Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020 | Page 66

Fiction – Group 4
Call My Name
Heep Yunn School, Tsui, Yu Hei Iris – 15
The first time I heard her name was on the radio, among a cluster of other meaningless
names, pronounced in the monotone voice of the unknown speaker. Even then I felt my
spirits leap as her name rang in my ears like an ocean wave foaming to shore, like the wind in
the starlit trees, and my spirit flickered with unbridled joy.
‘Bringing together the cities of Qianhai, Guangdong, Hong Kong and Macao, the championship is
hosted by Greater Bay Area Homeland Youth Community Foundation, targeting those ready to commit
themselves to innovation and entrepreneurship,’ continued the speaker. ‘The above names have been taken
down for the competition. There are 43 places left for registration.’
“Not a bad opportunity,” said my father, looking up from his newspaper. “Li Wen, want
to give it a shot?”
My brother, occupied with his work at Harvard Business School, barely looked up from
his laptop. “I’ve got enough work, Father.”
“Ah.” Disappointment was etched across my father’s face, but it could not compare to the
misery that rested against my heart, forcing down the golden spark of light that had lit up my
soul. Everyone knew Li Wen, son of the renowned Li Qian, businessman and billionaire, lord
of the marketing economy. No one knew the younger son who dwelt in the shadow of his
brother, nor did anyone ever witness my father’s eyes glint with pride as he looked toward the
son he was ashamed of.
***
The listlessness churning in the cavity of my chest led me to the empty streets as dusk
closed down. The street-lamps lit up the darkness with their pulsing golden glow, igniting the
lonely space that was the domain of those who were young and haunted by dreams they could
never fulfil.
My footsteps paced the streets, the pavement shining silver in the moonlight that battled the
reflecting glow of the lamplight. They stopped in front of a bar, where a bartender caught sight
of my face and reached immediately for a frosted glass bottle of wine on the counter. I had been
there enough times for him to recognise me, and call my unknown, insubstantial name.
“Mr. Li Jian,” he said. “Out for another night-time walk?”
I nodded, accepting the bottle and cigarette he handed me.
I made my way into the pub, lighting the cigarette. The yellow sulphur burned like
candlelight. Electric lights flickered and pulsed around me, the purple lights weaving their
swirling patterns on the floor. They lingered on the faces of the same phantoms that came to
haunt the pub at night, the dreamless ones, the aimless ones, who had somehow lost purpose.
Through my blurry vision, I sought in the misty wreath of the drunken, hazy world
another soul that would curb my loneliness. The pub’s lights flickered, turning it into a
revolving lantern, and the faces of the lost souls that wandered here were gone, wandered
there and were gone again. They whirled and danced, and — with a sudden purposeful move
— focused on the face of the girl that stepped through the door.
The bartender cried out her name.
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