On Borrowed Time

by Graeme Hall

  ‘Where did you decide for dinner tonight?’ she asked, setting aside the letters page and interrupting Sam’s reverie.

  ‘Sorry? Oh, A Lorcha. Do you know it? It’s a classic Macanese place near the Maritime Museum.’

  ‘No, but it sounds good.’

  ‘Anything you’d particularly like to do this afternoon?’ Sam always especially enjoyed the calm of the Old Protestant Cemetery with its history and the fascinating stories told by the gravestones of sailors and Victorian adventurers, but given what Emma had been through in recent weeks perhaps a graveyard wouldn’t be the most appropriate suggestion. Certainly not the most seductive. ‘We could trawl some of the antique shops perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t really mind, just a wander round is fine for me. I might see if I can find something small to send to my parents. Sort of to make up for not having been back at Christmas. In fact, at the moment I don’t have any plans to go back. Not in the near future anyway.’ Emma hooked her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Are you feeling guilty?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I suppose if I’m honest,’ continued Emma, ‘perhaps I do feel a little guilty. A bit. Last year was the first Christmas since Peter died that I hadn’t been at home. Even when I was with Mike we used to spend Christmas with Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Would they come out to see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The only time they’ve been here was for the trial after Peter’s death so they’ve no good memories or feelings about Hong Kong. For them it’s a place with only bad associations.’

  ‘But not for you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps a bit, when I first arrived.’ Emma thought about Sam’s question. ‘I certainly had mixed feelings when I came here but at least I hadn’t been here for the trial. I hadn’t originally planned on visiting Hong Kong let alone living here, that was something of an accident and my parents weren’t happy about it at all. But I knew how much Peter loved this place so I think I stayed on to try and understand what it was that he liked, and, of course, soon enough I was happy here as well. I think Peter would have wanted me to see and experience all the great things about Hong Kong that he did. What about you? You weren’t home at Christmas either, were you? Do you have any plans to go see your parents?’

  ‘Not really, I’ll have to make a visit back some time, of course, but I’ve nothing lined up at the moment,’ said Sam.

  ‘I’ll go back for a visit when I’ve got the money. But I can’t keep going there for the rest of my life. What is it people say about “time to move on”? I’ve always thought that was an irritating expression, but now I think I know what it means. Something like it anyway.’

  ‘How about “closure”?’

  ‘Another horrible term … one of those American things I suppose, but again there’s some truth in it. I do feel better now for knowing what happened to Peter even if I can’t do anything more. Mind you, I am still pissed off that Gao Zhihua got away with it like that.’ Sam was more than a little shocked. He hadn’t heard Emma swear before. ‘Did you notice the bag I’ve got with me?’ Emma gestured to the battered holdall she had placed in the overhead rack. ‘Peter bought it for me when I went to university. It’s been a few places now but it’s still hanging on in there. A bit like me.’

  ***

  They spent the afternoon sightseeing. Four hundred and fifty years of Portuguese rule always made Macau seem a little like a Mediterranean escape compared with Hong Kong. They stood at the top of the Fortaleza do Monte where the old cannons still stood guard over the town defending them from any unlikely invasions. The sun was bright and Sam was glad of his sunglasses. He placed a hand against Emma’s back and gently caressed her through the fabric of her T-shirt. She turned and smiled.

  Looking down they could see the maze of streets and travessas they had been lost in only an hour before. Streets that were lined with old shophouses full of everything from gold jewellery to antiques, and the pastelerias with queues round the block for their egg tarts, almond biscuits, cakes and delicacies. Narrow lanes that would open out into old squares with churches that breathed the air of a different time. Alleyways tessellated in black and white; buildings rendered in yellow, green and ochre, sometimes with the paint faded and peeling, but always telling their history. Looking from the fort across the inner harbour there was China. So close you could almost read the road signs. It looked very shabby but it was the future. Macau was due to return to China in three years’ time.

