Mercy
THE KITCHEN is so hot she feels she’s about to faint. Her mother sees this and hurries over.
“Do you need to sit down?” she asks.
“No, I’ll be okay,” she says.
“Get out of the kitchen, too hot!” her mother scolds, then hands her a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Pass these if you are okay.”
Mercy emerges out of the heat into a cool, temperature-controlled wonderland. Is there anything more than this party, right here, right now, that decisively underscores her jaundiced understanding of the world? There are the servers and the served. She knows this so well. As a waitress at her aunt’s restaurant, in America, in an immigrant neighborhood, it was less stark, but here, oh, a wide, wide chasm divides the two. She thought an Ivy degree would help her bridge it, but here she is, in black pants and a white shirt, hair pulled back, wandering among the privileged, offering them a small, exquisite taste of cheese or prosciutto, being rebuffed as the women all give a slight shake of their head when she approaches, the men more welcoming, interested in her wares, as she proffers the tray.
She remembers the pastor at church laughing at her teenage self listening to Janis Joplin, the tinny music coming out of the speakers. “You want Mercedes, yes?” he asked. “Don’t ask the Lord. You marry rich man!” Ever the callow teenager, she tried to explain to this sixty-year-old Korean man that Joplin was counterculture, singing about materialism, but he just laughed and joked that she had to be pretty to catch a good man.
It had been so close. She had almost gotten there. Charlie would have brought her to a party like this in ten years. She would have a modest diamond ring, a designer bag, a haircut from a junior stylist at an expensive salon—hard-won prizes but hers. David lives in this world, she’s sure. Most of her friends are on a sure route to this place, this destination. The women are coiffed, their hair blown into silky waves. Their outfits are sparkly and shimmery; their skin is moist and toned. They radiate well-being and prosperity, the knowledge that someone cares about them enough to take care of them while they take care of the family. She doesn’t want this exactly—she’s never been purely materialistic, and money has never been her goal—but she wants something like it, maybe just an assurance that she won’t fall by the wayside, that she won’t become invisible.
She crosses the room, going from cluster to cluster, casting an anthropological eye on the crowd. Mostly American, 85 percent white, expats, most of whom will be here for less than ten years. Still, while they are here, Hong Kong is their oyster. She hears snatches of conversation about the best resort in Hoi An, the best airline to fly to Dubai, how someone had to fire her second helper for theft. These conversations are light and airy, buoyed by an unassailable sense of their place in the world, assured, secure in their corporate jobs and housing allowances.
A woman says loudly to her, “May I have a glass of sparkling water, please?” Mercy can tell that the woman thinks she’s a local who can’t speak English, and is speaking loudly and slowly so Mercy can decipher the foreign words. She tamps down the urge to reply, merely nods her head.
In the idealistic confines of college, she thought that all people had the same opportunities, but to be here, one of a throng of Asian servers serving a bunch of white people, is severely messing with her head. She knows that it’s not the case, that in the media everyone is talking about Asian money and power and that everyone is rushing to get a piece, but today, this hour, this minute, when she has on a waiter outfit, with her bastard baby in her belly, and she’s serving goat cheese puffs to some indifferent blonde from Charlottesville, she feels so despairing she thinks, why is she even considering bringing another girl into this world? For she knows her baby is a girl. She just knows. How could it not be? Given the arc of her mother and Mercy, of course she’s going to have another luckless female. Isn’t that some Korean folktale? To bring into the world another girl to suffer, carry on the story?
She’s noticed too how she can tell that some women have only sons and some have only daughters. The women with boys are rangy and attractive, as if all that exposure to testosterone has honed them into a lithe, goddesslike receptacle for male worship. Women with girls look a little more beleaguered, as if already psychologically worn away. It’s clear to Mercy, in the unspoken way in which some truths reveal themselves, that this girl will be her only child, another reason she’s determined to keep it.
Crossing the room, she sees the banner for the first time. HAPPY 50TH, CLARKE!
An electric jolt goes through her body. Jesus.
She almost drops the tray.
It can’t be.
Hong Kong is small, but it can’t be that small. In the kitchen, no one mentioned the party’s hosts. Her mother just said it was an American’s fiftieth birthday and marveled at how dressed up the women were. She keeps walking, numbly, because she doesn’t know what else to do, but now all the groups of people seem menacing, as if they might house one of the Reades, which they probably do. Her head expands in and out. White lights press in on her temples.
Of course, Hong Kong can be this small. For someone like her, with an excellent memory for faces and names, Hong Kong can be dizzying and claustrophobic. She will read about someone in Time Out or the South China Morning Post and meet them the next week or see them going up the escalator at the Landmark. It is a small, small pond.
Then, there, she spots a Reade. Philip, the middle child. He doesn’t see her, because he’s sitting down, playing with an iPad. She walks on. Again. There’s Daisy. She scans the room. And there’s Margaret.
Mercy retreats into a dark corner, puts the tray down and tries to calm the pounding of her heart, which threatens to beat right out of her chest. She puts her right hand on her chest to try to calm it.
