So many innuendos in a Chinese person's life....A Chinese Story
So many innuendos in a Chinese person's life....
CHAPTER 1
What he said was not wrong. In fact
she was quite taken aback by his frankness and observation, let alone his daring
act to say his thoughts outright and in such overt manner. For a while she
knew she was doomed. And she felt
the need to put up a defense or even a denial.
Then she knew for sure that denying it would simply be like
denying her very own existence, and that would only mean a total negation
in life. What have I done wrong? She keeps asking, in many
sleepless nights and dreamy days, relentlessly yet remorsefully, forcing
fervently for an answer so to justify her acts but in vain.
It seems somehow, something has already been deeply buried in a faraway
grave, somewhere.
Still, she would keep on repeating it until she feels completely drained,
like a corpse, as if she is the one being buried, not the answer.
For once she did follow what some old myths say: let it be out of your sight and
it will then be out of your mind. Sadly, it only turned out to be a
painful mockery when she sees the intensity and the desire grow, in an enormous
speed beyond any imagination. It had gotten worse when she saw him – there
were times when she thought that she could devour him, not ravenously but
adoringly, admirably, infinitely gently, the way she used to cherish her loved
ones... such intimate fantasy was too alarming.
All her life she has been a very decent person. Having lived up to the
worldly standard of a good wife, and a perfect mother.
She loves her family selflessly and purely.
She loves her husband. She
loves her children. She is glad to
be both a wife and a mother. But,
she still cannot understand why she would have slipped across an invisible line
without even the slightest sense of knowing it.
And she keeps on being drifted away from that line which has always
separated her from what she would prefer to feel, who she would prefer to be.
It does not seem surreal that she has undergone any forms of
transformation, be it physical, metaphysical, spiritual or even worldly, here in
this very moment of her life, such ordinary is in fact what she has worked so
long and so hard to achieve. Such carefully treasured yet ordinary tranquility…
Now when she’s gotten the knack of living happily ever after, like
those ending lines suggest in the fairy tales that she read since childhood, she
has ironically caught up with herself. Her
world is entangled. It is not pure
as it was. Is she going to have her
world destroyed and the endings of the fairy tales re-written?
CHAPTER
2
Is it true that we are all looking for some missing
parts in ourselves? Some say your destined partner in life is your better
half, for God has been visionary enough to separate you into two halves when he
did his work, so to make sure you and your other half have a life to chase back
each other if you want to be “complete”. Such, as they say, is the
meaning of life.
It seems to dawn on her that life would never be
completed. And that her must have been purposely chipped a bit so a few
pieces were scattered here and there when God finished his trick.
Therefore she would persuade herself to believe that she, at the moment, has at
least found out some parts that she is missing, are indeed being carried by him,
and they are for her to discover now, today, at such moment in life.
His existence is finally justified.
As she thought about that while she’s frosting the
birthday cake in the kitchen, she could not help looking a bit smug. While
everything seems perfect every cook can tell you that there’s no perfect cake
in the world. Even though it is only sugar, flour, and eggs, these
seemingly simple elements one can always get easily in this complicated world,
however, do not promise you any perfect outcome. And isn’t part of a
cake’s charm is its inevitable imperfections? She knows that; well, of
course she does. Still she’s been hoping to be able to create the
perfect cake, one in which she can fill up with her love, explicitly and
ostentatiously, or perhaps a profound message, a soothing utterance… one that
can be done by all proud mothers, squander so lavishly to a beloved 16-year-old
daughter. She’s determined to create a cake that can bring back sweet
memories to this child when she gets to her mother’s age – how old the
mother is really? 45. Well, may be plus two or three months.
As always, unlike other women, she doesn’t mind bringing that up, for she
certainly does not look it. It is always so flattering when people exclaim
exaggerating disbelief when they hear about her age at social occasions.
Such thought, or rather, belief, gives her strength to
strive on. She needs this to get going as much as she needs to fortify her
role as a mother again, not only just a wife. This reinforcement has
become ever so important now, like a foundation upon which other structures
stand. She needs this to bundle together her soul and mind, though for a
long time she has been feeling like a butterfly being pinned to a board, alive,
with wings flapping futilely in the air for no reasons.
When she finally finished the day’s preparation she
lay on bed, with a particular sense of tranquility after bath, her usual
feverish feeling seemed to have subsided a bit, she wondered, is that what
it’s like to go crazy? She checked into the mirror to make sure she
looks fine and that her complexion still holds. Since when she’s turned
so sensitive about her appearance, she couldn’t stop shaking her own head.
Since when? For what, or rather, for whom? She would never have
imagined it like this – when she had in the past thought of someone falling in
love, she would imagine it full of warmth and confidence and fondness and
laughter but, what about someone falling into madness? What about someone,
like her, is losing her mind, for another man, instead?
Looking into the mirror is in no way equal to looking
into one’s soul, though she did have an illusion that she could pierce herself
through her very own pair of eyes, those slightly slanted, almond-shaped, deeply
set, dark as a starless night yet unfathomable halos that captured her husband
on his first sight. Those eyes. Some say beautiful women may well
age, never their eyes. Yes, from those eyes that were reflected from the
mirror, she was once again reassured that she still looked beautiful.
That’s comforting to know. She smiled, with a very light tint of
sadness, as she started caressing her own face, with both hand and same rhythm,
1, 2, 3, 4, and, 1, 2, 3, 4, bit like waltzing, silently, stealthily, and
seemingly subconsciously…
Imagined what she had already arranged, she couldn’t
help feeling somewhat surprised for her own calmness. It was awkward to
see herself acting so calm, so poised and so full of calculated grace. She
nodded to the mirror as if giving an echo of approval to herself. At the
very least, she knew she had to preserve such look and make sure that would be
how she looked at her daughter’s birthday party tomorrow.
CHAPTER 3
She is leaving.
She is leaving not only the family but the world.
She knows for sure that it is the only way to preserve all the good
things. Among them, memories, which
she treasured most.
Unlike other mothers who do at times leave the humdrum
domestic matters to maids, she is really very different.
She always attended to the smallest and even the seemingly most
unimportant, she also makes very sure that she is always there when the children
need her. For this is what she
believes a mother should be.
At the party, everyone was happy.
The happiness was so immense that she is sure everyone would have missed
it when they look back, one day, in life. Yes,
perhaps when looking back they would think of her too.
This should be how good and virtuous women are remembered after their
death. In the old days these women
would be awarded with a plague with words of praise engraved on it. The plaque would then be hung somewhere noticeable to
visitors either in the grand living room or in the hallway of the house.
She doesn’t need it. Of
course she does not. Why would a
dead woman need such praise? She
smiled as she thought of it. But
then she knew its worth is not for her to relish.
It is for her family, for her children or even her children’s children
to cherish.
In the seventies, Hong Kong has just re-emerged from
poverty. Due to a large crowd
flocked from the northern border, the city is abundantly filled with cheap
labour. These men and women and
even children, together constituted to an immense workforce that was scattered
in all sectors, among them, the industrial sector which was most labor-driven.
