Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  Naked and humming, she strode heavily to the basin and doused a face-washer under the tap. Then she returned to the bench she had claimed and began to wash herself down.

  I tried to ignore her and once again assessed the three available shower cubicles. What was worse, toenail, puddle or band-aid? But the German’s movement drew the eye.

  She cleaned her stomach then moved her rag around to her back. She returned to her shoulders to wash her arms and wound under to give her pits a good scrubbing.

  ‘Is good to be clean in the hot,’ she pronounced, lifting her leg.

  I gasped as she put the squelching washcloth on the red plastic communal bench where the germs and bacteria from her body would meet with the germs and bacteria on the surface to dance and profligate.

  She turned and stared at me. I looked away, then rummaged in my bag so as to pretend I’d left my own body rag in my room. I shrugged at her, smacked my forehead, and then quickly backed out of there. I pressed the lift button, willing it to arrive. Press-press-press-press-press. It took me six floors up where I located another bathroom. It was not much cleaner but the showers were free of band-aids, hair and naked Germans. I scurried into the first cubicle and locked it.

  I had a vigorous shower during which I used about half a bottle of liquid soap followed by a whole bottle of hand sanitiser – rubbed all over my body. Afterwards, I ripped reams of paper towels from the dispenser and created a sanitary space on the bench top. On this I gingerly arranged a selection of lipsticks and eye make-up and set about trying to make myself look presentable. But simply applying mascara was enough to make me perspire. I had to stop twice and rip out more paper towels to clean the foggy mirror and blot my forehead. The air was heavy and wet. My hand was shaking.

  Just get through tonight and everything will be okay, I counselled myself. Doubtful eyes starred back at me.

  I had this idea that Chris would be my salvation. When I walked through those hotel doors he’d see me across the room and smile. He would stand slowly and wave, ignoring the patrons who wanted to order their dinner. In three quick steps he’d be holding me in his arms. We would start dating, fall in love, and my life would be back on track again. I’d be married by twenty-nine and could start building a family and a home. I returned the mascara brush to my lashes.

  No need to be nervous, I told myself. You’re just going to say hello to an old friend.

  Even though the Kowloon Shangri-La was an easy walk I decided to call a cab. I couldn’t risk puffing up into a red, sweaty, poached person on the way. We arrived at the hotel seven minutes later.

  ‘Three hundred dollars,’ the driver said.

  ‘What? But the metre says one fifty.’

  ‘Tollway charge.’

  ‘What tollway, we didn’t drive on a tollway.’ My voice rose with frustration. There were signs and warning stickers all over the cab but I could only understand half of them. I fossicked in my wallet. I was still getting used to this exchange rate that put the price of coffee at twenty-five Hong Kong dollars.

  A car behind me blurted its horn.

  ‘Tollway charge,’ the driver insisted.

  I handed him the money, only realising as the door slammed shut behind me that the tollway charge amounted to more than twenty-five Australian dollars.

  ‘Hey,’ I called, but he had already sped off.

  I ploughed through the hotel doors. I wanted to lay my cheek against the polished marble columns but I didn’t have time. I had a soul-mate to find.

  In the dining room, dinner service was in full swing. Men in white shirts and black waistcoats raced around carrying trays and pouring glasses of wine. I looked for that familiar mouth. Those blue eyes.

  ‘Can I help you?’ My search was interrupted by the host standing behind a gold lectern.

  ‘Hi, I was wondering if Chris Campbell was working tonight. I’m a friend of his.’

  ‘You picked a funny time to pay him a visit.’ The host looked around the room. ‘I don’t know if we have a Chris.’ He turned to the man clearing the table behind him. ‘Bill, have we got a Chris working here?’

  Bill came over. ‘Oh yeah, there’s that Chris guy who used to do the bar service. Blond. Australian.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I nodded eagerly. ‘He’s got blue eyes and he’s tall.’ I held up my hand to demonstrate. ‘And he’s got a really kind smile.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bill. ‘I don’t think he’s here.’

