Journey Across the Four Seas (15 page)

That weekend at
Wong
Mountain
went by like a dream. I especially loved to watch Ah Ma and Ah Yi flit around like a pair of sparrows collecting twigs for their nest. Most women sharing a husband would be sniping at each other constantly; being sisters could only make it worse. But these two seemed at ease—at least so it appeared that weekend. All I could see was a happy family living together, a rare luxury in these chaotic times. I missed my mother and brothers terribly.

I couldn’t believe I had so much to say to people I was meeting for the first time. From lunch through dinner, starting over again the next day at breakfast, we jabbered on. They were extremely curious about me, pumping me with questions about my family, my friends, where I went to school, and how I got into the prestigious
Hong Kong
University
.. I also found out a few things about them. The sisters came from the same village as Lo Bak, and were also raised in the community of Cantonese transplants in
Shanghai
. Although I was dying to know how two sisters came to marry the same man, they didn’t go anywhere near the subject. They only said that they were all living together in a big house in
Shanghai
when the Japanese attacked in 1937. Lo Bak, who was on the enemy’s most-wanted list, escaped with his family to
Hong Kong
. Four years later the Japanese attacked
Hong Kong
and chased them out of their home again. They, too, had made the dangerous trek from Hong Kong to
Chungking
. As fellow refugees, we had plenty of stories to swap.

What I found most entertaining was the version of Cantonese they spoke. It was stilted with a strange accent and outlandish expressions that made me want to laugh. To eat was
yak
in their dialect, while we in
Hong Kong
would say
sik.
The phrase that tickled me most was "a little bit." I would say
yat dee dee,
but their version sounded like an out-of-tune violin:
i ngieh ngieh
. It wasn’t until I got to
Shanghai
that I discovered that all the Cantonese there talked like that.

Despite the fun I was having, I didn’t forget the purpose of my visit. Toward the end of dinner I got up enough courage to ask Lo Bak for a letter of recommendation. The request was an imposition on my part, as he barely knew me.

Beneath the hooded lids, I could see his pupils clicking like abacus beads. "Why don’t we do it this way," he said. "You draft the letter yourself and give it to me to sign."

I agreed, and he immediately ordered the servant to bring a typewriter to my room. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what a clever man he was. By doing it this way, he could kill two birds with one stone. First, he wouldn’t have to say wonderful things about a person he hardly knew, and secondly, he could test my English. If I couldn’t commend myself in English, I wouldn’t qualify to be a translator.

"Would you like to take a bath now?" Ah Yi said to me after dinner.

"Oh, that would be too much trouble for you." If she only knew how much I’d been waiting for this moment!

"No trouble at all. The servant has to boil water for our baths anyway. I’ll just tell them to boil more for you. I’ll let you know when it’s ready." She got up and pattered across the living room in a flat-footed gait that would become very familiar.

Now, let me describe the best part of my visit. As I lowered myself into the warm tub, bit by bit, savoring every moment, a tingle broke out over my skin and made it bumpy like a plucked chicken’s. Finally, the whole length of my legs was extended on the white ceramic. I slid down farther until the water rose to my neck. Tears of joy and sadness streamed down my face. The last time I had a bath like this was in
Hong Kong
. How I wanted to see my mother and elder brothers! Just news about them would make me feel better. Were they alive and well? They must be worried sick about Ngai and me. Ngai could have died of TB and they wouldn’t even have known. Would I ever see them again? Would the war ever end?

It’s very hard to explain this feeling of being alone in the world, disconnected from the life one was used to. Perhaps a good analogy is a vase emptied of water. The outside is the same, but the inside is a void. If you tap on the glass with your nails, you’ll get a hollow ring. That was how I felt most of the time during those days—an empty shell that had no other purpose than surviving one day to the next. The vacuum was a kind of self-protection: for having no longings, I could have no disappointments.

The deluge of tears took me by surprise, and I could only blame the hot bath for weakening my defenses. It could also be that my vase was filling with water again.

*

Thanks to Lo Bak’s letter, I got the job at the British Information Service. Much as I would have liked to express my gratitude in person, I was resigned to the fact that this great man couldn’t have time to receive the likes of me again. Since my weekend at his mountain resort, he’d traveled to
Great Britain
as a member of an official delegation. The front pages of the newspapers carried pictures of him meeting with the King and Queen and Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Being fluent in English, Lo Bak had been selected to address the British Parliament. According to the article, Lo Bak’s moving delivery brought the house to its feet. After the session was over, the MPs lined up to shake Lo Bak’s hand. I felt very proud to be Chinese, and prouder still to have met this brilliant man. Through him, even a country that was called the "sick man of Asia" could command respect from the
British Empire
.

I followed his movements through the papers, never dreaming that our paths would cross again. But one day Wai-Jing knocked on my door and told me Lo Bak had a favor to ask of me. He was looking for somebody to type up the diary of his trip to
Britain
. The original was in Chinese, but Lo Bak had translated it into English because there seemed to be foreign interest in it. Wai-Jing went on to discuss remuneration, which I thought was ridiculous and told her so. The honor was reward enough.

The following Saturday, Wai-Jing and I went to Commercial Press to catch a ride with Lo Bak. A man was sitting on Lo Bak’s bed when we entered. I nodded to him, thinking it was Wai-Jing’s fiancé, Hok-Jit. He nodded back. Something made me take a second glance, and I realized it wasn’t Hok-Jit.

"Let me introduce you," Wai-Jing said. "This is Hok-Ching, elder brother of Hok-Jit."

He got up to make a slight bow. My eyes took in a man with a long, dark face. He was short, with square shoulders that were incongruous with his height. For some reason, I couldn’t help thinking of Yang, who was tall and fair and the exact opposite of this man.

