Red Oblivion, page 12
“Glad you’re coming home?”
“Hmmm.” His lips press together, eyes not straying from the TV screen. More gloom and doom about the economy. I flip to a nature show, fluorescent-orange slime spreading in slow motion across a jungle floor.
“You know, Ba, I’ve been thinking. There are a lot of things we’ve never talked about. Like your life, when you were younger.”
“My life’s an open book. What do you want to know?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I stare out the window at the flow of tiny cars and tinier people, everyone going about their minuscule, capsulized lives, under the setting sun. As I wonder if Benjamin is ever going to respond, a vertiginous sensation overtakes my gut. “If you have any regrets about stuff you did when you were younger, you could tell me. I’d want to know. If there’s anything you want to get off your chest —”
He looks up, coldly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t be judgmental.”
“Because there’s nothing to judge. I’ve always been an exemplary father, haven’t I?” His shoulders stiffen.
“Okay, Ba. Calm down. Yes, of course you’ve been a good father.”
If Nick were here now, he’d be looking at me with that sheen of quiet panic I became so accustomed to, near the end. He no longer got me at all. And that scared the shit out of him.
While I claimed not to care what my father thought, talking trash behind his back, when it came right down to it, I did care, according to Nick. I cared about pleasing my father more than anything in the world. It baffled him how much I cared. He didn’t understand how someone I’d moved to the other side of the world to get away from could exert such influence over my life.
Nick had been hoping that once we got back to Toronto, our relationship would return to normal. But instead, the cool disdain my father had directed at him had infected me. That was what Nick shouted at me, some weeks later, after everything between us had become enveloped in sulphurous fog. Maybe he was right, though I never consciously changed my attitude. I don’t recall a moment of thinking I don’t love Nick anymore because Ba gave him the thumbs-down.
When I tried to salvage things — in my hopeless, half-assed way — it was too late. “Sometimes, Jill, you have to make a choice. You’re not a little girl, for Christ’s sake.” Curls sticking to his sweaty forehead, Nick looked anguished that I’d chosen my father over him. But siding with my father was the last thing I wanted to do. I just couldn’t break the spell.
A similar sluggish feeling wraps around me now. Why can’t I just let it all go, like my sister, and accept that I’m never going to understand this man? Why can’t I walk away, get on a fucking plane?
I check email. Still nothing. Fifteen minutes later, I check again. I even check the spam folder. Just scams offering to help me triple my income and dating services guaranteeing YOU ARE NOT ALONE and folks posing as Western Union and other folks promising me an instant facelift through some miracle cream.
That night, I dream about my mother. I’m bad at remembering my dreams. As soon as I awake, the images are already being washed away, like waves lapping over footprints in the sand.
She was young and glamorous, dressed in one of her vivid qipaos. That much I remember. I think she was doing madcap things, like a girl in a Godard film: kicking up her heels in bars, waking up with strange men in hotel rooms, impersonating femmes fatales.
I’m not sure whether she was happy, but she seemed very alive, her skin aglow with energy, vitality.
It’s not even nostalgia that I’m feeling. It can’t be, because I never knew my mom back then, so there’s no original memory to idealize. There’s only an album full of old photos, seen through the filter of cinematic history. And my mother was likely styling herself after movie stars when she posed for the pictures in the first place.
Funny how I only became interested in her when she was on her deathbed. Just as the possibility of actually knowing her was slipping away, I became preoccupied by these fantasies about how she might have been interesting and cool when she was young. We might have been friends — perhaps that’s the crux of the fantasy. But instead, she was just my mom. And not a particularly good mother at that. And then, she was dead.
Getting my father moved home is no easy task. He clings to my neck while I try to lift him from the wheelchair into the taxi, dragging me down like a bag of bricks. The wheelchair jams up when I attempt to collapse it, and the driver looks none too pleased about having to lift it into his trunk.
