The Yellow Papers (37 page)

In the end, this argument had persuaded her, and she'd withdrawn most of her savings for Mike Wang to use as bribes. They had so few days – they couldn't afford to wait for officials to ponder whether or not Huang Ho should be given an exit permit.

And now, Mike Wang was coming back with her grandson.

Around her, Red Cross officials and police mingled with people from Hong Kong carrying bundles of food, who hoped or had heard their relatives would be amongst those crossing the border this day. Overhead a helicopter circled, watching for any who might try to sneak in illegally. Journalists waited, cameras at the ready. Nearby, a police truck with a cage on the back waited for those who were found trying to sneak into Hong Kong by swimming the river.

A train pulled in on the Chinese side and stopped. On the Hong Kong side, the atmosphere changed to one of expectation. Everyone pressed forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of a mother, a brother, a wife alighting. No human, except for the crew of trains bringing pigs and cattle into Hong Kong, was allowed to cross the border by rail. All had to get off the train on the Chinese side, walk across the bridge, and take another train on this side of the border to Kowloon. A moment of waiting, and it was as if all held a collective breath.

They struggled across the bridge, one by one or in groups. Colourless people, worn and tired. On their faces desperation mingled with hope. The Hong Kong police stopped them, handed out food and checked their papers. Ming Li stood on tiptoes, trying to see above the heads of those in front of her, but she couldn't see Mike Wang. Had they been stopped? Had something happened? A young woman carrying a toddler reached the border. Was stopped by the police. A man from the Hong Kong side – a husband, a brother? – ran towards the woman and child but another police officer held him back. They called out to each other. The police officer kept questioning the woman but she ignored him, calling out to the man. The police insisted. She shook her head, crying, obviously begging, but the police officer's face remained impassive. She let out a wail that silenced the crowd. The man freed himself from the grip holding him back and ran towards her, and she only had time to thrust the screaming toddler in his arms before being taken back across the bridge. A picture of heartbreak that Ming Li imagined would be repeated many times before the end of the day.

She saw them then, and it took all of her will power to restrain herself and wait. She watched Mike Wang, dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase, hand the police some papers. His self-assurance presumed no hindrance. The young man beside him contrasted so sharply that surely the police would question his association with Mike Wang. Though almost as tall as Wang he was half the weight, and his baggy wraparound Chinese trousers flapped in the breeze. He stood quietly, hunched and gaze lowered, though he occasionally glanced here and there then quickly looked down again, as if afraid of being found curious. Barely a minute after handing over their papers Mike Wang and Huang Ho were allowed to pass.

Up close, the boy looked even thinner, unwell, with deep circles under his eyes. But when introduced to his grandmother he stood up straighter so that Ming Li had to look up at him, and she detected a hint of haughtiness in his gaze.

‘Welcome, Huang Ho,' she said in Mandarin Chinese, but he refused to meet her gaze.

‘He'll only speak Gàn,' Mike Wang explained, ‘but I suspect he understands you perfectly.'

Ming Li didn't know what to do next. She'd imagined many scenarios for this moment, but none had included her grandson refusing to talk to her.

‘Very well then,' she said at last, pulling back her shoulders so that she stood as rigid as her grandson, ‘we shall speak English. I know you understand English; you would have learned it at school, and I suspect your mother would have spoken it to you as well. It will be good for you.' She noticed a fleeting reaction in his eyes – she had guessed right. ‘Come, we'd better find our seats,' and she headed for the Kowloon train without a backward glance.

Rocked by the movement of the train, Huang Ho slept. Ming Li took in his much-patched tunic, his trousers so thin in places she could see skin beneath, and regretted her earlier sharpness. Asleep, Huang Ho didn't look like the man he pretended to be.

‘He didn't want to come,' Mike Wang told Ming Li quietly. ‘I really thought I'd come back alone.'

‘How did you convince him?'

Wang looked uncomfortable. He took his wallet out of his pocket and withdrew a few notes. ‘Here. There's not much left, I'm afraid, but I had to move quickly.'

‘I'm not worried about the money,' Ming Li said, taking what he offered without bothering to count it. ‘But you haven't answered me. How did you convince him to come?'

‘You're not going to like it …'

‘Just tell me.'

‘Well, you have to understand his thinking. He really believes all this Mao bullshit about making a better China. He kept on telling me how much better off the people are now. Jesus Christ! They're all starving to death and he really believes they're better off!'

‘So what did you say?'

‘I had to get him moving – you understand, don't you? It was like sitting on a ticking time-bomb. The way he was just digging in … Anyway, in the end I told him you were rich, and if he played his cards right he could get all your money, and with it he could really help the people. I'm sorry, Ming Li. But you have to understand—'

‘So the only reason he's here is my money?'

Mike Wang nodded. Ming Li battled a surge of emotions. She wanted to laugh. Be angry. Cry. She looked at Huang Ho, still sleeping. Stupid boy! She wasn't really rich, not like they'd been in Shanghai. And she certainly didn't have any savings left to speak of. She felt like kicking him awake, telling him he needn't have come to Hong Kong to get her money, that everything she had would have been his, eventually. Or did he mean to get it sooner? Well, maybe he wouldn't get her money after all – not now, not later. If that stupid boy thought—

But he was her only grandchild. Maybe, with time, now that he was in Hong Kong, he'd come to see that things were better here. Yes, surely he would. She'd just have to be careful how she handled him. It would take time, but he was still a just a boy, really. He could go back to school – how long had it been since he'd been in school? He could make something of himself instead of digging rocks until he dropped dead from exhaustion. He'd soon come to realise he had no future in China. And when he did, then they would start building a relationship. And one day he'd marry and have children, and she'd have a family again.

