Elsewhere, p.10
Elsewhere, page 10
The images flash before my eyes: the white tunnel, the towering buildings and the scaffolding, the big, glowing window and my yellow helmet, the dark underground world. I see myself dropping to the ground like a stone.
‘Kun,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘The character.’ I gesture towards the scroll. ‘It’s kun, right?’
Simon inspects the suspended calligraphy. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Not many people know this character. It’s from Zhuangzi.’
‘In the northern darkness there is a fish, whose name is Kun. Its size so immense that I don’t know how many thousand miles it extends,’ I spew out the lines.
‘Wow, that’s impressive.’
I tell him that, back at high school, ‘Free Wandering’ was my favourite essay in Chinese class.
‘It was my favourite too,’ he says. ‘Do you want to eat? I cooked some fish balls.’
My stomach lets out a croak.
He laughs and guides me to the living room, which is fairly big. A floor lamp glows in the corner. Three tall windows reach up to the ceiling, letting in the soft light from the street. I feel like I’m walking into an underwater palace.
‘Sit, please.’ Simon reappears with two bowls. I settle myself in an armchair and take one.
The pearl-white fish balls are cooked in a clear soup, seasoned with soy sauce and sesame oil, and topped with finely chopped spring green leaves.
Without a word, we eat. When I finish, I exude a long sigh and tell Simon that my grandmother used to make me these when I got full marks at school. ‘And every time, I had to save some for my cousin who never did great in exams.’ Then I remember. ‘Aren’t we supposed to meet Linda?’
‘Yes, we were,’ my host says, and explains he has messaged my cousin to let her know about the accident and told her that he carried me back to his place since I was unconscious. ‘Perhaps you should give her a call now?’ He stacks up the empty bowls and leaves the room.
I call my cousin. Right away, she picks up.
‘Xiao Peng, you poor thing!’ she calls out. ‘Simon said you fell in the subway.’
‘On the platform,’ I say. ‘I tripped on something.’
‘Eww!’ she says. In the background, I hear hubbub and laughter.
‘I’m okay now,’ I say. ‘Tell me, how shall I get to your place? You can just text me the address, I’ll figure out the rest.’
‘About that’ – she pauses – ‘I’m sorry, cuz, I meant to tell you earlier, but I didn’t want to sound unwelcome plus I didn’t want to jinx it – but, actually, my boyfriend Stanley just moved in with me – and this is a really big step for us, you know? So I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for you to crash on my sofa right now …’
While my cousin talks, my eyes alight on the vista outside the window. The City’s signature skyscrapers are glittering, piling on top of each other into the distance, where their silhouettes blur, suffusing into the dark, cloudless sky.
My heart palpitates with a strange uneasiness. Did I forget something, something very important?
Into my ear, rings my cousin’s disembodied voice: ‘… What do you think, Xiao Peng? Will it be okay? Simon said there’s no problem for you to stay with him. But of course, if you still don’t feel comfortable, you can come here to my place. I’ll explain to Stanley, he’ll understand.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, getting up from the armchair and pacing towards the window. Outside, almost at my fingertips, the canopy of a nameless tree is rattling, its wide leaves catching the early autumn breeze and the streetlight below.
I tell my cousin not to worry. ‘I’ll stay at Simon’s and let’s meet in town tomorrow.’
In the morning, I wake up with a tightness in my chest as if having spent the whole night underwater. I put on my clothes and walk out of the bedroom.
A metallic noise blares down the corridor. In the kitchen, Simon is standing in front of the counter, topless, operating a food blender. His hair is tied up into a high bun, sweat dribbling down his back. Thick white vapours rise from a black pot on the hob. At the other end of the counter, a great pile of things lies in disarray: glass jars of red and yellow powders, white and purple crystals, bundles of dried herbs, a velvet antler and other parts of unidentifiable animals.
The food blender stops. Simon turns around, his face flushed and clammy with sweat. ‘Xiao Peng!’
‘Good morning,’ I say reluctantly.
‘Come in!’ He waves at me.
‘What are you busy with here?’ I step into the kitchen.
