AND THE GHOST DANCES IN THE FLAMES

An extract from the novel: Memories of the Awakened Machine

[3]

The barbecue pit was a circle of bricks raised two feet off the ground. Balanced across the top was a metal grill, a blackened, near-fossilised thing, but fit for purpose. Below it, orange flames licked upward. With no lack of awe, Belle had watched as the old man set down a layer of dried leaves and thick grasses as kindling, then piled atop those an artisanal criss-cross of snapped branches and scavenged timber. A metal lighter taken from a small pocket on the inside of his backpack offered a spark; that was all the man needed to turn fuel to fire.

To Belle, the crackling and whispering of the flames was uncommonly comforting. The warm glow played a part, too–its reach extended some way beyond where she and Reuben sat, and she felt as if any shadows lurking in the darkness would think twice before entering their ring of dancing light.

Reuben had taken the firewood from a small brick structure set to one side of the grassy area. It had once been a temple, or a shrine at least, though the raised stone plinth at its rear held no traces of its past. Gone were the golden figures, candles, incense sticks, and offerings of fruit that would have–in better times–added fragrance to the interior. Instead, just piles of wood and an open space along one wall where Reuben said he sometimes took shelter if a storm reared its dark head.

The roof of the small building was fashioned in the traditional manner: rounded curves and ribbed protrusions that would once have been decorated with red and green paint, though were now stripped colourless by the unceasing and merciless elements. Two dragons perched atop the roof; one was missing a head, the other a tail.

“Did you gather all the wood piled up inside?” she said.

“Yes, yes. I come here with some regularity, so it pays to have a ready supply. And nobody else seems to make use of this place, so my labours go unnoticed.”

“And you never feel unsafe? Out here in the open, I mean?”

Reuben’s smile stretched from ear to ear, and flames reflected in his infinite eyes–red and orange sparks on an otherwise grey and calm sea. “Look up at the sky, my dear. What do you see?”

It was the second time that night he had asked her the question. Belle did as instructed. At first, she saw little; the afterimage of the fire painted an abstract mess of dancing figures across her vision. It was only when they dispersed ‌that she saw it. Her mouth opened wide and the tip of her tongue drew a line across her painted bottom lip. She sucked in a deep breath of air, smoke-tinged. But she did not cough. All she could do was stare.

And while she did, Reuben was not looking at the sky. He was looking at her.

“And that’s why I choose to sleep with nought but the ground as my bed and the heavens as my ceiling. Isn’t it something?”

Belle nodded–though her eyes did not leave the sky. It had never appeared so vast. It was a silken blanket stretched with a tightness that ensured all creases and imperfections were removed, and it swept out to every conceivable horizon. And at its edges, there was some tension, some promise of movement, a yearning to extend further still so it could broaden its reach until it grasped every moment of existence. Its lacquered complexion verged on black; but also purple, crimson, and other colours not yet named. With no clouds to obscure them, the stars were there as well, arranged in brushstroke swirls and sparkled with an ageless light that was also young and virile. The moon lived there, too. It was a milky sphere that hung like ripe fruit from an invisible branch.

“You can lose yourself in it. Ain’t that right?”

Belle wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself. Even so, his voice drew her back to him, and the camp, and the fire. They were sitting on short-cut grass, in a circle of a roughly two-metre radius. The rest of the ground beyond them was untamed weeds, the tallest extending to near waist height. He had told her he cut the grass around the barbecue pit himself.

Belle only then realised she was hungry. “So, what will we eat?”

“You’re in for a treat tonight. The boss lady at The Club gifted me this fish as recompense for tonight’s performance.” His hands were already in his bag, taking out a banana leaf-wrapped bundle. “I often take payment in supplies rather than metal coins or such other supposed precious things. Their value fluctuates. One day you’re a king, the next, a pauper. Food like this,” and his voice raised as he began unwrapping the package, “it’s unwavering in its worth.”

“And my pay for tonight?”

The chuckle that capered back at her in reply was a rough thing; it scampered up his throat like an eager child, all grazed knees and ruddy cheeks. The wiry arms extending from his black shirt shook with the sound, as did his shoulders. And the darkness swirled around him like a blanket, enveloping him, then letting go, then hugging him tight again, all in time with the seesawing rise and fall of the flames below. Reuben’s whole profile appeared to shrink, then grow, in front of her, and she felt a sudden embarrassment at her question.

