The Year of the Woman

by Jonathan Gash

  The driver was speaking into his cell phone.

  “Why Lion Rock, Little Sister?” he asked, phone held out at arm’s length.

  “It is the right place.” She was impatient to be in Kowloon buying the funeral house. She’d had nothing to eat all day. The food she had left on the stone was no longer food, for its goodness had been eaten by ghosts of ancestors. It had to be left there.

  The motor was a hundred paces off, but easy walking. The driver followed, muttering into his cell phone. She wished he would stop. He was so annoying.

  “Little Sister? Who told you about a funeral house?”

  “I’m not telling you.” She was so annoyed. All these tasks, no time of her own, starving to death.

  He was still growling into his phone when she was sitting in the motor. He clicked it shut and slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Kowloon, Jordan Road.”

  He paused before turning the ignition. “Not Wanchai?”

  “Hurry, please.” She now knew which paper shop was necessary. She would easily find it, and only hoped the proprietors – five workers in the family, not counting eleven women and girl children, the boys naturally at a fee-paying school – would not recognise her as the street-stealer child who once purloined regularly from their premises. “Take quickest route, please.”

  She knew paper shops. Choosing one now was difficult. None felt right. She’d not been down this street since she’d thieved here.

  One she particularly liked. She used to filch fragments of coloured paper, her favourite. Her pattern was well established by the age of ten. She sold the paper to young thugs from North Point, fifty cents for twenty scraps, as long as the edges were not torn.

  Alighting at the corner, she stared in dismay. The shop had gone! In its place stood a quick-sell shop crammed with phoney-logo jeans, anoraks, hooded jackets of fake leather and sham alpacas.

  She wandered down the road examining the remaining paper shops. Each was typical, but would any suffice? The threat-man Tang had told her a secret no-pay number. It was a command, get the order right. How? What order, exactly? For whom?

  Then she saw it, the one from which she’d stolen. It had simply moved round the corner! The last time had been four years ago, when she’d graduated to being a pickpocket at City Hall, the Star Ferry concourses and the Lantern Market. She’d had to pay squeeze for permission to thieve. The Stanley bus – Number Six from Central, to Stanley Village – was the most favoured pickpocket route. For a place on the No. 6 she had to surrender four-fifths of every stolen item. Robbery! She was good on the No. 6.

  So relieved, to see her favourite paper shop.

  Hesitant in case the proprietor recognised her, she dawdled and peered in at the funeral papers. Responsibility weighed heavily. How many of the Hundred Deities, to which everybody had to sacrifice at New Year, would one offend, if you got funeral rites wrong? She felt close to tears. Tears were happening a lot lately, since this all began.

  Resolute, she made herself stand in the doorway. The shop had shrunk to less than a third of its size. It still looked the best. Dazzling colours, not a single deity forgotten, everything a dead ancestor might want in the Hereafter.

  As in all paper shops, huge candles of red wax, with golden dragons swarming vigorously up them, hung in bunches from the ceiling on red twine, quite like drying vegetables. These were always necessary for funeral rites. Incense sticks were also customary. She did not favour the stout fragrant incenses, for they burned with great slowness and she wanted incense to burn properly, or it would waste money. (She had never actually bought incense, only stolen it; the fat three-inch-diameter incense sticks were too difficult to steal, being impossible for a little girl to conceal while running away; the thin ones were a disgraceful insult to ancestors, who might take terrible ghostly retribution; the intermediate size, quarter of an inch in diameter, were best.)

  Pigeon-holes along the shop wall held Hell banknotes printed, with cavalier disregard of solemnity, in the jauntiest shade of lucky red. They were all in fantastically high denominations, bundles of them.

  “Yes, Little Sister?”

  A middle-aged man appeared, making her jump, smoking his crumpled fag and wiping his hands as he came from the back room. He did not scream for the police. She remained aloof, as if she had a family and had come to buy goods for ancestors in the Afterlife.

  “I want to place an order.”

  “Certainly. For …?”