‘Cooking meds.’ He pours the sludge into the pot and closes the lid. ‘What would you like for breakfast?’
‘Uh, coffee?’ I say, swallowing. ‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘Come on! A big man like you needs to eat more,’ Simon says, opening the double-door fridge and taking out an armful of food. Then he begins to cook, to my relief, normal-looking steamed buns and noodles.
He moves around the kitchen while chatting with me, asking if I slept well last night and if I have any dietary requirements.
I tell him I have been feeling tired since I arrived, possibly because of the jet lag, and I eat everything.
The food is brought to the table, all in impressive quantities. My host sits down across from me with a large white plastic bottle that seems to contain nutritional supplements.
Still flushed, he drains half a glass of water before screwing open the bottle. ‘Now this is good for fatigue.’ He scoops out a full spoon of brown powder and, before I react, dumps it into my breakfast.
I watch the powder dissolve into my noodles that have been topped with minced pork. ‘What is this?’
‘Cold Food Powder,’ he says, shaking another spoon into his own bowl. ‘But it makes you sweat, brilliant to take in the morning to get a full day of energy.’
I wait for him to eat a few bites before digging into mine. ‘Thank you. It’s delicious. It reminds me of the noodles from this old shop in my hometown.’
My host nods, gobbling. ‘So tell me, Xiao Peng, did you come all the way here just to see Linda?’
‘Um,’ I say, swallowing the food in my mouth. ‘No, of course not. I’m here for work. I’m participating in the renovation project at the Empire Building.’
Simon cracks up. ‘Good man,’ he says. ‘The Empire Building, if you don’t mind. So you’re an architect or something?’
‘Sort of,’ I mumble as a heat rises from my guts. I bury my face in the bowl.
We continue our breakfast. The hotness in my body intensifies, as if something is burning out of my chest. To distract myself, I ask Simon why he came to the City and what he does for a living.
‘I came here in the eighties, pursuing a PhD in history – history,’ he repeats in a sarcastic tone. ‘Long story short, I didn’t get the doctorate and now work in palliative care.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I deal with people who are on their way out,’ he says and chuckles when he sees the expression on my face. ‘No need to feel sorry for me, Xiao Peng. We all came here for one thing and ended up with another. And I actually enjoy spending time with my clients and getting to know their life stories. It turns out that rather than fabricating a collective narrative as a historian, I prefer archiving personal memories.’ He stands up, walks to the hob to switch off the flame. ‘I need to run now. Got an early appointment today. What’s your plan?’
I tell him my cousin and I are meeting near her office for lunch.
‘Excellent,’ he says, wrapping the pot up carefully and lowering it into an insulated bag. ‘Before I forget: the spare key should be in the drawer of your nightstand. The Wi-Fi and the gate code to the lobby are written on the fridge. To get to midtown you can either take the subway or the bus. But I guess you’d probably prefer the bus after yesterday. The stop is by the Avenue, on the side of the Park, one block to the west. You can’t miss it.’
Outside the empty lobby, the street is quiet. The dove-grey buildings are old and tall, obscuring the sunlight from above. Marvelling at the edifices, I recall my conversation with Simon earlier. Me? An architect? I shake my head as I walk on.
I must have seen a similar story in a movie: the poverty-stricken young man arrives in a city and is mistaken for someone else and, instead of clarifying the miscomprehension, he reinvents himself and embarks on the journey towards a great future.
As if echoing my thoughts, the Park emerges gloriously at the end of the road, beyond the bustling Avenue. Under the azure sky, its renowned autumn foliage blooms. The florid leaves flutter in the sunlight, their colours dramatic and vivid, as if enhanced by a filter.
Mesmerised, I pause. My phone rings. It’s my cousin.
‘You wouldn’t believe what I’m looking at,’ I say.
‘The traffic?’ she says. ‘If you’re crossing a road.’
I tell her I am indeed about to get to the other side of the Avenue to catch the bus to midtown.
‘Oh good,’ she says. ‘I just found out that I have an early meeting in the afternoon so make sure you get here before twelve.’
‘It should be okay.’ I check the time on the phone. ‘I’ve got nearly two hours.’
