Pag. 128
Women, and Other Mysterious Things.
Women, and Other Mysterious Things.
Oh Chang
had come into my life just as I was thinking of leaving the school. In fact, if
it hadn’t been for her, I might have stayed—stayed until it faded completely
away, as it did just months after I set out on my own.
She was my
fist girlfriend, my first love, and my sweetest memory of those early days on
my own.
I mentioned
before that it took a while for me to get interested in girls. Well, not just
me; all of us boys at the academy were slow to learn that the soft,
nice-smelling people known as women were not the same as us—and that that was a
good thing.
Of course,
our sexual curiosity didn’t have much of an outlet while we were at school; as
I said before, our sisters were our sisters, and it just wasn’t possible to
think of them as girls, really.
But once we
became old enough to start working outside of the academy on a regular basis,
everything changed. This was Kownloon, after all, and during our travels to the
studios where we did stunt work we’d get an eyeful f a totally different kind
of woman. They were sleek and groomed, with long, carefully styled hair. They
wore lush outfits of embroidered silk, and they had painted faces—but
definitely not of the opera variety.
“Willya
look at that!” said Yeun Tai as we strolled down the street one night. Yeun
Kwai and I were straggling behind him, tired and frustrated from a long day as
extras on a martial arts film. Despite all of our training, our inferior
junior-stuntman status meant that we were forced into the very worst jobs on
the set. We’d do practice stunts that never made it onto film, fetch and carry
for the stunt coordinator, and, most humiliating of all, we’d be called upon to
play dead bodies, lying on our bellies for hours at a time. By the time we headed
back to school, we’d be covered with dust and sweat.
Yuen Tai
had stopped walking and was staring in admiration. She was the tallest woman
we’d ever seen, as tall as any foreigner, but with jet-black hair falling in
soft waves around her exposed shoulders. Her body—well, the girls we’d spent
our lives with had their shapes disguised by loose-fitting practice outfits, so
Madame was the only female available for comparison…and there was no
comparison.
Pag 129
As we
caught up to Yuen Tai, the woman shifted her weight from one long leg to
another, causing her body to strain against her painted-on dress.
“Hey,
pretty lady” he drawled, putting on his best attempt at cool. The woman slid
her eyes over to us, taking in our ragged, dirty outfits and our still-gawky
adolescent bodies. Without a sound, she turned on one heel and swayed into the
neon-lit entranceway of a nearby club.
“What?”
shouted Yuen Tai plaintively. Yuen Kwai and I held each other upright as we
nearly collapsed in laughter.
“Guess you
ain’t her type, Big Brother,” I said.
“That kind
of girl, she’s anyone’s type”, said
Yuen Kwai. “You know, a ‘chicken’.”
“What the
hell’s a ‘chicken’?” I said, puzzled.
“A
chicken’s a woman who does it for money, little boy,” he snorted. “Don’t think you can afford that kind of
dish.”
Yuen Tai
kicked at the curb and then resumed walking, his face sullen. “Ah, screw you guys,” he said. “All this talk
about chicken’s making me hungry. Let’s go home.”
And the
whole way back to the school we hooted and made clucking noises in his
direction, until he threatened to smack some respect into us if we didn’t shut
up.
Well, as
badly as it turned out, Yuen Tai’s close encounter with the goddess kept him
from sleeping easy that night. Even after he’d called lights out, he kept
muttering to himself, nursing his battered ego and cursing the whims of women.
“She was
fine, wasn’t she, though?” whispered Yuen Kwai to me. “Man, if we weren’t stuck
in this place, we’d meet women like that all the time, wouldn’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess,
“I said, pulling my covers over my head.
“I mean, if
we had money and nice clothes, we could really be big men,” he said, yanking my
blanket down. “We’re almost movie stars, right?”
“I guess it
could be fun,” I mumbled. “Kissing and stuff.”
“Kissing?”
Yuen Kwai chortled, grabbing at his crotch. “Yeah, she could kiss this right
here, brother!”
Yuen Tai
broke off his agonizing long enough to deliver a swift kick to Yuen Kwai’s leg.
“Why don’t you go to sleep, asshole,” he said. “Closest you’re gonna get to a
woman is in your dreams anyway.”
“Look who’s
talking, Big Brother,” said Yuen Kwai. “Here, chickie chickie …”
There was a
muffled sound of struggling as Biggest Brother threw his blanket over Yuen
Kwai’s head and began punching him in the stomach. The rest of us turned onto
our sides and slid away from the wrestling pair.
