The Train to Lo Wu Read online

  This is beautiful.

  Quiet, she hisses, eyebrows bunched together above her headband. One second. There—there.

  What is it?

  A man on the stairs.

  I go out into the hallway and stand at the top of the stairwell, listening. Five floors below, very faintly, I hear sandals skidding on the concrete, keys jangling on the janitor’s ring.

  You heard him open the gate, I say. That’s cheating.

  She shakes her head. I hear heartbeat.

  The next Monday Principal Ho comes to see me during the lunch hour. He stands at the opposite end of the classroom, as always: a tall, slightly chubby man, in a tailored shirt, gold-rimmed glasses, and Italian shoes, who blinks as he reads the ESL posters I’ve tacked up on the wall. When he asks how my classes are, and I tell him that the girls are unmotivated, disengaged, he nods quickly, as if to save me the embarrassment. How lucky he was, he tells me, to go to boarding school in Australia, and then pronounces it with a flattened A, Austrahlia, so I have to laugh.

  Principal Ho, I ask, do you know Alice Leung?

  He turns his head toward me and blinks more rapidly. Leung Ka Yee, he says. Of course. You have problem with her?

  No sir. I need something to hold; my hands dart across the desk behind me and find my red marking pen.

  How does she perform?

  She’s very gifted. One of the best students in the class. Very creative.

  He nods, scratches his nose, and turns away.

  She likes to work alone, I say. The other girls don’t pay much attention to her. I don’t think she has many friends.

  It is very difficult for her, he says slowly, measuring every word. Her mother is—her mother was a suicide.

  In the courtyard, five stories down, someone drops a basketball and lets it bounce against the pavement; little pings that trill and fade into the infinite.

  At Wo Che estate, Ho says. He makes a little gliding motion with his hand. Nowadays this is not so uncommon in Hong Kong. But still there are superstitions.

  What kind of superstitions?

  He frowns and shakes his head. Difficult to say in English. Maybe just that she is unlucky girl. Chinese people, you understand—some are still afraid of ghosts.

  She isn’t a ghost.

  He gives a high-pitched, nervous laugh. No, no, he says. Not her. He puts his hands into his pockets, searching for something. Difficult to explain. I’m sorry.

  Is there someone she can talk to?

  He raises his eyebrows. A counselor, I am about to say, and explain what it means, when my hand relaxes, and I realize I have been crushing the pen in my palm. For a moment I am waterskiing again at Lake Patchogue: releasing the handle, settling against the surface, enfolded in water. When I look up Ho glances at his watch.

  If you have any problem you can talk to me.

  It’s nothing, I say. Just curious, that’s all.

  She wears the headband all the time now, I’ve noticed: pulling it over her eyes whenever possible, in the halls between classes, in the courtyard at lunchtime, sitting by herself. No one shoves her or calls her names; she passes through the crowds unseen. If possible, I think, she’s grown thinner, her skin translucent, blue veins showing at the wrists. Occasionally I notice the other teachers shadowing her, frowning, their arms crossed, but if our eyes meet they stare through me, disinterested, and look away.

  I have to talk to you about something.

  She is sitting in a desk at the far end of the room, reading her chemistry textbook, drinking from a can of soymilk with a straw. When the straw gurgles she bangs the can down, and we sit silently, the sound reverberating in the hallway.

  I give you another journal soon. Two more days.

  Not about that.

  She doesn’t move: fixed, alert, waiting. I walk down the aisle toward her and sit down two desks away. Her eyes follow me, growing rounder; her cheeks puff out, as if she’s holding her breath.

  Alice, I say, can you tell me about your mother?

  Her hands drop onto the desk, and the can clatters to the floor, white drops spinning in the air.

  Mother? Who tell you I have mother?

  It’s all right—

  I reach over to touch one hand and she snatches it back.

  Who tell you?

  It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be angry.

  You big mistake, she says, wild-eyed, taking long swallows of air and spitting them out. Why you have to come here and mess everything?

