Our annual one hour visit to this large home where

my son’s great-great Uncle Pat lies stretched out on white sheets

pillow at his head, television at his feet, crossword by his side,

chocolate squirreled inside a drawer.

Time has seized his nerves, renders him weak,

but he is here, nearly a century old.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

A locked entrance. We pause for the code

the click of a door, climb carpeted stairs,

pass white haired women

covered with frayed yarn and afghans,

fuzzy sweaters and pastels, reclined on stuffed chairs.

Canes and wheels, tubes and walkers

aluminum, plastic, wood.

Movement is slow and careful.

They reach for my son with smiles and stares,

long to grip this precious boy just once

extending fingers like pale tendrils, but he ignores their woe and needs,

besides, all is lost in the mist

of age and ammonia, detergent and dust,

the smell of lavender and flesh.

A cautious knock and we enter:

my husband, his mother, the young great-grand nephew and me.

Pat’s eyes tremble through thick lenses.

We are from the Outside.

Greetings of travel and jobs, illness and marriage

births and deaths and future plans.

And there is always the weather.

We are not memory, but the present and future.

My mother-in-law explains the photos:

“This was his father, the butcher; Pat’s wife in my garden,

his children; his mother, no, my goodness, hers—

a birthday party, that was an anniversary.

It was lovely that day; the flowers were out.”

What I know of this man: He refused to become a butcher,

so the High Street shop left the family.

He was in the Navy. Family lore relayed

by one who left long ago and now visits with wistful memory,

son and wife in tow. My husband proudly presents our son

who nods a “hello” and walks around the room.

My mother-in-law beams at her favorite and last uncle.

I imagine a tall man swinging a young girl in the air.

Our boy grabs and touches—photo frames, papers, a clock.

We peer out the window at the garden below

winter grass and yellow light, the emptiness beckons.

And so we descend onto the damp earth,

leave the family behind. My child races up and down

the garden path, picks acorn shells,

twigs, strands of straw and pebbles.

The gardener unearths coffin-size plots, turns soil for spring:

a year has come and gone.

From below I spot white lace curtains—a long surrender

and this old man fights.

Another winter, another spring.

We have returned to England as we always will.

We watched the snowdrops yield to the purple splendor of wild crocuses

admired yellow daffodils dotting the roadside.

We walk to the front onto the gravel drive,

crows circle a tall tree black with perfect wings.

They know who’s inside: the infirm and the aged

the neglected and strong, the hearty and forgotten.

Survivors—all of them. Loved ones that need

turning and feeding, changing and cleaning

tenderness and mercy, if there is any to spare.

They face the long winter. It is the fate we all bear.

My son, barely three, knows nothing of his future,

his concern is the tractor in the field beyond,

a machine that cuts hay.

We move closer and closer to this glorious beast,

he steps tentatively dying to grope its parts,

touch its mechanics. The passion is honest and true.

Such behemoth wheels make treads of endless brown mud,

steel stuck in manure, big dirt covered blades

kept safe by a sheepdog.

We turn back towards the home.

The persistent sun lights pale fields of yellow,

furious streaks of color and black wings flap for death.

Yes, I have stepped into the mad sorrow painted

by a one-eared man: Wheat Field with Crows.

He was ready to die.

Inside the frail ancients croak and whisper.

What anger do they hold, what love and disappointment seen

through war and poverty, time and fervid belief?

Oh, the fear they bravely face, I cannot allow myself to imagine.

It will come soon enough.

My son runs to a sturdy tree, his lovely limbs, extend and change

by the second, defy gravitational decay.

Upwards they reach to embrace the sky, the will of bold youth!

Against the open tree of brown black bark

rests a gray pine ladder with rusted nails.

He grabs hold with such joy.

One rung. Two rung. Three rungs.

He would ascend if he could to branches in the sky,

but I ask him not to climb any higher, to pause

where he is for his mother,

who is not yet ready

to let him go.

© Stephanie Han

My child grips plastic handles eaten by mold and grime,

steers the rusty bike from the bellow of the frogs

towards a flutter of moths that bat the glowing lamp.

We ride into the heart of mosquitoes and steam,

enter a hollow hull enclosed by iron gates.

Inside, an old stage swaddled by black curtains,

chipped paint walls, concrete floors.

Ceiling fans hum.

I squat, swat bugs raging against my legs, politely park in the corner.

A foreign woman, her small child.

We are familiar, but privy to nothing.

Father to son, uncle to nephew, teacher to student, lessons buried

in marrow and flesh, imprinted in cells, wedged in memory of bones and blood.

Men and gods, worship and discipline.

Inheritance, practice, ritual, habit.

These secrets: locked. These truths: family. These rules: tradition.

Six total: Three men drum. Three men dance.

Cigarettes smolder from the sides of mouths, plastic water bottles stand empty.

The stench of sweat cuts the air. Hair dyed or black, rubber slippers,

cheap sweatpants, singlets, tattoos, bruises, cuts, gold,

strands and strings of jade and wooden beads.

Pale and brown, lean and agile, hard strength and bravado, except one—

always one, soft, he peers behind glasses, smiles at my son.

An elder issues stealth commands.

His camera replays it over and over:

bend, crouch, spring, stalk, circle, attack, retreat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Improvisation burnt in the body, patterns of the wild.

Primal instinct, primal fear.

The beast bobs, its silk tail shimmers.

Irresistible.

My son stomps side to side, captured by the drums.

I obey his orders, slash air with invisible sticks.

The thump and clash of brass and skin!

The clang and boom of wood and metal!

Among keepers of sound and color, the dollar means little.

