Everyday movement, p.14
Everyday Movement, page 14
One night, a fire broke out in Ma Chai Hang. It grew wild, Mom recalled, “like a red curtain” falling over the entire settlement. They woke up choking on smoke. They fumbled for one another in the dark. Mom had wanted to grab their washbasin and clothes, but Auntie Lan shouted at her to hurry. They escaped and stumbled onto the main road. It was pitch dark and very hot. That was when Mom remembered Tweety. They had left Tweety behind. Only eight at the time, she was too young to grasp the scale of the disaster. She threw a tantrum, wailing and screaming for her pet bird. Agitated, Auntie Lan smacked her across the face, then turned around and ran back into the settlement before anyone could stop her.
Auntie Lan paused her busy hands and looked at Mom.
“Ah! That’s why you’re so nice to Auntie Lan, because she saved your little yellow finch!” Hung Yi blurted out.
Neither Mom nor Auntie Lan said anything. They each returned to their tasks.
* * *
—
After dinner, Hung Yi and Ah Mak took Ah Mou out for a walk. Lately, the responsibility of taking care of the dog had fallen onto the cousins. Well, to be precise, Ah Mak had taken on the responsibility of babysitting both the dog and Hung Yi. She had seen Mom slipping Ah Mak small amounts of money, telling him to keep an eye on her. Thankfully, most of the time, Ah Mak just took her to a fast-food joint after class, where they ate burgers and did homework. Sometimes Hung Yi told him about her day.
They walked the dog along the bike path near home. Ah Mak held the leash, and Hung Yi held a water bottle and some old newspaper. In this new town, urban planning was hardly consistent. At the beginning of the walk, they passed rows of houses. But soon, the scenery turned into a wilderness of overgrown weeds. On a wired-mesh fence, signs advertised development plans for the land. Occasionally, they ran into a stray dog, who jumped into a barking match with Ah Mou.
Hung Yi told Ah Mak that the head teacher told the whole class about Ah Sze entering the final round of the competition. “He even encouraged us to all go watch the award ceremony,” Hung Yi said. “No one actually wants to go, but if you don’t, you’ll look unsupportive of your friend or overall antisocial. So now everyone said they’re going. Ugh!”
“You don’t want to go because you never got that call, right?” Ah Mak asked.
She wanted to deny it, but what was the point? He had seen her hovering near the telephone all summer. “I obviously wrote better than she did. My feelings were genuine. I definitely cared more about the earthquake. I even went around selling raffle tickets,” she said.
Ah Mou walked over to a tree and lifted a hind leg.
Ah Mak seemed to regret having asked his young cousin such a sharp question. “Yes, yes, and you sold a ton. I know. The auntie at the community center even praised you.”
“Yeah, and I bet while I was out selling tickets, Ah Sze was at home playing video games.” Hung Yi twisted open the bottle and poured water over the spot where Ah Mou had peed to wash away the smell.
“You really want to know what I think?” Ah Mak asked.
“No, let’s talk about something else,” Hung Yi said.
Ah Mou seemed to be getting tired. When they first set out, the dog was tugging the leash to go ahead. Now, as they chatted, Ah Mou was lagging behind.
“Remember the other day I was late picking you up from school? My dad had showed up at school looking for me.” Ah Mak reached into his pocket. “He gave me this.” He opened his hand and revealed a gray-and-white slider mobile phone.
“Is this the legendary Nokia 5300? The phone that takes photos, plays music, and shoots videos?!” Hung Yi snatched the phone and inspected it. “I’ve never seen the real thing. Wait, how do you not have a single song on here?”
“He asked if I wanted to go with him.”
She experimented with the camera and snapped a photo of Ah Mou sprawled on the ground, too lazy to keep going. She didn’t grasp what it all meant. “Go where with him?” she asked.
“You have no idea what our moms have been up to these days, do you?” Ah Mak answered her with a question. She shook her head no. “Ah, of course, they wouldn’t have told you. You have to focus on school, on your important upcoming junior high entrance exams,” Ah Mak said. She couldn’t tell if his tone was mocking.
