Journey Across the Four Seas (16 page)

"Let me know if you get tired," he said, finally getting up. "My typing is far worse than yours, but I can manage to peck out a few words. All right, I won’t bother you anymore. I’ll come and relieve you in a while."

Hardly had I finished three pages when I heard his footsteps approaching again. The flop of his slippers was distinct. He had the same gait as Ah Yi, which we call the "figure-eight" step because the feet flare out like the Chinese character for "eight." I turned around before he could creep up on me again. He was holding a tray with a lidded cup on it.

"I thought you’d be thirsty," he said.

"I’ve caused you too much trouble." I wasn’t thirsty, but his gesture moved me. No man had ever served me tea before.

"Drink it while it’s hot. Cold tea doesn’t have as much nutritional value." He rotated the tray so that the handle was conveniently located for my right-hand grip. I uncovered the cup and took a sip to show my appreciation.

"You must be tired from typing," he said. "Why don’t you take a break while I take over? I promise not to make too many mistakes."

Figuring that he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I vacated my chair for him. I went downstairs and slipped out the side door to the rose terrace.

What a strange fish! I thought to myself while strolling among the magnificent blooms. Could Lo Bak have assigned him to take care of me? Or was he doing this on his own? Whatever it was, I wasn’t interested. His father might be a big shot, but he himself was just a Phys. Ed. teacher with no other skills. He claimed to have a bachelor’s degree in political science, thereby living up to his name, which meant Learn Politics. But his alma mater was a little-known missionary college in
Shanghai
, and from what I observed of him, the quality of education it offered was third-rate at best.

On the other hand, I had to admit that his thoughtfulness was touching. All my life I’d dreamed about having a father to dote on me. If I had a father, I wouldn’t be poor, I wouldn’t have contracted TB, and I definitely wouldn’t be running around on my own like a homeless urchin. Hok-Ching’s protectiveness brought out my longings more than ever.

I went back to my typing, and the rest of the afternoon passed more or less the same. Hok-Ching’s attentiveness had become so routine that when he didn’t appear after a while, I would wonder if anything had happened to him. Sometime in the late afternoon, I got up to get rid of the tea I had drunk. From the top of the staircase I could see steam rising up the steps. A thatch of black hair appeared, then a bare shoulder straining under the weight of a heavy pole. On each end hung a bucket full of hot water. I stepped aside to get out of the servant’s way.

His face came into view. It was Hok-Ching, stripped to his undershirt like a coolie! The family had manservants to do menial labor. Why did he have to dirty his own hands?

"Aya, this is too heavy for you," I exclaimed.

He set the buckets down, his chest heaving in ragged breathing. "It’s good training for me. I haven’t been able to lift weights as much as I used to. This water is for your bath."

I tut-tutted over the trouble I was causing him, but nothing could deter him from his mission. I followed him as he juggled the buckets into the bathroom. His back looked like an upside-down triangle, wide at the top and narrow at the waist. The muscles that fanned out of his undershirt were ropy and smooth, unlike the repulsive tumors of the man on the magazine cover.

After pouring the hot water into the tub, he mixed in the cold, testing it many times before announcing that the temperature was "just right." I dipped my hand in the water and found that it was, as he said, "just right."

2

The war was still going on, but under the guard of American planes we lived in relative peace. Yolanda and I moved out of the bookstore and rented a room in an old house. She had a bed to herself while I shared mine with Sam-Koo, who’d made the dangerous trek from
Macau
to be with me. I’d had four bodyguards to escort me on that same trip, but Sam-Koo had only herself to rely on. A woman traveling alone was unheard of in those days and in those parts of the country. Her relatives had advised her to wait out the war in
Macau
, but she loved me like a daughter and was willing to leap over water and fire to reach me.

