The Year of the Woman

by Jonathan Gash

  “The Clear-Eyed Girl also had no ancestors, no family. Are you she?”

  KwayFay felt giddy. The accusation was a new burden intolerable to someone who had nothing. Now she was to blame for everything?

  “Neither have any of the street people, First Born.” She felt such misery. “We are all without ancestors. Can I please go?”

  “You work for me.”

  “And do what?”

  “Answer questions. That is all.”

  “What questions?” And asked hopefully, Investments? I might guess numbers for you. Except, sometimes I am wrong.”

  “I have people for numbers.”

  He spoke a few words as if casually reflecting on some idea, and the elevators started up immediately. She looked but saw nobody who could hear.

  “From today, Little Sister, go to any hotel, any place in Hong Kong. You pay nothing. You remember your no-pay number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell that. It will buy you anything, give you any suite, any service. You will be my girl with clear eyes.”

  “I am frightened, master.”

  “Your squatter shack life is finished, child.” He smiled with, she thought, not a little sorrow. “You have family now. I am your family, and you are mine.”

  The lift doors crashed open. She stepped in. The doors closed on him and carried her to the ground floor, where Hong Kong seemed busy and back to normal.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Nothing could thrill like the start of the racing in Happy Valley. Or anywhere. Watching on screens when the Derby ran in far-off England, the Grand National horses parading at Aintree, crowds shouting “They’re off!” at Newmarket, it was life. And lately, the Melbourne races in Australia – in fact, anything with her money riding on the winner. Linda was exhilarated. Her day had come.

  The prospect of winning was a constant. The weight of the money was not.

  “Six-Up,” she told Santiago. It was her decision. His eyes were for her alone, but she had to concentrate on the issue. He was desperate to maul her, then straddle her compliant flesh…

  “Wait, darling,” she said, rejoicing.

  Today she would soar into a dazzling new life. She would leave this humdrum existence. Age gap? No such thing! Life was hers to use. When her new fortune was banked in that tiresome new Hang Seng Bank, they would grovel when they saw the size of her cache of American dollars. Then she would be free.

  The first thing would be to repay loans – a mere residue – to the Kowloon money-lenders. She would love to see their faces when she strolled in with her handsome young Santiago, give them a glimpse of her new life.

  “Sure, Linda darling?”

  “Six-Up. The colours, the numbers.”

  She’d seen the paper on which he’d written the girl’s visions. Obsessively she had added form, trainers, owners… They had paraded exactly as on Santiago’s list.

  “And a Quintella. That’s it.”

  “No savers, Linda darling? No single each-ways in case? We mustn’t be too trusting!” he said, his sobriety making her laugh.

  “Milk the bookies,” was all she said.

  Betting being regulated by the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club, you had to be careful. On the way they stopped off in To Kwa Wan before crossing the harbour – for the last time! The notion of finality thrilled her. She placed bets in four illegal off-course betting shops. That was to allay any suspicions when they did their on-course spreads. The money would grow anyway. Odds for two of KwayFay’s vision horses had begun to narrow, showing other punters were getting wind of heavy bets. Gamblers sensed big money, which suggested insider knowledge. Most unfair, when she wanted huge odds for maximum gain. Even at relatively low odds, the money would multiply as first one winning horse came romping home followed by another winner in the next race…Was it even greater than sex? She kept her expression formal as Betty, her best friend, walked by, then paused to stare. Linda deliberately ignored the bitch.

  The first race was called. Santiago gave her a quick smile, then bent over his race card. Linda had the eyes of a lover for her mount. It would work. It was beautiful, stylish and frisky, aching to run and leave the others standing. The exquisite beast would make her existence utter bliss.

  KwayFay sat in the Café of the Singing Birds with a glass of water. Was it all over now?

  Ah Hau was at his soiled counter. He had seen off the noon rush and was serving bowls of rice to a few street children. Fifty cents. KwayFay watched him, hunchbacked and limping. He had to swing his whole body to get any length of stride. He was the butt of scorn, as with all deformities.