Back at the condo, I begin unpacking my father’s stuff while the new nurse gets him settled. She’s a heavy-set, older woman from the mainland, dressed in a peach cotton uniform that reflects her cheery disposition. Although the homecare agency provided excellent references, Ba doesn’t appear to be taking to her at all. Something about her motherly attitude’s pissing him off. When she tells him that he should rest and wipes his forehead with a soft cloth, he strikes her hand away and stares at the wall in seething silence. It won’t be long before I’ll be forced to call the agency and request a replacement.
I can do nothing right either, it seems. As Ba tries to wheel himself around — bumping into furniture, getting stuck in doorways — he barks at me for putting his reading glasses in the wrong place and what on earth happened to his favourite slippers? The purge we did in his absence infuriates him. Worried that he’ll sack Rina, I tell him it was all my idea. His bony hands grip the arms of the wheelchair and for a moment it appears he’s on the verge of pushing himself up, hurling himself forward to strike me. But his legs are far too weak for that, and he sinks back down, the flare in his eyes extinguished — sad, watery pools.
My assessment of his palliative state was perhaps nothing more than wishful thinking. He’s as feisty and impossible as ever. Cheery thought.
By the time dinner’s over and Ba’s retired to his room, I’ve reverted to the petulant air of adolescence. My head pounding, I go up to the terrace for a smoke. That’s when Terence calls. I jump at the chance to get out of the house.
We meet at his restaurant a half-hour later. Since it’s Tuesday, the place isn’t too busy. Sitting at the bar, we drink cold sake and watch two stocky, shiny-faced chefs with white bandanas around their foreheads roast yakitori skewers over the smoking grill.
“How was your father’s return home?”
“Don’t ask.”
“That great, huh?”
One of the chefs passes over a plate of skewers and we order more sake.
“Do you ever think about moving back to New York, Terence?”
“Not really. What would I do there? I got out of finance.”
“You could do anything. You could open a yakitori bar.”
“But I’ve got that here.”
“Yeah, but …” I guess it doesn’t get to him. Or not enough, anyway. Hong Kong’s home for him. I know he’s not thrilled about living with his mom — she’s been crankier than ever since his dad passed away — but Terence accepts his situation. He’s okay with it. At heart, he’s a good son.
“Why?” he asks. “You thinking of moving to New York?”
Shaking my head, I suddenly feel very tired.
“What’s wrong? You’re crying.”
“It’s just the heat from the grill.”
As he hands me a napkin with one hand, the other one comes to rest lightly on the small of my back.
“I don’t know why I said New York,” I say, sniffling. “I could’ve said Alabama, for God’s sake. Right now, it would just be lovely to be anywhere in the world but here.”
“Hey. You’ve had a lot to deal with lately.” Terence leans closer, stroking the back of my rib cage — gently, tentatively, like he doesn’t want to make me skittish — and it occurs to me that everyone in the restaurant probably assumes we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. How easy it would be to slip into those roles. All I’d have to do is nudge a bit closer and turn my chin upward and then we’d be kissing. I wonder what it would feel like to kiss Terence; it’d probably be the most natural thing in the world. Or maybe so natural it’d become cloying, icky — that excess of tenderness I can’t handle right now. I’m not sure I want everything between us to tumble into desire, that waterfall of warmth in the belly. And the last thing I need is another reason to stay in Hong Kong. Weirdly, it’s easier to cope if all the disparate elements of my life don’t come together to form a whole.
So instead, I stiffen. Turning away from him, I bite into a morsel of chicken, a bit pink and raw at the centre.
If Terence feels rebuffed, he doesn’t show it at all.
A few more days go by, with no word from Ben or his dad. Whatever. I try to keep busy by focusing on the drawings for Terence’s bar. After showing him some sketches that he liked, I’ve moved on to the next stage. Headphones jammed on, zoning out to some old electronica mix, I’m clicking away on my computer, tearing down walls and positioning new doorways.