In the beginning the three of us got along fine. Yolanda and I went to work during the day, while Sam-Koo kept house and cooked dinner for us. But by and by, Sam-Koo and Yolanda stopped talking to each other. I couldn’t understand why. There had been no open quarrel between them. The first time I became aware of the friction was when Sam-Koo said to me, "You have to watch out for Yolanda. She’s a calculating woman. You shouldn’t trust her." Sam-Koo’s words went in one ear and out the other. My godmother was a good-hearted person, but she also had a tendency to be bossy. Yolanda had given me no cause for complaint, and she was kind enough to let Sam-Koo share our room at no extra charge. Why should I be wary of Yolanda?

One night, after spending a weekend on
Wong
Mountain
, Hok-Ching rode back to the city in Lo Bak’s car. I thought he would get off with his father, but he insisted on accompanying me to my home. When we got there, it was only polite to invite him in. Sam-Koo and Yolanda, who were both home, became flustered at the sight of the visitor. They apologized for the humble abode, pulled up a chair for Hok-Ching, and hurried to boil water for tea. Hok-Ching, on the other hand, behaved graciously and made small talk with everyone.

"I know of a place for horseback riding. Would you like to go next weekend?" he said to me.

"I’ve never ridden a horse before."

"Oh, it’s easy. The horses at the stable are very tame. Some of them won’t budge even if you kick them." Turning to Yolanda, he said, "You’re welcome to come too."

"Thank you. I would love to," my roommate replied in her loud, brash voice.

Thus began a series of group outings. Hok-Ching, Yolanda, and I made up the threesome, while Wai-Jing and Hok-Jit were a couple. All five of us went horseback riding, dancing, and hiking, and always at the end of the day there was a hot bath waiting for me at
Wong
Mountain
. To tell the truth, I probably wouldn’t have kept the same company every single weekend if not for the bath. In fact, Yolanda seemed to be having more fun than I. Her fiancé was still in the
U.S.
She was lonely, but she couldn’t date another man. Surrounded by the safety of numbers, she could go out with the Wang brothers and flirt to her heart’s content. Bold and competitive, she loved to gallop off with Hok-Ching, leaving me ambling far behind. On the dance floor, however, Hok-Ching gave the two of us equal time, alternating between tangoing with Yolanda and waltzing with me. There was no tension among the three of us, at least not that I noticed, until our walk in the snow.

On a fine winter day, the five of us hiked on one of the many trails on
Wong
Mountain
. The sun warmed our backs, and the sharp air nipped our cheeks to a glow. We trekked in silence, our footfalls cushioned by the carpet of snow. On the slopes, patches of alpine buttercups glinted like gold. Winter to them was as spring was to other plants.

Yolanda and I were walking side by side when something whacked my backside with a resounding thud. I swung around and found Hok-Ching doubling over with laughter. White powder dusted his gloves. My rear end was stinging, but I felt I didn’t know him well enough to massage it in front of him. He certainly didn’t know me well enough to play this kind of joke on me. I couldn’t get angry, though, as it was done in jest. Everybody else thought it was funny, except Yolanda. Her face darkened, and she was clearly biting her tongue to keep it from blurting out whatever was on her mind. I thought it strange that she should be angry over something that didn’t concern her. A question popped up in my mind. Could she be jealous?

*

While I was walking out of my office at the British Information Service, a rickshaw sped past me. There was Hok-Ching, sitting handsomely on it. He stopped the rickshaw and jumped out.

"Hello, what a coincidence," I said. "What are you doing here?" I looked over his blue suit and striped tie. He was always well groomed, but I’d never seen him so dressed up.

"I was just at the British embassy to apply for a visa.
London
University
has accepted me. I’m going for a master’s degree in education."

My insides felt a wrench. Our little group was breaking up. "Congratulations," I said. "When are you leaving?"

"Not until the summer." His dark eyes flickered and he added, "Do you have time? Let’s have tea."

"I have to post these photos on the bulletin board."

"I’ll help you," he said, and reached for the folder in my hand.

