Chapter I

Standing at the entrance of the MTR station, she was at a loss.

Passersby were walking in chaos and some were starting to run. A McDonald's paper bag was rolling down the street with the wind, dogging the passersby until it became drenched and laid wearily on the crosswalk at the other end. It seemed to rain a bit harder.

At a distance from where she stood was the huge screen of Times Square: the Chief Executive of Hong Kong, Tsang, was giving a statement to the press on the attack aiming at the Olympic flame. Suddenly, the scene was changed and a large “T3” – the Strong Wind Signal – appeared in the upper left corner.

An anchorwoman reported seriously, “Typhoon Raccoon has brought severe weather to Hong Kong. The Observatory issued the first Red Rainstrom Warning of the year. This afternoon, typhoon warning signal No.8 was issued in Macau. Turbojet service between the two cities has ceased operation. Raccoon will make a landfall near Yangjiang at dusk. It will centre about 150 kilometres east of Hong Kong in the evening and move northeast at 18 km/h. It will finally enter inland Guangdong with occasional squalls and thurderstorms.”

A middle-aged man squatted down and put a canvas bag on the ground. Printed on the stripe was a triangle in dark red – the icon of a well-known expressage company in the city. He unbuttoned his uniform. A stinky smell prevailed with heat. She leaned aside to keep a distance and heard him saying, “the Observatory is nuts. Macau is on No. 8 and nobody has to work. Here, it’s only No. 3. How come it's so different – damn it.”

All of a sudden, a thunder rumbled out of nowhere and the rain curtained the world. The old guy could no longer control his temper and cursed in a louder voice. Behind the curtian, she felt her anxious heart taken by a sudden silence: the world outside could finally be unseen.

***

It was already the fifteenth day on her job and she hadn't got any deal for bonus. She started to deliberate on how she was to keep her body and soul together with the basic salary of HK$5,500 at the end of the month. Yet at a second thought, she was fortunate enough to have survived the unemployment tide of university graduates. Such could have been the reward of being a good person that there was always a safe landing, which however had kept her back for twenty-three years.

Everything was blurring, until all there was became fragments of colours, flowing, with nothing but a sound of whirling fluid. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound which multiplied and multiplied.

The blast abruptly changed its direction, oscillated and overwhelmingly swelled into the station. Someone opened the umbrella in a fluster, splashing raindrops onto her shins. She unconsciously gave a little shiver at the sense of coolness, only to find that the leaflets had dropped on the ground from her hands. Some were half soaked in an instant. One floated towards the station and she went after it. When the leaflet was almost within her grasp, someone stepped on it hastily. The guilty feet timidly shrunk back. She picked up the paper dripping with water: what had once been gaudily painted turned into the dirtiest colours.

“I’m sorry.” Hearing a chunky male voice, she slightly turned her head and saw a thick dark sideburn.

Without a word, she stood up to throw the leaflet into a litter bin nearby and then slowly returned.

She took out a tissue to wipe the leaflets, which were then sorted out, packed into a plastic envelope and piled tighter up before she put them into her bag. The bag was held against her breast in both hands, so big so that her body looked even smaller than its actual size.

“This one is clean.”

She heard someone say. Then she saw the same dark sideburn, paused and recognized a face – a swarthy male face.

Faces of such color were far from rare in this city. Many Southeast Asians lived here – Indians, Sri Lankans, Pakistanis, Filipinos – who had long been integrated into this place seamlessly.

But this face was still a bit different. When she recollected herself from contemplation, the reason finally occurred to her: it was the details.

Generally, people of this color would have a lively look, which was embodied in their deep eyes, high nose bridges, slightly protruding cheeks and lower jaws. This face, while having all these features, had their liveliness somewhat restrained so that they did not appeal as much, but were rather gentler: coarseness gave way to a kind of delicacy.

Thankfully the edges and corners were retained. So she thought.

“Hey, are you okay?” She found this face bowed down and gazing at her with anxiety.

She took over the leaflet, saying thanks.

The man replied. “You are welcome,” in accented Cantonese.

