big show. Hundreds of performers. But I don't need an Oriental girl." "What about at the Japanese Pavilion?" I asked, my false confidence instantly eroding. "I came from so far away. I really need a job." "It's the Depression, kid. Everyone needs a job." He glanced again at my application. "And I hate to break it to you, but you aren't Japanese. Grace Lee, that's Chinese, right?" "Will anyone know?" "Kid, I doubt anyone can tell the difference. Can you?" I shrugged. I'd never seen a Japanese. I'd never seen a Chinese either other than my mother, my father, and my own reflection in the mirror---and Anna May Wong, Toy and Wing, and a couple of Orientals playing maidsand butlers on the silver screen, but those weren't in real life---so how could I be certain of the difference between a Japanese and a Chinese? I only knew my mother's thin cheeks and chapped hands and my father's weathered face and wiry arms. Like that, myeyes began to well. What if I failed? What if I had to go home? "We don't have Orientals where I'm from," I admitted, "but I've always heard that they all look alike." "Be that as it may, I've been told to be authentic . . ." He snapped his fingers. "I've got it. There's going to be a Chinese Village. Those folks are doing their own hiring. Maybe I can get you set as a dancerfrom China." "I'm not from China. I was born here." Unconcerned, he picked up the phone. I listened as he suggested me to the person I assumed was in charge of the Chinese Village. He dropped the receiver back in the cradle. "They aren't hiring dancers in a permanentway. With all the troubles in China, it wouldn't be right." Troubles in China? I'd read about Germany's aggression in Europe in the Plain City Advocate, but the newspaper came out only once a week. It barely covered events in Europe and never in Asia, so I was ignorantabout all things Chinese except Chinese rice wine, which my mom made and sold out our back door on Friday and Saturday nights to the men in Plain City---a place as dry as chalk even after Prohibition ended. My mind pondered these things, but they were just adiversion from my panic. "What about on the Gayway?" I remembered that from Miss Miller's advertisement. "That's a carnival. I don't see you there at all." "I've been to a carnival before---" "Not like this one." "I can do it," I insisted, but he'd better not try sending me to a hoochie--coochie tent like they had for men at the Plain City Fair. I'd never do that. He shook his head. "You're a regular China doll. If I put you in the Gayway, the men would eat you up." My five minutes were done, but the man didn't dismiss me. Instead, he stared at me, taking in my dress, my shoes, the way I'd curled and combed my hair. I lowered my eyes and sat quietly. Perhaps it was proof ofhow the most innocent can remain safe---or that the man really was of good character---that he didn't try or even suggest any funny business. "I'll do anything," I said, my voice now shaking, "even if it's boring or menial---" "That's not the way to sell yourself, kid." "I could work in a hamburger stand if I had to. Maybe one of the performers in the Cavalcade of the Golden West will get sick. You should have someone like me around, just in case." "You can try the concessions," he responded dubiously. "But you've got a big problem. Your gams are good, and your contours and promontories are in the right places. You've got a face that could crush a lily. Butyour accent---" "My accent?" "Yeah. You don't have one. You've got to stop talking all perfect. You need to do the ching--chong thing." Never! My father spoke in heavily accented English, even though he was born here. He always blamed it on the fact that he'd grown up in a lumber camp in the Sierras, where he lived with his father, who conversedonly in Chinese. My mother's English was flawless. She was born in China but came to America so early that she'd lost her accent entirely. How she was raised---somehow living far enough from other Chinese that she didn't have an accent---was never discussed.The one time I asked, my father smacked me. In any case, the three of us could understand each other only if we communicated in English. And even if we all had spoken the same dialect, my father would never have allowed us to use it. Speaking English meansyou are American, and we must be American at all times. Reciting sentences like I hear you cut school again and what's the big deal? showed we were assimilated. But all that didn't mean Dad wouldn't exaggerate his accent for his customersif he calculated it would make them happy. Excerpted from China Dolls: A Novel by Lisa See All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.