A willowy young woman approaches the old man.
Can we help you, Uncle? Are you lost?
The old man blinks to clear his vision. She’s dressed in a beige pantsuit and holds one of those skinny computer slabs. All the young people seem to have them these days, cradling them like spoiled lap dogs. She’s smiling at him, but her face is tight and unwelcoming. She doesn’t conceal that he is distracting her from things she’d rather be doing.
As he continues to gaze at her, a familiar voice barges into his head, harrumphing.
She’s just some young tramp. Don’t waste our time on her. Let’s get going.
He wants to ignore the demand. The young woman reminds him of his daughter the way she looked twenty years earlier, the daughter he hasn’t been with in the same country, much less the same room, for five years. He wants to enjoy the sight of her – how she tucks her chin to make her sharp eyes look rounder, how she wears a pink and yellow daisy hair clip to soften an air of detachment that comes from, what? Self-assuredness? A hidden insecurity? He’s not sure. But he suddenly worries that his leathery face with its ochre blotches seem repulsive to her.
This girl looks nothing like our Esther! She’s probably not very smart or well educated, either. Come on!
He walks around the young woman and makes his way towards the conference room.
She scurries forward and blocks his path. He notices that she smells of oils wrung from foreign flowers. Ah, that’s what she wants to appear to be – an expensive import.
Sorry, Uncle. But you can’t go in there.
Her smile is gone, replaced by a frown. He’s not bothered by it. On the contrary, that reproving expression is oddly comforting in its familiarity; it could’ve been lifted straight from his daughter’s face during those occasions in the past when he, or more often her mother, nagged her about spending too much of her evenings burying her nose in travel magazines, being wasteful about food, or some such complaint. Stubborn one, Esther always was.
Each day of the five years of absence from her have been blotted by loneliness. During some stretches, it has enveloped him like dense smoke, paralyzing him from reaching out towards any part of his day. During others, he has been overcome with claustrophobia and panic, suffocated by the pressure of constantly having to tend to himself. But he hasn’t been willing to force himself back into her life. Distance is what she’d demanded of him, to accumulate experiences unhitched from him and the drudgery of his bakeries, to put down roots in a place where decisions made – good or bad – are her own.
At least she’s just sent him a card in the mail. “Happy birthday, Bah. Hope you are well.” Below her name were scribblings by his grandchildren: “Hi, Gung-gung! We miss you and your yummy tarts.” He feels happy for this crumb of affection. But there remains a gnawing for things long absent. Despite having several shoe boxes full of pictures of Esther, other impressions of her – the occasional bump of her shoulder against his when they ran errands, the frantic rummaging around their tiny apartment when she’d misplaced something important – had faded long ago.
What’s wrong with you? Did I marry such a daydreamer? Get on with it.
The old man proffers the box tucked under his arm. I have brought these for Mr. Kwok Cheng-chung. To pay my respects.
The young woman shrugs. Sorry, but Chairman Kwok is in a meeting now. I’ll pass along your regards.
The old man shakes his head. It’s our birthday. This is from one old man to another.
He pulls a worn wallet from his trousers. She bends forward to look at his ID card, which shows him as a younger man, still with a bit of light in his eyes and a few teeth that have since abandoned him like dying friends.
Yes, yes, I see. Congratulations, Uncle. But, you…
Tell this girl to piss off!
The command is like a slap against the back of his skull. He jerks the sleeve of his nylon jacket from the young woman’s grasp and then turns towards the conference room door. He takes hold of the gold-coloured handle and swings it downward.
*****
Earlier that day, the old man had groused at his two zebra finches hopping around their bamboo cages hung from a metal crossbeam.
You’ve already been fed. Stop being greedy. These tarts are not for you.
They’re just noisy little shits. Why’d you bother getting them in the first place?
To give me something to focus on besides you all the time.
So ungrateful! Where would you have gotten to without me all these years? You, who never had more backbone than a baozi.
Okay, so you always say. Now, shut up. I need to focus on this batch.
The old man whisks the eggs. He then pours in the caster sugar and evaporated milk, and beats the custard until it glows a bright, confident yellow. The motion, the one he has used for thirty years, now makes his wrists ache. He wishes he still has staff to mix for him, to help make his Gam Tai Yeung – Golden Conure egg custards, renowned for their light flaky crust and luscious filling. Once finished, he spoons the mix into the moulds and places them into the counter-top oven. He hopes that the unreliable contraption will do better this time than with the previous three batches, which came out with the crust too doughy or the custard too firm. He longs for the consistency of his shop’s old pastry oven.
As the custards bake, he steps out of the dingy kitchen and over to the wooden crate of clothes next to his dank mattress.
Wear the blue plaid shirt, the special one I bought for you. It hides your stomach.