  I don’t understand, I say. Alice, what did I do?

  I trust you, she says, and pushes the heel of one palm against her cheek. I write and you read. I trust you.

  What did you expect, I ask, my jaw trembling. Did you think I would never know?

  Believe me. She looks at me pleadingly. Believe me.

  Two days later she leaves her notebook on my desk, with a note stuck to the top. You keep.

  1 February

  Now I am finished

  It is out there I hear it

  I call out to her after class, and she hesitates in the doorway for a moment before turning, pushing her back against the wall.

  Tell me what it was like, I say. Was it a voice? Did you hear someone speaking?

  Of course no voice. Not so close to me. It was a feeling.

  How did it feel?

  She reaches up and slides the headband over her eyes.

  It is all finish, she says. You not worry about me anymore.

  Too late, I say. I stand up from my chair and take a tentative step toward her, weak-kneed, as if it were a staircase in the dark. You chose me, I say. Remember?

  Go back to America. Then you forget all about this crazy girl.

  This is my life too. Did you forget about that?

  She raises her head and listens, and I know what she hears: a stranger’s voice, as surely as if someone else had entered the room. She nods. Who do you see, I wonder, what will he do next? I reach out blindly, and my hand misses the door; on the second try I close it.

  I choose this, I say. I’m waiting. Tell me.

  Her body sinks into a crouch; she hugs her knees and tilts her head back.

  Warm. It was warm. It was—it was a body.

  But not close to you?

  Not close. Only little feeling, then no more.

  Did it know you were there?

  No.

  How can you be sure?

  When I look up to repeat the question, shiny tracks of tears have run out from under the blindfold.

  I am sorry, she says. She reaches into her backpack and splits open a packet of tissues without looking down, her fingers nimble, almost autonomous. You are my good friend, she says, and takes off the blindfold, turning her face to the side and dabbing her eyes. Thank you for help me.

  It isn’t over, I say. How can it be over?

  Like you say. Sometimes experiment fails.

  No, I say, too loudly, startling us both. It isn’t that easy. You have to prove it to me.

  Prove it you?

  Show me how it works. I take a deep breath. I believe you. Will you catch me?

  Her eyes widen, and she does not look away; the world swims around her irises. Tonight, she says, and writes something on a slip of paper, not looking down. I see you then.

  In a week it will be the New Year: all along the streets the shop fronts are hung with firecrackers, red-and-gold character scrolls, pictures of grinning cats and the twin cherubs of good luck. Mothers lead little boys dressed in red silk pajamas, girls with New Year’s pigtails. The old woman sitting next to me on the bus is busily stuffing twenty-dollar bills into red lai see packets: lucky money for the year to come. When I turn my head from the window, she holds one out to me, and I take it with both hands, automatically, bowing my head. This will make you rich, she says to me in Cantonese. And lots of children.

  Thank you, I say. The same to you.

  She laughs. Already happened. Jade bangles clink together as she holds up her finger
s. Thirteen grandchildren! she says. Six boys. All fat and good-looking. You should say live long life to me.

  I’m sorry. My Chinese is terrible.

  No, it’s very good, she says. You were born in Hong Kong?

  Outside night is just falling, and Nathan Road has become a canyon of light: blazing neon signs, brilliant shop windows, decorations blinking across the fronts of half-finished tower blocks. I stare at myself a moment in the reflection, three red characters passing across my forehead, and look away. No, I say. In America. I’ve lived here only since August.

  Ah. Then what is America like?

  Forgive me, aunt, I say. I forget.

  Prosperous Garden no. 4. Tung Kun Street. Yau Ma Tei.

  A scribble of Chinese characters.

  Show this to doorman he let you in

  The building is on the far edge of Kowloon, next to the reclamation; a low concrete barrier separates it from an elevated highway that thunders continuously as cars pass. Four identical towers around a courtyard, long poles draped with laundry jutting from every window, like spears hung with old rotted flags.