I didn’t
want to admit to Yuen Kwai that I had no idea what I’d do with
Pag. 130
a woman
like that even if I did meet one. Yuen
Tai and Yuen Kwai always played at being big men, groaning and making dirty
remarks when they saw fast women in hot outfits. But when I closed my eyes, I
envisioned girls like my little friend on the Peak, the ambassador’s daughter:
sweet, quiet women who liked talking and laughing and listening to my stories.
Women who were soft and gentle, like my mother and our big sisters, always
caring for me when I got hurt. Women whom I could protect from harm, like the
brave swordsmen of my childhood storybooks.
Call me old-fashioned, or a closet romantic,
or socially backward, but kids these days, all they think about is sex. I
didn’t think about that at all.
Well, not
often. But what I mostly dreamed about was finding someone who would understand
me and care about me and stay with me, the way no one else in my life ever had.
It really
didn’t seem like that much to ask.
The next
day, I was chosen by Master to represent the academy at a special exhibition,
in which I would demonstrate our school’s skills to visiting foreigners.
Although all of Chinese opera has the same roots, the country is so big and is
made up of so many different kinds of people that it has evolved into different
forms—Beijing opera, which is the most traditional form, and which our Master
taught; Cantonese opera, which is the form practiced in much of the South; and
so on.
Even though
it was a big responsibility, I didn’t take it too seriously; after all, the
foreigners were probably too stupid to know the difference between good and bad
opera anyway. So the trip was like a little vacation for me—a chance to slack
off, avoid practice, and maybe even spend some of my precious pocket money, if
I saw something that looked appetizing.
The bus
trip to the hall where the exhibition was being held was long and boring, and I
spent the time dozing, and thinking—just a little bit—about girls. I’d just
about decided that they weren’t worth the trouble when the bus arrived at my
destination, and I was forced to scramble to make it out the door before the
driver pulled away from the curb.
“Stay awake
on the bus, ya stupid kid,” the driver shouted as I stumbled onto the pavement.
Turning my head to retort, I felt my body thump into something solid and soft,
something that let out a gentle squeal as it toppled over. Babbling apologies,
I attempted to untangle myself from my unintended victim, and realized that she
was a girl, and about my age, and very beautiful.
Not
beautiful like the chicken woman. She
had soft black hair, pulled back against her head in a simple ponytail; she was
wearing a clean but plain cotton outfit, and her body—what I could feel of it,
accidentally—was slender and petite. Her eyes were huge and as clear as
mirrors, and the expression I saw within them was not frightened, but shyly
amused.
Pag. 131
“I’m sorry!”
I shouted too loudly, as I rolled instantly away. She pushed herself up
on her arms and brushed at her clothes.
“That’s all
right, I’m fine,” she said, smiling. “You must be in a hurry…”
I helped
her to her feet, my face blushing red. “No, no hurry,” I mumbled. “I mean, I’m
not going anywhere special.”
It was odd.
I usually didn’t have any trouble talking to anyone, but in front of this
strange, wonderful girl, my tongue felt thick, like a lead weight in my mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
“You said
that already,” she said, looking at the ground. There were two spots of red on
her pale cheeks. “I have to go now. You should walk more carefully, or you
could hurt yourself. Or somebody else!”
And she
waved, and walked quickly away.
I could
only stand there with my mouth open, feeling like I’d never felt before. Like
I’d swallowed a gallon of warm, syrupy stuff, as sweet as milk—a kind of
pleasant pain that came up from my belly and into my throat. And I was frozen,
even though I knew that she was walking away, and if I didn’t see her again, I
would die.
Somehow I
got my muscles going again and threw all other thoughts out of my head—the
foreigners and their ignorant curiosity about Chinese opera could go hang, if
it meant that I’d be able to catch up with that girl. It would be worth any
number of beatings by Master. Even a day without food. A week.
A year!
So I chased
her, running around the corner, and saw her meeting up with a small group of
other girls dressed like her, entering—
Entering
the very hall I was due to appear at myself.
I looked
down at my wrinkled, dusty clothes, once clean and neatly pressed. If she was
going to be in the audience, I would put on the performance of a lifetime, of
all my lifetimes. My heart beat strongly in my chest. I walked proudly into the
performance hall.
The man in
charge of the exhibition was standing at the doorway, dressed in a traditional
outfit, and looking anxious. Spotting me, a slightly dirty-looking young boy,
he made a move to shoo me away, but I quickly raised my hand.
“I’m here
from Master Yu Jim-yuen’s China Drama Academy. My name’s Yuen Lo—I’m performing
today.”
He starred
at me up and down. “What happened to you?”
I shrugged.
“I had an accident.”
He grabbed
me by the shoulders and hustled me down a side corridor. The foreigners, he
told me in a harsh whisper, were already seated and waiting. I was to go on
second, and the entire show had been waiting on me to begin. How could I make
Master Yu lose face this way, arriving late and in a mess?
