Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  Other ads hinted at the eccentricities of their author:

  Our home is harmonious and spiritual. Call us if you want to live in an open, loving space that is in tune with mother earth. No electronic items please.

  Life’s too short to waste it cleaning the bathroom. Call me if you’re easy going and have a strong immune system.

  I love cats! A lot of people say they’re ‘cat people’ but just because you own a tabby doesn’t mean you’re as clean and friendly and independent as me. Purrr!

  One was a thinly-disguised personal ad, composed by a man who thought the offer of a decent rental would help him find a girlfriend.

  Are you looking for a man to share your life with and also need somewhere convenient to live? I’m a 36yo single guy looking for a flatmate and love. In addition to having my own place in Hong Kong’s trendy Mid-Levels, I love to cook and listen to rock music. I’m a pretty fit non-smoker with a passion for arts and crafts. The room is a clean, south facing single that comes with BIRs. If any of this sounds appealing, drop me a line.

  I increased my weekly spend by another fifty dollars. This turned up a healthy selection of young professionals who needed someone to help with the bank-breaking rent. My favourite was a three-bedroom flat shared by a Chinese-American investment banker and a project manager for a large property group, who was originally from Sydney.

  Must be neat!! The ad stressed. I called them immediately.

  ‘Hi, I’m looking for Jordan. It’s about the room,’ I said, a little nervous. I’d have to sell myself to this pair if I didn’t want to end up eating eye of newt for dinner in the witches’ coven every night.

  ‘Jordan’s not here,’ a woman replied. ‘Jordan’s never here. But you can come and have a look if you’d like. I’ll be home all afternoon.’

  She gave me the address, and half an hour later I was knocking on a door in a hallway of identical doors, in a block of identical buildings.

  A woman with black hair answered. ‘Hi, I’m Silvie.’ She shook my hand.

  ‘Violet.’

  ‘Come in.’ She stepped aside to reveal an apartment that looked like a catalogue page come to life. The carpet was a flaxen colour and felt thick under foot. The walls were white and the windows were large.

  Silvie, by comparison, wore dark clothes and accessories. Her attire was corporate but her aesthetic was heavy metal. Her hair was a glossy black but wispy sideburns and pale roots gave her up as a natural blonde. Her nails were painted black too.

  ‘Did you just arrive in Hong Kong?’ she asked, leading me to a bathroom by the entrance.

  ‘Kind of, I’ve been in India.’

  ‘Cool.’

  She flicked on a light. ‘This is the main bathroom.’ It looked as if it had never been used. I suspected I may have been falling in love with this place.

  ‘I’ve been here two years,’ she said flatly. ‘I love it.’

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘I’ll show you the bedrooms.’

  Jordan’s was the largest. It was bare and plainly decorated. The only additions he had made were a print of a Chinese character in black ink on the wall, and a dark red bedspread pulled tight over his square black bed. Silver electronics glinted on the bedside table.

  ‘Jordan’s really rich,’ Silvie said.

  ‘How much is the rent again?’

  She told me. It was expensive, but this place was perfect.

  ‘You won’t be on the lease. It’s under Jordan’s name. I just pay month by month.’ She had a peculiar monotone way of speaking.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Project management. Hence the corporate uniform.’ She indicated her striped shirt and pencil skirt.

  Silvie’s room was smaller, but homelier. Dreamcatchers hung from the ceiling. The rack in her open wardrobe was one half business suits and one half black velvet gowns. Her book shelves were scattered with crystals. At the end of her bed sat a large television screen with a gaming console hooked up to it; the cabinet behind was stocked with games.

  A Zelda costume lay on a chair in the corner of the room. I picked up one of the armplates; the fine stitching told me it was not cheap.

  ‘That’s for Comic-Con next week.’ Silvie’s eyes lit up. She took the other armplate and turned it over. ‘All the embossing and stitching was done by hand. It took three months. But it will be worth it. There’s an asset manager who goes every year dressed as Spiderman. We see each other at industry events, but he doesn’t know I’m a fan.’

  She held up the skimpy costume. It was grass green and a fawn-coloured leather. ‘I don’t normally wear things this brightly coloured,’ she confessed.

