Code Name Komiko

by Naomi Paul

  Komiko: Nonsense. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t think you were qualified. Torch vetted you like crazy.

  Torch: True. I have to admit, the Drax takedown . . . not too shabby.

  Lian rolled her eyes. That sort of grudging respect, extracted like a pained tooth? Torch was definitely male.

  Blossom had been responsible for compiling and crunching the mountains of data needed to prove that a company called Drax Plastics was breaking almost every environmental regulation on the books. The discovery of a temporarily unprotected subfolder on the Drax cloud drive had put all the pieces into place, with the names, account numbers, and staggering payoff amounts given to the lawmakers who looked the other way. It had been a major victory of the lone citizen against the big corporation, and 06/04 had certainly taken notice.

  Blossom: Thanks. Ive followed 06/04 for a while now, very impressed with the work you do. I think Im in good company. Crowbar, your stint in Junk Bay . . . Komiko, exposing the Wan Chai construction bribes—

  Torch: Okay, you’ve researched us, we’ve researched you, everybody loves everybody. If you’ve done your homework then you know our rules, but it’s worth stating for the record:

  Torch: Don’t *offer* personal info, don’t *ask* for personal info. Strength in anonymity.

  Lian grimaced. Blossom was just through the gates, and already Torch was posturing.

  There was a rap at Lian’s door, and her mother said, “Twenty-five minutes.” Lian sighed. It was time for her to stop being an activist for the evening and slip into the role of dutiful daughter.

  Komiko: Guys, I have evening plans, so I need to log off. Don’t haze the new kid too hard while I’m gone, all right?

  Crowbar: Goodnite Komiko

  Blossom: Cool, where you headed?

  Torch: WHAT DID I *JUST* SAY?

  Torch: Personal details compromise the safety of the whole group. Komiko’s activities outside this board are none of our business.

  Blossom: . . .

  Blossom: Sorry.

  Crowbar: Dont sweat it, Torch is always prickly. U will learn to <3 it.

  Lian wasn’t sure that was quite true, but this wasn’t the time to weigh in.

  6:06 PM HKT — Komiko has logged off

  She closed the laptop, set it on the desk, and moved to her closet. Her father had requested that she wear the cheongsam—the traditional Chinese dress—for tonight’s event. Lian knew it was a beautiful and respectful article of clothing; that wasn’t the problem. She just didn’t like the way she felt in that clothing. She might as well drape herself in a neon sign that read PRIVILEGE. It felt like such a betrayal of the 06/04 ethos. What would the others have thought of her if they knew the truth—that she was heading off to smile and nod her way through a dinner in an exclusive Central District restaurant?

  She unzipped the garment bag and felt a pang of unease. The dress was precisely the same deep shade of crimson as the surfboard that had nearly taken off her head earlier. It was hard to fathom that her carefree beach trip had been just a few hours ago. She’d showered and scrubbed, but somehow she didn’t feel as if she’d been able to wash off the stain that Big Wave Bay had left on her.

  She laid the cheongsam carefully on her bed and went back to the closet for a matching pair of heels. That she had so many to choose from suddenly made her feel sick.

  Was it this? Was it guilt over her family’s position here, and the niceties it afforded her, that had led her to join 06/04? Was she playing dress up as an activist just to ease her conscience over the high-rise living, the private schools, the closet full of shoes?

  She shook her head to dispel these thoughts. No, she decided. She had read the blog back on the mainland. She had believed then, and believed more fervently now, in the group’s causes. It was hypocrisy that she couldn’t stand, that she strove to root out and expose.

  And that meant capitalists and communists alike were in their sights.

  Lian stood briefly at her window—looking down at the whole of Hong Kong Island that lay out at her feet—and then drew the shades so she could get changed.

  FOUR

  “You look uncomfortable,” her mother said, barely louder than a whisper.