Pag. 132
I didn’t care;
my thoughts were focused on that girl, and meeting her again.
Backstage,
I saw a number of small groups of young people, stretching out, talking
quietly, or arranging their costumes. My own exhibition was going to be mostly
acrobatics and forms, so I had no makeup or special outfit to prepare; some of
the other groups were going to perform short scenes in full dress, and they
stood out in their finery. I stared intently at the other boys and girls,
searching to see if the girl was among them. Boys who noticed me staring looked
back in challenge; girls looked away shyly, or blushed prettily, but not so
prettily as the girl I’d run into outside. She wasn’t there. Could I have made
a mistake?
And then I
heard applause coming from the stage area, and realized that the show had
begun. Stepping softly to the edge of the heavy cloth backdrop, I pulled a fold
of it aside and peered out at the stage and audience. A group of girls were
posed, frozen in a silent pattern, as the orchestra offstage began to play. They
turned in time with the music, and began their scene, And from the side, I
caught a flash of the lead performer’s face.
It was her!
She was one
of us—an opera actor—and from the way the Chinese in the audience responded to
her, she was a star. Her every move was graceful as she gestured and swept
across the stage, beginning a lilting song of love and challenge. I recognized
her opera style as coming from the Chieu Chow province—but she could have been
singing a pop song and made it sound elegant.
When her
song ended and the troupe stood still and quiet on the stage again, I realized
that I was barely breathing. I had seen my sisters perform before, but they had
always seemed like little girls wearing the clothes and makeup of adults. This
girl, who’d looked to be about my age when I’d knocked her down outside, seemed
every inch a woman—a princess—even
with nothing on her face but some powder and her perfect smile.
“Ayah!”
someone whispered in my ear. “What are you looking at? It’s your turn!”
I jumped
back. I’d nearly forgotten! I wasn’t here to enjoy, but to perform—and I hoped,
I somehow knew, that the girl would be watching me as I’d watched her.
The
organizer of the exhibition was finishing his introduction of my school, my
master, and the style of opera that I was going to represent. As the audience
began its polite applause, I felt a strange sense of power welling up inside
me. I was invincible, untouchable. I was the prince of my school, the king of
the stage. I would show all of them, especially that girl, what a student of
Master Yu Jim-yuen could do.
And to the
rolling sound of the drum, I somersaulted onto the stage,
Pag. 133
Flipping up
into a perfect handstand, before dropping in mock clumsiness into a drunkard’s
pose. As an old man, an imaginary wine
jug under one arm, I fought invisible enemies, then transformed with a back
flip and a shift of my features into Sun Wu Kong, the Monkey King, my body as
agile and wild as any ape. I was a general, a scholar, a warrior mad for vengeance. Without a word, without costume or weapon, I
became every character I’d ever portrayed on that tiny stage at the Lai Yuen
Amusement Park, all in perfect time with the music, with form so ideal that
even Master might have nodded and smiled. The music hit is climax, the
orchestra began to play its final bar, and with a last swagger of defiance
against the world, I performed three quick somersaults in succession and
disappeared into the wings.
The hall
roared with applause. I pitied the performers who would have to follow me; it
was their bad luck that I’d been put so early in the program. No one would
remember anything but me that day, especially the foreigners, who had dared to
look bored throughout my girl’s
wonderful singing.
I was
already thinking of her as my girl!
Even though I didn’t even know her name.
I caught my breath and walked around the corner and into the backstage
area. A girl with a ponytail was standing at the edge of the backdrop, peeking
through it at the stage.
“Hi,” I
said softly, tapping her on the shoulder. It was the girl—my girl—and she
turned pink when she saw it was me. “Did you see me?”
She nodded.
“You were very good,” she said, smiling again and giving a little shake of her
hair.
“Not as
good as you,” I said, and meant it.
The
organizer, who was helping the next group adjust their costumes, threw a nasty
glare in our direction. There was a performance going on out there; making
noise backstage was rude and, worse, bad luck.
Holding one
finger to my lips, I took the girl’s wrist and pulled her after me toward the
corridor that led to the front of the hall. Once we got there, I let her go,
hoping she wouldn’t run. She simply looked at me, with that half-amused,
half-shy expression that had charmed me when we’d first met.
“I’m sorry
I ran you over before, “ I said, losing my tongue again.
“I’m sorry
I was in your way,” she said, smiling. We were silent again, looking at each
other.
“Where are
you from?” I asked her, hoping for an address, or at least a general area where
I could look for her again. She told me that her school was in Kowloon, not far
from ours, but that she lived with her parents; her training hadn’t been as
harsh and isolated as ours. I told her that our academy was in Kowloon too, and
was about to ask if I might possibly be able to see her again, when the door to
the corridor swung open
Pag. 134
And a group
of laughing young women ran out. It was the girl’s company, and they stared and
whispered at us they emerged into the hallway.
