Midsummer in 1994 Hong Kong

1

Yanyun (燕云) looked outside the window as Bus 121 went into the dark long Harbour Crossing tunnel. Yanyun thought about twenty years ago, before the tunnel was built. Like many people back then, she had to take a small ferry boat to go to Hung Hom. Yanyun would sit in the boat as it wobbled slowly against the water before buildings started to emerge in front of her eyes. She could hear nothing else except for the monotone of the engine splashing the water, over and over. Sometimes, she sat quietly in the corner of the boat next to some young male Vietnamese refugees. It seemed they always moved together in groups. Even though she didn’t understand any Vietnamese, she could sense the flirtations in their tones. Back then, she was easily embarrassed under their bold stares, and she only dared to take a quick glance at them when no one was looking.

That was before the end of 1972 when the first tunnel was open to use. Yanyun remembered it very clearly because that was when she met Muyun for the first time. And now the last and third tunnel was under construction and was said to be completed in a few years.

Against the dark backdrop, Yanyun saw her own reflection in the window. Though with heavy make-up, it was a face of vicissitudes and was marked with wrinkles that belonged to a woman in her late 40s. She saw the woman in the window rubbing her face gently as if trying to smoothen out those markers. What would he look like after all these years? Were there wrinkles on his face as well? Would he recognize her? Would they recognize each other?

Before all of those questions jungled up in her mind, 121 was out of the tunnel and the midsummer sunlight beamed into the bus from above. Yanyun was overcome by a dizziness that made her feel like she was spinning. She closed her eyes. For a second, Yanyun heard waves coming from all the directions.

2

As Yanyun’s bus reached the end of the tunnel, Zhou Muyun (周慕云) was standing by the small window in his hotel room in Wan Chai. All of the other ensemble members had gone sightseeing, and now he had the whole afternoon to himself. Muyun watched a big cruise ship slowly pulling away from the Victoria Harbour. The water down there didn’t look too much different from the water in the Hudson River which he passed by everyday. It might be a little greener, but nothing too special, and Muyun wondered what about it made his father so fascinated with this place.

“I only started to know Hong Kong after I left” once said Muyun’s father. Having lived in Hong Kong for more than twenty years before studying in the U.S., Muyun’s father used to tell stories that made Muyun want to come visit Hong Kong himself.

Now he was here, but not sure what to do.

3

It had been a while since Yanyun last stepped onto Hong Kong Island, and she felt like every time she came, there were ten more names to learn for those new skyscrapers being built. Before Yanyun realized, she had followed someone who got off the bus and was walking on the Yee Wo Street. Her father once told her that the street was called “Kasuga Dori” during the Japanese occupation, meaning “the road of spring day,” but no one remembered that now.

Yanyun turned left at the next crossing onto a narrow road. There used to be a curry fish ball store at the end of the road, but now there was only a newsstand. The man behind the stand was talking to a few old men. They were clearly from the neighborhood and each of them was holding a bird cage. 

“I heard the family on the second floor upstairs was forced to leave two days ago,” one of them said.

Yanyun recognized the bird he was holding a red-billed leiothrix that had a white tummy. She bent down to take a closer look.

“Is that so? They’ve been here for years,” another one said. He had a thrush in the cage by his feet.

“At least six, seven years I bet. I’ve been eating their red bean buns for that long,” said the first man.

“Ah, I miss the smell of those freshly steamed buns,” the guy inside said. Yanyun couldn’t see the bird he was holding in the cage. It was hiding behind piles of newspaper.

“The policy has gotten tighter,” said the newsstand owner with a sigh. “But it might be a good thing. You know the robbery that happened in May right? In the bank at Central Plaza. That was just a few blocks away. Who knows, that might be done by one of those people from the mainland. You never know, they—”

The owner caught Yanyun’s eyes, and he stopped.

“Ah, Madam, are you looking for something? We’ve got all kinds of newspaper here, Ming Pao, Sing Tao Daily, the Daily News, …”

Walking down the street, Yanyun flipped over the front page, the News section, then the Local page and the Sports, before reaching the Arts. She quickly skimmed over and found what she was looking for: …leading musicians in the orchestra, …, Muyun Zhou. Even though she saw the name a few weeks ago on the newspaper, Yanyun could feel her heart miss a beat.

She folded and put the newspaper in her handbag, and checked the bottom layer to make sure her ticket was there.  

4

By the time Muyun crossed off the second to last one on the list of “places to visit” written by his father, it was close to sunset. Most of the places on the list, restaurants, bookstores, coffee shops, record shops, were gone. Even his father’s favorite museum was under renovation.

