Dan's Conundrum - 11. Chapter 11

Mum told me once that Dan Ng wasn’t real. That he was fiction, a new identity created solely for Britons to understand and get to know because it was easier for them. That I was still the same person, with the same history and past which a mere changing of name would not take away. I wanted to believe in Dan, of course, and I protected my real identity with zeal which wasn’t easy when Parents were determined to use my real name at any and every opportunity. Pesky classmates investigated, pursued, discovered, and laughed. Made fun of my name. So much for trying to be a fictional character, when my life had already been set in stone. Whether Dan was in the end a better person and a better version of myself, I could not say. I had forgotten who I used to be.

I had even forgotten how much I hated laughter. That sound, that horrible noise coupled with the knowledge that you must have done something profoundly stupid, and people were gaining happiness from your own unhappiness. You were excluded from their world, and you laughed no more when others laughed at you, for, what was there to laugh about, apart from your own misfortune? Every time someone laughed, I felt pain. This was me.

As I followed my parents off the plane, several children laughed behind me. Of course I was already seething. We’re visiting Hong Kong! We’re so excited! We’re so looking forward to this that we can’t keep our mouths shut! So ridiculous.

But perhaps I was no less excited when I was their age, only the flight was in the opposite direction. It almost seemed like yesterday. How have things changed. That day I was hoping to leave my past behind and begin as someone new. Make new friends and grow up at least half as happy as I had. Graduate and get a job. Have a family. My, I was such a kid. But I was right in that I did start a new life – it was not beautiful.

I gave the cabin one last look to see if we’d left anything behind. I didn’t want off the plane even after a long flight with the entertainment system broken down. I knew the horrors that must be awaiting patiently outside. Still, it made no sense to remain when my parents were the first to hop off, so I followed.

Blond airhostesses were by the exit, waving and smiling at everyone as they left. I fondly remembered one of them giving me cookies when I was starving, since there wasn’t much to eat. Their gorgeous, professional smiles seemed to say, ‘Good luck, whatever you are about to do.’ I was beginning to appreciate that sentiment. Then again, maybe they weren’t conveying anything at all. This was just a job. They didn’t really know about me, nor were they remotely interested in the horrible things I was about to endure. They probably hated us all, silly passengers, with our avalanche of requests from the unreasonable to the nonsensical to the absurd.

I struggled to keep up with my parents, like they in turn became children again, running and disappearing at the sight of Disneyland and I the helpless single parent, searching frantically for them. There were too many people and too many places they could be. I raced across the walkway with my hand-carried baggage, my heart drumming against my chest. It was an unnecessary exercise. When I next saw them they were coming out of the toilets looking very much relieved.

They grinned when they saw me. There was a warm, bubbly atmosphere and I was sure they were responsible. It had been years. This thought alone replaced conversations entirely. We were back.

Or at least, they were.

We moved on. I followed my parents since I could not remember the way. Everyone, including me, seemed to walk at a similar pulse, which was already very fast as though there was no time to waste. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe this was characteristic of Hong Kong anyway.

By now I wanted to check for directions. I looked. The lines of Chinese characters stared back at me, meaning nothing. I made do with English subtitles. Not a problem.

But I used to understand them. All of them. Back then, I used to speak it, read it, write it like it was in my nature to do so. Like it was a part of me. Three thousand commonly used characters and I knew them all. What I feared already came true – that my mother-tongue did not recognise me. That I had come back to find, in turn, I was a foreigner and did not belong here.

It was unlike anything I had ever felt. This was my home – but it was somebody else’s home now. It no longer remembered me. Would the people? Now I wasn’t so sure.

If David were here he might have said to me, ‘Hang on in there. You will have a great time this Christmas’. What else would he have said? Anyway that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t here and he couldn’t save me from what was to come. Because he wasn’t here, this was what I would say to myself,

‘I give up.’

Because I can.

* * * * *

It didn’t feel like home, not quite, but there was a growing familiarity with the landmarks and blue skyscrapers that I saw like faint echoes in the back of my mind. It felt supernatural, the experiences of a seemingly different individual flashing in your mind and then discovering it was your own life all along. I vaguely remembered the crowdedness – people kept bumping into me and walking on as though nothing had happened. Understandable really, since seven million people cramped in this tiny place. You were always in someone else’s way. Now get going.

After dropping our luggage in a cheap hotel (we sold our apartment years ago) we met with my uncle and aunt for dinner. We waited an hour for a table in the Chinese restaurant nearby. The queue used to be intolerable when I was small (after all, we could equally have gone to McDonald’s just round the corner), but now I saw the point: the adults could socialise and catch up at the expense of their children getting bored. My uncle hadn’t changed much. Still tall and handsome but older with more white hair than I remembered. Aside from a comment about how I’d grown my uncle and aunt seemed more interested in my parents so I happily remained silent for the hour.

At last we were seated. The place was loud and bustling with activities, with laughter coming from one table and agitated complaint on another. The great hall was decorated with bright colours, red carpets and golden dragons. I saw great round tables covered in pink cloths. Next to us were aisles where trolleys full of dim sum would go about in the morning and the evening, young ladies dressed in annoyingly short skirts selling alcohol.

Surrounded by hundreds of voices like a wall, it gave our table strangely a sense of privacy. That everybody else was talking did not expose our own conversations and the other voices were background noises, broken occasionally by announcements of discounts or raffle draws on the speakers.