  Gong hei fat choi, I say to the doorman through the gate, and he smiles with crooked teeth, but when I pass the note to him all expression leaves his face; he presses the buzzer and turns away quickly. Twenty-three A-ah, he calls out to the opposite wall. You understand?

  Thank you.

  When I step out into the hallway I breathe in boiled chicken, oyster sauce, frying oil, the acrid steam of medicine, dried fish, Dettol. Two young boys are crouched at the far end, sending a radio-controlled car zipping past me; someone is arguing loudly over the telephone; a stereo plays loud Canto-pop from a balcony somewhere below. All the apartment doors are open, I notice as I walk by, and only the heavy sliding gates in front of them are closed. Like a honeycomb, I can’t help thinking, or an ant farm. But when I reach 23A the door behind the gate is shut, and no sound comes from behind it. The bell sounds several times before the locks begin to snap open.

  You are early, Alice says, rubbing her eyes, as if she’s been sleeping. Behind her the apartment is dark; there is only a faint blue glow, as if from a TV screen.

  I’m sorry. You didn’t say when to come. I look at my watch: eight thirty. I can come back, I say, another time, maybe another night—

  She shakes her head and opens the gate.

  When she turns on the light I draw a deep breath, involuntarily, and hide it with a cough. The walls are covered with stacks of yellowed paper, file boxes, brown envelopes, and ragged books; on opposite sides of the room are two desks, each holding a computer with a flickering screen. I peer at the one closest to the door. At the top of the screen there is a rotating globe, and below it, a ribbon of letters and numbers, always changing. The other, I see, is just the same: a head staring at its twin.

  Come, Alice says. She had disappeared for a moment and reemerged dressed in a long dress, silver running shoes, a hooded sweatshirt.

  Are these computers yours?

  No. My father’s.

  Why does he need two? They’re just the same.

  Nysee, she says, impatiently, pointing. Footsie. New York Stock Exchange. London Stock Exchange.

  Sau Yee, a hoarse voice calls from another room. Who is it?

  It’s my English teacher, she says loudly. Giving me a homework assignment.

  Gwailo a?

  Yes, she says. The white one.

  Then call a taxi for him. He appears in the kitchen doorway: a stooped old man, perhaps five feet tall, in a dirty white T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. His face is covered with liver spots; his eyes shrunken into their sockets. I sorry-ah, he says to me. No speakee English.

  It’s all right, I say. There is a numbness growing behind my eyes: I want to speak to him, but the words are all jumbled, and Alice’s eyes burning on my neck. Good-bye, I say, take care.

  See later-ah.

  Alice pulls the hood over her head and opens the door.

  She leads me to the top of a dark stairwell, in front of a rusting door with light pouring through its cracks. Tin paang, she says, reading the characters stenciled on it in white. Roof. She hands me a black headband, identical to her own.

  Hold on, I say, gripping the railing with both hands. The numbness behind my eyes is still there, and I feel my knees growing weak, as if there were no building below me, only a framework of girders and air. Can you answer me a question?

  Maybe one.

  Has he always been like that?

  What like?

  With the computers, I say. Does he do that all the time?

  Always. Never turn them off.

  In the darkness I can barely see her face: only the eyes, shining, daring me to speak. If I were in your place, I say to myself, and the phrase dissolves, weightless.

  Listen, I say. I’m not sure I’m ready.

  She laughs. When you be sure?

  Her fingers fall across my face, and I feel the elastic brushing over my hair, and then the world is black. I open my eyes and close them: no difference.

  We just go for a little walk, she says. You don’t worry. Only listen.

  I never realized, before, the weight of the air: at every step I feel the great mass of it pressing against my face, saddled on my shoulders. I am breathing huge quantities, as if my lungs were a giant recirculation machine, and sweat is running down from my forehead and soaking the edge of the headband. Alice takes normal-size steps, and grips my hand fiercely, so I can’t let go. Don’t be afraid, she shouts. We still in the middle. Not near the edge.

  What am I supposed to do?

  Nothing, she says. Only wait. Maybe you see something.

