Son of The Tank Man

by Winfred Wong

  “A mas–k?” she replied slowly while fidgeting modestly and pushed the small golden frames of her horn-rimmed glasses rested on the tip of her plump nose.

  Assuming she didn't understand the word, I made a rectangle shape with my two index fingers and two thumbs before my nose.

  “Oh, a mask. Wait please,” she said and walked away.

  After about five minutes, she came back with a roll of double-sided adhesive tape in her hand and stretched her arm out toward me. I was speechless.

  “Here, your mask,” she said.

  I honestly didn't understand what she was thinking when she thought she knew what I wanted. Perhaps she was recommending me to use a tape to seal my mouth in order to avoid being recognized, I highly doubted that though.

  “This is not a mask,” I said meticulously. “No. Not this.”

  “Not?” she said in a surprising tone.

  “No, it isn't a mask.” I made a subtle X-shape with my arms to reinforce my message and peered at the check-in counter, looking for the staff who assisted my check-in. “Anyway, thanks for your help.”

  When I was about to leave, she suddenly burst out laughing and said, “A mask! Wait please here.” And she walked away again.

  I had tried to grab her shoulder to stop her from going, but her movement was so swift that I couldn't even touch her. And after another couple minutes, she came back with a joyful look, holding a pale blue pleated surgical mask in her hand, and said, “Mask, sir.”

  “Great, thank you.” I raised my thumb, received the mask and instantly put it on.

  “Pleasure,” she said.

  I guessed she meant ‘my pleasure’ when she said ‘pleasure’. So I gave her a smile and headed off to the street when the gnawing emptiness made me feel like there was a void in my center.

  Although I had no idea where I could find some food, I thought I'd just keep walking toward the magnificent fountain and try my luck, however, as I stepped out of the hotel and happened to set eyes on a familiar seven-passenger, two-door vehicle that was similar to the unlicensed cab I had flagged down earlier today, except that the body of it was pitch-black now and there was an extra coating on the windshield, I heard a car horn emitting from it. So I edged closer and squinted to try to see through the side window. Then the driver rolled down the window and made another two consecutive car horns.

  “Hey, you there,” the driver, sticking his head out the window with the same subtly amiable smile he had, said, staring at me through a pair of dark sunglasses, which made him look dumb at night, yet I could see that he was wearing it to avoid being recognized because he was a fugitive now – what I didn't know back then was he had always been the most wanted fugitive in the country.

  “I remember you. It's good to see you safe and sound. It suits you very well, your sunglasses,” I said.

  “Get in. I have some bad news for you,” he said.

  “What?” I said, confused, guessing what he was up to.

  “Just get in. I need to tell you something.”

  It seemed much more like a swindle this time, so I just glared at him.

  After a brief moment, “Okay. I see you don't want to be in the same car with a fugitive, but you have to listen to me. You have to leave this country as soon as possible. A mask won't save you,” he said.

  I torqued my face into a grimacing look. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Recently, there has been a resurgence of xenophobia among the people, and the government has a plan to close the border in roughly two days, three days max.” He shifted his focus swiftly and peeped into the rear view mirror with a distraught look, then looked back at me. “You don't have much time left. You have to go back to where you came from before they execute the plan, or you're never getting out of here,” he said solemnly.

  Intuitively, “Are you crazy?” I asked, as my confusion was changing into a black cloud of doubt in my mind, and so I walked off with a flounce, considering him as a lunatic.

  “Well, maybe I am crazy. But you have to listen to me. You know I'm telling the truth, don't you?” he almost yelled.

  In fact, a part of me, mostly my intuition part, was somehow persuading me to listen to him at that time, maybe he was right, maybe I had already gained so much insight into how things work in this place to a point that I could tell he was telling the truth without the need of conscious reasoning, but another part of me just wouldn't allow me to believe in such implausible and bizarre nonsense.