Every so often, I come out of my room to check on Ba. Sometimes he’s up, glued to the TV. Other times, he’s stretched out on the sofa, asleep, his bunioned feet poking out from under the blanket like old turnips. Or his eyes are fixed on the ceiling, as though he’s just waiting, in quiet terror, for death to come and ferry him away. When that doesn’t happen, he gets bored, fidgety, impatient. He demands that the nurse check his diaper again or fetch a cup of tea.
I think about sending another letter to that post-office mailbox. Examining the photos I took of the dead mouse, I consider preparing some printouts along with a note: “You guys have a sick sense of humour. I think the police would agree.”
In the end, though, I hold off. My father has always preached the importance of patience in business dealings. When push comes to shove, the person who cares the least has the most leverage; giving the impression that you’re on the verge of walking away can work in your favour. Even if in reality, you’re checking email every half-hour.
And then, there it is. Is it? I blink. Blink again. Like I’m beholding a conjurer’s trick, an illusory message in my inbox, spam disguised as something important. From BKMa@sina.com. Subject heading: “Meeting.”
Elation shoots up my spine, followed by a surge of dread.
Hi Jill,
Let’s meet and chat. Tomorrow at the Zoological Gardens, 1:00? I’ll be standing by the chimp cage.
B
TEN
The zoo’s a fifteen-minute walk, down the escalator and then along Caine Road. I set off, a floppy straw hat shielding my face from the sun but offering no protection from the damp, woolly weight of the air. A nice Starbucks, the AC blasting its arctic chill: that’s where I should have suggested we meet. Why am I going out of my way to indulge Benjamin’s whims?
All my carefully rehearsed words for him are getting muddled in my head as I focus on trudging along without passing out. The new, pseudo-European bistros give way to the dreary cement buildings I remember from childhood. I wonder whether this kid is just as on edge about meeting me. I certainly hope so. At last, the zoo comes into sight, a scrim of green. I pause under the awning of an empty diner across the street to mop my forehead.
Then I make my way up the concrete stairs that ascend into the thick, wooded wonderland. The sky is canopied by translucent yellow-green leaves that wrap all the itchy, sweet moisture and buzzing insects in a hot embrace.
Terence thinks this kid could be bad news. We chatted about it last night on the phone. Having a guy on my arm, according to Terence, would send the message that I’m not about to be pushed around. It’s sweet that he wants to protect me, I guess.
But I don’t want to scare Benjamin off. I want him to feel comfortable opening up, and, with Terence staring him down, that wouldn’t be likely to happen. The compromise we reached is that Terence can be here in an “undercover” capacity. He’ll be sitting on a bench, reading the paper, while I feel the kid out. I wonder if he’s here already. The whole thing is so ridiculous it’s like we’ve stepped into an episode of Law & Order: SVU.
But maybe not. Maybe Terence has first-hand experience with these things. I have no idea whether he’s ever helped his brother out with the nether side of the family business. Do they have a team of musclemen on the payroll? What happens at their gambling dens when folks can’t pay up? Do they still even own such places? Or has that earlier phase given way to other, more respectable ventures?
It amazes me how little I know about Terence’s life. I’ve never been to his house or met a single member of his family. This isn’t unusual in Hong Kong, though. Condos are small and crowded, even the upscale ones. Friends tend to meet at bars and restaurants, rarely at home. Home is a sealed-off sphere, where any number of eccentricities and secrets can be kept private.
Making my way up into the park, I find myself in a large clearing. Massive cages, interspersed with palm trees, enclose a great deal of activity — swinging, jumping, screeching, shitting. I have to admit that even as a kid, I was never a fan of all this. The histrionic behaviour of the animals unsettles me. It’s like they’re mimicking the roles we expect them to play.
After walking around for a while, I still can’t find the chimps’ cage. Does the zoo even have chimpanzees anymore? I’m wandering past the lemurs and orangutans, when I glimpse, through the mesh, a bearded face staring over at me. I walk around to the other side of the enclosure.
