Room for a Stranger

by Melanie Cheng

  14

  The fast-food place smelled of oil and ginger and spring onions. Andy sat down at a long table near the window. Kanbei had said he’d be wearing a hoodie, but it was a cold day for October and there were at least two people with hoodies in the restaurant. Andy would have to wait for Kanbei to find him. Through the window he watched a gaggle of university students chatting and laughing as they waited at the pedestrian crossing. Andy wished he could trade places with them. Perched on his stool, waiting for a stranger, foot tapping and heart hammering, he felt as if everybody had a better lot in life than him.

  He couldn’t believe his fifteen years of academic study had culminated in this. In Hong Kong, he may not have been a great student, but he had never come close to failing. He hadn’t anticipated that the style of teaching in Australia would be so different from back home. Here the lecturers provided little to no direction at all. Sometimes Andy wondered if they were lazy. If he had to find out all the answers himself, what were his parents paying such enormous sums of money for?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the screech of metal legs being dragged across the floor. He turned around to see a Chinese man in jeans and a black jumper climbing onto the stool beside him.

  ‘Have you eaten yet?’ the man asked in Cantonese.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They do a good Hainanese chicken rice.’

  ‘I like Hainanese chicken rice.’

  Kanbei shouted their order to a man chopping roast duck behind the counter. He put his laptop on the table between them and began typing rapidly in Chinese characters.

  Tap with your finger. Once for yes. Twice for no.

  Andy laughed. He looked at Kanbei. ‘Are you serious?’

  Kanbei’s glare told Andy that he was.

  Are you Andy Chan? Student number 236580?

  Andy hadn’t given Kanbei his student number. Kanbei must have hacked into the uni database to retrieve it. There was no going back now. The realisation was equal parts suffocating and liberating. He tapped his finger on the bench.

  You want me to sit your microbiology exam scheduled for Monday 19 November and your neuroscience exam scheduled for Wednesday 21 November.

  Andy stared at a woman on the street who was holding a large ‘Get Well Soon’ balloon. He tapped once.

  You will pay $1000 per exam. $1000 now. $1000 on completion. The first amount must be transferred by close of business tomorrow to the bank account written on a piece of paper I’m going to give you now.

  Andy tapped once again. He accepted the folded paper Kanbei passed him beneath the table.

  No money no deal.

  Outside, a couple of students were kissing, oblivious to the illicit deal being made on the other side of the window. Andy watched a thread of saliva stretch between them as the girl pulled away.

  Understand?

  Andy tapped yes. He cleaned his chopsticks with a napkin, the way his father did when they went to restaurants. He slipped the note with the account details into his pocket.

  Kanbei held his middle finger down on the delete key of his laptop. Andy watched the Chinese characters disappear from the screen in front of him. There was nothing to prove the exchange had happened, apart from the scrap of paper in his pocket and the buoyancy in his heart. Kanbei closed his laptop and slipped the computer into his backpack. As if on cue, the waiter arrived with a tray of chicken-flavoured rice and soup.

  15

  Meg hadn’t seen the inside of a church in years. Jillian had got married in the botanical gardens and all the memorials for Meg’s family had taken place in little chapels at funeral homes. Her parents had scorned God after Helen’s accident, but at school Meg had gone to weekly mass like all the other girls. In spite of this she couldn’t remember a single word of a single prayer. Mostly she had fantasised about what it might be like to kiss Matthew Adams—the boy who worked at the bakery. She had imagined his hot mouth on hers, unmoved by the pained frown of Jesus above the altar.

  Anne’s funeral was in a small church with a simple timber cross. There were no thorny crowns or bloodied nails or gold script reminding the parishioners of Jesus’ words: Suffer the little children to come unto me. It was rustic, even quaint, with its modest altar and matching pair of stained-glass windows. While Jillian parked the car, Meg found an empty pew and peered through the golden haze of dust motes. There were lots of people huddled in groups, shaking their heads and dabbing their eyes with crumpled tissues. She saw Greg at the front looking tired and small in a baggy charcoal suit. Meg felt sorry for him. Helen had once said that the two things people feared most in the world were death and public speaking. If this were true, it seemed particularly vicious to ask the recently bereaved to give a speech to a crowd of friends and family.