***

The rain gave no sign of truce. It got heavier in the already dimmed daylight. More people were gathering at the exit, mostly to take shelter from the rain, though they knew that the waiting might be hopelessly extended. Unreliable though the Observatory could be, the typhoon named “Raccoon” had set in so menacingly that no one was allowed to hold any doubt about its arrival. They complained, yet kept waiting. No one wanted to leave. There started to be a hubbub of voices, which entered her ears as some low-frequency humming.

She had a headache but had to stay. For her, MTR stations are the working front.

She steered her vision clear of the crowd: near the station, there was a hibiscus tree shaking ostentatiously in the rain. With an early flowering season in the south, this plant could have been profusely blossomed. This year, however, it met the typhoon in its prime. Look, its frail struggle was falling short of its wishes to remain. Eventually, in a creaking sound, an entire branch was neatly broken from the trunk with all the leaves.

The snap thumped her heart. Some kids cheered. She looked down at her watch and exhaled with relief. It was time to pack up, she thought.

She picked up the bag and turned around. Beside her was a tall figure with swarthy face – the man she just met, she realized. He looked a little impatient with his eyes fixed on a leaflet, exactly the one she had dropped. Now she could see his face clearly: he was actually a young man. Although she was not good at judging the age of foreigners, she could still tell he wasn’t older than thirty. Perhaps it was the darkness of his skin that blocked some of his youthful shine.

At this point, he looked up. She smiled at him and he smiled back, exposing his white teeth. Then he pointed at the leaflet and asked, “What does it say? I can’t read Chinese.”

“It’s a job ad.” She replied perfunctorily. At this time, she saw something shining from the collar of his polo shirt – a platinum necklace. The pendant was shaped as a letter “A”, in some Eastern European font with delicate transition of strokes. This was from Steve Kane, an Italian master of metal craft; giving gentle hints in tough substance, his art is a play of paradox. The discovery was annotated with a bitter smile: her professional knowledge finally came in handy. If time had been better, she could have become a jewellery appraiser, or made some other achievements.

This was the beginning to look at him with new eyes.

***

“Now we are recruiting talents,” she told him.

She tried to sound as calm as a millpond.

He read the flyer carefully once more, and asked: “What kind of talents?”

She took out a name card from her bag and handed it to him.

He took it and read: Vivian Chan, Material Life CO.LTD.

She smiled, with well-tempered propriety. “Actually, we are runing a Brokerage Firm for models. I am a liaison commissioner of artists.”

His eyebrows moved and his eyes seemed to gleam with excitement. “So, you are a talent scout.”

“I have only started in this business recently,” she said modestly, “but we take it as our responsibility to explore young potential stars. We now have many years’ experience.” She then pointed to a picture on the flyer, asserting: “This is his first TV advertisement. We arranged it for him.”

On the picture was a famous male star booming in recent years.

“Oh,” he replied gently.

She observed him carefully for a few seconds before she adopted a more sincere tone and asked, “I wonder what you think of yourself?”

He looked back, obviously blank, “Myself?”

“Right. I don’t think everyone has a comprehensive self-understanding, especially of personal strengths. You’re probably unaware of your unique style – internationality, which local youngsters don’t have. It’s really important as our artists only advertise for international brands. There are already enough Asian icons like Hidetoshi Nakata and Ai Tominaga. People easily get bored and always expect something new.”

“I haven’t heard of the two you just mentioned.” He touched his face and scratched his head.

“I only know Gill Mohindepaul Singh.” He said suddenly, with a loose smile which made him look frivolous.

She sighed in despair. Gill was the most popular Indian comedian born here, an authentic made-in-Hong Kong, well-known for his gags. He recently advertised for an impotence drug in a Superman suit with a red cape.

“You don’t share his style,” she tried to persuade him. His eyes started shifting. The rain seemed to have eased off a bit. People started putting up their umbrellas and leaving.

She noticed that he was quite uncomfortable with her sudden talkativeness. She then made a quick decision.