Ferocity: the highest jump, the loudest drum, the perfect leap.

Truth: to shine for the gods, blaze in the night, face the firecrackers,

Like all men, the uncles fight for fortune and blood,

televisions and property, alcohol and cigarettes,

sons and beauty, in form, in person.

Whatever meager place men claim in this world, it will always be these glories,

but this I cannot tell my son.

What awaits: long hours of bitter toil, a promise of rest and light,

wonder before dark rises and incense burns.

His fate like these warriors,

to scratch and bite, crush bones and devour.

In the corner, my boy claps and copies.

See the lion toss his mane and prance.

Feel the tail of the dragon whip,

the tongue of the serpent’s hiss.

Hear the uncle bang the drum,

the breath of the cruel attack.

This is how it begins.

Cymbals clang and smash the drum crescendos—halts.

A solitary clap. They turn to look.

I am not of this land, but of an East more distant and north,

and this blood courses through my child’s veins.

He is of this and not, will claim what he will

from an English father who wandered away,

a Korean grandfather who dreamed of the West, these uncles of Mui Wo.

We leave in silence.

Up the hill we stop at the temple.

He worships as children do, calls for the ghosts,

admires the painted guard’s sword.

We slap fleas and pause before a broken iron gate.

A lone man crafts and bends, welds and sauters,

slowly, slowly lifts a mask up, down.

The yellow and blue flames cascade and buzz

captured stars harnessed by a single man.

I wrap my arms around my child

enraptured, glued to the dazzle of sparks.

I do not tell him that loneliness yields to splendor,

that things are broken and fixed,

that my shelter is but for a brief time in his long life.

I say only the mask shields the man’s eyes,

sparks are dangerous,

it’s late, it’s late

it’s time to go home.

© Stephanie Han

and walk through wood and grass ahead

a fairytale windmill

a red house in the clouds.

His stroller rests

in a small green clearing.

While cold air stings his cheeks pink

he sings—a piper’s son,

a stolen pig, a mad dash for the hills.

His father parts bramble and gorse.

Silence. Soft woods sounds:

rocks crunching beneath boots

a muddy puddle splats.

My son will take these things or not.

Buried in his body:  cold blustery wind,

rain licking his hands and face,

a marmalade glow, pickled bacon salt,

the comfort of his father’s flesh,

my voice saying,

We’re in England.

© Stephanie Han 2010

for the slow boat to China.

Drink tea, scribble, empty my brain.

A day of errands:

forgettable necessary irrelevant.

A day with a child:

significant imperfect ordinary

but not ordered.

You will arrive spent; bleary-eyed, silent

trying to shut the day out.

The exchange is brief:

kiss, door close, computer on,

stretch, snack, sigh.

Facts given

nods and silence

trousers draped over a chair

I skim the paper retreat to bed. Book open.

A glass of wine. Another.

This is the rhythm of the grind.

Oh, how we grate and chafe

consumed by taxes and bills

duties and worries

clipped voices and broken wings

anger and fatigue.

And there is always this:

a desire to tip over and out

reckless and without care

abandon and escape

but we do not.

Our master is small, but demanding.

We are knowing slaves.

Even as we crumple and feel our bodies shatter

tongues cut, efforts break

we are dazzled by this flesh and light.

Yes, this child makes us sing.

With every step and word

we fall in line, hold our breath.

We will ourselves to provide and protect,

obedient until our deaths.

Dwarfed by the wonder of youth.

This love. This love. This love.

© Stephanie Han

Bones shoot from the earth—

a three-pronged fork.

Hard and pale white stumps—

jetties on green sea.

Bones;

a sturdy skeleton buried in tufts of winter grass

hacked and sawed by the woman upstairs—

one less to water, feed or tend

a Death

a Blessing.

A curious sculpture these bones

kicked by a tiny boy

ringed by dirt and dried feces

for the gods to chew

for the winds to gnaw

a brittle snap

a slow decay.

Bones are phantoms spit from the glory of summer’s bush.

At night my son cries: shadows, ghosts.

Does he mean these bones?

Weeks pass

nubs give way to stems and curved leaves.

Feel the baby’s temple, the barely-hard skull

damp with the terror of light.