  Meg remembered Helen’s funeral as if it were a dream. She wished someone had spoken to her back then, wished they had explained that the ensuing numbness was not a complete failure of her nervous system, as she had thought, but an important protective mechanism. Rather than being offered platitudes, she wished someone had warned her that for years to come the grief would seize her at inconvenient and unpredictable times, like when she was waiting in line at the supermarket, or eating a sandwich in a park, or reading a newspaper in the library—paroxysms of sorrow that would arrive without warning, like a strike to the head from an unseen stalker. Meg longed to tell Greg all this, but she stayed glued to her seat, paralysed by the ceremony of the proceedings and her own shyness. Instead, she looked down at the ‘In Memoriam’ card resting in the hammock of her skirt. The photo showed Anne swaddled in a flame-red scarf, her white curls in a wild halo around her face. It struck Meg that even in death Anne was still the brightest thing in the room.

  Anne and Helen belonged to a select group of people who left great voids when they departed. For the bereaved—people who’d spent their entire lives in the protective shade of their loved ones—the loss was almost too great to bear. Not just on account of the loneliness, but because of the questions their deaths raised. Who would miss Meg when she died? How many friends, if any, would come to her funeral? She wasn’t popular like Anne—she’d be lucky to get a handful of people. And of those people, how many would be really affected by her absence? Not one. Sure, Jillian would have to find someone else to have coffee with, but after a few weeks of polite mourning she’d return to her busy life of pilates and film festivals.

  Just then Jillian arrived, red-faced and breathless. She shuffled her way along the pew, apologising as she bumped into people’s knees and handbags.

  ‘Parking around here is a nightmare,’ she whispered as she sat down beside Meg. She pulled a packet of tissues from her handbag and blotted her sweaty face.

  The pastor, a woman, approached the lectern. She was dressed like Anne in a pink shaggy knit—an outfit, perhaps, from Anne’s boutique. She began by thanking them all for coming. She explained that the great turnout was a reflection of how loved Anne—who she called Annie—was. She smiled a wide smile and said today would not be a sad day but a celebration of Annie’s life. At the word celebration, Jillian dug her fingernails into Meg’s forearm. Meg looked up, but Jill stared straight ahead at the crown of native flowers on the coffin.

  Meg was hoping they could avoid tea and cake, but Jillian insisted. ‘We really should, for the family,’ she said, dragging Meg along by the arm. As they entered the room, Jillian was immediately swept up by the crowd, leaving Meg alone by the hot-water urn. Feeling conspicuous, Meg picked up a lamington and cradled it in her palm. She took a bite of the cake while she watched her friend work the floor. Every so often Jillian would disappear into an embrace only to re-emerge, seconds later, with a hopeful expression.

  ‘And how do you know Anne?’

  Meg turned around. The man who had spoken was about her age, with a short clipped beard and a smattering of liver spots around his eyes. He was brightly dressed—some might say inappropriately, given the occasion—in a green tweed jacket and a leather cap.<
br />
  ‘I went to school with Anne,’ Meg said. ‘A long time ago.’

  He chuckled, and Meg thought he seemed like the type of man her father would have approved of. ‘When you’re in your seventies, everything feels like it happened a long time ago,’ he said.

  Meg returned his smile.

  ‘Actually, that’s not completely true,’ he went on. ‘There are also deaths of friends,’ he gestured towards the funeral-goers, ‘and births of grandchildren. But those are things you aren’t really a part of. Not really.’

  Meg finished her lamington, wiped the coconut from her lips. ‘And what about you?’ she said. ‘How do you know Anne?’

  The man looked Meg in the eye. ‘Anne and I were lovers. A long time ago.’

  Meg felt her cheeks burn. She searched the room for Jillian, but her friend was nowhere to be found. The only person she recognised was Greg, and he was crying into a serviette—she could see a smear of raspberry jam on his nose.