“Come on,
Madame told us to go back to the school right after the performance!” said one
of the older girls in the group, tugging at my new friend’s sleeve. “Don’t
waste your time talking to that boy. We have to catch the bus!”
“He isn’t
much to look at anyway,” whispered another, and I felt my face flushing red.
The group, pulling my girl along, gossiped their way down the corridor.
And
suddenly, I realized that I didn’t know her name!
“Hey!” I
said, running after the group, down the hall and out the door. The girls were at
the bus stop, and a double-decker was just opening its folding doors to let
them in and take them away. “Wait! My name is Yuen Lo! What’s yours?”
The other
girls pushed my girl into the bus, making faces at me. I was crushed. I was
losing her. Maybe Forever.
Then I
heard her clear voice over the sound of the bus motor. “My name is Oh Chang!”
she said, poking her head out of an open window.
“Can I see
you again?” I shouted.
She smiled
and nodded, and was pulled back inside by her friends.
Oh Chang! Her name was as lovely as she was. I said it
to myself again and again as the bus rolled off into the distance.
Then I
slapped my forehead in disgust. That was my
bus, too! And who knew when the next one would come along?
I cursed my
own stupidity and set off on the long walk back to the academy, frustrated and
alone.
Pag. 135
HEART-STRUCK
That was how
it began—my first love.
I didn’t
tell any of the other guys what had happened, in part because it made for a
lousy story, but mostly because I was scared that if I did I’d jinx it and
she’d disappear like a ghost, never to be found again. And I didn’t want to
face a bunch of questions that I couldn’t answer—like what her last name was,
or when I’d see her again.
The next
day, Master told me to report to the movie studio where most of the other older
students were working, just in case they needed an extra body. I nearly ran out
the door, knowing that this was my chance. I took the long bus ride back to the
performance hall where I’d met her the day before, and found the organizer
who’d brought us all together. Wearing my best innocent expression, I told him
that my master wanted to express his compliments to Oh Chang’s teacher, and
asked him the address to her school. It was so simple! The organizer was glad to
assist a man of my master’s stature, and even gave me directions on how to get
there. On the bus ride back to Kowloon I planned out everything I’d say to her
and thought about where I’d take my dream girl on our first date.
And that’s
when I started to get nervous. I’d never gone on a date before and had no idea
what most people did on their evenings out. What would Oh Chang enjoy? Would
she like to go drink tea? Or see a film?
I really
didn’t know anything about her!
Preoccupied,
I nearly missed my stop and once again had to run out of the bus in a panic. I
half hoped that somehow fate would intervene, and I’d bump into her on the
sidewalk, just like the day before, but life is never that simple.
Her school
was just a few blocks from the bus stop, and it was very impressive compared to
ours—newer and cleaner, at least from the outside, with a shiny metal gate that
had been freshly painted. The girls who learned opera here probably had never
slept on a wooden floor in their lives.
My stomach
felt hollow. Her friends didn’t think much of me. What if she saw me and told
me to go away, or worse, laughed at me until I was forced to leave in shame? I
tuned away from the gate, telling myself that there was still time to go to the
studio.
Pag. 136
But as I
began to walk back toward the bus, I heard a voice in my head that sounded as
stern and disapproving as my father. Was that all I was good for—lying on the
ground and playing dead? And then the voice became a chorus: my father, my
master, all of Shandong, shouting together that I was a weak excuse for a man,
afraid to stand up to the laughter of small girls, too afraid even to reach out
for the most important thing in my life.
I didn’t
care if she laughed at me! There was more shame in running away than in trying
and failing. And, my heart beating as
strongly as any of my brave ancestors’, I walked back to the gate and swung it
open, and stepped into the courtyard beyond.
The stones
paving the courtyard were even and neatly kept, without any weeds or cracks in
sight. The door was as bright as the gate had been, with the characters that
made up the name of the school neatly carved into the sill above it and painted
in gold. I straightened my clothes and knocked—once, twice—and waited, my mind
a complete blank.
The door
opened, revealing the face of an old woman with deep lines around her eyes.
“Yes?” she asked.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m
sorry, Madame, but I have a message for
one of your students.” I stiffened my back and tried to look official.
The woman
blinked. “I’m not a teacher here; I’m the housekeeper,” she said. “Madame is
out on appointment; which student do you need to see?”
I
swallowed. “The girl’s name is Oh Chang.”
The gray
head looked at me with faint suspicion. “Miss Oh Chang is rehearsing right
now.”