  Remorseful, she remembered how she had taunted him with the thoughtlessness of a child, giving him nicknames that surely must have hurt. Yet he was unwilling to let street-children starve, plague him how they might. KwayFay’s little gang of marauding Cockroach Children stole and hawked between Sheung Wan and Sai Ying Pun down the narrow streets. Even with only a few grains of rice left, still the man showed generosity of spirit. She wondered if he was the reincarnation of some saintly courtier or heavenly general. It happened.

  People clattered up and down Ladder Street and Possession Street, their pattens making the perennial rattle of Hong Kong. All were shouting, and giving messages. Ah Hau never looked up, busy, just gave her a glass of water and got on.

  What would she have done without him? Died, that’s what. Succumbed to hunger and illness. Twice when she’d been ill, Ah Hau bought herbs for her from the herbalists in Kennedy Town and letting her sleep on his cockroach-ridden linoleum floor with its flecks of offal and that pale pink scent of decay. He fed and rescued. Even now, when she was grown, he gave her water when she was faint from the heat. No pay at the Café of the Singing Birds run by Ah Hau. For her. She never asked after her friends, the gang of infant thieves. Had Ah Hau been a street child when small? Who knew what happened to folk?

  He didn’t look a saint. Maybe real saints never did?

  “This your sanctuary, Little Sister?”

  Ah Min sat on a stool beside her. She looked, but suddenly Ah Hau had gone. She was alone with this bulbous beaming threatener. She recognised his hatred of her. In life there was no sanctuary from such people.

  “Ah Hau is my friend.”

  “I know.” Ah Min’s beam was no different. She wondered what he would look like if it were removed. Would he vanish? “He is your good friend, ne?”

  “I am his good friend,” she corrected, wanting it clarified.

  “He named you.”

  “I am in his debt for more than a name.”

  “So you say, Little Sister.” The fat man signalled to a trio of threat-men outside. They melted away, only one remaining to lean on the door jamb. “You recommended me to the master Tiger Wong. Whom,” he added pointedly, “you named in turn.”

  “I did as I was told.”

  He was discomfited and shifted on the stool. She sensed that women made him want to punish, the simplest way of riddance. This was a partial man, far lamer than Ah Hau or any other cripple, all women would do well to fear.

  “Was your recommendation unqualified, Little Sister?” His beam hardened. “When Tiger Wong asked was I trustworthy or not. Or did you add a caution?”

  “I said as I was told.”

  “By whom?”

  “I do not know.”

  He nodded slowly, then stood. For the first time she saw how tall he was. No midget, just rotund and tall. Massive, yet a fraction of a man.

  “I shall tolerate you, Little Sister. But only for the moment. It is Tiger Wong’s fancy to indulge your fantasies. As long as you are useful to the Triad, I shall say nothing about your fraudulence. I understand his sensitivities.”

  “I understand.” She was no longer afraid. Resigned, yes.

  “The instant you are no longer essential, Little Sister, it will end. Do you follow?”

  “Yes, First Born.”

  “We understand each other!” He spoke as if agreeably surprised by an easy
victory. “Report everything to me daily. I shall convey it to Tiger Wong. Henceforth, you do not speak to him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, First Born, but no.” She rose and went to the door. “I obey ancestors. I refuse you.” Let him argue with that.

  In disbelief he watched her walk away. Surely she couldn’t be going back to her squatter hut among the rubbish people? For a moment he was tempted to send his threat-men to bring her back, knock some sense into the ignorant bitch. Then he recalled Tiger Wong’s ruling.

  He said to the nearest threat-man, “Finish Ho.”

  She hired a taxi on Connaught Road West, and told him to drop her in Statue Square. She could walk back, not far.

  The crowds were mostly gone. It was late, the banks and taller buildings only showing lights because of guards. Late tourists were docking at Queen’s Pier, and further west Blake Pier, always a centre of shops even this late, swarmed with tourists disgorged from late runs to outlying islands of the New Territories. The gambling ship was already in at Queen’s, a trad jazz band giving their all. She recognised the tune, but it hadn’t been in a famous movie, so it was useless.