“I’m sorry, it’s just customary for me to ask–”

“I know, I know. I’ve been around the block more times than I care to remember. Or admit.” His hands continued to work on unwrapping the leaves from his gift–guitar player’s fingers that were making light of the task. “I have coins still accepted by most traders, especially down the way in the Kowloon markets. That meet your expectations?”

She nodded, hoping he had not seen the flush of colour she felt beneath the skin of her cheeks. “What kind of fish is that? I’ve eaten it, but I don’t know the name.”

“This is a mangrove snapper. A good size. You know, since there’ve been fewer people in these parts, the fish have grown bigger. Many years back, it would have been rare to catch one this large. But now…” His voice trailed off as he ran the back of his index finger over the spines of the fish’s dorsal. “Now, nature has a stronger foothold. At least here. Life’s not all bad.”

Reuben was right–it was a good-sized fish. It was easily over a foot in length, and Belle felt her eyes drawn to the red copper scales flashing in the light of the barbecue pit; it was a colour that actively breathed in the amorphous light, becoming even more vivid in death than it had been in life. The fish still had its head; the one eye she could see was a black pearl, glassy and opaque.

“Funny thing is, though,” Reuben said, eyes now hosting a mischievous sparkle that was as free and wild as the untamed curls of his hair, “I’m paying you for your company–a good number of coins at that, as you’ll see. Yet I’m also cooking you supper.”

He placed the fish on the grill, where the flames set to work tickling its scales.

He continued: “So, I reckon it’s only fair you give me a little something extra to even the deal. Something more than the pleasure of your welcome proximity and undeniable womanly attractions. What do you say?”

Belle was charmed by the man–but she still felt somewhat ill-at-ease. The fire had scorched away lingering fears of imagined things in the darkness; the smell of the now-cooking fish pushed those concerns yet further adrift. However, neither sensation could disguise the fact she was sitting out in the open, deep into the night, with a man she had no prior experience with; and one who was clearly well-versed in the game. She sat straight and pulled at her shirt to straighten out the creases in the fabric; they had gathered across her front unnoticed. She pulled back her shoulders and pushed out her chest to give her voice greater heft.

“Sir,” she began, hoping that the resumption of formality would underline her refusal to budge from their pre-assumed deal. “I am accompanying you to offer comfort. Expect no other service from me. Please.”

The laugh again. The shadows moved down his face so that all she could see was his long nose and the glint of knowing in his eyes. Something in those eyes told her she was overreacting. She let her shoulders relax. Just a little.

“Miss Belle, please do not misdiagnose my intentions. All I figured to ask for was a story. I find a good tale goes well with food. And with drink.”

Reuben pulled a bottle from his backpack: unlabelled green glass, subtly curved and containing a coloured liquid. At the bottom, illuminated by the firelight, was a swirling layer of sediment.

“Another gift from the establishment,” he said, unscrewing the cap. Only then did Belle notice how hard and calloused the skin at the end of each of his fingers was; a legacy of the steel guitar strings, no doubt. “Papaya wine, brewed right here in Sea Urchin Bay. The lady owner extolled to me the virtues of this particular vintage. Apparently, a new batch hasn’t been harvested and brewed in a fair while, and stocks are running low. Have a taste.”

He held it out to her with a steady hand. She took it and drank. Not too deeply. A slight burn in her throat; but a sweet burn, and one not unpleasant. She was no stranger to alcohol and the many forms it took. She returned the bottle to Reuben and noted the smudge her lipstick had left on the thick glass rim. The man took a gulp. His tongue erased her oral artwork.

“So, food’s cooking nicely. And you’ve sipped my wine. How about that story? I think I’d like to hear about how you came to frequent The Club, and why I’ve not often had the pleasure of laying eyes on you on my myriad visits to this neck of the woods.”

“I don’t know where to start,” she said.

But she did know. And independent of thought and reasoning, she heard her own voice tell the tale.

Chapter 2

§

“Dad was a restaurant owner. He was from Egypt. It was only a small restaurant in Chungking Mansions. You know the Mansions?”

“I do, yes I do. Stayed many a night there before society tied itself up in so many knots you couldn’t see the ends for the tangles. Small rooms, not the best kept, but cheap. The place had a reputation as insalubrious. Many locals wouldn’t go there. I found the place rather interesting.”

