My body may be hostage to this hippy but my mind can come and go as it pleases. I watch the world’s longest outdoor escalator running alongside the cafe. It may sound like an epic indulgence, until you see the hills here. What they spent on mechanics they more than saved in coronary unit hospital costs. And it’s as functional as it is curious. It runs up the hills or down, depending on the time of day, between Central and the Mid-levels in a series of moving stairs and sidewalks. Every so often a narrow street bisects the system, where little red and white taxis hopefully cruise for fares. Stairs run alongside the escalator for those who’d like a calf workout, or find themselves needing to go up, or down, when the escalator is running the other way. The moving sidewalk is on the less steep bottom bit, which makes even me feel lazy, and the whole thing is covered on top, but open to the elements on the sides. It’s probably a real treat in cyclone season. It’s wedged tightly between multiple-story buildings on either side, but these aren’t the shiny glass high-rises like those in Central’s business district, or the Mid-levels’ swank and towering apartment blocks. They look like they were built in the fifties or sixties, concrete, painted at one time in pinks, creams and yellows, up to about ten stories high, and they’ve been adapted to their occupiers’ uses in a staggering array of inventiveness. Air conditioners, antennae, washing lines and all manner of signs, neon and otherwise, grow from their sides. The many balconies are variously used for storage, drying laundry, and as gardens, smoker’s areas, workshops and informal room extensions. On the escalator I get to watch an ever-changing tableau of Hong Kong life. It’s light and airy to ride, but a bit dark and claustrophobic here in its shadow.
Rock-talking Rachel is still going on about the evils of bank employment. ‘I worked in reception,’ she says. ‘It was grueling. I never had a minute to myself. The staff, the bankers, they were all rude. Like it was my fault when they forgot their passes. And the visitors were totally unappreciative. I was at rock bottom. And then I met Neil.’
‘Who’s Neil?’ Why isn’t she sipping her tea? It’s like she wants this conversation to continue. Clearly we can’t be friends. The giggles alone would force me to strangle her.
‘He’s my guru. He showed me the path to enlightenment. I’ll be eternally grateful to him. Eternally. In all my lives. So now I can help people forever. It’s so liberating to recognize your calling and know exactly what you’re meant to do with your life. Like Mother Teresa,’ she says earnestly, her fish-eyes popping again. ‘You could use a session, you know. Your aura’s very dirty.’
‘My aura is fine, thanks.’
‘No it’s not. It’s awfully dark blue.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘It’s a bit muddy.’
‘Thanks anyway. Listen, Rachel, I’ve got to run to lunch now. I’ve got a reservation. Nice to meet you, and good luck with the apartment. Who knows, maybe we’ll see each other again. If the cosmos wants it… M goi, and baaibaai,’ I say, carefully trying out my very first polite Cantonese phrases in public. I resist the urge to flash her the peace sign as I bolt for the exit.
‘You’re welcome and,’ she says, waving baaibaai. ‘Bye!’
Half an hour later in the restaurant I’m still contemplating that weird experience. I’m all for alternative medicine, but I don’t see myself getting my aura vacuumed by the crystal whisperer. Especially when I’ve had eyebrow shaping that’s lasted longer than she’s been playing psychic geologist. And a guru called Neil? He’s not even authentic enough to have a proper swami name. That’s Marketing 101, Neil.
Goodness, listen to me, talking like I’m afraid they’ll knock my chi off-kilter. Do I believe in all that? I guess I do, at least a bit. There’s definitely good and bad energy. Haven’t we all gravitated towards some people and been repelled by others? My muddy aura is definitely putting the waiters off in the restaurant. They’re avoiding me like I’m that uncle at the family picnic who always wants a hug. Every time I catch someone’s eye and smile to get his attention, he smiles back. Then he walks away. It’s getting ridiculous. The other patrons are being served. I want dim sum, not a bone marrow donation.
‘Excuse me. I’m ready to order.’ The waiter, smiling, approaches. He looks confused, gently snatching what looks like a survey from the table’s corner. ‘No order?’
‘Yes, order.’
He’s scanning the paper. ‘No order.’
I knew it. I’ve missed lunch. ‘Can’t I order?’
‘Yes, order.’ He sets the survey on the table.
‘Thanks. Can I have a menu?’
