Mei Niang (梅娘), one of the most important writers in Manchukuo, published《侨民》, translated here as “The Strangers’ Apparel”, in 1941. The story follows the angst and musings of a Chinese woman living in Japan when a Korean couple offers their seat on the train. She wonders why they offer her the seat and goes through a number of possibilities, all based on assumptions and deductions she makes about their clothing. As she compares their clothes to her own, we find that her concerns relate to anxieties about gender equality, class, and being a foreigner in imperial Japan.

Excerpt

It was a little cold for late winter. The dark sky cast a heavy gloom that practically pressed upon one’s face. Japan’s especially humid climate saturated everything and everywhere with dampness. Even one’s exposed hands would appear to be wet.

Pulling off my mask and breathing heavily, I hurriedly hopped onto the Osaka-Kobe train as the final bell rang. The car was packed full of people. I knew it would be hard to find a seat in the chaos of a Saturday afternoon. I leaned against the train door and covered my face with the newspaper I was carrying.

The train began to move. Kansai’s famous “Osaka Express” rail line only took twenty-five minutes to get from the smoke of Osaka to the quiet seafront of Kobe.

The train sped along. Outside the window, some places had already harvested their perfectly square rice paddies. Clear water flickered with a strange light under a leaden sky, making me think of the sea. On the contrary, I knew the ocean to be dark, with white waves blooming atop the black water. Waves do not shimmer—it’s just the pearls below bursting and scattering about, their light cryptic. I would rush to see them. I wanted to take off my shoes and dash across the wet sand. I’d let the ocean breeze blow around me and take shelter in my hair. The sharp scent of the wind. An overcast sky. There wouldn’t be any people at the beach on a cloudy spring day. I could go listen to the tidal waves—that majestic music of nature—all alone. If it rained, I could hide out in the old lifeguard’s small shelter. He’s never discriminated against me for being a foreigner. I thought of the charcoal stove in that room and the worn-out straw mat with holes in its weave. I vaguely noticed the train slowing down.

I took my eyes from the window to the newspaper on my face. I wanted to doze off. No, I wanted to cry. Oh, the loneliness of the sun setting on the water! On a day like today, I don’t think I’d be in a pleasant enough mood even to hear an old friend recite the fairytale of Urashima Taro, who rode a turtle to visit the Dragon Palace under the sea. Such a moving underwater romance. Why shouldn’t he have gone to the sea? Should he have stayed in the city, only to squeeze through a sweaty crowd to buy a ticket to see a triple feature about the joys and sorrows of some American girls?

Someone jarred me with their elbow. I lowered the newspaper down from my face. A tall figure stood behind me. His face was a ruddy red color, and he wore a black overcoat. Looking me in the eyes, he pointed to one of two seats across from him, which was not, in fact, empty. A Korean woman in white was sitting there. He called out to her, saying something I couldn’t understand. The woman stood up, nervously holding up the edge of her long dress. He motioned for me to take the seat.

What did he mean by this? I did not understand. The train had already been going for nearly five minutes—why offer me the seat now? I didn’t appear to be tired. I only had a newspaper, which could easily be folded up and put inside my pocket. I was also holding a sad piece of candy in my hand. I really didn’t have a reason to take that woman’s place. I didn’t move. Looking at him, I replaced my newspaper as before.

His already rust-colored face burned redder with embarrassment. He offered a stiff bow and mouthed something with his lips. The woman, still standing, looked at me with apprehensive eyes, which then glanced over at the red-faced man. She fidgeted with the pull ties on her dress for a while.

I went and sat down without any more hesitation.

After a while, the woman bent forward to stand in front of me, grabbing onto the strap above her head.

“What strange people!” I thought. I started to observe this couple. “Was it because of my clothes?”

My clothes weren’t all that refined. My black overcoat was only slightly cleaner than his, and there was a tear about one inch long in the left pocket. “Then it’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it!”

Perhaps. I didn’t have any other women with me. When I got on the train, there had been two other beautifully dressed women standing where I was, but they had covered their mouths with delicate white handkerchiefs and moved to the part of the car where the other well-dressed people stood.

I put the newspaper over my face again. I could feel the woman looking at me stealthily, like a mouse waiting to come out of its hole. Pretending not to notice, I lifted the paper a little higher. From underneath, I could see the floor.

She was wearing Korean-style reddish-brown open-toed slippers with white socks, also Korean-made. I thought, “She must be new to Japan.” The Korean women I had seen all wore wooden Japanese sandals and the men wore rubber split-toed jika-tabi socks, like other Japanese laborers. The markets here don’t sell these kind of pointed-toe Korean rubber shoes.

Her shoes made me think of the man. What about him? I looked up from the floor and sought him out. He was wearing leather shoes and they weren’t too worn out. Even though there was a little patch, it didn’t take away from the whole appearance. The shoes were very shiny. Obviously, they had been carefully polished. Leather shoes were hard to get in Japan. Such precious leather shoes!

I put the paper down to measure him up more naturally. […]