Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 209

Port Boy
Sha Tin College, Yung, Jess - 14
T
here is someone at his boss’ desk.
He doesn’t know what to do, stunned as he stands in the doorway. It’s early in the morning, the office
swallowed in black, but whitewashed sunlight bleeds through faded blinds, seeping into the floor and revealing the
top of the desk. There is just enough light to make out a face that is not Mr Ching’s.
A click sounds in the room. Once, twice. On the third time a yellow flame accompanies it, dancing before it goes
out. He hears an inhale, sees a spot of red appear for a moment and then smells smoke.
He should run. He should tell the police, but he’s sure that most of their minds are in the skies from yapian .
But, before he can even move, a hand materializes from behind the desk, motioning for him to come over.
He finds himself walking towards it. The wooden boards under him complain about his weight, creak and groan
from age, only stopping once he does, in front of the desk.
Sea wind rushes in through the window, blowing ice into his ears. A crate is unloaded on Shanghai’s ports, a distant
metallic thud.
“Where’s my boss?”
There’s a dull, uninterested sigh, and smoke swirls out of the dark. Then light hits, shadows are made, and they
make out a figure, leaning forward on the desk. “Your laoban gave over his job to me. I’m your boss now.”
It’s a foreigner, a man with charcoal hair, curled like wisps of fog, eyes dark as ink. There are no tell-tale signs of
age at the corner of his eyes and mouth, but his gaze is hardened, without a hint of emotion. The pointy splinters
in the port’s boards remind him of this person, a cigarette pinched between his lips, jumping as he talks.
“My name, is Cole Bennett.” All this- except his name- he says in Chinese, and he hears a slight accent in his
words, an occasional off tone. “You’re one of the matougongren , the port boys.”
An indescribable feeling of frustration washes over him and he speaks up, indignant. “My name is-”
“I don’t need to know your name.” Cole Bennett says plainly. His dark eyes stare dully at him, never breaking
contact as he takes the cigarette between his fingers. The tip turns red, then grey smoke envelops him as the man
blows straight into his face. Eyes water, a nose burns, but he makes no move to do anything.
“All I need to know is that you work, Port Boy.”
“So, the foreigner is our boss now.” His colleague, A Fei, remarks.
All he does is nod, busy finding his grip on the cargo in his hands. A Fei is doing the same.
It’s the first shipment they’ve had under Cole Bennet’s supervision: wooden crates, with a white rabbit painted on
their sides, baitu -white rabbit- printed under the animal. They’re unusually heavy.
His colleague huffs. “You know, this Cole Bennett person, I don’t like him. Bet he’s one of those foreigners who
think they’re better than us.” Their cargo goes down with a thump at the drop off site, both turning back to take
more from the large pile of shipment. “His Chinese is horrible. I can hardly understand what he’s saying.”
He lets out a breathy chuckle. It’s not that bad. A few tones off here and there. Nothing too serious.”
A Fei snorts. “Yeah, that’s only what you think.” He picks up another rabbit painted crate. “I’m impressed you can
make anything out of what he’s saying. He should make more of an effort to learn.”
He doesn’t reply to that, a grimace busying his face. “These are really heavy. Do you know what we’re shipping?
Mr Ching used to tell us.”
A Fei shrugs.