‘We'll keep this between ourselves,' she told Mike Wang.

‘Yes. Yes of course. Whatever you say …'

She leaned her head back against the seat then, and closed her eyes so that Mike Wang could not see what she was feeling.

29

Ming Li watched Huang Ho leaning over the balustrade of the balcony, looking down at the street below, quickly tapping his heel up and down up and down up and down, as if he yearned to jump over and run.

He'd spent most of his first week sleeping, and eating whatever she put in front of him, so that already his skin had more colour, and he'd lost some of that gaunt look so typical of newly arrived refugees. But apart from the day after he'd arrived, when she'd taken him to get a residency permit, he hadn't wanted to venture out of the apartment. She'd found this strange – she would have thought he'd want to explore – but she didn't want to push him. Occasionally she'd seen him on the balcony, head back, eyes closed, as if soaking up the sun and the relative quiet, but as soon as he noticed her watching him he would busy himself, as if ashamed of having such needs. At night, when he thought her asleep, she'd heard him wandering around, opening cupboards and drawers, checking out the apartment, but this didn't worry her – Mike Wang's words that day on the train had prompted her to remove anything of value to a box at her bank.

She still refused to speak anything but English to him, ignoring him if he spoke Gàn, and after the first couple of days he'd given in – his English was hesitant, but he would soon become fluent. And even though she'd taken that week away from her shop in order to begin building some sort of rapport with Huang Ho, still he refused to show any warmth towards her. So they'd settled on a cold but polite relationship, and if she yearned to break through that façade she also realised that to push would be counterproductive. She had time. She'd waited thirteen years for this. She could wait a little longer.

Now, however, it was obvious he was bored with his self-imposed confinement, and she needed to get back to work. Tomorrow she'd take him shopping for clothes, and then he would have to start at his new school, whether he wanted to or not. She'd accept no argument. She hoped getting him back into school life would mellow his ideology and help him realise there was more to life than backbreaking toil. She also wanted him to think for himself – she'd been amazed at his inability to make a decision about the simplest thing;
which do you want me to have?
he'd answer to as simple a question as whether he'd prefer rice or noodles. Were they all like this now in China, or was this passivity his way of objecting to being here? Either way, it was high time he got out of the apartment and started living.

A small flock of tree-sparrows flew towards the balcony then soared upwards, all except a juvenile who continued straight on, crashing into the glass of the window and dropping, stunned, at Huang Ho's feet. From within the apartment Ming Ling watched her grandson as he picked up the small bird. Holding it in his cupped palm, Huang Ho softly whispered as he stroked the small bird's back. She remembered the lack of birds in China. For some minutes the tree-sparrow did not move, and Huang Ho continued stroking and whispering, until the bird stood and fluffed its feathers. Tested its wings. Huang Ho stretched out his arm, palm open, and the bird hesitated, hopping to the tip of Huang Ho's finger before finally flying off. Huang Ho watched its progress, a gentle smile on his face.

‘How can you not see what's happening here?' Huang Ho asked, opening the fridge door. ‘Everyone in Hong Kong is dedicated to living selfish lives. Everyone's only out for himself.' He took a bottle of Coca Cola out of the fridge and opened it, taking a long swig. ‘In the People's Republic, people are happy to make sacrifices for the good of the country. But not here.'

Ming Li only half listened to Huang Ho's argument – she'd heard it all before. Contrary to her hopes, the British system of education practised at his high school had done little to change his ideas these past three years. He'd quickly found a group of friends with similar ideology from the many Communist families in Hong Kong, and it seemed to Ming Li that each week Huang Ho was drawing further away from her.

‘Look,' he said, pointing to an article in the newspaper he'd been reading, ‘look what's happening here. In China they'd be working in the fields, being useful, instead of wasting their time.'

She pulled the paper towards her. It was an article bemoaning the immorality of the local Hong Kong youth, comparing 1965 Hong Kong to the Hong Kong of ten years ago. It blamed a mop-haired British group called The Beatles – or the Four Crazy Guys, as the older people called them – who had held a couple of concerts in Hong Kong last year. Since then the local pop scene had exploded with bands covering English and American music. Local radio stations played English pop songs as well as the Cantonese, Mandarin and Chinese opera songs they normally broadcast, and lyrics books such as
OK Hit Songs
sold out almost as soon as they hit the streets. A new phenomenon – Tea Dances – sprang up everywhere. These weekend afternoon dance parties were usually held in restaurants or nightclub, where for the price of admission teenagers could watch their favourite local bands perform English pop tunes, and scream and dance their excitement all afternoon as they drank soft drinks and snacked on food included in the price. Ming Li had noticed these young people, but the girls' short skirts and boys' long hair didn't bother her – there had been much worse in Shanghai many years ago. Why couldn't Huang Ho go to these Tea Dances? Enjoy himself a little?