Burn for You

by Jillian Leeson

  We file out of the dining room, and I say goodbye to them as they head for the elevator while I walk—float—down the hallway towards the restroom.

  I can’t believe it. One lunch meeting has saved my company. My staff can keep their jobs, and more importantly, the development project for the homeless can proceed.

  And finally—finally!—I get to enjoy a real holiday with Elle.

  I yank out my cell and dial her number, anxious to tell her the good news. But before it starts ringing, I quickly press ‘Cancel’. It will be much more fun to surprise her. I’ll buy her some nice jewelry, pick her up for a drive up to The Peak, where the views of Hong Kong will blow her away, and take her out one of the best restaurants this place can offer. Then I’ll make love to her all night long and in the days that follow, do more of the same, interspersed with periods of long, relaxing sleep. I can’t think of anything I look forward to more.

  When I leave the restroom, my head feels light and giddy with all the plans that are whirling through my mind. I take a few steps toward the elevator, but I can’t seem to walk straight—I veer from side to side. With each step, my head seems even lighter. It feels so light that I stand still, placing my hand on the wall to balance myself.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I can’t think of a reason, I can’t think straight. I hold my head between my hands, but it doesn’t help. The hallway is twirling, spinning before me.

  A man’s voice in my ear says, “Are you all right?”

  I shake my head, closing my eyes. A strong hand holding my arm keeps me upright, and with great effort I manage to take a glance at him. The man is wearing sunglasses, but his round face looks familiar somehow. He barks something in Chinese to someone behind me, who snaps back a reply.

  And that’s the last thing I hear before all goes black.

  Chapter 6

  Elle

  A smile plays around my lips when I re-read Ryder’s last text message:

  Love you, too. Be thinking of you all day. Be safe.

  A warm flush envelops my heart. It’s hardly been half an hour and I already miss him so much. I have no idea how I’m going to get through the day; without him, it feels like a part of me is missing.

  With a sigh, I put my cell phone in my purse. But as soon as I do, it starts ringing.

  “Hey, it’s Ying. I’m downstairs.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I grab a jacket and fly out the door, excited to meet her again and explore the city together.

  In front of the hotel awaits the familiar shape of her white Lotus. When I open the door, Ying is smiling at me behind the wheel and patting the passenger seat. “Hey girlfriend. Ready to go for a spin?”

  I grin back at her as I get into the car. She’s wearing a colorful halter dress with big hoop earrings that go well with her pixie cut.

  “Always. Where are we going?”

  “Do you want to see HK from above? We can go up the ICC, Hong Kong’s tallest building. It has a fantastic view of the city.”

  “Mmm, I’d rather not.”

  Due to my fear of heights, I always avoid a high vantage point—not always possible when you live in a place like New York City. The only occasion it didn’t freak me out was when Ryder took me to the top of a lighthouse. But then he was there to support me every step of the way. I know I wouldn’t be able to cope without him.

  Ying points towards the harbor. “Hong Kong Island then. We’ll do some shopping first and then I’ll take you out for lunch. We can hop over to Macau for some gambling in the afternoon.”

  I swallow. “Sounds like a plan, apart from the gambling. Not my thing.”

  She raises her brow, and I look away, hoping she won’t ask—I really don’t want to go there.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t. “Let’s go.”

  Ying hits the accelerator, and soon we are driving past the glittering harbor and entering a tunnel leading to Hong Kong Island—the heart of the city and the location of the financial district, so Ying tells me. Despite it being the middle of the morning, we get stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. After remaining stationary for more than five minutes, Ying slams her hands on the wheel.

  “Ah! You’d think traffic would’ve cleared by this time.”

  “Yeah, if we’d taken the subway, we probably would’ve been there by now.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why I bother driving.” She rolls her eyes before resting them on the steering wheel. “But I just love my car, you know.”

  I put my hand on her arm. “Hey, you don’t have to explain. I get it. Totally.”

  And I do—before the crash, my bike helped me get through many a bad day.

  Finally the traffic starts moving again, and the end of the tunnel is in sight. I blink my eyes to adjust to the blinding sunlight that greets us when we emerge in the heart of Hong Kong Island. The modern glass skyscrapers that I’ve only seen from across the harbor now appear through the windscreen, soaring up to the mountains that loom behind them. A moving, soundless ad appears on the front of one of the buildings: a pale model applies a layer of glossy red lipstick on her full lips, puckering her mouth into a kiss and leaving a lipstick mark to hover on the screen. But no one seems to notice, being too occupied to keep up with the traffic’s frenetic pace. Cars, taxis, double-decker buses and trams are contending with pedestrians in business attire crossing streets and crowding the sidewalks.

  Ying drives like a pro, weaving her way through the traffic by slinking between narrow gaps. I should be used to it now, as Ryder’s driving style is much alike, but the unfamiliar congested streets make me grip the side handle once or twice. Thankfully, we turn into a quieter side street and follow winding alleys up the hill until we reach a wider street lined with stores. When Ying parks the car by the side of the road, I spot a street sign: “Hollywood Road”.

  “Come on, let me show you the art galleries around here.”