A bit like what the Pearl Harbour Delta is today, Hong Kong then was a
grand factory, comprising of many many smaller-sized factories of very various
productions such as plastic flowers, toys, clothing, household utensils and
electronic parts. One can imagine
this city was a transportation belt in the arrival hall of an international
airport, with all sorts of luggage coming out, all very different sizes,
colours, shapes, and appearance to look at, but, the most important remains the
substances inside – it was because of those substances that Hong Kong had the
important chance to do export trades with other countries which finally lead it
to an international route to conquer the world market.
In those days, “made in Hong Kong” meant
affordable and consumable.
Chapter
4
He does not love her. She knows. He
might have desired her but then who knows for how long. And who cares.
Since the first time she knew, despite his fervent mumbling of all those love
words when he was rocking her body. She remembers how he called out her
names, and how it was as rhythmic as his ferocious body movement. She
likes the sound of it, although with her very limited knowledge of English she
could barely understood. She loved it, especially when such mumbling and
movement was coupled by the flow of their body fluid… she never knew that she
could be that rich and full inside… Oh, how she loves those sound, his voice,
many many years later when she thought of it she still couldn’t help feeling
melted, like the slushy spring snow shower in Nanjing where she grew up … She
knew for that moment she was doomed, and she knew she would willingly become his
sex slave for as long as he needed her. That muffled sound, so erotic and
romantic, so earthly yet heavenly, naturally formed a background music engulfing
her body and soul, completely and totally. Even with her tightly closed
eyes she could still see how he moved. She adored seeing him move, in and
out and in and out… of her. For many a times he was on the verge of
crying out, loud, but, instead, she was biting her lips hard so to control
herself. Yes, she had to control herself. She had to. As if by
doing so she would lessen her guilt. All she wants is for him to be
satisfied, to be fulfilled, and to be happy.
And she would surely be happy too, if not for what he
said afterwards…
Would someone that loves her ask about how many men she
had before? Would a genuine lover declare to her about having a very
steady girl friend immediately afterwards. Would her man leave her in bed
all by herself without even a hug and a kiss… She tries very hard to justify
his actions. She even imagined him as someone who’s very inexperienced
with women or to the exact contrary perhaps simply a womanizer… Yet, with all
her intellect she still comprehended nothing. He did say “thank you”
though, a few time, she remembered vividly, as if he was thanking a waitress of
serving him a dish in a restaurant. In return she simply smiled back,
without uttering even a word. She seemed to have believed that everything
would be bracketed in that very smile of hers. What happened inside that
bracket stayed within. Period.
That was a cool afternoon, considering it was already
past mid-April. She felt cold. On her way home she went for a
haircut. Upon arriving home she washed herself from top to bottom, so
seriously as if she was going through a soul-cleansing ceremony.
But, she promised herself she has to behave as normal
as possible. For the last person she wanted to hurt is him. She
would not want to make him think that he ought to be responsible for anything or
anyone – no, no, no, she wanted it happen. She had been dreaming about
it a hundred times at the very least.
However, her hard-fought control had not been
successful for long.
A week later, when he left the house after the usual
tuitions, he was in such hurry that left her felt so hurt that he didn’t even
cast his eyes on her let a lone a swift kiss as they used to exchange
before they had sex. As he was talking to the housemaid thanking her
and praising her for the tea etc, she already smouldered silently with jealousy.
The moment he motioned to the door she couldn’t help break herself loose and
yelled for his name. For a while he was so taken aback and had to put his
right index finger on his lips hoping that gesture can silent her. That
did not help.
What have I got to be afraid of, she said to herself,
while at the same time she shouted something in her usual broken English
incoherently. She was on the verge of tears but she bit her lips hard so
not to let it fall.
She must have gone mad. She knew. And,
ironically, from the look in his eyes she knew he thought so too.
Chapter 5
To Simon Peter the emotion she so displayed was, as astonishing as the sensuous
feelings he had outpoured for her. In a strict context, she is not only
one of his many students, but also happens to be a Tai-Tai of very high social
standing and status; but now as fate has it, she has turned out to be his secret
mistress. This all happened so fast, so soon, that he did not seem to have
enough time to think it through except to grab the opportunity. Yes, he did
want her. And he had been wanting her since he first saw her. There
were many nights when he had to press himself against a pillow to squeeze her
face out of his mind, or, to be more exact, out of his dreams. Yes,
if he had to admit that he had all the intention to seduce her, he had also to
confess that he was sure the feeling was mutual between them.
And he would never forget that fateful day. It was a warm summer afternoon
in early May. He was invited to the
Mong residence to meet with Mr. Mong to talk about details of arranging private
tuition for both his wife and daughter. The rendezvous had been arranged at the
courtesy of a contact at the British Embassy, per Mr. Mong's request.
From what he gathered before this meeting:
1. Mr. Mong is a prominent business man in the territory who has close
liaison with the government.
2. The Mong family has just returned from a short holiday from Shanghai, a
major city in China and is Mr. Mong's birth place.
3. Mrs. Mong and her daughter are learning English but the tutor is about
to return home so they are looking for a replacement. They are prepared to
pay good money for a good English teacher.
3. Mrs. Mong is said to be suffering from a minor ailment, hence is not
preparing to show her appearance at the meeting.
4. Mr. Mong, of course, will make all the necessary decision in terms of
tuition arrangement for his wife and their young daughter.
It was, to Simon, so obvious that the women in the Mong family have no say over
their own lives at all.
Half-an-hour has passed away. Still, there is no sign of Mr. Mong, despite
the fact that the Mong butler keeps coming in every five minutes or so to
apologize for his master's lateness, citing reasons of his business engagements
etc. Yes, Simon says, of course, Mr. Mong is a very busy man who has lots
of important businesses which require his personal attention. But then he
still couldn't help getting a bit impatient. Why on earth he did not
schedule our appointment at 6.00 pm then? In the world where he grew up,
punctuality is, like a foundation of mannerism upon which the rest is built.
Simon is feeling tired, partly out of waiting and partly out of a long
day's work. It is not easy living in Hong Kong, especially as a foreigner.
He knew it before he came, what he didn't know was that the situation was more
unpromising than he had expected.
Hoping to keep himself awake, he has to stroll up and down in the drawing room,
with a cup of Earl Grey tea in his hand. And as he loiters himself away he
starts to appreciate the decor, the furniture and the drapery etc – all made
up the aesthetic environment that is so captivating thus giving him a somewhat
bewildered experience.
The Mong mansion is situated in a quiet residential area in Kowloon, a peninsula
geographically attached to Mainland China but is under the British rule,
governed by a very different regime as well as value system. As little as
he knows about Hong Kong, Simon can only be sure that the Mong is certainly well
off, perhaps even rich, in the 70's standard.
The grandfather clock on the wall has struck six times. The fading sun was
moving towards the western sky. The stained-glass doors that opened up to
the back garden were bathed in the warm and humid South China breeze.
Everything, including himself, seemed to have been immersed in a golden halo
that was so pure, even to the extent of being religious. Simon found it
nostalgic when witnessing all these - his memory of London suddenly swelled up
and caught him unguarded. For a while he thought he was back where he grew up,
in a semi-detached house off the quiet shady lane next to the Temple Gallery in
West London. Such discovery brought him close to an inexplicable ecstasy until,
a muffling sound of vestments recalled him back from his that other world in his
life. It was, exactly at that very moment, that this petit Chinese woman,
stepped into his life, as quiet and reticent as a dream should be...