© Stephanie Han

I tightly hold my father’s hand as we approach a red building near the escalator, a bar in Central. He explains to me, this is where the rich foreigners drink and watch football. My father cannot afford to drink here, nor would he be welcome if he stepped foot inside. Years later I will come to this very bar with colleagues from work and will hesitate before the door, remembering the time I stood outside with my father.
Tall foreign men lumber in and out with loosened ties and long sleeved shirts of white and light blue. Their pointed noses and large soft bodies are unlike my father’s; his nose is flat and firm, and body is lean and tan from carrying ladders and boards, hauling pails and scrubbing with rags. He’s a head shorter than the men inside, but his fist is wide, and his arms and calves bulge from work. An odd job jack-of-all-trades, he washes dishes in offices, fixes broken furniture and paints-anything to make money. The foreign men blurt out words in a language I can’t understand and will struggle for years to study in school: I couldn’t believe it. Sounds like a good deal. It’s the direction. Bloody hell. Their voices undulate as the door swings back and forth, opening and shutting. Blasts of cool air shoot out and hit my calves, the smell of stale beer tickles my nose and I sneeze to push out the stench of alcohol.
He has come here before without me to watch a game, but a week ago my mother left Hong Kong for her small village off the coast of Shanghai to tend to my sick grandmother. Holding me in his arms he says, look at the TV Mee-ling, watch the men in red uniforms. Look, look. Look at the ball. I say, ball? My father points to the ball on TV and we watch together, but it’s hard for me to see, so I squirm and he puts me down on the ground.
This is before my brothers are born, and my father is tall with hope, not stooped like the handle of an umbrella, eyes folded over, double lidded from long hours of work. My slender mother, who turns heads as she walks down the street, smiles when she sees my father and does not avert her eyes with disappointment when he tries to speak with her. When he brings me presents – barrettes, shiny white vinyl sandals, a small stuffed lion, my mother exclaims in mock protestation, Mee-ling will be spoiled, what good is a spoiled girl? But she’s happy. Unlike her sister’s husband who complains about his houseful of daughters, my father brags about me and until next year when my brother is born, I am everything to him.
I hold my arms up to him to be carried. He picks me up but only to sit me on a wooden chair under the stairs of the escalator near the bar. He scuttles over to peer through the window again. Yowling pierces the air. Behind a gray metal fence are cats arching their backs – one black, one gray, staring at each other, locked in frozen anger. People gather and wait for the fight to begin. My father cups his hands against the glass for a better view of the game and stands on his toes, but I climb down off my chair and toddle over to the cats. When my father remembers to check on me, he briefly panics until he spots me by the fence hidden amongst thighs and legs. He pulls me away from the crowd and hugs me with relief. As the yowling hits a frenzied pitch and the gray cat strikes the black, he hoists me on to his shoulders and says, let’s watch the game together and after, we can eat noodles. I clutch his head, pulling at his spiky black hair as he hurries back to the window.
Deep voices rise from the belly of the bar, baritone shouts break in a chorus of cheers scattering over the din of jackhammers and taxicabs, the clack of high heel shoes and blare of air conditioners. Goal! My father excitedly rattles away to the circle of men who stand outside with him arguing, dragging on cigarettes and shuffling their feet. The men in red uniforms are pouncing on top of each other. Say hello uncle, says my father. Hello uncle, I say, to no uncle in particular. The uncles smile.
My father wears green shorts, a red striped shirt and thick navy blue rubber soled sandals. On his brow are drops of salty sweat. His big toenail is purple, recently smashed by a hammer. When he comes home I run to see it for he has told me that soon, the purple toe will turn into a bunch of grapes. Everyday I look to see if the grapes have appeared, but no, it is the same toe, turning mushroom black.
One smiling uncle says, whoever heard of bringing a girl to watch a game? He pulls a stick of chewing gum from his shirt pocket and I let go of my father’s head to reach for the gum and his arms tighten around my legs. The sugar coats my tongue, and I clap my hands and the man, Chewing Gum Uncle, chuckles with pleasure.
I’m looking at the men inside, holding glasses and bottles with open mouths and knitted brows. Their eyes follow the small figures onscreen racing across a green carpet in pursuit of the ball. They wince as a player falls to the ground. To most of the foreign men, the uncles and myself are invisible, mere background, a backdrop to important lives, like the smell of car exhaust and old orange peels, the chill of an air conditioned shop or the postcard stretch of towers of mirror and steel that puncture the sky. A pale fat man grins and waves to me. I wave back. Some scowl when they see us. One deliberately moves in front of the window, his white shirt and thick neck blocking our TV view. A few of the uncles leave just as two men with faces flushed pink from alcohol exit the bar and head towards the stairs to take the escalator up the hill.
My father swears under his breath and I am jostled as he and Chewing Gum Uncle move to another window, craning their necks to see the TV. The goalkeeper is no good, says my father. Chewing Gum Uncle grimaces and says, the problem is the defense. Oh! Good! Penalty kick. Chewing Gum Uncle nods and my father says, c’mon, kick the ball. Suddenly a young red haired man pushes his nose up against the window-pane and snorts at my father. I let out a cry and feel my father’s body stiffen as he steps back, shushes and comforts me. In the glass I see my father’s reflection, his steady eyes, his mouth drawn in a stern straight line. The men inside laugh at us – one guffaws and slaps the red haired man on the back. Chewing Gum Uncle says good-bye and pats my leg before walking away. A wavy haired man with no chin tries to shoo us away like flies. My father’s hold on my calves tightens and he watches the screen and ignores them. The red haired man laughs again. He scares me. I want to get down from my father’s shoulders but he says sharply, be still. The chinless man shakes and growls like a dog at a young Asian woman who cowers before him.
A few minutes later, the woman tapes a piece of black paper to the window with masking tape. The TV light cuts through a small tear. My father moves to another spot, but the woman seems to follow us steadily from window to window, without ever meeting our eyes, covering each section of glass. The men inside barely glance at us; expressionless, they slowly disappear behind a black curtain of paper.
My father’s shoulders drop and round when we can no longer see the screen. He slumps and puts me down on the ground. His face looks tired; this is the first time I see the expression he will come to almost always wear. He pulls my braided hair and looks at the blacked out windows, and when I see his long eyes I ask about the TV, but he doesn’t respond. I reach for his hand and soberly he says that it is time for us to go home. From behind the black paper, inside the bar there are whoops, claps and cries of joy. My father’s eyes lift, a rebound, a brief light returns and he slowly gathers me in his arms. He says, time for noodles. I nod my head and look down at his toenail and wonder when the grapes will appear.

Copyright © Stephanie Han

This story appeared in the South China Morning Post (Fiction Award) 2002 and the Santa Fe Writer’s Project (5th Place) 2004.

of rocks and pebbles,

his father’s abandoned birthplace

a village on the gray North sea.

His grandfather patrolled the streets.

His great-grandmother, a postal worker

who switched shifts,  missed the bomb,

and found her friend’s left hand

with its newly ringed finger on the street.

His great-great-grandfather owned the pub

the sea took away.