No one’s going to care how I dress.
I do.
As he pulls his arms into the shirtsleeves, he looks up at the finches. Well, I guess I should look good today, nah? I’m seeing one of the richest men in Hong Kong. Mr. Big Lucky. I have to impress him on our birthday. Isn’t it funny that we’re practically twins?
Twins?? He’s a pig-dog. He’s a bastard who destroys lives. That’s why we’re doing this.
He too sniggers at the absurdity of comparing himself to the billionaire, but for entirely different reasons.
*****
The two subordinates flanking Chairman Kwok Cheng-chung – one of them a middle-aged woman – stand as the old man enters the room. Mr. Big Lucky remains seated.
The old man nods his head towards the tycoon.
He looks older than in the newspapers, doesn’t he? That jolly smile of his can steal away the years, but it’s a bad thief. The wrinkles keep reappearing. Hah!
The young woman has followed the old man into the room. Very sorry, Mr. Chairman. I tried to stop him, but he insisted on coming in. I’ll have security remove him at once.
What do you want? Mr. Big Lucky asks, amused at the old man’s brazenness.
Happy birthday, Chairman Kwok, replies the old man. It’s mine, too. I thought that we could celebrate together. We’re practically the same age, though you look so much younger than me.
You’re interrupting, replies one of the subordinates. We’re in the middle of receiving business proposals.
The old man nods. Yes, I know you’re running a contest on your seventieth birthday. Are you really going to give five hundred thousand dollars to someone with the best idea for a small business?
Mr. Big Lucky smiles. Yes, but what concern is it of yours?
The old man takes a deep breath. He then walks up to Mr. Big Lucky’s desk and sets down his box.
Be confident. Stand tall.
Please have an egg tart. I baked them myself.
WE baked them. It was originally my recipe, don’t forget.
Kwok Cheng-chung hesitates, then chuckles. He picks out two tarts, gives one back to the old man and one to his female subordinate, and invites them to eat. As they chew, the suspicion in her eyes disappears, replaced with a flush of pleasure. Her cheeks flush.
Quite good, she proclaims. Excellent, even. The old man should get a Michelin star for these!
Kwok Cheng-chung now bites into a tart. His lips break wide with delight. He calls forward the young woman and hands one to her. As she nibbles, she throws back her head as if in a swoon. Her shoulders go slack. Heavenly! So rich!
Right, like you could tell! You’re just a child.
These are perfection, Mr. Big Lucky says. This is your recipe? Where did you learn to make these? Is this your business?
*****
The old man tucked the box of freshly baked tarts under his arm and slipped into his worn Adidas. He stood in front of the TV and VCR silently playing his favourite movie, Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca.
Come on, you’ve seen this movie fifty times.
I really like this scene, when the heroine is saved by the shipwreck.
Still? Aren’t you tired of it?
He keeps his eyes fixed on the TV screen until the heroine backs away from the window ledge and out of immediate danger. He then clicks the power button and watches the screen grow dark, as if burying a fond memory.
He gazes at the faded snapshot of his wife, mounted in a dented metal picture frame on top of the TV. Her face is partially hidden by a large red visor that also keeps her permed hair away from her face. She is reclining against a large polka-dotted cruise liner deck chair. The Mediterranean cruise had been Esther’s idea, a treat that she thought her parents should have after countless years of toil. Esther had even gone so far as to book the trip with her own savings, convinced that her mother would not have otherwise allowed herself such an indulgence. It was the only time her mother had ever left Hong Kong, and the only time in years Gam Tai Yeung had closed for longer than a single day.
You know that Esther only wanted us to go to Greece because she wanted a break from working at the bakery.
That’s not true. She saw how exhausted we were all the time. She was thinking about us, not herself.
Anyway, what does it matter? It’s all gone now. They’ve taken it all. There’s nothing left.
Isn’t there?
As if on cue, his wife’s visage in the picture begins to transform. No, nothing. Her eyes narrow into a disapproving glower, and the shadow from her visor moves downward across the rest of her face. He steps back and averts his eyes and up towards his blissfully ignorant finches.
But then her voice softens. I know it’s hard to leave. But you have to do this.
He looks again at the snapshot of his wife. The light has returned to her face, and she looks calmer, offering sympathy. She looks like she actually shares his fear. That’s something new. But then, why not? This tiny apartment has been the only place she has called home for four decades. Who wouldn’t feel unsettled about walking away from it? Perhaps she now recognizes that the only way she can bear to leave behind such a large portion of her past is together with him, arm-in-arm.
And you’re doing it for both of us.
Yes, I suppose.