Simon turned his head to follow the origin of the sound, and what he saw was but
a surreal picture - there she stood, very still, in the shade of the doorway, as
a shadow which finally decided to bestow itself into the darkness - such
darkness, Simon knew, was formed because of the contrast of light and shade.
He knew of course if he was standing by the glass doors under the Western
sky, then there standing directly opposite to him, so poised, and so calm, must
be Mrs. Mong who came in through these Eastern doors.
Mrs. Mong appeared as if she was trying all her might to stand upright. With
a larger-than-average hairdo, her slender silhouette became so top-heavy and
explained why her whole body had to lean against the doorposts. Simon was
trying to adjust his eyesight so to get a clearer look at her, he seemed to have
caught a glimpse of a Byzantine icon of the 15th century. Simon could
almost see her face modelled in wax encaustic, beckoning to all her faithful to
follow her into Jerusalem...
Mrs. Mong was trying to be polite, and spelt out emphatic words of apology on
her husband's behalf with an distinct effort. She said it all in English, though
not very clearly, but totally comprehensible. Just as Simon was trying to
say something to her in return, he knew the woman was excusing herself and was
about to retire. He didn't know why he had an urge to salvage her from
disappearing, and he didn't know why either he had the courage to ask, "so,
i hope to see you soon, when we begin the tuition..." Simon was not
sure if she heard him. What he was sure was that, for the rest of his life, he
would never forget this scene.
Before he could even reclaim his posture, she already motioned for the exit.
With a smile upon her lips, even in such a controlled manner, he still
couldn't help finding it very seductive, and as if to echo such effect, he acted
in so clumsy a manner that the fine bone-china tea-cup in his hand was nearly
dropped. Many months later when they talked about that episode she still
made fun of him. And he would supplemented the joke by saying "yeah,
ever since that day I knew you were destined to be mine..."
She would take it to her heart, wholly and totally with all seriousness. As
much as she treated the care, the concern and the flirtation that he bestowed
her, during those aching months of uncertainty.
And now?
Chapter
6
In the late 60s to early 70s, most European credos, religious or political, no
matter how diverse, are all searching for a platform to survive. Upon such
platform there may involve some sorts of concession, made at a time when it
deemed necessary. But, underneath, every of such credos is trying to fight
for its own space to exist, to differentiate, with an ultimate aim to expand and
to flourish.
Unlike America where the split was mainly induced by culture (and
counter-culture) wars, and were finally boiled down to purely historical terrain
of conflict, what happened in Europe had been transformed to a world where more
profound and more thought-provoking differentiations were admissible.
Among them, the most obvious being totalitarian and individualism, such were the
two equal forces perpetually fighting against each other yet at the same time
hanging on together for coexistence in a fragile balance. Just before
Simon left London in 1968, "the Grand March" in Prague had broken
out. The Czech have decided to take to the streets their discontent with
the Russians. They would dignify themselves against the Russian invasion
and demonstrated to the world what they disliked, dissatisfied hence hoping to
disown. As a university student, Simon had always been drawn to social
movements of that sort. In that world he was familiar with, everything had to be
fought for, openly and explicitly, be it purely spiritual, physical or even as
simple as survival right.
To him, to be able to preserve individuality is of first and foremost importance
in life.
Here on the other side of the earth, Simon is exposed to a totally different set
of value. While he can appreciate the introvert and subdue nature of the
Chinese and its culture, he can also understand that there seems to be an
irreconcilable split between body and soul.
Traumatized early by the lack of normalcy in his childhood, he has since
grown to be somewhat playful and even cynical character, especially when it
touches upon family. Such attitude rightfully constitutes to his obvious
insensitivity, upon which one can also easily identify the happiness he used to
imagine for himself. In nowadays term, one will tend to call him
"playboy".
Despite being so insensitive at times, Simon is, afterall, embracing a secret
wish of finding his long-lost mother here in Hong Kong. Though he would
never admit it, not even in front of his father, his only blood kin in the
world. He had to give him some reasons, otherwise he would not have gotten
his cooperation in granting him the procession of his mother's photos. Yes,
now clutching within his strong hands, are the only two family photographs that
his father has been cherishing all his life.
Clutching within himself also, is a very strong sense of insecurity which had
grown with him since childhood.
Such insecurity, coupled with the thought of lack of care, though mended gently
by her since she walked into his life, still remains. Hence, freedom, to
him, is a physical pedestal that needs to be kept untouched so to preserve its
holiness at all times. And perhaps that helps explain why he does not want
to settle, no, not with anybody.
Unlike him, she, often equates her childhood to a concentration camp where
everybody lives under the surveillance of everybody else. And everything
said will always be recorded and reported by everybody else. Privacy, to
her, is an unheard of, metaphysical religion. Likewise, emancipation, or
feminism, is like something that is extra-terrestrial. Her interpretation
for freedom explains why she chose to get married so soon, to a man that means a
brave new world to her, even though he is nearly twice her age. This also
represents an action of hers in search for security within her own
universe.
Consider how different these two persons are, the entire romance between Simon
and she is based on a string of chance events in coincidences. She likes
to call it fate. Though she admits she would never have sex with a man if not
because of love. He, however, detests such claim of destiny, and would
rather believe what happened between them is all within his calculation. Though
at times it does bother him when he realizes how frequent he thinks of her, and
how irrational it seems that he may have fallen in love with this little Chinese
woman, and, therefore, had to sacrifice so much freedom in his life. Between
themselves there seems to be an eternal tug-of-war, a categorical disagreement
linked together by two divergent forces fighting permanently against each other.
One thing they do share harmoniously and coherently though - they both knew that
they would never be together. Eternity to them was but a joke.
With such understanding in mind, they became very vigilant about every
moment, and they would cherish every such finite moment, wholeheartedly with the
utmost involvement of their body and soul.
They would make love for the whole day without doing anything else. They
would not let go of every of such erotic moment which, to them, would be easily
lost if not grabbed tightly and with all their might.
Chapter
7
Ironically,
such, then, was exactly what a fortune-teller said.
Yes,
in time of uncertainty, one tends to seek for external advice, be it from human
or super-human. She has sought to do the same, from those many unknown yet
seemingly learned scholar-like old gents who have set up open stalls along the
devious Temple Street, instead of going to the family’s Feng Shui Master Mr.
Choi, who is also Mr. Mong’s good friend and almanac advisor.
Lit
up solely by a kerosene lamp, the fortune-teller’s protruding eyes looked
extraordinary mesmeric. Well, these two can attract like maddened
magnets, and you only have to look at their Chinese zodiac cycle to know why.
In Western astrological terms your husband is ruled by Venus and you by
Pluto, such relationship is destined, fantastically faithful, and gorgeous,
though primarily possessive… well, not only physically but also of a more
mental level… after all, when they said the path of true love never did run
smooth, didn’t they talk about reality right …
As
he was scribbling on some squiggly-looking paper, the old man dreamily dribbled
how intense this couple’s love must be, and advised also that the husband
must also focus at work and the wife must be patient so to show him her
support, hence securing their connubial bliss and etc…Oh, my God,
isn’t it the biggest lie in the universe? She would have pronnounced it
outright, loud and clear, so to tell the old chap he’s wrong, utterly wrong.