  I stare, fiercely, into blackness, into my own eyelids. There is the afterglow of the hallway light, and the computer screens, very faint; or am I imagining it? What is there on a roof, I wonder, and try to picture it: television antennas, heating ducts, clotheslines. Are there guardrails? I’ve never seen any on a Hong Kong building. She turns, and I brush something metal with my hand. Do you know where you’re going? I shout.

  Here, she says, and stops. I stumble into her, and she catches my shoulder. Careful, she says. We wait here.

  Wait for what?

  Just listen, she says. I tell to you. Look to left side: there’s a big building there. Very tall white building, higher than us. Small windows.

  All right. I can see that.

  Right side is highway. Very bright. Many cars and trucks passing.

  If I strain to listen I can hear a steady whooshing sound, and then the high whine of a motorcycle, like a mosquito passing my ear. OK, I say. Got that.

  In the middle is very dark. Small buildings. Only few lights on.

  Not enough, I say.

  One window close to us, she says. Two little children there. You see them?

  No.

  Lift your arm, she says, and I do. Put your hand up. See? They wave to you.

  My god, I say. How do you do that?

  She squeezes my hand.

  You promise me something.

  Of course. What is it?

  You don’t take it off, she says. No matter nothing. You promise me?

  I do. I promise.

  She lets go of my hand, and I hear running steps, soles skidding on concrete.

  Alice! I shout, rooted to the spot; I crouch down, and balance myself with my hands. Alice! You don’t—

  Mama, she screams, ten feet away, and the sound carries, echoes; I can see it slanting with the wind, bright as daylight, as if a roman candle had exploded in my face. Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama, she sings, and I am crawling toward her on hands and knees, feeling in front of me for the edge.

  She is there, Alice shouts. You see? She is in the air.

  I see her. Stay where you are.

  You watch, she says. I follow her.

  She doesn’t want you, I shout. She doesn’t want you there. Let her go.

  There is a long silence, and I stay where I am, the damp concrete soaking th
rough to my knees. My ears are ringing, and the numbness has blossomed through my head; I feel faintly seasick.

  Alice?

  You can stand up, she says in a small voice, and I do.

  You are shaking, she says. She puts her arms around me from behind and clasps my chest, pressing her head against my back. I thank you, she says.

  She unties the headband.

  6 February

  Man waves white hands at black sky.

  He says arent you happy be alive arent you.

  He kneels and kisses floor.

  The American Girl

  All night, half-asleep, the boy feels the train around him as it moves.

  He is pushed tight against the wall of the compartment: his older sister sleeps beside him, next to the rail, curled around her doll. When the train pulls into a station he feels its braking as a series of taps against his body, and then a long, sustained push, as if hands had reached out to restrain him. Once they have stopped, the folding stairs clatter against the platform and the trainman’s boots thump along the walkway. Sanjiang, he shouts. Names the boy has never heard and never will again. Muffled voices, a few stumbling footsteps. Cigarette smoke.

  Is this it? he wonders. Is this the end?

  Far down the tracks he hears the first whistle, and then a deep vibrationruns through the couplings, a tremor, as if the earth has moved. The train groans, nudging his shoulder as it begins to roll. He releases a deep breath. As they pull away from the platform, the lights of the station flicker against his eyelids and go out.

  Standing on the sidewalk, unfolding his cane, Chen sniffs the morning air. There is a certain dampness in it, a tang of soil and new leaves; it blows across his face like an exhalation. The city breathes, he thinks. Spring. He turns his face to the left, north, where he has been told green hills rise above Kowloon. He nods, slaps his cane against the sidewalk, and begins walking.

  From the door of his building to Lao Jiang’s apothecary takes two hundred and thirty-four steps.

  Passing Grandma Leung’s noodle shop, he lifts his head: the smell of fishballs, pig’s blood, fresh hot soymilk. Eh, Blind Chow! she calls from her window. His name is not Chow. But why correct her? He lifts a finger in the direction of the sound.