by Leigh Lyn
A waiter brought his goose dish and the succulent smell made Bull’s Eye jolt upright and lick his lips. Wen ordered another beer and fed the little dog pieces of goose while mulling on the case.
Hundreds of thousands of people other than Lin would be affected if G.Y.’s far-reaching health plan was not as wholesome as Shi Gong made it out to be. It was important for he and Au-Yeung to be thorough. What was Shi Gong’s new take on the social glue that Confucianism and capitalism provided the world with? And what the heck did Adam Smith and creative destruction have to do with traditional Chinese medicine?
After Wen finished dinner, he went inside to pay at the counter. There, a large group of people gathered around a flat-screen TV mounted high up on the wall. Both old and young were commenting and discussing the riotous scenes of Occupy Central shown on the screen. Led by Brother Keung, they argued in outrage about the riots. Wen watched for a few minutes but, too tired to stay long, he strolled back to the boat in the near dark. His mind wandered to Lin, pondering if the answer lay in what she was muttering. “Do you remember? Don’t you remember?”
Suddenly, Bull’s Eye pricked up his ears and started barking. He lunged forward, running the three hundred feet left between them and the Chang E. Leaping on board, he sprinted a delirious loop around the deck before he jumped back on the pier. He would have started toward the row of houses along the beach had Wen not grabbed his collar just in time. Holding it tight, he attached the leash that he had in his pocket and tied it to the railing before venturing on board. Both deck and cabin looked the same as when he left it an hour and a half earlier. Was it the smell of a rat or a cat that set off Bull’s frenzy?
Peering through binoculars, he scanned his house and its surroundings again. The unknown SUV parked next to it was gone, but otherwise he saw nothing suspicious. He contemplated returning home, but the memory of being hemmed in and spied upon by watchful walls made him uncomfortable. Instead, Wen untied the ropes and hoisted the sail. Once in the quiet expanse of the open sea, he cast anchor and descended to the cabin, where he skimmed through Lin’s manuscript to the section on 8th Sky.
Wen used a finger to trace the words on the page where Shi Gong told Lin that Adam Smith inspired him.
Rubbing his eyes, Wen read the passage for the third time. “Take capitalism, which uses our natural survival instinct and the principle of survival of the strongest to hike up competition while relying on the notion of an impartial spectator’s moral conscience to redistribute the spoils within the community...”
Wen leaned back and closed his eyes. He knew who Smith was, but what was the connection between him and synchronizing genomes of herbs or the stabilizing of society? That night, Wen went to bed and dreamt of his old professors in Mao suits hailing an antiquated man in a white powdered wig and knickerbockers.
At dawn, Wen hoisted the anchor and set sail, but the wind was so lackluster, the sky was already cobalt blue when he moored Chang E at the Yacht Club in Causeway Bay. He waited outside the club’s entrance for a cab to Hong Kong’s Central Library. Half an hour went by without a single car passing by when the woman who’d registered Chang E came out of the club.
“Sir, they blocked the roads because of Occupy Central,” she said.
“Of course! How silly of me.” Wen had been so busy he’d forgotten the demonstrations. “How’s that going?”
The woman ducked her chin. “Seventy days and counting, sir. It can last a while since the demonstrators pledged not to give up until they win. You should cross Gloucester Road using the pedestrian tunnel to Excelsior Hotel and then take the MTR.”
“It’s alright. I’ll walk,” Wen pointed down the narrow pavement of the yacht club, next to which was the typhoon shelter with an elective collection of vessels, including fishermen’s barges, speedboats, a floating seafood restaurant and even a junk. “I’m just going down the road. Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later, Wen arrived at the Hong Kong Central Library, a peculiar building with stuck-on Greek-temple-style pediments, which looked like a giant child had built it out of humongous toy blocks. Wiping the sweat from his reddened forehead, he went straight to its reference section on the ninth floor. He looked up everything there was to find about Adam Smith. When and where his mother gave birth to him, where and when they buried him and everything in-between. Wen also looked up books Smith had written in his lifetime, of which there were only two.
