One Bright Moon

by Andrew Kwong

  ‘“Shut her up, or get rid of her!” someone roared, low but authoritative, from the cabin. We all fell silent.’ Baba stopped. His face twisted a little as he tried to compose himself. ‘Damn it,’ he murmured, before he continued his story. ‘That voice was familiar but I couldn’t place the person. I felt cold in the middle of the rising heat. Somehow that voice had held all of my fears over the years. It was like anticipating an executioner’s swift hand to deliver silence.

  ‘The child’s father snatched her from his wife and held his hand over her face. She struggled, turning red and then blue. Her little body writhed and her legs kicked. Soon the kicking slowed to twitches and jerks. The mother tried to prise her husband’s hands away. She pleaded with him, saying she would take the child and jump into the sea.

  ‘At that point, Ding-yan charged over and pulled the child away from the father. Poor girl, she was already limp.’ My father turned to his friend. ‘And you cried out, “No! We are not going to let the child die.”’

  Third Aunt was rolling her beads in her trembling hands as she listened. Her downcast eyes now flooded with tears. ‘Mercy, mercy,’ she murmured. ‘Please, Goddess of Mercy, please, Buddha, have mercy.’

  Baba sank into his seat and held me close. After a moment or two, he went on, ‘The girl drew a breath, then another. Her face turned pink, then red as she gasped for more air. Before long she lapsed into a deep sleep in her mother’s arms. The rest of the passengers sighed, and remained in silence. Ding-yan and another young man helped comfort the parents. Keeping his voice soft but firm, he said to the people, “We live and die together on this boat.” He then reassured us we were only a short distance from Macau, and that we should conserve our energy for the crossing. People quietly applauded, their wet eyes lifted with new hope. I pulled Ding-yan aside and told him of my concern about the person in the cabin, the one whose voice was familiar; I feared it could be the town persecutor, the one who had banished me to Heilongjiang, though I couldn’t be sure. Could he be a spy among the runaways? Was this a trap? Without any hesitation, Ding-yan went around and got the young people he’d met on the expedition together, and they prepared themselves for whatever was to come.

  ‘Near the child, on a small gap between two planks, was a thin piece of chalk. I picked it up and walked over to the cabin. In between the 1 and 3 in River Pearl 13, I inscribed a number 7 for luck. It brought comfort to many eyes as they followed me like glow-worms in the dark. The young mother nursed her baby close to her heart.

  ‘Nothing else happened until early evening. We were taking off in the direction of the dim illumination of the Guia Lighthouse in the distance. Our excitement grew as the occasional faint flash got brighter by the minute. The People’s Militia gunboat also took off – but promptly changed direction and steered towards us. It was slow, and then became tenacious like a leech. Soon it cut in front of us. Two young People’s Militia guards, not much older than your sister Ying, called out. With their rifles at the ready, they demanded to know where we were heading. The two boats were now almost within arm’s reach of each other. Ding-yan and his dozen or more young friends stood up. They looked at the guards and said nothing. The stand-off kept us all quiet under the canvas. Only the cries of seagulls and small waves hitting the rickety riverboat could be heard. Time dragged on.

  ‘Through a small gap I could see our men on deck. They were sizing up the guards. Ding-yan spoke in our Zhongshan dialect, “Hey, young comrades, we’re delivering our load of produce to Macau. Lychees, live fish and prawns . . . all for foreign currency to rebuild our Motherland.” He was direct and bold. “Would you like to take a look for yourselves?” Behind the young men, we were prepared to face the guards if they came aboard – there were only a few of them, and a lot of us. The young guards now stared with suspicion at River Pearl 173.’

  Baba turned to me and explained, ‘One-Seven-Three sounds like “to survive together” in Cantonese. This was to affirm our determination and unity, and to inject some much-needed faith for the last leg of the voyage.’ I always loved how my father took every opportunity to teach me things. But weren’t these superstitions he didn’t approve of?