Only the parents were allowed to view the menu. While they debated on what to order, my cousin Ka-Fie, three years younger than me, finally made an appearance after his after school classes.

‘You don’t seem very happy,’ he remarked after sitting next to me.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I told him, ‘If you remember, I was never happy.’

‘Wow, that sounds so British!’ he said. ‘Your English is so good!’

‘Not really.’

‘Can you speak in Chinese?’

I tried, but it stumbled out of my mouth and he looked at me with incomprehension.

‘Your accents are off,’ he laughed. ‘So British.’

I turned and ignored him.

His expression was serious again. ‘But weren’t you happy in the UK?’

‘No.’

‘Were you happy in Hong Kong? The day when we drew lightsabers and battled on grandma’s birthday? I was five I think. Were you happy then?’

I was surprised he remembered this. We role-played a lot when we were little. Our neighbours sometimes joined in. I was always unanimously elected as the villain because I was good at it and Ka-Fie was my sidekick. There were four ‘good’ guys that night. And two of us. Ka-Fie and I gave grounds and fled due to unfavourable odds. Those kids believed in the propaganda that good will triumph over evil, completely convinced they were doing good when in our perspective they were the bad guys. Eventually I made Ka-Fie lure the kids into a narrow corridor where I would blow him up along with these ‘good’ guys to ensure the dark side reigned supreme. The other kids rejected the ending, but they were still out-witted. At least I showed them good guys don’t automatically win just because they are ‘good’.

If Ka-Fie remembered this then he’d also remember that he cried when I told him the plan that would terminate his character forever. He cried and asked me why he had to die. I asked him to trust me, when the real reason was that I wanted to win the game. Victory at all costs. Why didn’t I sacrifice myself instead to protect those who loved me? I would not have agreed if Ka-Fie proposed to sacrifice me. True, I was only eight at the time. But it did not take away the fact I’d used his blind faith and loyalty for my own gains. That I was selfish, and even if Ka-Fie tended to ruin my plans, I should have done it differently.

‘Maybe I was,’ I told him, ‘happier.’ Before we moved, before I discovered my inclinations, everything was simple.

‘That was an awesome battle,’ he reminisced. How could it be awesome if he died in the story? I must have heard wrong. But then he was thirteen now. There was a lot about Ka-Fie I didn’t know and I guess I would never know since we now lived six thousand miles apart. As a child I naively thought we’d grow up together and everything would stay the same. Those thoughts were all but laughable now.

When Parents were done ordering my uncle turned to me, surprising me with English cloaked in a horrible Chinese accent.

‘Are you studying good in England?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Do white boys – er – take advantage of you? They can be quite naughty.’

‘Yes,’ I replied without thinking.

‘It’s not a pretty place,’ said Dad, also engaging us in English. ‘The whole country is ruled by yobs.’

‘Well, not the whole country,’ Mum added

‘Do you know, there was this takeaway owner killed by yobs…?’ Dad began. I recognised the tale. It’d been floating around in the Chinese community for some time. The police didn’t do anything because they thought the takeaway owner provoked the yobs into killing him. My uncle listened with disgust.

‘Racist bastards,’ he cursed in Chinese. ‘You don’t have to take that crap. Live here. Things aren’t bad after the handover.’

‘We have to wait ’til Tse-Ho get into Oxford at least,’ Dad looked at me, secretly proud that it was not impossible. ‘That’s why we went there, after all. It’s the education.’

My uncle sighed. ‘Ka-Fie is still fighting his way through secondary-school. He came home everyday so stressed and tired.’

‘It’s too competitive here,’ Dad agreed.

‘I’d send him abroad if I had the money.’

Dad smiled. ‘Don’t worry. God has plans for us all.’

A gentle voice from behind asked me to make space. I turned to find our food had arrived in their legions. Oh my God what a cute waiter with a mainland accent, bringing food! Peking duck, winter melon soup, roast pigeons, Pak choi fried with garlic, scallops topped with spring onions. It had been years since I last tasted any of them.

But not long into the dinner came a question I wasn’t expecting from my aunt.

‘Tse-Ho, are you going to marry a Chinese girl or an English girl? Which do you prefer?’

I stared at her blankly. I ought to say, ‘Neither. I’ll make do with a guy.’

She spoke again since I stared at her like an idiot, ‘You must have thought about it. You need to be planning ahead.

‘He doesn’t like talking about that,’ my mum interrupted. Thanks, Mum.

‘He prefers studying in his room than dating,’ said Dad, ‘which is fine by me. He can start worrying about girlfriends once he got into university.’

‘Just saying,’ Aunt told me. ‘If you’re having mixed children, remember to teach them Chinese. It’s our culture and we must pass it on.’

‘Not thought about children yet but, marrying someone depends on one thing,’ I answered at last. ‘Whether I love the person – not what race they happen to be.’

No complaints there. Hairy subject terminated. I was glad she didn’t press her argument saying that marrying someone with the same cultural values and beliefs increases the chances of child and gene survival, and thus were more desirable, which would be why I must marry a Chinese girl under any circumstances. Preferably from Hong Kong as well.

‘How’s mother?’ Dad asked my uncle.

‘Bad knee,’ he replied. ‘Tell her to see someone. She’s had it for months. When are you seeing her?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon, hopefully.’

Funny. Only now had I known the response I should have given to Ka-Fie when he asked why I did not seem happy to be back. I wondered if it was too late to tell him. He needn’t to know of course, but telling might help.

I wasn’t happy. Maybe there were things I was trying very hard to forget.