by B. L. Sauder
Ryan thought back to his last trip to Hong Kong nine years ago, when he’d been nearly six years old and Alex was four. Mama, Papa, Alex and he were staying at his grandparents’ apartment near a busy market. Papa had grown up in that neighborhood and he wanted to show his Chinese-Canadian wife and sons around.
Ryan remembered holding Mama’s hand while Papa carried Alex. They walked through the market looking for things to buy for dinner that night. After getting some vegetables and fruit, the family wandered into the so-called wet market.
Even now, Ryan could still see the pails brimming over with slimy black eels, giant prawns and other wriggling sea creatures. There were pots filled with crab, abalone and giant sea cucumber. Crates overflowed with tiny dried shrimp, scallops and mussels. Farther on were wooden and bamboo cages stuffed with live chickens, ducks and geese.
When his father finished looking everything over, he pointed to a plump chicken and asked the butcher to prepare it for him. Ryan watched as the man grabbed the squawking bird, and with one hand, pinned it down on a bloody wooden slab. He grabbed an enormous cleaver and wiped it across his stained apron. Then, with one swift movement, he hacked clean through the fowl’s neck. The beaked head plopped into a bamboo basket beside the chopping block, joining the rest of the feathered heads heaped inside.
Alex was too young to understand, but Ryan suddenly realized where a chicken dinner really came from. He remembered starting to howl and his father picking him up with his free arm. Papa had held him, together with little Alex, hugging and kissing them both. A few moments later, his father put both his sons down and ruffled their hair.
“You might look Chinese,” Papa laughed, “but you sure can tell you’re not from around here.”
Now, as Ryan was about to visit Hong Kong again, a lump grew in his throat and his chest ached. He took his glasses off and pressed his forehead against the cold, black window and clasped his jade. He still missed his parents so much. It was seven years since they had died in the fire, but it seemed like only yesterday. He would do anything to see them one more time.
If someone could see into his heart, they would see that that was what he truly wished for.
Chapter 3
Anticipation
Hong Mei left the Internet café and manoeuvred her bicycle into the lane reserved for cyclists. She noticed that traffic of both motor vehicles and bikes was heavier than usual. Everyone seemed to be out getting last-minute shopping or errands done before the holidays. Hong Mei didn’t have to worry. She and Mama had already prepared for the New Year, or Spring Festival as many still called it.
First they’d cleaned their apartment, starting with the dust-covered ceiling fans and cobwebs in the corners of the room, and finished by scrubbing the wooden floors and beating the dirt from the worn carpets. Hong Mei didn’t mind the annual cleaning binge since she, like most Chinese, thought that good fortune wouldn’t find you if you hadn’t “swept out the old to let in the new.” She also knew that she had to clean everything before her mother would take her shopping.
This year she wanted to buy something really special to wear. After all, it wasn’t just the Year of the Dragon coming up, but the Year of the Golden Dragon. She’d be 76 years old the next time there’d be another Golden Dragon year. Maybe she would be so old she wouldn’t even be alive.
After a bit of a struggle, Hong Mei had finally convinced her mother they should both get different outfits rather than the typical red sweaters and skirts of previous years. Hong Mei wanted a pair of black jeans and a black turtleneck. Mama flatly refused, saying it was inappropriate for a young girl to wear all black. They compromised on black wool trousers and a red turtleneck with a tiny black dragon embroidered on it. Hong Mei was thrilled. It was by far the coolest outfit she’d ever owned.
When she and Mama finished buying clothes, they bought all their favourite New Year delicacies to prepare. There was a chicken to cook at home, long noodles and thin slices of juicy roasted duck. They bought both plain steamed bread and some filled with succulent barbequed pork and chopped onion and garlic. For dessert they chose an array of dumplings with sweet red-bean paste, crushed black sesame and puréed chestnut. Last, they filled tiny bags with watermelon seeds, dried plums and sugared walnuts.