  ‘This Spiderman asset manager, you like him, don’t you?’

  Silvie shrugged. ‘He has potential. Come on. I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.’

  I followed her down the hall.

  ‘It’s compact,’ she said. ‘But you’ll pay less. You and I would share the main bathroom. Jordan has his own.’

  She opened the door to an empty, narrow space. There was barely room for a double bed. But it came equipped with a built-in wardrobe.

  ‘The rest of the house is completely furnished,’ said Sylvie. ‘Most of the stuff’s Jordan’s. You can use the coffee machine or whatever, just make sure you clean it. He’s a bit of a neat freak.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ I smiled.

  ‘Oh, and try to keep it down after about eleven. Jordan gets upset if anyone interrupts his sleep. He once threw one of my Pantera CDs out the window when I played it after coming home late from a concert.’

  Far from sounding annoyed, Silvie spoke of Jordan with a sort of hushed reverence.

  ‘I kept waiting to hear on the news that someone’s head had been taken off by a flying disc,’ she said.

  We wandered out into the open living-dining-kitchen area. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll help you.’ I reached for a red wooden box.

  ‘Not those!’ Silvie panicked. I froze. ‘They’re Jordan’s silk teas.’

  I gently put the box back on its shelf.

  ‘I’ve got green tea and camomile. Or there’s coffee.’

  ‘Coffee’s fine.’

  She boiled some water and made our drinks. ‘I’ll show you the balcony.’

  We were up in the canopy of the concrete jungle, amid a flora of spires and satellites and neon signs. Silvie absent-mindedly raked a mini rock garden. Hallmarks of her former self remained – under her left ear was a small crucifix tattoo, the lobe itself scarred by a piercer’s gun almost to the top. I counted nine piercings in all, like tiny bullet holes.

  ‘The Hong Kong climate is not conducive to my gothic proclivities,’ she explained. ‘The thick pancake makeup melts onto your heavy velvet gown, ruining the effect of both. I feel so corporate now. But everyone’s so slavishly hipster or artsy that I’m officially the most anti-mainstream I’ve ever been.’

  I liked Silvie. She had a dry sense of humour.

  ‘So what do you think? Do you like it?’ she asked.

  ‘Shouldn’t I meet Jordan?’

  ‘No need.’ She shook her head. ‘He’ll be glad I’ve sorted it out. Seriously, you could live here for months and never meet him.’

  The clincher was that I could sign a month-by-month lease. I could sublet from Jordan and didn’t have to lock myself in.

  ‘Sounds great,’ I said, and we clinked our mugs of coffee together. ‘I love it.’

  I bounced up and down on my new futon. It was covered with quilted, mint-coloured bedlinen I had chosen myself. I stroked it happily.

  I had moved in with Silvie straight away. The room was bare but she had taken me shopping, which I had relished, having never picked out furniture on my own before.

  I chose a single futon to give myself more space, a bedside table, and a mauve lamp with a plastic base. I selected sheets from a store that stocked beautiful embroidered linen, endorsed by the top hotels and celebri
ties. The pale green set caught my eye immediately. Michael would never have let me spend so much money on a bedspread. I defiantly handed over my bank card.

  ‘Are you up for the metal night at the Geek Club?’ Silvie asked as I paid.

  ‘Sure,’ I nodded. ‘I’ve never been to a heavy metal gig.’

  I had a new plan inspired by Lauren and Kevin. I was going to turn myself into someone Chris would want to be with: adventurous, independent and open-minded. Not someone different, just a better version of myself. To that end, I enrolled in a Cantonese language class and an Asian cooking course.

  I had been with Michael so long that I had stopped doing things that I wanted to do. Every decision had to be processed by a two-person committee. I never spent money on myself because Michael had to sign off on the funds, and he was not a benevolent treasurer.

  The next night I had dinner with Tessa to talk about my new job.

  ‘You’ll be great,’ she told me through mouthfuls of laksa. ‘It’s very basic but you’ll meet heaps of like-minded people. You should join my book group,’ she said. ‘Right now we’re reading The Great Gatsby.’

