Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘You need a persona if you want media attention,’ Wallace explained. He wore a giant diamond ring on his middle finger and had expensive-looking silver jewellery crowding and lobes, lips, nose and every other available space.

  ‘Wallace presents an MTV program,’ Kym explained. ‘The producers hired him to give their US rap and hip hop hour some western credibility.’

  ‘And what about you, baby cakes, what’s your story?’ Tyson asked.

  ‘Violet is chasing love,’ said Kym, playing with her straw.

  ‘Whaaa?’ Tyson and Wallace stared and me with greedy eyes and pulled me into a seat. I told them the whole sorry story.

  ‘You’ve thrown everything in to follow your heart. That’s fabulous,’ said Tyson. He had the almost-white hair of his sister Kym, only hers was cropped, while his was long and sculpted into a metrosexual quiff of stiff peaks, like a meringue.

  ‘Cheers to you.’ He filled up my champagne glass. ‘Gam bei! Welcome to Hong Kong.’

  ‘Thank you. Gam bei!’

  My stomach felt empty. The soup had not been filling. To compensate, I poured the entire glass of champagne down my throat.

  ‘I love it,’ said Wallace. ‘Very romantic. What’s not romantic is that I need a piss. Excuse me, ladies.’

  After Wallace had sauntered off towards the glowing male and female warrior bathroom statues Tyson beckoned for us to lean closer.

  ‘I once chased love, before I met Wallace.’ He sucked champagne through a thin straw. ‘He was the most beautiful man. Julio. I met him backpacking in South America. One night we swam in an ocean pool carved into rocks that shone with phosphorescence in the moonlight.’ He looked into the distance before stubbing out a half-smoked cigarette and lighting another one.

  ‘I never truly got over him. But I don’t regret it, not for a moment. It never would have worked,’ he said, picking a tobacco flake from the end of his tongue. ‘Not in Christchurch. It was better off being a brief, perfect love affair. Well, not that brief,’ he said and hooted with laughter. He filled our glasses again, topping mine close to the brim. He drank the last little bit from the bottle then called for a waiter to bring another.

  My head was starting to swim. Heavy house music was thumping from speakers in all corners of the room and I could feel the rhythm reverberating through my bones. The waitress brought more champagne. She, like all the others, was dressed in a gold cheongsam split at the sides to reveal her perfect, lithe legs.

  ‘This stuff’s the best,’ Kym told me, re-filling my glass. ‘You don’t get a hangover with the good stuff.’

  I tried to remember the last time I’d been drunk. Excluding my uncharacteristic break-up binge, it was probably in June at Michael’s niece’s christening. His nan had served sherry in small, crystal glasses, and then filled them a second time after we cut the white butter-cream christening cake. After a third sherry I’d started to sway, and the doilies that covered every surface in her home swirled and twisted like kaleidoscopes. One more glass and I became convinced the grandfather clock was watching me, daring me to eat a second piece of sponge.

  Wallace returned from the bar with yet another bottle of champagne. My glass was two-thirds full but he replenished the empty third anyway, saying, ‘This is a fantastic adventure for you, we have to celebrate.’

  ‘You’re all so lovely,’ I said, sipping from my glass and dribbling champagne down my chin. ‘Oops. I don’t drink much,’ I confessed.

  The music was halted by the sound of a giant gold gong.

  ‘They’re going to do a little show,’ Tyson said. ‘Look.’

  The dance floor filled with pairs of costumed performers. The men hooked their arms around the women and led them through a Sino-inspired modern routine. It was exotic, bordering on erotic. They writhed, looking into each other’s eyes. It made me pine for Chris. The professional couples broke up and pulled clubbers onto the floor. The music changed tempo. It slowed. Men and women danced together companionably. Couples leaned their foreheads into each other. It made me think of Michael. Wallace and Tyson moved to the dance floor with linked hands. Kym was pulled into the crowd by a boy in a tuxedo jacket and shorts. I was left alone. I poured more champagne.

  Wallace shimmied over and fixed me with a stare. ‘You need a dance.’

  ‘No, I –’

  ‘Yes! You can’t refuse.’