Where is the other? Where is the other? Her mind repeats this phrase like an insane refrain. She is the other. She is the one who caused the injury, not the injured. She is the invisible. She’s the one not mentioned in the magazine pieces and newspaper articles. She is the unforgiven, the unforgivable.
Mercy sinks down into a crouch. She hides.
Margaret
A WOMAN WHOSE NAME she can’t remember is thanking her for not having a costume party.
“I mean, I found myself in a toga more often my first two years here than when I was in college!”
It is true that something about being an expat often means finding yourself in a cowboy suit, or a sari. Dress-up balls, or masquerade parties, are uncommonly popular here, which is usually credited to the British influence.
“If I have to buy another cheap polyester outfit in the lanes, I’ll shoot myself,” the woman says. “There’s this Arabian Nights party at the American Club next month, and my girlfriends are going all out, getting dresses made, buying fake jewelry, and I just can’t be bothered, you know?”
Margaret assents. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Clarke stuck with someone from work she knows he doesn’t like. “Excuse me,” she says smoothly. “I just see someone. . . .”
The woman lets her go with a nod. What was her name? Shirley? Shelly? She was a mom at TASOHK whose daughter was in Daisy’s class last year.
It’s going better than she thought. She’s had a glass of champagne and feels a little looser. No more, though, as she gets jittery after more than one. She wonders whether Clarke is having a good time. She walks over to him, places her arm on his waist.
“Hello, darling,” she says. He is standing with Jack McMillan, someone who has been a thorn in his side at work ever since he arrived. He is a man who is almost good-looking, who aspires to surfer good looks but is just one or two degrees off. His hair is an expensive golden hue, which she is certain he highlights; he booms, “Here he is!” when someone comes into the room.
“Hey, Margaret,” he drawls. He is in requisitioning or something. A Duke boy in China. Khaki pants in Guangdong.
&nb
sp; “Hi, Jack,” she says. “How are you?”
“Not bad, not bad. Can’t believe the man here is fifty, you know?”
Jack must be forty-five.
“Age gets us all,” she says.
“Hey!” Clarke protests. “Don’t write me off. I’ve still got a few good years.”
Jack made a play for Clarke’s job when they were in Korea—a move that still leaves her breathless with wonder, that someone could be so ruthless. Still, here they are, being adult, smiling at each other. Conventions are not so easily thrown out, she’s found.
“Are you dating anyone?” she asks.
“You know,” he says. “Here and there. Actually, there.” He points to a lissome twenty-something walking toward them.
Jack is known for turning up with the latest underage models off the plane from the Ukraine or Israel, the ones who were not quite tall enough for London or New York.
“This is Svetlana,” he says when she arrives.
“Hello,” Margaret says.
Svetlana has a heavy accent that Margaret cannot decipher. “Clarke,” she says, “can you help me with something?” They escape and walk away.
“Thanks, darling,” Clarke says, kissing Margaret. “What an asshole.”
“Why do we always have to be the bigger person and invite people we hate?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But better to be the bigger person, right?”
They are waylaid immediately by another group of people, eager to congratulate the birthday boy. Margaret stands a little apart, watching her husband talk to his friends, his business associates, wondering at him, at what a good man he is.
There is a ripple in the crowd. The children are about to do their performance.
Daisy and Philip stand in front of the crowd, shy and awkward, shifting their shoulders and looking down at the floor. From the side, Priscilla coaches them in a whisper.
“We’ve prepared a song,” Daisy says. Priscilla hits play on an iPod.
They sing a sweet song about their father, set to the tune of “It Had to Be You.” Philip’s voice, not yet changed, rises in a sweet tenor; Daisy harmonizes with him. Waiters begin to distribute glasses of champagne. Clarke finds his way over to Margaret and puts his arm around her shoulders. She puts her hand around his waist and holds on, feeling the comforting solidity of his body. Of course, she cries, tears welling and running down her face in a constant stream. She cannot stand the empty space next to her two children, the way they are standing close so their elbows are almost touching, the fact that Priscilla, a stranger, arranged this because she could not. How to cope with all the new realities of her life, which shouldn’t feel so new, so raw, still. How she feels she should be on the road to somewhere better but absolutely is not. All these emotions are drowning her, so she cries and cries, silently, hoping her children will not see.
They finish, and the audience claps enthusiastically.
“Speech, speech!” The crowd demands Clarke.
He lets her go—she can feel the warmth disappear from her when he departs—and goes to the front of the room.
Priscilla hands him a mike. He takes it and clears his throat.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says. “It means a lot to me and Margaret.” He looks at her, understanding. “Margaret and I moved here three years ago, and as we all know, Hong Kong can be a tough place to transition to, although it is a wonderful place. There are a lot of things to get used to: Work is quite different. I didn’t have to drink snake liquor back in San Francisco to get anything done, and I’ve finally learned to call my assistant by her name without apologizing.” A big laugh. “But the thing that has made our move here doable is the people.”
He pauses.
