London was a beautiful, enchanted city, I was surprised to discover. Due to a lifetime of being indoctrinated against the West, I’d been expecting a wasteland of graffiti, squalor, and louche behaviour — strip clubs and squats on every corner. But that was not the London that folded me into her embrace.
The year was 1978. Mao was now dead and dramatic changes were in the air. During the first year of my degree, I lived at a residence owned by the Chinese embassy, so I remained under a certain degree of government surveillance and control. Nevertheless, the increased freedom I had — to stroll the streets at leisure, to peruse bookstores, to wander past the countless treasures and masterpieces in the British Museum — filled me with a sensation nothing short of heady.
How devastating and unreal it now seemed that I, not so long ago, had been a Red Guard and participated in the destruction of such precious artifacts and artworks. The screams of that poor old lady whom Fatty and I had whipped. Shame filled me to the brim, flashbacks and nightmares leaving me drenched in sweat. I couldn’t believe that girl had been me. A large part of the reason I was drawn to the field of art history and ultimately a curatorial career, I think, was that I needed to atone for the sins of my entire generation.
And yet, as the years sped by and my English improved, as I grew more comfortable wearing short skirts and putting on mascara, it was all too easy to forget the past and slip into the skin of this new person completely. I’d desperately wanted a new identity and now I had one. Sometimes, if strangers asked about my nationality, I would pretend to be Korean or Japanese. It was just easier that way. For many decades, I never talked about my past, not even with the men I dated or my eventual husband. It was too painful and that old me was dead, anyway. What would be the point of digging up all that sorrow and heartache?
Funny how one’s entire sense of identity can be so quickly stripped away, replaced. My father must have had a similar sense of rebirth, I imagine. His past — all the terrible things he’d done, the horrors he’d lived through — suddenly dissolving, like fragments of a nightmare. That man wasn’t him. Couldn’t have been him. For Ba was here in Hong Kong now, a new man, rushing past mirrored skyscrapers, briefcase in hand, eager to close the next big deal.
He let go of that other life, that bad life.
But now that I know what I know, I can’t let it go.
I burst into the dining room, where my father is sitting in his wheelchair, a newspaper stretched out on the table before him, giant magnifying glass in hand.
“Look, Ba, I have to tell you something. I went to Guangzhou.”
“Why on earth …?”
Something like shadows seem to be floating around the edge of the room, all swimmy and grey, but they’re not shadows, they’re more like cobwebs or strands of something that’s there and yet not really there, ever so slightly disrupting my field of vision. I blink hard, though nothing changes.
“I met with Mr. Ma. He told me … everything.”
“Everything?”
“He told me that Mr. Chan, your old partner, used to be someone else. He had a different name back then. He was a political leader.” The words shoot from my quivering lips. “I don’t understand.”
The magnifying glass remains frozen in my father’s hand as he peers through it at me. Like I’m the enigma.
I repeat myself, even less coherent this time.
Every muscle of his face clenches up. For a second, this face almost looks young, oddly young, revitalized by anger.
“Don’t you see?” he says finally. “There is nothing to understand. Understanding” — mockery taints his voice — “didn’t factor into our decisions.”
Something in the air seems to pulse between us.
“You see … how shall I put this?”
Now it’s pleading that I detect. As though he really does care about making me understand. Or at least, he wants to compel me to be nicer to him, to take pity on him.
“It’s a terrible thing to be hungry all the time,” he says. “To not know where your next meal is coming from.”
For some reason, his words don’t move me nearly as much as they once did. I’ve been fed this line all my life.
“I know that times were tough,” I say. “I know that you needed a lifeboat.”
“A lifeboat?”
I’m still not exactly sure what Mr. Ma meant by this, but I can guess. “You were trying to escape. You needed an exit strategy. The travel permit that enabled you to return to Hong Kong. And the start-up capital that allowed you to build your business in record time.”
“I got that through hard work.”
And you had a little help along the way.
Where did that nest egg come from? Did Chan have a rainy-day stash? A foreign bank account? And what did my father do for Chan in return? “Your fate was somehow tied up with Mr. Chan’s,” I say, frantic now. Why won’t he just tell me? “The two of you had some kind of deal going?”
Ba turns back to the smudged newsprint. “You understand nothing.”
I phone Eddy Chan. His cell keeps going to voice mail. I call his office. His secretary tells me he’s out of town and refuses to give me a contact number. Eddy and his new wife are off enjoying a belated honeymoon, not to be disturbed by business. I tell her it’s more of a personal matter, but she won’t budge. He’ll be back in two and a half weeks and I can talk to him then.
Celeste offers a more sympathetic ear when we chat on the phone. I report that I’ve discovered the source of the photos and the dead mouse. “Ba was involved in some nasty business in Guangzhou. He went on a rampage, with a bunch of other radicals, and tore up an old lady’s grave. Which led to a man being denounced and beaten and crippled.”
“Slow down, Jill. I don’t quite follow.”
