When I call my sister, her phone goes to voice mail; it’s the middle of the night in Canada. Then I phone my aunts and tell them to come to the hospital, but they don’t arrive in time. So it’s just me watching over Ba, as those red and blue lines cease undulating at all and flatten into a smooth, stark horizon. The doctors disconnect all the sighing and beeping machines, leaving us in silence.
The weird thing is that I can still hear him. In the following days, lying in bed in the early mornings, I hear Ba coughing and spitting up phlegm. I hear his wheelchair being pushed from room to room, the soft, scraping sound of the wheels against the floor, the plaintive squeak of some metallic part that needs to be oiled. The click of his spoon against the edge of a bowl, the slurp of a mouthful of watery congee.
I force myself to get up and deal with the list of chores. Picking up the death certificate (cause of death: heart attack). Paying bills. Meeting with the funeral agent, a young, chubby woman with theatrical eye makeup and a stack of brightly coloured binders. She tells me that the soonest we can schedule my father’s funeral, at any facility in the city, is in eleven days’ time. Then she talks about how for a traditional Chinese funeral — which I know my aunts will insist on — it’s important for my father to be buried wearing six layers of clothing, with extra clothes from all seasons thrown into the coffin for good measure. Something about how the thickness of clothing corresponds to the fullness of the life led by the deceased. And four Taoist monks must be chanting throughout the service to keep evil spirits at bay. This I agree to, though I nix the use of musical instruments, since I know from my mother’s funeral Ba hated the loudness of it all.
When I phone my sister to let her know the date of the event, I sense a certain hesitancy at the back of her throat.
“You are planning to come, aren’t you?”
Celeste sighs. “I want to. But in the last couple days, I’ve been having some complications with my pregnancy …” Anxiety clouds her voice. While she doesn’t want to burden me with the details, the gist seems to be she isn’t sure it’s safe for her to fly. She needs to consult with her doctor.
“Oh, it’s fine if you’re not at the funeral.” I don’t exactly mean this, but I manage to say it anyway. “The baby’s health is the most important thing, of course.”
Slowly, I walk through the rooms of our condo, staring into space. Ba’s old things keep me company on the periphery of my vision. His magnifying glass, weighing down a folded newspaper. His owly reading glasses. His grey plastic calculator.
And then, in a burst of impatience or manic energy — a desire to get this thing over with — I yank open my father’s closet and begin rifling through his clothes. I throw everything with stains and holes into garbage bags, and toss the rest in a heap on the bed to give to charity. Meanwhile, I’m on the lookout for his best dark suit, vest, shirt, undershirt, and underwear; I can’t imagine what other garments are supposed to comprise the requisite six layers. The well-worn fabrics cling to my hands, leaving them covered in a chalky residue that makes me want to sneeze, though the release won’t quite come. A strange, sharp smell — laundry powder mixed with a fine dusting of dead skin flakes — tickles the inside of my nose. Then a heavy feeling comes over my head, but it can’t be fatigue, because I only just got out of bed, didn’t I?
As I release Ba’s threadbare cardigans from their hangers, their arms retain the protruding shape of his bony elbows.
I can’t sleep, so I get out of bed and pull on jeans and a T-shirt. I wander down Conduit Road, letting the night air envelop me and carry me forward, in no particular direction. There’s no one around, the quivering shadows of trees my only company. It’s rare for the city to feel so quiet, so vacant.
A little while later, I find myself at the edge of the university campus. Where the road curves downward, a massive construction site stretches out, like a crater on a dusty planet. Skeletons of a couple new buildings have started to take form, but in the moonlight, they look more like ancient ruins.
I think of our class trip to Italy back in architecture school. When we were passing through a town in what had once been a Roman resort area, my boyfriend and I couldn’t resist sneaking out of the hotel in the middle of the night to explore all the places that had been marked off bounds, for archaeologists only. Yeah, right. We were archaeologists, of a different sort. As we clambered up and down over crumbling piles of broken wall, our feet touching the uneven stone floors, tufts of grass poking up here and there, neither of us saying much of anything, it was as though we were descending deeper into ourselves, into the recesses of our own solitary consciousnesses. It made me think of Piranesi’s etchings at the end of his life, the walls of Hadrian’s villa overrun with dead foliage, built form and organic matter virtually indistinguishable.
And then, my boyfriend — Tobias was his name — turned to me abruptly. The moonlight accentuated the sharp planes of his cheekbones. I could see in his eyes that he was going to say something lovely and sappy. Although I don’t remember what he whispered in my ear, I do recall the way his body stiffened when I made a light joke of it, brushing his earnestness off.
I didn’t want walking through the ruins to be about anything other than the ruins. What I was seeking wasn’t a love sonnet, but more like an elegy. That peculiar feeling of mourning and enchantment. Closeness to the dead. Utter solitude. The distinct sensation that if the whole universe were to end tomorrow, that would be all right — it might even be a relief. Each of us holding on to our secrets until the very end.