Muyun walked along the shoreline, wondering if there was anything in Hong Kong that was left unchanged since his father’s time. A group of high school girls approaching the Wan Chai Ferry Pier caught his eye. They kneeled at a corner of the pier, by a big black and white picture of a good-looking young man. Around the picture were bouquets of white and orange chrysanthemums, blooming, and standing candles that were shimmering in the summer breeze. One of the girls took out a cassette player. Some girls started sobbing when the music started.

Muyun couldn’t speak Cantonese, but he could catch some lines and vaguely understand their meaning, “You’ve lost what you owned in those years, but there’re still hopes in your weary eyes, now we’ve only got the empty life, to see the glorious life….” Maybe he had heard it before in his father’s gramophone.

The girls gradually calmed down, and were sitting together on the ground in silence. Muyun stood and watched the sun falling. Before the sun was swallowed by the sea, Muyun decided to leave for the last place on the list. He had to move fast since that was his last night in Hong Kong.

5

Yanyun went upstairs. The crimson door stood there, waiting. She put her hand on the darkened knob, tracing the peeled off golden paint that was once inseparable from the metal beneath. She heard something, bright and clear like a pale blue sky reflected on rippling water, with some mellow notes occasionally disturbing the surface like slender threads of bluish green streams. For a second, she thought he was back.

But all of the melody was gone when she opened the door.

The room had hardly changed. The sofa, the table, the fish tank, even those paint brushes she left behind… and the piano. She sat down and opened the keyboard cover.

Yanyun let her fingers stroke through the keys. To her surprise, she saw her fingers start to move and press the keys, first her right hand only and then both hands, playing as if they had been rehearsing without her.

Waltze Op. 69 No.2 in B minor by Chopin. Valse.

How did it start?

Fa sharp, her ring finger pressed the black key.

Right, The harmonic minor, the special one, the favorite child. It pushed the door open.

Duet moved to trio, dancing, spinning, swirling, endless turns as if they could keep going on with those steps over and over again.

Then she heard the change of tones, delightful bright colors fading into dull gloomy sorrows. Hues of joy replaced by a mysterious questioning that kept coming back with pedaled echoes before her hands finally let it go.

Yanyun found herself sweating as if the last ray of sunset had fully soaked into her body. She carefully laid the cloth cover evenly on the keyboards and closed the lid.

The keys were out of tune, probably had been for a long time.    

6

To his surprise, it was a small restaurant at the corner. Though with little space, the place was very popular, filled with customers. The only empty seat was at a table that already sat three old folks who looked a little too fashionable for someone at their age. On the floor were three bird cages, which looked ridiculously big to Muyun. He had never seen anything like this before in New York. The idea of wandering around with a huge bird cage in hand at Times Square made him smile.

As Muyun approached the table, one of the old folks moved the cages out of the way.  

Based on the English translation added on the side of the original menu, Muyun ordered Wantan noodles and a tangerine-flavored red bean paste.

Hearing the order, the old guy sitting across shook his head. “Since Master Wu left, the red bean paste is not good as before.”

“You can’t really blame him. Everyday is different now. Who knows what is gonna happen in three years when the handover actually comes?” The folk next to Muyun spooned the soy sauce over the steamed Kai-lan.

“Those Hongkongers,” snorted the guy sitting diagonally opposite to Muyun, “are not the real Hongkongers. As soon as something happens, they all just flee as quickly as possibly.” 

“The real Hongkongers,” another one sighed.

The soup arrived, and the three old folks sat there quietly, enjoying the rest of their meal.

By the time Muyun finished his noodles and the last bit of the red paste, the three fashionable old folks had already left. So had the other customers.

Now Muyun could see why this restaurant was still popular after all these years. The food had a special flavor, especially the red bean paste was like nothing he had ever had before in the local Chinatown of New York. The paste tasted like one of those black and white films, a little grainy but that feeling from the past only made it rich and savory.

The TV was playing a music video in which the song sounded familiar, but it was in Cantonese.

On the screen, a woman was standing on a rising elevator. She had short black hair, wearing an oversized yellow floral shirt and a pair of sunglasses rimmed in that same color of yellow that was a little washed out. She looked like she cared for nothing. Her brows were a little edgy but not too much.    

Later in the video, she took off the glasses. She had the exact eyes that Muyun had imagined. He waited until the music video was over. As he was leaving, Muyun suddenly remembered the original song, “Dreams” by The Cranberries, but all he could hear now were the Cantonese lyrics sung by the woman in the video.

7

When Muyun was finishing up the tangerine-flavored red bean paste, Yanyun had locked the door for the last time.

She ran into Aunty Chen downstairs. At first Yanyun could hardly recognize her. This small old lady in front of her was in no way resembling the tall and fashionable woman from twenty years ago. She sat quietly in that wheeling chair, enjoying the precious little breeze in summer Hong Kong. She surely had shrunken so much that it seemed now more appropriate for Yanyun to call her “Granny Chen.”