Thoughts ping-ponging about my brain, I find it hard to explain what I myself still can’t comprehend. “Oh, forget it.” Besides, my sister doesn’t sound all that interested, fatigue weighing down her voice.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“Let’s just say that our father did some very bad things. I’m not sure what, exactly. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to know. Let’s just leave it at that.”
After a long moment, Celeste says, “Well, I have some good news. The baby’s developing well. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be able to give birth at home.”
When it comes to talking about the baby, she’s more upbeat than she’s been in years — in her whole life, maybe. Her mind is on midwives, breast pumps, strollers, organic baby food. The kid’s kicking up a storm, keeping her up at all hours. But she doesn’t mind, because this is all a labour of love. The train wreck of our own family seems to have faded completely from her mind.
“Hey, Jill,” she asks as the baby talk peters out, “are you doing all right?”
I’m not used to my sister asking me this. It’s always been the other way around. “Sure, I guess? Why?”
“You seem distracted, tired. Maybe you should throw in the towel. Just get on a plane and come home. Like I’ve been telling you for weeks.”
“But who’ll take care of Ba?”
“He’s got his nurses. Plus, Rina’s there. You hire a property management company to handle Ba’s building.”
“It would be only a matter of time before the company started mismanaging, skimming.”
“That’s exactly what Ba would say!”
“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.” I’m in no mood to argue. If Celeste wants to think I’m no different from Ba, so be it.
But her tone is soft; conciliatory, almost. “Just come home, please. Who cares if the property manager skims? It would be a small price to pay for your mental health.”
I can’t believe my sister is talking to me about mental health.
“I’m just saying that you don’t have to be a martyr, Jill. Unless, for some odd reason, you want to be.”
I shift funds around; I write out two cheques. One to Be
njamin Ma for his university expenses, in the amount requested. And the other to his father for a significantly larger figure — enough to buy a condo and then some. I mail the cheques to the post-office mailbox.
The cheque to Ben is withdrawn within a few days. But a week later, then ten days later, the one to Mr. Ma remains untouched. I wonder if Ben hasn’t passed it along yet. I email him to enquire, but never hear back.
I sleep a lot. I dodge Terence’s phone calls. All the chores I’m supposed to be doing — collecting rent, hiring repairmen, preparing paperwork for our accountant — get pushed to the next day. And the next day. And then the next week. The mere thought of setting foot in Ba’s building fills me with dread. Writing out cheques, accepting cheques, depositing cheques into our bank accounts. My palms sweat and my knuckles cramp up at the thought of touching those degraded slips of paper. Worse still is touching real money, the stacks of bills Ba keeps in the safe in his bedroom. Whenever possible, he likes to pay for things the old-fashioned way. But these days, my flesh cringes even when I’m forced to dole out a few bills to Rina for groceries. Take it, I want to scream and throw the whole wad in her astonished face. I want nothing more than to divest myself of these polluted funds that have been paying for the food sustaining my body and all the taxis I’ve been taking around town and my decadent cocktails and dinners out at the day’s end. That overpriced hotel room in Guangzhou. In exchange for putting my life on hold, I’ve been allowing myself these ever more indulgent luxuries, as though they’re just little things that don’t count, or as though they’re nothing more than a fair day’s wage. How easily I’ve slipped into enjoying Ba’s money — using, possessing, controlling it, like it’s my own, the company credit card never far from my fingertips. Yet now I never want to touch any of it again.
I give in, succumbing to inertia, the pull of gravity against the crumpled sheets. It’s noon — the bedroom is flooded with fiery sunlight — and I’m still just skimming the surface of consciousness, drifting in and out of some shadowy dream. I’m at the airport and a team of security guards are chasing me down, trying to prevent me from catching my flight. And then, I dream that I’m right here, in my childhood bedroom, which has been converted into a tiny, self-contained apartment, a kitchenette where the closet used to be. I throw open the window and light a cigarette. Each time I exhale a ring of smoke, I notice myself shrinking a little more, the floor gradually rising up to eye level.
I drag myself out of bed to take a cold shower. Still, the feeling of being asleep stays with me. How do I know that I’m really awake? I peer into the glass at my puffy eyelids and the sepia sunspots darkening by the day across my cheekbones.
I think about Celeste’s concerned words. Maybe she’s right, maybe I am going over the edge. The thought almost strikes me as funny.
Then Terence calls me from a landline, so I don’t recognize the number and pick up. He, too, is worried about me. Very worried, he emphasizes, his plaintive tone sending shivers of guilt through me. Reluctantly, I agree to meet for tea at one of our old haunts, if only to reassure him that I’m okay. But everything about the city feels off-kilter, as I sink down in the back seat of the taxi, the shimmery, reflective surfaces of all the skyscrapers looming over me like monstrous holograms.
The scones taste stale and dry, the tea tepid, so I switch to a glass of Merlot.
At some point, I say out of the blue, “Sorry, Terence.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“Oh, you know.”
His lips tense up, trying to hold his disappointment at bay. “Nothing’s been decided yet. You asked for some space and I’m giving you some space. Take as much space as you want!”