My cousin agrees. ‘If you get lost again or something,’ she adds, ‘you can always ask for directions. Call me to put me on the phone if you need me to talk to the other person, you know?’
‘No worries. I speak English, at least the basics.’
‘Of course.’ She chuckles. ‘I forgot you’re the brainy one. See you in a bit then. You are gonna love this Korean place I’m taking you to. Their kimchi tastes exactly like what Granny used to make.’
Ah no, the cabbage pickles. Hanging up the phone, I realise I’ve left the present at Simon’s place. At least I haven’t gone too far.
As I return to Simon’s place, in the opposite direction, the scene along the street looks somewhat different. A nervousness accumulates in my stomach. I tell myself to relax. Before long, I see the familiar grey facade of the apartment building, the elegant cornice above the entrance. On the wrought-iron gate, a slim code lock slowly blinks red.
The gate code. Christ, did Simon say something about the gate code? Now my stomach is cramping.
‘Excuse me.’ A small woman in a pink tracksuit walks up, South-East Asian-looking, a grocery bag dangling from her arm. She presses the code into the lock without looking at me. The gate clicks open.
Relieved, I follow her into the lobby and she swivels around. ‘May I help you? All parcels should be dropped off at the back gate.’
‘Huh.’ I swallow, searching my head for a good answer in English. ‘I, I live here, in 5B.’
Her almond eyes widen like a chihuahua’s. ‘No way,’ she says. ‘I’m the vice chairwoman of the residents’ committee of this building. And I don’t recall receiving any applications for new tenants.’
What is she saying? ‘Sorry, what …’
‘Jackie? Jackie!’ she barks into the lobby and a dark-skinned Asian man in a claret uniform appears. ‘Hello, Mrs Goldman,’ the man says, waving. ‘I was just helping Mr Levin get his wheelchair into the lift.’
‘Do you know this man? He says he lives in Mr Chow’s apartment,’ the woman asks.
The doorman examines me. He has a big nose, his eyebrows thick like weeds. I have never seen him before.
‘I have never seen him before,’ he says.
Sitting on the couch, I stare at the vacant doorway from the doorman’s cabin. The doorman himself is in the lobby, talking on the phone in a language I don’t understand.
The chihuahua-like woman instructed him to escort me here and to watch me while she reports the incident to the chairperson.
On the wall, there’s a large poster of three broad-shouldered men in white jerseys and black caps standing in a row. In their hands are long wooden bats. Beside the poster hangs a clock, its ticking sound prodding my head.
Time. Time is running out.
I get up and slink out of the cabin. The doorman has his back to me as he laughs into his phone. The marble tiles are lustrous, leading me to the exit.
The elevator door opens, and Chihuahua walks out with another person who is almost made invisible by the long black coat they are wearing. ‘Jackie,’ she says. ‘You’re supposed to be watching him.’
Shoving the phone into his pocket, the doorman turns back to me. ‘Hey! You’re supposed to stay inside!’
‘Sorry.’ I retreat to my seat.
The chairperson enters and sits down on the chair by the desk, followed by the deputy and the doorman, who stand guard either side of their superior.
‘This is Mrs Walsh, the chairwoman of our committee,’ Chihuahua says.
I look up. The woman in the middle is old, and strikingly East Asian-looking. Her face is long and haggard, run through with countless deep creases. One of her eyes bulges, a translucent white film clouding its iris.
I freeze.
The old woman turns to her deputy. ‘So this is the Chinaman you mentioned.’ Her voice is weak and gruff, just like the way I remember.
‘Nainai!’ I call out.
The trio looks startled. ‘Could you speak English please?’ Chihuahua says.
‘Nainai, it’s me!’ I cry in Chinese. ‘I’m Xiao Peng, your grandson! Please let me go, I need to meet Linda for lunch!’
The old woman sits like a statue, unimpressed; only her eyebrows move, wringing violently against each other. ‘What is he growling about?’ she asks the doorman.
The dark-skinned man purses his lips. ‘Honestly I don’t quite know. I only speak Cantonese. He seems to be saying something about a Linda?’
