by Rea Tarvydas
“Hey, you’re new,” calls the woman and waves him over. “Where’re you living?”
“Stanley.”
“What complex?”
After a couple of months, Mark isn’t accustomed to Hong Kongers and their preoccupation with exactly which building you live in, right down to the unit. “Stanley Court,” he says and cheats her out of his house number.
She lifts one eyebrow. “Not bad, neighbour. Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“A polite Canadian. Where’s your wife?”
“At work.” Debra, the dutiful daughter, is busy growing her father’s media empire.
“Kids?”
“Not yet.”
“Me, neither.” Emerald-tinted eyes disappear behind sunglasses.
The boys skitter across the pool, one after the other, stiff arms flashing. They must have received the go-ahead to enter deeper water. When will Debra send him a sign that it’s time to start a family? This question is followed by another that he’s been ignoring the last couple of months, about whether Debra really wants kids. She keeps putting off their appointment with the fertility clinic, insisting on letting nature take its course.
“Let’s have a drink,” says the woman. “I’m Mona, by the way.”
“Mark,” he says. “Uh. It’s ten-thirty in the morning.”
“C’mon. You’re not a prude, are you?”
Mark shakes his head and perches on an adjoining sun lounger. Does he look like a tightass? Maybe it’s the chinos. He’s self-scheduled to head back and check his investments, secure a few trades, make $500 US, and call it a day.
“It’s twelve o’clock somewhere,” says Mona. She waggle-waves her half-full glass and something citrusy that smells like gin sloshes onto her tanned thighs. “I’ll have another,” she informs the waiter. “And the Canuck will have a scotch-scotch.”
“A what?” asks Mark.
“A double scotch. Don’t worry. He understands my language.”
The morning crosses over to afternoon and they shift under the shade of the umbrella. Mona’s a talker. She tells stories about the people she’s met, the characters, the big shots and losers. “We’re here for a couple years,” she says. “And then, who knows?”
Mona drops her slender frame into the water and swims laps with brisk, firm strokes. Her turns are flawless. She darts to one side and surfaces in the middle of the boy pod. She balances a boy on cradled hands then tosses him up and over. The boys clamour for her attention. One after the other, their slippery brown bodies fly through the air and crash into the water. The harder, the better.
The boys’ shrieks splash clean across the pool deck. It isn’t long before their mothers’ frowns stick, before they haul their suntan oil-slicked boys out by the armpits and wrap them in towels as tight as straightjackets.
“C’mon, you know how boys are. They’re having fun,” says Mona.
“Too much fun,” says one mother. “Like someone else we know.”
“Shove another coconut tart in your fat mouth, will you?” says Mona.
“Bitch,” says another mother.
Mona pushes off the wall into the backstroke, her broad shoulders rushing through the water. A frothy, V-shaped wake dashes against green tiles. Her thick, gold necklace glints in the sunlight, the ornate cross caught in the straps of her bikini.
The boys slump against one another, throw pleading stares across the pool at Mark as if he has something to do with their freedom. The waiters huddle in the shade around the bar. Mark catches a whiff of something that reminds him of the fruit market at the end of a hot summer day.
“Canuck,” calls Mona from the deep end.
Mark approaches the poolside on unsteady legs. Shouldn’t have had the third scotch-scotch. As he squats, she clutches his ankle, pulls him off balance and he’s underwater before he knows it. Thrashing, he kicks his shoes off and watches them sink to the bottom before he surfaces.
Mark’s eyelashes stick together as if he’s waking from a jet-lagged sleep. Up close and grinning, she circles and straddles him. “Might as well give them something to talk about,” she whispers and nibbles at his earlobe a moment before biting down.
“What the hell?” Mark jerks away. Scrabbling to the wall, he drags himself to a standing position on the pool deck. Once upright, he checks his earlobe for blood. He sways then abruptly coughs up phlegm, thick with the vomit of scotch and it spews onto the flowering shrubs.
“That’s disgusting,” says a voice from the motherland.
