Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 49

Just as we headed to the next flight of stairs, Andrew turned to face me. He pushed the blueprints of the pagoda
into my hands. “If we’re going to be partners, then… maybe you should choose where we explore next. One final
destination.”
I smiled gratefully, appreciating the gesture. He fiddled with his hands as if uncomfortable with handing over
control of our venture to me. Surveying the map, I focussed on a square space in the middle. “Let’s go there,” I suggested.
“Good choice, the feng shui garden. You might find it a little… wild.”
Indeed, it was. The garden was small, but open to natural sunlight. Typical, believed to bring luck as well as make
a home more welcoming, there was an artificial pond in the middle with a wooden footbridge stretching over its narrow
width. Smooth and shining rocks lined either side of a cobblestone path, leading over the bridge to a miniature stone
likeness of a temple. Once, this garden could have been a serene, idyllic refuge from life’s complications. Decades later, the
flowering shrubs and leafy plants that scattered over the rest of the space had grown larger and freer, denser and wilder, so
that the garden looked more like a parody of a forest. Still, it retained its charm, and I grew to like its naturalism, finding
myself drawing the garden for what it looked like now. The pagoda, in a sense the exoskeleton of the garden shielding it
from the harsh world, had withered, yet the garden had flourished over the years of disuse. It was almost a metaphor for
how the living inhabitants of the pagoda had grown in its protection. Like a mother hen watching her chicks leave the
roost, people had come and gone, abandoning the building that had given them a home and allowing it to degrade.
“It’s beautiful,” I stated, feeling self-conscious at my inability to express all my inner thoughts without slipping
into what my brother called the ‘artist’s ramblings’.
“This looks rather expensive, don’t you think?” Andrew mused. “Owned by someone important.”
“Like something a high-class villa would have,” I added with a laugh. “Another government official?” I thought
hard about the Chinese history that I had learned years ago in secondary. “Seems a bit much for Communist Party officials,
though, given their mentality about equality.”
Andrew shrugged. “Agreed, but when the Party first came into power, it is quite likely that since Shanghai is an
important city and the new government needed to win over support from the right people, they could overlook the
glamour of this house when assigning it to an ally.”
I made a mental note to myself to research more into the multi-faceted history of my city. Maybe then would I
fully understand Andrew’s boundless passion for a seemingly dull, forsaken building. Maybe then would I be able to
appreciate how influential past events were with regards to shaping my present.
***
“May I look?” Andrew hovered over my shoulder as I flipped through the drawings. He sighed, however this
time it was a sigh of longing rather than nostalgia. Looking back at the pagoda before us, I shared his frustration. History.
So long to establish, so fast to erase. One century to build, one day to destroy.
I offered the historian a reassuring smile. “I’ll get these back to you later.” He frowned in confusion. “I want to
finish these properly, paint and canvas and all, so you can compare a photo of the pagoda now to its change over time. No
extra fees.”
Andrew seemed to understand my deeper sentiment, a new light—hope—blooming in his eyes. “Thank you.”
I had always illustrated what was there, not what was missing. But even if the pagoda was lost, it would stay alive
in my memory; it would stay alive in the stories of those who lived in it; it would stay alive as a part of Shanghai’s journey
through a hundred years of history.