The March wind bites my son’s cheeks red

he hands me stones, tries to take off his shoes,

splash and tear into this rough water.

When I stop him he cries and yells.

How do I explain the bitter water?

The distance of countries and family?

The big cold of England?

The freeze of love and time?

I am a stranger here,

a fair boy I push down the High Street

a vague passport to this country.

He reaches for the low sea wall,

I hoist him onto the cement,

jump to the other side and walk.

The wind tires. Carry carry.

So I lift him; feel the pull on my back

as we walk down the narrow street

past the stone and brick holiday homes.

Windows reveal winter’s silence.

Birds caw and swoop.

Toes stiffen, fingers harden.

He is too late for this place

lost to outsiders and wealth;

his relatives long gone

to the nearby town.

I try to turn him back and he protests,

tucks into a corner where two brick

walls meet and wind passes.

Stand still stand still.

I point down the street, grab his heavy body

tell him we are going back

inside out of the cold

into the house

that is not his home.

© Stephanie Han

This is how to become invisible in Hong Kong. Ideally you should resemble a Han Chinese, which is to be fair of face with dark hair and flat high cheekbones. You should be attractive, but not so much that you gain attention in any unusual way, but attractive enough to pass the scrutiny of the doorman of the club that you and your tall, light, green-eyed husband have belonged to for the past three months. You should be able to smile and flash your membership card and pull open the brass handles of the door without being stopped.

You are not a gweilo, a foreign devil, or a ghost person, a term of insult, but a foreigner of another kind. You aren’t Han Chinese, but Korean. Your complexion is not olive, a sign to the doorman that you could be Filipina, which in most places in this city guarantees a disparaging glance, harsh words from the locals, and a lascivious glance if you are younger, by Western men who are twice your age or at least twice your body weight.

You are seen as belonging to the local Chinese if your husband is absent and you are silent, and to the expatriates only if you are on his arm — your husband called either more or less of a man because he is with you.

This establishment is in the grand tradition of colonial clubs, yet with modern considerations. It’s open to locals of a certain privilege and distinction who circulate in the company of foreigners, locals who move seamlessly from one society to the next, occupy important posts, possess substantial holdings, educate their children in the West, and who, along with their former colonial overlords, now agree with everything Beijing has to say; before everyone agreed with everything London had to say, as to agree is to be rich, which is to be glorious. It is a marvelous circle, the elite of one nation admiring and mimicking the elite of another, the mutual goal of keeping the underlings out, whatever their pigmentation, cementing the tacit bond of wealth.

You speak far less Cantonese than your British spouse, who has lived here before and rattles away words and phrases with relative ease. Your vocabulary is limited to pleasantries, basic greetings and taxicab language, and the phrase Ngo hai han gwok yan — I’m Korean, a sentence that has more than once smoothed your path. You have been mistaken for Japanese, and the older local generation, like people everywhere in the world, blame the sins of the past on those of the present and have greeted you with a suspicious glance. What did your relatives do to my relatives?

After going to the gym downstairs you sit alone at the bar and order a beer. It’s the beginning of a long weekend. You will wait for your husband to get off of his late-night shift. You both work as journalists, neither of you with much relish or interest. In the end, it is a tree exchanged for paper information that spins the cycle of money. He works for a financial mag, you for a society rag, documenting respectively the deals the husbands make that afford the jewels their wives wear. Like many other expatriates in Hong Kong you are here to save money, to escape the West, and will eventually leave. There is little in your apartment. A single burner. A shelf of books. A holiday photo. Your clothes fit into one suitcase. You are surrounded by second-hand furniture given away and in the center of your home is what you have deemed the hemisphere’s ugliest leather sofa, trimmed in brass and a color that is not quite beige and not quite caramel, a color that alludes to a shade of human flesh stuffed and sculpted in the form of a sofa more appropriate for a Las Vegas brothel’s reception area.

You call Hong Kong home when you return from holiday, but you think of the U.S. as your country though you often wonder why, since after four generations, people there still tell you to go back to where you came from when they’re angry, or think it’s a compliment to say that you’re as good as an American, as good as a white person. Your husband calls it home because home is where he lives at the moment and is least of all the U.S., which he was glad to leave, for why should he live in an expanding Empire having loathed and fled a dying one? Hong Kong holds your curiosity insomuch as it was where you had met five years before and it was, a year ago, a new destination. It remains a place of the unexpected. The unusual. You cannot speak the language so are cut off from the locals. You haven’t had much social success with other expatriates though this is the fault of your own actions. This is a city of bankers. Many of them bore you. And you, not being particularly interested in money, bore them. Hong Kong is a stopover. You have thoughts of other countries and don’t wish to return to the U.S., not yet. You want to escape from the smog for a few days or maybe years, but have no other specific destination in mind. Like any city once you have adjusted to its rhythms and smells and beats, Hong Kong can be monotonous.

You were glad to come back to Asia. Sink into a crowd. Get lost. You are not a rugged individual. You like the anonymity. Together with your husband in the U.S. you were thought of as too yellow, too white, too privileged, too educated, too foreign, too poor, too rich, too loud, too quiet, too American, too Asian, too European. You and your husband occupy that space in-between. You have what the far left and the far right seem to uncannily agree is undesirable and problematic: a mixed marriage.

You feel the room’s cigarette smoke coat your skin and sip on your beer. You look at the photographs on the wall of old Hong Kong and ponder the past year and what it has brought. Money in the bank. A dull job. A few published stories. Your marriage has weathered the move well. Between the two of you, over the past five years, you have inhabited four apartments in three cities and have moved countries twice. You know that you and the man you have married will be doing this the rest of your lives. This moving from country to country is what you share with others here. In this way, if in no other, you are a typical Hong Kong expat. You would like to find a country to belong to. A continent. You think of small tropical islands and crowded cities. You hope to find The Place To Live but have started to believe that it doesn’t exist.