  The host shook his head. ‘I don’t know him.’

  I rubbed my palms together to diffuse the sweat that was gathering.

  ‘Is there anyone else who might know him?’ I looked at Bill, hoping he’d offer something. It was dawning on me that I’d come all this way without checking Chris was still in Hong Kong. What if I couldn’t find him? That sick feeling was creeping back into my stomach. I put my hand to my forehead.

  ‘Are you alright?’ the host asked.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Bill said, ‘hang about for a while and when the dinner service quietens down you can talk to Simon. He’s the dining room manager.’

  ‘Okay,’ I smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  I went to one of the bathrooms and dabbed my face to remove the sweaty sheen. I rode the elevator up to swimming pool level and wondered how hard it would be to come back and sneak in for a swim. There was an unattended housekeeping cart by the lift. In an act of vengeance against the hotel for not ensuring all their staff knew where Chris was at all times, I filled my handbag with mini soaps and shampoos.

  Then I returned to the dining room.

  ‘Chris Campbell?’ the dining room manager said, after Bill introduced us. ‘Yes, I remember Chris, but he doesn’t work here anymore.’

  ‘What?’

  I couldn’t believe it. It had been barely a week since he’d written to me.

  ‘Do you know where he went?’ I grabbed his arm.

  ‘I think he’s at the Ambassador now.’ The manager took a step back.

  ‘Sorry.’ I released his arm. ‘The Ambassador. Right. Okay, thanks.’

  I stepped out into the night air feeling defeated. But I clung hopefully to this new piece of information. Chris had simply moved to the Ambassador.

  As I walked back towards Man Fuk my stomach started to groan. I rubbed it, but it kept making strange sounds. It occurred to me that I could call Kym, but I wasn’t feeling up to it. The beef may have been fake but it was starting to kick. I decided to wait until the following night to seek out Chris. I could handle one more evening alone in Hong Kong.

  Some of the guests had congregated in the lobby of the Hotel Lily Pad to read and trawl social media. I waited patiently until a computer was free. I gave my hands a thorough clean with Cass’s hand sanitiser and sat down to write her an email. I tried to keep it upbeat. I asked how she was and told her how hot it was here and that I’d met a nice girl named Kym. I didn’t let on how lonely I was feeling, how I longed for my own shower, and wanted to see her. I was even missing Michael.

  My stomach gurgled again. My fingers were leaving sweaty smears on the computer keys and I was feeling queasy. The moisture on my brow, which usually vanished after a few minutes in air conditioning, persisted.

  Perhaps this was a stupid idea and I should come home, I wrote to Cass.

  As I pressed send I felt a pressure in my chest. A loud burp escaped my mouth.

  ‘’Scuse me,’ I muttered to the few girls scattered on the couches. I was suddenly feeling light-headed. My stomach grumbled again. I cleared my throat and thumped my chest with my fist.

  ‘Are you okay?’ A petite Japanese girl looked up from her copy of Little Women. She was wearing a T-shirt promoting a band called Mass of the Fermenting Dregs.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I tried to smile then burped again.

  The German woman who had earlier been making love to her washcloth recoiled.

  ‘I think I’ll go upstairs,’ I told the group.

  The jerky lift shook my stomach and its contents. I
burped again. I had to steady myself against the lift wall. My clothes were suffocating me. My face was flushed. When I reached my floor I burst through the lift doors and ran to my room. I pushed my key into the lock and barely made it inside before vomiting into the basin.

  I groaned. My stomach squeezed and seized. It wrung itself out and sent its contents spiralling north. I stayed there, doubled over, for the next forty minutes. The experience was made worse by the mirror above the taps.

  After an hour I was spent. I rinsed the sink, had a drink of water and lay down on the bed. But twenty minutes later I was up again, retching and praying for death. After a further twenty minutes of this, the storm in my stomach passed and it felt safe to lie down again. But then my stomach would spasm and my innards would start rising up my oesophagus. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember I was being woken by tiny green lights. The darkness in my room was pierced by neon from the television and the digital clock. I rolled over. It was 2:43 am. By 3 am I still hadn’t fallen back to sleep. But at least my stomach felt better. The room was silent. And I was desperate for someone to talk to. I staggered downstairs hoping for some connection to the outside world.