It took Aunty Chen a while to recognize Yanyun.

“It’s been years since I last saw you. Let me see, it was at least two, three years ago…How have you been? Is Jiaying doing fine in Canada?”

“Right, that was the time I came back for the broken water pipe. It’s been a long time indeed… Jiaying’s doing well. She got engaged last month with someone over there and had been asking me to go live with them, so I am leaving next weekend.”

Aunty Chen nodded. “Jiaying is a good kid. You must be so happy now that she has settled down. Canada’s nice. There were quite a few in the neighborhood moved there in the last couple of months.”

“It’s not so easy to leave behind so many things in Hong Kong. If it were not as a last resort, no one will make the decision to leave.”

“It’s better to leave now than to regret later. I’m too old to go anywhere anyways, but you still have a chance,” said Aunty Chen.

“I guess.”

“You plan to sell the apartment upstairs?”

Yanyun nodded.

“It must be hard after all these years. You know, from time to time, whenever I pass by your apartment, I could still hear him playing the piano. Isn’t that weird? I mean, I know it’s empty, but the music sounds so real.”

“To be honest, Aunty, sometimes I feel like I have forgotten what he looks like, but the music still sticks with me,” said Yanyun.

“I’m 79 now, and will turn 80 next month. I have seen too many people and too many things, and let me tell you something, he isn’t the only guy who knows how to play the piano under the sun. When you are young, you may think that’s the case. But that’s not true,” Aunty Chen patted Yanyun with her hand.

Yanyun reminisced Aunty Chen’s words as she was waiting in the building manager’s office. She took a ball of yarn from her handbag.

It was her favorite color, sky blue. Tough a little rotten over the years, the wool was still so incredibly soft.

He said he would make a scarf for her when he finished his studies and came back from the U.S. But she stopped hearing from him after three months, and all of her letters were returned, unopened.

Yanyun put back the ball of yarn as the manager came in. That was the last thing she picked up from the apartment.

8

As Muyun was on his way back, he passed by a six-floor building that looked exactly like the one that his father used to live and had once described to him. It was built in those red bricks.

Muyun stood there, feeling so close and so distant to the Hong Kong in the past. He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, gazing at this random old building in front of him, until a guy bumped into him. He was very tall and was wearing one of those shiny black leather coats that were obviously on trend now. Two fellows in his ensemble even talked about getting one of those to impress people back home. Without apologizing, the guy kept moving forward.  

He reminded Muyun of New York, where people didn’t even bother to stop when bumping into someone. Muyun thought it was funny for him to find something similar between these two cities that were so far apart. 

9

Yanyun passed the Blue House. The four-storey tenement block of tong lau had stood there quietly since the last century. The over-saturated blue was still vivid. Yanyun heard that the osteopathy clinic on the first floor would soon be renovated, though she would no longer be here by then.

Yanyun turned left at Wai Chai Road Crossing, and stopped at Wai Chai Market on Queen’s Road East. The place hadn’t changed much. Quan’s Fresh Fruits (铨记鲜果), Liang’s Fresh Fish (梁记鲜鱼), Huangguo’s Seafood (黄国记海鲜), those old stores had existed even before Yanyun. Ever since she could remember, her mother had been buying groceries here. There was a time back in middle school when she was so obsessed with Yangming Barbecue/Roast Restaurant (杨明烧腊饭店) that her mother had to reserve half of a grilled goose or duck every Friday.

Yanyun went inside and got herself a box of roast pork with rice. The familiar texture of the crispy skin and the overly oiled meat brought her back to thirty years ago. But the rice was harder than she remembered, and she felt full after only two chunks of meat. Swallowing the meat with fat in between, Yanyun could even feel it smooth out her esophagus with that sleek shiny soft touch. She wondered why she had never felt it was too oily before.

The side soup was a little stale. Yanyun wasn’t sure if it was because of the huge swollen piece of fruit peel, or because of the watercress.

Next to her table sat four girls who were still in their white uniforms from the high school nearby. One of them had her skirt rolled up a little bit just so it was above her knees. They were chattering about the “Four Heavenly Kings,” the four male superstars that everyone knew in Hong Kong. Who was the best actor, the best singer, had the most charming face or the sweetest voice…the debate went on and on.

Leaning against one of the girls’ chairs was a big black and white portrait. In a black frame, Wong Ka Kui (黄家驹) was looking at her with a crooked smile. Yanyun still remembered seeing him two years ago at a concert of “Beyond,” his rock band. She even waved her arms and sang along during “Glorious Years.” That was the only song she could recite the lyrics to just by hearing it in the radio.

