laughing. I bent my head as she clipped, the nape of my exposed neck frighteningly vulnerable. She cut bangs in front and when I raised my eyes, she smiled.
“Look beautiful,” she said. “Look exactly like Louise Brooks.”
Who was Louise Brooks anyway? Apparently, a silent movie star who was wildly popular a few years ago. I blushed. It was difficult to get used to the new fashion, in which flat-chested tomboys like me should suddenly become popular. Of course, being in Malaya and on the far outskirts of the Empire, we were sadly behind in style. British ladies who came East complained of being six to twelve months behind the London fashions. It was no surprise, then, that the craze for ballroom dancing and cropped hair was finally hitting Ipoh, when they’d been in full swing elsewhere for quite a while. I touched the shaved nape of my neck, afraid that I looked more like a boy than ever.
The Mama, shifting her large bulk practically, said, “You’ll need a name. Preferably English. We’ll call you Louise.”
* * *
So it was as Louise that I was dancing the tango that afternoon of June third. Despite the faltering stock market, our bustling town of Ipoh was giddy with the rush of new buildings built on the wealth of tin and rubber exports. It was raining, an unusually heavy downpour for midafternoon. The sky turned the color of iron, and the electric light had to be switched on, much to the dismay of the management. Rain drummed loudly on the tin roof, which the bandleader, a little Goanese with a skinny moustache, tried his best to drown out.
The craze for Western dancing had led to the mushrooming of public dance halls on the outskirts of every town. Some were grand affairs, like the newly built Celestial Hotel, while others were no more than large sheds open to the tropical breeze. Professional dancers like myself were kept in a pen, as though we were chickens or sheep. The pen was a section of seats separated by a ribbon. Pretty girls sat there, each with a numbered paper rosette pinned to her breast. Bouncers ensured that nobody approached us unless they had a ticket, though it didn’t stop some men from trying.
I was rather surprised that someone asked me to tango. I’d never learned it properly at Miss Lim’s dancing school, where, as consolation for being forced to leave school by my stepfather, I’d been taught to waltz and, more daringly, foxtrot. The tango, however, wasn’t taught. It was too risqué, although we’d all seen Rudolph Valentino dance it in black and white.
When I started at the May Flower, my friend Hui had said I’d better learn it.
“You look like a modern girl,” she said. “You’re bound to get requests.”
Dear Hui. She was the one who taught me, the two of us staggering around like drunkards. Still, she tried her best.
“Well, perhaps nobody will ask,” she said hopefully, after a sudden lurch almost brought us down.
Of course, she’d been wrong. I quickly learned that the kind of man who requested the tango was usually a buaya, and the one on that ill-fated forty-fourth day was no exception.
* * *
He was a salesman, he said. Specializing in school and office supplies. Immediately, I recalled the crisp cardboard scent of my school notebooks. I’d loved school, but that door was closed to me now. All that remained was the idle chatter and heavy feet of this salesman who told me that stationery was a steady business to be in, though he could do better, he was sure of it.
“You have good skin.” His breath smelled like garlicky Hainanese chicken rice. Not knowing what to say, I concentrated on my poor trampled feet. It was a hopeless situation, since the salesman seemed to think that the tango consisted of striking sudden and dramatic poses.
“I used to sell cosmetics.” Too close again. “I know a lot about women’s skin.”
Leaning back, I increased the distance between us. As we made a turn, he jerked hard so that I staggered against him. I suspected he’d done it on purpose, but his hand made an involuntary movement towards his pocket, as though he was worried something might fall out.
“Do you know,” he said, smiling, “that there are ways to keep a woman young and beautiful forever? With needles.”
“Needles?” I asked, curious despite thinking this was one of the worst pickup lines I’d heard.
“In western Java, there are women who stick very fine gold