But then has she not lied too? Was it not her who purposely misled
this poor old chap into believing that he was reading into the future of a young
couple, instead of just some promiscuous lovers? If there is to be a
deity, she asks herself, and if one is to trust in a divine providence, must she
not first-of-all rip off her very disgusting hypocrisy and stopped pretending to
be a virtuous wife seeking advice for the sake of her beloved husband? She
was so ashamed and had to stop the old man.
A
sudden urge of seeing him enveloped her. She missed him so much, so badly
that she wanted to curl herself inside his arms now. Such delusion was so
powerful that even a passer by could actually see the burning desire from her
face. It must be fever, she thought, but as she dragged her unusually
heavy body through the thick smog, her delusion was further enhanced by the
yellowish ambience in the surroundings. That was a reminder of something
very old, run-down, worn-out and even rotten, like the ancient feeling of shame,
and that enmeshed her. Maybe that explained why she was feverish? And
isn’t it a burning shame? With such sickening realisation, she, however,
seemed to have cooled off a bit. She couldn’t help burst out laughing
hysterically – much as she did when she was told of her own future – she
just had to be exhilarating in order to echo what those protruding eyes
proclaimed so beautifully – living happily ever after with your husband…
One
thing she was sure though, they were made for each other, in bed. She
could have heard it spelt out vividly even the old man was trying his best to be
carefully discreet. She could almost hear the muffled sound, so subtly
woven between two entwined bodies, shaping into a background music that was so
voluptuously drowning. She knew she would be drowned. She could
almost envisage her dead body, floating futilely and listlessly. Yet, such
sound, such muffled sound, even to her feverish head or drowning body, was
something that she knew she would never be shy to recall from memory, ever.
She
missed him.
Temple
Street indeed carries certain mesmeric effects. Even until today it still
has. To her it exerted some reminiscences as to some places in Chongqing, where
she spent some adolescent years with her grandparents. Family separation
in China, especially during the war years, was but a norm. As she was
walking along this most dubious street in Kowloon, she must have sidestepped
into a memory lane somewhere. It was the same smog, the same humidity, and
the same sluggishness, albeit the sky seemed to be much smaller and narrower
now, in this part of the world.
It
was one spring evening. She was cutting across the park on her way back to
her grandparents’ home. A man-like figure suddenly jumped out from
nowhere. It was notorious. She was to scream. But then in a split
second she realized that he was the boy that sat at the back of her row in the
class. She was then able to gulp a breath of air, deeply, and was about to
yell what the hell are you doing there… The boy quickly thrust
something upon her – they were flower petals, though all dried-up, yet so well
preserved and were as colourful and lively as freshly picked. As swiftly
as he appeared, he flew away also like a flash, with not a word. The next day
when they saw each other at class, he appeared as if he never knew her, lest
handing her those petals. She, felt inexplicably hurt, not knowing why nor
how to react, had but to pretend as if nothing happened too. She was 13.
She
almost reached 16 when her parents asked her to return to Nanjing. By then
the timid boy had grown to a spanking fine young man. They were both
finishing their senior years at secondary school, and both knew that they were
to be separated, soon, yet, neither of them had any courage to speak to each
other, much as they had always tried hard to avoid each other’s eye contacts.
Two
decades have lapsed. Despite having not much recollection of the young
man’s face, she still kept the flower-petals, though, safely in somewhere only
she had access to.
Three
years later, upon graduation from university and in the process of searching for
her first job, she met Mr. Mong, a 37-year-old uprising businessman from Hong
Kong. Mr. Mong was in need of a personal secretary that could help
coordinate day-to-day matters in the office of his native town, Shanghai. The
job applicant is required to have English proficiency. She has gotten the
job out of, so they said, some thirty applicants. Such opportunity arose
further, much to everybody’s surprise, to a marriage proposition. Mr.
Mong liked her very much. Her parents were overwhelmed. So, when Mr.
Mong asked her father for her hand, he was granted every wish he asked for,
including bringing her to Hong Kong.
Since
then, 16 years have passed by.
Chapter
8
In
a relationship there’s always a giver and a taker, much as it seems to reflect
the anatomy of male and female. By structuring as such, therefore, we, the
human being, a.k.a the Homosapiens, will be pre-destined to consume their
lifetime in searching for a give-and-take balance. If all goes well, it
will lead to some safe, steady, equal, healthy and perhaps at times boring,
sometimes interesting co-existence. Otherwise, the relationship will be
insecurely built, hence unpredictable and inexplicable for anyone to get
involved. At times it may be exciting or even adventurous, yet, when
loaded with the pain that breeds deep down from within, the torment can be
excruciating.
One
needs not much intelligence to notice what role she was assuming. Judging
by her sudden loss of weight, anyone could tell that she was not all rosy in
life. One may even think that she was tortured, either physically or
psychologically or both. What one cannot comprehend is, she was not
regretting it at all, and even to the pervasive extreme of enjoying it, because
she chose to believe such punishment was “love”. Mr. Mong, though not
aware of what role-play it was, had indeed noticed his wife’s deteriorating
health and sent for the best medical practitioners in the territory to help.
Mrs. Mong, however, was only too happy to use sickness as a reason to break free
from the normal world, if not her real role as the lady in the mansion.
Yes,
Simon Peter still enjoyed the full privilege of visiting this student of his,
thanks to the special mission entrusted upon him by the innocent Mr. Mong, who
thought he could help distracting his dear wife's thoughts and cheered her up in
the end. Simon would of course not waste any of such God-sent
opportunities to get near her, tease her, tempt her, seduce her and ultimately
allure her into the promiscuous promised land of sexual ecstasy.
To
Simon it was as natural as his birthright. And he did savour every moment
of it, with a single-minded aim to fulfilling himself. Frankly, he did not
think much of the woman that he was at that moment exploiting and manipulating.
To
her, however, it was falling in love - was it not what she had been deprived of
all her life? It was all but novel to her. She hated it when one
talked about love, since she could almost expose how ignorant she was. And
she, of course, would persuade herself to believe that love is too sacred to be
talked about flippantly, nor could it be delved, described, depicted by any
frivolous manner. If it comes then one will knows. Like what she was
experiencing at present. To her it ought to be sealed and kept secretly in
some sort of mental pedestals, like what she did to the flower-petals that was
bestowed on her that spring night when she was 13.
And
even the act of love itself is novel too.
In
the past she would only have sex in bed, at night, in sheer darkness. As
with all such proper elements installed every single sexual act would be
legitimate. But now she would have no choice but to perform it during
daytime, often in borrowed time when she was supposed to be having her tuition,
when the sun was eyeing the humankind right on the top of the sky, when the
servants were nosily chattering in the washing room 30 feet away, when everyone
was either working or studying. Talking about borrowing they would need to
borrow a love nest too, with whatever available in the study. Well, it
could be a desk upon which he laid her body, or a high back chair where he
spread her thighs on top of his. He would even force himself inside her
against the wall or simply devoured her voluptuously on the hardwood floor.
The one scene that often tickled her nerve was, nicknamed Hemingway's
"Movable Feast" as he jokingly borrowed (Were they not borrowed?
