The New Tales of Old Shanghai
Marymount Secondary School , Lowe , Kate Ellen – 16
M orning dawned like it always did , on me in my worn out folding chair , listening to the radio .
“ September 15th , 1951 .”
here had been small heroin seizures all over the city , and the police were embroiled in the hunt for the T kingpin . That second part wasn ’ t on the radio- I had colleagues on the case . I guess compared to them , I wasn ’ t much of a police officer , but it was a tumultuous time in Shanghai , and my only experience was as an overnight traffic light operator afraid of the dark . I was not inclined to seek out a heavier assignment .
The control tower was an unassuming thing in the middle of an intersection , rusting inside and out . It overlooked the Bund , though there was nothing to see in the dark . All you could tell of your location was the sound of waves lapping at the harbour overnight , romantic when I started , but after almost a year ’ s time , relentless . I sat there alone night after night , shuffling between green and red for the sparse traffic . There wasn ’ t much on the line . But there was a girl .
The boredom that swirled like fog in the tower stilled when she walked past . From five metres up and two lanes of traffic away , she was the size of a figurine . She wore a yellow floral cheongsam , and her hair was always immaculate . She would cross the street just before dawn , walk into the sleeping Jewish liquor store , and come back out half an hour later , cross the same street and leave in the same direction as the river . Watching her disappear into the distance felt like waking up from a dream .
I hadn ’ t yet figured out what she did in the store , but I liked to think there was a secret switch in there that turned the silent street on every morning , and it was her job to flip it . When she strolled away , the shop doors would open in her wake , and you could hear the tram engines rumble at the depot nearby .
Schoolchildren knotted their ties , businessmen read their newspapers , and the port began to bustle . When the sun rose on Shanghai and the reds and greens of its streets emerged , everyone knew it was morning .
I had been up all night in a grey capsule . The ghostly glow of the traffic lights made faces appear in the dirty windows . Sometimes , I felt them lunge at me , felt the tower start to fall over , caught a glimpse of my own body on the ground five metres below . I had had no rest . To me , she was the morning .
I didn ’ t know her . All I had ever seen her do was walk and open a door . Yet , for some reason , I mourned our alternate timelines , thought about her sleeping while I was awake , imagined her activities as I fell asleep . Five metres up and two lanes of traffic away , her presence gleamed so bright it felt like company . I imagined opening a window one morning and calling out to her . Perhaps she would stop in the middle of the crosswalk . If there was traffic , I could keep it safely away from her as long as I wanted . She would look up , her hair shining , and her eyes questioning , and I would manage to stutter something sufficient to convince her I wasn ’ t a maniac . And later on we would get something to eat .
The imagining didn ’ t amount to much . Not long after she left that September morning , I finished my shift and met a friend at a bar nearby . They weren ’ t strictly open , but the owner knew it was my dinner time and always had a meal ready for me with their breakfast . We sat facing the street , already abuzz with people .