A little boy smirks and gives him the thumbs up. Mark fights the urge to grin back. Instead he says, “Don’t spit,” in the little boys’ direction and strides off toward the locker rooms.
“You okay, Canuck?”
Mark ignores her.
The next morning, he finds his water-stained loafers neatly lined up on his doorstep and chucks them in the dumpster. Slamming the lid, he dislodges several trash bags that rest against the bin. Rats scurry away with naked tails dragging.
“You run, don’t you?” calls one of his neighbours from the parking lot. Leaning against a dented silver Jaguar, the man absentmindedly traces the empty space where the hood ornament used to be.
Mark nods and tries to remember the man’s first name. Perry?
“I’m with the Hash Harriers. A gentleman’s running club, good fun. We’re racing tonight. Care to join?”
Mark stares at his neighbour’s peeling forehead. The evening stretches. Three hours of English programming on television, BBC nature documentaries. Mindless online scrolling. He agrees then waves his neighbour off to work, still trying to remember his name.
That evening, he hooks up with Gary-not-Perry and the rest of the running club at the gas station in Black’s Link. The club numbers thirty, young and old, who smile cautiously as they shake hands, clap one another on the shoulders. A variety of accents mingle — Brits, Americans, Scandinavians, and Eastern Bloc. Mark wipes his palms before a rally of handshakes and introductions he’s certain to forget.
“Who’re you here with?” asks a lanky American wearing a faded blue T-shirt.
“No one. I mean, I invest. My wife works — ”
“An independent businessman,” says Gary-not-Perry quickly. He launches into a convoluted explanation of Hash terminology. “The FRB is the Front-Running Bastard. He finds the checks and guides the Hounds along. I don’t think we’re off the pathways. One never knows.”
The Hounds stand in a circle. Mark should stretch or do some knee-raises to prepare for the run but no one’s moving. No one’s talking either. Instead Mark adjusts the shoelaces of his new Adidas runners.
“You need a hashtag. How about cockroach?” says Gary-not-Perry.
“Cockroach, cockroach,” shout the Hounds and they raise their hands above their heads. The American reaches over and gives Mark a little shot on the arm.
Without warning the FRB calls the run and sprints down the trail past the Pagoda, churning up gravel. The Hounds force themselves into a pack and drag Mark along like a gangly pup wearing a tight collar.
“Are you,” shout the Hounds.
An independent businessman?
“Checking,” the FRB shouts back.
The Hounds race down the steep mountain path, run-stumbling, flashing empty smiles at one another. It’s all about moving forward, trying to stay upright, and Mark can barely keep his body under control. It’s frightening and exhilarating at the same time. When the American shoves past, Mark trips over a rock and launches into the bushes.
The Hounds run on.
Mark stares up at the sky. The treetops frame a blue-sky bowl. Clouds lace themselves together, again and again. Leaves rustle in the wind. Mark tries to imagine himself inside the wind, as if it could carry him someplace else, someplace familiar. A cream-and-black butterfly drifts down. It lands next to him and opens, exposing red splatters along the edges of its wings — inky spikes, marking tremors.
Another butterfly fal
ters and comes in for a landing. And another, and another, and yet another. Before long wings twitch all around him, the insects waiting for a sign. None appears. One by one, they slide off waxy leaves and fall to the ground like smoldering embers. As they die, their wings fold together, exposing soft, grey undersides.
He’s lost. He’s not carrying any identification and can’t think where his papers are located in the flat, exactly. Would anyone notice his absence? Debra’s in Singapore on business, something to do with another acquisition.
In the distance the Hounds shout “cockroach”. Somehow he extricates himself from the bushes, chases after them. Branches whip him. Prickly bushes grab at him, scratch his arms and legs, drawing blood. A wretched humidity presses down and sweat courses through his hair. He stops in a small clearing and listens. Silence except for ragged breathing.
“On-on,” calls the FRB in the near distance.
Breaking through several walls of shrubs and flowering hibiscus, Mark skids to a halt at the front of the pack. The FRB kneels in the scree, pushes aside rocky debris, searching. An indistinct mark emerges, more like a smudge. It’s a false sign.