She would stress that explicitly in recollection - yes, were they not all
borrowed? Nothing, really nothing, seemed to have really belonged to them
legitimately) -- during their first time, he seated her on top of an armoir
and thrust himself in, right there. She could hear him groan, moan,
accompanied at the same time mischieviously by dogs savagely barking and birds
sweetly singing outside, under the bright blue sky and the lush green bai-lan
(also known as white-orchid) tree. It was a colourful medley so
harmoniously interbred by two different kinds of living animals, she thought.
That particular playful act was, according to her memories, so impish,
impulsive, improvised, and yet so impressive; it was also boyishly echoing her
own childhood, in a most remote manner. She remembered how she used
to place her favourite doll on top of an ancient looking, mahogany like, camphor
smelling armoires (or chest of drawers), how she hoped to protect her from being
taken by any devilish beings.. yes, such childish act, and thought, and
belief, and faith..
She remembered also how their difference in body length had humbled
him, made him bow to her and curl up for her, and how she would have captured a
vision of mountain scenery, painted delicately, skillfully, by his heaving
spine. She wanted to ask if she was having a hallucination, or being taken
inside some exploding volcanoes? But, under the sway of his weight, she
was kept so still that she could barely breathe. It was only until she
traded all her senses for a restful slumber could she be set free ultimately.
That was April 21, 1970. The Chinese Almanac had it that it was an auspicious
day. (this
paragraph may be inserted into Chapter four, to replace the original love scene
if the one used before is too erotic)
“Primitive”
was the one word that she could think of when regurgitating their time together,
righteously showing how serious she really was, when it came to studying,
with the help from her beloved English teacher.
Often
at night, upon gratifying her lusts in the daytime and after secretly relishing
the luscious pleasure it so brought forth, she would feel immensely guilty and
forlornly depressed. And as if adopting a religious ritual she would often
curl up by the bedside, like a freshly-boiled shrimp, very infantile, and
tantalizing. If she thought such act was to send out a signal to her
husband that he was unwelcomed, she was wrong. Tragic though it
seemed, the comic relief was, she, somehow, released a charm to ignite an old
flame in her husband's heart. Thereafter, she would but have to pretend that he
were Simon; and she would be as fervent as any dream lover could be, while
borrowing her husband’s body in her insidious way and have it exchanged with
that of her lover’s. But then she would often wake up at night, thinking
of Simon, weeping herself quietly back to sleep again, without knowing what else
she could do. But when daybreak came and it brought to her another amorous
encounter today she would be all smiling again. Such split personality, to
her fragile self, was indeed too heavy to bear. She wanted to live under
the sun. She wanted to be able to liberate herself as honest as she could.
She wanted so much to cry out for salvation... and, what supported her
during such ordeal was that, there in her heart laid a secret hope: she had been
waiting for her secret lover to lure her, to seduce her, and finally to come
down to tears and beg her to runaway...
He
did not.
Instead
he made her promise never and under whatsoever circumstances would she reveal
this amorous liaison between them. He even threatened to leave her
forever if this was leaked. And he vowed not to admit anything even if he
were interrogated. But then he kept coming back for her and with all his
incoherently spoken love words, he would have her taken as-a-matter-of-factly.
One could only believe that he was courageous enough to face with any
outcome, as long as he did not need to give her up. She did not seem to
understand why at first but then it finally dawned on her that it must simply be
that he didn’t love her. Such painful revelation quickly fermented
inside her. She was stupefied, petrified, horrified. She was quickly
wasting away. Despite that, however, owing perhaps to the few amorous
exercises, she seemed to have been revived, with some unknown thing radiating
from within, and always carried a glow, illuminated and exemplified her beauty
so much so that, Simon found it not only disturbing but annoying. For
example, during one of their normal tuitions (when little Miss Mong was also
present after school) as today's, just by looking at her, Simon could almost
have tasted her in his mouth. As if expressing a reflex action, his Adam's
Apple exercised some jerky up-and-downs and that really maddened him. In a
gesture to cool himself down, he had to walk up and got some water from
somewhere outside. As he walked towards the doorway, he seemed to have
bumped into that very old ghost a-g-a-i-n --- that Byzantine silhouette, that
halo. He knew he had to keep an eye on her. He knew she was the type
that loses control easily, and she was often way too emotional -
when compared to him. Oh yes, of course, who on earth would be able to
match his life experience. Who on earth would understand what he had gone
through. Sometimes he would fall into fits of jealousy when he thought of
her, often at nights, when he wondered what she and Mr. Mong were doing. He
knew both his sense and his pride had been put to a serious test.
Mr.
Mong, on the other hand, was a man too honest and upright to suspect anybody of
anything. Or perhaps he was way too matured when compared with the illicit
young couple in those days. He would often laugh at the rebelling youngs
when he watched a tv news story, and when he heard of their involvements in any
anti-x or anti-y movements he would often add a shrug to enforce his laughters.
He said he knew it was normal to be a fool when young, and added that it
would be a bigger fool if one continued to be a fool with the come of age.
He is a man that has seen too much of the world. Nothing would be able to
shake his confidence in himself. Being an
Engineer-turned-garment-manufacturer, he was one of the very few role models
that his good fellow Hong-Kongers valued so much in those days. With
regards to his personal life, nothing could have surprised him too. Mr.
Mong would not hesitate, both before and after the marriage, to cite reason of
business entertainment, and go with his partners and associates to nightclubs
and the likes. In the 70’s it was only common for men to spend their
leisure at nights in those places, among a flock of lively, talkative, cheerful
women covered by cement-like make-up and colourful dressing, with or without
their wifes’ acknowledgement. If asked would he feel bad if his wife
knew, he would tell you right away with an emphatic "NO". No, he
would say, how could she ever find out. How could you know for sure then,
sir? He would even stamp his feet, of course i do. Of couse i know.
But then what he didn't know was - Back in 1967, on a very torrid night
during curfew (which was imposed during the riot when plastic explosives were
found scattered in the city), before he was escorted home like a fugitive,
protected by a dozen of policemen in a police car, his darling little wife
already got a call from the authority asking for such permission to escort her
husband into their house, justa make sure, ya zee? Whereabout? Oh,
yehs, where-a-bout? Hmm, ahem, heard ta be froma nightclub hostezz'
perfumed rezidense, well, sortaf, ya zee... While thanking the police chief
profusedly on the phone, the wise Mrs. Mong had secured the kind policeman's
consent in making sure her knowledge of such not be made known to her respected
husband who, she said, would have too much to deal with, as always. And
he would therefore not wish his wife to worry, as always. Yehs, ofa
course, madam, understannd... nah, nah problem, i shall unly be too happie ta
oblige... well, thank you so very much, sir, you must come to tea sometimes...
arh, our pleasure ofa course... dun't mentionit, puleease... asalways...
As
always, to Mr. Mong, there were only two kinds of women, one stays at home for
the family, one stays outside so to entertain men who work hard for their
families. And he was immensely grateful that he had one of the best from
the former category, a very special one, indeed. He was also grateful for
what she had done for him, included raising for him a fine daughter. So,
he ought to be a content husband and father, who, if having any regret, it would
be not having a son, or a heir, though he knew he had only himself to blame for.
