by Jason Y. Ng
I can practically hear Paul now. "Don't you find it strange that a Communist princeling is running a multibillion-dollar conglomerate out of Hong Kong?" he recently asked. "Where's the money going? What's the end game?"
He's currently obsessed with a theory that instead of relying only on tear gas and kidnappings, mainland China is trying to force Hong Kong into servility by buying up its property and businesses. He predicts that in a few years, Hong Kong will lose even the pretext of voting, will be sequestered by censored Internet and state-owned media, and no one will dare question the boss for fear of losing their job or their home.
Then, he figures, like dominoes, Taiwan will fall right in line.
"I'm glad you could make it," says Leon.
That voice. I cannot speak back.
He offers a sideways grin as if he knows he's rendered me speechless.
I've imagined this moment so many times, and in that version of now, he pulls me to him and we kiss, his soft, full lips against mine, his arms strong around me. I haven't thought past that part, as if we could live in that moment of rapture.
"I'm sorry," I say. "It's just weird to see you." In fact, it is a shock to see him, even though I've been planning this for nearly two months. I realize I'm still in a bit of a jet lag fog, and I want this to feel more real, not like a dream. I want to savor his every word and look and movement.
"Weird? I was hoping to make a better impression than that." He looks at me and for a split-second I am certain he regrets ending things when his family didn't approve.
I'd told him nothing mattered more than love.
You're so American, thinking only of yourself, he'd said. He meant it as an insult, but I heard a hint of envy in his voice.
"Shall we?" Leon says, motioning toward the green staircase that leads down to the grotto-like Le Jardin, the site of many of our nights out. It's ostensibly a members club, but only so far as it allows the owners to dodge restaurant fees and regulations. All one has to do to join is sign a paper. Tonight Leon doesn't even bother.
The room is as enchanting as ever, with white twinkle lights and red Chinese lanterns glowing against the ivy-covered walls and lush green plants hanging from every surface. I had forgotten just how mysterious and secluded it feels in here, tucked away from the more touristy bars in this neighborhood.
I follow him to a table in the back next to a red British phone booth, now an antique.
Thanks to the early hour, a waiter is immediately at our side. He's young, with a Samurai ponytail and trendy black glasses with no lenses.
Leon leans back on his chair, crosses one leg over the other, and makes the man wait while he finishes looking at the drinks menu. When he settles on a caipirinha, I wonder if he has spent much time in Brazil.
In the past I probably would have been drinking vodka Red Bull, all the rage at the time. Tonight I order a chardonnay.
"Becky Powell," Leon says, as if surprised to see I still exist.
"It's Robbins now."
He gives me a look that acknowledges as much.
"And nobody has called me Becky in at least a decade." I don't add that I like him calling me Becky. Becky was adventurous and confident. I want to feel that naively powerful again.
"Okay, Rebecca Robbins. It's good to see you."
I smile. "It's good to see you too."
I'm surprised to recognize a little tiny mole on his neck, not even memorable, not a feature, but I remember it exactly the same.
Our drinks arrive. We talk about my flight over—mostly pleasant, but no, I didn't sleep much; what I've been up to all day—wandering around town and noticing all of the colonial walkups that have been replaced by shiny new high-rises; where I'm staying—the legendary Mandarin Oriental, where we have staggeringly gorgeous views of Victoria Harbour and the Kowloon skyline. Then we move on to people we both knew and what they're up to these days according to social media. As we skim the surface, I feel desperate to move into something more intimate.
After all these years, he is still entrancing. He doesn't seem anything like the man Paul sees him as—a sinister insider-trading, money-laundering authoritarian who crushes anyone who gets in his way. Of course it's not just Leon that Paul distrusts. His entire view of humanity is pretty grim. I'll call him a pessimist, and like all pessimists, he'll tell me, No, I'm a realist, as if his worldview is more real than mine.
"You were always so funny," Leon says, apropos of nothing. I half expect him to ask what happened.
