said.
“I’m sorry I forgot the water,” I said.
“And the coffee,” she murmured. “Some toast with butter and jam would have been nice too.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence that they built the hardest floor in Hong Kong right behind this guy’s house?” I said.
“You mean, or did we just get lucky?” Ti-Anna answered.
We laughed. And when it turned out to be even harder to get the air
out
of the air mattresses than it had been getting the air
in
, that set us off again.
Finally, when we’d packed up what there was to pack up and eaten the last two granola bars, Ti-Anna said, as if answering my question from last night, “I know we can’t stay in Hong Kong forever. When a week is up, we go home, no matter what, okay?”
It was the first time she’d ever hinted at the possibility that we might not find her dad.
“Well, maybe Radio Man is ready to talk,” I said. I didn’t see why he would be, but I wasn’t going to say that.
“We have ways,” Ti-Anna said, in a terrible German accent.
“You do that terribly,” I said. She hit me, and we set off back down the hill.
Day Three: Tuesday
Lamma Island–Vietnam
Chapter 21
This time he slid open the door almost before Ti-Anna knocked. The same bare feet, sweatpants, T-shirt; the same muscles under the T-shirt. He stood aside for us to come in, with a couple of grunted words in Chinese, and then slid the door and curtain shut.
We found ourselves in a large, sunny room. Though the curtain was drawn facing the cove, to the right a bank of windows framed his spit of land and the open sea to the south. A low sofa and two mats with cushions were the only furniture. A barbell was in one corner, an open kitchenette in another. Through the kitchen window you could see his satellite dish. To the left was a door, closed. Presumably his computer and bed were behind it.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I said quickly, before Ti-Anna could interject.
“And some bread and jam?”
“No, thank you,” Ti-Anna said even more quickly. I glared, but she refused to meet my eyes.
For a few minutes we balanced on the low couch while he busied himself with his kettle. When the tea had steeped, he poured useach a cup and then sat cross-legged on a mat facing us. His face looked tired, not unkind, but closed off in an odd way.
“I wish you had not returned,” he said. He seemed to be looking at me as he spoke, and for some reason those were the last words he said in English, though apparently he could speak fluently enough. He turned to Ti-Anna and said something in Chinese, and off they went.
I don’t want you to think it hurt my feelings to be shut out of the conversation. This was his country, and I was the one who had barged in without being able to speak the language. Why should he have to speak a foreign tongue in his own house? That was how I took it.
But it’s harder than you might think to perch on a low, uncomfortable sofa while two people carry on a long conversation you can’t understand. What’s the polite thing to do? Watch them as they talk, as if you’re following? That felt phony. Look out the window, as if you’re bored? That felt rude.
I stared at my tea, really getting to know the bottom of that cup. I listened to the conversation, seeing if I could pick out any words repeating. (Not really; I couldn’t even tell where one word ended and the next began.)
My thoughts began to drift. I wondered why he had let us in so easily this morning, after being so dead set against it the night before. I thought about the bread and jam sitting ten feet away, and willed it to levitate and float over to the couch. (No luck.) Eventually I closed my eyes. I have to admit, I may even have dozed. It’s not like I’d gotten my usual eight hours.
What I know of the conversation, I had to piece together later from Ti-Anna as we hiked back up the island. But I don’t think there’s any point in making you wait like I had to. I can
“I’m sorry I forgot the water,” I said.
“And the coffee,” she murmured. “Some toast with butter and jam would have been nice too.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence that they built the hardest floor in Hong Kong right behind this guy’s house?” I said.
“You mean, or did we just get lucky?” Ti-Anna answered.
We laughed. And when it turned out to be even harder to get the air
out
of the air mattresses than it had been getting the air
in
, that set us off again.
Finally, when we’d packed up what there was to pack up and eaten the last two granola bars, Ti-Anna said, as if answering my question from last night, “I know we can’t stay in Hong Kong forever. When a week is up, we go home, no matter what, okay?”
It was the first time she’d ever hinted at the possibility that we might not find her dad.
“Well, maybe Radio Man is ready to talk,” I said. I didn’t see why he would be, but I wasn’t going to say that.
“We have ways,” Ti-Anna said, in a terrible German accent.
“You do that terribly,” I said. She hit me, and we set off back down the hill.
Day Three: Tuesday
Lamma Island–Vietnam
Chapter 21
This time he slid open the door almost before Ti-Anna knocked. The same bare feet, sweatpants, T-shirt; the same muscles under the T-shirt. He stood aside for us to come in, with a couple of grunted words in Chinese, and then slid the door and curtain shut.
We found ourselves in a large, sunny room. Though the curtain was drawn facing the cove, to the right a bank of windows framed his spit of land and the open sea to the south. A low sofa and two mats with cushions were the only furniture. A barbell was in one corner, an open kitchenette in another. Through the kitchen window you could see his satellite dish. To the left was a door, closed. Presumably his computer and bed were behind it.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I said quickly, before Ti-Anna could interject.
“And some bread and jam?”
“No, thank you,” Ti-Anna said even more quickly. I glared, but she refused to meet my eyes.
For a few minutes we balanced on the low couch while he busied himself with his kettle. When the tea had steeped, he poured useach a cup and then sat cross-legged on a mat facing us. His face looked tired, not unkind, but closed off in an odd way.
“I wish you had not returned,” he said. He seemed to be looking at me as he spoke, and for some reason those were the last words he said in English, though apparently he could speak fluently enough. He turned to Ti-Anna and said something in Chinese, and off they went.
I don’t want you to think it hurt my feelings to be shut out of the conversation. This was his country, and I was the one who had barged in without being able to speak the language. Why should he have to speak a foreign tongue in his own house? That was how I took it.
But it’s harder than you might think to perch on a low, uncomfortable sofa while two people carry on a long conversation you can’t understand. What’s the polite thing to do? Watch them as they talk, as if you’re following? That felt phony. Look out the window, as if you’re bored? That felt rude.
I stared at my tea, really getting to know the bottom of that cup. I listened to the conversation, seeing if I could pick out any words repeating. (Not really; I couldn’t even tell where one word ended and the next began.)
My thoughts began to drift. I wondered why he had let us in so easily this morning, after being so dead set against it the night before. I thought about the bread and jam sitting ten feet away, and willed it to levitate and float over to the couch. (No luck.) Eventually I closed my eyes. I have to admit, I may even have dozed. It’s not like I’d gotten my usual eight hours.
What I know of the conversation, I had to piece together later from Ti-Anna as we hiked back up the island. But I don’t think there’s any point in making you wait like I had to. I can
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