“You’re useless. Fuck-ing useless,” the American says to the FRB.
The Hounds return to the original check, the American harassing the FRB the entire way, while the Hounds laugh with a mixture of derision and agreement. In response the FRB picks up the pace.
Mark struggles to stay with the pack but eventually leaves a couple men trailing behind. “All this for a couple beers,” he hears one grumble. “Chinese or Indian tonight?” asks the other. Their muffled debate fades. Soon the pace slows and Mark gains control of his breathing, forcing it into rhythm with his steps. In, out. Kids, no kids. Sweat burns his eyes.
“How was the run?” asks Debra before he’s able to tell her about it.
“How did you know about the run?”
“I asked Gary to keep an eye on you.”
“How would you like it if I asked somebody to keep an eye on you?” Mark dares her to speak and, predictably, she’s silent. For someone who manages extensive media holdings, she doesn’t really communicate.
“How’s Singapore?” he asks.
“Sunny and hot.”
“Where’re you staying?”
“The Grand Hyatt. Listen, I’ve gotta run. Dad’s waiting.”
Mark ditches the car at the Tai Tam reservoir and runs back toward Stanley, taking it easy on the hills. He barely manages it, his knees aching from the Hash run. With relief, he clears the congested entrances to the market and the bus barns then heads uphill along Wong Ma Kok Road. A salty sea breeze pushes him alongside the college playing fields, as if he was pollen, weightless.
The sound of footfalls approaching from behind and a familiar blonde head emerges. “Mind if I join you?” asks Mona and falls in stride.
They run in silence to the garbage processing plant, turn around and head back the way they came. She pulls him to a stop at the base of the staircase that leads to the Military Cemetery. “Let’s take a look. There’s a bunch of Canucks buried here.”
Mark slowly climbs the steep white stairs, Mona trailing. When they reach the uppermost landing, he turns back and surveys the view over St. Stephen’s Beach, empty except for unruly trash piles between BBQ pits. The tide is out, exposing slippery rocks covered with barnacles. A kayak track marks the glistening sand, the abandoned craft tipped on its side against a lifeguard tower. In the distance Mark spies the ferry fast approaching the jetty, and a few lucky cars weighed down with colourful surfboards, awaiting passage to the outlying islands.
“Your legs are scratched. What happened?” asks Mona. He tells her about the mechanics of a Hash run and how he ended up lost in the bushes in Black’s Link. “You can’t get lost on this island,” says Mona. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Wandering through the cemetery, they examine row upon row of white headstones. The markers stare out onto an empty turf stage. Beyond lies a barbed wire fence that barely restrains a wild hedge. Further beyond are the college grounds, once used as an internment camp by the Japanese.
They stroll along the narrow terraces, picking out Canadians. Kelly, Fairley, Melville and Sheldon. Damant and Sharp, too. Collectively gathered in a grave. Crowded together and no visitors. Like living in Hong Kong. Mark jumps down to the next level.
“Read an article in the paper about the Canucks. Slaughtered in the battle of Hong Kong. Poor guys.” Mona hops down beside him and pats a headstone. “The city surrendered on Christmas Day. Not much of a Christmas, was it, MacFarlane?” she asks the gravestone. “You Canucks are all Scottish, aren’t you?”
“Not all.”
“What’s is all aboot, MacFarlane,” she asks the headstone. Her Brooklyn accent draws the ‘ooo’ out into an ‘aaa’ and Mark laughs.
Mona pokes him in the ribs, he pushes her back, and she turns over her ankle. When she tries to avoid stepping directly on MacFarlane’s final resting place, he grabs for her and they fall onto sparse, prickly grass. She, sprawled in front of the gravestone. He, halfway across her. They, on top of MacFarlane.
She kisses him and he tastes gin. He finds himself kissing. His tongue teases her lips open a little, retreats, then slides along the edge of her teeth. Something changes. Mona twists her tongue into his mouth. Excited by her sharp, grainy flavour, his eyelids sink shut on their own.