  And he continued, moving his car ahead slowly so that the distance between us didn't grow too much and he didn't need to speak too loud, “Look, I can help you. Just listen to me.”

  “I don't need any help.” I walked faster and kept my pace for a while despite my intuition before realizing it was impossible to outrun a car.

  So I came to a stop and marched toward him. “What makes you think I will believe in a stranger, or just as what you have said, a fugitive like you?” I said, reflexively turning the corners of my mouth down like I was looking at Frankenstein's monster. “I mean, yeah, I am well aware of the people's xenophobic attitudes, and I have to admit they don't look too friendly to me, but I honestly don't think they will close the border. Locking down the whole country to stop foreigners from coming in because the people are xenophobic just don't make any sense. And besides, who would show up like this and say something like that to a man he barely knows? Do you really think I will listen to you?”

  “When does anything in this country make sense?” he retorted quickly like he knew in advance what I would say.

  Scratched my eyebrows, then my head, I attempted to stammer out some words, but paused, not knowing what to say, maybe he was right and was just offering a helping hand to me. I didn't know, but I thought it's always better to be skeptical in times of doubt like this.

  “Look, I have a plan to get people like you out of this country, and it will be carried out on that day when they officially announce the closure of the border. Take this.” He then snatched up a paper plane from somewhere and propelled it to me, and I caught the left wing of it midair. “Call me if you need me. It's the only chance you have if you ever want to go back home after they seal the border. But before then, try to buy yourself an airplane ticket and leave the country in a legitimate approach.”

  With multitude of doubts wandering in my mind, I unfolded the plane, saw a series of numbers on it and asked on a whim, assuming what he said was somehow true, “But why are you doing this? It doesn't make any sense. Risking your life for others, for someone you hardly know?”

  He didn't say a word before pressing the accelerator pedal down, but a yellow headband that came into view at the last second in his palm explained everything. I bet he must be one of those foolish freedom-pursuers who was bamboozled into believing in some sort of a far-fetched story fabricated by conspiracy theorists and was naively trying to act like a hero, and that what he said would happen was by no means real. Thus, I simply put the piece of paper into my pocket and resumed moving along the quiet street until I walked past by a well-lit, three-story convenience store, which looked like a lighthouse in small scale from outside, and that's it. I went in, grabbed a handful of potato chips, cup noodles and a newspaper that had a job section, paid and went straight back to the hotel, and I was glad that I hadn't raised too much attention during this short trip in spite of his unwelcome appearance.

  And after I returned to my room and gobbled up my dinner, I lay down sprawled on the bed, stretching my sore legs, pulled out my phone from somewhere and suddenly began missing home. I expected the first day to be the hardest, but I never knew the rising melancholy and ruminative loneliness would be so overwhelming that it nearly outweighed my resolution to start a new life here, and somewhere deep down, I knew it would have crushed me if not for the heart-warming noise of the radio. Then I thought that it would be easier if I could talk to someone I knew, so I phoned my sister, who was most likely hanging out with her party friends.

 
; “Sorry, the number you have dialed is not available at this time.”

  The automated message proved me concretely right. And, not knowing who to call next, I went through my phone's contact list until Oli's name appeared and magically seized my attention, reminding me of her fascinating voice and the intimate feeling of the hug, which galvanized me into action; I did skip Brian's contact before finding Oli's – it's in alphabetical order – but perhaps I was still unsure about how I should explain this to him.

  “Sorry, the number you have dialed is not available at this time.”

  Although the call didn't go through, I could feel my heart beating faster and faster when I was waiting, and that's when I first admitted to myself that I had always been in love with her. The softness of her voice, the warmth of the goodbye hug, the tenderness of her fragile skin, she was perfect. So I dialed her number once more.

  “Sorry, the number you have dialed is not available at this time.”

  So I exhaled a sigh that weighed more than just an eddy of air and subdued an instinct to call her once more when the disappointment mingled with drowsy enchantment was taking over me, and I yawned and simply gave in to sleepiness.

