The ‘Dragon Face’

Dearest Rachel –

It was one of those weird dreams that came to me last night. I’m not sure if it can be fleshed out for you in the limited time between waking up and its dissipation, but I’ll try.

The story seemed to center on a girl born in either China or Indochina; while I’m sure the difference is obvious to those living there, I don’t have that ability, and it was my mind constructing the scene, so it may have gotten some (a lot of?) details completely wrong. Not that it really matters, being a dream, but still, it felt like some kind of legend, and it would be nice to get it right.

Granted, it was set in the relatively recent past rather than the distant past; the girl in question was still alive, and still searching for a similarly marked fellow. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

As you might guess, the story centers around a girl, born to a poor family in a crowded Asian city (so you can see why I couldn’t ascertain the specifics of where this took place; once urbanized, it’s hard to determine the precise setting of such a story, as cities – and especially their slums – look depressingly similar). A local shaman claimed that the girl was possessed of what he referred to as a ‘dragon face,’ which in such cultures would sound like a good thing, and it did have its advantages. Apparently, she would be blessed with a particularly long life and a strong sense of morality, but the cost of this would be a life of grinding poverty for her and all those around her (unless she were to go into a life of crime, at which point hers would practically be a charmed life).

Now her family, being poor and living in a poor neighborhood, saw no reason to punish her for the drawbacks her mark – which was invisible to all except the shaman (and, presumably, the girl herself) – bestowed upon her. They were already poor, as were their neighbors and the entire community surrounding them; what harm could she bring that they weren’t already enduring? So her childhood was no different than that of any other child growing up in the area, apart from working in the bar and cafe across the street from their apartment as soon as she was old enough. If she noticed anything different about herself, she never gave any indication of it, nor tried to draw attention to it.

It was at her job where she met a black fellow who was a regular at the bar. Maybe he was a G.I. who had gone native and settled down there; maybe he was a half-breed product of a union with such a fellow back during the war. It wasn’t explained to either her or myself. But over time, she found him to be a kindred spirit in both his outsider status – by this point, it had been explained to her as to who she was – and in his cheerful acceptance of his fate of being a perpetual outsider in a society into which he couldn’t blend in.

As might be expected of a cheerful barfly, he had something of a reputation for singing when in his cups, particularly the Banana Boat Song (the one that starts its chorus with a cry of “dayyy-oh, da-a-a-ay-oh”). It was practically a signature tune for him, to the point where the opening cry would be enough for the owner to indicate to the girl to get out there and tend to ‘her’ customer, which would get her to blush before heading out to get his order. It was clear to the master of the bar that she was sweet on him, but it was equally clear to all concerned that the relationship would never be more than one of a waitress and her regular customer, for all they might wish otherwise.

Somewhere along the way, however, the customer stopped coming, abruptly and with no explanation. A couple of days passed by, and both the bar staff and the girl’s family began to worry, The fellow may not have been suitor material, but he was a good friend (and, to a certain extent, a good provider, if you can say that of a customer), and she was doing poorly in his absence. Finally, she was advised to go and seek him out, and discover what happened to him, to which she agreed, and also disappeared from the scene.

It was at this point that I think I may have entered the scene itself, after having observed these proceedings from a distance up until now. Apparently, I had wandered into that same bar and cafe, years later; it was fairly prosperous and somewhat upscale, having been acquired by the girl’s family after her departure when the old owner passed away. It would seem that her ‘dragon face’ had, in fact, been holding them back, to some extent. As for me, it seemed that I was being told the tale because I had wandered into the cafe whistling the tune I had heard from the scenes prior to being a part of the story myself; the strains of the Banana Boat Song triggered a memory of sorts with the family.

I asked them if their daughter had found anything out about her former customer, and they admitted that they hadn’t heard anything from her since she went to look for him in the first place, all those years ago. They feared for her, to a certain extent, but given the hard life that she’d been raised in, it was greeted with a shrug of ‘what can you do? Life is like that sometimes.’

It’s a kind of story where you expect the girl to have maybe become some kind of crime boss, in partnership with her former customer (who may have been a pimp in a past life, but who knows? That’s probably stereotyping), but no. Both of them just vanished, with no indication of what became of them. Likewise, there was no real continuation of the dragon motif to the updated cafe in her honor or memory. I will say that, among the local watering holes, it was doing brisk business with the tourist trade, especially those of African descent; they didn’t seem to be making a specific effort to draw such customers in, but somehow they were getting them. Again, from a narrative standpoint, you’d expect me to be able to see the ‘dragon face’ on a number of their clientele, but no. Hey, it’s not as if I’m a shaman or anything.

Sorry I don’t have this wrapped up with a nice, neat bow, honey. Dreams are like that; they fade and cut off with little proper resolution. Sure, you can draw additional conclusions to it all – and as I’ve said before, it’s the same head making it all up, only after the fact, so technically it’s all good – but I’m going to leave it there for now. Whether it can go somewhere from here, whether it means anything more than the ephemera it was, is irrelevant; all I need to do is to get it out here and walk away.

And as I continue to walk, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it.