Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 532

“I need the money to help my family,” she said, ‘so I thought I would help them by doing
something good for everyone. It’s the only thing I can give them — a way out of poverty, a new life…”
Her voice faded away, listless upon the wind.
The train whisked us through a world of glamour and mystery; the daylight shone upon Greater
Bay, and Greater Bay basked in that light, unknowing, ignorant of a world that was borne ceaselessly into
the past.
“I’ll join. We will both try to come up with a cure,” I said. “That way we both get what we
want. You get to help your family and your village. I get my father’s recognition.”
She leaned closer to me, smiling. Her breath was warm against my lips; her fingers rested on the
gold watch around my wrist.
“What do you say?” I whispered.
Her arms were around my neck, her solid warmth pressing against mine; I dropped my burntout
cigarette into the ashtray and embraced her. Her whispered yes in my ear was a glowing spark; I felt a
desire blooming: I did not care for my father’s pride, nor my insubstantial name — I cared only that she was
the one to call my name.
***
The revolving lantern hovered above me, releasing a powder of golden light on the snowy parchment that
lay on the golden mahogany desk; their folds released the scent of musk and mothballs into the air. My
fingertips lingered on the printed characters that spiralled their way across the scrolls, their strokes bare and
drifting, but with purpose.
My head fell forward into my hands — what folly have I landed myself into? I should have left
the glory to my brother. My mind was incapable of such feats as a perfect cure, despite the countless tutors
my father hired to light some intelligence in my witless brain.
I lit another cigarette; I watched the smoke spiral upwards with soulless eyes.
***
My nights with my girl left us wandering in Hong Kong’s empty, darkened streets in the hour of early
morning, where we drowned in the indulgence of alcohol and the flickering haze of dreams. She asked me
often for what lay in my pockets, to facilitate her research, she said, and I willingly handed over the dollars
that would give her the support to find a way to give the villagers a new life.
She came to the pub one night, her cheeks were flushed with ardour and ecstasy. She took her
wine, and in the midst of soaked euphoria, she told me her findings — an equation that would lead to the
cure she found; but she needed money to procure the ingredients, and forge an all-curing medication.
“I found it all,” she said, and cast onto the counter before us a piece of parchment. The
characters spun across the manuscript a thread of equilibrium among the treacherous sea of innovation and
medical studies. I felt within them the idea of creation — the world moving forward —
“Of course I can give you money,” I responded swiftly, my heart hammering away — I felt a
sense of resistless dread mingled with breathless eagerness, and guilt weighed on my heart with anticipation
of what my mind compelled me to do — a dreaded act — a traitorous deed —
“Thank you,” she said languidly as I handed her the fee; amid her drunken haze of liquor, as
she wandered helplessly in the domains of smoky dreams, I folded the scroll shut, and tucked it into my
pocket.
***
The headlines blared the golden news — The champion of this year’s Youth Innovation and
Entrepreneurship Competition — The Son of Famed Businessman comes up with a Cure to Change the
World — How proud must Mr. Li Qian be to have a son equally as accomplished as he!
My normally placid father was moved to jubilance. His eye glinted with surprise and pride as he
bent his gaze upon me. My name was inscribed on the gold trophy. I was no longer the insubstantial
phantom that my father tried desperately to hide, who lurked in the shadow of his brother’s success; my
name was known all across Greater Bay Area.
In the months that followed, filled with bliss and merriment, there was only one flaw, but it was
a flaw that grew day by day. I wandered the empty streets still, but they offered no solace — the girl I loved
no longer returned to fill the air with the music of her laughter, and my night-time walks were as silent and
drifting as before. I lingered in the shadows; my tears blurred the vacuum of memory and nostalgia into a
bowl of black night, punctured by pinpricks of light from the streetlamps.
Why was it that my name floated upon the winds of fame, was shouted and called everywhere,
and still I lingered, a lost, star-crossed wanderer, haunted by memories, in a tunnel of darkness?
***