  There was an email from Cass.

  What are you doing on the internet?! You should be exploring new lands. GO OUTSIDE! I’m not writing back until you’ve spent an acceptable amount of time on your own.

  Love Cass.

  PS: Have you found him yet?

  I returned to my room and crawled back into bed.

  Chapter Six

  By morning the feverish sweat and stomach cramps had cleared, and my phone was flickering with three text messages from Kym. I called her.

  ‘I’ve been so sick,’ I offered by way of apology.

  ‘Hey, no worries. Just thought I’d see if you wanted to come out. Did you meet up with your friend?’

  ‘No, I will tonight.’

  ‘Okay. We’re going back to the club if you want to come.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  It was only 9 am. I would try to catch Chris at dinner service around 7 pm at the Ambassador. Ten hours to fill before I could go to see him.

  I decided to visit a theme park on Hong Kong Island called Ocean Park. To reach it I had to ride massive escalators up the side of a mountain. They looked like something you would hop onto to ascend to heaven. Their height made me nervous that they would indeed deliver me to the afterlife. I felt my legs wobbling and tried not to look down.

  I stopped to collect myself at the summit where there was a young man, around university age, sitting on a rock. He looked pale and I figured he was doing the same thing I was: recuperating.

  ‘Hello,’ I waved.

  He beamed at me, happy for company.

  ‘’Allo,’ he said in a rich accent. French.

  Keen to practise my French, I recited a greeting. ‘Comment allez-vous? Je m’appelle Violet. Je suis de l’Australie.’

  The French boy looked delighted and launched into a long monologue. The only bits I understood were that his name was Aribert and something about a prawn had upset him.

  I shrugged my shoulders and told him I only spoke a very little French. ‘Do you speak English?’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘English?’ he said. ‘No. Cantonese?’ His voice was hopeful.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Deutch?’ he tried again.

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘Espanol?’

  I shrugged apologetically. Aribert looked disappointed at having lost the opportunity for conversation, and perhaps a little indignant that he was keeping up his end of the bargain by offering four language options, while I only spoke one. We kept each other company anyway. He took my photo in front of the pandas and the penguins, and I held his daypack while he rode the rollercoaster and the space wheel. We were able to communicate a little by waving our hands and mangling simple French and English words into a sort of Fringlish.

  ‘Do you … Allez-vous hungry?’ I asked, miming a sandwich.

  He nodded and pointed to a tea house. Eating rice cakes off blue patterned China, I imagined what it would be like to be here with Chris. When we’d ridden the scary escalators he would have had an arm around my waist so I didn’t fly off over the edge, and inside he would have bought me folding fans and glasses of ice tea.

  Aribert gobbled the last rice cake, and I found myself thinking of Michael. He would have offered it to me.

  After two hours together Aribert and I swapped email addresses and said an awkward goodbye.

  As I plodded back to my room I realised that I couldn’t let Chris know I had tracked him to the Ambassador after asking for him at the Shangri-La. I would have to eat there and then look surprised when he served me. Then I could casually invite him to the club with me and Kym. I convinced myself this was a far better plan. Having friends to introduce him to would make it more convincing when I told him I was here for myself.

  I showered (this time on level six) then pulled apart my suitcase in despair. I didn’t have anything to wear to a club. Cass had warned me Asia required an infuriating combination of breathable and yet modest attire. The weather was blisteringly hot but it was best to keep shoulders and shins covered. As a result my suitcase contained mostly outfits I only would have worn in Australia if I was painting a house. I rejected five choices before settling on a white cotton dress.

  When I reached the Ambassador my stomach was so full of butterflies I thought I might lift off the ground. In this breathless state I took a seat at one of the tables. The decor was shades of claret and the table was draped with a lovely burgundy tablecloth. A single red rose stood in a vase in the middle. This would do very nicely, I mused, as the setting for the place Chris and I first discover each other in Hong Kong.