"Hok-Ching teaches at a teacher training college out in the mountains," Wai-Jing said. "It’s four hours away by bus, so he only comes home on holidays."

"Oh really. What do you teach?" I said to him, just to be polite.

"Physical education, and I also double as the dean of discipline." He did a quick flex of his upper arm, and a little animal seemed to squirm under his short sleeve.

I didn’t know what to make of him. A bodybuilder coming from a scholarly family seemed peculiar. Why did an educated person need muscles? Only rough people such as coolies and thugs had to live by their sinews.

"He’s the editor of
Health and Strength
," Wai-Jing said. Seeing the blankness on my face, she explained, "It’s the most popular sports magazine in the
whole
of
China
and
Southeast Asia
.
Millions
of people subscribe to it. Surely you’ve seen it!" She winked at me.

"Oh yes, of course," I lied.

He plunged his hand into a bag by his foot and handed me the latest issue. "I have an article in it on the clear-and-jerk method of weightlifting. That was my technique for lifting double body weight."

"He was the weightlifting
champion
in
Hong Kong
!" Wai-Jing trumpeted.

"If the competition had taken place in
China
, I would have been the national champion. For all I know, nobody in
China
has broken my record."

What humility, I thought, and turned my gaze to the magazine cover. Posing for me was a naked man—naked except for the little piece in front. Ugh! was my reaction, though I tried not to show it. How could anyone have such a grotesque body! Giant tumors bulged out of his arms and legs, and veins the size of cobras slithered over him. I would hide myself in long sleeves if I had such deformed arms, but he was showing them off as if they were something to be proud of.

"The magazine is yours," Hok-Ching said. "My article is on page 12. You can read it in your spare time."

I thanked him for his generosity, knowing full well that his clear-and-jerk magazine article was useful only for igniting a fire in my stove. An awkward silence followed. Even Wai-Jing was at a loss. I was a bookworm, the least athletic person in the world. What more could this muscle man and I have to say to each other?

The typewriter on the desk saved the moment. "Since we’re early," I said to Wai-Jing, "maybe I should make use of the time to do some typing. Do you know where the manuscript is?"

Hok-Ching jumped to his feet and took a sheaf of papers from the drawer. Standing to take the manuscript from him, I glimpsed a reflection of the two of us in the mirror. He was hardly an inch taller than I. With a pair of heels, I could easily exceed him. My own height was five foot, two inches, totally respectable for a Cantonese girl. A man should be at least several inches taller before I could look up to him. No matter how smart and good-looking he was, if he didn’t pass my height test, I would mark him a failure.

I sat down at the typewriter and proceeded to roll a blank sheet into it. Hok-Ching was still standing by my side. I stalled by straightening the paper, setting the margins, flicking away a mote of dust, and looping a curl behind my ear. He was still there. It seemed that he would never get the hint that I didn’t want him looking over my shoulder. With no more excuses left, I started typing. At the end of the row, the "ding" rang out, and I slapped the lever to jump to the next line. My elbow brushed the side of his pants. I searched in my mind for a polite way to tell him to leave me alone. Suddenly his head was next to mine, so close that I could see the stubble on his chin.

"The ink looks rather light," he said. "Let me change the ribbon for you."

Before I could object, he’d already taken out a brand new spool. This was a chore I hated with a passion. No matter how careful I was, the ink always got on my fingers, nose, face, and whatever I touched.

The manner in which Hok-Ching executed the task was fascinating. First, he wound the old ribbon from one spool to the other. After discarding the used ribbon without a smudge on his fingers, he slid the new one out of its wrapper and popped it into its receptacle. Now, I thought to myself, let’s see how he manages the next step. With his two forefingers, he gripped the clip at the end of the ribbon and threaded it through the guides. Finally, after wrapping the ribbon around the receiving spool, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his immaculate hands on it. I noticed that his fingers were unusually refined for such a coarse physique.

I was impressed—not only by his performance, but also by the fact that he’d risked soiling his hands on my behalf. No man had ever done this for me; not even Yang, and definitely not my brothers.

The typing continued at
Wong
Mountain
. Despite the lovely spice of autumn in the air, despite the temptation to go out and play, I went straight to my room after lunch and sat down to type. A shadow warmed my side. I looked up and met Hok-Ching’s eyes, as round and soulful as Ah Yi’s. His features were completely his mother’s.

"How’s the ribbon? Is the ink black enough?" he said.

"Oh yes, I don’t think it’s been used much."

"What about paper? Do you need more paper?"

"No, there’s still a lot left."

"You’re a very good typist. I see you can touch-type with speed and accuracy. Where did you learn to type like that?"

"At Italian Convent. We had to learn typing in class."

"I’ve also taken lessons in typing. Father hired an Englishwoman to teach us. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a serious student. I always played hooky." He hitched up his oversize shoulders and stuck out his tongue.

I laughed, and so did he. He looked years younger when he laughed, and his face wasn’t as long and dour. Wai-Jing, my know-it-all, had whispered in my ear that he was twenty-seven years old—as if his age were any business of mine. I’d come here for no other purpose than to return a favor to Lo Bak.

I measured the thickness of the manuscript with my fingers and hinted, "Your father is a prolific writer. I hope to finish typing it as quickly as possible."

"Take your time. There’s no rush to finish the typing this weekend. By the way, Wai-Jing and Hok-Jit are going on a hike tomorrow. Maybe we can all go together. There are many trails on the mountain, and some of them are quite flat and easy to walk."

What could I say? He was half-sitting on my desk, and if I didn’t agree, he would probably stay there forever. Mother would describe such a man as having sticky rice on his backside.