  ‘To our relief, the gunboat turned, went past us and headed to the open sea.’ He was nodding to himself. ‘Just as we were sighing with relief, shots cracked overhead. Needless to say, we all jumped for cover – including the skipper. The riverboat floated about like a cut-off kite, adrift and lifeless, the small engine idling. We were terrified. I stood up and, without knowing what had prompted me, grabbed a piece of loose decking and began to row. Others watched for a moment or two, then got up and joined in. The skipper returned to his position, cranked up the small motor to a higher gear and turned us towards the flash in the distance. Our pursuers also turned, heading towards us again. More people pulled decking off, and we took turns to row on each side. An older man beat at the mast like a drum, and we rowed to the rhythm as in a dragon boat race. We were gathering speed. A few more shots whistled overhead. We managed to pull away from the gunboat slowly but steadily, keeping our eyes on the faint radiance from the lighthouse. It grew brighter and bigger. Thank the gods for the unusually calm sea that evening. Thank Buddha for his mercy. Before long, the gunboat faded into the evening haze.’

  Baba took a long sip of his jasmine tea, his face glowing and the sparks in his eyes dancing. Nothing could stop my father when he was at the highpoint of his story.

  ‘After that, we were exhausted, and let the surf take us ashore. The boat hit a deserted bay. I realised it was Hac Sa Bay, the only good swimming this side of Macau – I knew it very well as a young man when I began teaching there before the liberation. I could hear the bottom of the riverboat striking coarse coral and sand. Then the boat fell apart. We were in the water, all forty-something of us. We scrambled ashore and thanked our ancestors for their blessings. On the beach, I came face to face with the man who owned that dreaded voice. He’d been the Party Secretary in Zhongshan, the persecutor who sent me to Heilongjiang. I was lost for words. Strangely, I felt no anger. There was no blame. We’re in the same boat, I thought to myself, and we are now equal. I turned my back on him and walked away, accepting the irony of life, the quirk of fate.’

  Baba stretched his arms again, and also his back, the way he used to do at home. I buried my face in his lap and held on tight, proud of him as my father, my hero. Mr Lee wiped away tears of gratitude as my aunt continued to chant softly, ‘Mercy, mercy. Thank you, Goddess of Mercy. Thank you, Buddha.’

  Outside her bungalow, Macau had rolled into another busy evening, splashing itself in thousands of neon lights and colourful billboards. Many businesses, legal and illegal, some in between, now stirred to life in the easing heat. They would buzz and hum all the way to the early hours of the morning. The small colony stayed awake at the mouth of the Pearl River, which opened wide into the perilous South China Sea, like a gigantic serpent discharging the misery and sadness of an overburdened continent perched behind it in the darkness. And the sea took it all.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ping and Grandmother were over the moon when they heard of Baba’s safe arrival. But because they were living on a tight budget and had so many people to support, they decided not to travel to Macau to meet us. Instead they transferred some much-needed funds to assist Baba and Mr Lee.

  My mind raced as I planned our future together. As much as I loved living with Third Aunt, I treasured Baba’s closeness. I was hoping he would be able to find a job, and we could move into our own place. The thought excited me – oh, how I dearly wanted to go to a proper school when the new school year began in September. I wasn’t sure if my English was good enough for me to go to high school, but if that was the case I didn’t mind repeating Sixth Class, as long as I could go to school.

  ‘I worry about your mother and sisters at home,’ Baba said to me one afternoon in the courtyard. ‘I pray to the Goddess of Mercy to spare Mama from violent retribution for not reporting my escape.’ He
sighed. ‘We didn’t know anything about the expedition until the last minute. I wish our goodbyes hadn’t been so rushed. Weng is too young to understand, and Ying . . . I so wanted to take her with me.’ He sucked on his cigarette and fell quiet for a good few minutes before he looked at me closely. ‘Your opportunity is here now: grasp it. Study hard, my son. We have to look ahead and work diligently, so that one day we can bring our family together again.’

  I always loved the way Baba talked. His being so positive when things around us were challenging and, at times, seemingly hopeless, was a great comfort.

  *

  Barely a week had passed since Baba’s arrival when something rather unnerving happened. I was strolling home from class when I saw some men escorting Mr Lee and Baba down Fortaleza e Farol da Guia. Their demeanour was unfriendly.