‘Menu.’ He’s pointing to the survey. It’s not a survey. It’s the menu, with some words in English, written on a wonkily photocopied sheet of paper. ‘Hmm, do the pork buns have scallions in them?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Okay. I’ll have those, and the… are these prawns big or small? Could the chef…? No, okay, then these please, and this one and, is this the chicken…?’ I really want to know if they are the little steamed chicken and prawn dumplings like I get in New York, but given that the waiter isn’t even pretending to smile any more, I won’t continue my line of questioning. ‘And this one, please.’
‘You write.’ He’s gesturing at the paper again.
‘I write what?’
‘Write order.’ He hands me a pen.
He has completely missed the point of being a waiter. ‘Is that too much food?’ I ask as I tick the boxes.
He smiles and walks away to ignore his other customers.
How can I get a job like that? I could learn to speak Chinese menu, couldn’t I? No, of course I couldn’t. I couldn’t even speak English in London.
I have applied for loads of jobs online though. It’s not nearly as much fun as shopping for a new dress or a handbag. And there’s a big difference between browsing and buying in online recruitment. It’s not like that Mulberry bag will say, ‘Thank you for your interest. We’ve had many applicants and have found the shoulder we were looking for. Good luck in your search for the perfect spring accessory.’
In a way I envy Rachel. She might be clinically insane but she’s found her dream job. I have a dream; I just don’t have the job. Not to put too many eggs in one basket, but if I’m not hired tomorrow I’m out of options. Done, finito, kaput, doomed to live under the Star Ferry pier with the water rats. I just hope they don’t get a whiff of desperation when I arrive. I’ll be sure not to cling to the boss’s leg or intimate that I’d be very grateful for the job, wink, wink. I simply need to gloss over the work permit issue. Just for a few weeks till I prove that I’m made to be a buyer’s assistant’s assistant’s assistant. Maybe I’ll take a page out of my waiter’s service manual. I’ll smile sincerely and walk away when the subject comes up.
The waiter sets my lunch before me, neatly stacked in covered steamers to maximize that whatever-could-be-under-this-lid quiver of excitement. They’re pork buns! Just like the ones Stacy and I get in New York when we’re really hung-over but eschew McDonald’s because it’s a fat day. This is quite a moment for me. It’s the first time I’ve ordered a dish here that I’d meant to. And the second and third dishes are recognizable too!
The only problem is getting them into my mouth. Perhaps I rushed the decision to move to a country without forks. I’d feel less self-conscious if I weren’t the only Westerner in here. The Chinese at the tables, and serving, and clearing aren’t hiding the fact that they’re staring at me. So no pressure.
Poking the dumpling sends it skidding across my plate, triggering a Rachel-worthy giggle attack at the thought of flipping it into the lap of the diner beside me. Now I see why everyone is eating straight from the bamboo steamers. Traction. Even experts take shortcuts. Good. While stabbing the morsel through the middle and levering it into my mouth may not win me any technical awards, at this point it’s any fork in a storm.
‘Bdllling!’
I loved that sound before I taught my mother to send texts. Naively I thought giving her the means to send these supposedly
unobtrusive messages would limit the number of middle-of-the-night phone calls. I was wrong. It’s now 4 a.m. at home and I expect there’ll be a message on my machine when I check it later. Mom simply views texting as an extra weapon in her arsenal.
Hannah, do you wantto come home for your bdat? Well pay and you shouldn’t be alonee.
Nice try, Mom, but I won’t be alonee. I’ll be with Sam. And Stacy. Besides, she must know I wouldn’t willingly let her wear me down in person.
Mom isn’t happy with my move. She doesn’t mean to sound judgmental, and I do appreciate her genuine concern. After my rather out-of-the-blue move from Connecticut to London last year, this relocation probably has a whiff of déjà vu about it. But she should know me well enough to understand that it’s no use trying to bully me into returning home. It’s not just that I’m stubborn. She’s fighting against an inviolable mother-daughter dynamic, a formula that has held true through the ages:
N(T+12)=-L+S2
where a mother’s nagging across time zones is responsible for her daughter’s unwillingness to listen, plus her exponential capacity for spiteful digging in of heels. It doesn’t take Pythagoras to work that one out.
