Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 531

“We all need a drink once in a while,” I said languidly, though my heart beat in a frenzy of
delight. “Just to indulge a little.”
She laughed. “True, sir.”
“Call me Li Jian.”
The core of my soul trembled; my name escaped from my lips so freely, so carelessly, the name
that no one knew or cared for, not even my father. It was the name of a phantom of empty streets.
“Well then, Jian,” she said, and the way she pronounced my name sent a thrill through me —
“Thanks for the drink. It took too long planning my entry for —”
“The Qianhai-Guangdong-Hong Kong- Macau Youth Innovation and Entrepreneurship
Competition, yes?”
She looked surprised.
“I heard your name on the radio,” I said.
“I see.” Her smile was beatific. “Are you a competitor then, Jian?”
“No.”
“why not?”
“I don’t join competitions. My brother is the one who does things like that.”
“And why only your brother?”
“My father believes he has the potential. And I, unlike Li Wen…” I shrug. “I don’t.”
She stepped forward, turning her face to the moonlight, until her face was bathed in quicksilver
and the moon was reflected in her eyes like a silver sickle. “I don’t believe you, Jian. You do not cast your
hat into a ring because you think you might win. You do it so that you might leave a mark upon the
world.”
A shudder ran through me. Who was I? I was Li Jian, insignificant compared to my father’s
accomplishments and my brother’s genius. I came into this world quietly, and I would leave it just as
soundlessly.
“Why did you join?” I asked.
Her face turned downward, staring at the golden pavement.
I called her name.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she
whispered.
***
She brought me to the outskirts of Guangdong city, away from the hustle and bustle of the golden utopia
beside the singing Pearl River Delta. Her hand clung to mine as we stepped off the glistening high-speed
train into another world.
A cracked pavement ran under our feet, narrowing as it tunnelled between the outer walls of
houses with peeling lacquer, resembling cracked human molars. The sun burned away any lustre the village
would have had. Dust covered every inch of the place, sinking into the wrinkled faces of the houses we
passed and milling into the blind eyes of the street.
“This is my home,” she said.
I was speechless.
A woman sat on the crumbling doorsteps of a cottage, cradling a delirious child in her arms.
Our appearance — clad in fashionable garments, the coins jingling in my pocket — caught her attention,
and she fell to her knees, head bowed to the relentless sun. “Help me!” she crowed to my girl. “He’s
dying!”
The girl beside me took a breath; a storm raged inside her, a battle between conscience and
helplessness. Her hand drifted outwards, but fell back, useless, against her side. She took me by the arm and
led me away.
“She needs help,” I protested.
“We cannot help,” she whispered.
The woman’s tears fell upon the cracked earth like rain upon stones. I dawdled a moment
longer before turning away.
The sickness and helplessness settled like a plague over the village. Left behind by the world of
Greater Bay, a world sunken into poverty while we within the shining cities drowned in wine and begotten
happiness. A queasiness settled in my stomach; I looked towards the girl beside me; her face was stoic,
though tears spun within her eyes.
***
“That’s why you joined.”
She answered nothing. Did she have to?
“You want to come up with a cure.”