He started with The Wealth of Nations, which changed the world in 950 pages. Wen had to summon all of his discipline to get through the first chapter alone, and that was only seven pages long. Not accustomed to economic theories from the eighteenth century, he skipped to the only other book Smith had written as a professor in moral philosophy: The Theory of Moral Sentiments. By the time Wen left the library at ten in the evening and walked back to the Yacht Club along a deserted Gloucester Road, he was mesmerized.
Traffic was non-existent except for the odd police car and ambulance racing toward Central with sirens blazing, casting the ten lanes in flashes of blue and red. Although Wen’s eyes were on the tarmac, he noticed none of that, flabbergasted as he was by Smith’s notion of the “impartial spectator” two, three hundred years before Freud’s super-ego. Smith claimed this internal persona not only existed in the head of every human being but that it voiced man’s inborn need to empathize with his fellow man. He imagined this empathy would bring about a redistribution of wealth among individuals. In the silence devoid of traffic noises, Wen’s heartbeat raced along with his thoughts. When he reached his boat at Causeway Bay’s Yacht Club, his head was throbbing from a migraine.
Wen set sail to Saikung. A black glittering sea mirrored a low hanging moon in a starless sky. He went down to the cabin, poured himself a double whiskey, then took the inch-thick white stack of paper held together by a black clip up to the helm where the night air was cooler. He stared at the section in the manuscript where Shi Gong said that, inspired by Adam Smith, G.Y. too was exploring a natural, human trait to forge mankind’s next step toward civility. How had Smith’s impartial spectator inspired Shi Gong’s experiments? What was G.Y.’s own brand of social glue? Wen’s eyes rested on two words: “impartial spectator.” And suddenly it clicked. Was Shi Gong’s social glue an internal persona? A super-ego molded to his specs? Was Shi Gong’s experiment to have them replace or reinforce Smith’s ‘invisible’ hand as social glue?
Wen’s mind reeled as a cluster of little lights set in a thin slither of land drifted in sight, sprawling and growing larger as the boat cut its path across the black mirror. Soon they arrived. Closing the manuscript, Wen moored Chang E at the pier and went back to the house with Mr. B on a leash and the manuscript under his arm. He should stock up on food and fresh water, do laundry and rest his mind. He got out of the clothes he’d been wearing for days, had a shower, changed into fresh-smelling pajamas, and went to bed with Bull’s Eye snoring next to him. But instead of catching up on sleep, thoughts kept on churning in his head as he watched shadows creep up Karen’s walls.
Fatigue caught up with him and, eventually, his mind zoned out. Man, shadow, light, and material melted and blended into one fluid stream. Forms lost their solidity and blackness leaked out of the walls again, draping over and enveloping him. It entered his mouth and nose, filling him with the same ominous prescience he’d felt before. He opened his eyes and imagined alters wandering around in the voids of the walls, which spilled out and swarmed him like a black avalanche. It suddenly dawned on him. He was not residing in Karen’s childhood dream, but in Lin’s. This house reflected Lin’s psyche; forged onto Wen’s, it now affected his present, altering his reality.
A chill traveled down his spine. Had Shi Gong succeeded in taking this internal persona, this internal inspector alias impartial spectator to a whole new level? It would explain why Lin couldn’t find any evidence for the life of her: it was closer than she could ever imagine it to be. Was it possible?
Shi Gong could have put the patient thr
ough a harrowing experience and caused a trauma so overwhelming and insurmountable it stretched the patient’s mind beyond the point of coping. That would trigger her self-defense mechanism to dissociate and create a new persona. Wen gazed into the dark and listened to the waves that were invisible save for the shimmering reflections of the creamy moonlight.
If these gruesome experiences were repeated often enough, the mind would summon this other persona quicker and more readily until it became a pattern; until the traumatic event was no longer needed to summon the persona. The question was how Shi Gong controlled these personas. And how did he stop alters from running haywire and going rogue as alters do?
As far as Wen knew, Lin had only been to 8th Sky twice. There was no way Shi Gong could have done it in two sessions, could he? Wen thought about the material he himself covered in two sessions. Although the calm of certainty came over him, Wen’s anxiety did not dissipate. Unless he unearthed new information showing otherwise, he had not proven beyond reasonable doubt Lin’s disintegration had not been willed by herself as a writer in search of new material and experiences to write about. Before Wen fell asleep, he decided to have Dim Sum coming Sunday. It was time he talked to the old lady.
