Ming Li sat on a chair, clutching the knife in one hand, the pieces of the apple green brush-rest in the other, and it was a long time before her trembling stopped.
‘Tell me about Adelaide,’ Ming Li asked Edward.
It was now six months since Huang Ho had told her he was going back to China, and for a long time she’d grieved as if he’d died. But now Edward was back – another academic break – and she had missed him so much …
‘It’s quiet. Peaceful. Nice place for oldies like us.’
‘Are you calling me old, Mr Billings? I’m not old – not a grey hair on my head. Unlike you …’
Edward laughed, pleased that she was teasing him again. Her grief over Huang Ho had troubled him, and if he thought that Ming Li was better off without her grandson, he wasn’t so cruel as to voice that opinion. But he had another reason to be pleased. In March last year the Australian government had further eased restrictions on the immigration of non-Europeans. The criterion of ‘distinguished and highly qualified’ had been replaced by the criterion of ‘well qualified’, and with it the number of non-Europeans allowed into the country had been increased. He’d made enquiries, and there was an excellent chance Ming Li would be allowed to immigrate.
‘My grey hairs are a sign of wisdom, Madam – I’ll have you know that I’m a highly respected academic, back home.’
‘Hmm, if they only knew … But get back to Adelaide.’
‘Well, like I said, it’s quiet. You’ve got the protest demonstrations against Vietnam now and again, but apart from that it’s good.’
‘Violent demonstrations?’
Edward caught the fear in her voice. Demonstrations here in Hong Kong were violent and escalating. Since the demonstrations in April last year over a small rise in fares on the Star Ferry – Hong Kong’s main method of crossing the harbour – people had been complaining more and more about low wages, lack of work and the exploitation of those who did work. Pent-up feelings of frustration were erupting all over Hong Kong. All this had come to a head some weeks ago, on the sixth of May at a plastic flowers factory in San Po Kong. Workers had protested and riot police had been deployed, and although the police bent over backwards not to create havoc, this had turned against them. When one of them was severely attacked by a demonstrator, they’d used batons to control the crowd. Now Communists were using this as an excuse to start movements in line with the Cultural Revolution in Mainland China. They formed what they called ‘struggle committees’ of students and workers, who banded together to strike and riot. Ming Li had every reason to be worried. He was worried. He had to get her out of here as soon as possible.
‘No, nothing like here. Just marches. I tell you what I do like,’ he said, not wanting her to lose that playful mood of earlier, ‘Elder Park and the River Torrens. It’s beautiful – green. It’s right near the university. There’s a rotunda where an orchestra plays music on Sunday afternoons, sightseeing boats on the water – all called Popeye – and even paddleboats for hire.’
‘I’ve never been on a paddleboat. Will you take me on one?’
‘Of course I will. We can— Hang on, what did you just say?’
‘I said “will you take me on one?”.’
‘On a paddleboat?’
‘Yes.’
‘In Adelaide?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you saying you want to come to Australia?’
‘Yes.’
‘And does this coming to Australia include moving there for good? Marrying me at last? Or do you just plan to visit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes to which? Yes moving there or yes marry me?’
‘Both.’
Edward stood up, pulled her off the couch and put his arms around her.
‘Say it again.’
‘Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes I’ll come live in Australia.’
He laughed and lifted her up, twirling her round and round.
‘Again!’
‘Yes! Yesyesyesyesyes!’
He lowered her back down then, and kissed her, long and slow.
‘I love you, LiLi mine.’
‘I love you too, Edward Billings.’
34
Huang Ho sang at the top of his voice with his comrades as they made their way towards Kowloon.
We are Chairman Mao’s Red Guards,
Absolutely firm in our proletarian stand,
Marching on the revolutionary road of our forbears
They pumped the air with their fists, their guns, waving red flags as they sang. He felt strong! Powerful! He was the Monkey King creating havoc under the heavens. He wore a red armband with the white ‘Red Guard’ characters, and no one dared question his actions.
We will smash the old world
And keep our revolutionary state red for ten thousand generations
He could do anything. Had done anything. Ransacked offices and shops, smashed statues and burned books, struggled hundreds of counter-revolutionary running dogs. All cowered under his gaze. He was all-powerful. His comrades were all-powerful. They had even attacked top-secret research facilities working on the hydrogen bomb and ballistic missiles, accusing their scientists of being revisionists and rightists. No one could stop them. No one dared.
We unite with the masses and together plunge into the battle
To wipe out all monsters and demons …
Early this morning they had smashed across the border into Hong Kong. Through the New Territories at the Man Kam To border crossing, they’d disarmed sentries and forced the police to sign an agreement to remove the barbed wire barrier. No one, nothing could stop them, not even a border.
And now they were on the train to Kowloon.
‘Long live the Communist Party of China!’ they shouted. ‘Long live the ever-victorious thoughts of Mao Tse-tung!’