“My mom wants a divorce. And she is trying to apply for public housing for the two of us. But she can’t do these on her own. She doesn’t know any English. She’s barely literate. So your mom was helping her with all the forms and meetings.”
That was a lot of information. Hung Yi tried to process everything. Wasn’t divorce something that only happened in TV dramas? What was going to happen to their tong lau apartment? Would she ever see the dark, musty stairwell again?
“Have you ever wondered why your mom’s always so nice to mine? Doesn’t it feel more than just sisterly love?” Ah Mak went on.
“Does Auntie Lan have something on my mom?” Hung Yi blurted out.
“Not exactly. Have you heard about the Ma Chai Hang fire?”
“Yes, Auntie Lan saved Tweety!” Hung Yi was glad she knew something after all.
But that was apparently only half of the story.
“When I was very little, I used to bathe with my mom. I saw her body.” He glanced at his younger cousin and spared her the worst details. Kissed by fire, Auntie Lan’s skin was all discolored and jagged with ugly lumps and uneven layers of patches. She had often said to Ah Mak that if it weren’t for this body, she would never have married his dad.
Hung Yi wasn’t sure if she heard everything right. She felt like she had questions, but didn’t have the words.
Ah Mak went on. “Perhaps your mom is there for my mom, every day, in some government building, holding their number in line and waiting for their turn to meet with an officer or a social worker; tirelessly filing the paperwork for an emergency case; claiming that my dad committed domestic violence….” Hung Yi had never heard Ah Mak say so many words at once. He seemed almost out of breath as he finished the last thought. “Your mom is doing all these things without any complaint because she believes she ruined my mom’s life and that it would take a lifetime to pay back.”
Indifferent to their exchange, Ah Mou squatted and pooped. Ah Mak pulled the newspaper from under Hung Yi’s arm, crouched down, and scooped up the pile.
* * *
—
By the time Ah Ming woke Panda and Ah Lei up, daylight had broken. They had fallen asleep by the roadside as Panda told Ah Lei about her summer of 2008. Nearby, at the intersection where Yen Chow Street and Pei Ho Street met, hawkers were setting up their stalls. Trucks delivered load after load of vegetables, fruits, seafood, and meat. As though they were lifting sedan chairs, workers hauled in roast geese dripping honey glaze. Others carried butchered pigs that were split open at the belly.
Ah Ming told them support lawyers had arrived. Given the large number of arrests, he explained, the prosecution apparently wasn’t ready to bring charges. Ah Mak would likely be granted bail, but he wouldn’t be released before the police finished a complicated set of administrative processes. He wasn’t allowed to receive visitors right now, so they should all go home to rest and regroup later.
Feeling a little more reassured, Panda and Ah Lei parted ways with Ah Ming and returned to their dorm. They each showered and settled into their twin beds. Ah Lei was about to doze off when Panda asked, “Do you want to hear what happened next?”
“What do you mean?” Ah Lei said. She was wrapped in a warm blanket and feeling cozy.
“What happened to Ah Mak and Auntie Lan, and my writing competition. I haven’t finished the story yet,” Panda said.
Ah Lei was silent for a moment. Then, already half asleep, she said slowly, “Go ahead. I’ll pretend it’s a lullaby.”
The prize ceremony took place in a bookstore in late September. Near the back of the store, staffers had moved aside shelves of stationery and craft supplies to make room for a modest podium and three rows of chairs. A shopkeeper handed out the program printouts and directed guests—award winners, parents, and students—toward the designated area. On the wall behind the podium, a red-and-black banner read Body to Body, Heart to Heart—Wenchuan Earthquake Essay Contest Award Ceremony and Anthology Release.
When Hung Yi and Ah Mak arrived, the seats were sparsely occupied. Not a single one of her classmates who vowed to show support was there. Only the front row was full. Among the kids and parents seated there, she spotted Ah Sze with her parents. Hung Yi sized up Ah Sze from behind. She had on the same black evening dress she’d worn for her piano solo at last year’s school music festival. The bodice was embroidered with rose lace. It still looked so glamorous.