Thanks, so thoughtful! I text. But Sam will celebrate with me. Having lunch now so can’t text longer. x
Turning to my lunch, I find a gelatinous mass of meat beneath the last steamer. I’ve seen more appetizing biology experiments. I definitely wouldn’t have pointed it out to the waiter and said, ‘Mmm, mmm, I’ll have some of that, please.’ Nevertheless, it must be the chicken. I take a bite.
It’s vile. I can’t spit it out. After that durian fruit incident in Bangkok, when I heaved it up on the street in front of Sam and the woman who’d offered it to me, I don’t exactly have a reputation in Asia as a cultural ambassador. Luckily, as it’s covered in such a thick layer of fat, it slides down rather easily in one piece. Check, please.
The waiter is much quicker with the bill than he was with my order. But there’s no fortune cookie. How is that possible when we’re in China? I look forward to these petrified portents of the future. Not that I believe in them. Completely. It’s just that I got one in Chinatown right after I told Sam I’d move here. It said: Following your heart will pay off in the near future. I love that it endorsed my decision. It’s safely folded in my wallet, and I’d like another choice-confirming cookie.
What I really want, of course, is Sam. I miss him so much that it actually, physically hurts. I find myself feeling short of breath, panicky when I think about him. When I think about his absence. I know he’s coming back soon, but still I miss him with a visceral gut-wrenching sense of loss. This can’t healthy, being so in love. It’s madness, just like the poets have always claimed. It does feel like madness. How is that possible? Surely we haven’t known each other long enough. How can I know he’s the one so certainly? I don’t know. I just do. I’m feeling it, not thinking it. I’ve certainly never felt this way before. He’s The One. I know it as surely as I know I’d never eat that chicken dish again.
He picks up on the third ring. ‘Hannah, hi! How are you, darlin’?’
My belly flips upon hearing his voice. To the wider world I’m sure he’s no Barry White, but Sam could read fungicide application instructions to me and I’d melt. ‘I’m great, so glad to talk to you! I just finished eating dim sum, and now I’m walking back to the apartment. I viewed an apartment earlier. You’re not going to believe this. They’re trying to sell the laundry room as a second bedroom! What are you doing now?’
‘Hah, you’ve seen the maid’s quarters then. They’re shocking, aren’t they? Pete and I saw a few of those when we were searching. It’s appalling. Definitely not suitable for you and Stacy! … I’m glad you called, Han. It’s always a nice surprise at work.’
‘Oh, do you have to go?’
‘No, that’s okay sweetheart. I can use the break.’ I can picture him as he blows out his cheeks, wiping sweat from his brow after a grueling day being an economist. ‘I planned to call you later, but tell me about your day now. Li Ming just went to get us some early dinner – it’s gonna be another late night here.’
‘… Oh, well I don’t want to keep you from… anything,’ says I, suddenly struck by an insidious jealousy-inspired martyrdom. ‘I’m sure Li Ming will want you, so I should let you go.’ I don’t know why, when I’m a perfectly intelligent woman, I feel so insecure when it comes to this man. Surely when you’re in love with someone you’re supposed to feel more secure, not less.
‘No, Han! I can talk. Tell me more about your day. There’s nothing interesting to report from here. Where are you now?’
‘I’m not sure. I got a little turned around when I left the restaurant. I think I’m heading towards Sheung Wan.’
‘Ah, I love it there. It feels like old Hong Kong. Where was the apartment you saw?’
‘In the Mid-levels. There was someone else looking at it, and you can’t even imagine this girl. She didn’t stop giggling the whole time we were together. She invited me for a coffee, which was nice of her, but she’s so flaky, Sam. She claims that crystals heal people, and has a guru called Neil. Seriously, what guru is called Neil? Apparently my aura needs cleaning.’
‘Oh, that’s great. I’m sorry darlin’, but can I call you back? Mr. Nguyen just came in. Okay Mr. Nguyen, I’m happy to go through it again. Sorry, Han, I’ll talk to you later, okay?’ He hangs up. Convo interruptus.