  ‘I can, I’m a terrible dancer.’ I didn’t want all the beautiful men and women in their armour of sequins to discover I didn’t belong here.

  ‘Move with me, honey,’ Wallace said. He put one hand on my hip and the other on the small of my back and pulled me close. He used his pelvis to guide my movements. My body fell in sync with the music.

  ‘See! You’re a natural,’ he said.

  My thoughts of Michael melted away. Soon all I could feel, all I could hear, all I could sense, was the boom-boom of the rhythm. Wallace twirled me. Tyson and Kym joined us. I started to laugh.

  Wallace put his mouth to my ear. ‘Want some amyl?’

  ‘Huh?’ He shoved a metal canister under my nose. The smell that hit me was chemical. It rushed through me. It filled my nose and eyes and lungs with the fumes. I felt light. All I could sense was the music. The beat. We danced. I threw my shoes off. The room was pierced by blue light. I saw teeth. Eyes. Smiles. The beat. White shirts stretched over muscles. The beat. Breasts. Legs. Arms. The beat. The light. The beat. The beat. The beat. The beat.

  Kym grabbed me around the waist and we pretended to be go-go dancers. Wallace hula'd over and suddenly we were all on a beach, swaying our hips and falling against each other. Tyson picked me up like Swayze and zipped me around the floor like Travolta. We danced until our feet were numb. We were drenched in sweat and didn’t care.

  We danced until the lights came up and the music softened. The crowd thinned out. The dance floor lost its energy, and Kym slumped her arm over my shoulder and steered me back to the table.

  ‘One more champagne?’ she asked.

  ‘Definitely. Got to keep those fluids up,’ I grinned, then hiccupped.

  Half an hour later we emerged from Dynasty.

  ‘Argh,’ I held my hand up against the glare.

  I was amazed to discover morning had come, bringing with it horrid, horrid daylight and wholesome looking people who had been to bed since the night before.

  ‘I’ll walk you back to your room,’ Kym slurred. I nodded, sleepy and confused, and leaned against her. We wobbled towards Man Fuk Road.

  ‘Did you have fun tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘So much fun,’ I said. ‘Maybe my sister’s right. I should stop thinking about my fantasy of having a home and a family and try to figure out what I want besides that.’

  ‘If you can’t have it?’

  ‘In the meantime.’

  We staggered into the grimy lift and I punched the button for level 8.

  ‘I’m so glad I met you,’ I slurred, as I opened the door to my room. ‘Your brother is great too. He and Wallace seem really happy.’

  ‘They’re nothing like me and my last boyfriend.’ Kym wandered around my room. ‘He nearly put me off for life.’

  She sat heavily on the bed, drawing squeaks from its springs. ‘Tyson and Wallace have the best relationship ever. They understand each other. And there’s no pressure.’

  ‘I thought I had that with Michael,’ I said. ‘Now I wonder if I’ll ever find it.’

  ‘Want me to read your palm?’ She patted the spot on the bed next to her. ‘Let’s see what the future has in store for you and this man you’re chasing.’

  I held out my hand. She traced her finger-tips over the creases.

  ‘You have a strong life line,’ she said. ‘That means you’ll live long and you’ll live well.’

  I frowned at the criss-crosses on my palm.

  ‘What about the marriage line?’ I asked.

  ‘There is no marriage line. There’s a heart line that tells you about love. But it doesn’t have anyt
hing to do with the patriarchal concept of marriage. Here it is.’

  The heart line was the indentation that curved around my thumb.

  ‘It’s deep,’ said Kym.

  ‘What about these fissures at the end?’ I pointed to where the feathery marks cut away in different directions.

  ‘Your heart line follows a few different paths,’ she said.

  I frowned. ‘I don’t really believe in this stuff. My sister loves it though.’

  After Kym left I rolled onto my back and sent a message to Cass.

  I didn’t find Chris. I came all the way over here without even knowing where he works. I’m an idiot. A girl read my palm. She didn’t see my happy marriage.

  It took a few minutes for her to write back.

  I’ll see what Zelda has to say.