  “Not surprising,” Lian answered, “considering that I am uncomfortable.” Penned in between her parents, she shifted in the backseat of the taxi, tugging at the hem of the cheongsam where it bit into her thigh.

  “I understand,” her mother said, pursing her lips. “But it’s important that you not look it.”

  Lian sighed and turned to stare out the cab’s window. Truth be told, it wasn’t just the dress that was making her feel ill at ease. As they cruised through the Central District, the skyscrapers looming to either side seemed to glare down at her. She doubted she’d ever feel “at home” among these monuments to commerce.

  But her mother was right; she knew the importance of this dinner to her father’s business—they had been emphasized repeatedly and in no uncertain terms. She could play “dutiful daughter” for one night.

  As if on cue, her father cleared his throat and inclined his head toward her.

  “My little Xiao-Lian,” he said, and Lian tried not to wince at the overly parental tone of his voice. “You look beautiful tonight. Like a little porcelain doll.”

  Lian tried to smile. She knew he meant it as a term of endearment, but she chafed at the thought that she was as fragile, or merely decorative, as a doll.

  “I am counting on both of you,” he continued, “to help ensure that this evening goes perfectly.”

  “Of course,” Lian and her mother answered in unison.

  As the taxi sped down Garden Road, her father detailed the guest list: a mixture of high-ranking Hong Kong officials, successful exporters, and wealthy foreign investors looking to diversify. Everyone who would be in that room tonight wanted a piece of Hong Kong, and he had to prove that he was the man who could get it for them at the right price and make the introductions that would lead to big windfalls for everybody.

  But Lian tuned out the roll call and let her mind wander, gazing up at the HSBC Building, the Jardine House, the monolithic Bank of China Tower. Even at this hour, on a Sunday, more of the office windows were lit than not. The world of high finance and higher stakes—the world that her father had increasingly positioned himself in since their move from the mainland—took dedication, she knew. The work never stopped.

  The cab turned a corner, their destination drifting into view—another in a sea of steel-and-glass towers, rimmed in color-shifting LED lights and flanked by bronze dragon statues thirteen feet high. Town cars and sporty European models amassed in front as parking valets dashed through the scene, coordinating the comings and goings of well-dressed patrons.

  The opulence of it all felt oppressive. Just a few miles away, in the New Territories, there were people who had nothing—people who gazed across Victoria Harbor at the bright lights of Central District as if it were an alien city on some unreachable moon; people who could eat for a year on the food that would be scraped off plates into the trash after this dinner that Lian was about to smile through as best she could.

  Again, she twisted in her seat, loud green neon splashing through the windows and shimmering against the gold accents on her dress. The lighting must have given her a sickly pallor, because her father’s eyes softened for a moment.

  “Do not be nervous, Lian,” he said. “Just be yourself, and you will make me proud.”

  Lian nodded, but she knew that herself was the last thing she could be tonight.

  They got out at the curb, her father paying the fare and leaving a generous tip. As the cab pulled away and became a distant red dot in a city full of them, Lian felt a flutter of unease in her stomach.

  No escape now.

  The elevator operator gave a curt nod as they stepped inside. He pressed a few buttons, and the elevator rocketed to the twenty-sixth floor. With an elegant chime, the doors opened directly into the foyer of Fàn Xī, all dark
wood and decorative red lanterns. Lian’s father strode to the host’s stand, past waiting couples and small groups who sipped at overpriced cocktails and adjusted their cuff links as they held out hope for an open table.

  The maître d’ checked the night’s reservations, realized he was talking to the man who had rented out the banquet room for the evening, gave welcoming nods to Lian’s family, and led the three of them at an unhurried pace through the restaurant.

  Lian caught the subtle signal the maître d’ flashed the bartender, and as they passed the bar, the first in a row of multicolored liquor shots burst into flame and then cascaded into the next glass, the bartender’s hands moving astonishingly quickly and finishing with a flourish, capping the final glass with half a lime to douse the fire.

