A Hong Kong Story - Sheung Wan (i)

From Part I Getting Lost of my serialized novel that accompanies the Truth in Fiction season of The Matterhorn podcast

Hong Kong Golden Bauhinia (photo by the author, 2015)

A Hong Kong Story is a work of fiction. If you’re just joining me now, you can catch up with the rest of the novel here —

Table of Contents

A juxtaposition of Ivy’s solitary navigation with Hong Kong's journey in the 2010's.  A story about divergence, culture, and love. What do you do when the future’s suddenly unclear?

Sheung Wan

There was a tiny cafe on a back street in Quarry Bay where Ivy liked to go on weekend mornings. They had wet scrambled eggs and crispy bacon and strong espressos. The cafe was narrow with only six two-top tables, but they still let you stay as long as you like. She would come if she were doing some feature writing or to read the pink-paper weekend edition of the FT. Georg was usually still sleeping after an early morning cycle on the South side of the island or late night with clients; either would end around six am.

Today when she walked over, her only thought was of filling up that hole in her body.

They smiled at her familiarity, and she ordered the full English breakfast. Though the beans were too sweet, and the toast was like the stuff you found on grocery store shelves in America, they would fill her up and then the eggs and bacon would taste good.

A strong, creamy flat white arrived. Then her mind wandered to the happy hour. Most of it was a blur. Had she been rude to Martha? She began questioning the nature of human interaction and humanity itself. She opened her journal to kvetch in hopes of understanding. Why did people's egos, or their loneliness, impacted that calm orb she had tried to create around herself, one with a lot of silence and space and time? Georg was always telling her to get a tougher skin.

She read back over some of her ramblings. It was a preposterous thing to say. How selfish, how stupid. She was jealous, angry. To assume that others took away from a good life. It simply wasn't true. She had to get away, physically, mentally. She had to be by herself for a while to appreciate people again and stop blaming them for problems. It would motivate her for her to write, to do good creative work. Maybe it would give her strength to heal her marriage: what was she doing wrong? How could she change the way they interacted, or didn't? Georg never got upset with her. He seemed content enough. It was salvageable.

The desire to go was overwhelming. She didn’t know where — a move, a holiday, a state of mind…hell! Her journal that was meant to heal had become a long, sad rant of her existence. She tried doodling instead while waiting for the breakfast, but it came out just as spirals, circling deeper and deeper. The ink heavier, reaching through the other pages as if jumping from one parallel universe to another. A black hole. Her own. Created by herself as she created the reality of her mind.

This black hole was truly dangerous. It was eating her up. She felt like she was looking at herself from a distance, seeing someone who was isolating herself. It wasn’t just now. It had been happening for months, maybe longer. It was really difficult to pinpoint the start, where she had been duped or…given up.

Decisions had become difficult, even what to wear. She would ask him, and he always chose something she didn’t like, but it was easier that way. There were comments about what was right or feminine or mature…subtle ways of influencing her. First it was T-shirts with any writing on them. ‘They look so American. So cheap.’ When she looked a little hurt by it, he added, convincingly: ‘But you’re not cheap! You are classy; you deserve better clothing. I’ll buy you some the next time we are in Vienna.’ When they had moved to Quarry Bay, he had helped her cull her wardrobe even further. Out went the band shirts, the university emblems, and the funky branding. He convinced her to donate anything baggy, or even with tailored shape, as well. ‘You’re so thin these days. I love it. Let’s show off your pencil figure.’ She became afraid of gaining weight. And then she had found herself pregnant.

Dinner choices were similar. Just like the minimalist Austrian sartorial style that Georg encouraged, a minimalist palate of meats, potatoes, and other ’traditional’ foods were revered in their household. She enjoyed the French restaurants they went to as well as some Italian ones. But anything inventive by nature of flavour or animal or venue was shunned as unnecessary. ‘If you can eat a beautiful steak and healthy vegetables, why would you cover them up with spices?’ He would have the odd dumplings or cooked Japanese food, but that was as far as he ventured into Asian cuisine. She wondered how he survived client dinners. Unlike her wardrobe, she was never brainwashed into thinking this way about food as well, but in the home, she only ever cooked within his realm of appreciation. And when they went out together with friends, he began ordering for her, whispering in her ear that this or that was the best option anyway.