People are drinking. The bar is busy. Everyone is talking but on one side of you the barstool is empty, and on the other, a very tall man is arguing with his neighbor. Across the room you see the English friend of your husband’s, an acquaintance to you. You have met him three times before in the U.S., once with his wife with whom your husband does not get along. You found this man pleasant, but not particularly interesting. The couple did not come to your wedding, though they were invited. He plays soccer, or rather football, with your husband and occasionally they share a beer afterwards. Once long ago, they were better friends, but they are older and their friendship is based on a past familiarity as opposed to a current compatibility.

You have seen this fellow several times since arriving. Once at a large group dinner days after your plane first landed in Hong Kong, once for a champagne brunch at a fancy hotel, and once at an early morning football game where you watched your silver-haired husband, in his late thirties who still has the physique and the anger of a man years younger, run across the field in intense pursuit of a ball. If you were with your husband, this man across the bar would fast approach with a greeting. But tonight you are alone, and as you have experienced at various times around the city, your English husband’s presence or absence determines your status. You are elevated or lowered depending on the circumstance. You are seen or you simply disappear. You stand up and venture a friendly wave at the man and he looks right at you, straight in the eye but doesn’t respond. He didn’t see you. Or did he? You wave again, more urgently. Why, you don’t know. You feel foolish and wonder if anyone saw you wave. You slink to the back of the bar, hop up on a stool and let your right foot with the big blister on your toe, slide out of a worn leather flat.

You smile at a few faces in the crowd—no one speaks to you but the bartenders who take your order and remember your face from prior visits. They are Chinese. The bar is crowded with Westerners. It’s a Western club. You count: four Chinese men in suits and silk ties at a corner table drinking — they smile when you walk past to go to the restroom; one Filipina woman with square shoulders at the bar with a red-haired Western man; one bearded Eurasian with naturally wavy hair and skinny limbs — you have seen him all over Central at various spots from the hours of 6PM-4AM but have never met and hope you never will; a pair of older Chinese women lost in a cloud of cigarette smoke. There are Asians sitting at the tables and you are trying to decide if you should move to that area. You have come alone and have planted yourself at the bar but you decide to stay for lack of incentive to move, other than to be less conspicuous, which you have felt in Hong Kong the few times when you were the only Asian face, situations that have arisen when you circulated with expatriates. You think you shouldn’t have come alone. You have long since passed the days when you sidled up to a bar on your own and enjoyed casual drunken conversation. You are here because you want a drink after a day spent analyzing the latest designer handbags. You remember your editor’s squeals of delight over the newest Gucci wallet.

—Yes, the red one is very nice, you said looking at the letter ‘G’ scattered all over the fabric.

You wondered how many people have the letter ‘G’ in their name — Geraldine, Gwyneth, Gigi, Gabby? Garrett, Guo, Gilpin, Gillotte? You cannot think of too many names with the letter ‘G’ and ponder why individuals buy wallets with initials that aren’t their own. You think about the letter ‘X’ and its appeal. Xylophone, x-ray, x-rated? You cannot think of any first or last names with the letter ‘X’.

—It’s a season must-have. Appearances are important, she said looking at your skirt.

She wants to frown but she can’t because she has Botox treatments. Her forehead never moves. For days you said things to see if you could get her forehead to move. Nothing worked, it always stayed the same. Botox is very strong.

She stared because your skirt was the wrong length. According to fashion forecasts, it will be the right length in two years. You can wait. She never says anything about the clothes you wear. Mostly because you’ve been buying clothes from a cardboard box at the store selling sweatshop overruns down the street from your apartment, next to the shop selling roast duck. Whatever you buy smells like roast duck and steamed rice. Nice smells, really. You wash your new clothes before you wear them to work.

—You are not the public face of the magazine, the editor once said dryly.

You didn’t say anything. Her forehead didn’t move.

More people have entered the bar area. Others have left. You spy the rack of periodicals by the entrance and think about reading a newspaper but know you won’t do it; instead you order a beer. The man has not approached. You think of going over and saying hello, but he is enmeshed with his friends in one of those conversations that might awkwardly stop if you did. You feel hesitant. Shy. You didn’t want to sit in an empty apartment alone; you had decided it was better to be alone in a crowd. You go to the phone to call your husband. You remember how he told you with consternation that this man and his wife would be adopting a Chinese baby.

—They do not speak a word of Chinese after living here for over a dozen years. They have no Chinese friends. They say ‘the Chinese this’, ‘the Chinese that.’ Pathetic really, your husband said with disgust.

Your husband says this is the reason their friendship has faded.

—They’ve been here too long. It’s what happens to some English people. People live insulated lives here and become more of what they are. They’re adopting a Chinese baby to save China from China. You know why? It confirms their worst feelings about China, he said.

—I’m sure that’s not the only reason. It’s better than the kid staying in an orphanage, you said to your husband.

—Yes.

—They won’t have much of a choice with a Chinese child but to change.

—I doubt it.

You phone him during his deadline rush. You tell him you’ve seen this man, his friend.

—No, he has not seen me. He can’t see me. I’m invisible, you say laughing and then suddenly stop.

You feel tense. You’ve never been in the club without your husband. You don’t like being there alone. You notice you’re now the only Asian in the club except for the wait staff. The Asians have left. When did that happen? You think that you should have gone straight home after work.