  The bar patrons gasped and gave polite applause, and even Lian flashed a genuine smile to the bartender as she passed. The spectacle, though, had been lost on her father, so focused on the impending dinner that he hadn’t broken his stride or turned his head.

  The maître d’ led them past a decorative screen, hand-painted in delicate brushstrokes with a night garden scene, and into the Fàn Xī banquet room. Much as she didn’t want to be there, Lian was momentarily taken by the beauty and care with which the room had been arranged.

  More red lanterns made a graceful arc across the ceiling, highlighting the fine gold filigree set into the trim on the walls and the backs of the chairs. Crimson tea candles on the table cast flickering spotlights on the half dozen black porcelain vases that served as centerpieces, each containing an intricate miniature tree crafted in glass, every one unique. Even the table itself seemed carved from a single perfect piece of rich dark wood, unbroken by seams.

  Her father, naturally, had his place card at the table’s head: the zhōngwén characters, and below them, in copperplate pinyin, Hung Zhi-Kai. The seat to his right was marked for Lili—her mother. Lian looked to either side of these settings for her own name, but it wasn’t there.

  The farther she walked from her parents’ chairs, the more resentful she grew until she eventually spotted her card—nearly all the way at the other end of the room.

  Fantastic. Marooned down here, away from the only people she knew, stuck next to some stranger named—she squinted and leaned in to read the place card—Matt Harrison.

  He was already there, his back to her as he gazed out the window wall. His suit looked expensive. Mingmei would have known the designer at a glance, no doubt. Messy blond hair curled over his collar, and he was shifting uncomfortably, tugging at his shirt collar to loosen his tie. Lian softened at the sight; maybe he was just as uncomfortable here as she was. It might give them something to chat about.

  She pulled out her chair, and he turned in his. His eyes were a striking green, and his tan would have made Mingmei jealous. Taking a deep breath, she put on a smile and was about to introduce herself when he spoke first.

  “Excellent,” he said, his accent American. “I’ll have a Diet Coke, please. Um . . . ” He made a show of searching for the right Cantonese word. “Mh’goi.”

  She drew back, jerking her arm away from his hand.

  “I am not your waitress,” she said in English, picking up her place card and waving it at him.

  The boy’s cheeks flushed as red as the lanterns. “Oh. Oh, man. I’m so sorry. I just, I saw your dress, and I guess I thought . . . wow. Sorry.” His turn now to squint at her name. “Sorry, Hung.”

  She gave him a withering look and sat down next to him. True, the cheongsam was overly traditional looking; true, the waitresses she’d noticed in the restaurant were wearing dresses very much like it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel offended.

  “Hung is my family name,” she corrected him, replacing her card. “Family first, then given name.” It was such basic knowledge, but Westerners always got it wrong.

  “Sorry . . . Zee-ow Lee-an,” he said, taking a stab. Her name sounded like rotten cabbage in his mouth. She shook her head sadly.

  “Lian,” she said, pronouncing it like she was tutoring a slow child. “Just call me Lian.”

  “Lian,” he repeated dutifully. “Nice to meet you. I’m . . .” He paused. “I guess to you I’d be Harrison Matthew-Chase. Or just Matt.”

  He held out his hand. She gave it a light, cursory shake—after all, she was supposed to be on her “best behavior”—and then quickly busied herself with unfolding her napkin.

  There had been eight or nine people in the room when they’d arrived, and now other guests were being led in by the maître d’. It was a mix of well-dressed locals, a handful of Europeans, a boisterous Australian quartet, and about half a dozen Americans. Lian watched her father greet each newcomer, make introductions among the guests, and nod to their places at the table. She had no doubt that he’d carefully seated everyone to optimize dinner conversation and facilitate deal making.

  Everyone but her and this Matt kid.

  He looked to be about her age, and he was admittedly pretty nice to look at—as well as the wavy blond hair and jade green eyes, he looked athletic, with broad shoulders. His teeth, she couldn’t help but notice, were movie-star white. The only asymmetry was a dimple in just one cheek when he smiled. If she had seen him on a billboard or a mall marquee, she probably would have stopped to see what he was selling. Probably toothpaste.

