This story was written in 2020 during my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at the University of Hong Kong. I am re-publishing it in three installments under the Fiction section of my publication. It’s the story of Barbara, a middle aged woman who goes back to Hong Kong to rebuild her life after the separation from her long time partner. An unexpected encounter, will spark a new trajectory for her life. Part 2 will be published next Sunday.
Barbara returned to Hong Kong after a two-year stint in Australia, where she thought she could put Bernie and all his nonsense behind her and start again. But it is not easy to go back to the place of your youth when you’re nearly sixty, and your legs have a hard time carrying what her ex-partner used to call “the finest bottom in Wan Chai,” now turned into a wobbly mass not even her thick jeans could contain.
Damned stupid jeans, I should have worn shorts, she thought when she landed at the Hong Kong airport, and the first thing she faced, as soon as the sliding doors opened, was that heavy, tropical mist she knew so well. She stepped outside and breathed into the muddy air. It tasted of sea and exhaust fumes. She was shocked, then relieved. Nothing in that moment felt more familiar to her. She had left Hong Kong two years earlier after separating from Bernie, who had gone to Manila to start a new business in the cosmetic industry. Over there, he found a new partner- a Filipina twenty years younger than him- who was the lead singer in the band he had finally been able to put together.
I wasted my life away with you, Bernie, Barbara said to herself while dabbing her forehead under the sticky blonde fringe already weighed down by the humidity. She shook her head in irritation and pushed the luggage trolley towards the line of red taxis outside the airport terminal.
Her friend Iris helped her find temporary accommodation in Wan Chai, an area Barbara knew well, in the northern part of Hong Kong island.
From the taxi window, she saw the city parading in the distance. A view that felt familiar yet remote, like a memory poorly kept. As she crossed the Lantau bridge, she saw the mountains dotted by spots of high rises and surrounded by the sea, whose color changed according to the weather. You could call it beautiful on sunny days or dreadful on those days when a thick coat of pollution devoured the city, the colors of sky and sea melting together into one dense grey. The taxi weaved through queues of cars until they approached the congested city centers, where flocks of bodies waited patiently in compact blocks for the traffic lights to turn green. As the ride came to an abrupt halt, the taxi driver tossed Barbara's luggage onto the pavement, snatched the cash from her hand, and bolted — leaving her stunned and rattled by a pace she had forgotten. She shouted something after him, and it was only then that it truly sank in: she was back.
The apartment was in a Queen’s Road East side road, a small alley that, with a bit of imagination, could resemble a shabby but trendy backstreet in Sydney, was not for the distinctive Hong Kong smell of chou tofu mixed with coffee. There was a coffee shop that attracted hip crowds on the weekends, a small Japanese restaurant, a healthy juice bar, a barber shop, a bubble tea kiosk, and a florist. Her front door had been painted bright red and stood beside a wall covered in a coat of ivy.
This view cheered her up. She led her suitcases to the elevator. A set of keys had been left in the mailbox at the entrance guarded by an old porter with a few strands of hair left on his head hunched over a Styrofoam box. The smell of chicken and cabbage caught Barbara by surprise, in a mix of familiarity and repulsion. The man dragged his feet to the mailbox and opened it for her while mumbling something in Cantonese. When she did not understand him, he raised his voice and pointed at his watch. Thirty years in this city, and she hadn’t learned much of the local language except for the occasional m goi, thank you. The reminder made her self-conscious and defensive, consumed by the desire to give this man a piece of her mind, but the lack of words crippled her, her face flushed in frustration and anger. She grabbed the keys from him and went upstairs.
The apartment was a typical Hong Kong flat, narrow and always less comfortable or beautiful than you’d imagined. In the poky living room carved out of the corridor, a small sofa faced a small TV, and a double bed entirely occupied the bedroom.
The place must have been shut for months. The smell of mold mixed with a thick coat of dampness left her breathless. Barbara, who rarely questioned her choices, collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling where a black mold growth hung over her like a death sentence.
Hong Kong is like a woman whose beauty is in her quirks, gestures, and how she speaks to you. You'll be hard-pressed to find her beautiful during the day when all her blemishes and imperfections stand out as the first thing you see in her. She's loud, unpolished, edgy. But at night, she will surprise you with those jaw-dropping views of the skyline glistening over the bay, flaws and frailties concealed by a coat of glossy makeup.
In her younger years, Barbara had enjoyed those nights when she roamed the city streets like a stray dog hunting for food, relishing the excitement of finding herself in a part of the world she’d never dreamed she would see, let alone live in.