  ‘I’m pulling your leg,’ the man said, and laughed. ‘Annie was a dear friend but nothing more. She liked shy types.’

  Meg, who hadn’t cried during the funeral, now felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes.

  ‘I’m Patrick,’ the man said, and stuck out his hand. Meg put her scrunched-up serviette on the edge of the table and took his hand in hers. His palm was warm and dry.

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, not letting go. ‘From the old Persian margarita, meaning pearl.’

  Meg blushed for the second time in as many minutes.

  ‘It was my mother’s name,’ he said.

  16

  On the tram home Andy watched students pore over their lecture notes. Out of habit, he felt for the textbook in his backpack, but didn’t pull it out. Normally he would stare at the pages, hoping for something to sink in while he thought of other things, like the way Kiko’s lips curled around the end of a pen when she was concentrating. But today, knowing someone else would be sitting his exams for him, Andy was free to daydream, and it was a strange and wonderful thing.

  On the walk home from the tram stop, Andy saw things he’d never noticed before. Fallen petals swirling like pink confetti around his feet. A latticework of black branches projected against a teal sky. At this magical hour, even number four Rose Street looked inviting—the amber glow of the windows like pockets of sunshine in the fading light.

  When Andy opened the door he was greeted by the smell of melted butter. It reminded him of the Mrs Fields cookie his father had bought him once at the Star Ferry pier in Hong Kong. It was such a rare treat, Andy had savoured every moment—nibbling the edges of the cookie as he watched the boats bob up and down on the harbour.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ Mrs Hughes said when she saw him in the doorway to the kitchen. She was wearing an apron over a black blouse, and furry slippers on her feet. In the middle of the kitchen table sat a cake on a wooden chopping board.

  Andy checked the date on his phone. Mrs Hughes was right—it was his birthday. He’d forgotten all about it after his parents’ generous gift a few days ago. Andy’s eyes returned to the cake, which was brown and sticky and crowned with rings of pineapple. His mouth flushed with saliva.

  ‘Would you like a piece?’ Mrs Hughes asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ he said and sat down at the table.

  Mrs Hughes took a knife from the drawer and carved out a large triangle. It made a plopping sound as she dropped it onto the plate. She watched Andy with eager eyes as he plunged his fork into the glossy flesh. The taste was exactly what he’d expected from the smell and look of the thing—syrupy and sweet. It was quite possibly the best birthday present he’d ever received.

  ‘We call it pineapple upside-down cake,’ Mrs Hughes said, sitting opposite him. ‘Because you flip it over before you serve it.’

  Andy shovelled another bite into his mouth. Crumbs clung to his chin. ‘You don’t want any?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve had enough cake today,’ Mrs Hughes said.

  ‘Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,’ Atticus sang from his cage.

  Andy laughed.

  ‘Shoosh, you!’ Mrs Hughes said, and waved a finger in mock disapproval before turning back to Andy. ‘Did you have a good birthday?’

  Andy stopped eating to consider whether he had. ‘Yes. Thank you. A very good birthday.’

  ‘What did your parents get for you?’

  ‘Money,’ Andy replied, and then, sensing the old lady’s disappointment, added, ‘It’s tradition.’

  Mrs Hughes collected Andy’s empty plate. ‘You know, I was thinking, I’d love to have some Chinese food one of these days.’

  Andy looked at the remains of the dessert on the kitchen table. He thought back to the animal-like noises he’d heard through her door the night before last. ‘Why don’t we go to Chinatown for dinner? For my birthday?’

  ‘Tonight? Really?’ Mrs Hughes’ eyes flared wide. ‘Don’t you have to study?’

  Andy waved his hand in the air as if shooing the notion away. ‘It’s a special occasion.’

  17

  Meg studied herself in the mirror on the dresser. Without make-up she looked like a pale, washed-out image of her real self. But today she refused to indulge in self-pity. Only a few hours ago a man had asked for her phone number, and now she was getting ready to have dinner in the city. She began the fifteen-minute process of drawing herself back to life—powdering the liver spots away, pencilling in her eyebrows, thickening her eyelashes with black mascara. When she was done, she leant back in her chair to review her handiwork. Everybody has a mirror face, Helen used to say. Meg’s was a subtle raise of the eyebrows and a slight pout of the lips. She was not beautiful—she never had been—but, as her father had said when he was still alive, she had a straight nose, and when she smiled her eyes were really quite lovely.