  But in person, he was losing points with her fast. He sniffed at the tea that the actual waitress—in her tight red dress with gold trim, Lian grudgingly acknowledged—brought out, then pushed it away in revulsion, splashing a few drops on the centerpiece. As the guests took their seats and the appetizers arrived, he poked at his food with a curious finger.

  “What the hell is this stuff?” he whispered to Lian.

  “Octopus carpaccio,” she whispered back, swiftly moving the bite to her mouth with her chopsticks. “It’s delicious.”

  Matt made a face. “No, thanks.”

  The salmon skin salad brought a similar response. Lian ate her delicate portion as she stole sidelong glances at the American boy as he fumbled with his chopsticks, trying to push aside the salmon and just nab a few daikon sprouts, spilling fish and onion on the table and into his lap.

  Finally, he gave up, dropping the chopsticks rather noisily and flagging a waitress over.

  “Look,” he said in a hushed, earnest tone. “I’m sure this stuff is great, but is there any way you guys could whip me up some . . . you know . . . a bacon cheeseburger, some nachos? Anything I can eat with my hands would be killer.”

  Lian couldn’t look at him. She hid her face behind her hand, not sure whether she was about to burst out laughing or berate him for his sad, dull palate. A cheeseburger? What an idiot.

  The waitress frowned and left wordlessly. Matt picked up one chopstick and began doodling lazy curlicues around the edge of his salad plate.

  “I don’t think I’m getting nachos,” he said after a moment. He flashed Lian a smile that was probably supposed to be charming.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Good guess. The next course is crispy pig throat, so I imagine you’ll be sitting that one out, too.”

  “Are you kidding me?” he choked.

  “It comes with rice. Can you eat rice?”

  “That depends,” he said. “Can I have a fork?”

  This time she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “There is literally nothing easier than chopsticks. Infants use them.” She held hers up and demonstrated their operation. “This one stays still. This one does all the moving. Two pieces working in harmony, see?”

  “Only one piece to a fork,” Matt muttered.

  “It is an honor,” she said sarcastically, “to meet the first person who ever died of starvation while sitting at a banquet table. Congratulations, Matt Harrison.”

  “Hey, look, Chinese food just isn’t for me, okay?”

  Lian did her best not to sneer, but she wasn’t sure she succeeded. “Yes, well. . . . Here, we just call it ‘food.’”

  “So this is really w
hat you guys eat? Like, on a regular basis? It’s like you found the weirdest possible things to put in your mouth, and the least convenient utensils to get them there.”

  She was incredulous. “Do you realize that, in one sentence, you just dumped on thousands of years of culture?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t mean—”

  “And that, rather than trying to assimilate, you have arrogantly suggested that we should be bending over backward to suit you? How typically Western.”

  “Hey, now, hang on a second, Lian. I’m not trying to start an international incident. But you’re used to this type of food. I mean, you’ve lived on this island all your life, I bet.”

  She deftly maneuvered her last bit of salmon to her mouth and shook her head. “Not exactly. We lived on the mainland for most of my life. Our move here was relatively recent.”

  “Oh,” he said with some concern. “So . . . I guess . . . you guys used to be poor?”

  Lian almost spat out the tea she was sipping. “Did you seriously just say that?”

  Matt backpedaled. “No, I just . . . I mean, I did a little reading on the Internet before we moved here, just so I’d know what to expect. I was under the impression that the mainland was . . . you know . . .”

  Lian spun a chopstick in her fingers, fighting the urge to jab it into his thigh. “You’re from America, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, smoothing his napkin over his lap. “Colorado.”

  “So, how was it, riding a horse to school?”

  “What?”

  “And I assume that you owned several automatic weapons, to protect your stashes of drugs and pornography and burritos. Right?”