About the Author Nicole Wong is currently a full time postgraduate student in Literary Studies at Chinese University of Hong Kong. Her story, ‘Back Street’, appears in an anthology of Hong Kong writings in English from 1945 to present. Along Nathan Road is her first story in Nuvein.

I press a key with my index finger. The image of the letter ‘J’ flashes on the screen. It comes into existence before I realize. This fictional character called J. He will be something I am not. Different ethnicity, background, gender, occupation, personality. At the moment he lives where I live, this city called Hong Kong, a foreigner who travels around the world and works odd jobs. He likes a tiny, local Chinese girl. He is quiet and reserved. He is twenty-seven.

And the story?

I don’t have a story myself. I will make one up for him as I go along. I don’t know how it will turn out, or how many readers the story will have. Most likely none. I don’t care. I want to create this world for my character, who lives a life of his own. He will find a way out of the world he is locked in. He will walk away from me. I will let him go.

If he will let me go.

* * *

The last note fades. Sparse applause. J puts his violin away and exits the stage. In this pub restaurant noise echoes in the recycled air, smelling of steak, wine, perfume, cigarettes, boredom, pretension, money and flesh. The ceiling is too low and the tables are too close and the customers are clashing into one another. Space threatens to swallow anyone who is conscious of the surroundings. In the changing room he looks at the pores on his face in the mirror. His skin looks smoother and the laughter line has faded since he came to Hong Kong two years ago.

He calls his mother in England and told her so. She laughs and says, you don’t get any younger, love. He says, it’s warm and humid here, not like Wales. You should come and take a look. She laughs harder till she bursts into tears. Come back, she says, I’ve been alone for too long since your father’s gone. I can’t, he says, I’m not used to being at home. One day I’ll get away, but I can’t go back.

* * *

The ashtray drops on the floor from the edge on my desk, showering the ash over the junk next to my chair. Mind your steps or you will crush a CD or stumble into a pair of shoes. Life among garbage: I have given up my life in this place. Everything collapses. My mind nestles into the mess.

Let’s look at my character. It is a he and he plays violin; works in a pub at night; comes from Wales; talks to his mother; has a dead father. All these are fine: nothing echoes me. The fictional world is not: J is too conscious of himself and perceives space as if it’s his universe. The lines: ‘boredom and money and flesh’ and ‘the whole space threatens to bury…’ have to be cut. The description has to be more specific. What does it mean by ‘The ceiling is too low and the tables are too close and the customers are crashing into one another?’ Actual details, please. It is a public, a shared world.

Wales: seven hours behind Hong Kong. The pretty Welsh boy I talked to for two years and slept with for two weeks; who lost his virginity to me in Vancouver and married a woman twenty-six years older back in Wales; the friend who disappeared in my life. What is he doing on the other side of the world?
Humidity 89%, the radio says.

* * *

Outside the pub the band disperses along the Canton Road at the heart of Tsim Sha Tsui, TST being the heart of Hong Kong. J stands in front of HMV. A man bumps into him and growls. Fortress: washing machines on sale. Body shop: new whitening and sun-tan products. Delifrance: a café that does not come from France. Chinese department stores: crap Chinese ‘antiques’ fooling the tourists. Times Square: a shopping mall imported from New York. Local kids: Japanese fashion. University students: spoken English with American accent.

J lets the crowd push him past the train station to the traffic lights. The light flashes. People begin to run. At the crossroads J decides to run too without thinking. On the other side of the road he hears some Indians bugging a tourist to buy a fake Rolex or to dine at a restaurant or to have fun with a whore outside Chung King Mansion.

Chung King Mansion: the 30 or 40 or 50-year old building with cheap rooms for tourists or tiny apartments for ex-pats, mostly Indians. The scene of adultery, robbery, prostitution, drug abuse, fights between triads, domestic violence, suicides and murders. The smell of human odor, of substance, of blood. The contrast between light and darkness, between life and death.

* * *

A knife sticks out between the letters on the top of the bridge. Where did Delifrance come from? Is Times Square really in New York? Do my classmates really speak American English? Does that mean spoken English with a relatively American accent? I speak one that is a mixture of American and British. Does it matter as long as I can communicate? Should my character come from Wales since I have never lived in an English-speaking country? Would someone point at the dialogue and say, girl, you got it all wrong?

There Is no choice. I perceived my character to be what he is, and so be it.
* * *

M looked tiny leaning on the red wall. Fat Angelos on Canton Road. Chicken Marsala. Chicken cooked in Marsala. J had never heard of it before.
-How tall are you?

M looked out of the windows.

-Four eleven. You?

-Five eleven.

They laughed. Her curly hair shook on her breasts. Her breasts shook harder. Her teeth were as neat as if she had worn a brace for years. J pictured her as a model for toothpaste commercial on TV, or for lipsticks in a magazine.

-What kind of modeling do you do?

-Studio photography.

-Hard work?

-Consuming.

-How so?

-Wait for hours. Do the same pose for thirty times. Make a blank face that expresses something.

-You do that well.

-You never know what turns out in the end.

-I’d like to see it.

-It’s in Yuen Tung Arcade.

Two weeks have passed, though J doesn’t really remember. He walks on from Chung King Mansion and reaches Yuen Tung Arcade. Leather and a fake tree in Timberland. Women with pancake make-up in Duty-free shops. Dummies with paints flaking off their nails and toes in fashion boutiques. Shinning certificates on the walls of clinics. Studio one two three. There she is the model of deceit. A close up of her – taller than the real girl. Sleek make-up and a faint smile. Curly hair waiving on her bare shoulders. J traces the features on her face and pretends he knows the life behind them. Yet they are dead. Frozen on a piece of paper. He smashes the glass in his mind. It cracks, breaks, collapses. Her face stands naked in front of him. Yet it blurs, retreats to the invisible margin, disappears. It ceases to exist. It has never existed. He must have made her up, his phantom lover. He must have been too bored. He must have gone insane.