But he turns out to be a middle-aged guy, a father. His little girl waddles over in her yellow romper and clutches his leg.
Behind the man, I catch sight of Terence strolling by some massive turtles, snapping pictures.
For several minutes, I continue to pace around and crane my neck. Finally, I sit down on a bench to dislodge a stone from my sandal. A tap on my shoulder, from behind, makes me jump.
“Are you, by any chance, Jill Lau?”
I get up, fumbling to put my shoe back on. “Hi. You must be Benjamin.”
We shake hands. Mine’s so sweaty I can’t tell if his is damp, too. He’s older than I expected, closer to thirty than twenty. A trim and toned guy of medium height, dressed in grey trousers and a white button-down shirt. His thick hair has been cut into the shape of a helmet, and I remember my mother’s old claim that men from the mainland all have the same bad haircut. I never quite knew what she was talking about until now.
He doesn’t take off his sunglasses, giving me the feeling of being observed through one-way glass. I don’t take off my glasses, either. His smooth, almost pore-less skin has an impenetrable quality. As he turns to the side, I glimpse a dark-brown splotch at the edge of his left eye, peeking out ever so slightly from beneath the plastic frames. This must be the guy Rina saw.
“So.” The guy sits down on the bench.
Tensely, I perch down beside him.
“Sorry to hear about your father’s health,” he says.
“Are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a terrible thing to grow old.”
His Cantonese comes out with a Guangzhou accent, all the tones slightly trampled on, flat, off-kilter or something. Yet I feel like I’m the one at a disadvantage here, because my Mandarin’s crap. While he can accommodate my linguistic handicap, I’m not as dexterous. It’s not easy for mainlanders to get into university in Hong Kong. The kids who make it in are very clever, the cream of the cream, excelling in school exams all along the way.
“What are you studying?” I say into the silence. A throwaway question.
“Oh, humanities.”
Clearly, his father has told him to play his cards close to his chest. Just as I’m sussing him out, trying to give away as little as possible, he’s doing the same. Filing all the data away to report back to his dad later.
I don’t buy for a second that Benjamin’s majoring in the humanities. He looks too old to be an undergrad and he doesn’t seem quirky enough to be a philosophy or history grad student. Med school’s more like it. I can picture the lab coat overtop his tidy, professional outfit. There’s a hospital right around the corner, which might explain why he chose this spot. Maybe he’s on lunch break.
“Well?” he says.
“Yes?”
“You demanded to meet.”
“Right. The letter.”
Is that the hint of a smirk creeping over his lips?
I try to appear calm, detached. “The thing is, Benjamin — Ben. Can I call you Ben?”
He gives the tiniest of nods.
“Your father’s letter asks for payment, as you know. A tidy sum of money. But I’m not at all sure what we’re supposed to be paying for. Maybe you could help me out here. Enlighten me.”
Leaned forward, chin cupped in one hand, he appears to be staring at a monkey. The monkey swings from tree to tree, making wonky faces.
Perhaps he was expecting me to speak through euphemisms and innuendos and cryptic parables, like the Chinese are accustomed to doing in these situations. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come right to the point,” I say. “In Canada, we’re very direct.”
“Oh, so you’ve decided to be Canadian, now?” A tinge of amusement.
“My nationality’s hardly the issue here.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
I don’t know what to make of his robotic half-smile. “Look, Ben, I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Despite my anger, a pleading quality has entered my voice, I’m dismayed to notice. “If my father took your family’s heirlooms and sold them on the black market — as your father’s letter implies — it was a mad, chaotic time, you have to understand. Everyone was up to that kind of thing. It wasn’t only my father.”
The guy’s lips press together in a colourless squiggle. I can’t tell whether he’s startled that I’ve been so forthright or if something else is responsible for his silence.
On the edge of my vision, Terence is moving closer, a blur of dark linen clothing. He must be able to tell I’m tense. Pretending to peer into a cage, he throws an enquiring glance my way.
