by Cath Ferla
Sophie chained her bike to a pillar outside Sydney Central English School. She pulled the collar of her jacket tight and made a sharp dash through the rain for the sliding door at the entrance. Inside, the narrow stairwell smelled of blackcurrant chewie and cardamom. She took the stairs two at a time.
The small foyer on level three smelled strongly of damp. Sophie took in the brown carpet, grubby yellow walls and vinyl sofa set. The receptionist talked with a crowd of disgruntled students. The phone rang nonstop. Sophie took a seat on the sofa and waited.
At 10.45 the class bell sounded. The students milling in the foyer began to filter away. Sophie stood up and walked to the front desk.
‘Can I help you?’ the receptionist drawled.
‘I’m a teacher up the road, at United English,’ said Sophie.
The receptionist nodded. ‘On poaching duty, are we?’
‘I’m looking for a student of yours,’ Sophie said. ‘I tutor her privately. Her name is Han Hong.’
The receptionist entered Han Hong’s name into her database.
‘I’m only doing this because I’m about to leave this crappy job and I couldn’t give a stuff,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Student information is confidential but they can’t sack me because I already quit.’ She found the information she was looking for. ‘Han Hong is in English Two. I can call her to student admin at the next break. You can sit tight, or come back. It’s a forty-minute wait.’
Sophie fought to keep her face blank. Tae Hun had said that Han Hong had been missing for two weeks. Perhaps the girl really had been on holiday; maybe she’d taken it upon herself to make some extra money in underground girly bars while studying on the side. Or maybe Tae Hun had been mistaken; perhaps the girl in the photograph wasn’t Han Hong at all.
‘You can come back or sit tight,’ the receptionist repeated.
Sophie opted for a corner of the couch, next to a young woman with perfectly straight hair. The girl smiled, her eyes meeting Sophie’s briefly before flitting away. She twisted a cotton handkerchief between her fingers, balancing a new student manual on her lap.
The details. Pay attention to the details.
‘Are you new here?’ Sophie asked.
The girl nodded.
‘Where are you from?’ As though she didn’t already know.
The girl’s eyes flashed with pride. Her smile became a beam. ‘I come from China,’ she said, her back suddenly straight, her head high.
‘It’s a beautiful country,’ Sophie said.
‘Yes,’ the girl exploded. ‘Five thousand years of history.’
Five thousand years of history. Sophie had heard this expression so many times before – but never from her mother.
‘I hope you’ll be happy here,’ she said.
The girl lowered her eyes again. ‘It is very different,’ she said. ‘I remember my last day in my hometown. I took a picture with my, how do you say… memory. Now, when I close my eyes, I see the picture of my hometown and it brings me some kind of peace.’
Sophie stared at the girl beside her. She’d captured beautifully the sense of a last glance, that last snapshot of a place. A memory settled.
‘Excuse me.’ The girl stood and moved to meet a teacher at the reception desk. She walked away with him, turning once to wave.
I took a picture with my memory.
On the morning of Sophie’s last day in Beijing, she woke early, rolled creakily onto her back and stared at the cracks in the ceiling of her first-floor apartment. She lay there for some minutes, one hand behind her aching, hung-over head, the other on her stomach, completing her morning ritual – counting the noises of her neighbourhood. These were the sounds she would take with her, the noises that would bring her back to her Beijing apartment in a flash, should she hear them in another place and at another time: the voices of old women gathered by the bicycle stand in the yard; the crackle of bicycle spokes wheeling past her window; the rasp of the gate as it opened and closed; the fizz of moist dough sticks connecting with oil; the chatter of budgerigars. Five sounds to remember this morning by. Sophie counted them, threading them into her memory. She allowed a tear to escape onto her cheek. She would not cry more than this one tear. This leaving was what she wanted, what she had prepared and waited and burned for over and over. This was it, and Sophie was surprised at how much it hurt. But she would not cry any more. Too many tears had already been spilt. And none of them had brought David back.
