Journey Across the Four Seas (30 page)

I could have left my husband, but the word "divorce" wasn’t part of my vocabulary. As a Chinese and a Catholic, the thought was unthinkable. Ironically, the person who introduced it to me was Baba. On one of my visits to
Taipei
he said to me, "Flora, I’m very grateful to you for not divorcing my son. You’re the only person in the world who can live with him for so long. I know, because I’m his father."

But where could a divorced woman with five children go? How could I live? I would have to move in with Brother Kin and become his dependent. The roof over my head wouldn’t be my own. My children would have the status of orphans living off a wealthy relative. They would become sickly and depressed, like the heroine in
Dream of the Red Chamber.
No, I couldn’t subject them to such misery. A much simpler solution would be to plug my ears to my husband’s bark. I would create a soundproof room where I could laugh at him while he howled till the veins in his temples stood out.

2

For the first time in my life, I had a savings account that was building up steadily. When it reached $60,000, I recognized it for what it was—the foundation for my family’s future. It was a substantial amount, but still only a base to build on. The walls, floors, and ceiling had yet to be constructed. At the rate of two percent interest, however, the completion of my house would take too long. Could there be ways to speed up the process? Realizing how important this question was, I set out on a quest for an answer.

The
Hong Kong
stock market was booming at the time. Every day the papers carried headlines on the Hang Seng index setting another record. In teahouses and restaurants, all the conversation was about which stock to buy and which to sell. From servants to their mistresses, coolies to executives, everyone was cashing in on it. All my friends were laughing, with my cousin Helen the loudest. Her husband had started a second family with his nurse, but money was her first love and nothing made her merrier than watching it grow.

Real estate was another fast-growing market. Refugees were swarming over the border to escape communist purges. Every time Mao Tse-Tung launched a "Great Leap Forward" or some such campaign, the size of
Hong Kong
’s population bounded upward. If I didn’t lay claim to a few square feet of property, very soon there wouldn’t be an inch left. The free housing my family was getting from Southeast Asia Trading couldn’t last forever, for sooner or later Hok-Ching and I would have to retire. Where would we live then? Prices were going up, up, and up. Buildings were sold out the moment the blueprints became public. People were lining up to sign up for flats as if they were free. I had to buy soon if I would be able to afford anything at all.

One Saturday afternoon, after a refreshing nap, I decided I’d done enough homework to broach the subject with my husband. I was brushing my hair at the vanity. The mirror showed Hok-Ching sitting on the bed, putting on his socks. His jaws were relaxed. The morning in the office had been quiet, and now an entire weekend stretched out ahead of him. He especially looked forward to going with Patrick to the tennis club, where they would have a roaring time "creaming" other father-and-son teams.

Talking to his reflection, I said: "I’ve been thinking about what to do with our savings. You know, prices have been going up. I used to give the cook $20 in the morning. It was enough to buy food for three meals. But $20 soon became $25, and now even that is barely covering the costs. I think we should invest our savings, or soon they won’t be worth much."

"Are you sure she’s not padding the books?" he said with a smirk.

"Oh no, not this cook. She doesn’t need to cheat us. She gets her money from the stock market. Haven’t you noticed how her face glows these days?" He was silent. I let the idea sink in for a while before continuing. "The smell of money is everywhere. Just last week my cousin Helen told me that her shares in
Hong Kong
Land
went up by $20,000 in one day. Can you imagine? She can make that much money just by sitting and doing nothing!"

"Stocks go up and down. Haven’t you heard about the crash in
Shanghai
? Do you know how many people jumped off the roof?"

I was ready for that one. "There are stocks that fluctuate, but there are also blue-chip stocks that are more stable than aircraft carriers. It will take an atomic bomb to sink them."

"What if there were an atomic bomb?"

He was standing behind me now, staring at my image, his jaws grinding from side to side. I went on teasing out the kinks at the end of my hair, one resolute stroke after another. "If an atomic bomb goes off, then there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll all go up in smoke." Swinging around to face him, I said with earnestness, "Companies like Hong Kong Electric and Kowloon Bus will never go under. There will always be demand for their services. I’m not asking you to put all our savings into them. We can start with a few shares to see how they do."

He sat back down, staring at the floor like a lost child. I cupped my hand on his fist. "Why don’t we do this," I coaxed. "I’ll invest a small amount, say $10,000, in the safe companies. The shares can be under my name. You don’t have to get involved."

"Just don’t give me any paper to sign!" he said, throwing me an angry glance.

"Oh no, you don’t have to sign anything."

He stared at the floor again, mumbling, "All right."

Afraid that he would see the smile in my heart, I reverted to the mirror and started putting up my hair. He stood up to leave the room.

"Wait, there’s something else," I said, gazing at his profile in the mirror. "The other day, I passed by the sales office of a new apartment building. It’s a good location, just off
Nathan Rd.
, and the price is entirely within our range. The down payment is only $10,000, and the monthly payment is about $1,000. Helen says it’s the best deal in the whole of
Hong Kong
."

"Helen, Helen, Helen. You only want to do what Helen does! Helen’s husband is a doctor. He makes much more than I do. Why didn’t you marry a doctor?" He was so agitated that he was panting. I turned to face him. His fists were clenched. Sometimes I wished he would go ahead and strike me.

"But we
can
afford it. Listen to me, Hok-Ching. We need to have a home of our own. Even little birds know that. Haven’t you seen a sparrow carry a twig? It’s building a nest for its young. One at a time, the twigs pile up, and soon the bird owns its own home."

"You can’t fool me with this nonsense. I know you. You want to do whatever your friends do. You’re just a copycat. If we sink all our money into a flat, what will we do in an emergency? What will happen when the communists come? Don’t you have any brains to think with? If your friends go to hell, are you going to follow them there? Forget it! I’ll never put my signature on it. You’re always trying to get me into trouble. Do you want to see me in jail? Is that what you want?"

