Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 216

“On the contrary, I’m quite sure you do.”
“Tell me,” she said challengingly. “I have all night and more.”
The wind murmured in assent. The man’s lips thinned. “Alright,” he acquiesced. “You know where
we are, yes?”
“Somewhere in the French Concession.”
He nodded. “There was a great battle here back in the late thirties––a lifetime ago––and I am here to
keep a promise to those whom I’ve lost.
“I was here at that time, on this very street, you know. I watched my comrades fall one by one…” He
trailed off momentarily. “Route Lafayette, this road was called. Yes. I remember now. I couldn’t do anything for
them.”
“And you were there to see it all happen.” There was a quaver to her voice.
He wet his lips. “I was.”
“You couldn’t do anything to help?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t, or couldn’t?”
“I couldn’t interfere. That's not my job.”
The woman recoiled, her face contorted into a mask of disbelief. “It’s no wonder you’re a bad soldier.
Mutiny,” she hissed. “How could you have abandoned your blood-brothers, stood idle as you watched them
fall?”
“Ah,” he continued, paying no heed to her accusation, “think of your brethren. Think of Xi’an, with
his hair still dusted with terra-cotta after several millennia. Think of Beijing and the way she threads concrete
highways through the temples of old. How do you think they came to be? I just gave them the hint of a
suggestion, a push towards the right direction.
“You were there at the battle, too.” He smiled mirthlessly. “So young a city you were, and yet you
dealt with the mire of war like no other. You and I both marched with those who came to fight voluntarily. All
these revolutionaries came of their own volition.”
She wavered where she stood, uncomprehending. The gossamer sheen of her clothes seemed to dull all
at once. “You know I’m a city?” She shook her head. No. Her revealed identity mattered not now, not when
she could recall absolutely nothing of what the man spoke so fervently of. “What battle? I don’t know what
you’re talking about.”
“But of course. I know the cities like no other.” He glanced downwards at his knobby hands, worn and
weathered with time. “ Think ,” he said, his voice edging on desperation. “Remember the city that rests beneath
our feet. Remember the people who fought for us––for you––so dearly.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was sharp, acerbic.
“The Battle of Shanghai, back in the thirties.” His eyes hardened with sober clarity. “Look around you
now. The Shikumen lou behind you, once pockmarked with bullet-holes, are now being pulled down by
apathetic machines. The people––your people––are forgetting their mother tongue in steady increments.
“There was a woman I once knew, storm born and made of heavenly spitfire, a maelstrom of rage and
beauty and vigor. Her hands, once battle-hardened with callouses, have gone soft.” He looked at her pointedly,
voice rising like the tide. “What has become of her? Where is she when the people need her? How––”
A car sped past; the man broke off in the middle of his diatribe. The first strains of sunlight filtered
through the clouds, muted and watery.
“And to think you didn’t recognize me,” the man finally wrung out. “No––I was wrong. I am the one
who doesn’t recognize anything. I dared to hope for the best. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
He’d hardly finished his sentence before the wind cut through the air in recrimination. Can’t you hear
can’t you hear can’t you hear , it shrieked. Come back come back come back––