by Vivian Yang
So deep is my feeling that it is devoid of it all,
Gazing long at the wineglass brings no smiles at all.
Candle’s wick, like my heart, is reluctant to see us part,
Until daybreak it sheds its tears on our behalf.
As it lay drying, I forced a smile and said, “Thank you for this precious gift. I’ll hang it in my personal space.”
“This is no penmanship to be on display. It is a keepsake if you care to see it that way. And here is the ticket.” He stepped closer, handing me the folder.
“Thank you again so much … thank you for everything,” I said, overwhelmed by his magnetism.
“Airports are sad places, darling, so I won’t be seeing you off. Do call once you get to the flat. And one more thing: you’ll be in cars and taxis in Hong Kong from now on. Remember to fasten the seatbelt. It’s the latest safety item they’ve added in a car according to Helen.”
My eyes reddening, I nodded firmly. The Renaissance Shanghainese I had adored since the moment we met wrapped his arms around me. There was a hint of cologne. I tilted my head. He traced my cheek with a finger, bit by bit, as if to etch its contour into a sculpture of memory. Then, resisting the urge, he released me with a sudden push.
“Let us make this an au revoir and not adieu. Remember General Douglas MacArthur’s vow upon leaving the Philippines in 1942: ‘I shall return.’”
“Au revoir, then, dear Uncle Fly.”
“Take good care of yourself, darling.”
16 From Pravda to Prada
Hong Kong, Cantonese for the “Harbour of Fragrant Joss Sticks”, was among the few territories outside of the British Isles still flying the Union Jack in 1995. By July 1997, it would be returned to China.
After the legendary kamikaze-style landing at Kai Tak International Airport, I was greeted at the Arrivals by a small-framed man with a sign that read “Jasmine Molotova”, the name I used to process my reentry into Hong Kong.
“Hello missee, I picked you out of the crowd as soon as you came into view, so white lady-like,” said Ah John, the chauffeur. His weather-beaten skin contrasted sharply with the white shirt which, despite being crisply laundered, appeared oversized on him. People dressed smarter in Hong Kong, although it would take just a short few years before Shanghai folks were back on top of the game.
Taking my luggage, Ah John hurried to a parked car that sparkled under the sun at the curbside. “Private vehicles are not allowed here, but they recognized Boss Wah’s plate so they gave me a break. Let’s hurry, missee.”
Wah must be the Cantonese pronunciation of Hua, I noted to myself as Ah John held the door open for me to enter. He pressed some buttons next to his seat and both our doors closed automatically. That reminded me of the seatbelt which I figured out how to buckle.
Dear Uncle Fly, I’ve arrived!
Once the car got rolling, I asked, “How could they memorize people’s plate numbers?”
“Because Boss Wah spends big money in the government’s auction to get the most auspicious number for this Rolls Royce Silver Spur. Only the fleet at The Peninsular Hotel has the same model. Boss left word for me to pick you up in it while he is in New York.”
“On a business trip?”
“I won’t know but Boss Wah is always looking to expand Mandarin World.”
“That’s the name of his boutique chain?”
“You are its model and you don’t know? Sure, there is the boutique and then the club.”
Ahh, I thought to myself, remembering that the club must be where Helen and her friend met Mr. Wah. Looking outside the window as we passed through the tunnel from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island, I tried to recall the place I had left when I was a mere child of four. The streetcars were still there, as were the European-style buildings recalling Shanghai’s former European concessions. Most of the glassy skyscrapers, however, had mushroomed in the more recent past. When Ah John began driving the winding roads up the hilly terrain, I no longer felt a sense of familiarity with the place.
Her Majesty’s Court, the twin-towered high rise on Old Peak Road, was our destination. A pair of stone-faced sentinels opened the cast iron gates. Ah John nodded at them and swirled the car around the fountain at the center of the complex.
“The guards aren’t Chinese, are they?”
“Oh no, they’re all Nepalese Gurkas, the bravest and the most loyal security guards in Hong Kong, along with the Sikhs – you know, those Indians with turbans on their uncut hair. Boss Wah taught me that they belong to the Martial Race. That’s why they’re the best at this line of work.”