I suppose it was a little unfair to expect him to kick his feet up on the desk for a chinwag at work. I should be more understanding. When I worked for my horror boss in London, I wouldn’t have been able to take a personal phone call, let alone enjoy it. Still, now I feel unfulfilled and frustrated. I wanted our conversation to ease the panicky loss I’m feeling. Instead, it just sharpened it. Given that he’s done nothing to make me feel insecure, I have to admit the possibility that it’s me.
This is not a comfortable thought as I pick my way through Sheung Wan’s higgledy-piggledy streets, careful to avoid the shallow woven baskets that are strewn across the pavements. Most are full of urchins and scallops that have been drying in the heat of the day.
One basket holds what look like reptilian lollipops. They’re actual lizards, splayed out flat on sticks. Do diners gnaw on them like jerky, or soak them in water till they reconstitute into their fleshy former selves? Their heads are still attached. I’m not crazy about eating something that could, theoretically, watch me fork it in. This feels a million miles away from the sleek skyscrapers in Central. In street after narrow street shops sell things that I've never even contemplated putting in my mouth. Most look a bit like garages, with wide roll-up doors on the front, some with shelves along one wall and a counter, some with hundreds of bags of mysterious dried things. This is what I expected when I moved – the sheer foreignness is overwhelming, and exciting! Wonderful pungent smells waft through the street, herbs and grassy, hay-like aromas, fish and a spicy, smoky smell. It’s strong but not off-putting.
It’s one of the true joys of this city. You never know what’s around the corner. The next street is lined with Chinese medicine shops. Although they’re probably just called medicine shops here, like Swedish massages are simply called massages in Stockholm. Window labels tell me they’re selling deer antlers. They’re rich brown and fuzzy, chopped into sausage-sized pieces. And there are dinosaur teeth. Surely those are supposed to be in a museum. And… what on earth is that? Through the window I glimpse a man, a customer, standing in front of a tray of dark, rounded, fleshy-looking objects. He’s picking each one up and weighing it in his hand. I notice one on a tray in the window. It has definitely come from an animal. I wonder which part? Uncertainly I enter the shop, catching the clerk’s attention as the customer leaves. ‘Do you speak English?’ I ask politely. He comes over to the counter as if ready to answer my question, so I point to the object. ‘What is this?’ He smiles, but doesn’t answer. It feels rude to walk out now, so instead we begin a game of charades.
<
br /> I point to it, then to my tongue. It could be a tongue. A burst of laughter erupts from the corner. I hadn’t noticed that another clerk, a lady, is sitting at a little table shaving pieces off an antler. The man shakes his head, looking unsure now. He splays his fingers out from his ears. I get it, it’s from a deer. Not antlers though. He takes his hand and moves it to his midsection. Oh. Oh no. I’m about to make this nice man mime deer penis. I wince in anticipation. Then he puts it on his bottom and flicks it up and down.
‘A tail?’ I say hopefully, praying he hasn’t got his anatomy wrong.
He nods. ‘Tail, yes.’
Before I can stop myself I ask him, ‘What is it used for?’
Now why can’t I just leave well enough alone? I’d hate to make him mime impotence, or constipation, or–
‘For kidneys. Good for kidneys.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Good to know, should a case of honeymoon cystitis ever strike. And since Sam arrives in two weeks, I just might find myself here again.
Chapter 4.
I haven’t come down with cystitis yet. Instead, I’m suffering from a backwards case of dater’s remorse. I don’t mean that I’m filled with regret having just woken up next to a halitosis-filled mouth-breathing troll. I mean that I’m filled with regret because I shouldn’t be on a date with Sam on Stacy’s first night in Hong Kong. She’s sitting alone in my diminutive apartment, surrounded by her worldly belongings, while I sit atop The Peak with my boyfriend quaffing Chardonnay. I am a Bad friend. Capital B, small f (very small f).
It was a real Sophie’s Choice moment in the terminal this morning when they both arrived. My breath caught in my throat when I saw him. And then I saw her. But it was Sam. And Stacy. Both coming towards me. Who to kiss first? Was I the kind of woman who’d choose a man over my best friend? Or to side with the sisterhood when my boyfriend was puckered and waiting? Stacy had just flown 9,000 miles. I hadn’t seen Sam in nearly three weeks, and I was in love with him. I hadn’t expected that kind of soul-searching in Terminal A.
The Expat Diaries: Misfortune Cookie (Single in the City Book 2) Page 4