Rage blinded me. With one fling of the arm, I swept the bottles of cosmetics off my dressing table. Red nail polish splashed on the floor. It was the same old story again. Hok-Ching was terrified. He believed that life was one grand conspiracy against him. Everything that could go wrong was bound to, and the only way to counter misfortune was to hide in his cave. He had no faith in himself or others. Optimism was how humans survived holocausts and world wars, but my husband would have none of it. For this reason, I would never own a home.

*

Because my hands were tied, I had to watch the foundation of my future erode away.
Hong Kong
’s economic boom was leaving me behind. All my friends were swaggering past me, some of them glancing back with eyes filled with pity. More than scorn, loathing, or malice, I found pity the hardest to swallow. It also made me more determined than ever to succeed.

Money was important, but not the most important component in my design. My children’s education was the true cornerstone of my home. This is the only asset that no one can take away. No matter what happens, be it disasters created by the heavens or man, an educated person can always build a good life. To lay such a foundation for my children’s future was my goal.

Having been brought up in
Hong Kong
, I knew how competitive its schools were. The rapid population growth had only made it cutthroat. To separate the wheat from the chaff, students were made to compete in grueling exams. Those who passed the Primary Six standardized tests, for example, would go on to secondary school, while those who failed would have to drop out. Getting into
Hong Kong
University
was about as hard as winning the lottery. A child had to start cramming as early as second or third grade. We call this kind of education "duck-feeding." A tube is rammed into the duckling’s throat and food is pumped in to fatten it for the market. Much as I disliked this force-feeding method, I had to prepare my children for it. University might seem a speck in the distant future, but unless they got a head start they wouldn’t even get close enough to catch a glimpse of the gate.

When we first returned to
Hong Kong
, I enrolled my children in the parish school at Saint Teresa’s church. It was a good school, but not first-rate, and it only went up to Primary Six. As my children got older, I took the girls to the headmistress of Maryknoll, and the boys to the headmaster of Wah Yan. Both were Catholic schools—one run by American nuns of the Maryknoll order, the other by Jesuit priests. Both were known for their high scores on the standardized exams. As Catholics, my children were given priority in admission.

My daughters did well in school. Agnes, whose spicy temper had brought tears to my eyes many times, was mellowing into a likeable young lady. We became close friends, exchanging confidences and going shopping together. Her school grades were above average, but what made her stand out was her roles in school plays. After starring as Wendy in Peter Pan, she became known as Wendy to all the girls in the school. Her sister, Veronica, was just the opposite in personality. She wasn’t at all flamboyant, but was quiet, patient, and studious. I thought she had all the attributes to become a doctor or scientist. Chris, the baby, was too young to assess. But already I could tell that she wasn’t lacking in intelligence. She had a sharp tongue that could instantly replay what her siblings had said. With my guidance I was confident that she, too, would perform well in school.

My boys, however, were another story. Patrick, in particular, was a constant source of headaches for me. Physically, he was well developed, excelling in any sport he picked up, but mentally, alas, there were times when I thought he might be retarded.

Once, when Patrick was in Primary Four, I saw Agnes and Joe studying for exams. Patrick had a ball in his hand and was about to go downstairs to play. I asked him, "Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?"

"Yes, I do."

"In what subject?"

He blinked several times, but try as he might he couldn’t jumpstart his brain motor. "I don’t know. I didn’t copy the schedule."

I was flabbergasted. He was having an exam the next day and he didn’t even know in what subject. I rushed to the school to look for the teacher. Fortunately, she was still there. After getting the schedule from her, I went to the playground to haul Patrick home.

"Your test tomorrow is in Chinese!" I yelled to him. "Come home right now!"

If he heard me, he didn’t show it. He went on running, as if that were his sole purpose in life. I was about to yell again when my annoyance turned to amazement. The white shirt on his back was fluttering like wings. A plume of smoke and dust billowed out of his feet. My son was flying! The ball spun alongside him. I could have sworn that it was tied to his ankle by a fine thread. How else could it jerk to the left and right in a zigzag path between the other boys? Suddenly the ball blasted off. The goalie leaped and grabbed an armful of air. If he weren’t my son, I would have shouted Bravo! But he was my son, and his test score was more important than his soccer score. I grabbed his sweaty arm and dragged him home.

When Patrick reached Primary Six, the year of the colony-wide exam, I hired a niece of Sam-Koo’s to coach him. The subject I asked her to focus on was arithmetic, his weakest. She drilled him twice a week for many months, but all she could say about his progress was, "His brain doesn’t seem to have opened yet." The day he came home from the exam, my first question to him was how he did in arithmetic. "I finished all the problems," he said. I took him at his word, thinking that the tutoring had helped, but when the results came out, was I in for a surprise! His score was zero! A goose egg, a big "0," nothing! I never thought such a score was possible, but there it was next to my son’s name. That was when I realized that if Patrick were to continue with his education, I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself to coach him.

I begged the fathers of Wah Yan not to expel him. Seeing that he came from a good Catholic family, they allowed him to repeat the grade. Every evening after I came home from work, I sat him down and drilled him in arithmetic. I had to brush up on my own skills, as it had been years since I’d tackled such problems. Some questions were tricky too, as if the examiners were playing a joke on the poor kids. For example, one problem was: (256 x 45 + 36/6 - 29) x 0. Of course, the answer is 0, since any number multiplied by 0 is 0. A student who didn’t know the trick, however, would go through the calculation step-by-step to end up with an answer of 0. Precious time would be wasted, at the sacrifice of other questions in the test.