Yanyun remembered she was so shock when learning from the radio that he died after falling from a three-meter platform during a game show rehearsal in Japan. It was only a year ago, though she felt like it was half a decade ago. 

The girl swung her legs back and forth on the chair. Her left foot brushed against the frame and the portrait slipped onto the floor. Next to a small wrinkled fruit peel dropped by some customer, Wong Ka Kui lied quietly on the tiles, with the smile on his face.

10

When Muyun hurried to the Arts Centre, it was a little past seven. The changing room was already empty. As Muyun put on his white shirt and ivory bowtie, something slipped out of his pocket. He picked it up. It was his father’s list on which all of the places were crossed off except for the last one. Muyun found a pencil and, in earnest, crossed it off.

He looked at the list, feeling both accomplished and empty at the same time. Muyun saw himself in the mirror and had the weird feeling of not knowing himself only after three days in Hong Kong. The place had changed him, permanently, in an irreversible way. He took a deep breath and adjusted his bow tie before leaving the room.

11

Yanyun stayed in her seat. It was intermission and people around her started to move to the exit to take a short bathroom break.

She didn’t see him for the first half.  She had no doubts that she would recognize him once she saw him. Maybe he couldn’t make it the last minute. Maybe he was ill.

Her heart sunk a little bit.

Most of the orchestra members were backstage, preparing for the second half of the concert. Only a few of them stayed on stage, focused on adjusting the position of their instruments. A young man in the back caught Yanyun’s eye. He seemed to be fiddling with something on his lap. She squinted her eyes to better see him, but could only see the French horn in front of him. He was looking down…knitting. 

Like waves from the Victoria Harbour, memories flooded back, overwhelming her all at once.

It keeps my hands moving even when I’m not playing the piano. He used to say.

Through the tunnel of time, she saw him smiling. Suddenly, his face was clear. His bushy eyebrows, eyes behind the glasses, and the soft curve on his mouth.  

Yanyun felt she was trembling before seeing her hand was indeed shaking.

12

Muyun looked up. Across the first couple of rows, he found her. It was a woman who was wearing a ruby shirt, which caused her to merge with the back of the seat. Because of the strong spotlight above him, Muyun couldn’t see her very clearly, though he felt she looked familiar.

Even across the audience seats, he found her stare bold and intense as if she was Xraying him with her eyes. Muyun gazed at her direction. Though the light was strong above him, he was sure that their eyes met in the air. Suddenly, Muyun had the urge to go jump off stage to meet her. But other members started to come back, and he had to put away the needles and yarn on his hands. When he lifted the French horn, he saw she had dropped her head.

13

Yanyun didn’t know how she sat through the second half of the concert. She was glad that the auditorium was dark enough so no one would have caught tears streaming down on her face.

When she finally remembered to check the concert program, it was clear that Zhou Muyun was indeed one of the leading artists, except not for piano and that this Zhou Muyun was born in 1974 rather than 1952. 

It felt too much like a joke.

She had prepared herself to come see him only to discover that it was all for nothing. 

When Bus N121 left the Harbour Crossing Tunnel and rejoined the bustling street in Hong Hum, Yanyun heard something explode from afar. A few minutes later, when the bus stopped at a crossing, a motorcycle ran past in the reverse direction. The guy on it was wearing a shiny black leather coat.

The small TV in the bus was playing a clip from Wong Kar-Wai’s new film released last weekend. On the screen, Leung Chiu Wai was standing in a local market with Faye Wang.

“You wanna study?” Leung Chiu Wai asked.

“Never thought of that. I just wanna have fun,” replied Faye Wang casually.

“Where are you gonna have fun?”

“Dunno, perhaps California.”

“California? Is it fun there?”

“Maybe. If not, I’ll go somewhere else.”

Faye Wang looked shy but freeing and rebellious. She had the same short hair that Yanyun used to have twenty years ago.  

Yanyun looked away. She suddenly thought of the young man who played the French horn at the concert. She wondered if he had the eyes of Leung Chiu Wai.

14

The next morning, Muyun left with the rest of the ensemble for the next stop of their tour.  As he leaned his head against the window, watching the city getting smaller and smaller and eventually become invisible under the clouds, Muyun thought of the woman from the concert last night. As soon as he put down the French horn, he ran out of the backstage to look for her, but she had already gone. Among the crowd, he found himself lonely, missing and even craving her stare. He wanted to go back, reverse Time, and seize the chance when he still had it, running off stage to stand in front of her, to see her, and to check if she indeed had big bright eyes just like the singer he saw on TV in that small restaurant. Muyun felt he was there again, in that very concert hall.

Just when he thought he was so close to reach her, the plane hit some turbulence and woke him up.