  The menu items were pricey and there weren’t many vegetarian options. The soup of the day was AUD $28. Steaks were AUD $46. When a waiter arrived at my table I ordered the soup.

  ‘And for main?’ he asked, his pen poised.

  ‘Just the soup is fine.’

  ‘Very good, madam.’ He whipped away my menu.

  ‘Is Chris Campbell working tonight?’ I called out, before he disappeared.

  ‘Chris Campbell? No, we don’t have a Chris Campbell working here,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, are you sure?’ I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Very sure. No Chris Campbell here.’

  He left, and I realised I would have to stay and eat my $28 soup. Another waiter delivered a bread basket. I took two rolls and put them into my handbag, determined to get my money’s worth out of this place. I reached for another roll when I heard ‘psst’ in my ear. I quickly put the bread roll back.

  ‘Are you looking for Chris Campbell?’ It was a busboy with an Australian accent. His hay-coloured surfer’s locks were tucked into a bun.

  ‘Yes, do you know him?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yeah. He lives with a mate of mine. He works over at the New World Plaza Hotel most nights. Very schmick.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Definitely. I had beers with him last week.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I grinned.

  The New World Plaza Hotel sounded shiny and full of promise. And Chris was definitely there – I’d finally heard it from someone who actually knew him. I looked at my watch. Did I have time to get there tonight? I had no idea where it was, and my meal was on its way. Despite the price, I was looking forward to a tame dinner of tomato soup. My stomach – still tender from the previous night’s exertion – was too.

  I would wait. Tomorrow night I’d go there and say hi, and maybe we’d be able to go out after he finished. I pulled apart a bread roll thinking in only one more sleep, I’ll be seeing Chris Campbell.

  The soup arrived in a small bowl. It was entrée size and barely larger than a cup of coffee. But I polished it off and wondered how to spend my night. The thought of going back to my room was not appealing, particularly now it had the smell of vomit added to the heinous pot-pourri of c
heap cleaning products and old bedding. I had sprayed the only aerosol I had – mosquito repellent – filling the air with a cloud of synthetic coconut scent.

  Besides. I’d found Chris Campbell. I felt like dancing.

  I messaged Kym and told her I was going to join them. She sent back a smiley face and gave me the address. On the way I stopped at the Mongkok market and bought a stack of colourful metallic bangles and a pot of grey eye shadow so I’d look more club-appropriate.

  From more than a block away I could see the line snaking down the street. The door into Dynasty was guarded by two large bouncers in sunglasses. One of them spotted me, blonde and alone, and beckoned me over. Without a word waved me through the door where I was immediately I was blocked by a girl in a booth. She looked me up and down and said something in Cantonese.

  ‘I'm sorry, pardon?’ I said as politely as I could.

  Her black hair was pulled into a severe bun and she had sharp-tipped wings drawn onto her eyelids. The look was completed by a black vinyl corset. I was frightened she would whip me if I did something to displease her. Without opening her mouth she pointed to a red and purple sign: Entry HK$100. I paid and was granted admission.

  Inside the two words that came to mind were neon and palatial. Ancient Chinese images and patterns were marked out by tubes of purple light. The dance floor was multilevel podiums. Cocktails sailed past on trays. People in fantastic outfits conducted fantastic conversations. I tugged at my white cotton dress, grateful for the spangly bracelets on my wrist.

  ‘You’re here!’ Kym squealed.

  She sideswiped me and pulled me to a table that was separated from the main area by a wooden screen.

  ‘This is my brother, Tyson.’ A skinny guy with Kym’s colouring shook my hand.

  ‘And this is Wallace.’ He gestured to a man with dark hair and blue eyes like LED lights. Pale and bright.

  ‘Enchanté.’ Wallace held out his hand as if he wanted me to kiss it.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Tyson. ‘He’s just hit the big time in China and it’s started to go to his head.’ He slapped his boyfriend playfully.