The Far Side of the Night

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  London. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the thought of living in a part of Europe. He was familiar with the continent from his travels and had always felt comfortable there, especially in Italy and France. And why should they not learn Italian?

  What drew him to Europe was what was most important to him now. Safety. The freedom to live without fear. The freedom not to be frightened of the police. Or the law. Protection from the kind of people who want to make a present of a child. A continent where the laws apply to everyone and no political party or party functionary is above the law. Where no one disappears without a trace into jails or labor camps for weeks, months, or years.

  “We are a traumatized people,” Zhang had told him many years ago. Paul had disputed that back then, and thought for a long time that his friend was exaggerating.

  He checked that all the windows were closed and that the front door and the terrace door were properly locked before going upstairs and creeping back into bed. Christine woke up.

  “Europe,” he whispered. “We’re moving to Europe. What do you think about that?”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you want.”

  VIII

  The decision to leave Hong Kong filled Christine with an unexpected sense of euphoria. Her anger at Paul turned into a physical desire that she had not felt since David had been born. The fear and gloom of the last few weeks and months were dispelled. In their place came a feeling of lightness that helped her to say goodbye. The last day in the office. The last ferry ride to Hang Hau to a final dinner with girlfriends. At no time did she have any doubts about the decision. Quite the opposite. The closer their departure date was, the happier she grew.

  The biggest problem was discussing it with her mother. She would not want to come with them and Christine was tortured by a bad conscience for leaving her alone in Hong Kong. A good Chinese daughter would never do something like that. Or only in an extreme situation. Was their situation extreme enough?

  How would she react to the news? Paul and Christine considered talking to her about it together, but in the end they decided that it would be best for mother and daughter to speak on their own.

  Wu Jie was already waiting in front of the house when Christine came to get her. They went to Man Fung, a seafood restaurant in Yung Shue Wan harbor. Christine had actually wanted to take her mother to a more expensive restaurant in Wan Chai or Tsim Tsa Tsui, but her mother thought that was an unnecessary waste of money, and refused.

  They were taken to a waterside table, and they ordered thousand-year eggs, smoked tofu, steamed perch, and pak choi. There was a light breeze from the sea but the air was warm and mild.

  Wu Jie buttoned her jacket up anyway. She often felt the cold. Probably because of her age, Christine thought. “Are you cold? Shall we sit somewhere else?”

  Her mother shook her head.

  The waiter brought the eggs, mustard, and ginger, a small dish of peanuts and two Cokes. They sipped their drinks and looked at each other in silence. Her mother had never been one for many words. She was not one to ask questions. Nor to talk much if it was up to her. If she said anything she spoke in short sentences and chose her words with care. Her voice often sounded more brusque than she intended it to.

  After they had come back to Hong Kong, Christine had only described what had happened to them in China in broad brushstrokes. She had not wanted to worry her mother too much. Wu Jie had listened quietly to everything and not said a word about it. They had not talked about it since then.

  Christine ate a couple of peanuts. “How was today with David?”

  “Fine.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We played. And painted.” Wu Jie helped herself to half an egg, put a piece of ginger on it, dipped it in mustard and bit into it. “The eggs in Sampan are better.”

  “We’ll go there next time,” Christine said, suppressing a sigh. “How’s your knee?”

  “Better.”

  “Have you been to the doctor?”

  “What for?”

  There were things that she should just not talk about with her mother.

  The waiter placed the fish and vegetables on the table. The sauce slopped over the edge of the plate and soaked into the tablecloth. Christine dabbed at both spills.

  “Mama,” she said. “There’s something I have to talk to you about.”

  Her mother picked up her chopsticks and tried some fish, then some vegetables.

  “Paul and I have decided that it might be best if we moved to London with David.”

  Her mother continued eating calmly. Without looking up, she spat a long fish bone onto her plate.

  “Just for a year to begin with,” Christine added quickly.

  Wu Jie helped herself to some tofu.

  Christine jabbed at the food nervously with her chopsticks. She knew how uncommunicative her mother was, but she still could not read this silence.

  The move to Lamma had done her mother good. She was happier here than she had been in Hang Hau. She walked around more and had soon found friends to play mahjong with. She looked much younger than her seventy-six years. Above all, it was her young grandson who had brought her to life. She would miss him most. And he would miss her.

  “What will you live from?” she finally asked, with her mouth full.

  “Paul’s trading of stocks and shares is going well. Very well, in fact. He can do that in London too.”

