Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned around walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
His brother's course-cotton shirt felt like dry, bristled grass. Heat oozed through the loose weave. They shared their smell, grunts, curses; breathed the other's already used air. There were faces in every direction. Flushed, eager faces that turned on their side then rolled inverted before flipping suddenly upright with a thud. The faces laughed and pointed - at him.
Little Feng stood mechanically to accept the loop of his brother's arm. They turned their backs to each other and Feng wrenched him from the soiled, red mat that their father had arranged for the performance. Now the brother dived; Feng's turn to roll over the back, and the process began again.
By day, Temple Street is a narrow artery on Kowloon side. Red and silver taxis push each other along the grease-stained road. Tourists have heard that this is the place to buy imitation Rolex and Cartier watches. They crush against locals who never seem satisfied to leave anything where it is. Furniture, mattresses, wooden crates, babies, and bird-cages all bob along the footpath amidst a constant din of Cantonese. The crowd flows around stalls that sell dried mushrooms, rice and tea. Everything is for sale, but the tourists have made a mistake. The watches and trinkets come out only at night. As the sun hides behind concrete restaurants and one-room apartments, the night is banished by gas lanterns and bright neon lights that hang haphazardly over and in between blackened umbrellas. A tangled net of electricity wires traps all below. Only a few cars push slowly into the crowd that now fills the street. They will edge forward for several metres before discharging their occupants into the smoke and clicking rattle of a mah-jongg restaurant.
"Oh, look John! Those darling little children." Ruth pulled him towards a group circled like moths around two brilliant-white gas lanterns. John couldn't see the marvel but followed obediently. They had been in Hong Kong for five hours and already he could see that she had improved. This is the woman he had married. A good deal more overtime would be needed when he returned to Australia but he didn't mind. The change wrought by children and boredom had been proven temporary. He smiled as Ruth shoved assertively into the throng. She had never looked so beautiful. Auburn hair flowed in smooth lines that fanned across her shoulders.
Little Feng's father saw Ruth's beaming face and bony left arm shoved rudely between two Filipino amahs. He waddled from his corner of proprietorship and hit Feng's younger sister with the back of a cigarette-bearing, dirty brown hand. A lump of grey ash fell onto her lap. The girl pulled up loose fitting sleeves, collected her bowl and set off to smile at the oily-faced foreign devil with the big nose.
2.
Li Baiyun could not see the spectacle of the tumbling children but she was an important part of Feng's evening. Her voice haunted the boy. He wished he had magic. He would conjure a trick and make all the people, the endless din, the smells, the red mat, and his father disappear.
Feng's mother had a voice like Li's. But she never sang; she just yelled. Feng tried to keep his corner of their room tidy. He just had too many things. School books and piled clothes always look a mess. Li's singing and his mother's yelling swirled in his head as his foot slipped on the rug. His arms were still tangled from the last roll, and the hardness of the concrete beneath the rug struck him directly on the side of the face. Pain numbed his cheek; his brain bounced in its shell and immediately began to ache. Tears fell inwards, but only sweat moistened the stinging redness. He scrambled to his feet. His anxious brother quickly looped their bodies together and threw him into the air. They dared not glance at their father. Better to get back to the routine as rapidly as possible. Perhaps he hadn't noticed? Even if he had, it was still early, he would forget by the time they were finished.
Li's singing washed over her parents in soothing, warm waves. Each note delivered a renewed load of pride. Li had been coming to the opera in Temple Street Market for as long as she could remember. At first, she ignored the performance, preferring to search for treasures in the gutter, but her parents' dream became her own. Li learnt the ancient operas. She had been so nervous; she smiled to think of it now.