  The next morning I was roused by someone rhythmically knocking at the door and yelling, “Room service.”

  After several fruitless attempts to get up, partially awake with my eyes blurred, I yelled back, “I don't need any room service,” then laid my head back down on the pillow like gravity was solely acting on me.

  However, before my mind could drift back into dreams, a resounding but firm knocking alarmed me again. I felt like being badgered to open the door, and it did stir up my desire to do that due to the level of annoyance. Swaying slightly, I dragged myself to my feet and staggered to the door as whoever outside kept on knocking more urgently, and right before I reached out for the door knob, the door was bashed open, and I had to step back quickly to avoid being hit.

  “早晨,” (Good morning,) a young, brawny man with broad shoulders and short trimmed beards, wearing a black suit that had a dragon-shaped badge attached to it, said.

  He didn't seem like a staff working in the hotel, and I couldn't understand a word he said, so I asked, “Who are you? Do you speak English?”

  “Yes. I'm a police officer,” he answered in a robotic tone with that particular accent and had his eyes wandering all over me.

  “So, are you going to tell me why you knocked and bashed open my door, Mr. Police? Because I am actually very sleepy and would be very glad to get back to my bed now at once.”

  “What do you know about this guy?” he said, as he was bringing up a picture of a man to in front of my eyes from the left pocket on his suit.

  The quality of the image was so poor that I wouldn't have recognized him if not for the signature smile he had on his face, but there was no mistaking that amiable beam.

  “Yes,” I replied honestly and coughed twice to buy myself some time to think, because I didn't want to be dragged into any kind of troubles, especially when it's related to a freedom-pursuer or a fugitive. “As far as I know, he is a...taxi driver.”

  “How did you get to know him?”

  “Well, I don't really know much about him. He is a taxi driver, and yesterday, when I was flagging down a taxi, he stopped his car in front of me and told me to get in, and that's it. That's all I know.”

  “You flagged down a taxi!?”

  His surprised look scared me. “...Yes. So what's wrong with this guy?”

  “It's none of your business. I have one more question for you. Do you know where he is at this moment?”

  “No, how would I know?” I pretended to be as surprised as he just had been.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ashton. That's it for today,” he said, nodded and left.

  I instinctively felt weird when he called out my name, which I had never told him, so naturally, but the sheer relief that crawled into my head when his silhouette that shadowed the light from the chandelier vanished prevailed over it, and I closed the door and locked it before walking back to my bed with a bad feeling that kept me wakeful, wondering maybe I should just go back home now. And I thought of my sister again, so undeterred by my last attempt, I phoned up her again.

  “Sorry, the number you have dialed is not available at this time.”

  And I giggled at myself for being simple-minded enough to actually think she would be sober at eleven o'clock on an after-party Sunday morning until a half-suppressed screech that resembled the wrongly murdered headband man's reached my ears. I was alerted at first, but the thought of it was just another freedom-pursuers being beaten up somewhere on the street quickly eradicated my alertness, and knowing there was nothing I could help, my anxiety alleviated in spite of the pangs of conscience that were echoing under my skin and constantly giving me goosebumps. Sometimes we just had to learn to accept, I comforted myself.

  And although the scenes of violence that came on the heels of the initial scream could not be seen from where I was, it was easily conceivable, as the screech had triggered the brutal images of the blood-stained pigeon feather automatically, regardless of my unwillingness. Then as the following prolonged grimaces emitted by the victim that enhanced my imagination reverberated across the sky, I tried to block off my ears by plugging my fingers in. It was futile. His distressing grimaces had already infiltrated and etched a deep scar on my soul. And there was nothing I could do to get rid of a virtual wound. So I started grazing my spine with my thumb, then my forehead with my index finger, my chest with my toe, and, at last, my ankle with my pinky with my insensitive legs crossed until a minor skin eruption took place.