  Her mother nodded. Christine tried to read her expression and was shocked by how her mother’s face seemed to her like a stranger’s at that moment. The small eyes that were always a little too moist, the somewhat fixed gaze, the thin, almost nonexistent lips. Nothing betrayed what was going on inside her. She sat there in front of her, bent right over with her shoulders slumped.

  “When?”

  “In four weeks.”

  Her eyes flickered briefly. She picked up a piece of fish and it slid out of her chopsticks. The second time too.

  Christine felt the impulse to reach for her hand but she decided against it. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  Wu Jie looked at the water for a long time. She sipped her drink, started to say something, then fell silent. “Don’t be,” she finally said in a firm voice.

  “Would you like to come . . .?”

  “No. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  Christine wondered if she was making a mistake. Could she really leave her mother behind in Hong Kong?

  Wu Jie helped herself to some more pak choi and rice. “London is a good idea,” she said decidedly. “Not only for one year.”

  What was her mother thinking? Hadn’t she often voiced her discomfort with the fact that David spoke better English than Chinese, that Paul read German fairy tales to him and not Chinese ones, that he seemed to be better at eating with knife and fork than with chopsticks?

  “A tree will die if you move it. A person will be revitalized when he moves. So goes the old Chinese saying. Don’t worry about me. It’s better for David not to grow up in China.” After a brief pause, she added, “It was better for you too.”

  “What?”

  “Not to grow up in China. But he is luckier than you.”

  She grew more confused by what her mother was saying. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “We had to swim to get away. You almost drowned. Now you can simply get on a plane.” She separated the rest of the fish from the bone and took another piece. “It will keep going on, don’t forget that. There will always be victims . . .”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what I said.” Wu Jie put her chopsticks down and cleared her throat. “I hope he still knows who I am when we see each other again.”

  IX

  He had never been with David on the Peak before. Christine had taken David there often. They had taken the cable car up the steep mountain and returned very happy about the outing every time. On their last day, Paul wanted to make a trip to Hong Kong’s highest mount
ain with him. Christine had to sort out some things for her mother, so did not have the time to come with them.

  To Paul, there was no place better to say farewell to the city. And no place more difficult.

  Paul had taken his first son to the Peak often. Even as a two-year-old, Justin had been amazed by the views of the city, the harbor, and the South China Sea on their many walks around the summit. Paul walked on the mountain every year on the anniversary of Justin’s death.

  They took a taxi from the ferry to the Peak Tram terminus in Central. From there, a footpath led up to the summit. It was an ascent of almost five hundred meters, a distance that he had easily covered before, sometimes even with Justin on his back. That had been ten years ago.

  They walked up the steps parallel to the tram tracks. After that, the steps grew more and more steep. Paul was sweating and out of breath. David asked when they would get to the top.

  “Soon,” Paul said, breathing heavily.

  They turned into Chatham Path, which led away from the road into thick undergrowth. David couldn’t walk on any longer; he wanted to be carried. Paul heaved him onto his shoulders. From here onward, there was no longer a road to the Peak from which they could get a bus or a taxi if they needed to. They stopped every few meters for a short rest. But after a few minutes Paul was so winded that they turned back to May Road and got a taxi.

  They bought ice cream in the Peak Galleria and strolled toward Lugard Road, a pedestrian path that had once gone right round the summit. Paul slowed down. Something in him was resisting this. He heard Justin’s voice. Shortly before he died, he had asked him if they would climb the Peak together one more time.

  “But of course,” Paul had said.

  His son had lifted his head weakly, smiled at him and asked, “Really?”

  Did he want to know the truth? Did he want to hear: “No, Justin. No, I don’t think so. You’re too weak for that and I can’t carry you up five hundred meters. There’s no hope now. We’ll never stand on the Peak together again.” Of course he did not want to hear that. No-one in his right mind would have managed to say that to an eight-year-old child.

  “But of course,” Paul had said a second time. Justin had smiled faintly and sunk back into his pillow. A little white lie. The right answer. Who could doubt that? Yet Paul could not forgive himself for it to this day. He had effectively left Justin on his own by feeding a silly, utterly ludicrous hope instead of telling the truth, sharing it, and thereby making it more bearable.

  David looked wonderingly at his silent father.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then let’s go, Papa.”

  “Wait. I don’t know . . .” Paul said, hesitating.

  “Please, dear Papa, I want to show you something.” He walked ahead without turning back and had already turned the corner before Paul started moving to catch up with him.