Edward watched Ming Li sleep. Soon she would be in Adelaide by his side. They had an appointment at the Australian Consulate that very afternoon, and the sooner he got her out of Hong Kong, the happier he’d be. The labour strikes had escalated to violent Communist riots and armed terrorist attacks. Homemade bombs and booby traps were everywhere, and hundreds had already been killed, many of them children. Now the Governor, Sir David Trench, wanted the police to control Hong Kong with an iron fist. Riot police armed with tear gas and carbines constantly prowled the streets, whilst police helicopters throbbed overhead. He had that same feeling he’d had in Korea – that feeling deep in his gut that told him something bad was about to happen. And he always trusted his gut.
He’d taken her out to dinner the previous night, unwilling to let fear spoil their happiness, trusting his instincts to keep her safe, and they’d come back to her apartment and made love, then fallen asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. As dawn was breaking she’d woken him with kisses all down his body, and they’d made love again then dozed some more. He’d woken again feeling lazy, luxuriously relaxed. Loved. His uneasiness temporarily soothed by their passion. Now he wanted to buy her a present. Not a ring, because he wanted her to choose it, but something to show her how happy he was. Diamonds. A necklace maybe.
It was barely past nine, and he knew none of the shops he had in mind would be opened yet, but he decided to leave now anyway. The night had been hot and the day was already sultry, and he wanted to avoid the crowds. Get back in time to surprise Ming Li when she woke. He rose and begun dressing.
‘You’re up already …’ Ming Li stretched; she looked like a sleek contented cat.
Edward bent over the bed to kiss her. ‘Just going out for a little while. I’ll bring back something for lunch.’
‘It’s too early. Stay in bed. I can make us something later – there’s plenty in the fridge.’
‘Nope, I want to get it. You stay. Be lazy for once. I won’t be long.’
He washed and shaved. Ming Li was up, wrapped in a silk dressing gown. He put his arms around her, stroked the soft fabric covering her buttocks.
‘Nice,’ he said, ki
ssing her on the forehead, the tip of her nose. Yes, definitely diamonds.
‘Be quick. Be careful.’
‘I will be. Love you.’
The east is red, the sun rises, Mao Tse-tung appears in China. He seeks the good of the people. He is the saviour of the people!
They sang as they marched into the temple. Huang Ho sang louder than any of them. ‘Sweep away demons and monsters!’ they yelled as they tied ropes around the Goddess of Mercy and pulled her down. The plaster statue smashed and they cheered and fired shots into the air, then tied the four Celestial Kings and pulled them down as well.
A monk came hurrying in. They shot him.
They spread through the temple like locusts over a crop, smashing ceremonial vessels, joss stick bowls and lanterns. Threw vases of flowers across the rooms and a goldfish bowl fell to the ground and smashed. The three goldfish – two red and one black – flapped on the floor. Paper money for the dead, ancestral tablets, scattered. Yellow papers to burn for the gods fluttered in the air like injured butterflies and fell to the wet floor, and their colour seeped out like the blood of the monk.
They left the temple then, shouting Down with religion! Mao Tse-tung is the saviour of the people! and marched on down the street.
Edward was pleased with himself. He had found a beautiful art nouveau necklace that would suit Ming Li perfectly. It was delicate gold lavaliere with flowing lines, accentuated by two gold flowers whose centres were two rose-cut diamonds. Suspended in the centre was a drop pearl, and the lavaliere was attached to a gold chain whose links were of a delicately-worked scroll design. He thought of the way the necklace had felt in his hand – warm, heavy in spite of its delicacy, as if it still carried the heart of those who’d made it. That was why he liked old things – they had souls. He smiled, remembering his conversation with Ming Li about their ages. Yes, they were getting old, but they still had many years to go, and they would spend every one of them together from now on. He intended spending the rest of his days spoiling her, loving her.
The odour of the food he’d bought for their lunch tickled his nostrils. If he didn’t want it to get cold he should hurry. He crossed the street and took an alley that was a shortcut to Ming Li’s apartment.
We are the Red Guards! We beat down foreign religions! We beat down Jesus’ following! If you’re not a revolutionary, then damn you, damn you, damn you to hell!
Huang Ho marched at the head of the group. He was strong! He was a revolutionary general! He had proven himself to the revolution. Killed bad elements. Chopped off the hands of artists and musicians, the fingers of surgeons. Smashed into the shops and houses of capitalists and destroyed everything. It was even better than sex. He didn’t need any blonde-haired cow-demon to shame him. If she were here now he would slit her with his knife from cunt to mouth. Death to the shit capitalist devils! We’ll wipe out all pests and vermin!
Edward turned from the alley into Ming Li’s street. The feeling in his gut, that sense of foreboding, suddenly became more pronounced. Was Ming Li all right? Of course she was. Don’t go getting spooked now, Billings. He hurried. Up ahead he could see her apartment. He crossed the street to see it better. She was standing at the window, still in her silk dressing gown, waiting for him. He relaxed.