I don't know when I lost my sense of humor. Maybe part of why I'm so drawn to Leon is that he doesn't know about any of my disappointments. I'm grateful he hasn't asked why I never had kids.
Although it's probably too late for me under any circumstances, I wonder if Leon and I might have better luck. I know it's not fair, but it's not the first time I've fantasized about having sex with another man just to get pregnant and prove it was Paul's problem all along. As if we haven't spent enough time blaming each other for the years of unexplained failure.
Leon has obviously had disappointments in his life too. In so many ways, he looks like the same boy I knew, but there is something more complicated behind his eyes. That underlying darkness makes me feel even more tender toward him.
I'm waiting for one of us to venture into flirty banter that leads to an accidental touch that leads to a purposeful touch and so on and so forth.
But infuriatingly, Leon keeps checking his phone, a sleek black titanium-and-leather number that looks all too much like the one I read about in the inflight magazine. It supposedly has military-grade encryption, the world's fastest Wi-Fi technology, access to any world network, and a price tag of more than fifteen thousand US. And he once intimated that his wife is too into status symbols.
Is that who he's texting? I have the urge to say something demeaning about her. I want to say, Leave her. Be with me. Doesn't he realize that I loved him before he was a powerful name in China, when he was just Leon?
"Is your wife wondering where you are?"
"No. My wife is understanding."
My wife is understanding? What an odd thing to say. Do they have an arrangement? I think of all the Western women he has as Facebook friends.
"How about your husband?" He mockingly looks around like he's expecting Paul to show up and catch us together. "Where is he right now?"
"He's in meetings down at the ITC. They'll probably be at it most of the night," I say, hoping he'll take the hint.
Paul made it almost too easy on me. I danced around it all morning, but when I finally asked about his schedule, he made it clear that I shouldn't wait up. I took it as fate bringing me to Leon.
"Yes, you mentioned he was a—how did you phrase it—workaholic?"
I nod. Paul is the DSM-5 definition of a workaholic. Loathing long weekends, never taking vacations, joking about shoveling the entire beltway by hand if it would mean making it to work on a snow day.
"All that for computers?" Leon asks, saying the word computers as if pooh-poohing Paul's job, like I married a man who spends his days playing with toys. I momentarily feel defensive and almost say something Paul would—It's national security, it's world order, and besides, do you have any idea how much IVF costs? Instead I say, "Ha-ha. That's the way of the world now, right? I'm sure it's the same here."
"You deserve more," he says.
I sigh, flattered but disheartened by the irony. Paul said virtually the same thing years ago when I was brooding over the breakup with Leon. We started dating, and I assured Paul he wasn't just a rebound. Until a few months ago, I didn't think Leon's name would ever come up again.
The thing is, I know it's not all Paul's fault that my life has folded in on itself. I chose to sacrifice my needs for his job, going along with anything and everything to avoid rocking our mundane but comfortable boat.
More banker types flood into the bar. White men in suits. Asian men in suits. White men in suits with young Asian women in Chanel. All of them clearly flush with opt
imism and cash. As empty beer bottles pile up on a nearby table and the music gets louder, I feel the night slipping away too quickly. I look at my watch. I want to stay out later, to dance with him, to get drunk and hold him, but I know Paul will be back at the hotel in a few hours.
I cringe as Leon glances at his phone again. I notice it's vibrating, and it takes all I have not to complain.
"I'm sorry. I hate to do this," he says, standing up.
Then don't, I think, knowing all too well where this is headed.
"I have to take this call. Can you excuse me?"
I want to yell—I've waited twenty years for this moment. I was hoping you had too.
"Wei," he says into the phone. Mandarin, not Cantonese. Do he and his wife speak to each other in Mandarin? They must.
As he walks away from me, he puts his finger up like it won't take but a minute. He looks like he feels bad for me, which is the last thing I want.