Hong Mei helped her mother take the packages home. Then they both went out for the most important errand, the trip to the bank. The New Year wouldn’t be complete without money being given and received.
Arriving at their small branch, Hong Mei and her mother saw that security guards were limiting the number of people entering the building. The next person in line was only allowed in when someone left the bank.
Mama shook her head and said, “Why do we always wait to the last minute to do this?”
Hong Mei shrugged. She didn’t mind. Waiting to take out the crisp new bills was part of the lead-up to what she considered the best part of the New Year. And that was when she received her own money inside the small red hong-bao. Throughout the days of celebrating, neighbours and patients of her mother would stop by and give her small envelopes with bills of cash inside. Just the sight of one of the little packets could make her heart race. Although she was already a teenager, girls were given hong-bao until they got married, and she was a long way from that.
Plus, it didn’t make any difference if she was stinky or not.
While they waited their turn at the bank to demand the newest and cleanest bills, Hong Mei watched her mother. She didn’t have much money, but she would withdraw what she could. People didn’t expect a single mother to give a lot of money, but custom demanded she give something.
Later, when they returned home and her mother prepared dinner, Hong Mei carefully smoothed and folded the banknotes to put inside the shiny red envelopes. She turned to her mother.
“How much lucky money for the trash collector, Mama? Should the doorman get more or less than him? What about the children next door?”
“Two bills for the trash collector, five for the security guard and one each for the children next door,” her mother said. “Don’t write their names on the envelopes until we have everyone’s done.”
“Yes Mama. I know,” Hong Mei replied. She knew if she missed someone, she’d risk not getting an envelope herself.
When they had finished, Hong Mei gathered up the pretty packages from the table. “Should I go now?”
“Yes. And don’t forget to say xie xie when you receive your lucky money.”
“I won’t,” Hong Mei had said as she skipped out the door that day.
Now, as Hong Mei pedalled home from the café, she thought about her mother. She worked so hard to support the two of them. Hong Mei knew that if she had been born a boy, everything would be different. Baba and Mama probably wouldn’t have started arguing. Her father might not have become so obsessed with his belief in the return of Black Dragon. Maybe, Baba’s monk brothers wouldn’t have had to take him away.
Hong Mei felt butterflies in her stomach as she thought about going to Beijing the next day. There was absolutely no way she could tell her mother about any of it.
Now, what excuse would she use to get away? Hong Mei would have to find out what was missing from Mama’s supplies and offer to get it before the holidays. What were they always short of? Soft-shelled beetles? Ridge-backed millipedes? Wait! Dragonfly wings. They were always running out of those.
And what a wonderful surprise it would be. She imagined walking into the apartment with Baba behind her. Would Mama burst out crying? Whom would she hug first, her or Baba?
Hong Mei turned the corner and rode into the apartment compound. She jumped off her bicycle and locked it up to the bicycle stand. When she reached their apartment door, she saw that her mother had decorated the entryway. Bright red bunches of firecrackers hung on either side of the front door. A shiny gold and red poster with the luck symbol was nailed to the door. To one side, a small fruit tree stood in a clay pot. There were twenty or thirty miniature oranges growing on
the pretty shrub. Hong Mei bent to read the card tied to the orange tree. She smiled when she recognized the name. It was a gift from one of her mother’s patients.
Hong Mei turned the doorknob and let herself in.
“Mama, I’m back!” Hong Mei called as she removed her shoes and put on a pair of slippers. She closed the door behind her.
There was no reply, meaning her mother was on a house call or perhaps giving out more hong bao.
Hong Mei moved past the green refrigerator which stood as a centrepiece in the one-room apartment. They’d never had a refrigerator before. This one was a gift from another of her mother’s clients – a thankful father of twin boys that Hong Mei’s mother had delivered. A vase of bright pink and red plastic flowers sat on top of the refrigerator along with several photographs of Hong Mei and her mother. There were no pictures of her father.