Chapter 55
After mooring, Wen made his way to the heart of Causeway Bay to the restaurant Lin mentioned as Niang’s favorite. Not keen on shopping, he had for thirty-five years stayed at the periphery of the popular shopping precinct where his clinic had been. Today though, shops weren’t doing any business, because a crowd had barricaded Hennessy Road. The six-lane street had been turned into a colorful camping site. Going by the slogans on the banners, the Occupy Central protesters seemed dead set on staying as long as it took until the Chinese government gave them what they wanted. In the absence of traffic, the air was crisper than it had been in years. Wen would have enjoyed the beautiful day walking down the sometimes festive, sometimes sleepy road-scene, were it not for the blood-curdling arguments that prevailed.
“Can you go protest somewhere else?” a plump woman in front of an eatery shouted, with bulging eyes and flaring nostrils. “You have no license. This is not legit.”
“We’re fighting for Universal Suffrage which will benefit you,” a young Occupy Central protestor in a black T-shirt replied while other protestors gathered around him. “It’ll benefit all people of Hong Kong.”
Three men with the same stocky build and broad faces as the woman rushed out of the eatery and joined her.
“We’ll see about that, but don’t do that in front of our business!” the oldest of the three men bawled.
“Yes, go do it at home!” one of the younger men shouted. “Go sacrifice your own family’s honest living; see what they say.”
“We apologize, but sacrifices are inevitable,” the first protestor said.
“We’ll see about that.” The young men stepped forward and pushed the scrawny student, who fell backward into the other protestors. Everyone shouted at once. Like metal shavings drawn to a magnet, bystanders, reporters, and police rushed toward the commotion while Wen stumbled against the stream, away from the scene.
Entering a shopping mall, Wen took the lift up to the thirteenth floor where the restaurant’s lobby was near empty. A rare sight brought on by the demonstrations. Wen whispered something in the ear of the Maître D’ and slipped him a little incentive.
“Follow my colleague,” he said, pointing at a hostess in a red Qibao, who brought him to a booth with a spectacular view of Victoria Harbor.
“Mrs. Lee’s regular table is there,” she said, pointing at the booth on the right. An hour later, a young woman in a denim romper and Beat earphones slid into it, took a magazine from her bag and started reading. Wen was expecting little girls with pigtails, but this young lady looked like Lin with a face in the shape of a sunflower seed and wide-set eyes.
Dr. Wen got up and went over. “Hello, Miss Lee.”
Startled, she looked at him. “Oh hello. Do I know you?”
“No, but I know your mother.”
“Oh, you do? I have no idea.”
“You’re Mimi or Maxy?”
Puzzled, the young woman frowned. “What? I’m Mimi.”
“I’m Dr. Wen.” He extended his hand.
A pensive glaze washed over her eyes as they shook hands.
He pointed at the bench. “May I?”
“Please do.” Mimi’s eyes roamed across the dining room.
Dr. Wen sat down. “I got hold of a manuscript that belongs to your Mom.”
“What?” Mimi asked puzzled.
Wen gazed at her, debating with himself how much he could tell her. “I suppose your mother regarded me as a friend.” Before he could explain any further, he was distracted by an old lady walking down the aisle. He remembered old Mrs. Lee, or Niang as Lin called her, with her pale complexion, rosy pink cheeks and plucked eyebrows all too well. He got up to greet her. Before he could say anything though, she exclaimed, “What are you doing? Who is this?”
“Mrs. Lee?”
“Yes?” Her slitted gaze traveled from the crown of his head to his toes and back up again in a fraction of a second. “And you are?”
“I’m Dr. Wen. We met a few years back. You came to see me at my clinic?”
Somewhat embarrassed, she blushed. “Oh yes, Dr. Wen. It’s been a while.”
Niang stopped short as a waitress set the table for three. “Will you join us?” she asked Wen, who waved no. “Two is enough. Bring us a pot of Iron Buddha tea, will you?” She waited for the waitress to leave before turning to Wen. “Is this a coincidence?”