As he steps out onto the landing of his apartment, the fat, creamy smells of the egg tarts mingle with the tinny stink of rusted metal, old newspapers and rats’ piss. He padlocks his front door and walks down the three flights of stairs. He encounters Mrs. Lam, returning from the wet market. A bunch of leafy dou miao pokes out of a white plastic bag. She stiffens when she sees him.
Hello, Mr. Ho, she says haltingly. Are we having a nice day today? Did you eat lunch?
How patronizing! She’s always so smug.
He stops to face her. She looks at him askance, as if wondering whether she has done anything wrong.
Don’t I owe you money? he asks.
Eh? Why on Earth are you asking her that?
Mrs. Lam is startled at the question, but then nods slowly. Yes, for paying for those repairs last month. Three hundred dollars, if I recall.
Wun bun! That’s outrageous. It wasn’t more than two hundred.
This city has gotten so expensive, he grumbles. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a fistful of bills and hands them to Mrs. Lam. Count out what I owe you.
She carefully extracts three red notes and hands the others back to him. Thank you for remembering, Mr. Ho.
Without acknowledging her gratitude, he pushes past.
What the hell was that about? Why were you so charitable? You don’t even like her and she knows it.
YOU never liked her. I never had a problem with her.
She can be such a nasty, small-minded shrew.
No more than you. Besides, no more debts. Not after today.
He heads down the alley towards the post office to mail a reply letter to his daughter.
*****
The assembled crowd in the hotel ballroom applauds as Mr. Big Lucky turns to introduce the old man.
And this is Mr. Ho Keung-suk. He introduced himself to me earlier today while I was receiving the business proposals for this competition. Though he isn’t our winner, he’s the maker of the finest egg tarts that I’ve ever tasted. I hope that everyone here will have a chance to try them one day. And funny enough, today is also his birthday!
The room erupts in more applause as a photographer snaps a photo of the two old men. Only Mr. Big Lucky smiles.
Okay, say what you came here to say.
The old man shuffles up to the microphone. No one stops him. He stares out into the banquet room. Along the back wall, there is an enormous cake, an ice carving of an eagle and a chocolate fountain being assaulted by children with marshmallows on skewers. The old man thinks of his own grandchildren, how much they must have grown. How old are they now, six and eight?
He then looks at the bejeweled, dolled-up ladies around the room.
They’re so unlike us, aren’t they? Who do they think they are? They’re like old plastic flowers pretending to be young and fresh. But they’re just fake.
The old man clears his throat to speak.
Talk clearly.
You know, Chairman Kwok and I are almost the same age. We might have once played as children in the same playground. But now, he is rich and powerful. Hong Kong could name a whole district after him, ha ha. But me, I’ve had a small life. I’ve only ever liked making egg tarts. Maybe too much, as you can tell by my belly. I had a shop. It was in Causeway Bay. Gam Tai Yeung. It was a little cha chaan teng serving my egg tarts, pastries and milk tea. Perhaps you know it?
A few knowing murmurs stir through the crowd.
Of course they knew Gam Tai Yeung. And it’s their loss now.
My teahouse was forced to close a month ago, after Chairman Kwok raised the rent to three times what it used to be. Some fancy European jewellery store will take the place of my shop.
The crowd grows silent. The old man looks at the tycoon, whose cold, hard smile makes him resemble the eagle ice sculpture.
I just want to make an honest living, Mr. Kwok. I think someone like you and your rich foreigner friends should understand. I just want to get up in the morning and do what I’ve always done – bring a little happiness to the people of Hong Kong. But what can a simple old man like me do now? Nothing. How can I start again? I can’t.
Mr. Big Lucky makes a slight hand gesture towards the young woman. She begins to march towards the old man, while coaxing the crowd into an awkward final round of applause.
Do it now, before it’s too late!
No! He’s an important and powerful man…
You must! You promised! Hurry, you idiot!
Gritting what remaining teeth he has, the old man turns towards the tycoon. He reaches into both pockets of his nylon jacket and pulls out two eggs with each hand. Ignoring the stiffness in his shoulder, he raises his arm and hurls a pair at Mr. Big Lucky. They strike him on his cheek and forehead. White and yellow explode across his face. His bifocals somersault away as he recoils back towards the side of the stage. The crowd erupts in collective alarm.
These are for you, Mr. Big Lucky, the old man yells out over the hubbub. I don’t need them anymore!
He throws the other two eggs at the tycoon, but the young woman lunges between the two men. The eggs strike her outstretched hand and wrist. She squeals and turns her face away as they shatter, but remains standing tall and straight.
You damn bitch! Get out of the way!