  Zelda Sunspot was a Melbourne psychic Cass had become addicted to after she had accurately predicted Cass would have ‘success in the business or career sector’ the day she was accepted into a Masters of Linguistics. Zelda had a website that offered free daily horoscope teasers that she would elaborate on for a fee.

  Another message arrived from Cass.

  Aquarius: ‘There are opportunities everywhere but only you can choose to accept them.’ Sounds like it’s telling you to take a chance.

  I wrote back curtly: It sounds like she doesn’t know anything.

  I napped for a while, then spent the remains of the day wandering aimlessly through shopping malls. I was hungover. I couldn’t face the stifling, humid air and I just wanted night to come. I wanted to go to the New World Plaza Hotel. When 6 pm finally, finally arrived I showered, cleaned myself up as best I could and presented myself at the Plaza dining room. Before they seated me, I asked the hostess if Chris was working that night. She furrowed her brow.

  No, I thought, not again.

  ‘Chris does work here, but he’s taken a month off,’ she apologised.

  ‘A whole month?’ This was unbelievable.

  ‘Until February.’

  ‘February? When in February? Do you know exactly when he’ll be back?’

  A waitress who’d overheard our conversation eyed me suspiciously. Her stare was sharp as a knife point.

  ‘Chris is in Goa,’ she told me triumphantly. ‘He just left.’

  ‘Goa. Is that near here?’

  ‘No,’ she smirked. ‘It’s in India.’

  ‘India?’

  ‘That’s what I said. India.’

  ‘But – India?’

  My mind could not compute that I had missed him again; that he was gone. I walked out onto the street. A chill blew down the main road. The area was grey and commercial, the buildings cold. The streets here lacked the vibrancy of Kowloon.

  I shivered and drew my jacket around myself. Across the road was a convenience store filled with light and brands I knew from home. I walked towards it, not stopping to check the empty street for traffic. I heard the shrill priiing of a bicycle bell.

  ‘Watch-out, watch-out!’ A cyclist was coming towards me. I froze. I could see he was trying to stop but he was weighed down by several rolls of fabric balanced on the back of his bike.

  ‘Watch out!’ he called urgently.

  Priiinng!

  He swerved in time, but not hard enough. A roll of denim hit me in the shoulder and knocked me off balance. I fell to the street. My pack spilled open, coins escaped and a tube of Berocca went flying into a storm-water drain.

  ‘Ugh,’ I cried out in pain as bone hit road. My knees stung and my palms tingled where the skin had been scraped away.

  For a moment I stayed bent over on all fours. I couldn’t get up. A honking car forced me off the road. I collected my bag’s innards and lurched towards the convenience store where I bought a phone card and a big box of Poky sticks, which came with a tub of chocolate dipping sauce. I tore the cardboard open and grabbed great handfuls of biscuit to dip and cram in my mouth while searching for a payphone. When I found one I called Cass. It rang once. Twice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cass!’ I nearly cried at the sound of her voice.

  ‘Vy? Are you okay? What’s going on?’ She was panicked.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. It’s just … I just wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, for a moment there I thought something horrible had happened. How is it? Are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Tears started rolling down my cheeks. I wiped them away, embarrassed. The undersides of my hands were bleeding.

  ‘Are you okay?’ My sister’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come here. It was so stupid.’ I sniffed.

  ‘No, no, it wasn’t stupid. This was the best thing for you. You needed to get out on your own.’

  ‘But I’m so lost. I just feel like everyone has direction. They’re all working towards something. I don’t even know where I want to go, let alone how to get there.’ My voice trembled.

  ‘Nobody really knows. We all just sort of muddle through each day, hoping it will turn out alright.’

  Just hearing her voice made me feel stronger.

  ‘Forget about me,’ I wiped my eyes. ‘Tell me a Melbourne story. What’s going on with you?’

  ‘Not much. I’m going to a book launch with a nice guy from one of my tutorials tonight.’

  ‘That’s great. Is it a date?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Cass told me how she’d noticed him the first day of class and had been too shy to contribute to the class discussion.

  ‘He must be something if he managed to shut you up.’