  Andy called an Uber. Meg couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the city, let alone Chinatown. She was amazed by how crowded it was, how hot and bright and loud.

  The restaurant was called Shark Fin something. Meg had watched a documentary on TV once about sharks being hunted for their fins. For weeks afterwards she’d been haunted by the image of a finless hammerhead sinking to the ocean bed with frantic eyes.

  Inside the restaurant, Meg followed Andy between the maze of tables. When she eventually sat down, breathless, she removed her cardigan and hung it on the back of her chair. Their table was beside an aquarium crammed with mud crabs and groupers. Meg stared at the fish, lying on top of one another on the floor of the tank.

  ‘My father’s favourite,’ Andy said.

  ‘Poor things.’

  ‘They’re okay.’ He tapped the glass with his finger. ‘They’re sleeping.’

  The groupers didn’t move. They looked like Meg’s goldfish, Mr Darcy, before he died. She supposed Andy was just repeating what his parents had told him as a child. For a moment she considered challenging him—forcing him to acknowledge the cruel and crowded conditions inside the tank—but she didn’t want to ruin the night. When Andy had suggested dinner, she’d been surprised by the delight she’d felt. She was tired of eating alone, at six o’clock every night. She tried to reassure herself that the groupers in the tank wouldn’t recognise their friends when they reappeared, buried in julienned ginger and spring onion.

  Just then the waiter arrived. He spoke to Andy in short, sharp Cantonese.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Andy asked Meg.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of red wine.’

  Andy spoke to the waiter for a few minutes—much longer than he needed to translate Meg’s order. The waiter laughed and Meg wondered if they were talking about her. Perhaps the waiter was asking Andy what he was doing with this wrinkly old white woman. Perhaps Andy was saying he was adopted, or three-quarters Chinese, and she was actually his grandmother. Surely that would be easier than trying to explain the homeshare program. Either way she was shocked by how different Andy seemed when convers
ing in his native tongue. She’d never seen him so animated, so chatty.

  ‘He’s going to create a menu for us,’ Andy said when the waiter had left. ‘Something traditionally Chinese.’

  Meg drummed her fingers on the thick white tablecloth. Her experience of Chinese cuisine amounted to fried rice and lemon chicken.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Andy said. ‘I’m paying for everything.’

  The waiter arrived with the wine. He uncorked the bottle and filled two glasses to the rim.

  Meg smiled at Andy and held up her glass. ‘How do you say cheers in Chinese?’

  ‘Gon bui.’

  ‘Gon bui,’ Meg said and tapped Andy’s glass. As she drank, she spotted bits of cork floating in the wine, but she didn’t say anything. She put the glass down and scooped a piece of debris from the surface with her spoon. ‘I feel bad you’re using your birthday money on this meal,’ she said.

  ‘It was a lot of money,’ Andy told her, cleaning his hands with the hot towel the waiter had brought to the table. ‘This is nothing.’

  ‘Well, your parents are very generous. Please thank them for me.’

  ‘I will.’

  Meg took a sip of the wine. She looked at the label on the bottle—it was a pinot noir from New Zealand. She didn’t know much about wine, but it tasted okay to her. While she drank, Andy typed on his phone.

  ‘How’s the study?’ Meg asked after several minutes had passed.

  Andy stopped what he was doing and looked up. ‘Sorry,’ he said and put his phone facedown on the table. ‘The study’s fine.’

  ‘Silly me,’ Meg said and pressed a crease out of the tablecloth with her palm. ‘I’m sure study’s the last thing you want to talk about on your birthday.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Andy picked up his glass, swirled the wine inside it. ‘Did you go to university?’

  ‘Me?’ Meg placed a hand on her chest and laughed. ‘God, no. My parents always assumed I’d work or get married when I finished school.’