Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 592

“That might not be the best option; Kowloon is still being reworked.” Holly said.
“Yes, but can we?”
“I suppose so.”
Holly led us into the tram. With a rumble, the train gurgled to life before propelling itself across
the tracks, and soon, across the open sea. We skimmed near the sea level, rose to arch over a passing cargo
ship, and slid back to the railways on land. We shot across Kowloon and I stared as the tall sleek towers of
Hong Kong Island recedes into the old concrete buildings of Kowloon.
The train slowed to a stop; any recoil was undetectable. You have arrived at the final destination.
Doors will open on the left. Please mind the gap and stand back from the doors.
“The reconstruction just began three months ago. This is to be a new business centre.” Holly said
and instructed us to follow her.
Below, excavators clawed down concrete infrastructure, bulldozers shovelled the collapsed
remnants, and dump trucks drove the excess materials away. Buildings upon buildings were being torn down
and methodically cleaned up. Grey, the landscape was grey. It was lacking in the iridescence that
accompanied the landscape in Southern districts of Hong Kong. Industrialised smoke arose from underneath
our platform, and each building looked dull under the afternoon rays.
Red.
In the distance came a distinctly red piece of paper. It swerved around in loops and gilded towards
me. I reached out to grasp it, and my index barely brushed the tip of it before a strong breeze swept it the
left of me. Sliding my hands across the banister, I ran down the stairs and snatched the evasive paper.
“Mei Mei!” My mother shouted, “come back this instant!”
“I’m coming!” I scrambled back up, but I was greeted with only the long empty platform and the
tram. The three figures who were previously standing across me mere seconds ago were now replaced with
negative space.
“Mom?” No reply. “Dad?” No reply. “Holly?” No reply.
Not a voice was heard, not an item was left behind, not even a skid mark made by the shoe.
Nothing.
“What?” I glanced at the little snippet of colour I acquired.
In my hands were a thin piece of paper, the red had smeared itself onto my palms and the Chinese
inscriptions were barely legible. Cheap paper and cheap ink. Though, I couldn’t read Chinese to begin with.
Suddenly, instead of the growling of trucks and machinery, the construction was replaced with
rackets of congestion and bartering. Over the banister laid a market. Gone were the excavators and
bulldozers, gone were the destroyed buildings, gone were the monochromatic grey that slathered itself all
over the district.
A myriad of colour splashed itself onto the streets. Between two old buildings were rows upon
rows of makeshift shops, each covered with products in every inch of available space. Large signs with square
words hung over the murmuring crowd below. The people went from one stall to another picking up a
product to inspect it, before putting it down and carefully inspecting another. Surreal, it was almost as if it
would disappear if I looked hard enough; almost as if, upon squinting, colour would erode and reveal the
grey skeleton of the construction site.
Curiosity drove me down the stairs, and I sought to confirm it for myself.
Proximity, somehow, lent more credibility beyond visual verification. I needed the affirmation of
all five senses to accept that it was not my mind playing tricks on my eyes. But the images did not waver,
the voices did not fade, and the smell, a mixture of wetness and cardboard, hit me.
It was curiosity, again, that compelled me to enter.
To my left were stalls with iron sheet roofs stacked next to each other jaggedly. In each stall was a
vendor, some enthusiastically attracting customers, some others merely eyed the crowd. Win Chi Stationary;
Chow Ting Flower Shop; Liang’s Goods. On my right were nameless vendors, with goods in tag-less glass
jars and red plastic boxes. They scooped treats from containers and measured them on weathered weights.
Dried plum; assortment of nuts; medicinal herbs.
Older ladies with flower-patterned shirts wore equally decorated tote bag on their shoulders. They
expertly examined each fruit, weighing each one and with their hands, inspected the colours of the skin,
before putting it down and sifting through the rest of the contenders. Unsatisfied, they continued their
search for a fruit that was not too young, but not too ripe.
At the end of the street around the bend sat another market, a wet market. A pungent smell
invaded my nose. Meat. Laid bare, skinned and gutted, raw red exposed on the chopping block at the mercy
of the knife. Butchers with glossy aprons raised their cleavers, and carved up flesh with experienced hands.