Now in his early fifties, Mr. Mong, like many of his peers, would only be
too pre-occupied by his own stamina level, and would therefore choose to avoid
facing the fact hat he was not physically strong enough for his wife, hence,
would be focusing more in how to perform his best. He would have no
superfluous energy to waste in suspecting any change in his wife’s sexual
yearnings, only be too happy to know that she has matured with age,
physiologically speaking.
So
the relationship among the happy trio continued, as if it was firstly
pre-anointed, then pre-ordained.
CHAPTER
9
When Shakespeare asked through the mouth of Romeo’s
“what’s in a name?” did he really mean it? Or was he simply mocking
all mankind? When she first heard of his name she should have known –
Simon Peter? Is that not the one disciple who denied Jesus for three
times, right after he vowed to the Son of God that he would always follow his
Way?
She should have known.
When she telephoned him, she should have known.
When she heard no concern shown in his voice, she should have known. When
he didn't ask why she called in such hours but only lectured her that she should
not have called, she should have known.
Oh, if only she had known.
Likewise, if only she had known that since ancient
times women have always assumed the role as being the stronger sex at times of
troubles, while shielding their loved ones safely away from any known or unknown
dangers. This stronger sex has to do so, because such strength will be
needed when they are called for protecting their young, or their territories, or
both?
Such was what happened at the Mong mansion one night.
When Mr. Mong decided to recruite Simon as the English
teacher for the family, he also thought of hiring the young man to be his
special aide as he was talking with Marks & Spencer the British department
store on some alliance. Upon his request, Simon, gave the proposal
some analysis. Mr. Mong was impressed and suggested if the young man could
take the matter up further. He gladly followed. Mr. Mong was again
very impressed, how enthusiastic and energetic this young Englishman is,
he thought. And he did a great job too. Mr. Mong had always had
great liking towards this young man. Well, in fact, he was well
known for having sharp eyes in recruiting talents, in the 70's, when most
Hongkongers were still very much finding their own path. Mr.
Mong was also visionary enough to appreciate English as the business language
and believed that hiring talented expatriates would only be good for the
company's wholesome development. So, the mutual feeling of needs
between Mr. Mong and Simon was firmly established.
From Mr. Mong's company, the business development
manager in-charge of the negotiation was also an English. With a classic
name called Daisy, a spinster in late-twenties, may be referred to an
old maid in those days. She also happened to have some Chinese
elements in her bloodline like Simon, so she said. Sharing such affinity, the
two young persons had got along so well since working together.
Unfortunately, bearing in mind his secret identity as Mrs. Mong's lover, Simon,
somehow, found it very uneasy when flirting with Daisy while Mrs.
Mong was around, and therefore he had to caution himself at all times.
Besides, to him, Daisy was not attractive at all. But he liked her,
as much as he liked the company of other young people.
It was one of those tropical summer nights, much too
torrid for those who did not have the luxury of using imported air-conditioners
like the Mongs. Before one of those late working dinners at home, Rose
and Simon were already engaging the study for discussion, each holding in their
hand a glass of red-wine. Perhaps it was the wine, or may be the cosy
atmosphere, or because of the soon-to-be-arriving tropical storm, Rose
was acting very coquettishly. Mrs. Mong, albeit only walked into the room
occasionally and casually, was very sure that she saw Rose brushing her
heavy right breast against Simon. Only once? Or is it a common
action shared between them when i was not around? Glancing quickly
around the room, she felt extremely humiliated. How could they behave
like this in this very room? How could they turn this piece
of sacred land into a crime scene... She was very upset, too upset to even
stand up and leave the room. And she simply sat herself down, pretending
to pick up a magazine and sank deep into it, as a sulking reader.
Owing to some sorts of ancestral calling, the two young
persons seemed to prefer conversing in English all the time, totally
oblivious to the others around them. She found it most impolite and
inconsiderate, and suspected that the two were secretly communicating.
Over dinner, at the dining table, Daisy had since been taking the lead in
guiding the conversation, showed no intention to give up what she had already
conquered. Eloquent as she was, there was practically not one single
quiet moment. Simon, also, was enthusiastic in following her lead, and,
appeared to be happy too. How could he be so happy? Shame, shame,
shame. Shame on him. Or could he be shamming it? Shamming, no
doubt, just to avoid having eye contact with me. Then she
recalled the criminal act between the two before dinner, in the drawing room,
and had it replayed again and again in her mind. As to Mr. Mong? He
was of course happily echoing this young couple, and at the same time showing
kind approval as their respected senior and employer.
She caught Daisy's eyes, they were so calculating,
with something clicking inside, like a calculator, or a typewriter. She
knew for sure that she was up to something. She just knew. Just then
a bout of spasm had irritated her stomach again, as it had happened many times
in the past few days. Her hand moved nervously downward, stopped on her
lower tummy and massaged it, as if her stomach had descended many
inches amid now settled as a good neighbour to the navel. The
weather was unusually hot, and the air-con appeared to be in need of some
motivation. She must remember to call the Japanese company tomorrow,
she told herself. And she must remember that she's responsible for
the well being of this household. Here she has to look after everybody,
everything, everyday and every-morrow. Oh, if only she knows what's going
to happen in the morrow. Tomorrow she must remember to call the Japanese
company. She knew it would be her sole responsibility and she must not
forget it. Looking around the dining and every piece of exquisite
furniture that is there, she couldn't but feel a sense of pride, look how
graceful and beautiful they all are, oh, what a sight, Des meubles qui vont bien
ensemble, non? Un jour, she was telling herself, one day, she and her
husband will be exhibiting the same grace of displaying a harmonious
co-habitation like these furniture here, too, oui, nous aussi,...With a
paler-than-ever appearance, she gave herself a placid nod of confirmation.
Simon's eyes were still nowhere to be sought. He
is avoiding me. He must be avoiding me. You fool, you idiot, you
heartless rascal. She was feeling so irate, but weak, as if passionately parched
inside. That is over. She thought, for the time being at least.
She knew her love was hopeless as ever, and she also knew the two young persons
here were conspirators, plotting of course to isolate her, so to get her out of
their way, completely destroying her hopeless love. Or was Simon playing a
double, since he was also fooling flirty Daisy who was difficult to get rid
of? Or was he playing a double so not to cause Mr. Mong any suspicion so
to protect her? But he was happy. He looked so happy that he must
have chosen the fun-loving flighty English girl instead of the melancholy me...
A glass was shattered. Some glittering pieces
were seen flying out from the trembling hand of the dainty Mrs. Mong, forming a
spectrum of rainbow colour streaming down from the chandelier which, remained
poised, calm, gracefully gazing eveybody, placidly from the 20 feet ceiling
above, as if performing the role of an unfathomable deity.
Daisy, gesturing her fleshy hand to cover her
"O"-shaped mouth, fluttered like a startled ladybird with her black
and red and white polka-dotted dress, was the first to rush over to embrace her.
She retreated. The ladybird startled further. Then it was her husband
who rushed over and carried her in her arms. Followed closely behind
him was Simon.