Long, slow kisses. He hardens, nosing up and out of the waistband of his running shorts. She fingers the tip until he’s moist and his moans echo around the amphitheatre of graves. Mark wonders if they have an audience from the terraces above. He doesn’t care. His pelvis aches for elliptical movement. More than anything he craves forgetting what he’s become — a house-husband.
Mona cries out when he unexpectedly comes across her flat belly. When he’s able to open his eyes, he notices that hers are teary and bloodshot.
“It’s such a fucking waste.” She blots the wet stain with the tail of his T-shirt.
“A waste?”
“I can’t have kids. I mean. The doctor says I can’t get pregnant.”
“Me neither.” Mark forces himself to sit up, fights to slow his breath.
“Well, of course you can’t get pregnant.” Mona laughs.
“My wife. I mean, my wife.”
“Her too?”
“No, not that.”
“I know what you mean.” Her voice empties out.
They sit in silence in the cemetery until the groundskeeper arrives with a lawnmower.
Mark surveys the battered shore. Yellow hazard tape circles Stanley’s main beach and a large sign announces that improvement works are in progress. The beach is closed. Sanitation workers have excavated down several feet, trucking the sand away to a processing plant. They’re combing out biomedical waste, the used hypodermic needles and other health paraphernalia that wash ashore. Cleaning out chemicals that saturate the sand, pesticides sprayed on the roads each week that, during heavy rains, run onto the beach and into the sea.
A sanitation worker approaches and points at the sign.
Mark shrugs and sits beneath a flaming tree.
“Stupid,” says the workman and stalks away.
Mark watches Mona pull off her sundress. Her bikini top folds where fuller breasts previously existed, her ribs flare out like wings. She drops her gauzy clothing onto the wet sand and gallops into the deep sandy pit where the beach used to be.
She hurtles through waves and strikes out for deeper water, diving and rolling like one of the little boys at the American Club pool on the first day. He tries not to watch and, instead, goes through a series of stretches. It isn’t long before he’s searching the gold-tipped waves.
There. Rising out of the surf, her water-darkened hair is loosely braided with salt and clings to her neck. She plucks at shredded plastic bags floating in front of her, turns and flings the synthetic weeds out to sea. As the fiery sun slips down the horizon closer to home, Mark thinks about the bloodstain
ed butterflies falling onto the forest floor.
THE SUITABLE DRESS
SARAH WAKES TO heavy rain. Without thinking, she rushes to the windows and checks that they’re closed and locked. Staring out into a black-tinged cloud, she realizes the skyline of Hong Kong has gone missing and she’s in dangerous territory. Shouldn’t have signed a sublet sight unseen, she thinks, and hustles back to relative safety.
Three months earlier, Sarah moved in directly from the airport and woke lightheaded. Thought the dizzy episodes were jet lag until they worsened and she vomited whenever she neared the floor-to-ceiling windows. After a trip to the clinic, a diagnosis of acrophobia materialized. Vertigo was the primary symptom. The doctor offered her anti-anxiety tablets.
“I’m not anxious,” said Sarah. “I’m dizzy.”
The doctor shrugged and handed her a prescription.
Sarah discovered she could manage if she remained on the inside half of the flat, closest to the metal spine of the elevator shaft. It was difficult to stay away from the windows; the neon vista inexplicably pulled her forward. Through trial and error, she defined a boundary. Purchased a large roll of silver duct tape and laid down the vertigo line.
The flat darkens as storm clouds press closer to land. As the wind increases, rain hits the window like pellets. The television screen flashes a black rain symbol and The Observatory advises all residents to remain indoors. A long gust of wind hits and the floor sways slightly under her feet. The building is modern. It will not fall.
David calls from Toronto. Their engagement began when she mentioned a year-long posting in the Hong Kong office. David asked without asking. It’s logical, he explained, a way of going further in the relationship. She didn’t know if she needed to respond, as it had already been decided. He produced an engagement ring that she doesn’t wear; her fingers swell in the tropical heat.
On the phone they fill each other in on their separate plans for the weekend. David’s heading out to dinner with friends, his Friday night; Sarah’s a hostage to the weather, her Saturday morning.