  I thought I had already developed a fully functional immune system against this kind of barbarism after the tragic demise of the headband man, but I was proved utterly wrong by my reddened ankle and the applauding crowd chanting a spell-like incantation, “Peel off his skin! Burn him alive! Monster!”

  Then my heart thumped hard as a bitter resentment soared through me, making me feel like the hotel was on fire. And I could feel my timidness being eroded by the flame. I couldn't believe there were people actually advocating this kind of nefarious acts. They were even more loathsome than those despicable uniformed officers, who were carrying out their violent duties. They were beyond doubt reprehensible, yet at least they got paid for they did. But what's in it for the crowd? Nothing. They wholeheartedly supported it from the bottom of their hearts, and this was what really made me feel like I was falling apart. Was it really a good idea to live with these monsters for the years to come? Turning a blind eye to the wickedness of others due to interminable fear was understandable, but supporting it from the bottom of their hearts was a whole different story.

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  By the time the shouting crowd finally dispersed, I had already packed my suitcase and randomly shoved everything I brought here into it as though a war was coming. And as I was about to haul off, the fire alarm suddenly pulsated in a dizzy-making buzz that filled the entire building, and a clamor ensued. Astounded by the possibility that the raging fire in my heart had actually materialized, I flinched while blaming myself – by now I surely know it's Kaylen's fault as Kriss has told me that it was him who had ordered one of his men to set fire to the hotel so as to create a window of opportunity for them to kill someone in the hotel without being noticed and force me to go with them, but every time when I bring up about how I have blamed myself for the fire he caused, he will always laugh his head off and I will usually challenge him to a ‘duel’ for laughing at me, which is actually a card game we invented in the house together to kill time – and was unsure about what was going on until there was an awfully acrid burning smell gradually drifting into my nostrils, denoting the source of the fire was at somewhere below us, presumably at the foyer, as smoke would only billow upward.

  Then I rushed out and I found that one-third of the doors along the corridor had already been swung open. Attendees were bolting out of their room
s like a flock of scared deer, all going in the direction of the emergency exits pointed out by the overhead emergency evacuation system, which most of the light bulbs were not functioning properly. Amid the chaos, my first thought was to go with the flow, but I hesitated when I saw a neatly uniformed lady with horn-rimmed glasses yelling loudly and straining her arms to usher people to the opposite direction of where the deer were dashing to, only very few of them were lucky enough to have decided to pay attention to her though. So I had dithered for a second or two before I decided to walk to her when the pungent smolder began invading this level and diffusing rapidly.

  “Hey, why are you telling people to go the other way? Which way should I go?” I asked urgently, clutching my nose and mouth with one hand and my suitcase with another, when I realized she was that slim staff who provided me the mask.

  “No there. No there. There no go. Here go go. Don't there. There no open. No door, no door. Block. There block. Can't go. Here has ladder. Ladder,” she blathered and seemed at a loss to know what to say with one of her fingers extending toward the direction of where people were sprinting to.

  “There? Should I go that way?” I questioned, pointing to the same direction, and as I inhaled normally, the pervasive and suffocating smoke guilefully sifted through my sensitive nose and clogged up my lungs, giving me an actual feeling of being in mortal peril.

  “Yes, yes, block.”

  Her saying yes was the last thing I could discern clearly before I had begun gasping and gagging wildly. It was like there was a flamethrower tank rolling around and wreaking havoc in my vulnerable respiratory system and was definitely worse than finishing one whole pack of cigarettes at the same time. So, as my instinct urged me to get out of this place, I let go of my redundant suitcase and began moving vaguely in the direction of the crowd with my eyes shut due to the desert-like dryness, but was then pulled back violently by someone after several steps when I felt an irresistible grip of a slender hand grabbing the back of my shoulder, her fingers sinking into my flesh; I almost fell down and had to crouch a little so as to regain balance and staggered for the first few steps.