“They often say that in expat life, your friends become your family. Because you don’t have mothers and fathers and siblings nearby to count on, you grow close to the people around you. So many of you have come to our aid in so many ways. You have taken our children to birthday parties when we could not; you have brought us food when circumstances made it impossible for us to take care of ourselves; you have shown us unimaginable kindnesses. For this, Margaret and I are truly grateful. It’s impossible to think that three years ago we did not know any of you. You are our family now, and I am so grateful that you are here to celebrate with us this birthday of mine, which I gather is quite a big one. Of course, I want to say thank you to my actual family, my mom and dad, here all the way from California, my gorgeous kids and Margaret, my amazing wife.”
The crowd waits.
“And especially to my son G, wherever he is.” His voice quavers. “We love you so much, G.” He looks down, composes himself. Margaret holds her breath.
“To you, our Hong Kong family,” he says.
Priscilla hands him a glass of champagne.
They all cheer and toast one another. The band strikes up again, and the space is filled with noise and cheer again. The moment has passed as lightly as it could. Margaret doesn’t know if she’s relieved or upset about this.
Is this all it is? Human beings have figured out that to celebrate and feel happy, you need certain elements—people, music, alcohol—and that’s all it takes to create this feeling of celebration and acknowledgment of life and time passing. The rituals we make—the elaborate wedding, the twenty-first birthday—these all signal to the world outside the changes in one’s life. And the funerals, to say good-bye to someone. The one she will never be able to do.
Hilary
HILARY HAS BEEN on pins and needles all night, waiting to see if David is coming. Olivia is well on her way to getting bombed, a combination of not knowing anyone at the party and not caring to know anyone at the party. Hilary knows most of the people here—they are on the American Club-TASOHK-Central circuit, and she is a card-carrying member of this group, even without children. She can be at this party and not feel a shred of social anxiety. The same cannot be said of Olivia, who both cares and doesn’t care. If Hilary pressed her to be honest, the truth would be that Olivia feels superior to all the expats here. Hong Kong is her real home. She owns her apartment, her daughter goes to a local school and speaks Cantonese and English perfectly. To her, the expatriates are just visiting, naïve galoots who come and screech about the jade market and getting dresses copied in Shenzhen. Not for them the rarefied rooms of the Hong Kong Club or the Stewards Box at the Jockey Club on race day. They are temporary and best ignored or tolerated until they receive their orders to return home. She would usually live her life perhaps dining next to them at Otto e Mezzo or browsing alongside them at the bookstore, never having any real interaction. Olivia has granted Hilary an exemption due to their friendship in college, when Hilary acted as a tour guide to California and the rest of America.
Then she sees David walk through the entrance, looking around. She hasn’t seen him in a long time. Not like him to be so late, but she guesses he’s a new person now. He is alone, as far as she can tell. He looks good—a little thin, but good.
She taps Olivia on the shoulder. “David just walked in.”
“Let’s go say hi!” Olivia says.
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“Oh, come on,” Olivia says, and drags her to David.
“Oh, hi, Hilary,” he says uncomfortably. “And Olivia.”
They stand awkwardly.
“How are you?” Hilary asks. “You’ve been traveling a lot?”
“Yes,” he says. “A fair amount.”
There’s an awkward pause while Olivia sways, tipsy, beside them.
“I wanted to tell you something,” Hilary says. “I was going to see if you wanted to get a meal, but I might as well tell you now.”
“Okay,” he says agreeably. Again she wonders where his calm is coming from.
“So I think I’m going to go ahead and adopt Julian,” she says.
> “Oh.” A look passes over his face that she can’t interpret. Not panic, not distress, something more complicated.
“I’m going to need your help, though,” she presses on, although in the back of her mind something’s telling her it’s not a good idea. “They’re so strict and picky here. I want to keep you on the forms as my husband, and we’ll adopt him together, but it’ll be purely a formality. You don’t need to have any responsibility, and I can do a separate contract like that if you want.”
“Jesus,” he says. “That’s a lot to drop on me right now.”
Anger rises in her so quickly it feels as if her head is on fire. “Oh, you think?” she says hotly. “You think it’s a lot? You . . . asshole. You think it was a lot for you to leave without any . . . any”—she cannot find the word—“any . . . notification,” she says, using an absurd, businesslike word, “the day my mother came for her annual visit?”
“Calm down, Hilary,” he says. “I’m not saying anything bad. I’m just saying it’s a lot. And that’s part of the whole problem, you know. When you bring this up, the fact that I left is more about that it was the day your mother was coming than the fact that I left. You have some messed-up priorities.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You always, you always made me feel like I joined your family and not that you joined me, do you know what I mean?” He shakes his head. “This is not the place to be doing this.”
They stare at each other, the hostility finally bubbling to the surface.
“I didn’t come here for this,” he says finally. “I’m going to go get a drink, and we can talk about this later, not at a party, not tonight.” He walks off, shaking his head.
She looks at his receding back, trembling with anger. When had this man been her husband, someone she thought she might spend the rest of her life with? He seems like a stranger.
Olivia has been sobered up by the exchange. “Sorry, that didn’t go well, did it?” she says, and puts her arm around Hilary, who is trembling a little.
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