Hong Mei picked up an aluminum kettle and filled it with water from the kitchen tap. She turned on the gas burner and placed the kettle on the flame. While she waited for the water to boil, Hong Mei looked at the photographs.
There were several pictures taken over the years. The one Hong Mei liked best had been taken when she was a very little girl. Her hair was done up into two braids and tied with bright red ribbons. It was winter and she wore a quilted jacket. Her cheeks were rosy, either from the cold or a little rouge that Mama, like many Chinese mothers, had put on her child’s cheeks. Small Hong Mei smiled into the camera as she clung to her mama’s legs.
She suddenly thought of another time she stood clinging to her mother. That had been the last time Baba had been with them. The night Mama had secretly taken his jade pendant and thrown it away.
It had started when her father discovered his jade was missing. He couldn’t remember where he’d taken it off, whether it was in their flat before he went to wash up or in the bathroom they shared with the other families.
When Baba asked Hong Mei’s mother about it, she pretended not to know anything. Her father quickly became more and more anxious and searched everywhere for the pendant. Everywhere except the rubbish bin behind their apartment block.
Hong Mei was amazed that her mother didn’t cave in and admit to what she’d done. She had seen Mama toss the jade into the rusty old garbage can. When Baba tried to use his second sight to trace his pendant and still couldn’t find it, he started bellowing for anyone and everyone to hear.
“Where is it? Where is my jade? Someone has stolen my jade!”
Hong Mei’s mother stood stoic and still.
Soon there was pounding at their apartment door. When her mother opened it, three men in dark monk’s robes stood on the threshold. Hong Mei remembered that Mama seemed glad, maybe even a little relieved as she asked them inside. Hong Mei would never forget her father’s reaction to the visitors. He immediately dropped to the floor and began kowtowing to them. The sight of Baba kneeling before these bald, stern-looking monks scared Hong Mei into motion.
Running to the back alley, she picked the pendant out from amongst rotting food scraps and other waste. She quickly rinsed the jade off at the outdoor tap and ran back inside.
Arriving back in their flat, Hong Mei saw that her mother hadn’t moved to help or stand by her husband. But even odder was Hong Mei’s sudden feeling that it was not her place to interfere either. Deep down, part of her wondered if she should say something about her father’s jade, but something stopped her and she kept her mouth shut.
She gripped Baba’s precious possession in one hand and clung to Mama with her other hand. Together, she and Mama watched the oldest looking of the men reach down and gently place his hand on her father’s head. Baba looked up into the monk’s face and nodded. Not a word was spoken.
A moment later her father stood up, smiled weakly at Mama and her, then turned and walked out the door, followed by the dark-robed men. When the last one closed the door after him, Hong Mei felt as if she’d just woken up from a dream. Realizing that her father was gone, she made a movement to go after him, but her mother held her firm. When Hong Mei looked up at her mother’s face, she saw it was wet and glistening.
That night, she and Mama had also left home, never to return. To this day, they seldom talked about it. Hong Mei had asked her mother only once where the monks had taken Baba. Mama said she wasn’t sure, but it would be a peaceful place for him to rest for as long as he needed.
Sometimes, Hong Mei would close her eyes and try to use her own second sight to see if she could see her father or where he was. It never worked.
For as long as she could remember, Hong Mei had seen things in her mind while the outside world seemed to disappear. They were similar to seizures in that she couldn’t stop them. But they were also different, since people around her couldn’t tell what was happening. Of course her father could, since she had inherited this trait from him.
When she was small, her visions usually lasted only a few seconds. They were images of celebrations such as birthdays or the Mid-Autumn Festival, and often contained glimpses of her parents or friends. However, it wasn’t long before her visions began to change, becoming dark and scary. She was barely ten years old when she began seeing scenes of men dying in battle or women and children fleeing from intruders. And there was always fire. Fire and bodies.