The old man is grabbed from behind by two pairs of hands. Before he can resist, he is lifted off his feet and carried from the stage. Faced backwards as he is dragged out of the ballroom, he sees that the young woman is marching after him, flapping her soiled hand in the air to shake off the remnants of the eggs that cling to her fingers. Behind her, half the crowd watches slack-jawed while the other half rushes towards the stage to attend to Mr. Big Lucky.
Once outside the ballroom, he is dropped onto his side against the carpeted floor. He grimaces as pain shoots up his lower back and through his throwing shoulder. One of the men who has carried him out gives him a sharp kick to the ribs, momentarily taking away his breath.
As he gingerly turns onto his back and opens his eyes, he finds the young woman bending towards him, her outraged face inches from his. Her breath smells faintly of wine.
How dare you be so rude, Uncle! She slaps his face with her egg-soiled hand. He tastes raw yolk mixed with a trickling of blood on the inside of his lip. She stands up and jabs a finger down towards his face. She continues to berate him, but he cannot make out the words because of the indignant hissing in his head.
*****
The old man leans against the marble rail of the balcony overlooking the harbour. He can see across to the hotel’s other wing, where Mr. Big Lucky’s party seems to have resumed. Occasionally, he spots the young woman as she works the room, preening, prancing and generally carrying herself like the day’s hero.
She is just like Esther, he decides.
Are you blind? Esther has nice cheekbones and a dimple. That girl’s face is like a mooncake! How dare you think this hao po looks like our daughter. Come to your senses! We have more work to do.
The old man jams a finger into an ear. No! I’ve done enough! It’s finished.
No it’s not. We have to go back in there and…
Stop! We’ve made our point, haven’t we? I’m done. Now leave me be! This is MY life.
It’s mine, too.
No, no. It was, but not anymore. Go mind your own business.
How dare you…
I’m ignoring you.
The old man tries to focus on something else to prove his resolve. But all he can think of is Esther. She hadn’t said anything about herself in her letter. He wonders whether she’s happy, whether she has figured out life, just as she had set out to try to do. Has she deciphered the recipe to tease out its flavours, to unlock the sweetness beneath its hard crust? Does she carry the same steely look of certainty as the tycoon’s young woman when she works a room full of strangers or strikes an old man’s cheek?
He remembers his daughter’s pleadings before she’d left him and flew off to Vancouver.
Bah, how can you stand to keep going to the bakery where that delivery van killed Mah? Doesn’t the place remind you of her? Isn’t the business partially to blame for what happened? Anyway, didn’t you once say you wanted to do something else with your life? I can’t take it. You need to sell the place and let us all move forward.
She didn’t understand him then, and he doubts she would even now. Esther, you were always free to choose your own way, despite what your Mah said to you from time to time. And yes, I also had other dreams. But not Mah. That shop was her life. And when she died, she was destined to remain there forever. I could touch her in every mound of flour. I could smell her in every batch that we baked. I heard her in every clanging pan. How could I possibly abandon her?
That’s right. You couldn’t.
But at least he has now written his apologies to his daughter, and in the only way that he knows how – simply and categorically. And he has passed to her his sole remaining possession of value.
Yes, MY recipe.
His thoughts turn to his finches. He hopes that they have fallen asleep by now and that he has ensured them a peaceful, permanent slumber by placing enough charcoal briquettes into the hot counter-top oven contraption before locking up the flat.
Noisy little shits…
Aiya! will you please just shut up! Why don’t you leave me alone now, after everything that has happened and all we’ve been through today? Don’t you understand that you don’t get to live on like this through me?
What did you just say?
You heard me. Get away.
A pause. Then, Fine. Try doing things your way.
Sighing, he turns towards the balcony’s railing and looks out at the harbour. He spots a Star Ferry and watches it chug a return route from Tsim Sha Tsui in front of an approaching tugboat and behind a speeding jetfoil. He then peers down at the courtyard five stories below. A silver sedan is pulling away after a young couple has emerged from the back seat. The young man wipes his hands against the back of his suit trousers and then leads his date into the hotel lobby.
Other lives are carrying on, oblivious to an old man’s troubles. Just as always.
What should I do now?
He waits for a reply.
Are you there?
His question is met with silence. It’s as if all that he knows has suddenly fled, and he is standing in a barren storeroom. He cannot remember when he has been this isolated. Is this what real freedom feels like? Is he now liberated from the walls that have always confined him? Can he really make his own choices? He thinks that he should feel calm. But instead, he is unsettled. Without care or worry, without anything, he feels abandoned. He peers out again over the balcony at the gaping space below him. Another car pulls into the courtyard, this one a taxi. From it emerges a stout elderly woman. When she removes her visor and peers up at him, he is taken aback by a face which is featureless and ghost-like. She neither smiles nor scowls. But then he sees her wave a hand. He leans further out towards her. The rising air feels as welcoming as from a warm, familiar oven.