  “Make me a funeral house.”

  “A death! I am sorry, Little Sister.” The man’s expression did not change. Sympathy was transient. You couldn’t sell sympathy. His interest in the value of her order for his wares, however, was immediate, permanent and total. “How much?”

  “Money.” She reflected, wavered. The command had not said.

  “What limit for your honoured relative?”

  “None,” she said, calling to mind Ghost Grandmother’s abjurations. Ghosts had to be treated with respect, or they might punish the living severely. They would brook no excuse if they were short-changed. Nothing cheap.

  “No limit.”

  The man leant back to eye her, incredulous. For an instant his brow cleared – was it recognition, the street urchin racing from his back door with paper streamers flying from her hand as she scampered into the warren east of Nathan Road? Then his natural shopkeeper’s instincts took hold, and they were off, for this was money.

  “No limit,” KwayFay repeated. “I want fast order. Concubines – eight – in paper house, with gardens, trees, eight Rolls Royces and a Bentley, all gold. Three storeys, eight bedrooms, gold bathrooms on every floor.”

  “Garden!” He was impressed. “Yes, Little Sister! How soon?”

  “Make from new,” she commanded, now in the swing. “Fastest. All clothes, many greys and blues, no green dresses for concubines.”

  “Naturally, Little Sister. Green colour for foolish, right?”

  “Shoes, cheong saams, suits, kitchen and dining rooms with feasting everywhere. Bed clothes, linen, very best beds, every possible thing. And many Hell Bank notes and ingots.”

  “The payment …” He was respectful. A money-money order.

  “This number.” She dictated the sequence she’d memorised and saw him literally tremble as he repeated the numbers.

  “You sure, Little Sister?”

  “Telephone any Hong Kong number at eight o’clock tonight to check.” That was the instruction. Finished with.

  “No need!” he chirruped anxiously. “That no-limit number! How soon, Little Sister?”

  “Soon. Tonight, at darkness.”

  He said anxiously, “Real tonight?”

  “Nine o’clock exactly. Not sooner, not later.”

  “Can!” he cried, understanding immediately: this Little Sister’s ancestors were partial to nine o’clock. Nine it had to be.

  “You want me to sign?”

  “No need! No-limit number!”

  She left, her task done. She prayed she’d ordered exactly what the threat-men wanted. If it was wrong, she would have no excuse; she had to have guessed right.

  That night she worked late. The office closed, except for Charmian, the foki cleaner who slept, KwayFay thought, somewhere in the building by arrangement with the night security men who were bossed by two Sikhs with shotguns, the usual guardians in Hong Kong.

  At eight o’clock she shut her console down, took up her laptop and left. She caught the Star Ferry to Kowloon and walked to Jordan Road. The paper shops were busy, clusters of people looking in at the wares. Outside the shop, standing in the gutter, was a structure made entirely of iron, with holes for carrying poles. It was almost exactly the size and shape of an ancient sedan chair, in which fokis used to carry ladies up Hong Kong Peak in the olden days before the Peak Tram came. This iron sedan was a Government edict. In it, KwayFay’s funeral paper house would burn safely, and not cause a wholesale spreading conflagration, as so often funeral ceremonies had in the pa
st.

  She went to stand on the pavement and saw her paper house being carried out exactly ten minutes before nine. It took four men. Amahs would have been as careful, but women were cheaper than men, and Immortals, not to mention ancestors who were to receive this expensive sacrifice, would be offended if they suspected she had ordered on the cheap.

  “Waaaiiii!” went the crowd, clustering closer, impressed by the lavish paper house. KwayFay was pushed back. Not tall, she had difficulty seeing the lovely structure close.

  It was somewhat taller than a doll’s house and entirely made of coloured paper. Lit from within by cool amber light; she couldn’t see how but that didn’t matter. All its doors were ajar, elegant rooms inside the tall storeys. Every room was complete with paper furniture of Chinese Imperial design. She managed to eel her way closer, and was particularly pleased with the miniature bedrooms. In the master bedroom, a grand paper bed was already made with pillows, the bedclothes turned back. On the bed lay paper dressing gowns, with white Cloud-Striding Shoes and slippers by the foot of the bed. Everything paper, so tiny and intricate she inhaled with pleasure.