And all that’d be left would be this, this trace.
It’s cold in here, very cold. The walls of this small room are painted pure white, the lighting soft and diffuse, to give an impression of otherworldliness, perhaps. Through the sliding glass door, I can see into another, much larger white room, with an altar at the far end and rows of empty benches in front. As I exhale, my breath comes out in misty plumes.
But my father should be warm enough in all his layers of clothing, ensconced within his upholstered coffin. I gaze down at his face, freshly restored. His cheeks have regained some of the fullness I recall from fifteen years ago, and his skin has been powdered a peculiar, peachy tone that makes him look like he has a bit of a sunburn. At least he’s presentable now. An image of his face, in that half-hour after he died, flashes in my mind; I was sitting at his bedside, waiting for my aunts to arrive, watching the sudden changes come over him. How quickly the skin yellows and clings to the skull, reminiscent of a knotted, ancient tree.
Later this evening during the wake, I’ll be expected to stand by the side of the altar and acknowledge all the grieving visitors, who will light joss sticks and pay their respects by bowing. And I will bow in return. There will be a lot of bowing and possibly some kneeling, too, amidst the clouds of incense smoke and melancholic chanting. My joints already ache at the thought of it all.
But now is my quiet time with my father. According to the funeral director, this is my opportunity to add a personal article to the coffin; all the usual things — coins, joss paper, small pieces of red paper to ward off malignant spirits — have already been added.
Folded in my damp palm, I have a small square of satin, in a lush magenta shade. I snipped it from a dress that I found at the back of Ba’s closet while clearing out his things. What a surprise to discover that this unsentimental man had hung on to one of my mother’s old qipaos. Based on its tiny size and body-hugging cut, it must have belonged to her when she was still young and slender.
Tucking the scrap of fabric into the coffin, I lean down, one last time, close to my father’s ear. Although I’m not at all sure I believe this, I find myself whispering, “You’ll see Mom soon.”
Then I slide open the door. Celeste is there, waiting for me. She flew in this morning, having received her doctor’s approval. Despite the tiring flight, her face looks rounder, brighter, healthier, along with her whole body. We haven’t really had a chance to talk much since her arrival, in the ru
sh of last-minute preparations. The awkwardness of so many unspoken things always there between us.
Now, though, when she sees my weepy eyes, we embrace, we fully embrace — clutching on to each other like we haven’t done since childhood. I breathe in the scent of my sister’s sweat and greasy hair. I feel her tears dampening my blouse and then realize that I, too, am turning her dress into a soggy mess. The little swell of her stomach nuzzles against me. It’s true that there’s something comforting about touching a pregnant woman’s belly.
“Your turn.” I hold open the door.
“I think I’ll just stand outside and look through the window.” Her hand migrates down to her tummy. “I don’t think the baby would like the cold.”
We stand in silence, gazing in, for a long while.
“Ba told me he was ready to die,” I finally say. “He said, ‘Let me die — don’t call an ambulance.’ And I didn’t believe him.” Tears sting my sinuses.
“You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
But Celeste wasn’t there in those final days before his death. She doesn’t know how forcefully I pressed our father to admit his sins. Did I suck the will to live right out of him? Or did Ba, at some level, feel relieved that I knew what he’d done? Perhaps it brought him some small degree of peace?
Yeah, right. I’m being far too kind to myself.
“It’s okay if you’re relieved that he’s dead,” Celeste says.
Is it relief that I’m feeling?
“Ba’s in a giant fridge,” I say a moment later. “Remember how fond he was of that old, broken refrigerator in his bedroom?”
“Because he used it as a filing cabinet. His ledger books are there. Just what you want to have next to you when you go to bed at night.” Celeste lets out a chuckle, which turns into a whimper, a sigh. “I guess all that junk’s going to have to be cleaned out.”
“Rina and I tossed a lot of the stuff already.”
“But not the fridge?”
“Not the fridge.”
“That thing should be enshrined in a museum.” Celeste clutches her belly, as though the baby’s communicating with her through flutter kicks. Distress twists her lips. “By the way, did you tell Ba that I’m expecting?”
“No, of course not. You said not to.”
“Yeah, but now I wish that you had.” Her shoulders shake, as she starts crying again, sobs shuddering through her rib cage.
“Hey.” I put my arms around her. “Ba’s getting what he wanted. He’s getting the grandkid he always wanted. That’s what matters.”
I’ve missed my sister, I’m startled to realize. After the baby’s born, maybe I’ll throw myself into being an auntie. I’ll coo and tickle and make squiggly lovey faces and even change a mountain of shitty diapers. Maybe Celeste and I will laugh about how Ba never changed a diaper for either one of us, but we’re doing this thing our way this time around — we’re revelling in being elbow deep in shit. And all this muck is kind of beautiful in its own raw, visceral way, isn’t it? The by-product of life, the cycle of life continuing.