Sophie brushed the wet from her cheekbone. Her bags had been packed for weeks. Since deciding to leave, Sophie had felt like she’d been treading water, waiting patiently for the days and weeks to pass so that she might finally say farewell and shut the door on this wide ragged land with all its beauty and pain and contradictions. Her only hesitation was in saying goodbye to Li Hua.
Dear, sweet, giving Li Hua, who’d lost so much.
Sophie shuffled into her slippers and padded into the galley kitchen that she’d used only for boiling water and rice. She made herself a cup of dragon’s well tea and wandered through the flat as it brewed. Empty of her personal touches and knick-knacks, the flat felt like a stranger. All that remained were lonely pieces of furniture and the traces of last night’s simple farewell: a burned-down aromatic candle, a leftover plate of pumpkin seeds and some empty wine bottles by the TV. Sophie gathered the candle and the plate of pumpkin seeds and threw the lot in the bin.
Li Hua would arrive to collect her in an hour.
As she shut the door on her flat, the one across the concrete landing opened. Mrs Lu stepped onto the landing, steadying herself against the pile of winter cabbages. She held a paper bag out to Sophie.
‘For your trip,’ she said in rolling Putonghua. ‘For tea.’
Sophie took the crumpled bag and peeked at its contents. A pile of dried hawthorn berries.
Mrs Lu’s eyes shone. ‘Before you came here we’d never had a foreign person in this building,’ she said. ‘You are the first foreign person I’ve met. You are… not so bad.’
Sophie’s arrival had caused a scandal. The old ladies by the bike stand hadn’t smiled at her for months. She’d listened to their chatter from her window and noted that they stopped talking whenever she walked past. When she finally plucked up the courage to speak to them, in stilted and broken Mandarin, their mouths had gaped.
From then on, they’d smiled.
Sophie shook Mrs Lu’s hand. ‘Look after your body and your health,’ she said. ‘And thank you.’
Mrs Lu watched from her open door as Sophie lugged her suitcase down the steps to the courtyard outside. Sophie turned once, raising her hand in a wave. Mrs Lu stood still, her back against the cabbages, her arms folded against the cold.
Sophie walked across the courtyard, the eyes of the apartment block on her back. Nobody shouted goodbye and nobody offered to help. Her time here had been only an interruption, a scratch on the ebb and flow of decades.
The gatekeeper emerged from his watchhouse, his wrinkled face squinting up at her for one last time. The ever-present cigarette dangled loosely from one hand. In the other, he held a piece of torn card. He pressed the card into Sophie’s gloved palm.
‘In case you forget something. Just call.’ The simple kindness made Sophie want to sob.
Li Hua stood beside her car at the gate. Sophie swallowed her tears and muttered a farewell to the man she’d spent hours with, drinking brown tea from chipped cups, discussing small topics in smaller words: food, pets, family, tradition.
‘Hello?’
Sophie snapped alert. A lank-haired girl stood before her, hands fiddling with the strap of a plastic carry bag.
‘I am Han Hong,’ she said, her English heavily accented.
Sophie stood. The girl, thin-lipped and skinny, was taller by a few centimetres. Heavy make-up caked her face but couldn’t disguise the traces of acne or the sores around her mouth. Without question there’d been a mistake. Even in the age of digital enhancement, photographs didn’t li
e this much.
The girl twisted the bag strap. ‘I am Han Hong,’ she repeated.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘I was looking for somebody else.’
The girl began to back away. ‘Okay.’
She turned and walked a few unsteady steps down the corridor. Strapped to her feet were a pair of wedge heels, bright yellow patent leather – more suited to a nightclub than a classroom.
Sophie pulled her phone from her pocket. ‘Excuse me,’ she called. ‘Han Hong?’
The girl turned. ‘Yes?’
Sophie approached. ‘I’m looking for the girl in this picture. Her name is also Han Hong. Do you know her?’
The girl stared at the image. She swept a finger around the circle of her eye, as if brushing away a tear. When she looked up, her eyes gleamed.
‘I do not know this person,’ she said, her voice a fierce whisper. ‘I’m sorry. I cannot help.’
Clutching palms to elbows, the girl walked quickly away. Sophie watched the shopping bag swing from one finger. She seemed so definite.
Sophie’s phone rang. Jin Tao. She brought it to her ear. ‘Hey, you.’
‘Lunch date. You and me. Dumplings.’
‘Sounds great,’ she said. ‘But it’s pouring and I’m on my bike.’
‘Leave it chained, I’ve got the car. Where are you?’
‘Central English,’ she said. ‘Pop it into your GPS. I’ll be down in five.’
She hung up and returned to the receptionist’s desk. The stench of tuna salad hung around it like a noxious gas.
‘How’d you go?’ the receptionist asked through a mouthful of her lunch.
Sophie tried to speak without inhaling. ‘Actually that wasn’t the girl I was looking for,’ she said. ‘Are there any other Han Hongs in your database?’
The receptionist tapped at some keys, scanned the screen, took a mouthful of tuna. ‘Nope,’ she said, finally. ‘She’s the only one listed. A consistent student. She’s studied here for six months.’
‘That can’t be right,’ Sophie said. ‘I know for a fact the girl I’m looking for was enrolled at this school.’
The receptionist shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you any more than what I see here,’ she said. ‘I guess if you’re looking to poach our students you should try someone else. From the look of her records, this girl’s a stayer.’
He watched her from the glass window of an interview room. Her legs seemed to stretch to her chest, but she didn’t know how to dress. She looked vaguely familiar but too much like a man in those brown corduroy pants and heavy worker boots. Freckles across her nose. Brown eyes, something different about them, striking but too strong. At least her hair feminised her. Thick and black it flowed over her shoulders, the locks held out of her face with an emerald green clip.
He’d heard her ask the receptionist for Han Hong as he wrapped up his check of the timetables. He’d been pleased with the receptionist’s response but agitated at the inquiry – Han Hong didn’t have an English tutor. He knew that for sure.
But she was missing.
He hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks and a familiar anxiety flipped his stomach.
This was not the first time he’d lost track of one of his girls.
He scanned the paperwork, looking for a clue.
For years, the business had operated without a hitch, aided by a few dodgy language school employees who’d helped him play the system in exchange for cash. The girls enjoyed the opportunity he gave them for a decent income; they sent it home to their parents and spent a decent portion on designer handbags and eyewear. They made better money with him than working in a convenience store – and they didn’t need to worry about the language. As willing participants in his game of mix and match, his workers knew the rules and they played by them, manipulating only the system in order to get ahead.
But things had gone so well and the operation had seemed so safe that perhaps he’d got lazy. He’d allowed the drugs to seep in and for his workers to become dependent like common East Sydney hookers. Worse, he’d let his associates convince him to move away from simple sexual service work and into darker markets… clearly, the girls didn’t like it.
The question was: where had they gone? If they’d returned home to China he would know about it. And if they’d set up somewhere else in the city, surely word would have filtered through. But he’d heard and seen nothing. Three women had already vanished, and now so had Han Hong.
He twisted his hands together as he watched the woman in the brown cords tap out a message on her phone. Everything was falling apart. He’d ordered the real Wendy Chan killed out of necessity. A one-off to cover his tracks. Sooner or later, the police would have found her, questions would have been asked and she’d have led them back to him. The order had been a self-preservation decision but murder was not his main game.
As for Han Hong, she’d disappeared, not shown up at the club for over ten nights. When he called her phone it went straight to message bank. He’d visited her apartment, rapped at the metal security screen and tried to peek around the venetians. Soon a landlord somewhere would start worrying about unpaid rent.
As usual, his associates didn’t seem worried. This was a cause for concern in itself. It meant they’d also become over-confident and slack. Or that they knew something he didn’t.
Things weren’t going to plan. In the space of a fortnight Han Hong had gone missing, the substitute had committed suicide and the woman in the emerald green clip had begun nosing around.