As if tasting a bout of sharp pain thrust upon her, the
poor Mrs. Mong suddenly vomitted, so violently and vehemently that
anyone could tell she was bearing too much inside. Tears flooded her face. She
cried out indulgently with all her might, at the same time glaring unashamedly,
through her once-stary-and-dreamy-but-now-fiery eyes, at her
English teacher.
Here comes the ladybird's magnetic voice a-g-a-i-n, she
heard her saying to Mr. Mong that she was having a fit and should be sent to
hospital. See she was now telling everyone to have her institutionalized,
and finally destroyed. She must be. I told you she is plotting it,
you fool, with your lover. The two bloody criminal conspirators.
With another attack of pain in her chest, came another torrent of awful vomit
... but he most awful was yet to arrive. When the polka-dotted ladybird,
monstrously reaching out both her plump claws, to cling onto Simon.
Simon Peter, you have served me your three times of denial. Time's up. She
decided to close her eyes.
It took almost an hour for everything to return to
normal at the Mong residence. The family doctor has come and gone.
Mrs. Mong has been put to sleep in the hospital. Mr. Mong, while
apologizing profusely, also appeared to be genuinely bewildered. Among the three that
survived the dinner incident that night, only Simon knew what exactly had gone
wrong.
Chapter 10
Next
day when he saw her she was in a hospital bed, fast asleep, though all languish
and listless, the burning red on her face had subsided, sending her back to her
usual whiteness. He remembered how he used to joke about how pale she
looked, as white as the wall behind you. He would also make a grimace to
support his statement, and would be happy if he could steal a smile from her.
He would say it so gently, sweetly, passionately and inadvertently showed
that he really cared about her.
She
was dressed in a patient gown, pale blue, soft and delicate like the cloud in
the sky, yet far-fetching. Her hair was let down, spreading indulgently
over the pillow as if she had been running wild in the wind, like a spoilt
child. Smiling fondly to the childlike face, he suddenly had an urge to
kiss her. He knew he would have done it if they were in a safe place.
Obviously undisturbed, she was breathing calmly, carrying a rhythm that
was so soothing and comforting to note. Such was the tranquility that
almost drowned him, during their first encounter, on that fateful day in May
last year.
He
stood watching and listening. He felt he was never that close to this
woman whom he cherished so much, yet so difficult to explain, let alone make her
realize. He would not have realized it too if not because of what she told
him the other day. He had since arrived at a decision that he, somehow,
had to find a way to settle it, not just for both of them but as well the poor
Mr. Mong to whom he had indebted much. Most importantly of course, it was
for their baby too.
He
wanted to wake her up and told her that, or perhaps he should settle it first
with Mr. Mong? After all, it was a man-to-man business, especially in
those days. And he would not bear to disrupt such intimacy between them,
or to leave her in her solitude. So, he chose to stay, and pulled up a chair to
her bedside. He sank himself in, with a sigh he released himself into a
restful slumber almost immediately, as quiet as a saint.
An
hour later he came to consciousness, and thought may be it was time to go, for
fear of bumping into Mr. Mong who should be leaving the office any minute now.
He was leaving. Voluntarily and yet unwillingly, he hesitated a
little, and looked back at her in bed, once, twice, thrice, and off he went.
Through
the window, she was following him, intensely and fervently, as if she was about
to jump out so to catch his footsteps. But she did not. She remained
fixing her eyes upon him until it turned into brown and grey and dark and a
non-existence. Presently a church bell chimed softly somewhere, as if
saving her from a spell.
Just
at that moment, Doctor Lee appeared, with a smile that made him look uneasy, and
unfamiliar. He seemed to have something to say but had to hold himself
back, at least for the moment, while addressing his patient as patiently as he
could. That made him look almost clumsy. Fortunately, his kind
nurse, Mary, came to his rescue by commenting about this and that in the room.
You are lucky it happened here, you know, for not only are the doctors the
best in the city, no, no, excuse me, in the region i mean, and you know, my
dear, the hospital is really modern, as modern as modern can be, and huge.
Guess how long it took us to come to you from the reception? No, no,
a lot more than that, 10 minutes, or more? Must be, you know, it's huge,
gigantic, the best, and can accommodate whatever the most hideous disease that
it encounters these day... plus her bubbly remarks about how lucky our Mrs. Mong
was and how blessed she had been.
Despite
busy talking, Mary had wasted no time in getting her work done. She helped
Doctor Lee to have his patient examined, facilities checked, pulse-rate taken,
blood pressure recorded and heartbeat measured. By the time everything was
finished, Mr. Mong arrived.
As expected, he did not carry any bouquet with him.
He did not do so when his wife gave birth to their daughter 16 years ago.
Nor did he do so when his wife arrived Hong Kong with their 10-month-old
baby in 1956. He was never a romantic man. She smiled to her
husband, weakly, to acknowledge his presence. He smiled back, quietly.
He was always a quiet man. Never have a superfluous word to say.
Such quietness could be reassuring at times, but could also be difficult
to comprehend. He asked if she was hungry. She shook her head.
He then asked if she wanted to eat anything. She shook her head
again but attached a smile to it. She found it amusing of her husband to
ask one question in two different ways. She found it almost interesting to
catch him being superfluous. Nice try, my dear.
She
then said if he wanted to eat something she could keep him company. She wanted
to show him her appreciation. She meant it. He got the clue, and
smiled a big smile. He was really happy to hear that and wanted to thank
her. He is a good man.
Then
he went out with Doctor Lee, leaving only Mary the good nurse to keep on talking
about something and nothing to herself. Some 10 minutes later both men
re-appeared, standing side-by-side by her bed, facing her together. One
man started, i know it is sad, Mrs. Mong, but please do not think that it is the
end. You must believe me that there is no aftermaths. And you are
not old and can still get pregnant if you wanted. Another man did not
speak, but kept on nodding his head to prove his was in agreement, understanding
and everything acknowledged. Mary was giving her an injection of
sorts, quietly and stealthily. How come the good nurse had stopped
talking. It is not the end, please understand. And i am sure both
Mr. Mong and yourself are healthy persons...
So,
the baby is lost. Simon's baby. The illegitimate baby.
Biologists
have it that only the fittest survive. They say it is nature's calls, by
design, not by default. If so, then can one say that this baby chose to
leave because it does not fit into this world? Or has it chosen to
sacrifice self for its mother and father? Only the fittest survive? Really?
Said who?
The next morning she felt
strong enough to kill somebody, and was hurrying everybody to let her go home.
Home to where her heart should be. She missed her daughter, so much so
that when she woke up this morning, she thought she was here because she had
just given birth to that very first child of hers. And the last.
She missed her.
The sheer thought of not
knowing how her own daughter had grown these day did, to a certain effect, speed
up her recovery and she again had to hurry everyone to let her go, even when she
was still lying on bed, with her most noticeable languish look and weakness.
She felt the urge of relocating her motherhood, that kind of love that was
uniquely and solely unconditional. Should there be love, she knows, there
would only be two kinds; namely, conditional and unconditional. She had
then drawn up her little plan to travel to the East Coast of the USA, so to
visit her daughter who was studying there in a boarding school. She knew
she would rent an apartment near the school, so she could then visit her
daughter very often, or as often as she could be allowed. If all went
well, she knew, she would take up her role as a full-time mother again, without
slipping away to any dangerous zones of fantasy. Never, never again she
would be that stupid again, she promised.