“Well, our company recently got the endowments of several brands. I think your image matches an advertisement for sports stuffs. Of course the competition is fierce because we pay generous rewards. Would you like to come to our office for casting? Please feel free to call my mobile to make an appointment.”

She pointed at the business card on his hand. He glanced at it again and read, “Miss Chan.”

“Vivian will be fine,” she smiled as friendly as she could and said, “goodbye”.

She put up her umbrella and walked out of the exit, quiet and quick, without turning back.

***

It was late at night when she arrived home.

She lived on the outskirts of the city. Unlike downtown, Tin Shui Wai was quiet.

Standing in front of the windowsill, she saw a stork flying pass the water leisurely. That was the Wetland Park built by the government.

There was a pot of soup on the table. Opening the lid, she saw some kudzu roots and chicken claws. All Cantonese women can make slow-simmered soup. Mother’s creativity, however,  lay in her sincere belief that animal organs benefit the corresponding human ones in nutrition. “Strong feet are essential for working outside the office,” she would say.

She drank the soup and took a shower. Coming out from the bathroom, she heard from next door a male voice scolding rudely – it was her stepfather. Perhaps her younger brother stayed up late again, indulging in video games.

She opened the door. In this room, the low snore of Mother was the only sound. She took off her shoes and climbed up the bunk bed cautiously, yet still, the bed shook a bit.

“You’re back. Did you eat the soup?”. It was the voice of her mother.

“Mm.” She affirmed softly. Mother turned over and fell asleep again.

She lay down slowly so as to prevent her head hitting the ceiling. This unit belonged to the public housing project the government financed fifteen years ago to settle new immigrants. To accommodate more people, the ceilings were designed very low,  just right to fit a bunk bed.

She has lived there for more than ten years. At first, she slept with her younger brother. Her brother slept in the lower berth while she took the upper. The bond between the two of them was built up on this bunk bed. When they were children, Brother was timid and afraid of the night, so that she would comfort him with hugs and stories untill they fell asleep. People said that she was like a mother to him.

With the lapse of time, they talked to each other less. Later, he even avoided her eyes. One day, when she pushed the door open, she saw him holding her bra with interest. Seeing her enter, he quickly threw it aside.

It was year five of middle school when she separated from him. Under his pillow, Mother found a Playboy. One page was folded. When she opened it, she saw a half-naked porn star whose eyes resembled his sister’s.

Her mother kept it a secret but asked him to sleep in the big room with his stepfather, herself in the lower bunk.

***

When she was a child, her mom asked her about her dreams.

She answered, “When I grow up, I don’t want to sleep in the bunk bed.”

Her mother forced a bitter smile, “Silly girl, if people like us don’t sleep there, where should we sleep? In the street?”

So she grew up, and still slept in the bunk bed. Four hundred square feet shared among four people, they had to rough it for everything.

Deep down inside she knew, everyone in her family wanted her to marry.

Her mother originally not, for she spoiled her. She once worried that she looked too plain to be able to get married at all, at which her mom laughed: “If you cannot get married, I will take care of you for a lifetime.”

She also deeply loved her mother, who supported the family by waitressing in a seafood restaurant. Her stepfather, simply reluctant to work, had not endured in a single job, apart from receiving social security allowance.

Now, her mother also wanted her to get married.

Half a month ago, she was changing clothes in the room when she turned back only to see a pair of eyes behind the half-opened door. It was a pair of male eyes, long and narrow. The two of the men in the family had this kind of eyes: an older one and a younger one.

Streaking across the midnight sky were not meteors but Mother’s quarrelling and sobbing, repressed in a low voice.

***

She took a deep breath.

At the moment, she heard the whirling sound of the strong wind. Raindrops launched a general offensive to the window and blossomed into martyr flowers, which instantly withered and fell as streams of sticky water.

Stronger and stronger, the wind confronted with the thickly taped windows without entering. Unwilling to compromise, it rattled the glass to make a cranky noise, which arose suddenly, died down, and broke out again – like people whispering in a hoarse voice.

Abruptly, she thought of him.

......