  Apparently, the area is renowned for its Chinese-antique stores and contemporary art galleries, and I discover Ying has an ulterior motive for taking me here—she’s looking for a piece to hang in her bedroom. I don’t mind, though. I love looking at the artworks, although the dizzying prices could cause anyone to suffer a spontaneous heart attack.

  In the third gallery we visit, Ying’s eyes fall on a modern painting of a couple kissing—a woman, in a colorful flowery dress embraces a man’s black-and-white outline. Its price—twenty-five grand—doesn’t make her blink. Instead, her eyes light up with excitement.

  “This is exactly what I’ve been looking for. It’s going to be perfect above my bed. What do you think?”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “It doesn’t matter what I think. You like it. Go for it.”

  A swipe of her credit card later, we are outside again, and she gives me a hug. I stiffen, surprised by her sudden display of affection.

  “Elle, thank you. Looks like you bring me luck. I’ve been looking for ages; I didn’t think I’d ever find anything. How about you? Aren’t you buying anything?”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready to spend so much money on a work of art.”

  Ying raises her brow. “Why? Doesn’t your boyfriend allow you to spend any money?”

  “No, it’s just the opposite. He wants me to spend, to buy whatever I like. But I just don’t feel comfortable with it.”

  I point to an old man in a gray rumpled suit limping across the street, a big satchel weighing on his back. “It just seems wrong, spending so much. I could spend thousands on a painting that I wouldn’t even look at after a few weeks, while that man could probably pay his rent with it for a year or even more.”

  Ying puts her hands on her hips. “You know what? That’s just a fact of life. Some people are born poor, others rich. And throughout life, money comes and money goes. But without it, there would be none of this.” She waves at the stores and the tall buildings perching on the hill.

  “The rich keep the world going. They invest, they create
jobs—all necessary to keep the economy alive. Spending money is just a way of spreading it around. And having lots of it puts us in a position to help others less fortunate.”

  “I guess.”

  Thinking back to the app I’m developing, I have to concede she has a point—without money I wouldn’t be able to realize my dream of making a difference to the lives of homeless kids.

  Ying takes my arm and leads me to the next art gallery. “What you should do is buy an antique or a work of art. It will be a great souvenir of your trip here. Maybe a painting you can hang in your living room or a piece of furniture. Something you and your boyfriend will enjoy for the years to come, and one day, you can show to your children.”

  “Nah.” I shove her playfully, dismissing that alarming thought. I’ve never considered having children. It’s not in the cards for someone as broken as me, growing up without a father but with a mother whose uncaring attitude left me no choice but to live on the streets at sixteen. What kind of mother would I be? Sometimes I’m not even sure if I’m good enough as a girlfriend.

  Ignoring my reaction, Ying drags me into one gallery after another, drawing my attention to the various items for sale: apart from paintings, she points out Buddha statues, Chinese porcelain wares, dark wooden furniture, and other items such as jade jewelry, carpets, and lacquerware.

  I shake my head at almost everything she shows me, and I’m amazed she doesn’t seem as exasperated with me as I am with myself. I have all but given up on finding anything until we reach a small antique store hidden in an alleyway. In the window display I spot a porcelain blue-and-white vase adorned with a dragon and phoenix in flight amidst leafy lotus and floral scrolls. It perfectly symbolizes my relationship with Ryder: the phoenix is me, just like my tattoo, and the dragon represents him, curling around me protectively to ensure I won’t fall.

  Excited, I go into the store, ready to put his credit card to use. But then I glance at the price tag.

  “It’s twenty grand!”

  Ying grins at my horrified expression. “At least you know it’s a real antique, not fake.”

  She studies the vase. “Seems you’ve got a good eye for picking antiques. It’s from the Ming Dynasty and quite rare. Come to think of it, it’s not that expensive, really. Don’t worry, it will keep its value. I definitely think you should buy it.”

  “But how can I take it home?”

  “We’ll have it shipped.”

  We make our way to the cash register, and with shaking hands I hand over the credit card. In my whole life I’ve never bought anything as expensive as this in a store before. I can’t believe I’m spending twenty Gs on a frickin’ vase.

  Sensing my discomfort, Ying winks at me. “You’re doing the right thing. This is not some designer dress or handbag. It’s an investment.”

  Her words make me feel a bit better, and I finalize my excessive purchase by writing down the shipping address: Ryder’s penthouse in TriBeCa. I envisage the vase in the hallway so we can admire it every time we come home.

  Home—is that where mine is?

  Before I can think it through, Ying is already leading me outside, pointing at a low building with a green roof that is sandwiched between two high-rise buildings.

  “That’s the Man Mo Temple, the temple of the god of war and the god of literature. It’s popular with students who worship there before their exams. Let’s go in.”

  As soon as we cross the threshold into the temple, my eyes start watering. The air is thick and smoky from the giant spiraling coils of incense hanging from the ceiling. Ying tells me they are kept burning constantly to feed the spirits. People mill around the temple, lighting incense sticks and praying to the statues of the two gods, which are surrounded by flowers and food offerings.