He patted the pocket of his jacket to make sure the necklace was still there. How would he give it to her? They would have lunch first. Maybe just come up behind her and slip it around her neck. Or maybe after they’d been to the Consulate. A celebration. He heard chanting and his feeling of foreboding crystallised, his senses more acute.
From a side street a gang of Red Guards appeared and marched towards him, yelling slogans and punching the air with their fists, their guns. The scum has risen, he thought. He stopped. They were between him and Ming Li’s apartment. Should he turn? Take cover? No. He knew to show the slightest hesitation – the slightest hint of fear – would bring out the vulpine in them. Rather be a fragment of jade than a complete clay tile. Chen Mu’s old saying surprised him. He hadn’t thought of it in years. For an instant his mind jammed trying to work out what to do next – it had been too long; he was too old. But you never really forgot. Stay calm. Show no fear. Don’t look at them. Continue walking as if everything was normal. The Red Guards marched on. Cars and buses stopped. The street began emptying of people. Then, with the suddenness of a knife-thrust, the Red Guards dispersed, running to either side of the street, into buildings, smashing shop windows and knocking down people in their way. He saw a group of them enter the block of apartments next to Ming Li’s. Within seconds, windows smashed as chairs and household goods were thrown into the street. Ming Li, still at her window. He had to get to her. Keep her safe. He felt suddenly exhausted at the thought of having to deal with violence once more. He squared his shoulders and put one foot in front of the other. Hurry. One step at the time. One second at the time. He knew how it worked. He still had a chance.
Ming Li saw Edward coming home. From his stride she knew he was happy. She saw him look towards her window – he always did this, as soon as he was close enough. She saw Red Guards come from the side street. Heading toward him. No! She wanted to warn him. Yell at him to run, go into a shop, hide. Do anything to keep safe. But she knew that from here he wouldn’t hear her. She pressed her hands, her body, against the glass, as if doing so would allow her to move through it and float down the street to stand at his side. She saw him stop. He had seen them.
Down with class enemies! Down with Western Imperialists!
Huang Ho could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. Through his legs, his groin, his arms. He realised which street they were in and looked up at his grandmother’s apartment. There she was, at the window, watching them. Now she would see how powerful he was! Now she would learn to fear him. The air was tense, electric. He could almost see the swirl of air currents as he swung the butt of his rifle to smash another window.
Vanquish the capitalist dogs! Vanquish the capitalist roaders!
He saw him then, crossing the street. A Western capitalist running dog. Swaggering by as if they didn’t exist. How dare he! He should be showing respect. Fear. They were revolutionary generals! They were all powerful!
‘Comrades, look! A capitalist devil! Kill the capitalist dog! Smash the imperialist demon!’
Edward heard the bone crack. His knees gave way. His head crashed on the pavement. There were too many, he couldn’t breathe. Kicking his head, his chest, his groin. He felt the tip of a knife slit his side. No pain. Relieved it wasn’t his gut. Fists and boots. His hand connected with a face and his fingers automatically searched for the eyes. Dug deep. He heard police sirens. The sound of pounding boots.
The heavy, six inch metal tear gas canister hit the ground across the road from him, skipping like a stone over water as it discharged its acrid cloud. He heard the Red Guards running. People screaming. He had to get up, get somewhere safe, but the gas made his eyes burn, his nose run. He could barely swallow, felt like he was choking. Ming Li! Go towards the police, Billings. Get behind them. Grabbing his side, he tried to rise but his legs gave way. He had to open his eyes. Excruciating pain. Open your eyes, Billings!Now! There – he saw him. Through the tears and the swirl of blinding smoke the helmeted silhouette of a police officer, gas mask in place, tear gas launcher in hand. Not ten feet away, walking straight towards him. Help at last. The muzzle flashed.
We are Chairman Mao’s Red Guards,
Vanguards of the Cultural Revolution.
We unite with the masses and together plunge into battle
To wipe out all monsters and demons …
Their song echoed in the distance, becoming fainter and fainter. Police sirens wailing, overriding the song. The smoke cleared.
Doors opened. People came back onto the street, handkerchiefs to their noses. Clustered around the man lying in the street, his face half blown away, his blood running to the gutter to join the waters of Kowloon Bay. Beside him, the exploded remains of a tear gas c
anister resting on the tangle of a delicate art nouveau necklace.
At an apartment window, a woman in a silk dressing gown, both hands on the glass, slowly sank to the floor.
From across the harbour, on Hong Kong Island, the noonday gun went off.
Dominique Wilson was born in Algiers to French parents. She grew up in a country torn by civil war, until she and her family fled to Australia. Her short stories have been published nationally and read on ABC Radio, and one of her short stories was made into a short film. She was founding co-managing editor of Wet Ink: the magazine of new writing, and Chair of the Adelaide branch of International PEN. She holds a Masters and a PhD in Creative Writing.
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