  ‘I wonder how many people escaped from China across that stretch of water,’ said Emma, not so much asking a question as simply thinking out loud. ‘It’s so short it would be easy to swim across.’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess the challenge would have been getting there in the first place.’

  They were enjoying playing the part of tourists. Emma found a small antique bowl for her parents. They bought custard tarts from the Lord Stow bakery and then drank vinho verde sitting in the shade at an outdoor table in a Coloane bar. From where they sat they could see the Chapel of St. Francis Xavier that dominated the village square. The church was decorated with Easter palms and inside a giant portrait of the Madonna took pride of place; a Virgin Mary with an undeniably Oriental, Japanese even, look about her. At the same time, reflecting the duality of Macau that made it so delightful, by the entrance to the bar there was a small Chinese altar with a figurine of A-Ma, the goddess of seafarers and a particular favourite in Macau. Two sticks of incense were burning and the sweet aroma drifted over to their table.

  Emma fixed her sunglasses on top of her head. In the past Sam had always thought this was an affectation; now he found it very attractive. ‘I’m glad we came here,’ she said. ‘It’s a breath of fresh air. Getting away from everything. I’ve been so preoccupied with Peter’s death I’ve not been able to concentrate on much else.’

  ‘That’s understandable surely?’

  ‘Perhaps, but not healthy.’ Emma slipped off one of the sandals she was wearing and allowed her foot to stroke Sam’s leg. ‘And not always fair to those around me either.’ Emma looked at her watch. ‘Should we be making a move if we want to get ready for this evening? Get a taxi back to the hotel?’

  ***

  Sam held open the door for Emma. Earlier they had passed through only briefly to drop off their bags, now they had time to contemplate the large double bed that dominated the room. They unpacked in an awkward silence, bumping into each other in the bathroom as they laid out their toiletries.

  ‘Do you want to shower first?’ asked Sam.

  ‘If you don’t mind … Do you need …?’

  ‘No I’m fine, you go ahead.’

  Sam lay on the bed and started to browse the TV channels. He heard the sound of running water and turned up the volume on the TV a little so as to drown out thoughts of Emma naked in the shower. She emerged a little later wearing only the hotel bathrobe. ‘The bathroom’s all yours,’ she said and Sam got to his feet, turning away from her so as to hide the embarrassment of his erection. When Sam was also showered he found Emma wearing a black dress that came to an inch above the knee, cut just low enough to allow her necklace to rest against her skin. A hint of make-up but not overdone, hair pulled back in her favourite ponytail.

  ‘How do I look?’ she asked.

  For a moment Sam was silent. ‘Fabulous,’ he finally managed.

  Dinner went in a blur. The white-walled restaurant was noisily alive; with families, with couples, with locals, with tourists. Three Russian men sat at a nearby table, sharing a bottle of vodka between them. Emma struggled with the background noise, the sound of animated conversations, orders being shouted to the kitchen by waiters. She went to the ladies and returned wearing her hearing aid. They ordered samosas, chorizo, prawns, African chicken and then more prawns just in case they hadn’t had enough. Sam hadn’t seen Emma so relaxed before, the resolution of Peter’s death, the change of scene, all brought out a lightness to her, a gaiety almost, that was new
to him. He began to relax as well, aided by a beer to start with and then a bottle of Portuguese wine. He declined the waiter’s suggestion of port, thinking it inadvisable. Dutch courage was one thing, but too much of it would not be a good idea.

  ***

  For the third time that day Sam held open the door to their room. They paused for a moment before they kissed.

  ‘Let me take this out,’ said Emma, removing her hearing aid. ‘It’s not very romantic.’ She slipped off her shoes, removed her necklace and loosened her hair, and they stood facing each other, hesitating before taking the next step. It was Emma who broke the silence.

  ‘Why don’t you undress me?’

  Interlude

  Liver spots decorate his face, and with only a wisp of hair pretending to cover his head he looks older than his sixty-two years. He’s been in the business for forty-five of them and has worked on this spot since the sixties. His pitch is on a covered walkway and like all the best real estate in the city the location is key; he is on the main thoroughfare between the office blocks of Central and the shops, hotels and restaurants of Admiralty, and from first thing in the morning to late at night they pass his shoe-shining stall.