Just outside the ceremony area, a few children ran around the shelves. Occasionally, some adults came searching for products. They eyeballed the banner and walked away. By the podium, a staffer tested the microphone, which didn’t seem to be working.
Hung Yi wouldn’t admit what she had expected, but the scale and spectacle clearly fell far short. She would never tell Ah Mak what she had pictured: a venue as spacious as a theater where guests had to be guided to their seats by ushers. Maybe the host would even roll out a red carpet and the finalists’ arrival would trigger camera flashes.
She didn’t need to. He looked nonchalant as usual, but he had seen the care she put into her appearance that day. She was wearing a white satin dress, with a bow at the waist.
Even as the ceremony began, she hadn’t completely given up hope. Surely there was some explanation to account for the extraordinary fact that she hadn’t been notified that she was a finalist. Maybe her name was printed on a list posted somewhere for everyone to see, or in an envelope in the emcee’s pocket. On that imaginary list, two characters, “Hung Yi,” ranked high above Ah Sze’s name.
Truth be told, Hung Yi didn’t even like her name. The two syllables sounded curt, and she was constantly mistaken for a boy. Worse was her nickname, “Ah Mui,” and the indignities associated with it: adults messing with her hair, pinching her cheeks, and offering in return a few candies or pocket change for her piggy bank. For a twelve-year-old, nothing was worse than being treated like a child. But she wanted to will her name into existence on some list. She was ready to see Ah Sze’s stunned face. Oh, what a wonderful surprise, she would tell Ah Sze! My goodness, what would she even say when they presented an award to her? It wasn’t like she had a speech prepared. Hung Yi would feign surprise and humility.
None of these fantasies came to pass. In their dorm room, Panda’s face flushed when she remembered how naively, how ardently she had waited for the phone call. Why was she telling Ah Lei this old anecdote? “You remember how crazed we were back then, with all these certificates, awards, and diplomas,” she sheepishly said. Ah Lei didn’t respond. “To us, these were the proof of human worthiness,” Panda went on.
Just a few years later, more and more previously unheard of prizes proliferated. Hung Yi came to understand what the writing competition really was: one of those sketchy companies that came up with grand-sounding awards catering to the hyper-competitive, credential-driven mentality of parents and their school-age children. For a piece of such honor, all the fees for registration and publication were just a small price. At reunions, Ah Sze’s prize had become a laughingstock. “Can you believe it? Her parents bought her a place on the short list,” a former classmate once whispered with a snicker.
Back in 2008, Hung Yi would have been so relieved to know the competition she had lost was a scam. But this revelation didn’t explain all the boisterous feelings she had experienced that day: confusion, sorrow, envy, and indignation.
After an opening remark, a short documentary was projected onto a screen. It began with a montage. First, the central government dispatched troops and firefighters to Sichuan. Overnight, the heroic rescue teams rushed in. “Time meant the difference between life or death—they searched day and night for their fellow citizens buried beneath the rubble,” a solemn voice-over said. Then the film focused on one particular case: A severely dehydrated young girl had been trapped under rubble for days before rescue workers found her. They used a tube to feed her glucose before deploying jacks and excavators to bore a passage. The team risked their own lives, the voice-over explained. If the floor above collapsed, they would have been buried along with her. Hung Yi tissued off her tears.
The girl was finally saved. “It turned out to be her birthday!” the voice-over exclaimed. Life triumphed over death! Suddenly, more than a hundred soldiers started singing “Happy Birthday” to the little girl. The film ended with a national leader standing atop the highest point of the rubble, rallying the crowd, “No hardship can defeat the heroic people of China!” Hung Yi felt profoundly touched by the thought that human life could contain such pure love and selfless devotion. What a proud people! What an extraordinary nation they shared! After the credits rolled, the emcee led everyone to stand in a moment of silence to mourn all who had suffered in the disaster. The audience bowed their heads. Some clasped their hands in prayer.
Then Hung Yi heard a noise from the last row.
She looked behind her and saw two women sitting with their backs to the podium, clearly only there to rest their feet. Oblivious to the larger-than-life drama of crisis and salvation behind them, they chatted and laughed. Their postures slouched and their legs crossed.
