Journey Across the Four Seas (7 page)

No, there was no fellow in my romance. I was in love with myself, my classes, my social life, and the breathtaking vista from the university. The
Hong Kong
University
campus was nestled on a mountainside, suspended between an expanse of blue above and blue below. The women’s dorm looked out to a sweeping view of the sea.
Kowloon
Peninsula
lay on the other side, and in between was a small island named Stonecutters. I would have loved to live in the dorm, but to cut costs Mother made me commute from home.

I was a new person. Even my appearance underwent a makeover. Italian Convent girls were required to wear their hair straight and with no adornment. They also had to dress in sack-like blue cheongsams that covered every curvature down to the ankles. Their shoes were made of cloth and were as flat as they came. Convent fashion, however, was hardly suitable for a modern institution such as
Hong Kong
University
. With the pocket money from my generous older brothers, I got myself a perm, a pair of leather shoes with a bit of heels, and several cheongsams of sleek cuts and bright colors. By bright I mean a modest design of small flowers against a pastel background. Flashy patterns have never been my taste.

Let me tell you how I selected my major. The medical school had accepted me because I’d scored "distinction" in a "science" subject. This turned out to be biblical "science," which for some strange reason university administrators equated with biology and chemistry. However, I knew better than to enroll. Science was my weakest subject, and I wouldn’t have the stamina to complete the arduous medical training.

The choices in the arts were limited to three: English literature, Chinese literature, and economics. Much as I loved literature, and the ambition to write was still in the back of my mind, it was too predictable a major for a female. I wanted to do something different and outrageous. Economics had a masculine appeal about it—never mind my total ignorance of the subject. I signed up for it, becoming one of three women to join the economics department.

The first year sailed by in balmy weather. My academic life was everything I’d hoped for. Economics was challenging, yet not so challenging that I would flounder. Socially, however, I felt like a misfit. After sitting in class with the sons and daughters of wealthy families, I had to return to my hovel of a home. How I wished I could live in the girls’ dorm. The bedtime socials that went on every night sounded absolutely fabulous.

During my first summer vacation, I went by ship with Mother and Ngai to visit Brother Kin in
Bangkok
. We found him living in a big house overrun with more servants than a bachelor needed. He was doing very well as what was known as a "comprador
"
for an American trading company. His job was to interact with Thai suppliers and smooth the company’s way with the authorities. He was perfect for this role, given his widespread family connections and his fluency in English, Thai, and two Chinese dialects.

The boy who left home was now a man. His shoulders had broadened, and his angular jaws gave him a handsome rakish edge. Already a success at twenty-seven, he could take his pick among the Chinese girls in
Bangkok
. When I asked him teasingly whether he had a girlfriend, he gave me a serious answer: "I have no plans to get married until I’ve finished raising my younger siblings." Can you imagine such a good brother! His words moved me deeply.

Sometime during our stay, Brother Kin begged Mother to move the entire family to
Thailand
. He’d been listening to the alarming news from
China
. The Japanese military had become an emboldened tiger since its conquest of
Nanking
several years earlier. They’d pushed the seat of the Nationalist Chinese government all the way to Chungking in the far-western
province
of
Szechuan
. The country was an unguarded piece of pork dangling before the tiger. Every day the radio crackled with reports on Japanese troop movements and speculations on what their next target would be.
Hong Kong
was just across the border, a small but juicy prey.

It was a difficult decision. Mother wanted to stay, but she also understood that Ngai and I couldn’t give up our education for the sake of something that might or might not happen. Ngai was to begin his studies at
Hong Kong
University
, and on full scholarship too. He’d adjusted his ambition of becoming commander in chief of the three armed forces to economic minister of
China
. He, too, had picked economics as his major.

Mother agonized over letting Ngai and me return to
Hong Kong
on our own. She was worried that there would be nobody to look after us. Our other brother, Yung, was working as a seaman on a ship and was gone most of the time. Again, it was Brother Kin who solved the problem. He offered to pay for Ngai and me to move into the university dorm, where our meals and other basic needs would be taken care of. Mother held out for a while, questioning how strangers could replace a mother’s care. But she no longer said "No," which was the closest she could come to saying "Yes" to us.

I was sad to leave Mother, though not too sad, for I knew I would see her again the next summer. Once on the boat, my tears dried quickly, and I turned my thoughts toward the future. At long last I would be moving out of the squalid one-room home I grew up in. It was a miserable place to start with, and time had only made it worse. Memories of beatings and poverty haunted it. I couldn’t wait to close the door on it forever. My new home would be Saint Stephen’s Hall, the women’s dorm famous for its scenery and parties. I’d always envied the girls who lived there. I’d never thought I would have the chance to be one of them; yet here it was, a present from my brother. I wished a strong gust of wind would blow me home.

*

The bedtime socials with my dorm mates were as much fun as I’d imagined. There were four rooms to a floor, and two girls to a room. When the day’s work was done, we opened wide our doors so we could be within each other’s earshot. While curling our hair in front of our respective mirrors, we shouted back and forth about the silliest trivia.

My roommate was called Renee. She was a tiny person, reaching only up to my ear. Her face was plain and horsey, but whenever she smiled, her face could light up the whole room. Her father was a prominent industrialist who owned a chain of dye factories. When I first heard about her affluent background, I got worried that she would behave like a princess. But she turned out to be easy-going and considerate, and we became good friends.

Now, I’m going to talk about something I haven’t mentioned to anyone in a long, long time. Shortly after I moved into Saint Stephen’s, the headaches and fevers of my childhood returned. I tried to ignore them at first, dragging myself to classes and pretending to be well in front of Renee. Nighttime was when the fever burned most fiercely. I sweated so much that my pillow and bed sheet were soaked. Something was very wrong with me, and I couldn’t hide my illness much longer.