  Along the path of the paper garden, eight miniature paper concubines wandered in elegant court dress. Eight superb small Rolls Royces and a grand stately paper Bentley glowed in gold paper, ready for Honoured Ancestor to drive about the skies. Trees, ornamental shrubs of exquisite design were distributed about the lovely walks and ponds. The garden walls were even more ornate than those of the China Centre on Hong Kong Island.

  Downstairs, paper tables were laid for sumptuous feasting, paper food and cutlery, with paper carpets of superb design, and armchairs awaited ghost guests. Upstairs in other rooms, wardrobes stood open revealing suits of western and traditional Chinese cut. The paper curtains, looking as if made of pure velvet and silk, were drawn back to display the artistry. Pictures and paper mirrors adorned the walls, and paper windows were cunningly coloured to show vistas of natural splendour and cloud-forming heavenly countryside of moving beauty.

  Tears really did flow now. The shop man emerged, still in his grubby T-shirt, floppy pants and plastic sandals, a crumpled cigarette drooping from his wrinkled mouth. He sidled up.

  “Good-not-good, a?”

  She said, “The Hell Money. I want to see it.”

  He shouted, and his men came at a trot carrying bundles of the Hell Money she’d see in the pigeon-holes earlier. She examined each denomination, the gathering crowd withdrawing respectfully, giving her space, wanting to see if the girl approved.

  No denomination was less than 500,000. Some bundles consisted of denominations of one to eight millions. The ancestor would know the currency, which required no specification, for what if Hell Money were specified in some international currency – dollars, pounds, yen – that suddenly fell just as the Hell Money burned and flew to Heaven? The shame would haunt a family for ever, and insult spirits.

  The important thing was for the denominations to be impossibly high. Most were labelled HELL BANK NOTE, complete with serial numbers. Eight bundles, each of eight blocks. Gold and silver ingots shone on paper trays. The paper-shop man had included paper money-printing blocks simulated in paper, in case Honoured Ancestor wanted to print yet more Hell Money up in the skies.

  Everything was paper, from the walls of the house to the concubines, cars, trees, windows, beds, money, ingots. It was as exquisite as anything she’d ever seen. She had been coming to steal from these shops for as long as she could remember, but had seen nothing to equal this feat of artistry.

  “Good-not-good, a?” the man asked anxiously.

  “Replace the silver ingots with gold.”

  People murmured, nodding and talking of funeral houses they had known. He shouted, and the ingots were swapped for new gold-paper ingots.

  “Good-not-good, a?” He was beside himself. The cluster of pedestrians waited for her reply, speculating loudly.

  “Good,” she said finally, into a chorus of exclamations from those watching. A tourist lady across the road smilingly took out her camera, only to be foiled by two young men in suits who approached her. They took the camera from her, producing some badge or other.

  “You light it for Honoured Ancestor, Little Sister?”

  KwayFay pondered a moment. “No,” she said. “Honoured person light it,” and edged her way through the crowd.

  At the corner of the road, where it turned between Canton Road and Battery Street, she paused an instant, sensing the beautiful sacrifice-house’s moment had come.

  In the gloaming she saw a stooping, old man emerge from the paper shop and stand before the iron chair. She saw a match flare, gilding his features for a moment. He touched the match to the paper house and stepped back. The whole lovely building with its furnishings, paper clothes, paper gardens, ponds, concubines, Hell Money and all, went up with a whoosh of flame.

  Old Man stood silhouetted between two threat-men, one of them swinging the tourist woman’s camera from his wrist. The paper, fragments still burning, swirled up into the night sky. The house was gone in seconds. She walked away, without tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “This is beyond description, Witherspoon.”