“I’m not sure that’ll help. I think, maybe, I’m just one of those people meant to be alone in life.”
“That’s such bullshit.” He won’t stop looking at me, holding me accountable for the hurt in his eyes.
“I’m trying to let you off the hook gracefully —”
“And I’m not letting you.”
Before I can say another word, Terence hijacks the conversation by prattling on non-stop about all the new types of sake he’s been sampling. Soon he’ll throw a tasting party for his friends, once the bar’s open for business.
“That’s nice,” I say. “Unfortunately, I’ll probably have left by then.”
“What? You’re going back to Toronto?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“What are you going to do back in Toronto? Go back to your old job?”
“I guess so.” I emailed Carlos yesterday, and he was overjoyed to hear from me. The temp filling in for me has found a permanent position, so I can resume work as early as October if I want to. There I’ll be at my old cubicle overlooking the grey-blue waves of Lake Ontario, like nothing ever happened.
“You prefer your life in Canada?”
“Things are just simpler over there.”
A sigh comes out of his nostrils, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
“What’s on your mind, Terence?”
“All those towers going up along the waterfront are built and owned by Chinese money. You do know that, don’t you?”
“What would you know about Toronto real estate?”
“I don’t have to know anything. All I have to do is flip through the Standard.”
The paper is filled with ads for condos in Toronto, Vancouver, Melbourne, and London, right beside the ads for immigration services and private schools overseas. For folks who can afford it, getting that second passport and home in a foreign location is still an appealing contingency plan — just in case things take an unpleasant turn under Communist rule. And Canadian real estate’s a safe place to park money.
“I get it, I really do,” I say.
“You get what, Jill?”
“In going back to Toronto, I’m not really getting away … China’s everywhere.” Something like regret — or even shame — stirs at the back of my throat, constricting my ability to breathe for a dizzying moment. My refuge has been ripped away from me, exposed as a dream, an illusion. There is nowhere far removed from my people and our wretched history. “We’re everywhere,” I whisper, horrified.
“Then why leave?” Frustration quivers in Terence’s voice. “If you can’t escape yourself, why keep running?”
To this, I have no reply, beyond a sigh of pure exhaustion. I excuse myself to go to the washroom and splash water on my face, but the cold doesn’t revive me at all.
The phone call comes early in the morning. I sleep right through it and don’t discover the voice mail until noon. It’s Eddy Chan, back from his honeymoon, sounding all too chipper. I call him back and tell him we need to meet up ASAP, but he has a dinner engagement that evening and an appointment with his personal trainer right before. When he suggests later in the week, I tell him nope, it has to be today. I’ll meet him at his gym and we can talk in the taxi on his way to dinner. Although he doesn’t sound keen, I conclude the call so quickly he doesn’t have a chance to back out.
I wait for him in the lobby of California Fitness, a little after seven. He’s more stylishly dressed than usual. Marriage appears to agree with him. While Eddy will never be a good-looking guy, he has it within his grasp, as he ages, to look distinguished.
We step outside onto the crowded sidewalk.
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” he says, heading in the direction of the nearest taxi stand outside Landmark. The message seems to be: if I want to follow him, fine, he can’t stop me, and maybe we’ll chat a little along the way.
I don’t waste time asking about his honeymoon. “I just came back from Guangzhou. What do you know about your father’s political career?”
This gets his attention. He slows down, glancing back sharply. “What political career? Ba was just a businessman.”
But I sense from his hesitancy that he has some idea of what I’m getting at. “Don’t give me that crap, Eddy.”
“What? Our fathers had a bus
iness together. Mine did the accounting.”
“I’m talking about back in Guangzhou.”
“What would I know about those days? I wasn’t even born then.”
“You must know something. Everyone was political back then. Life revolved around Mao, the Red Guards, the mass organizations.” I watch him carefully, searching for any minute changes in expression.
A tall woman in a black cocktail dress knocks into me and roughly shoulders her way past. People don’t like it when you slow down and impede the flow of traffic. Grabbing Eddy’s arm, I pull him down an alleyway. “How did your dad end up in Hong Kong, anyway?”
Eddy’s started lightly sweating. “Well … your father returned first, right?”
“Ba came back and bought the property where their building later went up. Your father must have arrived a couple years after mine, from what I gather.”
“Right.”
As I keep staring at him, the rivulets become more noticeable, trickling down the sides of his face, pooling in his collar. Under the well-cut jacket, his shirt’s probably already soaked. What a mess he’ll be for the dinner party. Too fucking bad. I feel like a bully, having cornered a snivelly kid in the schoolyard. Much as it sickens me, the feeling is also kind of intoxicating.
“My father wanted a fresh start in Hong Kong, okay? That’s the sense I always got. Everyone’s entitled to a fresh start, aren’t they?”
“Depends. What was he trying to escape from?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh, come on. You must have suspicions.”
“Well …”
I grab his arm, leaning in. “I’m not going to let this go.”
Red Oblivion Page 24