  I hurried over to greet Baba and Mr Lee. I must have looked apprehensive, because Baba told me not to worry. He appeared calm, not like the time we’d met on Come Happiness Bridge when he was arrested back home. He said he and Mr Lee were going to a yum-cha meeting with these people, and would be home soon.

  It was a very long yum-cha: they did not return that night, and Third Aunt became concerned. She could tell from my description that those men were engaged in some sort of shady business on the streets of Macau. Hurrying to burn more incense sticks, she prayed to the guardian angels to fan away the ill omen descending upon her home.

  Baba and Mr Lee returned the next day, accompanied by one of the men. Baba borrowed cash from Third Aunt, handed it to the man and sent him away.

  Looking tired but relieved, Baba told me and my aunt that the men had taken him and Mr Lee to a small room in a cheap back-alley lodge. Third Aunt sighed and said, ‘Typical gangsters.’ They’d said Baba and Mr Lee still owed money to the organiser of their escape from China. When Baba said they couldn’t raise the money, the men threatened to send them back. Negotiations continued through the night.

  Early the next morning, the party had a yum-cha breakfast while they determined Baba’s and Mr Lee’s fate. All my father could do was pin his hopes on seeing someone he knew in the crowds around them. Much to his relief he spotted a Portuguese man, Joao, who had been in a basketball team he had coached when he was a teacher in Macau. Baba rushed over to shake hands with Joao, shocking the men at the table. It turned out that Joao was now a detective, and he knew, without Baba explaining further, what these men were up to – in fact, he had got to know them well in his precinct, as they had come to know him. Joao told the men, one by one, that they were dealing with his good and respectful friend, and that he would be after them should anything unpleasant happen to Baba and Mr Lee. Before he left he gave Baba his card, saying he wanted to keep in touch.

  The men’s arrogance and aggression waned as fast as the steam coming out of their teacups. Without further haggling, they agreed to settle the fare at $333 per person, instead of the $3000 promised. Baba explained to me that the number three sounds like ‘live’ in Cantonese, so it was ‘live, live, live’, a good omen for all – and the number six sounds like ‘fortune’, so $666 for two fares sounds like ‘fortune, fortune, fortune’. Being alive was a fortune itself to behold.

  *

  From day one, Baba hadn’t felt secure in Macau, fearing it was too close to the mainland. After this incident, he was even more worried about remaining there. He decided we must head to Hong Kong as originally planned, which was not only further away but also a much bigger city with more opportunities. Baba also believed Britain was a far more powerful nation than Portugal when it came to standing up to the communists. Unfortunately, our temporary Macau IDs didn’t entitle us to a visa. We would have to make our own way into Hong Kong.

  According to Baba, the illegal ferrying of people into Hong Kong had been a well-known and thriving business for many decades. He explained that it had grown to such a sizeable enterprise as a consequence of rebellions against the imperial emperors, colonisation by foreign powers, two civil wars, the Japanese invasion and, finally, the Communist Revolution. ‘The money earned had to be distributed along a huge network of operators to everyone’s satisfaction,’ Baba told me. ‘So the trade prospered in visible harmony.’

  By 1962 it was more blatant than ever, now an open secret among the two colonies and communities along the southern coast of China. The so-called Bamboo Curtain, along with anticommunist sanctions and embargoes set up by Western countries, had well and truly isolated China from the rest of the world, and there were few options for those who dared to risk their lives for liberty and survival. The Portuguese authorities in Macau didn’t attempt to stop people trafficking; instead, their tolerance and assistance facilitated a route to freedom for those lucky few who made their way out of China.

  ‘People die for love. People die for freedom as well.’ Baba had often said this to Mama, his eyes dreamy and voice quavering. Now that he’d decided to leave Macau, he was again filled with fervour. I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d always be running in search of a safe place to call home, now that our family was broken up.

  Although I trusted Baba’s wisdom, to me Macau was already paradise on earth. I loved the aroma of the many wonderful bakeries filled with bread, pastries, cookies and cakes, and the countless noodle shops, cafés and restaurants along narrow streets crammed with thousands of cars, trucks, buses and rickshaws. I loved the many hawkers selling fruit, dumplings and goods of all description in the streets, and the casinos large and small. All obeyed unspoken rules, going about their business in a harmonious way I couldn’t understand. Then there were the never-ending cobblestone alleyways that ran in many directions with lots of colourful billboards and abundant streetlights, adding to Macau’s vitality and energy. Even the smells of burnt petrol and diesel, a rarity at home, fascinated me, and I found them civilised and modern – much to my horror and distaste in the years to come.