“Which race is that?” I asked as he parked the car and headed toward the elevator banks with my luggage.
Ah John laughed nervously and replied, “Oh, I don’t know for sure, missee. I dropped out of school in Form II to work as an errand boy. I suppose different races are different is what he meant. The Martial Race is good at military things just as white people are better than us Chinese and fair-skinned girls like you have better fortune than the rest of us.”
I could not believe my ears.
My flat faced northeast and had a sweeping view of the Victoria Harbour. Equipped with 16-feet floor to ceiling draperies operated by electric switches, the unit was outfitted with stainless steel fixtures, marble countertops and built-in chestnut dressers.
According to the brochure left by the leasing agency, Old Peak Road used to be the only route to the Victoria Peak, the highest point on Hong Kong Island. Straw-shoed Chinese coolies carried on bamboo poles everything from sedans bearing their British rulers, to water, coal and ice. Today, residing in Her Majesty’s Court was “the ultimate city-living experience befitting the royals.” Gone was the era when the good women and men of the Peak and the Mid-Levels had to be transported on the backs of local laborers. “Her Majesty’s Court provides shuttle buses ferrying residents and their servants up and down the steep mountainous roads to Central and Queen’s Pier.”
I soon learned that the majority of “the servants” were workers imported from the Philippines and Indonesia. In contrast to the brochure wording, the English language South China Daily Mail referred to them euphemistically as “foreign domestic helpers.” Like neighboring Dynasty Palace, Her Majesty’s Court had a clubhouse, a heated, kidney-shaped pool, saunas, gym, basketball and squash courts, a mini mart, and a reading library.
A giant lime green colored gift box with a fuchsia bow sat on the coffee table. The attached card read:
Welcome to Hong Kong. Make yourself at home. I’ll see you in a fortnight.
M.W.
The box contained a Mandarin World wardrobe for me. A membership card to the Ladies Entertainment Club located across the street was also left for my use.
A glossy magazine whose cover featured an Andy Warhol-style headshot of a Chinese man in a black Mandarin jacket commanded my attention. I scanned the contents of The Mandarin Literati : a Chinese-Canadian returnee’s essay on being Hong Kong Chinese, a “conceptual piece” by the Mandarin World Boutique’s Milan-trained Malaysian-Chinese creative director, and photographs of Asian landscape and people in various shades of gray. The “Initial Impressions” column solicited readers’ stories. I immediately jotted down my thoughts of Hong Kong in Chinese shorthand, thinking that I might want to translate them into English and submit them to the magazine once I had settled down.
I next called Uncle Fly, who picked up at the first ring. I gave him a quick rundown and said, “So far nobody stared at me and the driver made the usual comment about how the way I look made me stand out in a crowd. I suppose Hong Kongers are used to seeing the non-Chinese. In the short few hours here, I’ve already come across Caucasians, Filipinos, Indians, Japanese, and Nepalese.”
“I’m glad you find Hong Kong more tolerant in that sense but don’t be surprised if this is only an illusion.”
“You’re so right, Uncle Fly. I already noticed that the locals are obsequious to the British to a fault. It’s very disappointing
.”
“You’ve got a lot to learn and to experience there, so don’t jump to conclusions yet. Are you going to contact the hospital?”
“Yes, as soon as I hang up with you. Guess what? Miss you already.”
There was a pause.
“Go make the call … and best of luck, darling.”
I telephoned Canossa Hospital and set up an appointment for the following morning. It turned out that the hospital was located just down the hill, at the beginning of Old Peak Road. I experienced an eerie excitement to be so physically close to the place of my birth.
The birth record of “Baby Mo” was found, complete with a set of the newborn’s footprints. DNA testing was ordered. A match would enable me to live and work legally in Hong Kong and render Mr. Wah’s nominal work visa sponsorship unnecessary.
Upon returning to the flat, I dispatched a brief letter to Mother in care of “Hideo’s friend”, giving her my contact information in Hong Kong.