Our father — unbeknownst to him — is getting what he wanted. In a way.
“Celeste?”
“Yeah?” She’s almost stopped crying.
“I’ve been thinking. I think we should sell Ba’s business. His half of the building.”
“Oh … okay?” Confusion sweeps her eyes. “But I thought those units were bringing in a nice income?”
“They are.” I shrug. “But I’m just too tired to take over Ba’s business.”
If ever I’ve had doubts, I don’t anymore. Too much has happened, the blinders stripped from my eyes. I’m no longer the little girl who wanted nothing more than to impress her father by riding so fast around the perimeter of the light-filled kindergarten that his eyes would be forever dazzled.
“Okay, I’m fine with whatever you want.” Celeste looks at me strangely for a second, like she can tell there’s a lot more behind my decision. But she doesn’t want to ask, she doesn’t want to know.
“Eddy Chan will buy us out.” I have no doubt he’ll be interested, particularly if I make him an offer too good to resist. For some reason, I’d rather sell to him than to a stranger. Best to deal with someone I know I can trust, someone whose own interests are equally vested in keeping certain things secret.
And I’m willing to suffer a loss. Maybe I even want to take a loss. As a form of penance. Or a peculiar form of laundering blood money, depending on how you look at it.
“I assume that Eddy’s coming to the funeral?” Celeste says.
“Along with his new wife.”
“And what about Terence?”
When I remain silent, Celeste keeps looking at me, like she’s trying not to smile and risk spooking me.
“Yeah, I invited him,” I say finally.
After a few days of cutting myself off from the world after Ba died, I called Terence. Over the past week, he’s been there for me, as he’s always been, in his steady, calming way.
“How long are you going to stick around, after everything’s settled?” Celeste asks.
“Dunno. It’s going to take a while to get everything settled.”
“Plenty of time for you and Terence to hang out, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Actually, I’m thinking of renovating the condo. Even if we decide to sell, it’ll fetch a better price if the place is in a more livable condition. And it has a lot of potential with that view of the mountain.”
“Go for it. Give it a facelift. Maybe it’ll be so nice you won’t want to leave.”
“But my whole life’s in Canada.”
“Is it, though? I don’t know about that, Jill.”
Her teasing expression reflects a question, a challenge. For an odd moment, she looks a bit like Ba, a gentler, humbler version of him. And maybe she’s right. Although I never took his advice when he was alive, now that he’s dead, something in the air feels different. The buoyancy in my chest puzzles and frightens me, this upward tug of emotions. Just when I thought I’d been freed, I feel myself being pulled by strange currents back to the very house where I grew up — as if Ba’s outwitting me yet again, even from beyond the grave.
I picture myself trying to live within those decaying walls, all the old, dark memories still there. I’ll lay my head down on the floor, bewildered, like a child lost in the ruins.
Or perhaps Celeste is right: perhaps some flickering dream can rouse me to rebuild the place and make it my own. I picture Terence and me having dinner on the terrace together, the mountain somehow softer and more undulating with him there beside me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Warm thanks to Sam Hiyate and Diane Terrana for their insightful, detailed comments on multiple drafts of this novel, and to Mona Tam for advising me on certain key aspects of Chinese language and culture. Many thanks to Kirk Howard and Kathryn Lane and the fabulous team at Dundurn — including Jenny McWha, Laura Boyle, Elham Ali, Tabassum Siddiqui, and Heather McLeod, as well as freelance editor Jess Shulman — for your dedicated, skillful work in bringing my novel to fruition. Immense gratitude and affection to my partner, Chris Wong, for introducing me to life in Hong Kong, and for encouraging me to write this book. Getting to know your eccentric, formidable father over the course of several visits to Hong Kong and having the opportunity to live with him during the final months of his life provided the kernel of inspiration for this novel, which blends certain facts and recounted tales about his youth with my own purely fictitious, imaginative elements.
I also wish to thank the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Toronto Arts Council for the generous grant support I received while researching and writing Red Oblivion.
Many books and internet resources offered invaluable research materials and sources of inspiration — too many to recount. Book titles that stand out in my mind include: Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang, Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian, Hong Kong: Culture and the Politics of Dis
appearance by Ackbar Abbas, Collective Killings in Rural China During the Cultural Revolution by Yang Su, Canton Under Communism: Programs and Politics in a Provincial Capital, 1949–1968 by Ezra Vogel, and The Chinese Cultural Revolution as History edited by Joseph W. Esherick, Paul G. Pickowicz and Andrew G. Walder, in which several essays were useful. My reference in chapter eight to Aldo Rossi derives from his book The Architecture of the City, in which Rossi writes, “And always we could see the house of our childhood, strangely aged, present in the flux of the city.” My understanding of Hong Kong’s rich culture and history benefited from a visit to the Hong Kong Museum of History. That said, Red Oblivion is a work of fiction, and its storyline and fictional framework depend, to some extent, upon my imaginative liberties.
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