There was only one person I could turn to. While sitting on the edge of her bed, I told Sam-Koo my symptoms.

"Stop crying, you bag of tears!" she chided, handing me the handkerchief that was always tucked between the buttons of her cheongsam. "I’ll find you a good doctor. There’s no illness that modern medicine can’t cure. Take, for example, the mother of a student of mine. She’d been sick for a while when I went to visit her. Her face was yellow and bony and her eyes gave out a green light. I thought her days were numbered. Several months later I ran into her on the street. She was not only alive, but plumper and fairer than ever before." Sam-Koo went on with her usual babble about her students and their parents. I was only half-listening when she mentioned the American-educated doctor who was trained in the latest treatment for TB. What was she implying—that I had TB?

"There’s only one problem," Sam-Koo went on. "This doctor is an American graduate and doesn’t have a license to practice in
Hong Kong
. He has to go around his patients like a thief tiptoeing in a chicken coop. Let me look into it. Come back to see me next weekend."

The following Saturday, after another week of agonizing headaches, I set off for Sam-Koo’s dorm. She was standing at the school gate waiting for me. I followed her to the tram stop without any idea of where we were going. All that she told me was that the American-trained doctor had agreed to see me.

We got off at
Happy
Valley
. Sam-Koo hustled me into an apartment building. She knocked on a door and a man let us in. He looked young, but I knew he couldn’t be if he’d had all that training behind him. His hair was wavy, which made me wonder whether it had come from drinking foreign water. We followed him into a room that looked like an office. Diplomas plastered the wall, and my heart relaxed somewhat.

Sam-Koo did all the talking. I sat stone still while the doctor probed and prodded me with instruments. As this was my first time at a western doctor’s, everything was novel. His instructions were simple enough, and I did my best to cooperate. When he put a stick in my mouth, I opened wide and said "Aah." When he put a piece of cold metal on my back, I took a deep breath and held it. But when he told me to take off my clothes and put on a flimsy gown, I hesitated. It seems foolish in hindsight, but at the time I felt very uncomfortable standing half-naked in front of a stranger. Fortunately, Sam-Koo was there, and the X-ray didn’t cause the least pain. The doctor disappeared for a while and returned with several large films. He raised one against a bright light. My lungs lit up. They looked like a pair of giant leaves with wormholes in an upper corner.

I heard him say "TB." Then Sam-Koo’s voice entered. Back and forth the two carried on like an operatic duet. I sat as quietly as a spirit who’d wandered into the room.

I floated around as if in a dream—walking out of the doctor’s apartment, boarding the tram, looking out the window and seeing nothing. I kept waiting to wake up, so that I could tell myself it was just a nightmare. But the moment never came, for I was already awake. My nightmare was my reality. I had TB. The dreaded disease was eating holes in my lungs. Very soon I would be spitting blood like Fei-Chi. My friends at the dorm would shun me and the university would cross me off its registry. Even my family would be afraid to be near me. People would call me a lazy good-for-nothing, as they’d called Fei-Chi. Death would be a relief compared with the shame.

Back in Sam-Koo’s room, I buried my face in her lap and cried. How could my life be so tragic! After the years of hard bitter work, I was just beginning to taste the sweetness of reward. I thought of my heroine in
Dream of the Red Chamber
and wept over our common fate. Just because we were orphans, must we die before we could live out our lives and fulfill our dreams? It was all Fei-Chi’s fault. Why did he stay with us when he knew he had the terrible disease? We ate and slept in the same cubicle, breathing the same air twenty-four hours a day. The doctor believed the germ had been dormant in me for years. The flu-like symptoms of my childhood were an indication of the primary stage of infection. The disease had gone into remission for a period, but it was taking advantage of my moment of weakness to pounce on me again.

Had Sam-Koo not taken charge, I wouldn’t be here to tell the story today. She scolded me and made me write Brother Kin to ask for money for treatment. She cleaned my face with a wet towel and told me to go back to the dorm and continue my studies as if nothing were happening. The doctor had said that the moment the treatment began, I would no longer be contagious. The first session would require a hospital stay of several days, but subsequent treatments—once a month for two years—would be outpatient visits. Spring break was coming up. I could disappear for a week without raising suspicion.

In the meantime, I carried on as usual—classes, homework, and bedtime socials. The only difference was that the moment I entered my room, I opened all the windows to let in the fresh air. I would never forgive myself if Renee were to get infected.

Spring break finally came. We packed our bags and bid each other a good holiday, although we all knew the break was only an excuse to study for exams. My first stop was Sam-Koo’s dorm. From there we rode along several bus routes and arrived at a private Catholic hospital tucked away in the woods. The sisters registered me, and soon I was lying on the operating table.

The doctor performed "pneumothorax" on me. It was a procedure to pump air out of the infected lung. In this collapsed state, the bacteria’s growth would be thwarted. It could no longer spread within the patient or to others. After a long enough period of time, the germ would die off altogether and the affected area would heal. It was therefore vital that the procedure be repeated every month to keep my lung collapsed. I was told that during the first treatment the doctor had stuck a huge syringe into my left lung. Thank goodness I didn’t know.

When I woke up from the anesthesia, my body was simmering with fever. The nurses were constantly in and out, sticking a thermometer into my mouth, feeling my pulse, and forcing medicines down my throat. My temperature reached one hundred four degrees and persisted for days on end. I was exhausted, and at the same time worried sick about my homework. Already I was missing precious study time, and if my temperature didn’t come down soon, I would have to miss classes as well.