The Year of the Woman

by Jonathan Gash

  She said, “The taxi man was afraid, First Born.”

  He gauged her innocence and knew it for simplicity. “Was he really?”

  “Yes. Why was that, First Born?”

  “I will ask him if I meet him again.” The old man’s expression clouded. “You have not eaten. You entered the Café of the Singing-Bird near the Mologai, yet there too you did not eat. This is correct?”

  “Yes, First Born. I will have something later.”

  She felt foolish and made as if to walk by, deciding to walk into Central. He pursed his lips. The threat-men’s arms unfolded. She froze.

  “Little Sister, this is not like starving yourself, as women do? I do not know the words for it. Staying hungry and making yourself ill?”

  “Certainly not!” she said indignantly. “I am …”

  She could not reveal her hunger, say how she’d almost keeled over from having had nothing. I am poor would not do, to this august old-cheong-saam gentleman ancient enough to be her…great-great-grandfather?

  “It is religion?”

  He waited. She noticed the pedestrians – always very few along Connaught Road West, never more than one or two every twenty paces or so, since they’d redesigned the waterfront – were avoiding the pavement. Several, even as they’d been talking, stepped into the road and crossed over, a perilous hazard in the new roadway, or entered a side street to climb inland to another level where there were no trams at all.

  “Religion?” She had no knowledge of Catholics, but supposed he meant them. They had a weekday when they didn’t eat, wasn’t that so? And Mohammedans also, they were vague in her mind. “No, First Born. I am busy.”

  “Then you shall eat at the Peninsula Hotel, in Salisbury Road. You will be booked in. No need to give your name.”

  “I have …”

  “The money in your handbag, Little Sister.” His eyes bored into hers. She almost stepped back in alarm. How did he know she had money in her handbag? “It is a gift. It is yours. Please eat well. I am told you spend nothing. Now you shall spend many dollars on attire.”

  He was lost for words, evidently trying to work up to descriptions of dresses and shoes. His eyes pecked, like those of a bird, at her feet, her hem, her waist, arms, shoulders, as if choosing without knowledge.

  “A gift?” She knew never to stammer. Ah Hau had said ladies did not stammer, for a woman who could not speak was ruined. “It cannot be.”

  “Cannot?” He frowned. She felt an ice on her cheeks. She lowered her voice to a whisper so the threat-men would not hear, and said, “Is it a message to someone?” He looked at her. “Yes,” he said.

  “Would it help you if I did as you say?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought. Maybe the message was in the numbers on the money. “How much?”

  “You must spend several thousand.”

  “Nobody can give so much, First Born. It is…it is thousands.” She whispered, “The money in my handbag seems all red notes.” At his continued silence she explained with reverence, “A red note is one hundred Hong Kong dollars.”

  “Is it?” A puzzled smile, but this time warm.

  “There are two brown notes, and one yellow, First Born.”

  “Are there?” More amusement.

  She was fearful of a sudden. What if it wasn’t a gift after all? His concern had abated as soon as she mentioned the larger denomination notes.

  “The brown notes are five hundred dollars, Little Sister,” he said slowly. “The yellow is a one-thousand.” Three men, in smart suits, did not move, just looking away. Why was this? She had supposed these watching people to be his warders, but now…“Have you not counted the money?”

  “No, First Born.”

  “Why not?”

  “It seemed…impolite.”

  “Always count the money you have, then you know exactly what you can do.” He seemed curious. “After you have dressed in new clothes, after you have eaten, then you must return to your place of work. Understand?”

  “First Born, I have no way of repaying it.”

  “Never repay a gift, Little Sister.”

  “I am afraid. My …” Ghost Grandmother would not approve?

  How could she say something like that? He would think her mad, like the women in those crazy movies from India they were always showing down in Wanchai, where hundreds of actors danced with their fingers gone wrong.

  “Your who?” He looked over his shoulder. The men sprang into life and closed in. “Your who?” he asked again.

  “I think of my old grandmother. She might not have approved, my taking money from your guards, for no reason.”

  “Where is your grandmother?” He spoke to the attentive trio in a voice cold enough to chill the air. “You reported she had no relatives.”

  “She has none, First Born,” one said.

  Old Man said directly to KwayFay, “You have no relatives.”

  “I mean, if my grandmother were still here, alive, she might not approve.”

  He smiled, nodding. “I like that. You think of your ancestors. That is good. I am pleased.”

  The men faded, resumed their stances on the pavement, looking for all the world as if they were studying some distant view.

  “Thank you, First Born.” For what?

  “Count the money, Little Sister. Eat dinner in the Peninsula, buy clothes. Then go to…to work.” He almost smiled as he spoke his last word, but the smile did not quite reach and he moved away. “Here is your tram, Little Sister.”

  There was no tram in sight, but a large black limousine approached from the direction of Shek Tong Tsui and stopped.

  The old man walked away. The driver was a youth who looked fourteen, grinned at her with a mouthful of gold teeth.

  “Little Sister?”

  “Me?” She looked around, but the old gentleman had vanished. Only one of the three suits remained there, watching her implacably, hands clasped, his trilby too large and his tie a flamboyant red. He was ugly, a tiny body under a wide face and eyes that looked dead.

  She wondered if she ought to go to HC first, explain that she had had a sudden change in fortune, but the youth seemed suddenly to age as he scowled.

  “Peninsula Hotel in ten minutes, Little Sister. Better get in.”

  “The gentleman said a tram …”

  “He joking,” the youth rasped out in English. “Tiger Wong all time joking.”

  He knew the old man? She entered the vast motor, as large as her shack. She seated herself, knees together. He signalled for her to put the safety belt across her shoulder. She managed it.

  “All time joking,” he said again, and added, “Except sometimes. Peninsula Hotel, ten minutes. And eat many bowls. Not for your health, Little Sister, for mine.”

  Tiger Wong asked the young suits guarding him, “Which bird won today at the Singing Bird?”

  “The smallest.”

  “Did she bet?”

  “Yes, master. And won.”

  He settled back. “It is she. Tell her to arrange funeral house.”

  “When for, master?”

  “She will know when.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Peninsula, elegant folk said, had seen better days. It stood in the most prominent position by Hong Kong harbour, Kowloon side. Its fountain was a changing delight, enough to bring the Colony’s typical exclamation Waaaiii! from a thousand voices. Its fame was perennial.

  Servants in their elegant uniforms were the most pleasing anywhere. Rolls Royces, Bentleys, large American gas-guzzlers, adorned the front drive awaiting liners and aircraft, to bring yet more guests in time for faultless service. The Peninsula was the epicentre of all power in the Crown Colony, ceded New Territories and all. The true centre lay in the Governor’s House, ending soon. Until the end came, the Peninsula Hotel ruled tourism’s elite.

  KwayFay was welcomed, five uniformed acolytes slickly competing to hand her out onto the steps. Doors opened as if by magic. Lights dazzled, flood
lights on the façade and the windows gleaming. Astonishingly she felt only a little nervous, as if she had been there before. A Eurasian gentleman, dressed quite like some newsreel politician, greeted her. She’d seen his like when, a filthy child haunting Nathan Road of a night, she had free viewing as the main stores shut and Rediffusion came on, so many TV sets to each of the supermarket windows.

  “Siu-Jeh, welcome! Will you have dinner first?”

  She was starving, had almost keeled over in the car. The car! She didn’t know whether to pay the driver or not. Would the old gentleman’s warders be cross if she offered? And with what money?

  “Dinner?” she asked humbly. “I don’t want to be any bother.” And how much would it be? A hundred paces away, she could get a bowl of hot rice for HK$ 2.50, with a scrap of green vegetable.

  “Any you wish, Little Sister! I cannot tell you how honoured we are! Miss Brody, please!”

  A half-coloured girl advanced, smiling. She had a glorious figure, and wore the Peninsula colours. Her hem was exquisitely cut, KwayFay noticed with envy. Her hair was coiffeured, and one of her rings would have kept four squatter shacks in luxury from one Moon Cake Festival to the next. What a delight to be so exalted, able to stroll about this elegant foyer among the rich!

  “Your dinner first? Or will you have tea while we send for a selection of dresses and lingerie?”

  The choice bemused KwayFay. She’d never heard of shops bringing clothes for you to choose. Had the girl got it right? And was it either-or, like in those logic questions she used to overhear in the Sai Ying Pun schools when, during inclement weather, she listened while crouching in the ventilator hoods. Dinner or clothes was it? Old Man had said she was to do both, for the message to work. He must be desperate. She had to get it right, for his sake, spend the money, as yet uncounted. What if they wanted it back? She became confused. Were threat-men watching in these palatial surroundings, reporting she was being disobedient? She felt tears start.

  “Send?” was all she managed.

  Miss Brody waited, not at all put out by her guest’s evident poverty. Her own clothes would absorb all KwayFay’s income for three years or more. She desperately wanted to know how the girl had got herself into such a giddy all-paid position. Sleeping with managers? Sucking off some Government civil servant, so often done down Wanchai and Causeway Bay? Or had this KwayFay learned even more heady skills scavenging among the bars? Was she from Gao Lung at all, or some squatter hovel on the Island? The plastic shopping bag was disgraceful.

  “Perhaps a light tea first…?”

  “Tea!” KwayFay blurted. Tea was a recognisable landmark.

  She frantically felt for her handbag, terrified of losing the money and the Rolex. She was sick of the watch, beginning to wish she’d never seen it. Any cheap thief, any chaak prowling the waterfronts to rob unsuspecting tourists, might have it off her. It was a liability.

  “Little Sister, your sau-doi will be safe,” the girl said. “Nothing can be stolen in the Peninsula.”

  KwayFay stared in wonder. Nothing stolen here? She had never heard such a thing in all her nineteen years – if in fact that was her age. Could Ah Hau be wrong? He’d been strangling chickens for the meals he prepared for hawkers. They collected their hot food each night. (He made eighteen Hong Kong dollars a time from four hot-food hawkers every day after paying the squeeze on rent, supplies, and permission from the Triads. Not much, but not a bad deal.) She had asked, out of the blue, “How old am I?” and he’d said, coughing away, “Seven, Little Sister”. Each year she’d added one to her number, as Ah Hau taught her. Her lucky number was seven. She looked about the hotel’s luxurious interior for a seven, for comfort.

  For the first time since entering through the double doors into this world of bliss and nectar-scented cool air, she really did look.

  Orchestras seemed to be playing, like those she had listened to in the Mandarin Hotel in the Island when she was small, by the kitchens with five other children who let her join their thieving team. Here, ladies drifted by her in western attire, some seeming almost to float, their diamonds flashing. Amazingly, shops were aligned along arcades stretching into infinity. Signs indicated restaurants, boutiques, hair-dressing emporiums, gift shops, windows crammed with jewellery, watches, clocks, paintings and even sports goods. It was a strange heaven.

  “Tea, please,” she said.

  She hesitated, for Miss Brody was now posed in an attitude of mid-flight, nodding encouragement, get to the verb, Little Sister, and we’ll do your bidding. KwayFay looked at the attentive faces. Was she suddenly so important that this creature, quite like an American doll in her superb clothes, would attend her whim? The question of money, that accursed wad she had to spend or else, plagued her.

  “Where, Little Sister?” Miss Brody asked, and explained, “Tea. Where would you like it served?”

  KwayFay’s vision blurred as tears came. She fumbled. Her hankie was gone. She panicked, rummaged in her handbag and found the money and watch still there.

  The girl took her arm kindly yet with firmness. Two other similar girls appeared as if sprung out of the nearest pillar.

  “Little Sister has decided to visit her suite first. Jessica? The lifts, please.”

  Three girls wafted KwayFay into an elevator and along a sumptuous corridor a whole hillside of squatters could inhabit. KwayFay sank, actually sank, into a carpet. They opened double doors, and KwayFay entered a sumptuous lounge.

  Miss Brody summoned maids to run a bath – goldplated taps, fittings, mirrors everywhere. Miss Brody fired off imperatives, clapping her hands, while KwayFay sat miserably in an ornate armchair.

  “Miss KwayFay has decided to have tea in twenty minutes,” the concierge carolled. “Hairdressers afterwards. I think Jakondio, or perhaps Wilhelmoso – alert both. Allez! Allez!”

  The girl’s hand-clapping worried KwayFay. There were no price lists. She was used to faded fly-dotted curling sheets taped to plaster walls saying how much a bowl of rice, how much green sochoi vegetables, and for the shredded geung ginger western tourists held in such awe. She was famished, desperate for some of the fruit that stood in a huge wicker-gilt basket on the marble table, but was it real? Maybe it was only wax, real fruit being too expensive?

  White and gold doors opened. Maids hurried with dressing gowns and towels. A bath was running. She wondered if it was near this vast room, hoping it was for her. Where would she put her own clothes? And what if the ones Miss Brody was bringing proved too costly? Would they hold her to ransom, clothes withheld until she could afford to pay? That happened in steamy bath-houses, the old trick for stealing a tourist’s money while he was naked, his clothes locked away and the key on a string round his neck. After he’d had his rapture and was towelled by vigorous topless girls, he would find his belongings gone. The usual frantic phone calls to cruise ships or travel agents, the loans from relatives, were a mere endgame. His clothes would be given back.

  She knew all the tricks. Money in her handbag, though, and the watch would cover whatever this cost. She waited until they seemed preoccupied, then nervously put her hand into her handbag and slowly counted the money unseen. Several thousand. Except, was the yellow note bigger or smaller than the brown?

  “Little Sister.” Miss Brody approached. “Do you want your personal safe activated? Or you can use the manager’s?”

  KwayFay eyed her with mistrust. This might be the start of the old wallet con. She had helped two bath-houses to work it when she’d been little, everybody trusting a child. Here, though, in the Peninsula?

  “I’ll keep it with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I must pay. My money …” Miss Brody seemed trustworthy, but didn’t everyone?

  “Little Sister, no payment is necessary. Your bath is ready.”

  No payment? KwayFay knew that old waterfront trick, too.

  Two bath girls stood ready at the bathroom door. KwayFay pointedly clutched her handbag, ready to run for it if th
ey made the slightest move. With the three maids, Miss Brody, and the two bath amahs, she was outnumbered, but she had escaped before.

  “Will you still be here when I am washed?” she asked Miss Brody.

  “If you wish, Little Sister. What do you require?”

  “A price list.”

  The girl looked quite blank. “Price list for what, Little Sister?”

  “I want it all written down, the cost.”

  The girl felt for her Motorola phone as if in serious doubt for the first time.

  “Miss, there is no charge. It is already assigned.”

  “Assigned?”

  KwayFay knew moneys were assigned, but debts? The term applied only to debt collectors, Triad threat-men, police squeeze-extortioners whose duty was to share illicit moneys leeched from shopkeepers and businessmen wanting to trade unhindered. It was all too familiar.

  “Yes. There is no cost, Little Sister.”

  That old litany, reassurances before the filch! KwayFay’s eyes narrowed. She wanted to show she was on to their game.

  “Itemise the bill, Miss Brody,” she said with what menace she could. “I want it here when I finish my bath, understand?”

  “Very well, Little Sister.”

  It was either the good act of a superior con artist, or this Miss Brody with her half-idiomatic Cantonese, her obviously fluent Mandarin Chinese, and her impeccable English, was honest or an idiot.

  “Yes, lamah!” KwayFay used the sharp ending. She would not change her mind.

  She peered past the two bath amahs into the bathroom. It seemed huge, its ceiling vaulted like the English cathedral near the Peak Tram Terminus. Steam rose from a bath she could have swam in, though she had never swum. Other street children had wanted to teach her – a fish child scavenged more slickly than one unable to plunge into the harbour. She had been too frightened at the thought of not having solid earth beneath her feet. You could run away if your feet were on ground, but in water?