  Astonished by her changed fortune, she realised she could now see any film she wanted, even the most recent! And sleep anywhere. Fantastic! She hitched her computer over her shoulder, and was conscious of two grinning youths blocking her path.

  “Hello, Little Sister!” She tried to get past, but one moved to obstruct. “You got computer? How much you pay me to keep it?”

  Two men in suits stepped from the shadow of the shopping mall. The youths looked at them, at KwayFay, then simply walked away, heads down. The threat-men lit cigarettes and stood talking. The incident had simply not occurred. KwayFay’s heart thudded. She did not know whether to thank them or not. Was it proper to give them a tip? What should one do? And how had they known the youths would try to mug her here, exactly here?

  “Thank you,” she told them.

  They looked at her with surprise, as if noticing her for the first time.

  “Mrh gan-yiu, Little Sister.” Not important. Therefore routine?

  “Can I go now, please?”

  They were mystified. One gave her an uncertain nod.

  Nervously she walked to the rear of Princes Building. The entrances were shut by the ubiquitous grilles. She went round to the front, trying not to look into doorways to see if more of her protectors lurked there. How many people in Hong Kong obeyed Tiger Wong? Could she go anywhere with impunity? And the way she had spoken to Ah Min! She began to regret her manner. She would apologise to him when, if, she ever met him again. Then again, perhaps not. She understood that immense sumo-fat partial man, as he understood her. Enough.

  Distantly, she could hear crowds roaring at the last race in Happy Valley. Only Hong Kong’s lessening traffic permitted the rare luxury of hearing distant sounds. They would all be pouring back into Central soon, happy or sad, flushed with money or broke and sullen. A tram whirred by. Road menders had made a large hole, leaving warning lights and trestles. She stepped into the road to avoid the workings.

  And above her came a loud crack. She looked up, and saw silhouetted against the night sky a figure splayed as if trying to assume the form of a cross. Shards of glass glittered up there in the darkness. She ducked away, running quickly along the road to avoid whatever was about to fall. A few pedestrians did the same. Somebody screamed and stood gaping.

  She was almost at the corner when the body slammed with a splashing sound on the kerb. It did not remain still, just rocked slightly for a moment. She wondered in awe, Do they always do that, rock from side to side once they hit the ground, or is it because he is a somewhat stout businessman…? Falling glass rattled and cracked in a shower, with a sound of rattling gunfire. Fragments disintegrated into a bright shower that was almost beautiful, like the artificial Christmas rain stores did in mid-winter.

  It was HC, her boss.

  She remained crouched against the wall. Suicides were common in Hong Kong. People leapt from high buildings from business failure; women did it from marital shame; school-children did it from mortification after examinations.

  And HC. She felt to blame. Sirens started. The main police centre was only a matter of yards away. She was careful to make certain the raining debris had ceased before she went to look at HC.

  Tears ran down her cheeks. Bystanders were exclaiming in awe: “I was just going to cross the road when I heard…” I, I, I, always the first person at calamities. She wept for the folly that had led to this.

  Somebody touched her arm. “Little Sister?” The young driver, who had taken her to the Peninsula Hotel. “Your motor.”

  He indicated a long blue car parked illegally across the road. It obstructed the tram lines. A tram waited patiently. Yet trams had right of way. English laws said so, from the days of the King long ago, when trams came.

  “Where must I go?” she asked.

  HC’s spectacles were broken, his teeth grinning askew out of the side of his face. An eye lay on his cheek, dislodged from its socket as if it wanted to look under his chin. His legs were awry, one rotated so the foot toed the pavement, the other at an absurd angle. Blood oozed from three ribs protruding whitely from his waistcoat. His fob watch – he was always proud of that – still jerked its second hand round the dial. She saw the time was ten minutes past eleven.

  “Wherever you say, Little Sister, and whatever you want.”