Something would have to be done.
Sophie waited at a bus shelter a few doors down from Central English. The footpaths glistened, wet and streaming. Jin Tao pulled up in his Audi, honked the horn like he’d won a football game.
Sophie headed for the kerb. As she pulled on the door handle, she noticed a willowy figure emerge from the English school. The girl walked along the pavement towards them.
Sophie slid into the car. ‘Jin Tao,’ she said. ‘See that girl?’
Jin Tao flicked a glance. The rain blurred the windscreen. ‘Not clearly,’ he said.
‘Her name is Han Hong. Do me a favour and call to her.’
‘Call her yourself.’ Jin Tao began pulling out from the kerb.
A surge of adrenaline surfed Sophie’s system. In a moment, Han Hong would pass. She pressed the button controlling the sunroof. The black plate slid back, welcoming the rain.
‘Hey,’ said Jin Tao. He slammed the brakes. ‘It’s leather upholstery, Soph.’
‘Call to her,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’
‘Fuck me,’ groaned Jin Tao. He unbuckled his belt and climbed onto the driver’s seat. He stuck his head out the sunroof. ‘Han Hong!’ His voice boomed over the patter. A pedestrian turned to stare.
Sophie watched for Han Hong’s reaction. The girl didn’t flinch. Blank-faced, she scurried away, head bent against the weather, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Jin Tao clambered down and shut the sunroof. ‘She didn’t hear me over the rain,’ he said. ‘Are you satisfied?’ He pulled off his jumper and began wiping down the leather.
But Sophie had her eyes on the girl. ‘Or maybe she didn’t recognise her own name.’
Jin Tao dumped his jumper on Sophie’s lap and put the car into gear. A white T-shirt clung to his chest. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘But when we get to where we’re going, I’d like you to wipe the water off your seat.’
They drove to the restaurant with the heater on full blast. Sophie flipped over the encounter in her mind, unable to shake the feeling that something was very wrong. If the thin woman on the street wasn’t Han Hong, then who was she? And as for the real Han Hong – where had she gone?
By the time they reached Chinatown, the rain had cleared and the air was redolent with pig fat. Along Dixon Street the tables were crowded with tourists; they ploughed through plates of sticky sweet and sour pork and braised vegetables with pineapple. Chirpy waitresses in red apro
ns wiped down wet seats and tabletops, poured scrappy tea and cracked cans of beer.
‘Yuck,’ breathed Jin Tao in Sophie’s ear. ‘Smells like your mum’s chop suey.’
Sophie dodged a teenage girl holding a laminated picture of a king prawn. ‘Knock Mum’s chop suey and I’ll chop suey you.’
Jin Tao grinned. ‘Take one can of pineapple, half a kilo of diced pork, some sweet chilli sauce, capsicum and prawn crackers and you’ve got a disgusting concoction that far too many people would call a meal.’
Sophie stuffed her hands in her pockets. He was right about the chop suey. Ironic that her mother’s most popular dish, the one she’d cooked in bulk for Sophie’s primary school fetes, had been some Australianised version of the Chinese food she cooked at home.
‘I just give them what they like,’ her mother used to say. ‘If I gave them chicken feet they would laugh.’
But the Australian palate was changing. Even suburban mums and dads kept Sichuan peppercorns in their spice racks these days. Still, whenever Sophie made her mother’s chop suey, it gave her a small taste of home.
‘About these dumplings, then.’ she said. ‘What’s this secret venue you’re excited about?’
Jin Tao grabbed Sophie’s hand and threaded her through the throng. ‘This way, m’lady. A feast awaits.’
They crossed Goulburn Street. ‘In here.’ Jin Tao ushered Sophie through a narrow doorway. They climbed stairs that smelled of cumin. At the top, plastic grapes covered the ceiling of the restaurant and a fake green vine wound across the far wall. Groups of people sat around wide tables. They slurped noodles and shared plates heaving with food.
Sophie smiled, breathing in smells of spices and lamb. ‘Xinjiang.’