I watch him walk outside. Through the window, I see him light up a cigarette. His head is tucked low and he seems to be speaking quietly, but he looks agitated.
I can't help but wonder who he's talking to. As my fears metastasize, I realize Paul has gotten into my head. But the thing is, I know it's not totally crazy. I've seen that essay linking Leon to the notorious gangsters Wilson Wan and Tse Kwok-Wing, who—along with your everyday drug trafficking, fraud, and prostitution—supposedly manipulate the region's stock and real estate markets at the behest of the Communist Party. But that paper is as fear-mongering and McCarthyist as Paul. If you believed them, you'd think there is a worldwide Communist cabal twisting their mustaches in unison while hacking and buying and killing their way to world domination.
And so what if Leon is what they say he is? Do I care?
I try my damnedest to appear relaxed and in my element, even though I never go to places like this anymore. Certainly not alone. I pull out my phone. Unfortunately, it's working so slowly I can barely navigate to my browser let alone load any pages.
I give up and am surprised to see an attractive Asian man checking me out. I wouldn't go so far as to say it makes me feel young again, but something like that. I vow to dress up more often, to get out into the world more often.
The Samurai waiter returns. He asks if I'd like another drink.
"No thanks, I'll wait for my friend." I nod toward the door lest he think I'm here alone and trolling for a hookup. I no longer see Leon out there. He must have gone up to the alley where it's quieter.
"Are you here for work?" the waiter asks, as he plucks my empty wineglass off the table.
"No, my husband is."
"Ah." He clearly thinks he knows everything there is to know about me. I'm that woman, the one who tags along with her husband on business trips, nothing worthwhile of her own going on.
It makes me want to take off my wedding ring. Just for fun. Just to see what my hand would look like without it.
"You like Hong Kong?" he asks.
"I love Hong Kong." In fact, I dread going home to the subdivision where my neighbors pull into their garages and disappear without even a wave.
Would I move here if Leon asked me to? Hell yeah. He knows important people. He could get me a new job. A new life.
The waiter leaves and I'm alone again. With no one to see, I slide my wedding ring off my finger and into my purse.
Moments later a man with an Australian accent slides into Leon's seat and places a fresh glass of wine in front of me. I know better than to touch it, but I don't run him off. Not only is the attention a welcome change, but a juvenile part of me hopes it will make Leon jealous.
He introduces himself as Darren, and without even asking my name, he launches into a spiel about his job at HSBC.
I manage not to roll my eyes. Then I feel a text come through on my phone.
L: Just a bit longer. Wait for me.
God, he's as abrupt as Paul.
Darren puts a hand on my knee. I stand up so quickly my chair squeaks along the floor. I leave a wad of Hong Kong dollars on the table and nod a curt goodbye.
It's completely dark outside now but still hot as hell. I look left and right but don't see Leon. I poke my head into the alley, but I only find a rat as big as a terrier. I stumble backward and then feel embarrassed by my overreaction.
Why am I still waiting for him anyway? It hits me that I'm in my forties and I'm chasing after a man who isn't that interested. I'm still wondering what might have happened if I hadn't been too proud to fly out here and fight for him. It should be obvious. Has anyone who ever had to fly across the world to make someone love them ever been successful?
Leon can call me if or when he's done with whatever he's doing.
* * *
The streets of Lan Kwai Fong are now closed to traffic and shoulder to shoulder with drunk foreigners. As I weave my way through the barely penetrable crowd, I envision the stampede that killed twenty people here not that long before my first visit.
By the time I reach the Mandarin Oriental, I am as wet as if I'd showered, only far from fresh. Nevertheless, the doorman in his classic red jacket opens the door and greets me with reverence.
I breeze through the dramatic lobby with walls made of gleaming Black Forest Chinese marble. I stand in front of the elevators, tapping the up button repeatedly. When the doors finally slide open, I almost walk into the people getting off. As I press sixteen, I notice my reflection in the brass—with my frizzy wet hair, red cheeks, and running mascara, I look cartoonishly ugly. For a fleeting second, I fear Leon was fielding a prearranged escape call.