—No, of course not. To him you’re another Asian face, he says slowly. It’s odd, but not really, he sighs. So who are you with?

His voice is anxious. He joined the club so you could sit in the jacuzzi and afterwards eat a quiet meal together in a restaurant that banned cell phones from its dining room.

—No one is talking to you?

He sounds worried. He knows you don’t feel relaxed in a room full of white people in Asia. You’ve told him you find it peculiar. Though your language, your passport, your husband, your education and everything about you says you should feel at ease in this room, you don’t. You take no pleasure in Hong Kong trailblazing.

You were not an American trailblazer. You did not invent the nectarine, win an Olympic gold medal, star in a TV show, or lead Japanese American troops into battle. You hate the phrases ‘overcoming odds’, ‘defying stereotypes’ and ‘getting ahead.’ You don’t like the words ‘assimilation’, ‘model minority’ and ‘well-adjusted.’ This is why you left the U.S.. You decide you should strike up a conversation, make a friend.

—It’s not a big deal, I’ll talk to someone.

You say this with confidence. The problem is that you don’t like small talk.

—I’ll talk to someone, you say again.

Your husband does not believe you.

—Don’t tell me you’re alone and no one is talking to you now! I have sixty stories in front of me. I can’t be there now.

He sounds upset. You realize you shouldn’t have called him.

—I know, it’s not a big deal, really. I’m going to grab a bite to eat here.

—I’ll be there in three hours. He can’t see you. The fact he can’t see you says everything to me!

When your husband worries he shouts. He shouts if you don’t take a cab at night, you could get hurt. He shouts if you forget your umbrella, you could get wet. He shouts. Usually you ignore him. Often you laugh. He can’t shout now. He’s in the office. You both are silent on the phone. He sighs; his voice softens.

—What are they going to do with their kid? Watch—they’ll lose their kid because they can’t recognize its face.

You and your husband share a sad little laugh.

—I’ll be here at the bar.

You hang up the phone and consume two plates of hors d’oeuvres. Ahi tuna on garlic toast. Cold cuts. Fried bits of seaweed and vegetables. A pint and a half of beer. You feel relaxed and have now started a conversation with a red-faced Dutch man who tells you he’s a Mason. You try to remember something about the Masons other than that you’ve heard they’re a secretive conservative group of white men. You remember your sister calling them fascists. She calls a good many people fascists. Unfortunately, she’s usually correct. You wonder idly if the man beside you is a fascist, how many people in the club are fascists. You’re not fazed, just curious. You order another beer.

—What charities does the club support, you ask.

All people like to discuss charitable concerns. Last week you interviewed a Macanese businessman who was rumored to have cooperated with the Japanese in WWII, a man who committed many crimes in the process of building his manufacturing empire. You talked to him about his efforts on behalf of the Chinese panda bear. Everyone has a cause.

—We do work for charity. Lots of charity. Of course, people don’t always know it’s us doing it, says the Mason, nodding solemnly. We’re anonymous. Private charities.

—I see. Wonderful.

You realize you’re getting good at talking to fascists, rich fascists, because of your job. You try to think of when the Masons started. Were they linked to the KKK? The National Rifle Association? Tories? Republicans? The National Front? What are they exactly? Friendly old white men? You used to joke with your husband about conspiracy theories but after your mail was opened, your computer had problems, and the phone started to click you both quit laughing about it.

—We’re low key. If you give money, it doesn’t mean you have to advertise it, he says modestly.

—Oh no, you’re so right. That’s true charity. Anonymous. So can anyone join?

—Oh yes, even Muslims and Catholics. We’ll be starting a women’s branch.

You try to imagine a dark-skinned Muslim woman pledging allegiance to the Masons. What kind of woman would be a Mason? You think of asking him for membership information to see how he’d react, but decide against it.

An hour or so later you are pleasantly buzzed. The man across the bar, your husband’s friend, suddenly strides over. He has spotted you, seen you.

—How’s work going, he asks.

—Splendid!

You use vocabulary like ‘splendid’, ‘marvelous’, ‘fantastic’, ‘amazing’, and ‘stunning’ all day long no matter what you’re talking about. You used to use other words, but your editor thought you had an attitude problem. The only issue is that you have to say them enthusiastically, which is difficult. You see the man’s back molar on the left. It has a big gold filling.

—We’re going on holiday to Sydney. Heading to Oz, he says, molar flashing.

—Marvelous!

The more you drink the easier it is to talk. The conversation is intolerably pleasant. When did he see you exactly? You look at him and give a little wave of your hand like you did earlier.

—Who’s here, he says curiously.

He looks to see who you’re waving at.

—Just you. Did you see me wave?

—Certainly.

—Amazing! You say joyously. He knows your husband’s schedule but you decide to fill the air with words and say, I’m here on my own. Late night shift, you know. I waved at you earlier. Did you see me?

—When?

—Earlier. I waved at you.

—You did? Didn’t see you.

—I’m very short. We all look alike.

—Don’t say that about yourself, he says a little too generously. Everyone looks different. You realize he doesn’t get the joke.

—We look alike. Like little black haired ants. Hordes of them. Bugs. Buzz-buzz.

You start to talk very quickly and he’s not sure if you’re serious.

—Buzz-buzz, you say. We’re like bees. Yellow skin and black hair, like, like, like bees, you say loudly. Buzz-buzz. Bzzzzzz.

You make bee sounds and start flapping your hands.

—Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzz.

You laugh too loudly.

—You can’t see us, you say, laughing while swallowing big gulps of air.

