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Authors: Camilla Gibb
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he asks.
Hng honestly doesn’t know. He’s not even sure what year it is. What does it matter, after all? He marks time in months, following the phases of the moon; it is months that are meaningful, seasons and tides. Years are little more than an invention of a government fond of marking anniversaries by building monuments to revolutionary martyrs.
“Old enough,” he says unhelpfully.
And here the doctor goes with gadgetry, pressing a metal disc against Hng’s chest, some amplifying device through which he listens to his breathing.
“Do you smoke, Mr. Hng?” the doctor asks, pulling the pipes out of his ears.
“No, sir.”
“Have you been having any chest pain, shortness of breath?”
“I have been feeling a bit weak recently,” Hng admits.
“I can hear some fluid around your lungs. I think it might be a good idea to have an X-ray,” he says. “I’ll write up a requisition for the hospital.”
The hospital. The hospital was bombed to bits during the war, and the memory of that carnage is still uncomfortably vivid. Hng has neither the money for such a visit nor the will.
“How is my leg?” he asks.
“Your leg is fine,” says the doctor, “it’s just a superficial injury. Keep that cut clean with soap and water and I’ll give you some antibiotic ointment you can apply twice a day. But,” he says, writing something down on a notepad and tearing the page out for Hng, “I really would recommend an X-ray.”
He doesn’t need an X-ray. He needs the right food; food is the best medicine. Obviously his qi has been depleted. He needs to eat congee with tofu and perform some yoga or tai chi; he has neglected to do his exercises of late.
He is relieved when the doctor departs and Miss Maggie returns. She brings a cup of tea for each of them. English tea in a china cup. She pulls a chair up close to the bed and sits down. She asks him how he is feeling and what he thought of the ph.
“Just fine,” he says, “just fine.” He does not want to be impolite or seem ungrateful.
“You’re being polite, aren’t you,” she says.
He is taken aback. Is this the American style? He can only imagine so, having never met an American before. “Well, ahem,” he says, clearing his throat. “Of course there is always room for improvement.”
“Do you remember why you were coming to see me this morning?” she asks.
“I regret, Miss Maggie, that my memory is not what it once was. It is no doubt a consequence of my advanced age.”
“The doctor seems to think there might be something more serious going on, Mr. Hng. Maybe it’s not your memory, but something to do with the amount of oxygen getting to your brain.”
Breathing exercises, he thinks. Tai chi. Flow.
“Perhaps you know this already,” Hng begins, “but back in the days when I had a phshop I had a regular group of customers who came in for breakfast—artists and intellectuals all. You said your father was sent to a camp in 1956? Well, that is the same year that these men began to publish their work. They produced a literary journal and six issues of a controversial magazine. They saw these publications as platforms for artistic expression and political debate, but of course the Party was not interested in such things and they were condemned for squandering their energy on something other than the revolutionary message. They refused to produce the socialist realism the Party demanded of them. This was their crime.”
“Are you suggesting that my father might have been part of their circle?” she asks, leaning forward in her chair, her delicate hands on her knees, a hopeful smile on that lovely face.
He is reminded again of Lan in the days when she was eager for his stories, the way she looked to him for more.
Tell me
, she would say.
Teach me. Why does Ðạo say love is like a game of Chinese chess?
Hng has a horrible dawning realization that it may be this intoxicating similarity to Lan that has led him here to the hotel. He might
Hng honestly doesn’t know. He’s not even sure what year it is. What does it matter, after all? He marks time in months, following the phases of the moon; it is months that are meaningful, seasons and tides. Years are little more than an invention of a government fond of marking anniversaries by building monuments to revolutionary martyrs.
“Old enough,” he says unhelpfully.
And here the doctor goes with gadgetry, pressing a metal disc against Hng’s chest, some amplifying device through which he listens to his breathing.
“Do you smoke, Mr. Hng?” the doctor asks, pulling the pipes out of his ears.
“No, sir.”
“Have you been having any chest pain, shortness of breath?”
“I have been feeling a bit weak recently,” Hng admits.
“I can hear some fluid around your lungs. I think it might be a good idea to have an X-ray,” he says. “I’ll write up a requisition for the hospital.”
The hospital. The hospital was bombed to bits during the war, and the memory of that carnage is still uncomfortably vivid. Hng has neither the money for such a visit nor the will.
“How is my leg?” he asks.
“Your leg is fine,” says the doctor, “it’s just a superficial injury. Keep that cut clean with soap and water and I’ll give you some antibiotic ointment you can apply twice a day. But,” he says, writing something down on a notepad and tearing the page out for Hng, “I really would recommend an X-ray.”
He doesn’t need an X-ray. He needs the right food; food is the best medicine. Obviously his qi has been depleted. He needs to eat congee with tofu and perform some yoga or tai chi; he has neglected to do his exercises of late.
He is relieved when the doctor departs and Miss Maggie returns. She brings a cup of tea for each of them. English tea in a china cup. She pulls a chair up close to the bed and sits down. She asks him how he is feeling and what he thought of the ph.
“Just fine,” he says, “just fine.” He does not want to be impolite or seem ungrateful.
“You’re being polite, aren’t you,” she says.
He is taken aback. Is this the American style? He can only imagine so, having never met an American before. “Well, ahem,” he says, clearing his throat. “Of course there is always room for improvement.”
“Do you remember why you were coming to see me this morning?” she asks.
“I regret, Miss Maggie, that my memory is not what it once was. It is no doubt a consequence of my advanced age.”
“The doctor seems to think there might be something more serious going on, Mr. Hng. Maybe it’s not your memory, but something to do with the amount of oxygen getting to your brain.”
Breathing exercises, he thinks. Tai chi. Flow.
“Perhaps you know this already,” Hng begins, “but back in the days when I had a phshop I had a regular group of customers who came in for breakfast—artists and intellectuals all. You said your father was sent to a camp in 1956? Well, that is the same year that these men began to publish their work. They produced a literary journal and six issues of a controversial magazine. They saw these publications as platforms for artistic expression and political debate, but of course the Party was not interested in such things and they were condemned for squandering their energy on something other than the revolutionary message. They refused to produce the socialist realism the Party demanded of them. This was their crime.”
“Are you suggesting that my father might have been part of their circle?” she asks, leaning forward in her chair, her delicate hands on her knees, a hopeful smile on that lovely face.
He is reminded again of Lan in the days when she was eager for his stories, the way she looked to him for more.
Tell me
, she would say.
Teach me. Why does Ðạo say love is like a game of Chinese chess?
Hng has a horrible dawning realization that it may be this intoxicating similarity to Lan that has led him here to the hotel. He might
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