  After dinner I strolled the streets, content. The city was humming. It was cosmopolitan and exotic. In every second restaurant window the red bodies of ducks hung, sticky with marinade, their legs splayed. I found a late-night bookstore where I was able to pick up a copy of Gatsby. I was excited by the prospect of new friends. I felt great.

  In the back of mind lurked a thought: Four days to go until Chris returned.

  On Thursday I had plans to eat dinner with Ken Li and his family. Mr Li sent his driver to pick me up in a garish, gold Mercedes. Everybody in Hong Kong lives in flats or apartments, even the very, very wealthy. Mr Li’s was one of ten homes in a thirty-storey building of stacked mansions. The Lis had a maid and a cook, a billiards room, two dining rooms, and four bedrooms – one for each of their children, and a guestroom which they offered me for the night. I met the Li boys – twins aged seven – briefly when I arrived. Then they hid behind the stockinged legs of their mother, Charisse.

  ‘When your father and I first met we bonded over the particular challenge that is raising twins,’ Mr Li told me over a meal of whiting and Chinese greens. ‘He gave me a photo of his golden-haired girls. I showed it to my sons, and they said, “They’re twins, just like us.”’ Mr Li laughed. He had a round, kind face and wore rimless spectacles.

  ‘And you’re going to be working at Glaxo Smith-Kline,’ he said, leaning forward on his elbows with a piece of bok choi impaled on his fork.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I’d already scraped my own plate clean. ‘It’s just some casual work. A few days a week.’

  ‘From what your father told me, you have a great scientific mind.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’m still figuring out what I want to do,’ I told Mr Li.

  I couldn’t tell him the truth. That what I really wanted – a family and a home – had somehow evaded me, leaving me lost and directionless.

  I was distracted by the entrance of the two little Li boys. One of them tugged on their mother’s sleeve. Charisse Li bent down so he could whisper in her ear. She straightened again, with a proud smile on her face.

  ‘The boys have learned a new song,’ she said, as pleased as if she was announcing record quarterly profits at the mid-sized recruitment company she helped manage.

  ‘It seems there will be some entertainment with dessert,’ Mr Li said.

  With bowls of lycee ice cream in our hands, we shuffled into the family room and sat on suede couches to await the performance. The Li boys stood before us, looking at the ground. Mrs Li got down and knelt between her sons. She talked softly to each of them nodding encouragingly, a hand on their small shoulders. The boys started to sing.

  Little palms opened and shut in time with ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’.

  ‘They wanted to sing you an English song,’ Mrs Li whispered. After the performance I applauded wildly.

  ‘Very well done,’ I told the boys. They cackled, then hid their faces, once again overcome with shyness.

  Mr Li clapped loudly, laughing. I watched Mrs Li kiss each son on the forehead and my heart flooded with longing.

  Three days to go until Chris returned, I thought.

  On Friday I went to my Chinese class. The room was filled with ambitious young men and women from all over the world, most of whom – guessing from their clothes – had come straight from their jobs in the business sector. I hoped after our first class that I would be able to deliver a few basic pleasantries, such as:

  ‘Hello. How are you? Has this been properly sanitised?’

  But the hour was spent making ourselves familiar with the tonal sounds of the Cantonese language. After Madam Zsu took the roll we sat parroting inflections for fifty-six minutes.

  ‘Bah. Ba-aAH. BA! BAaa. Ba-a-a-a.’

  And then:

  ‘Gah. Ga-aAH. GA! GAaa. Ga-a-a-a.’

  Soon my mind was wandering. When I got back to the flat, feeling fuzzy-brained, Silvie was propped up on the couch with a laptop and a glass of white wine.

  ‘I prefer red,’ she said, pouring me a glass, ‘but I don’t want to risk spilling it on Jordan’s couch.

  ‘Good day?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a terrible day. I need a shower. Do you want to check your email?’

  ‘Yes, please’ I reached greedily for her laptop.