  Best of all he is under cover. This not only protects him from the sun and rain, but also encourages people to stop no matter what the weather. If anything, business is even better when the rain is heavy or the sun is too strong and passers-by look for a reason to stay under shelter for that little bit longer. They have an excuse to escape from the heat and noise when they take the worn wooden seat. A small chest holds his brushes, cloths, wax and polishes. A flask of tea and a Styrofoam lunchbox see him through the day.

  He doesn’t have much time for modern-day fashions. They’re bad for business. He prefers the old styles. Young people in trainers? What use are they to him? He has a sideline repairing women’s shoes, but his real interest lies in the traditional Oxfords and brogues; the choice of lawyers, bankers and businessmen. Thankfully there are still plenty of those passing by and enough of them stop to get their shoes polished to a jewel-like finish. He doesn’t need much. His wife died of cancer a few years ago and his two sons are now grown up. One is a waiter, still living at home; the other is in Toronto, doing well, something in advertising apparently. He hasn’t seen him in years. But do any of his scuffed-shoe clients pay attention to him while he works his magic? While his brushes and cloths move at speed, applying polish, buffing to a shine, back and forth across the toes, around the heel? Do they say hello? Do they thank him or pass the time of day as they hand him a twenty dollar note? No, they do not.

  They read the newspaper while he works. They talk to each other while they wait their turn. They discuss mergers and takeovers. Land sales and new property developments. Sometimes he listens, thinking he might get an inside tip on a stock to buy. And sometimes – but only sometimes – they talk of the handover.

  There are times when history changes direction. When a river changes course. Often nobody notices this until after it has happened. Sometimes it only becomes clear years later. Decades even. Rarely can it be scheduled, planned for, put in the diary, but Hong Kong in June 1997 is such a time and place.

  In some ways the signs are easy to see. The city has been spruced up. Streets scrubbed clean ready for the world to admire. Flowers planted in the parks, illuminated dragon lanterns on the Tsimshatsui waterfront. HMS Chatham a sentry moored in the harbour. Foreign reporters in the taxi queue at Kai Tak, film crews blocking pavements as they record vox pops. Everybody getting their fifteen minutes of fame. Other indicators are more subtle. The pizza chain offering $97 handover specials. Official and not-so-official souvenirs. Bottles of Reunification Cabernet Sauvignon. The flags appearing on taxi dashboards, bauhinia next to the five golden stars on red. Farewell dinners and retirements.

  And yet.

  And yet the horses still race at Happy Valley and Shatin.

  Fortunes are still told at the night markets and incense sticks burnt at Wong Tai Sin.

  The Star Ferry still carries tourists and locals across the harbour, weaving its drunken way between the tugs and barges; the crew in bell-bottoms as they have been for decades, using billhooks to moor at the pier, passengers streaming ashore as the ferry rises and falls on the swell. Fishing boats still trawl the waters, nets hanging from their sides like a cormorant drying its wings. Old women play mah-jong all day long, the click of tiles competing with the gossip.

  And yet children still go to school, lunch boxes in hand; backpacks full of textbooks so heavy they threaten to pull them over backwards.

  And yet people continue to go to work and he still polishes their shoes.

  Chapter 18

  Hong Kong, June 1997

  Even at the best of times it never took much to cause gridlock in Central on a Monday morning. By the time the police had determined that the suspicious looking package was not in fact a bomb but a shoebox full of sand with a wire sticking out of one corner, traffic was blocked everywhere. Connaught Road was solid back to Western, and cars were queuing all the way up Garden Road. Sam was stuck in a taxi with the meter ticking over remorselessly, but he refused to allow the traffic to spoil his good mood. He would be late for work but so be it. Emma had moved into his flat at the weekend. She’d worried it was a bit soon in their relationship but her lease was up so it made sense, and they’d alternated between lingering in bed and bringing things over from her place. It wasn’t long though before Emma had started to put her own stamp on things.