Hung Yi seethed at this travesty. Her righteous anger was approaching hatred. How inappropriate to behave so frivolously in a moment like this! If only she could make them regret it, she caught herself thinking.
The cousins sat through the ceremony and headed home together. Hung Yi had too many feelings in her chest. Most of them would take her years to unpack. But distinctively she was aware of her gratitude for Ah Mak’s presence. This gratitude renewed over the years whenever they argued. She knew he must have picked up a number of embarrassing details from that occasion. He never filed them away to be used against her.
A few months later, after countless sessions of intervention and mediation, a social worker finally fast-tracked Auntie Lan’s case under emergency provisions for domestic abuse. As a result, Auntie Lan and Ah Mak were soon allocated a public housing unit in the Kwai Tsing District, an industrial area. Their new home had been built relatively recently, complete with a community hall, sports court, and a park. A small shopping mall was a short walk away. More importantly, it had an elevator.
* * *
—
After graduating from elementary school, Hung Yi gained admission to an English-language junior high school just as she had hoped. She didn’t publicize it around her classmates, knowing that Ah Sze didn’t get in.
To celebrate, Mom and Dad treated Ah Mak, Hung Yi, and Auntie Lan to a trip to Ocean Park. Hung Yi had planned on riding all the roller coasters, but the others weren’t fans of too much excitement. Instead, they toured the animal arenas to see jellyfish, sharks, and pandas.
Since Ah Mak had moved into their public housing apartment, she had been too busy with exam preparations to visit. They hadn’t seen each other for a while. As Hung Yi tried to think of something to talk about, all the other visitors were getting close to the exhibit window to ogle at the panda enclosure. Its ground was grassy and populated with neatly grown trees and well-manicured shrubs. Ah Mak suddenly said, “Look, it’s out!” A panda emerged from the enclosure, prompting a chorus of cries from the tourists—all kinds of accented Mandarin and Cantonese jumbled together to praise the cuteness of the beast. The crowd tried to figure out which of the panda celebrities they were seeing. An information board gave detailed instructions for the visitors to identify individual pandas by their facial features. But the panda was too far away for anyone to make out its face.
The crowd marveled at the national treasure’s every move. It climbed down some steps and picked up a stalk of bamboo. After chewing it for a little bit, the panda dropped it onto the ground and turned its rear end toward the visitors. For a long time, it sat there without moving, as though it were resting. The visitors clamored for more action. At first, they called out to the panda. “Look here! Get up!” they shouted. Then some of them tapped on the glass.
Hung Yi had never seen a living giant panda before. She had only seen them on TV or in pictures. The animals were often introduced in educational materials as “an endangered species unique to China, and mostly found in Sichuan.” Hung Yi read on a sign, “Hong Kong’s four pandas were special gifts from the motherland—two in 1999 and another two from last year—all in celebration of the city’s return. Since Hong Kong is a concrete jungle unfit to grow bamboo, all of the pandas’ feed must be transported from Guangdong.” Even though these pandas live in Hong Kong, she thought, they were literally still closely connected to China.
Photos and videos always depicted pandas to be funny, cuddly creatures. But now, seeing one in real life, Hung Yi thought they were overrated. She didn’t feel any joy or excitement toward it.
All of a sudden, the panda got up. As the crowd looked on, it planted its four limbs and lifted its stubby tail ever so slightly. Its belly twitched, then, from beneath that short tail, a steady string of stool dropped to the ground.
The crowd began cursing. Some asked for a refund of the hefty park admission fee.
Unbothered, the panda climbed into a hidden crevice behind a rock wall and presumably went back to sleep.
“That was pretty smart,” Hung Yi said. “The panda knew how to drive away the nosy tourists.”
“Have you heard that some giant pandas in zoos are just people in costumes?” Ah Mak brought up the urban legend. Rumor had it that the first two pandas to arrive in Hong Kong didn’t get along. Whenever they saw each other, they went at it. So if anyone ever spotted them at the same time, the legend went, one of them was actually an employee in a panda suit. These actors liked to crouch in a corner, pretending to nap so no one noticed the zipper on their chest.