She could go to work, accept party invites, do what her husband told her, but she couldn’t seem to do things for herself. A passivity had blanketed her. How did she want to spend her time? What did she even want? These were questions not just for the immediate - that afternoon or for the weekend - they were questions she had about all the years ahead of her as well. She wondered if she had ever really asked herself those questions when she married Georg. And though they had recently come to the surface, she wondered if they had started well before the miscarriage. Her memory’s timeline felt all mixed up.

More and more, she just wanted some quiet. Quiet in her head. Quiet from the construction. Quiet from the density.

After eating the rich food, she ordered a second coffee to go and walked to the promenade again where she had sat drunk the previous night. She held the coffee cup as if it were a warm hand. It was only nine o’clock and the wooden walkway was filled with dog walkers, Tai Chi practicing old ladies, and a small aerobics class. The coffee made her sweat in the June morning sun. She took a seat on the same bench as the night before to rest her coffee down and dug her phone out of her pocket. On the Mind-Body app, she found her favourite Saturday yoga class starting at eleven in Sheung Wan. Plenty of time to walk a bit more and digest, then go home to change and take the tram to Sheung Wan.

⬩

Hong Kong was a growing hub of yoga business. A few months ago, she and Olivia had decided to try The Yoga Loft in Sheung Wan together.

‘Ivy, I know it’s not the most convenient spot from work, but I heard it’s the best.’ Olivia was always seeking the ultimate life experience, carving and crafting her time into joy.

‘Do you think you need to have a lot of experience? I mean, you know I haven’t done much of it.’ The old Ivy would have dove in without a worry.

‘No!  Of course not. Yoga is about knowing your limits. A good teacher will help each student in the class, no matter what.’

‘Ok…I’ll try.’

‘Hey, that’s great. I think you could use something fresh.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way. You just don’t seem yourself lately. Like maybe just a little out of touch, stressed? Anyway, real yoga totally helped me figure out I had to quite at the bank. Let’s go Thursday and have a drink after.’

It wasn’t a question. After that Thursday, Ivy began to feel the tiniest amount of release. Enough to have hope.

⬩

It was during another of those Thursday classes that Ivy returned to yoga with Olivia after the miscarriage. The teachers were always telling her to set an intention and she hadn’t known what to focus on. Now it was clear: she would use yoga to heal.

Halfway through the vinyasas, she realised she wasn’t thinking about the baby. So then in realising she was not thinking about it, she was thinking about it again. She fell over in pincha, a fore-arm inversion, nearly flipping onto an older man in front of her, and her teacher came over with a knowing smile. She helped her into child’s pose, resting palms on the small of Ivy’s back.

At the end of class, Olivia and Ivy walked out onto the street together.

‘Wine?’ Olivia invited.

‘Not tonight. I think I just need to rest. Thanks.’

‘Of course. Hey, don’t be a stranger. Let’s do a hike or something this weekend.’ She gave Ivy a real hug despite their sweat and blew a kiss as she walked toward her flat in Sai Ying Pun.

⬩

 They often went together after work, but Ivy also went on her own on the weekend. There were three studios in an old high rise — floors five, six, and twenty-two. Each one had a view mainly of the massive Holiday Inn sign across the street. When Ivy thought about the fact they were doing yoga so many metres high in a space the size of a small living room, she felt as if the building should sway with their movements.

It didn’t, of course, not even in the Black Rain she would experience in this class. The threat of rain had been visible all morning.

Everyone, save the island ferry goers, still made it to Jivamukti. The Black designation had been raised only ten minutes before class, or they may have cancelled it.

There were three classifications of rain when it starts to get heavy: Amber, Red, and Black. At one time, the rains had created mudslides, covering roads or taking homes out to sea. Now, the land was largely reinforced with cement or reclaimed land filled with trash. But the safety of the warnings kept everyone from getting ridiculously wet and perhaps created safety as well. In any case, Hongkongers needed excuses to work a little less from time to time. Typhoons and influenza outbreaks had the same effect. There were all sorts of rules attached to each colour of rain issued by the government and how it relates to kids going to school, transport running regularly, and expectation in the workplace. But for the most part, things kept running even in the Black Rain; you just might take a bus instead of a cheap, hydroplaning-prone taxi.