You start to laugh so hard your stomach hurts. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s starting to get upset. You’re not laughing at him, though, but you can’t stop laughing long enough to tell him that you’re laughing because your only other choice would be to yell, throw a drink across the bar or walk out. You will walk out, but before you do, you decide to order another beer. The way he looks at you, you know he thinks you’re completely crazy. His eyes tell you he can’t see you. He never saw you. He doesn’t see people who look like you. You can’t laugh anymore. You become quiet.

—I don’t see you either, you say to him calmly.

He looks confused and then begins to urgently speak. His voice is becoming embarrassed and angry. You hear the denial. Yes, he knows what you are saying. He knows why you laughed. The protestations get stronger. You study his outline, his expressions, the way he holds himself. You listen to the rise of his voice carefully as if to memorize it all, because slowly in front of you he is fading. His words are drowned by the clink of glasses; the haze of tobacco rises and his presence recedes, swallowed by the dim of amber light.

© Stephanie Han

This story appeared in the Kyoto Journal, 2007.

She couldn’t take another step.

I’ll just stop for a moment, Yuk Ki said to herself. Just sit, right here. She didn’t. She knew what would happen if she sat down on the steps by the exit of the neon lit café in Sheung Wan; it wasn’t a fancy place, but it was filled with people in clean clothes. More than that, if she sat, she was giving in. She looked down the street: Che Sum was nowhere in sight. She leaned against her handcart and tried to shut out the noise from the city.

With bowlegs shaped like a bent iron magnet and a spine so curved it forced to twist neck like a turtle to see anything but the ground, most of the time, Yuk Ki didn’t care; she knew the way they looked at her pushing her handcart stacked with cardboard—this was just life. It wasn’t her fault her son died. Yes, she had thrown her daughter out of the house, but at the time Moy was nothing but trouble; and besides, it had been ten years since Moy had left Hong Kong. She was in Canada. Children don’t do what they should for their parents. Didn’t matter. She got on fine by herself.

Years ago, she and Ming Ho sold newspapers; they even had their own stand by Wing On department store when business was really booming, but the stand went bust. The 7-11’s really killed them. Who wanted to buy a newspaper from old people on a corner when you could get it at 7-11? By the time Ming Ho died, they were back where they started, out on the street, sitting on the cement steps down from Cat’s Alley with a stack of newspapers and an old basket of coins. Back then she and Ming Ho would talk to Che Sum whenever she passed them. The three would take a quick break and then Che Sum would be off, pushing her handcart down the street.

Collecting cardboard for recycling was hard work, but after Ming Ho died, Che Sum had helped her get a handcart and showed her what cardboard pieces were best, how to stack and tie everything properly so things wouldn’t slip off. Lean and wiry, Yuk Ki was ten years Che Sum’s senior but she managed to push the load up Wellington from Queen’s Road, right past that fancy new gym, slow to be sure, but she made it like everybody else. Lately, the junction seemed steeper; it took longer to get around the curve. The slight slope was like a long steep hill and she found herself taking a break on the cement island in the middle of the road waiting for lights to change red-green-red-green-red-green, massaging the back of her neck with her stiff hands, before she finally shoved off to move the handcart. People never liked it when she stood there for too long; women shuddered and shrank away, fearful their skirts would brush her. When they looked, men said, get out of the way old woman.

—You get out of the way, she’d answer defiantly behind her cart. You’d smell like garbage too, if you spent your days picking from the dumps, she wanted to say but never did. Drivers honked when she didn’t cross the street fast enough, but they never hit, at least not her.

She and Che Sum were meeting up as they often did, to exchange news or eat rice together. Yuk Ki waved when she saw Che Sum down the block and watched her navigate the cart through the narrow street between taxicabs.

—Lots of boxes. People moving in that new building, said Che Sum. We can go back after lunch. Hot today. Hey, sit down.

—I’ll sit, said Yuk Ki. She didn’t sit but stood looking at the crowd. Lunchtime. Everyone was hungry, rushing to eat, impatient to get back to work. She was hungry.

Now and then the two women worked together, but more often than not, they each spent their day alone. It was hot; the weather had turned and the chill had left the air. The wet heat clung to their bodies and hung in the air like layers of steam. The city was waiting for the monsoons, summer rains to wash away the grime—the spit on the sidewalks, the dust from construction, the stench of car fumes and garbage.

—Shoes look good, said Che Sum.

—Comfortable. High quality. These will last a long time, said Yuk Ki.

Yuk Ki was finally comfortable in the shoes Che Sum had retrieved from the dump by the new apartment complex on Queen’s Road. Che Sum had presented Yuk Ki the new footwear after watching her friend slip on a rainy day.

—Slippers are fine, but us old women need all the help we can get, Che Sum had told Yuk Ki. Take off your slippers. Here. These are almost new.

—These are kids’ shoes.

—Just be glad they’re not the kind with the flashing red light on the back. Those would be good though. Especially when it gets dark.

—Nothing wrong with my slippers.

—Old woman, don’t be silly. Here wear the shoes. Don’t tell me I spent all that time digging them out of the dump and you’re not going to wear them!

When Yuk Ki’s back started hurting more, Che Sum had said that they should work as a team. They both knew that it would mean less money, though now and then when it came out the same, Che Sum casually said that it was more profitable to work together. Yuk Ki put up a protest so as not to appear needy and Che Sum said what was proper, that Yuk Ki was doing the favor when it was really the other way around.

Yuk Ki hesitated before the stoop of the Sheung Wan café and then eased her bottom onto the step.

—Good idea, said Che Sum. Sit down. We need a short break. Too much work. Oh, the heat is bad today. Work slow. That’s best. I’ll get something to drink. What do you want?