  Ying takes four incense sticks from a container on a table and stands in front of the altar of the gods. I copy her, bowing to the statues three times, while holding the sticks at arms length in front of me. We then place the sticks in one of the copper pots that are scattered around the temple. From a shelf on the wall, Ying takes a bamboo cylinder containing thin, flat black sticks and hands it to me.

  “Ask the gods a question and shake the cup until a stick falls out.”

  She guides me to a cushion and gets me to sit on my knees. I shake the cup gently up and down, the sticks producing a rattling noise. In my mind I ask the question I’ve always wanted the answer to: “Are Ryder and I meant to be together?”

  A beam of sunlight cuts through the smoke in the temple, just as one stick tips out and falls on the floor. Ying picks it up, studying the number on it before returning it to the container. I follow her to an indoor alley where we stop in front of a booth with the sign “Master Ng, Fortune Telling”.

  As we sit down on the stools in front of it, the bald fortune-telling master grumbles, without looking up, “What number?”

  “Eighty-three.”

  He asks me my date and time of birth before consulting a thick yellowing book. Finally he looks up, studying my face so intently that it makes me feel uncomfortable.

  “Hah.”

  All of a sudden he starts speaking rapidly in Cantonese, the local dialect. Although I understand and speak some of the official language of China, Mandarin, it sounds completely different from the dialect he’s speaking, and I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  With a serious expression on her face, Ying nods her head now and then. She opens her mouth to translate, but the fortune-teller holds up his hand and turns to me.

  “You very proud and stubborn. That’s why miss good opportunity. That’s why have problem. People no like proud, stubborn. That’s why fight.” He bumps his fists against one another.

  “No easy way to success. You need work hard to get money. Also need work to get love. If something you want, you need trust people.

  “Careful, someone jealous of you. You receive message, very bad news. And lose something very precious. But, this important.” He holds up a finger. “You need trust yourself. You clever, you talent. Use brain to solve problem.”

  His hand clenches into a fist and touches his chest, over his heart. “No run from who you are.”

  Mr Ng closes the book with a bang, and Ying hands him a bill in local currency. She asks me to wait for her outside while she spins around, going back into the temple. Back on the sidewalk, the fortune-teller’s confusing words reverberate in my mind. The message sounded ominous—as if misfortune is about to befall me any minute. I pace up and down. How dare he dump that superstitious bullshit on me. Isn’t he supposed to make me feel good?

  When Ying joins me few minutes later, I let out my pent-up anger. “That fortune-teller was such an idiot. What the hell was he talking about? You know, he didn’t even answer my question.”

  “Sometimes the message isn’t clear to us at the time we receive it. But it will all make sense in time.”

  I snort. “Do you honestly believe in that stuff?”

  “It’s an ancient Chinese art. Most people in Hong Kong believe in it.”

  I wave my hand in dismissal. “I think it’s hogwash.”

  “To each their own. But just in case, I got you an incense coil in the temple. I hope it will bring you some good luck. From what I’ve heard, you’ll need it.”

  “I don’t think so. But thanks anyway.”

  Ying leads me down the street. “So, ready for lunch?”

  “Yeah, I’m starving.”

  We stroll down two blocks and turn into a few narrow alleyways until we reach the restaurant: “The Chairman”.

  “You’re going to love this,” Ying says. “It uses organic vegetables from small local suppliers as well as their own produce from their farm up north.”

  She’s right—the meal is heavenly. I savor every bite: steamed flower crab cooked in aged Chinese wine, fragrant soy sauce chicken, crispy baby pigeon. I close my eyes when I take a bite of the meltingly soft slow-cooked pork spare ribs.

  “This tastes so good,” I
say.

  “Yeah, I know. Sometimes I take clients here for business lunches and they all love it.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I work for my mom. She owns a construction company.”

  “I could never do that. My mom would drive me insane.”

  “Mine isn’t too bad. At least she lets me run my own subsidiary. And it pays the bills.”

  “Looking at your wheels, I thought you’d have an unlimited budget.”

  “No, I earn a salary like everyone else. But being her daughter does have its perks. I still live at home, so I don’t have to do any cooking or household chores. And I get to drive any car I like.”

  “You’re lucky. You live the dream life.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not as great as it sounds. There’s always pressure on me to find a boyfriend, get married, have kids. It’s hard to find a guy who’s not intimidated by a wealthy, independent, educated woman. I think you’re the lucky one. You’ve found your man. And he’s quite a catch—good-looking, intelligent, successful. When are you getting married?”

  I grunt. “Married? Me? I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t wait too long. You never know what’s going to happen. If you know he’s the one for you, just go for it.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”

  Her eyes glaze over. “I let a guy go once, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I met him on one of our building sites where he worked as a construction worker. We got along straightaway. I could tell he was really bright, but he had to work from a young age to support his family and never had the opportunity to go to school.

  “We fell in love, but my parents didn’t approve. You see, my family is part of the Hong Kong elite and to date a guy like that, it’s absolutely unacceptable to them. My mum threatened to disown me if I’d insist on seeing him.

  “I didn’t care about the money, but if I knew that if I’d push through, my family wouldn’t want anything to do with me. I’d become an outcast.