The students arrived wet, drenched, leaving umbrellas and rain jackets and Wellies in the hallway; they grabbed fresh white towels from the always-ready pile. They watched the rain for a few minutes before starting while the air conditioner took some of the moisture out of the air.

Jivamukti always began with some chanting or singing with the harmonium. This simple instrument with a few keys and a turning handle gave them just enough to feel the vibrations of their energies inhabit the space. They had song books in Sanskrit and English translations in front of their mats. Leela, their instructor, started with a chant accompanying the music. Today, they sang about self-love, self-forgiveness. Then, she talked about the teaching of the month.

Leela began the sequences in her rich Hindi accent, stopping to laugh a few times when the students made strange squishy sounds on the mat from the water. She paused them in a standing pose and started to tell the class an anecdote: ‘One time in Chennai, it was monsoon season and my mentor insisted on an outdoor class. We didn’t bother to bring mats outside nor put on any rain protection. He told us this was how to get close to nature and it would wash away the toxins.’ They thought it would end in spiritual revelation, moving them all a step closer toward enlightenment. They cringed at the thought that she would maybe even take the class outside.  There were some nervous exchanges between the regulars about this thought, all knowing how spontaneous and unexpected she could be. However, after describing the intensity of their saturation and fear of snakes that might be displaced and moving through the water, she spoke of her realisation: ‘The only epiphany I had that day was that a warm shower and a dry shelter are pretty good ways to sit and think about nature, too. My teacher was totally crazy, but I also learned a lot from him.’ She was lost in memories. ‘Anyway, don’t you just love it here?’ She moved her head slightly back and forth in that beautiful Indian way that she blended with a hypermodern attitude reflected in her sleek yoga attire. It was amazing the way she could do that: talk through blends of cultures and spirituality and humour and sass and sentimentality all at once, often in a single movement of her body or her eyes.

The class continued in a more fluid motion.

Ivy’s life suddenly felt right as her body moved into reverse trikonasana, where your legs form a triangle and your torso twists so you can bend down in the opposite direction. That position in space gave her confidence. In a deep contortion, she was paradoxically aligned, comforted even. She had known she was missing something even then.

Toward the end, when the moisture in the room was replaced by their sweat, they had their normal inversion play before folding over their legs before them.

Ivy was enjoying it but noticing her limitations. She now understood that was part of yoga: acknowledging those limitations and not pushing past them but still working toward them somehow. As her body and emotions changed, her movements reflected the differences.

As Ivy folded, she felt her stomach hollow out where she had once felt a full womb, it made room for deeper bends. Leela was popping around the room to help people attain their potential, all the time saying, ‘Don’t push yourself too far.’ But when she got to Ivy, she put her foot on her back and asked, ‘Can I?’ a bit deviously. Ivy had decided a while ago to just go with whatever these yoga classes faced her with. So she muttered an ‘uh-huh’ from beneath her fold and Leela stepped up onto her back, pushing and prodding in different places with her toes and heels.

Because she accepted it, there was no pain. There was just collapse, acceptance of this burden on her back.

When Leela got off and Ivy slowly raised her head, she realized the others were looking at her. They seemed impressed or perplexed. Ivy would have that same feeling looking at others time and again in these classes. People moving into once unattainable positions. Maybe some understanding was arriving through these asanas.

The blood rushed to her head. ‘How do you feel?’ Leela smiled at her.

‘Better.’

⬩

Her body had failed her. The husband who was to be of her flesh had failed her. Had kept her body at a distance. And so the remedy: heal it from within. This vessel had become a pharmakon. At once, it was a poison and a remedy. Somehow she had to find a balance, had to figure out how the failures of her body could become a part of her story.

---

[to be continued next week - Sheung Wan (ii)

Join me Tuesday for a podcast about layering fiction with ideas about physics in literature and a Spaces & Places focus on cafes. Thanks for reading!