Li's beautiful, white-painted face and penetrating tones eventually lured Ruth from the "acrobatic children", to whom she had given two Hong Kong dollars and a genuinely friendly smile. Perhaps it wasn't Li's voice that caught Ruth's attention; it might have been all those gongs, and what was that strange sounding string instrument? Ruth forgot about Feng as she excitedly dragged John into a new crowd of spectators. She pushed to the front. It had to be the front. She didn't know these people. Who'd care if she was rude? Besides, they were all so small, frail. Shiny, black hair fell out of her way at first shove. She turned to see if John was enjoying himself. He was.
Ruth had been a blurred face in the ever-changing wall of Feng's cage. Heavy incense scent mingled with the odour of over-cooked oil and bodies that were pressed together too tightly in the crowd. Sound and smoke danced in the street, hot, heavy. He tried not to let his eyes stray from the red mat. People, always different people, did the same things. They bustled, laughed, talked, argued, and kissed. The two small boys repeated their primitive choreography without rest.
Li heard all the noise: the shouting, the cars, sirens, other opera singers, but she was in Peking. People had come only to hear her. Chinese newspapers mentioned her name in awe and no-one could remember another singer so fine. There was no plastic factory. No Mr Zhang who grabbed her backside as he passed. She was Li Baiyun and Ruth appreciated this fact with another two Hong Kong dollars. "It's only Monopoly money." She and John both laughed.
3.
Temple Street Market was indistinguishable from the lights of Kowloon for gentle old Mr Tang. He looked across the harbour from the twenty-sixth floor of the government building. Simpson's dulcet, melodious drone had nearly put him to sleep. Tired, cynical eyes turned once more towards Little Feng's corner of the world, his world. "Your concerns were anticipated Mr Tang. As you know, the agreement specifically identifies the need for comprehensive discussion on the important issue of local government. There will be mainland recognition of a Basic Law for the colony. God knows, the Chinese wouldn't have wanted it any other way."
The blackness that lay to the west of sparkling Kowloon hid more than the horizon. Mr Tang remembered a winter's field; a younger man stood naked to bathe with a wooden bucket and ladle. The water was so cold. He saw Simpson's insipid smile reflected in the window.
"But we are Chinese, Mr Simpson. All Chinese are children of the old One Hundred Families. All Chinese."
Simpson was tired of this. The illogical pessimism of these Hong Kong-Chinese flowed to the same location as surely as a river follows a valley. He was glad his appointment to the Far East would soon end. Back to London as an 'East Asia Specialist'.
4.
Neither Pu Shaoqi, nor the khaki-clad policeman who spoke into a shoulder-clipped radio, knew the identity of the man at the end of the meat cleaver. Pu did not know who but he did know why. So did the policeman. Pu slipped in and out of consciousness as he brightened the alley with his blood. Li's singing rolled into the darkness and merged into a confused dream as he abandoned his nightmare. He had convinced himself that they would give him another warning. It was only one payment.
The butcher was young. Pu had seen the tattooed shoulders and arms, but caught only a glimpse of his sparkling, young eyes before steel sliced through flesh and scraped against bone. Later, adrenalin would drive the boy's rapid, excited chatter as he reported his success. Some other gang-members had watched. It was probably part of an initiation to the group. The policeman knew that nobody had seen anything and did not bother to ask.
John thought it best to go back to the hotel. They had three whole days to see the place, there was no need to rush. Ruth feigned reluctance but her feet ached. Her thoughts ricocheted from fortune tellers, clothing stalls, street dentists and barbers, to those "marvellous alfresco-cafes" with the procelain bowls set above open flames. "These people know how to live." She could stay there forever; never go home. No more nappies, ironing, cooking.Little Feng now looked at his father after each roll. His legs were heavy and he panted. Sweat dripped from his ears; hair stuck in strands across his face. He did not remember falling but his cheek was swollen. The crowd had thinned and he knew that his father would want some sleep before collecting the taxi. It wouldn't be long. They would roll the red rug and begin to walk home.
Feng's father frowned as he pushed the coins into little piles on the concrete. He was not alone as he weighed the coins in the bowl against time.
Max Herriman