  The Deputy Governor of Hong Kong was more civil servant than political appointee. He saw the two terms as synonymous. The Governor, a lifelong politician, was a cynic who fancied his chances at Cantonese. Consequently he was taken for a ride by every hawker who paused, grinning like an ape, to applaud the silvery haired git as he strolled, sweat-stained and scrawny from dehydration, through the street markets in his crumpled suit. A failed political nerk for Governor of practically the last Crown Colony. Ugh!

  He could not say such things to his Head of Protocol, who had headaches enough and wouldn’t thank him for criticisms, implied or overtly stated, until the Handover was done with. Witherspoon had more mistresses than the parson preached about, but most of the people in Government here had the tact, and others the subservience, to ignore the obvious. Hong Kong’s way.

  “I know, sir. It does seem unlikely.”

  The Deputy Governor cut through the crap.

  “Have we proof?”

  Witherspoon sighed heavily, shaking his head, his mannerism to show acceptance of the impossible. He wasn’t chewing gum today, Deo gratias.

  “More than enough. The fucking idiots in Whitehall have turned something up. You knew the moron in Great Smith Street, I think?”

  “Don’t tell me it’s Frobisher.”

  “You were with him in that Rhodesia business, with some cret from Immigrants and Demographics. The passport scam that time?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  The Deputy Governor stood at the window of the building next to The Four Seasons restaurant near the bottom terminus of the Peak Tram. It was all terribly secret, supposedly belonging to the next-door American Embassy, whose windows were never opened. Of course it didn’t, as everybody knew and pretended otherwise. It was still Crown property, thank God, and would be until the People’s Republic came shuffling in with their red stars and russet drabs, new shams for old. Empire was all a parade of shams. Wait until Hong Kong was an autonomous region of China; then you’d see fur fly.

  “Is he here, the claimant?”

  “Downstairs with the Legal Service jokers, sir.”

  The Deputy Governor would have sighed, had he been that demonstrative. The weather in Hong Kong seemed somehow to pervade indoor sanctuaries, even working its evil humidity through walls. God knows how they managed in ancient China. That’s a point, he thought.

  “How did his documents survive this long? The relative humidity, I mean.” He explained when the other looked blank, “Think, Witherspoon. Where the westbound trams do that shifty dog-leg. The street market there, right?”

  “Left, sir.”

  “I know it’s left. Right would run the fucking trams into the harbour before they got anywhere near Western Market. There. The book stalls.”

  “Sir?”


  “Have you ever seen any old books, calligraphics or not and however valuable, that wasn’t rotted to hell by the humidity, and covered in mould?”

  “Come to think of it…”

  “Neither have I.” The Deputy Governor added with feeling, “My fucking amah puts my shoes out into the sun to crack them. Does it deliberately, the cow. Saves them from going mouldy, sure, but she sells them once they’re cracked. I found my best fucking patent leathers in the Snake Market at Shau Kei Wan. Bitch.”

  “The documents should have rotted, sir.”

  Master of the bleeding obvious, the Deputy Governor thought. The standard of civil servants had gone downhill ever since the new lot got in by a landslide, general elections back. Grumpy at the depressing news of the old Cantonese man’s find about Kellett Island, he stared out at Cotton Tree Drive.

  “I wish they’d built these Government Offices higher up. What’s wrong with Magazine Gap Road?” It was all irrelevant now, so near the Handover, clock ticking, the end of the China Lease from Nanking et seq.

  “Possibly too high up in the old days, sir.”

  “I didn’t mean it literally, Witherspoon, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Let Gresham handle it. He can talk to the old man.”

  “Any instructions, sir?”

  “Yes. Tell him to bat out time if he can.”

  “Or what, sir?”

  “Or we’re in the clag even more than we imagine, Witherspoon.”

  Gresham welcomed the old gentleman between two legal eagles from the Supreme Court. That only meant the young lawyers had retainers keeping a locker somewhere on the premises so the addresses would sound right to strangers. Hong Kong was not deceived. Gresham, though, was a career diplomat with useful connections Home and Oversea, meaning watch your gossip when he was around.