Why should I care if he did? Fuck him.
I finally wind my way to my room, the balls of my feet burning. I slide my key card into the lock, expecting to find respite in the luxurious room, with its Hermès toiletries and pillow-top bed that has probably already been turned down. I throw open the door, and there is Paul.
He should be out for at least another couple of hours. But there he is—working, of course—at the burl-wood desk at the end of the room overlooking the harbor and the iconic circular windows of Jardine House.
Paul glances up from his computer.
My heart starts beating faster.
He looks as surprised to see me as I am him. If I'm not mistaken, a flash of guilt crosses his face. Was he looking at porn? Chatting with her?
I stiffen, fearing that he can sense what I've been up to in this expensive dress and fuck-me heels.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
I expected him to ask me where I've been, not why I'm back. I'm supposed to be here. He's supposed to be at the ITC building.
"What are you doing here?" I reply, faking a little smile like it's a good surprise.
We stand there looking at each other. Through the windows behind him I notice the white lights of a Star Ferry making its way across the bay.
I realize that Paul is sitting in front of not one but two computers, and that there is a room service tray on the armchair behind him. He's been here awhile. Since I left?
He glances at his phone, which is hooked up to his laptop. A government-issue smart-card reader hangs on from the other side. Paul starts shuffling things around, acting as if nothing is amiss. Unbelievably, he's just going to get back to work. I should be relieved, but I'm insulted that he doesn't care. Is he seriously not going to wonder what I've been doing? Who I've been with?
I turn to go freshen up and notice the suitcases on the bed, half-packed. We put everything away neatly the moment we arrived. It's what Paul always does.
Paul notices me notice. "We're flying home tomorrow," he says.
I look around the room with its warm wood paneling, fresh flowers, and breathtaking view of the city I don't want to leave. I should be trying to appear calm, but I know the emotion is all over my face. Can I possibly just pack up and go back to that same claustrophobic life?
It occurs to me that I could tell Paul to go home without me. The hotel is booked through the week, my visa is good for thr
ee months. I'm not afraid to be the oldest person at the hostel, and finding some kind of English-speaking work wouldn't be impossible. With or without Leon, my time here feels unfinished. There must be some way to stay, even on my own.
He laughs. "Haven't got what you came for yet?" Something is off.
"What's going on?"
"I should be asking you."
I don't know what to say.
He starts packing up the electronics on the desk and slowly disconnects his phone. I feel a reflexive good-girl need to explain. I walk past the bed and toward him.
That's when I really look at the phone. It's not Paul's. In fact, it's just like Leon's. But it can't be Leon's. My first instinct is to cover my ass—think of how to explain our texts—but then, wait, why would Leon's phone be here? Was he here? Could he have possibly come looking for me?
It has to be someone else's phone. I try to act normal, but I can't take it and blurt out, "Whose phone is that?"
Paul looks at me like I'm stupid, a look that says, You know exactly whose phone that is.
I feel dizzy. This can't be happening.
He rubs the back of his neck.
"What happened to, to . . ." I stutter.
"Your boyfriend?"
I'm taken aback not only at the accusation, but by the amusement in his voice, as if he's been waiting for the day he could catch me in a screw-up. "I don't have a boyfriend."
"Do you think I'm an idiot, Becky?"
"I haven't done anything wrong." I don't add the qualifier yet. "Besides, what about you?" I ask, ready to finally confront him, let him know how much I hate him for ignoring me, for cheating on me, for pretty much ruining my life.
"What about me?"
"Oh please. You don't think I know all about your affair?"
I'm so angry I'm shaking. But Paul is as calm as ever. In fact, he looks like he's enjoying this.
"I didn't have an affair."
"Oh, drop the act already. The phone calls, the late nights, the fact that you were at the Omni Shoreham when you said you were at work." I cross my arms over my chest.