The Ladies Entertainment Club, its name notwithstanding, welcomed both genders. It embraced both dues-paying locals and expatriates, almost all having endured a long waiting period. Multinational companies swallowed the hefty price tags for their professionals in exchange for a corporate tax write-off. Some two thousand members enjoyed the sumptuousness the LEC offered: aquatics, bowling, café, dance hall, function room, massage parlor, restaurant-bar, tennis courts, swimming pools, and yoga studios.
Set up by the British in the 1880’s, the LEC had for decades prohibited Chinese from becoming members. Even today, as I made my way to its entrance, I was struck by the shining brass plaque stating, in English only, that chauffeurs, servants and other service personnel were not permitted on the premises. Ah Bu, my childhood nanny here in Hong Kong or for that matter Ah Fang back in Shanghai would surely be chided and scuffed away if they were to come here.
Not until I visited my old North Point neighborhood a few days thereafter did I know that my beloved Ah Bu had already passed away. Her last wish of dying in Shanghai “like a fallen leaf that returns to its roots” was never realized. Ah Bu was interred by friends from the church at the public cemetery near Hong Kong University. I visited her gravesite to “sweep the tomb” and pay my respects, bringing as offerings joss sticks and cooked hairy-peas with pickled vegetables, the Shanghainese signature dish she had perfected. A tingle of satisfaction surged in me as I saw her epitaph identifying her as “a devout Christian originally from Shanghai”. As my fingers traced these chiseled words on her modest stele, I made the wish that Ah Bu would meet my maternal grandmother Nga Bu, a fellow Christian from Shanghai, in heaven.
Now rewind back to my initial visit to the Ladies Entertainment Club. By far the most attractive feature there to me was the swimming pools. The outdoor competition-sized one with a three-tiered high diving platform was ideal for lap swimming. The two indoor ones were perpetually ozone-heated.
This facility naturally reminded me of Coach Long. Ryu Hideo. I willed myself to drown the thoughts of my former hero by diving into the pool. I had forgotten how much I loved swimming!
After doing laps, I lay on a deckchair and began reviewing a draft of my intended submission to “Initial Impressions”, which I had inserted in the copy of The Mandarin Literati I had brought along with me. The gentle splashing sound from the pristine water and the scent of the insect repelling sprays from the poolside shrubberies proved to be a constant yet not unpleasant distraction.
A man and a woman, both Caucasians, were swimming freestyle but my eyes followed the one Asian in red swim briefs doing the breaststroke. At about five feet five, he had a lean athletic torso enhanced by a glistening tan. He was advancing at a good speed and made passable turns as well. But the way he swam betrayed him: he was not taught by a professional when he was a boy.
As he emerged from the pool, the image of Coach Long again came to mind. Trying to snap out of it as I saw him walking in my direction, I pretended to focus on my magazine as he took the deckchair next to mine. “Bottle of Perrier, chilled,” I heard him order in impeccable British English with only the faintest hint of a Cantonese accent. A white polo-shirted server brought out a silver tray and placed it on the side table between us. The man swung to the side and poured the water into a tall glass garnished with a wedge of lime.
My peripheral vision caught him taking a sip.
I sensed him watching me. There were butterflies in my chest. I put the journal closer to my face.
“I see I’m already in your hands,” he said.
I flushed. “Excuse me?”
“That,” he pointed to the cover of The Mandarin Literati, “is supposed to be me. Artists. They make their subjects appear more handsome than they are in real life, don’t they?”
“…”
He extended his hand. “I’m Man.”
“Oh. I’m a woman, then,” I said, shaking his hand, amused despite myself.
“Now there’s one I haven’t come across before. Man Wah, or as they say in Mandarin, Hua Wen.” His Mandarin Chinese pronunciation was equally impeccable.
I sprang from the chair. “Mr. Hua! I’m Mo Mo, from Shanghai. I thought you would be in New York a few more days.”
“Just got back this morning. Change of plans. How’s Hong Kong been treating you so far?”
“V-very well, thanks to you … and thank you, Mr. Hua … I mean Man.”
“You are welcome. Why don’t we go get changed and meet up at the Café in half an hour for some proper talk?”
“Certainly.”
Air-conditioned to the degree of chilliness, the LEC Café was empty when I entered. The overhead television was on mute showing a rerun soccer game between Manchester United and Real Madrid. I sat down at a corner table and waited for Man.