“Not quite... May I?” Wen pointed at the black leather seat from which he’d risen. Mrs. Lee nodded. “By all means.”
He continued. “I retired years ago, but word has gotten out about Lin’s situation—”
A shadow fell over Mrs. Lee’s face. Lowering her voice, she said, “Word has gotten out?”
“She gave me the heads up she’s not doing well.”
Knitting her brows together, Niang said, “My Lin is sick, if that’s what you mean. The doctors, they all say how difficult it is.”
Wen nodded. “Had I anticipated this, I would have helped, but with my wife getting ill and passing...”
“I understand, Dr. Wen, my condolences.”
“Thanks. It’s been over two years now. If you don’t mind, I have a few questions about your daughter. Purely in the capacity of someone who cares; a friend,” Wen said.
“Ask away. Why would I mind?” The old lady leaned back, folded her hands in her lap and glared at him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lee. Lin mentioned a person she called Shi Gong, whose name is Li Ming. Do you know him?”
Niang’s eyes bulged like a frog’s. “What about him?”
“Lin appeared quite traumatized and couldn’t stop ranting about him,” Wen said in a low-pitched voice, while locking Niang’s gaze. “Any information you have about him will help me help Lin.”
“I’ve no idea why, but Lin came to me with this crazy idea he’s my oldest brother who was stillborn and accused me of God knows what!”
“I’d appreciate it if you can tell me more about him.”
“Would you? If you don’t mind, I have a few questions to ask you.” Without so much as taking a breath, the old lady raged on, “Tell me what happened to Lemon? Where did she get this crazy idea from? How come she suddenly has this obsession with dead relatives?” Sparks spew from both her eyes and mouth. “Tell me why was she probed in the past, Dr. Wen?”
Taken aback, Wen hesitated. “I can only guess, but things don’t happen overnight.”
“Oh, but it did.”
“She had a lot of questions she wished to see answered,” Wen said. “But Mrs. Lee, can I ask what went through your head when Lin was born?”
Her eyes widened further as the old lady jerked her head back. “What?”
“What went through your head when Lin was born?” Dr. Wen repeated. “What did you feel when th
ey put her in your arms for the first time?”
The old lady blushed. “I had a Cesarean. Why, I felt what every mother feels, I guess; tired, relieved, and happy.”
“Did you take her home with you?”
“What?”
“Did you take her home with you?”
“No, we had to put her up with friends who ran an infant care-take center until we had space for her.”
“For how long? Days, weeks, or months?”
The old lady narrowed her eyes. “I see where you are going with this. You want to make me feel like a cold, uncaring mother, but we did what we had to do. Life was tough. China was a mess. We were in survival mode.”
“How long, Mrs. Lee?”
Clenching her jaw, Niang said, “For a year.”
Although Wen was used to confessions, this one sent adrenaline rushing through his veins. He sighed. “Bonding at an early stage is important in developing a proper mother-daughter relationship.”
“Are you suggesting I’m a bad mother?”
“Not at all. You did what you had to do,” Wen hurried to say.
“Listen, Lin and I were fine until she went into therapy. I figure someone put this nonsense in her head.”
“Mrs. Lee, I always tell Lin times were harsh back then.”
“Don’t interrupt me or deny it. I read up about what some shrinks do. They mess around with people’s head, don’t they?”
“Lin was doing fine when she was in my treatment.”
“Lin would have been fine had she listened to me. Look at her now!”
“Mrs. Lee, I want to help. If you can tell me what you know, I can do something for her.”
Niang waved to draw the attention of a food cart attendant and pointed at a bamboo dish. A few seconds later, the man put a piping hot steamer on their table and stamped their Dim Sum card. Seeing the peachy white buns, Niang picked up one and said, “You see these? I love these, because I believe I’ll live longer if I eat them.” She bit into it while Wen watched her wrinkled cheeks bulge, then offered her his paper napkin. “That’s what I believe. Now, do you think someone as superstitious as me would take part in any conspiracy to do with the crazy gene-changing crap Lin rants about?”