  ‘This lamp,’ she said, eyeing a table lamp with a yellow and green ceramic base and a dusty shade that was beyond cleaning, ‘are you very attached to it?’

  ‘I hadn’t particularly thought about it.’ In truth Sam was fond of the lamp, but he was fonder still of Emma. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was just thinking it might look better in the spare bedroom.’

  Sam knew things were going to change and he was happy with that. In fact he was happier than he had been in a long time. Emma was changing his life for the better. He was eating healthily, dressing more stylishly. She was even getting him to try playing tennis. He was relaxed and comfortable at work, enjoying more than ever turning down Rob’s invitations to nights out in Wan Chai; why waste his time like that when he had Emma? If he missed the heart-to-heart conversations he used to have with Kate, then he was reminded every time he woke up next to Emma, her arm thrown across his chest, that it was a price worth paying.

  The traffic was finally moving again and he was soon at the office only a hundred dollars out of pocket.

  ‘Paul was looking for you,’ said his secretary, Annie, after Sam had settled at his desk. It was, of course, inevitable his boss would have been looking for him the one day in the year he was late for work.

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

  ‘He asked if you could arrange a meeting with Mr Leung. Apparently Bright Talk have another deal in the pipeline.’

  ‘Why can’t his own secretary do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Annie shrugged. She thought that it didn’t really matter because she’d end up doing the work anyway. ‘I took the liberty of checking on Paul’s diary and I’ve arranged a meeting for a week on Wednesday. Hope that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course.’ In fact Sam had no idea if that was a good date or not but he assumed correctly that Annie would have checked his own diary. ‘I guess I should refresh my memory about Bright Talk. Can you get me the file when you have a chance?’

  ‘Already done. It’s there on your desk in front of you.’

  When Annie had left, Sam started to scan through the file, reminding himself of the details of the deal they’d done last year. Mr Leung’s original instructions; his shareholding; the money from the BVI company, the unimaginatively named Golden Profit Limited; and the directors of Golden Profit. The structure of the transaction started to come back to him. He remembered the rumours about the BVI company. The stories of mainland money. He looked at the list of Gol
den Profit directors although he knew most were just nominees – accountants and company secretarial people, nobody who was actually involved in the business. Finished with the file he put it to one side and took out the papers for the client he was currently working for, but soon he stopped. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, reading the same paragraphs over and over without taking anything in. Something was troubling him, something about Bright Talk that he couldn’t identify. Something was wrong, something he hadn’t noticed when the deal was first done, more than simply the question of the BVI company. He felt a chill, memories of London hovering in his subconscious.

  But he had absolutely no idea what was wrong.

  ***

  The calm contentment in Sam’s private life was in contrast to the mood in the city, the bomb scare being just one example of the rising tensions. The handover had always seemed something for the far distance. Something to worry about tomorrow, not today. When Sam was a boy, important dates used to come round so slowly; the run up to Christmas or his birthday always seemed interminable. Two weeks or two months, either way the longed-for day was always far off in the distance. When he’d arrived in Hong Kong, back in 1993, the handover also seemed remote. Something that could be safely ignored. Of course he hadn’t been blind to the future, quite the opposite. The idea of being in Hong Kong for June 1997 had been part of the attraction of making the move. He didn’t think he was alone in that.

  But the closer the date approached there was an increased hedonism in the city, certainly among the expats anyway, as if everybody was trying to squeeze the last possible amount of pleasure from the time that was left. Trying to ignore the approaching date as if by partying as loudly and frequently as possible it might not happen. Drowning out thoughts of the inevitable changes ahead. But now tomorrow was almost here, the phoney war was coming to an end. People tried to disregard it, tried to carry on normal lives, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Foreign journalists and TV crews were starting to arrive, stopping innocent civilians in the street and pressing a camera in their face. Hotels were full, restaurants booked solid.