“The
message is a short one”, I said, fighting back a wave of nausea.
“If you
give it to me, I can pass it on,” she said.
“Ma’am, I
was told to give it to her in person,” I said. My resolve was about to crumble;
I wanted to run away. Let the voices in my head argue with this old bag if they
thought it was so important.
The housekeeper
sighed, and motioned with her hand. “Wait right here; I’ll find her,” she said.
“But you really will have to be quick.”
Success!
I’d gotten past the first test—like Monkey from the old stories, tricking the
guardian at the gate to heaven. After a few moments, the door opened again, and
I faced her—Oh Chang—again, her mouth and eyes as round as Os in surprise at my unexpected appearance.
She had
apparently been in the middle of a full dress rehearsal, because her delicate
features were powdered white, with streaks of rose above her eyes. Her hair was
pulled back with sparkling combs, and the plain outfit of yesterday’s
exhibition had been replaced with a flowing gown with long sleeves, cut from a
richly embroidered fabric.
“Hello,” I
managed to choke out. “You look different…”
Even as I
said the words, I cursed myself as a fool. All of the things I
Pag. 137 (até 140)
Imagined
saying had sprung out of my head when I’d finally found myself facing her
again. If I was lucky, maybe she wouldn’t call the police.
“I’m
sorry,” she said, covering her cheeks with her hands. “I was rehearsing—we have
a tour coming up, a trip to Thailand, and we have a lot of new things to
practice.”
“Don’t be
sorry; you look wonderful,” I said. What was I saying?!
She laughed
in her shy way. “Did you really have a message for me?” she asked. “The
housekeeper will be coming back soon…”
“The
message is,” I said, and stopped. I summoned up all of the determination I
could, hearing the distant encouragement of the voices. “The message is that
you have an appointment later.”
“And who is
that appointment with?”
“With me,”
I said cockily.
“What time
are you free?”
Oh Chang
leaned against the door, furrowing her brow. “I go home at ten o’clock,” she
said. “But usually I just go straight to sleep.”
“Sneak
out,” I said. “I’ll wait for you.”
“You don’t
even know where to wait!” she said.
“I will if
you tell me,” I responded, flashing my best smile.
And she
did.
And then
she closed the door, after giving me one last smile and wave.
Monkey had
entered the gates of heaven, and the voices in my head were cheering victory.
I spent the
rest of the afternoon walking around Kowloon, just waiting until nigh. I
managed t kill time walking in show circles around the neighborhood, watching
the crowd and eating snacks. I thought about going to the studio, but they
wouldn’t take me on for a half day, and besides, I wanted everything to be
perfect for my big date that night—no dirt, no sweat, no bruises or sprains.
And then, as I my third sweet bean bun, a stray thought began nagging at me. As
far as Master knew, I was at the studio all day, doing the same boring stuff my
brothers were doing. But tomorrow morning, he’d line us up after breakfast as
usual and ask us for the pay we received the day before.
With
horror, I imagined the scene in my head. “Where is your money, Yuen Lo?” he’d
ask, as I stood there empty-handed. “Did you lose it? Or spend it foolishly?”
What
excuses could I have? He’d give me seventy-five smacks with his cane, one for
every dollar I was missing—and even though he’d gotten grayer and stiffer, he
hadn’t lost any of his strength.
There was n
help for it. I walked to the bank where my father had opened an account for me,
and asked the teller to withdraw HK$75.
Pag. 138
I’d give
Master the money, and he’d never know the difference. But, I thought to myself,
girls were turning out to be an expensive habit.
At exactly
ten o’clock, I found myself standing outside of the gate to Oh Chang’s house,
on a very nice block in one of the wealthier parts of Kowloon. The lights were
out, and the windows shuttered closed. For as split second, I thought that I’d been
tricked, that she was upstairs in her bed dreaming about what an idiot I was.
And then the gate swung open, and her lovely face peeked out into the street.
“Hello,” I
said, putting one hand on the gate in what I hoped was an appropriately casual
pose.
“You came,”
she said, smiling. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
“Where else
would I be?” I said, smiling back. “Come on.”
She stepped
out into the street, and I thought I’d never seen anything so pretty in my life
as Oh Chang at that moment, wearing a simple cotton dress, her hair down and
falling around her shoulders, lit only by the pale glow of the moon.
We walked
side by side down the street in silence. Then Oh Chang asked me about my
school, and it was like a dam had broken open inside me. I told her about the
aches and pains of practice, and knew she was listening, and that she
understood. I told her about Master’s hard discipline, the beatings and punishments,
and she sighed in sympathy. I told her jokes and riddles and funny stories
about my adventures with my brothers, and she laughed, and I felt like I could
watch her laughing like that forever.
We walked
and walked, until finally we found ourselves on the edge of Kowloon Park.
Sitting there on a wooden bench, the moon high in the sky and a light breeze
rustling the leaves of the trees around us, I somehow found the courage to take
her hand, and she didn’t pull away. I still remember how small and warm her
hand was, how soft and graceful it was, so different from my rough, callused
fists. It was like our hands were from two different worlds: hers were the
hands of the wealthy, soft and delicate, and mine were practical, purposeful.
They were tools—or weapons.
We sat
there together for hours. Talking a little bit. Mostly just looking at the moon and each other. Then
she said, “Yuen Lo, I have to go. It’s almost midnight,” and the spell was
broken. I didn’t argue; it was already much more than I could have hoped for, a
poor, ragged guy like me and a rich, pretty girl like her. I pulled her up off
the seat and we began the walk back to her home.
“It was
nice to see you,” she said, as we approached her block. I nodded, squeezing her
hand.
We stood in
front of her gate, the night at its darkest hour, and I wondered if I should
kiss her. Somehow, it didn’t seem right—like if I did, it would break some
secret, unspoken rule, and she’d disappear forever—
Pag. 139
And so I
just watched in silence as she waved good-bye and crossed into her courtyard.
And then
she peeked her head out again, knowing I hadn’t yet turned to leave. “Will you
come visit me again, Yuen Lo?” she asked, her cheeks pink and her eyes looking
modestly away.
She liked me! I broke out in a wide grin, my heart leaping.
“How could you keep me away?” I said, and before she could answer, I blew her a
kiss and ran into the night, hearing her giggles trail off behind me in the
warm, humid air.
From that
point on, I went to visit her nearly every day of the week, ditching work,
inventing excuses, and drawing dollar after dollar from my dwindling bank
account to give to Master. Every day I saw her cost me U.S$10, which was a big
amount—you could eat for a week on that—but what did I care? That money was
buying me love.
Of course,
I had to tell my brothers that I had a girlfriend, so that they would cover for
me if Master got suspicious. After all, they knew I wasn’t going to the studio
to work. But, if I wanted to waste my money that way, who were they to
criticize? The only bad part was hearing the awful jokes they’d make about Oh
Chang and what we were probably doing, out in the park alone every night. It
wasn’t like that, but they’d never understand. I let them have their fun…and
resolved never to let them meet her, if I could possibly help it.
Then, about
six months after I started seeing her, Master told me he was sending me on
another exhibition. This one wouldn’t take place in Hong Kong at all—it would
be in Southeast Asia, in Singapore, thousands of miles away. I broke the news
to Oh Chang, expecting her to be sad, but she just laughed.
“Don’t be
silly; it’s only a few weeks,” she said. “Besides, don’t you remember? I’ll be
on tour in Thailand at the same time—we’ll be practically next door to each
other.”
So, after
half a year of being together, we would be apart for the very first time. I
made her promise not to forget me, and she made me promise the same. I knew in
my in my heart that promises like that weren’t necessary for me; It didn’t matter how long or how far away she
was, she would always be in my dreams.
Pag. 140
HEARTSICK
On the trip
to Singapore, I felt lonely for the first time in a long while. Living in the
crowded school, I was hardly ever on my own, so going on trips by myself was
actually sort of a luxury. Now that I had Oh Chang, and now that we were apart,
every moment felt empty. There was always something missing.
And so
there I was, far away from my home, counting down the days. The hosts of the
exhibition had put me up in a house, a much nicer place than the school, with a
real bed and even an indoor bathroom. Other than at meals, they pretty much
ignored me, and left me to wander the city on my own. I worked out during the
daytime, hoping that good honest sweat would help me forget about Oh Chang,
just for a little while; at night I explored the City of Lions.
I thought I
could make it through the two weeks away without going crazy, and I almost did.
The night right before I left Singapore, I went walking by myself as usual,
staring at buildings and people, listening to the shouts of street hawkers
selling unusual treats in an unfamiliar tongue. It was my last chance to see
the city, and so I walked farther than I’d gone in all the nights before, until
I found myself in a deserted street, miles away from my host home. In my
eagerness to get away from my own thoughts, I’d forgotten about the time. It
would take me hours to get back, and I’d be lucky to make it before dawn.
That’s when
the rain began—not a gentle spray, but a sudden, tearing downpour that quickly
built into a full-scale monsoon. Sheets of water fell from the sky, and the
wind whipped at cloth canopies and brightly painted signs. I ran through the
storm, my head down, instantly soaked, knowing that I’d never make it back on
foot. Then I saw an old, rusting bicycle, abandoned on a street corner by its
owner, and straddled it in the half-shelter of a doorway. The wind would make
riding difficult, but I’d get back faster than walking. I pushed it out into
the street and began to pump with all my might, headfirst into the gale,
standing on the pedals and leaning forward on downhill strokes.
I wanted to
be with Oh Chang forever. I’d give away ten years of my life if I could spend
what was left with her. I’d give up anything. In my frenzied brain, it seemed
to me that somehow, if I rode out this storm, if I
Pag. 141
made it
home in one peace, my wish would come true. I pedaled harder, like I was racing
against my own bad luck. And then in the white brightness of a lightning flash,
I saw a figure in a balcony above my head, and somehow I knew it was her, that
I’d won the race, that she was mine forever. I threw the old bicycle aside,
splashed through the dirty water of the street, and leaped up to grab the side
of the balcony, clambering up and over despite the slickness of the wet
ironwork.
It was a
woman’s wet blouse, left twisting and forgotten on a drying pole, that I’d
mistaken for her—for my Oh Chang. I laughed to myself; it was a sign of how stupid I was. How could
she be here, in Singapore? Why would she be standing out in the rain? She was
hundreds of miles away, being showered with praise and the attention of rich
admirers.
Stupid me!
She was sweet and beautiful, she lived in a nice house, and she was one of the
most famous actresses in the Chieu Chow opera circle. And me, I was a poor dumb
stuntman, a big-nosed, ugly kid with no future.
Huddling
under the pitiful shelter of the balcony canopy, I put my head down on my knees
and dropped off to sleep. The wetness on my cheeks could have rain, or
something else.
I
apologize: I didn’t intend to go so far off course, but Oh Chang was probably
the most wonderful thing to happen to me up to that point, and just thinking
about her still makes me a little happy and a little sad. Many years later, Oh
Chang retired from singing in the Beijing Opera and opened a small boutique in
Hong Kong. Every so often, I would send one of my assistants over to check on
the store, to make sure things were going okay, and to buy expensive items of
clothing, which we would later donate to charity. I didn’t want her to know
that I was keeping an eye on her—she would never have let me support her like
that, even as a friend, so everything had to be done in complete secrecy.
Recently,
she decided to move from Hong Kong, and announced to her customers that she was
closing the store. I gave all of my female staff members money and told them to
go over to the boutique, and they ended up buying everything that Oh Chang had!
Oh Chang was happy that she had so many loyal customers—and my staff members
were happy to get some nice things for free.
You know,
she never got married, and didn’t even have a boyfriend.
It makes me
wonder sometimes.
But I’ve
said it before: history is history, the
past is the past, and that’s where it belongs, in our happy memories. I’m sure
she’d agree with me. That’s the kind of person she is.
Pag. 142
HEARTBROKEN
Once I’d
settled into my new apartment, my furniture built—it wasn’t very pretty, but it
suited my needs—my life in the real world could really begin. Without Master on
my back all day and my brothers and sisters at my side all night, I had twenty—four
hours each day to play with. After waking up in the morning at the luxurious
hour of eight o’clock, I’d go buy some buns and eat them on them on the bus to
the movie studio, where I’d stand around with the other junior stuntmen,
waiting to be called out for work. Some of them were my brothers, and we’d sit
around on the set in the shade, telling jokes, bragging, and watching the
actors and senior stuntmen. Usually we weren’t impressed with what we saw. Even
today, making movies can be a pretty tedious job—if you’re at the bottom of the
food chain. Most of it is waiting around while other people argue and shout,
trying to doze and look alert at the same time. I’s a tough skill to master,
but we had plenty of practice while we were at the school, and ir served us
well.
You never
wanted to look like you were too bored, because then someone would grab you and
make you carry things around, even if you weren’t working that day. Then again,
you didn’t want to look like you were too interested, because we were young,
and even back then, you had to act like you didn’t give a damn about anything
if you wanted to be cool.
Hong Kong’s
biggest studio at the time was owned by the Shaw Brothers, Run Run and Runme
Shaw—two of Hong Kong’s first tycoons. It was called Movie Town, and it was
huge, over forty acres in size, with hundreds of buildings ranging in size from
prop sheds to giant soundstages and dormitories for actors who were working on
contract for Shaw Brothers. It even had a mock-up of an entire Ch’ing dynasty
village, which served as the set for most of the Shaws’ movies—since most of
the films they were making at the time were period martial arts epics and
swordsman films. That’s why stuntmen (even “stunt boys” like us) were in such
big demand: we were the unknown grunts who made all of the slashing, smashing,
diving, jumping, punching, kicking, flying magic possible.
The studio
wouldn’t risk its big names doing things that might hurt them, not because they
cared what happened to them (most contract actors got just a HK$200-a-month
stipend and HK$700 per film), but because
Pag. 143
an injury
might stop or slow down production—and Shaw Brothers churned out dozens and
dozens of movies a year.
We, on the
other hand, worked cheap, and we did everything, no matter how dirty or
dangerous, and if they didn’t need us on a given day, they just ignored us. At
least they gave us lunch, though the food was even worse than the meals at
school, if you can imagine that—just rice and vegetables or soup dumped out big
pots.
I mentioned
before that most of the time, junior boys like me did the very worst jobs: we
played corpses, or were extras in crowd scenes, wearing the oldest, smelliest
costumes and standing in the back. But no matter how rotten the jobs were, they
put us right in the middle of the action. We watched the seniors, and learned,
and thought to ourselves how much better we’d be when we finally joined their ranks.
The day
wouldn’t be over until late at night. When a movie has to be finished in less
than a month, you aren’t stopped by a silly thing like the sun going down. Even
though it didn’t match the look of daylight, they’d bring out huge electric
lamps and keep us shooting, knowing that we’d cost the same—one day’s pay—whether
they wrapped at suppertime or at midnight.
Usually I
managed to leave the studio in time to get back to Kowloon by ten o’clock
(Movie Town was in Clear Water Bay, on the Hong Kong side). By that time I’d be
starving, so I’d grab some noodles or rice from a roadside vendor and eat it on
the way to Oh Chang’s house. It’s funny: my father’s a cook, one of the best I’ve
ever seen, but in all the time I lived on my own in Kowloon, I never made a
real meal for myself. It was always the
same street food, cheap, quick, and hot, day after day—but back then, that was
what I loved. “I’m still a simple eater meal anytime.
And then,
like clockwork, Oh Chang would peek her head out from the gateway to her house,
and wave, and walk with me on the long, slow walk to Kowloon Park, to our
bench, our moon, and our two hours together. Each day I’d carefully remember
all of the strange things that happened on the set—a director got so angry at
an actor that he fell out of his chair! One of the senior stuntmen fell off a
roof the wrong way and landed in a horse cart, and the cart broke and wheels
rolled everywhere!—just so I’d have something new and interesting to tell her.
Hoping that I’d be funny enough that she’d want to see me the next night
because I didn’t know what I’d do if I showed up and saw the gate closed and
locked…
It was a
few months after we’d returned from our trips to Southeast Asia when my worst
fears finally came true.
I was a
little late getting to Oh Chang’s, delayed because the director had gotten into
a screaming match with the stunt coordinator over how a
Pag. 144
certain scene
should be choreographed. I was just window dressing in the shot—a bystander in
the crowd watching the fight—but the stupid director wouldn’t let any of us
leave until he got his way, even though he knew that the coordinator should
have say over all stunt sequences. That was stupid: you never wanted to
alienate a good stunt coordinator, and the whole thing had made the coordinator
lose face before his stuntmen. The director would be lucky if the rest of his
film had a single battle worth watching. If I were the coordinator, I’d have
walked off the set on the sport.
But as a
junior nobody, I couldn’t walk away—not if I wanted to come back the next day.
So I ran, breathless and sweaty, all the way from the bus stop, not even
pausing to eat.
She was
still there! My heart jumped up, since I’d half expected her to have gone
inside and back to sleep. And then I noticed that her expression wasn’t the
sweet and happy one I was used to, and that I loved so much. Her face was pale,
and her eyes red. What had happened?
“Oh Chang,
what’s wrong?” I said, swallowing hard.
She shook
her head.
“I’m sorry
I’m late, Oh Chang; it was the director— “She turned away from me, and the
story I was ready to tell her, about the stupid director and his fight with the
stunt coordinator, faded away unspoken. I was crushed. I knew in my heart something
was wrong , and that it didn’t have anything to do with my being late.
“Yuen Lo…”
she said softly, a catch in her voice. “I can’t see you anymore.”
And then
she walked inside and closed the gate behind her.
I stared at
the gate, a metal wall cutting me off from my happiness, and then began to run.
I wanted to
scream, and if I screamed, I wanted to be as far away as possible.
I spent
that night slumped in a corner in my apartment, just staring at the walls, the
lights out and the shutters closed. In the pitch black of my room, I could
almost imagine that I was surrounded by people, by my brothers and sisters,
sound asleep and as quiet as the grave. It was better than realizing that I was
alone.
I called
her the next day, begging the building manager to use his phone.
The phone
rang for what seemed like hours, before a stern male voice answered.
“Hello?” it
said, without an ounce of kindness.
“Hello,
sir,” I said, finding my tongue after a moment’s hesitation.
“I’m—I’m
looking for Oh Chang.”