  We were interrupted by a beep in my ear and an electronic voice. ‘Please insert coins.’ I could see the money on the screen draining away. There was only forty-five cents left on the card.

  ‘He’s very smart.’ Cass sounded pleased. ‘We had lunch last week.’ Thirty-eight seconds. ‘He’s really nice but I’m not sure I’m …’ Thirty-two seconds ‘… interested in anything.’

  I heard Mum’s voice in the background. ‘Is that Violet?’ Twenty-four seconds.

  ‘Hi Mum!’ I called. Twenty-two seconds. I pictured her standing by the phone with a tea towel in her hand. Or perhaps an oven mitt to protect her from whatever she was about to take out of the oven.

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ said Cass. Sixteen seconds. ‘But try to forget about what’s going to happen when you come back.’ Eight seconds. ‘Just enjoy yourself…’ Four seconds. ‘… have adventures…’ Two seconds. ‘We miss you.’ The line went silent.

  ‘Cass?’ I said into the dead line. ‘Cass?’

  Clouds had gathered, turning the night sky an eerie shadowy colour. I considered buying another phone card, another few precious minutes of conversation with my sister, but thought better of it. I returned to my room and crawled into bed, hugging myself to ward off the loneliness. I wondered how I had found myself alone at the age of twenty-seven, with no job and no boyfriend, in a hotel room in Hong Kong where I was too scared to shower.

  In the morning, I tried the bathrooms on Level 10. I walked in to find a giant plug of matted wet hair had clogged the drains of one of the showers and flooded all the stalls. I went immediately downstairs and searched travel sites on Goa, India. It looked pretty and warm. I stared at photos of couples on wooden deckchairs eating pineapple slices on a beach. In November I had hinted to Michael that we should take a holiday, but he’d said no. The memory caused a little prickle of anger. I found a cheap flight leaving that afternoon, booked it, then crafted an email.

  Hey Chris,

  Are you still in Hong Kong? I’m going to be there in a few weeks. We should catch up! I’m off to Goa (that’s in India) first. But maybe we could have dinner when I get to Honkers.

  Love,

  Best,

  Cheers,

  Catcha,

  See you soon!

  Violet

  I felt better. I ran upstairs and packed, then caught a taxi to the airport, grateful to be leaving the smoggy air and g
rubby hotel rooms of Hong Kong behind. I’d had enough chaos. Bring on India!

  Chapter Seven

  Goa turned out to be a no-Goa. At least at first. I learned you don’t just pack up and jet-off to India. You have to make preparations. There are visas to be obtained, inoculations to be had, bureaucratic pockets to be lined.

  I had arrived at the check-in counter at Hong Kong airport with my documents at the ready. The woman behind the desk frowned at them. She reminded me of a post box: round, red, official-looking and immovable. She licked her finger and flipped through every page of my passport. When she came to the last page she grunted and repeated the process backwards. I watched her intently, keen to pass through to security.

  ‘Something not right,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ My pulse began to race. She was looking at me as if I was a criminal.

  ‘Where your visa?’ she barked.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  ‘Uh, do I need one?’

  The woman looked at me as if I had asked her to carry me to India on her back.

  ‘Can’t get into India without a visa.’

  Then she handed back my passport and booking confirmation, signalling her role in my predicament was now over. I was stunned. But she couldn’t have me backing up the line.

  ‘Next,’ she shouted over my shoulder.

  ‘But how –’

  ‘Next!’

  I looked around the terminal frantically until I spied a customer service sign. I uncapped a bottle of hand sanitiser and rubbed a squirt into my palms. The woman patiently informed me I would have to go to the Indian embassy to apply for a visa, which could take several days. But the good news was I was able to transfer the flight.

  ‘Several days?’ I said sadly.

  I went straight to the consulate where I was told by a resolutely unhelpful person that it would take seven-to-ten working days to process my application for a visa.

  The woman handed me a bundle of forms and requested copies of my passport in triplicate, letters of endorsement from ten former employers and an essay on the penal code of India. I slumped into the waiting room chair to read through the phonebook of forms. I was interrupted by a soft coughing sound.

  ‘Ahem, excuse me.’