—Water, said Yuk Ki.

—Wait right here, said Che Sum. She scuttled across the street and came back with a bottle of water.

—Here, said Che Sum. I told you, sit down. Sit down! Right here on the step. Che Sum pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed Yuk Ki’s forehead. Yuk Ki shifted her posture; she slumped her shoulders, closed her eyes, and patted Che Sum’s hand.

—I’m fine. Just sitting for a minute. So hot today, said Yuk Ki. Sure, the manager might try to push them, maybe dump water on them, who knows, but it wouldn’t be for awhile. They could afford to sit.

—Yes, let’s take a rest, agreed Che Sum.

The cafe manager came out and started to yell.

—Get off old woman! Get off!

Che Sum growled right back, ready to scowl at anyone who dared to take a sidelong glance at Yuk Ki.

—Don’t worry, Yuk Ki, just take a breath, said Che Sum patting her on the shoulder. Yuk Ki nodded, sweating in the noonday heat as her hand gripped the wall. You just sit — rest, said Che Sum, her gruff voice softened with worry.

The manager went back inside. Yuk Ki glanced at her friend’s navy blue flowered shirt, black cotton pants and fabric shoes and looked down at her own equally dirty pair. Two old women, that’s what we are, like shriveled pieces of dried ginger. Che Sum is younger, but still an old woman. The police were sure to tell them to move along. Bastards. No respect for elders.

There was the day a woman had shouted for them to get out of the dumpster, called them names. Usually Che Sum yelled back or ignored people but young Che Sum didn’t fight back. Old Yuk Ki had stepped in.

—Leave us alone! Stupid woman, said Yuk Ki. Squawk. Squawk. You sound like a chicken!

—Let’s go, said Che Sum.

—That building’s a waste of time. Don’t listen to her, said Yuk Ki. Forget it. Let’s go eat. Forget about that squawking woman.

Che Sum was quiet.

Everyone gets tired. Who would look after her friend, Che Sum? Silly really, she’s the one who watches me, thought Yuk Ki.

—You sit, said Che Sum. That fool’s always like that.

—Maybe five minutes, said Yuk Ki. She didn’t want to sit. But it was hot.

Che Sum nodded. She touched Yuk Ki’s spotted gnarled hands. Yuk Ki pressed her deep brown cheek against the cool of the mint green tile. People passed and someone spit near their feet. When the café door swung open and patrons spilled out, the welcome draft of chilly air quickly disappeared.

—So hot, said Yuk Ki letting the heat push her down. It didn’t seem so bad to give in a little. What would she have ever done without Che Sum? Even now, working together — Che Sum could do better on her own.

—You just sit, said Che Sum fanning her friend. The rain’s coming.

The warm rain began to fall, and the steps became slick with water. Yuk Ki looked at Che Sum’s hot and sticky face and smiled. Che Sum—a good friend. Like a sister.

—How can I worry about five years from now if I can’t figure out five hours from now, Che Sum had always told Yuk Ki.

—You’re young, Yuk Ki had said, emphasizing her seniority. You need to think about the future. At my age, it’s different. Che Sum had brushed the comment aside; younger people didn’t listen.

Yuk Ki slowly sipped water from the bottle.

—Stay right there, Che Sum said, looking at her friend. You need to rest. I’ll cover the cardboard. Che Sum got up and began covering the stacked cardboard with strips of black and clear plastic, garbage and grocery bags cut in half, and woven vinyl tarps of blue and red stripes.

Yuk Ki agreed. A little rest might be good. Doesn’t mean anything. Just five minutes. The café customers were carefully stepping around them but Yuk Ki’s eyes were closed. All she could hear were the jackhammer voices collapsing into the sounds of the street.

—She’s getting sick right here. You need to do something about this scum, ruining my business, the manager yelled to the policeman across the street. The policeman ignored him until a few people began to block the narrow sidewalk.

—The old woman’s dying. Get the ambulance.

—What’s happening?

—Get those carts out of the road, old woman.

—Drive around them, Che Sum barked to the driver. You rest, she told Yuk Ki.

—Yes, whispered Yuk Ki. She felt her heart rapidly beating. She wanted to reassure her friend. Young Che Sum shouldn’t worry; she looked so small and frail. Yuk Ki wanted to speak, but settled for squeezing Che Sum’s hand.

Che Sum huddled next to her, silently weeping as she fanned Yuk Ki with a shred of torn cardboard. As the slight wind of the fan hit her forehead Yuk Ki thought of the day on the ferry, tiny Moy wrapped in a blanket. The wind skipped off the harbor and Moy wriggled and smiled.

—It’s going to be fine. Yuk Ki, Yuk Ki! Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll take care of the cart, Che Sum cried.

People were shouting and strangers had gathered. The policeman stood nearby but Che Sum rocked Yuk Ki in her arms, holding her close and sobbing. A soft wind carried a few plastic bags away and the cardboard became wet, large drops of water coming down on the brown flattened boxes.

—Summer rain, that’s all, Che Sum said to Yuk Ki. It’s no problem, Yuk Ki. You can rest now. Just take your time.

Yes, Yuk Ki wanted to say. Don’t worry Che Sum. The slip into sleep is nothing. The relief of a warm bath. A cool drink on a hot day. The colors run blue and black behind closed eyes. Very pretty and all so fast. The waiting is bad—but now it’s close, so close. Nothing to fear, just a rest, she wanted to say. But she was too tired to speak.

© Stephanie Han

This story appeared in Women’s Studies Quarterly Activisms Fall 2007 and Cheers to Muses: An Anthology of Asian American Women Writers (AAWWW) 2007