I was glad for his assistance. The bulletin board was in the open at a particularly windy corner. I always had a rough time keeping the photos from flying off. While we were pinning them up, Hok-Ching got interested in them. They were photos of the D-Day invasion of
Normandy
. The sight of Allied victory in
Europe
gave us hope that we too could defeat the Japanese. I proudly told Hok-Ching that I was the one who translated the captions into Chinese.

When my job was completed, Hok-Ching took me to a western cafe. It was clean and quiet, the opposite of most Chinese eateries. The tables were covered with white tablecloths, and the cakes were displayed in glass cases as if they were precious jewelry. I would never have stepped into a fancy place like this on my own. My monthly salary of 50,000
y
uan
sounded like a lot, but in real terms it was equivalent to $25 in
U.S.
currency.

We each had English tea, served with cream and sugar, and a thick slice of black forest cake. Since coming to
Chungking
, I’d shed most of the weight I put on because of the yam peddler in front of the dorm. Sam-Koo, my cook and housekeeper, was a careful manager of my salary. Our meals were simple and light, and I was down to a hundred pounds.

"How long will you be gone?" I said. Despite the pleasant environment, a feeling of déjà vu saddened me. My former boyfriend, Yang, had left me for the military. This man smiling at me from across the table was about to leave too.

"Two years. In the first year I’ll be taking courses and going on study tours. The second year will be spent writing my thesis. If I work hard, I’m sure I can finish in less time," he said.

I nodded, but my mind was saying, one year or ten years, it’s no business of mine. Knowing that he’d be gone in a few months, I wasn’t going to bang my head against the wall again.

"Why don’t we have dinner together?" Hok-Ching said.

It took me only a second to decide. I had no plans for the evening. I also had no interest in the man, and an evening out with him wasn’t going to change that.

Up till then, Hok-Ching and I had never had the opportunity to converse one-on- one. In the company of Hok-Jit, Waijing, and Yolanda, our conversation always revolved around our outings. If we weren’t relishing the good time we’d just had, we would be planning the next event. Everything we said was meant for the ears of all, and therefore nothing of importance was ever said. But now, with just the two of us sitting face-to- face, the crowds in the noisy restaurant seemed far away. We could be alone in a raft drifting on the sea. Our words were intended solely for each other.

I told him stories of my childhood—how my father died when I was three, Mother raised the four of us on her own, and Sam-Koo helped out. He’d met Sam-Koo, or rather, Sam-Koo had met him and approved of our friendship. He swapped his childhood stories for mine and gave me a glimpse of a different world. While I was running errands for Mother as soon as I could walk, he was confined to a compound surrounded by walls and gates. Lo Bak was extremely protective of his children and wouldn’t allow them out unless they were accompanied by at least two grown-ups.

There was one thing we had in common—we’d both been sickly children. I’d thought that poverty had been the cause of my ailments, but here was this rich kid suffering from a mysterious pain in the stomach. His father took him to the best doctors in
Shanghai
—one was a German, another Japanese—but none could diagnose his problem. Looking at his sturdy build now, I couldn’t imagine him scrawny and jaundiced. I laughed when he told me his nickname,
Hsiao Huang Di
.
Huang
was a pun that could give the name two different meanings—Little Emperor or Little Yellow Face.

His health turned around when he was fourteen. After the family moved into the International Settlement, he stumbled across a gym down the street. There was a class going on, and the owner, a white Russian, invited him to join in. He got hooked at once. Every day he went to the gym to pump iron. His shoulders filled out and he became strong and healthy.

It would have been a good story with a happy ending, if only he’d ended it there. Instead, he went on and on about his lifting double body weight and his "clear-and-jerk method." I nodded from time to time to show that I was with him, even though my mind had gone on a tour around the world.

We parted after dinner. Hok-Ching put me on a rickshaw and we waved goodbye. There was no mention of when we might meet again. If he were at
Wong
Mountain
next time I went there, that would be fine with me. If he weren’t, that would be fine too. In six months he would disappear from my life. After what I’d gone through with my former boyfriend, I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself.