New Year’s Day 1993 - Hong Kong

By three that morning, none of the taxis would go near Central. All the drivers had heard the news. Police took command while partygoers huddled, hovered. Paparazzi paralyzed the moment.

Lan Kwai Fong was completely cordoned off.

People hung out of club doorways, knowing, not quite knowing, afraid to confront or believe. Champagne rivers flowed down steep slopes, spilling beyond sidewalks. Random drunks added liquid density. Bodies decorated street corners.

Local faces everywhere.

The Hong Kong government does not require New Year’s Eve partygoers to request permission to march. New Year’s Eve revelers are not an official organization. Only official bodies are required to submit the proper forms for a large, peaceful, public assembly.

Furthermore, New Year’s Eve is a non-Chinese “gwailo” celebration.

Over the years, the crowds had grown larger and more unruly. The Fong, a square smaller in area than Trafalgar or Wall Street where, they said, only “devil-folk” got drunk and rowdy on non-Chinese New Year’s Eve. Non-Chinese were less than two percent of the six and half million local populace. They thought it wasn’t their problem, these yan, these “humans.”

At midnight, twenty, some say thirty thousand burst through the floodgates. Police protection pushed forth, and was washed away with the rest of fermented nature.

By four thirty that morning, the remaining people trickled down in rivulets, in streams of uncertain consciousness.

Chinese faces everywhere.

Over the airwaves of the taxi drivers’ radio relay, changing statistics buzzed. Each detoured driver stopped to ask the barricade of cops -- Gaau mat gwai a? What ghostly realm has been disturbed this time? Ten dead, twenty dead, no, no, more, maybe fifty dead! Mashed by the mob! Asphyxiated here, now, in the wake of unbound feet and phantom pigtails, where mad dogs follow Englishmen to make fun in midnight moonlight.

For the next twenty four hours, tiny Hong Kong flickered across TV screens and spilled ink on newsprint around the globe, unable to hide its new year’s shame.

Across the harbor in Kowloon, four young feijai beat up a bouncer while two girlfriends stood guard. They dragged him into a doorway by the corner of Portland and Soy, near the nightclub where he worked (“only men entertained”). A former Gurkha soldier, he had earlier barred entrance to one of the thugs and his girl.

At another nightclub on Soy Street, the fire alarm tripped. Startled by the sound, the youth gang split, their victim damaged but conscious.

Sleeping neighbors awoke. While trying to silence her crying infant, a karaoke hostess called 999. Emergency operators shrugged; a larger instance of human density consumed attention over on the other side.

The baby howled. His mother paced around their box-like room, cradling, cooing, peering outside. Two migrants to this hopeful city, far from their Guangzhou home. No man-father awoke; life here promised scant support. Down below along the narrow streets, the soldier-bouncer rose, nursing his bleeding lip, his Himalayan world swallowed up by life in the city.

Here in Kowloon where yan lived, the tripped alarm sang to the dark. Neither anxious owner nor passing citizen heeded its voice. The siren symphony wailed on. The baby stopped, exhausted.

March 1995

1

In the reception area of JB&D, Andanna You Fun Lee paced, glancing impatiently at her watch. Gwailo photographers, always late. Why had she accepted this assignment anyway, killing her only free day? She despised modeling and this whole ad agency scene. But the money was good, and playing hotel lobby piano gigs didn’t pay the rent. Sometimes, she wished she’d stayed in Vancouver where everything was cheaper and no one complained about what she did since she was far enough away. It was just too boring there though. Despite all its transplanted Hong Kong life, it wasn’t the real thing.

She glanced at the pictures adorning the walls. A section titled “FMCG’s” was empty. When she’d met Jake Wu, the agency’s creative director a year ago, he had called her that and laughed. Pretending to know, she had laughed along with him even though she suspected an insult. Fast Moving Consumer Goods. Every agency’s rice bowl and the work the creatives hated. Andanna knew that JB&D paid the most, had the best facilities, and handled the highest profile fashion accounts. Next to the empty wall space hung a framed testament to their success: the 1994 agency of the year award for Asia. But that was last year, and this year, what she’d been hearing was that they’d lost two of their big FMCG’s. Easy come easy go, just like her piano gigs. The modeling jobs, on the other hand, were there as long as she could play the part.

“Andanna?” Vince da Luca introduced himself, apologizing for his tardiness. They shook hands.

She took in the photographer, a tired-looking, middle-aged American. A bit thick around the waist, he didn’t look shaved, although perhaps, she decided, he simply had too much hair.

They headed towards the studio area, past rows of open cubicles lining the window. JB&D’s office was at the east end of Hong Kong island, and their premises in Taikoo Shing framed a perfect view of the airport runway across the harbor. A green and white Cathay Pacific plane rose towards the clouds. Behind it, a purple and gold Thai International aircraft waited in line for takeoff. Sunday afternoon traffic jam.

“Did you just graduate from college?”

The photographer’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She had been thinking about Albert Ho, whom she’d run into last Saturday night at Club 97. He hadn’t called even though he said he would. Men.

“Ages ago. Almost three years.”

“Oh, what did you study?”

He didn’t want to talk, did he? She hated these foreign guys who tried to draw her out. Everyone knew that all they wanted was to fuck. “Music.”

“That’s cool.”

Mentally, her eyes rolled. But she remained polite, smiling. No point being rude. He couldn’t help being old. Of course, Albert wasn’t all that young either, but not only did he like her music, he was rich. Very rich. Perhaps she could get him to fund a music video or CD. It wasn’t as if she were interested in him for anything else.

At the art department, Jake Wu was trying to sort out which outfit would be used for the shot. The assignment was for some Italian sounding designer brand which Andanna had never heard of. She picked up a very short, lime green dress with orange flowers that was absolutely hideous. The price tag read HK$4,500 or Ą52,000, half of almost a month’s rent for the 300-foot flat she shared with her boyfriend. “That’s it, put that one on,” he yelled in Cantonese, gesturing towards the bathroom. She made a face and he snorted. “Women,” she heard him say, “always so critical.”

When she returned, the photographer was setting up. Jake was telling him about the house he was restoring in Beijing. “One of those old places with a courtyard, you know the kind? I’m preserving all the historic detail but modernizing the plumbing and putting in central air. It’s not far from Tiananmen, about a ten minute taxi ride. Very convenient. You come as my guest some weekend, okay?” He gazed meaningfully at the photographer, his fingers lightly brushing the hair on his arm.

It was ludicrous, Andanna thought, the way Jake ran after Western men. She knew that was the only reason this guy had the assignment, since he wasn’t one of the regulars. Couldn’t Jake tell this one was straight? Jake was one of the hot directors, but for all his talent, he could be a total dope.

The photographer continued setting up. It astonished her how much time was spent lighting and preparing to get one silly shot. And the rolls of film these photographers went through! Could the creatives who hired her really see any difference in all those rows of contact sheets? In the past year, she’d turned down a couple of local art photographers who had asked her to pose. After all, they couldn’t pay much and it wasn’t like she was a real model.

Would they work as slowly as this guy?

He framed her through his camera. “Photogenic.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Andanna’s a pretty name, by the way.”

“Thank you,” she replied automatically, thinking, no it wasn’t, now that she knew better. All her friends had made up their English names too when they were thirteen. Living in Canada, she had come to realize how ridiculous that was. Thank god she’d at least not accidentally used a real English word like her best friend Clitoris Ho - pronounced “Cly-toris” to rhyme with fly - who survived the embarrassment when they’d first got to Vancouver for grade twelve. She went by Clio now, but had thought the whole thing a big joke. Andanna would have died if it had happened to her.

“Did you go to school abroad?”

This guy didn’t give up! Perhaps she should tell him she already had a boyfriend, although that probably wouldn’t stop him. It didn’t stop other gwailoes. “Yeah, Canada.”

“No wonder you speak English well.”

“Thanks.” She smiled but knew he was just looking for an opening. When she was growing up, she hated studying English. The grammar was difficult, and no one spoke it anyway. Her father, who was in business, wanted her to master it because he believed it would be important for her future. He insisted she study abroad, saying her English would improve faster. She had wanted to go to the Academy of Performing Arts at home with her friends. If her mother hadn’t begged her to go for the passport, and if Clio hadn’t been going, she would have refused. Music was easier. Tones sang in her head and her fingers obeyed. Fortunately, Mother didn’t give her a hard time about English, but then, she didn’t speak it all that well either. As long as she knew the language, Andanna couldn’t see why speaking mattered.

Over in Vancouver, it hadn’t mattered, except in high school classes. She hung around with Clio all the time and spoke Cantonese. Clio liked speaking English and made Canadian friends. What was the point of making friends you’d never see again? Andanna knew she was going home. Fortunately, music teachers didn’t talk a lot, even in Vancouver. Once in college, she avoided classes where speaking up contributed to the grade. Since she’d been back, however - was it already three years? - she found herself holding conversations in English with foreigners at her hotel gigs. So maybe the old man had a point, even if he didn’t like what she did. English helped her make money.

“Vincent . . .” Jake began. He had come around from his side of the art table and was standing right next to the photographer.

“It’s Vince,” he corrected, lighting a cigarette. “I’m ready, let’s work.”

Jake turned towards Andanna and went all businesslike. “Over there,” he barked, “and make like Lolita.”

“Lo-who?”

“Kids today. Don’t know anything.” Jake was huffing, hands on his waist, disgusted.

Vince ambled over to her and pulled up a tall stool. “Here, sit-lean on this. Legs slightly apart, one foot on the rung of the stool. Tip your head forward and pretend you don’t want your boyfriend to kiss you.”

She tried to do what he asked, feeling like an idiot. It wasn’t working. Jake was becoming increasingly impatient which irritated her. But she didn’t know what he wanted. It had been much easier last time for that sanitary napkin ad. All the brief demanded was that she look “fresh as a morning sunrise.” Vince seemed reasonable, patiently suggesting different poses. After about thirty minutes of this, Jake finally blew up with “oh, give me a break, what does he have to do, fuck you?” in Cantonese, so Vince wouldn’t understand.

“I don’t need this shit,” she said coldly, in English, and began to walk towards the bathroom. She didn’t care if Jake gave her a lot of work or paid big bucks; it didn’t give him the right to yell at her.

“Okay, time out,” Vince declared. “You,” he pointed at Jake. “Out of here. I’ll get this done myself.”

Jake resisted, face simmering, and then flounced off. Andanna glared at Vince. “Now what?”

“Relax. Sit a minute.” He gestured at the vending machine. “Want something?”

“Diet Coke.”

He handed her one. “By the way, what was that he said?”

She tilted the popped can to her mouth. Hesitant, surprised at her own coyness, she translated Jake’s remark. Vince laughed, but quickly turned it into a cough saying, “how rude of him.” She felt suddenly better about being here, about doing this ridiculous assignment and smiled, genuinely happy for the first time in days.

He picked up his camera. “So what d’you think of all this?” “Borrr-ring,” she said. He shot her. “And the dress?” “Want to rip it off.” “Who’d buy it?” “Girls trying to be foreign, trying to be fashionable.” He took more shots. “So why’re you doing this?” “Need money.” Andanna realized he hadn’t stopped shooting. Whatever he was doing, she hoped it was right because she didn’t want to have to listen to Jake grumble.

They wrapped an hour later. Vince barely looked at her as she departed, although he did wave a cursory good bye. For just a second, that bothered her. But she forgot it as soon she boarded the MTR beneath Taikoo Shing, heading back, home to Sheung Wan.

It was only March, yet the nights were already too humid. Andanna slept badly. In the morning, the trucks delivering to the market below groaned down her narrow street early, too early, interrupting her dream cycle, spoiling the last, precious hours of slumber. Her mattress was uncomfortable: leftover lumps from the previous tenant who, she was certain, didn’t wash regularly. For one brief moment that morning, she longed for her bedroom in Yau Yat Chuen and freshly ironed sheets, all in a spacious home, thoroughly cleaned, each day, by her parents’ Filipino maid.

A tickling sensation on her foot, and she glimpsed a large cockroach racing off. She threw her thong at it. In the living room, Tai Jai moaned, angry at these noises. He’d shown up late last night, drunk as usual, because he’d missed the last MTR to Kowloon again. It was a pain having him around, but he was a childhood friend of Michael’s, her jazz bassist boyfriend who never said no to anyone.

She sneezed. A cacophony of cackling chickens rose from the street, followed by the ducks. What was this, poultry day? The phone rang and she raced to get it, afraid Tai Jai would send a missile in its direction. He could be rude like that.

“Ma, it’s only seven thirty! Why are you calling so early?”

“You mean you haven’t gotten up yet?”

“I was working late last night. Have to earn a living, you know?” It was sort of true. She, Michael and the band had rehearsed till late and then gone down to Wanchai for siuyeh at around two in the morning.

“If you bothered to tell me your schedule, I’d know when not to call, but of course, you always forget about your poor mother.”

“Ma, what d’you want?”

“Wei! Meih fanseng, sai sengdi la!” From Tai Jai, loud enough for her mother to hear. Andanna waved at him to shut up. That guy didn’t deserve to sleep.

“Who was that?”

“What?”

“I heard a male voice.”

“Men are allowed to walk on this street.”

“That wasn’t from outside.”

“You’re imagining things. Now Ma, what did you want?” Her mother thought she lived with another girl, and had never met Michael, even though they’d been going together since she was fifteen, a year before she left for Vancouver. There wasn’t any point enlightening Mother now that she’d finally accepted her daughter wasn’t going to live at home like everyone else’s kids.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you? You do have something to wear tonight, right? Don’t embarrass me by turning up in anything shabby otherwise your aunt will never stop gossiping about us.”

Her cousin’s wedding dinner! She’d forgotten entirely about it. She’d have to find a sub for the gig tonight, but that wouldn’t be too hard on a Monday. “Of course I remembered.”

“Your father has taken care of the laisee from our family. It’s very generous. In fact, I told him he was giving her too much money . . .”

Andanna blocked out the next minutes of chatter, lit a cigarette, and wondered from whom she could borrow a dress. At the last family wedding, she’d shown up in blue jeans and her mother had been scandalized, although no one else seemed bothered. By the time her mother rang off, she’d figured out the logistics of the evening.

“Wa! Gam ‘fit’!” Clio exclaimed after Andanna had squeezed into the dress. “You’re so lucky. You really have the figure.” Baby fat ran in the Ho family through adulthood.

They were at Clio’s home in North Point. It was already shortly past seven. Her mother expected her in less than half an hour although why she had to get there so early was beyond her. “Photos! Lei You Fun, you have to participate in the family photos.” When her mother used her proper name, things were way beyond questioning.

“Let me put your hair up.”

“Oh must I, Clio?”

“Of course. It’s much more ladylike.” She set to work over Andanna’s objections. “I wish I had a cousin who could afford a wedding banquet at the Grand Hyatt! It’ll be so elegant. Promise you’ll tell me all about it.”

Andanna watched her hair swoop into a nest on top of her head. “Don’t use too much hair spray,” she said, alarmed at the can her friend was aiming.

“Honestly, you’re such a pain. Sit still a second. You don’t know how lucky you are to be both rich and gorgeous. I feel sorry for your mom sometimes. Weddings are fun.”

Andanna tried to stop fidgeting. Her friend didn’t understand. Clio was an easy going person, and had been that way since she was a girl. Nothing bothered her, everything made her laugh. She liked her job at Citibank, smiling at customers all day long, because, she said, there was a good career path for her there. Clio even swallowed all that customer service crap about how she was “helping” people. Never mind, she was still a wonderful friend, no matter how hopeless she was.

Her hair now completely pinned up, she stared at herself, bemused. The transformation was startling: she looked old.

“I’m thinking of dropping Andanna.”

Clio flicked a comb over a few stray strands. “What do you mean?”

“I’d use my Chinese name, of course, silly. What did you think I meant?”

“Won’t work. Lei You Fun doesn’t sound jazzy enough and you’re supposed to be a jazz singer. You should have an English name.”

“Then maybe I need a stage name? You know, the first time Albert Ho heard me sing, he said my voice was like velvet. Isn’t that romantic?”

“You’re the silly one. Why don’t you call yourself Velvet then? That sounds musical.”

Andanna clicked impatiently. “Oh Clio, haven’t you learned your lesson yet about English names? Honestly, you’re too much sometimes.” Hairdo fully sprayed into place, she checked her watch. Only ten minutes to make it on time. She could picture her mother pretending to be calm, glancing discreetly at her watch every thirty seconds.

“Stop rushing. You’ll mess up your whole look. Besides, you’ll make it if you take a taxi.”

Clio didn’t understand. She lived at home and had spare cash, even if she had to give money to her family. The trouble with being connected to a rich family was that nobody believed Andanna could be broke. As long as she refused to live at home, her father didn’t provide any allowance, although Mother occasionally slipped her a little extra. She was down to her last hundred and fifty dollars until Thursday and a taxi would be twenty, possibly more. But she did have her MTR card with approximately eighty left.

She wended her way out of the maze. Clio’s family lived in one of the older buildings on King’s Road in North Point that was built in the fifties. There were three entrances from different streets, each through a narrow passageway surrounded by small shops. Unless you knew which passageway and lift to take, you could end up way on the opposite end of the building in the wrong bank of flats. Clio told her once there were nineteen original flats per floor, from A to S, which were further complicated by the added illegal divisions listed as H-1 or M-3. Clio lived in 14-J2, the way to which Andanna knew by now with her eyes closed.

Outside, she raced to the MTR station, doing her best to protect the hairdo and dress for just a little longer in the damp evening air.