  ‘Oh, I keep forgetting to tell you …’ She paused at the door. ‘…there’s a little rubber squeegee hanging from the shampoo rack. Jordon likes us to clean down the shower after each use so soap scum doesn’t build up on the glass.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said and settled down to write some emails. When I clicked open my mail there was a letter from Chris:

  Vy! Nearly back in town. Meet you on Sunday? Dinner?

  ‘Dinner,’ I whispered. It was finally happening.

  I could barely sit still. I visited the Botanical Gardens, the Hong Kong Museum of Art and the Po Lin Monastery. I rearranged the furniture in the apartment and then, in a fit of panic that Jordan would be angry, changed it back again. I rode the escalators that connected the various parts of the Mid-Levels and pretended I was in a futuristic space world.

  I got an email from Harry:

  This is just a quick note to make sure you made it out of Nepal alive.

  Barely. I wrote back and attached a photo Lauren Albright had taken of me standing on the Nagarkot peak. Newly recovered from dysentery, I looked like a bloodless spectre. My collarbone jutted out as if I’d swallowed a coat hanger and it had gotten stuck upside down in my oesophagus. He replied straight away:

  Typical. I leave you alone for two weeks and you completely waste away.

  I laughed and replied with details of my new life in Hong Kong.

  Each day I wrote to Cass. She had written back to my first email to tell me she was refusing to reply to me.

  It’s not in keeping with the spirit of adventure to email every day.

  I told her I had visited the museum of history, and a funerary store where they sold paper goods to boost the status of the dead in their next life. I used small acts of bravery to barter for communication with her.

  Tomorrow I’m going to the Chi Lin Nunnery.

  She rewarded me with a response.

  Good. As long as you keep expanding your horizons I’ll write to you. Don’t forget to tell me everything that happens with Chris.

  Please just write to me. I replied. I’m going crazy.

  I got a conditional response:

  I’ll write to you. But you have to prove that you’re out meeting new people, not just sitting in your room reading PETA forums. Tonight you have to go to a bar alone. You have to make a new friend. Take a photo with them and send it to me as proof. Then I’ll think about writing to you.

  I frowned. I didn’t go to bars and I certainly didn’t go to bars alone. I would have preferred it if she’d told me I had to go sky
diving or bungee jumping.

  The only place I knew where I could go for a drink was a strip of touristy theme bars. I thought about cheating and waiting until Silvie got home, but by 8 pm she still hadn’t arrived. As if reading my mind Cass sent a text message:

  I hope you’re out. No updates if not!

  I sighed and pulled on a thin jacket, thinking how bad can it be?

  The Skeleton Bar was squeezed between two Manga shops. The entrance to the downstairs lair was marked by a skull and crossbone. Cages hung from the ceiling, holding the bony frames of beasts and humans. Some of the bones were laughably fake, some looked so real that I moved seats to the side of the room where the carcases had a reassuring Made in China seal stamped into their cartilage.

  I ordered a virgin Mai Tai and tried to read Gatsby. It was a Saturday, but the place was only half full. At the adjacent table, a pair of Chinese girls were sipping from glasses crowded with floating eyeballs and gnarled rubber fingerbones. Across the way were some Canadian blokes, I assumed, on account of their hockey jerseys. They were downing beers and using straws to poke a skeleton jammed into a canary cage.

  I leaned forward and sucked my straw, too shy to say hello. The girls looked friendly. I didn’t know how to begin a conversation but I was desperate for news from Cass. I thought back over the past month. I’d made friends with Kym and Aribert, and Bradley, kind of.

  And Harry, of course.

  One of the girls caught my eye and smiled. I hopped off my stool.

  ‘Hi, I’m Violet,’ I said. ‘I’ve just moved to Hong Kong. Are you locals?’

  They beamed at me.

  ‘I’m Sue Hung,’ the smiling girl said. ‘This is Lei Cho. We’re on a business exchange program.’

  Over two hours I learned about their homes and their work, and how by gaining a university education, the women were earning their right to have a second child in their home country.

  ‘How about a photo?’ I said. We smiled for the camera.

  On the way home I sent the shots to Cass with a message. A reply arrived immediately afterwards.

  Bravo! You have earned an email. Stand by for updates.