Her visions seemed to come when she least wanted them, times when she was stressed or nervous. Her father insisted that they were a gift, and taught her techniques that his own father had shown him for taming his inherited second sight. She learned how to focus and breathe so that she could bring on images just by thinking about them. “By harnessing your visions,” Baba said, “you make them your ally, not your enemy.”
However, there were still plenty of times she could not manage them, and what she saw in her mind’s eye became increasingly more frightening and unrealistic. At the same time, her father changed. From being loving and kind, he became more demanding during Hong Mei’s gong fu training and preparation for what he called, “The Return of Black Dragon.”
Now, Hong Mei reached into her pocket and took out the small, flat piece of jade and studied it. Not for the first time did she think it an odd shape for a pendant. Chinese favoured jade pendants that were circular, like flattened doughnuts or those old-fashioned Chinese coins with a hole in the middle. Some people wore a charm shaped like a peach, others a small Buddha or Goddess of Mercy.
Her father’s jade was not like any of these. His had three edges, two straight as if they’d been sliced. The third side was carved with a wavy edge. It looked like a small Chinese fan.
What was even stranger than the shape of the pale green stone was what had been etched on its face: parts of two different animals – a bird and a serpent by the looks of it – but only the lower parts, claws, feathers and a scaly tail. It always made her wonder if this pendant was only one section of a more traditional circular piece of jewellery like her mother wore. But why would her father have kept a broken piece of jade? What had happened to the rest of it?
The whistle on the boiling kettle sounded. She sighed and put the jade back into her pocket. It seemed like she had been longing to see her father and ask him these questions for ages.
Hong Mei grinned to herself. It was lucky she’d kept them hidden in her heart for when she saw him again. As soon as they were reunited, she’d let them tumble out. He would understand immediately how much his daughter had thought about him.
Chapter 4
Sardine Class
Alex didn’t have to follow Uncle Peter’s advice about the toilet on the plane. He’d been using the one in business class for the whole trip. That stewardess was so nice. Not only had she let him use the washroom up front, but she must have given him ten cans of Coke during the flight. With all that sugar, he wondered if he’d be able to sleep when they went to his grandparents’ after dinner.
Ugh! Dinner in Hong Kong: it was bound to be horrible.
Real Chinese food was something he tried to stay clear of. At a family reunion like
tonight, there would be plenty of weird dishes. There was always at least one whole fish with head, tail and bulging eyes. For sure there’d be a roast duck complete with its head. And no doubt they’d have sautéed eel or squid or some other squirmy thing. Oh, and tofu. There was always tofu for Uncle Peter and Ryan. They loved that stuff.
Alex knew it was going to be bad, bad, bad.
At least Aunt Grace was normal. Alex couldn’t imagine his aunt eating Chinese food more often than she absolutely had to. Tonight, she’d probably say she was tired and they’d get to go to Nana and Yeye’s. But what if he got jet lag, like that time in Egypt? Uncle Peter had been pretty mad about that.
They’d been given all kinds of sweets and sodas on the flight to Cairo and had stayed awake the whole time. But once he and Ryan had got into the taxi, they’d crashed. Both of them had slept the whole way into the city and to their hotel. Alex had felt like a zombie as he stumbled through the corridors to their room. Through his sleep-induced fog, he heard Uncle Peter on the phone canceling the morning’s camel trek.
After he hung up he said, “The whole point of flying business class is to sleep. Not to play video games for fourteen hours straight.”
“Can’t we just reschedule it?” asked Aunt Grace. “The Sphinx hasn’t moved in over four thousand years. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”
“You know I have to be on-site for the rest of the week. If I miss the actual opening of the tomb, there’s no point in my being here. Or on any other important dig, for that matter. Your inheritance won’t last long if I lose my job.”
That was the last thing Alex remembered before waking up later that afternoon.
Uncle Peter got over it, but he was still angry enough that he vowed that Aunt Grace wasn’t going to “waste any more money buying Ryan and Alex business class seats.” They would go back to flying what he and Ryan called “sardine class.”