‘Never mind Linda,’ the chairwoman announces. ‘You’ll be here with us, for as long as this investigation takes.’ She watches me with her one good eye.
Her gaze makes me shiver. I look away. On the wall, the clock reads 11.40. Oh no. ‘Look, I have to go!’ I shout the words to drum up my courage. ‘I’m sorry but I’m running late. I need to leave now!’
As soon as I get up, the doorman darts over like a tiger and thrusts me back into the chair, his arm tough as iron. I blast out a long series of coughs.
‘God, this thug’s trying to escape! Keep him under control, Jackie,’ Chihuahua says.
Isn’t this a bit too theatrical, I think in a trance as the doorman crushes down on my chest, forcing more coughs out of me. A sour taste rises from my stomach. I shudder, sinking into the chair.
Jackie glowers at me. He might have loosened his arm but the air around me nonetheless continues to drain no matter how hard I inhale. ‘Please, Nainai, please …’ I murmur in gasps, eyeing the old woman.
Frowning again, Mrs Walsh pushes herself up.
‘Chairwoman, you stay back!’ In spite of her deputy’s warning, she walks over and stands right in front of me. She watches me, drops of turbid liquid leaking out of her sick eye, her face exactly like my grandmother’s.
‘Don’t you try to get rid of me,’ she says. ‘We’re stuck with each other.’
Tears pour from my sockets. I try again to breathe in, but my chest spasms as if something is thrusting from inside. I retch, sticking out my tongue involuntarily. A rancid reek permeates the cabin.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ Mrs Walsh recoils, crossing herself.
Chihuahua bursts out screaming.
A man strides in. He is wearing a tunic suit and a pair of fine golden-framed glasses. His grizzled hair is combed back.
‘Xiao Peng!’ Simon kneels down beside me. Swiftly, he retrieves the stone pot from the insulation bag, digs out a small lump of black balm with his little finger and feeds it into my mouth. Then he grips my arms, holding them down, as if preventing them from exploding.
‘What the heck? Carol and Helena?’ he asks my interrogators. ‘This is my friend who’s a very reputable architect. He’s in town for a job at the Empire Building and is staying with me. Now what do you have to say for detaining someone like this for no good reason?’
The balm dissolves behind my teeth and slowly the shiver recedes, air travelling up my nose. ‘S-Simon,’ I mutter as my host turns to me, my shrunken reflections in his dark pupils, pale and defeated. ‘I’m gonna miss my lunch with Linda.’
——
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’ Simon pushes open the front door of the apartment. ‘I mixed them up all the time when I first came here. Stay, live, live, stay – they’re confusing. The only person to blame is that old crow.’
‘I can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake. I used to be good at English. It’s just I haven’t practised for ages.’ I follow him into the kitchen, still trying to shake off the physical resemblance between the chairwoman and my late grandmother.
‘It’s not your fault. That woman is getting increasingly insufferable since her husband died.’ Simon opens the fridge and shoves in the black pot. ‘Something to eat?’
I tell him I’m not hungry and text my cousin. My lengthy apology disappears with a whooshing sound.
‘Linda’s probably back at work now.’ Simon sits down beside the dining table with two cans of Tsingtao, pushing one over to me.
I stare at my phone, cold and silent. ‘Maybe I’ll never see her again.’
‘You just got here yesterday,’ Simon says. ‘You are going to see her when you see her. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s not like this is the most important thing in the world.’
‘It kind of is.’ I open my can and take a swig.
‘It was the last thing my grandma wanted, to see my cousin again. She was in so much pain, that tumour in her head pressing her optic nerves, giving her hell. And that was probably why she began to see her – my cousin – and she’d talk to her as if she were right there in the room. Linlin, you’re back, she’d say. I thought I’d never see you again. I can still hear it now, Linlin, Linlin, my grandma crying the name, again and again.’ I stop, a lump in my throat.
My host sighs. ‘You poor kid,’ he says. ‘I hear you. But you needn’t feel dejected. As long as your grandmother believed in their reunion, didn’t she die without regrets? Besides, she was fortunate that you were there with her. Trust me, I’ve seen too many people, who, as they drew their last breath, had no one around.’