  A couple of turns later came the view of the city and the harbor. Paul was struck anew by it every time.

  Two lizards scurried across the path in front of them.

  “Does the Easter Bunny go to London as well?” David suddenly asked.

  Paul stopped and squatted down in order to look David in the eye. “Of course the Easter Bunny goes to London.”

  “How will he know where we live?”

  “We can write to him and tell him.”

  “I can’t write yet.”

  “You can draw him a picture of London and of our house.”

  David nodded, satisfied. “How long will we stay in London?”

  “For one year. Then we’ll see how things are.”

  “Why isn’t Grandma coming with us?”

  “Someone has to look after our house. Grandma will do that with one of her friends from Hang Hau.”

  “Will they look after my toys too?”

  “Yes, they’ll look after your toys too.”

  David walked beside him for a while, deep in thought.

  “Papa, when will I be five?”

  Paul stroked the hair away from his son’s face. “That won’t be for a while yet.”

  David thought hard about this. “And when will I be six?”

  “One year after that. And then you’ll be seven, eight, nine, and eventually you’ll be as old as I am.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Very old.”

  “As old as Grandma?”

  “Even older than that.”

  “Thaaaat old?” His son gave him a piercing look. “And when will I be four again?”

  “Hmmm.” Paul suppressed a laugh. He could see how seriously his son meant it. “Never, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not? Doesn’t it start from the beginning again?”

  Paul was silent. David waited for a reply.

  “Papa?”

  “No, it doesn’t start from the beginning again.”

  “Why not?” David looked more amazed than disappointed. “A movie starts from the beginning again.”

  “You’re right there.” Paul picked David up in his arms and held him close.

  “Have I ever told you that I had a son before?”

  “Was he also called David?”

  “No. He was called Justin.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Why?”

  “He was sick.”

  David nodded in a matter-of-fact way. He calmly finished his ice cream and licked every one of his fingers clean.

  “I used to come up here with him often.”

  David looked around him. “Shall we play something?”

  His father put him down on the ground. “What shall we play? Planes? Horses?”

  “Let’s play tag,” David said, and ran off.

  Paul looked at him. Only yesterday he had been lying in his palms. A naked, blood-smeared body with pale skin, shimmering almost blue in places, and with crumpled little hands. A miracle weighing 3,333 grams and measuring 49 centimeters long, fragile and vulnerable. Now it was running away from him and he had to hurry not to lose sight of it.

  “Come and catch me,” his son called.

  Paul hurried after him. A couple of big steps later, he had caught up with him and held him tight. David wriggled and screamed with delight.

  “Again!”

  He let him go and David ran on again.

  Paul caught up with him and let him go. Over and over again.

  And each time Paul felt a little freer. The burden that had lain on him like a thick, heavy crust for the last few weeks, perhaps months or years, without him being aware of it, crumbled and fell away. The laughter of his child. The life in his hands. The joy of playing tag, the exuberance, the carefree feeling drove it away.

  Paul caught up with David and grabbed him in his arms. He lifted his child up again, tossed him in the air, caught him and pressed him close. He would never let him go again.

  “Not so tight, Papa. It hurts.”

  Paul was startled, and put him down again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  David darted his father a look of annoyance.

  Then he laughed. “Catch me if you can!”

  And off he went.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve been travelling to China for over twenty years. First as a journalist, then as a writer. In this time, many, many people have helped me. They have told me their stories and let me into their lives. They have shared their fears, grief, dreams, and hopes with me. I dedicate this book to them too. It’s impossible to name them all here and some of them have asked not to be mentioned for reasons of personal safety. I’d like to thank Zhang Dan as a representative for them all. She accompanied me on my travels as a translator, researcher, and a good friend, and explained her country, her culture, and the recent history of China to me with endless patience. Without her fearless help, the novels of my China trilogy would not have been possible.

  Naturally I owe my editor, Hanna Diederichs, many thanks. She h
as worked with me on all three volumes with great care, rigor, and passion.

  Over the years, my son, Jonathan, has grown into an extra-ordinarily attentive and critical reader of my manuscripts, who has helped me a good deal with his questions and suggestions. My friend Stephan Abarbanell was always there at the right time with the right words. From my mother, I learned early on the power and the magic of good stories.

  My very special thanks go to my wife, Anna. She is my first reader. Her critical comments and ideas, her patience, her praise and encouragement, and her support in times of deepest doubt are a fundamental help in the creation of my books.