When he returned, Man Wah was clothed in a black taffeta shirt inlaid with a white Mandarin collar, tailored trousers, and boat shoes. A cream-hued fedora was in his hand and a flaxen kerchief in his chest pocket.
I was about to stand up when he said “Please remain seated,” and planted himself across from me. Switching to Mandarin he asked, “Xihuan zheli ma?” (Like it here?)
I replied in kind, “Yes, very much. Thanks so much for having made everything possible, Wen.”
“Stick to Man, please. Wen sounds unnatural. Here, quick Cantonese lesson: my first name -- the Chinese character for language, culture and literature -- is pronounced man and my surname, which happens to be the character for China, as you know, is pronounced wah.”
“I see. You must have derived the name The Mandarin World from its approximate Cantonese homonyms Man Wah.”
“You are the cleverest and most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. We’ll have to get you started being a screw of the Mandarin World revolution machine as soon as possible,” he chortled.
I turned red at the double entendre and was simultaneously dumbfounded. I couldn’t imagine anyone with such immaculate Queen’s English was capable of making that allusion. “I’m happy to be a mere screw in the great revolutionary machine” was a well-known quote from Lei Feng (1940 – 1962), a People’s Liberation Army solider whose allegedly selfless and modest personality prompted Chairman Mao to start the 1963 nationwide “Learn from Comrade Lei Feng Campaign.”
“You must be wondering how I knew that reference. Well, I was a pupil in Guangdong until I swam over here at eleven, so I knew all about becoming a young revolutionary successor.”
“Wait! You swam to Hong Kong as a kid … alone?”
“Yes. Pravda (Russian: truth) was indeed stranger than fiction in my case -- not entirely alone, though. I was accompanied by eight watermelons. The lucky number helped me, you see.”
“How did you do it? Why did you risk your life to do such a thing?”
“How? I dug a small hole in each of the watermelons stolen from the people’s commune, scooped out the flesh, strung them together to make a life preserver and doggy paddled my way across. And why? Because my family was branded ‘class enemy’ af
ter Liberation, and by the early sixties, everybody was starving. I had no future staying. An older clansman who’d gone to Hong Kong a decade earlier had struck it rich with a sizable garment operation so I took a chance.”
“And made it! And would you believe that I met a ‘class enemy’ stealing watermelons from the people’s commune once before, in a film script I was slated to star in right before the end of the Cultural Revolution?”
“Right, as though such a propaganda film would have made it into the Tinseltown hall of fame if it had been made,” Man said flippantly.
“I agree, although it did end my prospects of getting a career going.”
“No worries. You’re still young and beautiful and you’re now part of the Mandarin World family. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to become a star if you know how to act.”
Avoiding the bait, I asked, “Did you find the relative right away after you swam ashore?”
Man shook his head and said, “Helen was right. You are a character. Well, I’ll tell you everything if the policy of Be lenient with he who confesses and severe with he who defies is applied.”
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You are too much, Man. You remember every single revolutionary slogan in China. Don’t worry. You’re not a ‘class enemy’ to me. Just tell me how you started here.”
“It’s fairly unexceptional. The rich uncle took me in and sent me off to a public school outside London. Jim Callaghan was the Prime Minister and England was deep in recession. I remember Piccadilly Circus with heaps of overflowing rubbish and chanting laborers on strike, much like a ‘struggle meeting’ scene at the height of the Cultural Revolution.”
“I can almost picture this: Man amid the alien trash.”
“I can’t believe you know that reference – another clever one. And you’re right, there I was, barely had time to transition from Communist China to capitalist Hong Kong before I was thrown into the English country, speaking not a word of its language and being the only Oriental eyesore in the class of towheads with freckled faces and pre-pubescent whines. But having risked my life to come to the free world, I knew instinctively how to appreciate it. Although adolescent follies were an integral part of the boarding school experience, few if any would be interested in any hanky-panky stuff with a Chinaman, and that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I was a serious and studious boy from day one and began getting high marks in my third term there. As I always had an entrepreneurial streak in me, I chose the London School of Economics in central London over Oxford or Cambridge, and returned to Hong Kong as a graduate to start Mandarin World.”