  I also liked the optimism of the Macau people. ‘It’ll be fine,’ they said whenever they parted. I wasn’t sure if they were reassuring each other or just wishfully thinking that everything would be all right. How I wished we’d had that kind of self-confidence across the border.

  I wasn’t keen to be smuggled into Hong Kong, with many unknowns now seeming to threaten my new-found comfort. However, as the days went by I realised that this was the logical way forward, judging from what I overheard of adult conversations. They said everyone they knew who’d attempted the crossing had made it safely to Hong Kong. Besides, I realised it would be wonderful to see Grandmother Young, Grandmother Lee, Ping, Mr and Mrs Ho, and Je Je again. So I didn’t complain, and left it to Third Aunt and Baba to work it out.

  The smuggling of people from Macau to Hong Kong and from the mainland to the colonies was called ‘snake business’ by the locals. Baba reassured me that it was very well organised by a massive number of coordinated teams operating in Macau. The so-called snake heads oversaw the team leaders, each of whom directed a number of people who ran their own networks – ‘the little snakes’. Many civilians worked in the people-trafficking trade: rickshaw men, bakers, store-owners, police officers, marine patrol officers, greengrocers, butchers, schoolteachers, even public servants, and, of course, the fishermen and owners of boats and ferries. Only God knew who else was involved, or who was in charge of the snake heads.

  Third Aunt said it was too risky for a father and son to be in the same boat. She and Baba decided that I would make the crossing first, then Baba would take the next run.

  Before long, my aunt had found out the best fare and the safest snake team from her favourite greengrocer. He directed her to a cookie-shop owner, not far from the English language school, and he offered a half-fare discount for me as a child. A sailing date was set ahead of the typhoon season.

  The mention of typhoons had me worried. Third Aunt, ever sensitive to my feelings, noticed my anxiety and offered reassurance by reminding me of my fourteen enlightenment credit points. Nodding in a slow rhythm, she continued to count her beads
. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she said with optimism, the same way the locals did in their daily greetings. It baffled me that they didn’t seem to worry about tomorrow the way I did. Maybe they didn’t want to know.

  Third Aunt often said that everything in life was unpredictable, so we had to grasp what was there to make the best of it. This made me think of our life in China, as volatile as the weather in the South China Sea. Maybe my family hadn’t been able to make the best of it because we hadn’t joined the mob; maybe the District Head was one of the smarter few who had. He and his family had fared a lot better than us with their more powerful jobs, better wages and higher food rations, and gifts from the people.

  What an erratic world I was in: unpredictable, cruel and unfair. To drown out my worries, I imagined I could hear the drumbeats of the dragon boats.

  *

  In early July 1962, I set off for Hong Kong. As Baba had done before I’d left Shiqi, Third Aunt faithfully lit three incense sticks in front of a wooden plaque carved with the names of departed family members. She said her prayers and entrusted my safety to the ancestors for the trip, and she prayed the sea would be calm, the voyage smooth, and the sun would shine on the path I would take. She prayed that prosperity would follow all the hard work that lay ahead for me, and that my guardian angels and the gods would be there to guide and protect me against all kinds of demons and evil spirits. Finally, she prayed that if I didn’t make it, they would take me into their fold and not let me languish in the South China Sea. Baba and I also prayed to them and asked for their blessings for the journey. I felt a bit better after that, even though I was still apprehensive about the ghosts and water spirits of the sea.

  My aunt then burned incense sticks in front of the statue of General Guan Gong, and asked him for my protection. She burned paper money to the ghosts and spirits that lurked around looking for replacements, and asked them to spare me. She then assured me that everything would be fine. ‘The sea will be calm and the wind will fill your sail,’ she said, counting her beads as she spoke. ‘You’ve already travelled a long way and there’s a much longer way to go yet. No one’s voyage in life is predictable. So go with the wind, swim with the current, and steer your own boat. My blessings are with you always.’