  She looked at Tang. He too was calm, with the calm of all threat-men. It was what conferred respect. To him, servant of the Triad master, everything was predictable in its dullness. This was Hong Kong, and she was the Clear-Eyed Girl, so where was the problem? For the first time, KwayFay saw herself through the threat-man’s eyes.

  In the morning, she would walk to the Café of the Singing Birds in Sai Ying Pun. She would sit on the stool Ah Hau would proffer, and accept the glass of water he would provide, so saving her shame at not having a dollar to pay for the smallest bowl of two-day rice. Then she would leave a tip, whatever she was allowed, to the cripple who had kept her alive for so long for no reward.

  “How much money can I have tomorrow morning?” she asked.

  “Whatever you say, Little Sister.”

  “A hundred? A thousand?”

  “Yes, Little Sister.”

  “Ten thousand?” She felt giddy. “In a red envelope?”

  “What time, Little Sister?”

  “Seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Ho, Little Sister. Good.” His calm was undisturbed. She saw this with wonder.

  “The squatter shacks in Mount Davis, please.” Her home.

  He went ahead to open the door and stood waiting. She entered. He reminded her to buckle in, started the car, and they drove away. The tram clanked past the dead man as police and ambulances arrived.

  This could not happen, Linda told herself.

  The bets went down, one after another. She was alone. Santiago somehow vanished as the racing began dead on seven o’clock. Frantic, as successive horses failed her beautiful scheme, she ran about almost screaming. She had gone twice to see if Santiago was at the betting windows. She’d even asked a gentleman to look in the loos for him.

  The horses lost. The Quintella went down, the horse she backed coming nowhere.

  She hurried from one vantage point to another. This had to be some terrible mistake. Had she somehow got the wrong list? She looked down from the photographer’s perch, the TV commentators’ windows. No Santiago. She wanted to know what to do. The remains of her scheme had to be changed, and quickly. She had to claw back her money.

  Another horse lost. Money gushed away, tens of thousands of dollars with each race.

  Another horse failed, the fifth. One last race remained. Her mind spun. She wept, desperate, wanting to change the bet. But to what? Could she make a switch? If only she could find Santiago…He had the RHKJC tickets, even the dockets from the illegal bookmakers’ shops across the harbour. The girl
KwayFay must have misled them in some evil plan.

  The last horse came nowhere. No Santiago.

  All around people were shouting, some cheering and jubilant, others cursing. She tried to think as the Happy Valley floodlights clicked off and the illumination in the stands faded.

  She glimpsed Santiago with a Chinese woman among the crowds drifting to the exits. He was offering the woman a cigarette from his gold case, making his open-handed gesture. It was not the image of a loser. In the throng Linda saw him tear two betting slips and discard the pieces.

  She ran after, got close near the taxi ranks. She forced her way through and caught his arm. Departing punters saw her. Some laughed aloud at her evident misfortune. She must look haggard.

  “Santiago! We …”

  “Lost, Linda darling?” He flicked ash. “It happens! If you can’t lose, don’t choose.”

  He strolled on in the mob, signalling for a taxi. The woman with him gave her a mischievous smile and went with him. Linda heard his patter begin, “Once, I was really lucky, got the Six-Up – just luck, no planning involved …”

  She stood weeping as the crowd thinned. Trams clanged. Hawkers trundled barrows and pedalled their bikes, all selling done. She waved a taxi down, told him Princes Buildings in Central.

  Her inner self had gone. She felt hollow, no mind to think with, nothing to gamble. No chance of new bets to restore her fortunes. Santiago was heartbreak, but the loss of gambling was more, much more.

  The lights of Hong Kong glided past the taxi windows.

  HC would be working still. He’d told her when he’d rung her cell phone earlier. Midnight, he had told her, come by the office as soon as the races end. There was something he wanted to say. She’d replied, with such gaiety, “And I’ll have something to tell you!” Cruelly, she had taunted him by telling him where she was, at the races. She had intended to tell him how much she’d won, then say goodbye for ever.