She would probably stay
there for a year or so, perhaps until her daughter’s 18th birthday
that was happening in ten/eleven months? And she would bake her another
cake, a better one if not a perfect one, must at least be one better than the
one she did for her 17th birthday right? May be she could even
stay until her daughter go to university too? Perhaps she could stay there
forever, not coming back. And she remembered her faked suicidal plan.
The ingenious but never-proven plan that she was so excited about only less than
a month ago. With a sigh she seemed to have come to realize finally how
silly she had been. How utterly and hopelessly silly.
To Mr. Mong it would be easy
to explain. But, to Simon? As her thought drifted to him, it stayed.
This was the first time she thought of him today, she found it a bit surprising
at her own lack of emotion when thinking of him. With such thought she
seemed to be able to chase slowly back into what had been happening in the past
few days. And she felt sorry for what happened, and for her own wild run
of emotion.
Though in later years she
had often wondered why she did what she did, and why she thought what she
thought then? Was it the demon in her soul that exploded the destructive
power? Was it the unborn baby inside her womb that carried out the magic
so to help mommy to escape? Was it some kind of fate? Destiny?
She only knew she was quite certain it had gone forever. Had she not known
that he did not love her so conjured some sort of future between them, as he
once cruelly suggested? Had she not known that he was purely exploiting
her and making use of her as a sexual outlet? Had she not known of his
selfishness but still giving herself away selflessly? Had she really been
enjoying only the physical exchange that once bound them so closely together,
without any other elements of a more spiritual undertaking? She would
always remember the startled look he wore, when hearing of her plan to leave Mr.
Mong. His facial look clearly suggested he was pleading “NO,
PLEASE…”
And he seemed to be so sure
that she would always return to him. However hurtful she might seem to be,
she would dance around his little finger should he just signal her a wish.
The noncommittal bondage that once mysteriously linked her to Simon had
finally chosen to desert her (and them). Gone also was the pain, the woe,
and the wildness. She was glad to note.
She really must go.
She said. Then with a deliberation to demonstrate what she just said, she
pushed away the beddings, and peeled herself away from bed. With one hand
holding her hair, the other pointed to the exit, she told the nurse to process
with the necessary papers immediately or else, she threatened she would make a
scene in front of the hospital authority. She started packing her bag.
The next minute she was seen carrying her bag by herself waving for a taxi
outside of the hospital.
It was an October night in
1973. Mr. Mong had gone to yet another one of those endless cocktail
parties celebrating the National Day of the People’s Republic of China.
Simon was with him so he could further develop his connection within the right
circle. With them together was also the forever high-spirited rose,
tightly wrapped in her rose-colour sleeveless dress.
The Mong mansion was basking
itself in the autumn sun. The autumnal nocturne seemed to have gathered an
unexpected speed. The South China sky looked luxuriously blue. That
morning after, at 10.00am sharp, when the stock market opened trading, the Hang
Seng Index slid right into a sharp fall. It is said that during that day
Mr. Mong had shed tears stealthily. It is also said that Mr. Mong had been
in tears even days ago before the financial crisis. That was perhaps why
his company could escape being drawn into the turmoil that hit Hong Kong real
hard in its history as a financial center of the Far East.
However full of foresight
that Mr. Mong might well be, two weeks later, when everybody was still panting
after the financial crisis, he was admitted into the hospital because of a
sudden heart attack. The Mong Company was then taken charged by Mrs. Mong,
according to Mr. Mong’s instruction and supported by the Board of Directors.
Simon Peters was made Mrs. Mong’s chief administrator.
Mr. Mong had passed away on
his daughter’s 17th birthday. He was 57, but the eulogy and
newspaper announcement rounded it up to 60 years old. There was no
birthday celebration for the young Miss Mong, instead, the whole family had been
in deep mourning, including Simon Peters who’s been widely recognized as Mr.
Mong’s God-son. And, according to Chinese traditional belief, since Mr.
Mong has no heir his God-son would then required to be the bearer of his
portrait and performed the rituals of “flag-carrying and water-buying” for
him during the funeral. It is said that such idea won with Mrs. Mong’s
approval. She was very grateful and thankful on her late husband’s
behalf.
During the mourning period,
Mrs. Mong had been surprisingly calm. Though with her fragile record she
had been under constant care of Dr. Lee and Mary the nurse. It is said
that Mr. Mong did not have any will written prior to his sudden death but had
asked the kind doctor to dictate a letter by his deathbed to his dear wife.
According to those who seemed to be in the know, although Mrs. Mong was crying
her eyes out when she read the letter, and knelt down immediately on the floor
then crawled all her way to her deceased husband.
Mrs. Mong, however, had
emerged as a very shrewd businesswoman after the tragedy. She took over
not only the family business from her husband but the good tradition of his
diligence, dedication and perseverance. With Simon’s help, the company
was floated in the stock market after three years. And in the second years
since its listing, it was returned to Miss Mong, who had returned with numerous
degrees and certificates that are believed to be beneficial to running the
business.
It is, however, strange to
note that Mrs Mong and Mr. Simon Peters had always kept a certain distance even
at the most joyous occasions or the hottest discussion in the company, and in
fact, they could only be seen “together” at company meetings and events,
never alone with only each other. There were always people surrounding
them too, of which Rose, the forever high-spirited business manager seemed to be
the most loyal one. She seemed always at the heels of Mr. Peters’
footsteps. Ms. Rose, as she was addressed by the Mong employs, was widely
known as in love with Mr. Simon Peters but could never quite inch herself
further. Some said Mr. Peters had suffered from impotence due to his
utmost grief for his Godfather, and also due to the heaviest workload he had
been entrusted upon. Some said Mr. Peters had no interest in women but
didn’t seem to have interest in men either. Ms. Rose, had hence become
so grumpy and developed a real binge in food as if she could only satisfy her
innermost needs through food. Poor Ms. Rose was also dubbed “an old
virgin” by her Chinese staff. She did not mind at all. They say
Chinese are the meanest with words. She, as a partial Chinese descendent,
should have understood it better than many of her Western friends. A very
fat, but cheerful virgin.
Mrs. Mong lived a very
solitary life until the age of 70. Except for work-related meetings and
gatherings, she was seldom seen in the public. She became a living model
of how great a loving Chinese wife and mother could be and was always referred
to with the utmost of respect when people talked about the Mong family story.
When Mrs. Mong chose to retire at aged 60, her grandchildren were said to have
been requested by her to play mahjong with her so to keep her brain power alert
at all times.
The young Miss Mong,
as expected, outshone everyone and had since become the key person in developing
the Mong Company Group. She was happily married to a self-made man of her
choice and gave birth to three children, two girls and one son. Simon left
the territory before 1997 with only one old briefcase. It is said that
when asked why by the reporters, he said his memories was quite heavy and he
didn’t want to take a fine. Nearly all major journals in town
highlighted that quote as some sort of enlightenment or encouragement message
for their readers. He donated all of his savings, including a significant
amount of The Mong Company’s stocks and bonds, to the Mong Trust Fund in
memory of his Godfather. He was never married.
This preview of a work in progress is brought to you by 