* * *

T moved across the bar table and opened ten bottles of beer in a row. At the end of the table she held a friend’s hand and danced behind the cashier. The glasses hanging from above outlined a dim red glow. The wine on the shelf fluctuated like neon lights of various colors. I followed the light sliding down her smooth skin and rested my eyes on the full breasts under the black top. She handed me my drink.
-Pussy foot. Makes your internal organs go all red.

She winked and went to wash the glasses in the sink. When it was done she turned around and grabbed her pizza, eating it while talking to another bartender. This tall curvy woman with power all over her body, bouncing here and there with her Starbucks coffee; resting her elbow on a cupboard, her hip pointing my direction. I wanted to run my hands along her waistline and bend over to kiss her belly. I wanted to lay her on the bed and caress her breasts, floating oval shapes, throbbing life. I wanted to go down on her, pleasure sending her senses spinning, singing its praises between her thighs. I wanted her to push me away so I could keep the intensity by not keeping it, the urge still surging within.
-You’re quiet.

W put his hand on my arm.

-I’ve never hit on a girl before. I don’t know what to say.
-Wanna go?

I finished my drink and waved at T.

-Stay a bit longer.

-I gotta go.

-I’ve been waiting for you.

-I don’t believe you.

-I do, every weekend.

-I’m going anyway.

-Take care. Ok?

I leant forward for a hug and kissed her on her cheek.
-You too.

Crowd thronged back and forth along the streets of Lan Kwai Fong, major clubbing area in Hong Kong. I took W’s arm and tried to chat.

-Quite a chick, eh?

-Yes she is.

The ghost from the past that kept popping up in my dreams. Took the form of a lost friend who I was reunited with after a lost, lonely time. The classmate I ran into long after we graduated, then chanced upon my writings online and read all about my desire.

Look away from the self. Focus on the story.

There is no story to tell. I have nothing to offer. Except my life. How do I frame it if it is not even as dramatic as soap opera; how can I make my fiction inspiring if I cannot spice up my fantasy? On TVB Pearl a man is sitting on the toilet with his pants down. He is calling his wife with his cell phone asking her to bring him some toilet paper from the living room. Advertisements and creativity. I cannot even produce this kind of crap. As I am writing I imagine someone listening. Who is there to listen? Who will read me – who will publish this story?

* * *

J sees only the lights wavering along the Nathan Road. On fire. Across the Temple Street dishes chopsticks tables black white blond red green purple hair in an endless row. He pushes through the stalls and the bargaining customers. Second-hand electric appliance cell phone pornographic VCDs magazines duty-free cigarettes smuggled from China fake Rolex Polo shirts Calvin Klein Underwear; accessories silver steel fake jade of different shades crystals tinkling under grabbing hands and inspecting eyes; lighters boxes bottles posters paintings nail clippers scissors rings dug out from the graves violating the departed from the mysterious ends of the world cracking splashing on the ground; dildos of various shapes colors materials and yawning hawkers. Fortune tellers light the lamps lift their glasses smooth their hair with water arrange their cards and stories examining the customers palm with bank notes spread on the desk. Fate foretold. Fate sealed. No going back. No escape. Everyone lives a long and healthy life. A bad life turned good. A happy ending.

At the end of the Temple Street J gropes for his keys in his trousers pocket and feels the void in his head. In his head he turns around hoping to see someone he knows. Someone who will at least greet him with a smile. May even go for a drink and chat about their recent lives. London. Florence. Prague. Stockholm. Istanbul. Hong Kong. In every place he has lived every street he has crossed at every corner he has turned he can almost pretend there is someone waiting to speak to him as he turns around. Together they turn into an image in a picture exposed to all across the streets over the city. Vulnerable. Untouchable. Secured in a frame. Created with affection. Kept in safety.

There is no one when he looks again.


* * *

People say it is the same sky and the same sea and the same earth everywhere in the world. At least that is Tim Winton says in one of his stories. My teacher said Winton had never traveled outside Australia when he wrote it. I have traveled a few places, and Turkey is considered exotic. Does that put me in a slightly better light than I have imagined?

It doesn’t matter, I suppose.

Look at the junk that circles my place. This numb existence. Nothing happens in this life, or nothing has happened for a very long time. Everything has come to a still point. School. Work. Friends. Plenty of guys. All is nothing but self-pity. An ego-centric universe that the self is locked in. It’s me only – it’s only me. And a mind that has gone adrift.

Come back, I say.

Get out. Get away. Get yourself somewhere, it says.

* * *

The morning breaks. J pulls his blanket over his head. Sinking. The water caresses him. Farewell to the last twenty-seven years. Farewell to the infamous violinist. Afloat on waves, his violin breathes and weeps to him. Sparse applause. Clap – clap – clap. Farewell to all. Clap – clap – clap.

Something crashes into a car downstairs and triggers the arm. He opens his eyes to the light.

* * *

Shut the painkillers and sleeping pills from the sight, the drawer crashing into the desk. Close the file and switch off the computer. Go to bed and sleep.
Wake up and think of today, I say.

# # #
Bio notes:
Nicole Wong is currently a full time postgraduate student in Literary Studies at Chinese University of Hong Kong. Her story, ‘Back Street’, appears in an anthology of Hong Kong writings in English from 1945 to present.