Belle smiled and continued. “Yes, my memories were fond, too. I mean, I wasn’t born until after the borders were locked down, but many places in The Mansions kept going much as they had in the past–our family restaurant included. I remember climbing over the chairs and under the table, and I recall the smells, and being shouted at by my mother. She came to Hong Kong from the Philippines. She worked as a domestic helper here. You know, a maid. Hated it, apparently. She didn’t talk about the job much, but even my immature mind could deduce that her employer treated her with a contempt bordering on humiliation. Perhaps that was why she jumped at the chance to marry my father so soon after they met. She quit her job immediately after signing the papers and took over the running of the restaurant. My dad spent most of his time in the kitchen; or sometimes out front chatting with customers. It was small, and cramped, and I perhaps didn’t spend as much time outside playing as other kids. But it was a happy period. I remember that much.”

Reuben’s eyes remained on her, even as he used a flat-edged splinter of wood and a rusty fork to flip the fish over. The side that had been on the grill now faced the sky. The scales were already charred and crisp. He swigged from the bottle again and offered it to her. She took it and drank deeply.

“And now I assume that restaurant is no more?” His eyebrows were caterpillars with arched backs.

“Right. We shut up shop when Dad disappeared.”

She took another swig before handing the bottle back to him.

“Where did he go?”

“We never knew.”

“You don’t have to continue.”

A depth to his eyes that was part paternal, part yearning, shone deep within; even the rippling flames lacked the power to fill that void completely. Belle saw the look. She started to speak. Stopped. She held her hand out again for the bottle. Reuben acquiesced. Belle drank. Then she spoke.

“It’s fine. I’ve already started. And what’s a story without some kind of ending?”

Reuben nodded–a dip of the chin so deep it sank into his chest. The smell of fish accompanied the whip crack of flames and the gentle sighing of the sea.

“So we moved out of Kowloon. Mum and I, that is. She had this crazy idea that we could take over one of those abandoned village houses out in the country park. That we could live by the sea and survive on our own. Her own father, though I never met him, was a fisherman back in the Philippines. Mum knew how to fish, and she knew what we needed. All we owned, all we had left, we stuffed onto a truck, one of the few still available for hire, and we headed away–past this very village, in fact. Mum had received a tip-off about a half-collapsed house recently vacated in the northeast of Sai Kung Country Park. And it was empty, so we moved our possessions in. The last of our money went to the truck driver. Then we were on our own. And we fished–she taught me how–and there was also land to grow vegetables, and we were able to collect fruit from trees. Some of what we caught or harvested we traded with people in other villages. It was peaceful. Not the life I was used to, and yes, sometimes it was dull, and repetitive. But there was peace.”

“And then something happened. Otherwise, why are you here sharing a bottle with an old man who has only the grass and the trees and the sky to call his home?”

Belle stared beyond Reuben. Into the darkness. The small temple was there behind him. Once, people would have piled fruit on round plates and left them there surrounded by candles. Sometimes they left small thumb-deep cups of alcohol or tea, too. No more. It was a tomb to memory; now a storehouse and occasional shelter. Behind it were shifting shadows formed of misshapen tree trunks and tangled bushes.

They had come from the trees. She remembered it with the type of clarity only the most vivid of dreams can possess.

“Maybe you need another swig?”

Reuben’s voice; close, but far away. Fatherly. She barely remembered her father. She took another drink. The taste coated her tongue and loosened it, and the alcohol cast a blanket over her mind, but did not halt the memories as they clambered free. She looked right and saw where the tall grasses gave way to the volcanic rocks leading to the sea. She smelled the cooking fish and heard her own breathing. Belle continued.

“Yes. Something happened. Life was an exercise in subsistence–we were doing little more than surviving day-to-day, as many were and still do. But it was life, and we had a home, though it was in a state beyond disrepair. Food. The sea. And the wind and the trees.”

As Belle spoke, she looked at the dark curtain of branches and twigs and leaves pulled tight behind Reuben. She thought she saw movement there. Something lurking. Something waiting. But her memories were clamouring behind her eyes and forcing themselves down and past the barrier of her peach lips.

“And they came. It was from the trees behind the house. I was at the beach. Collecting shells for dinner. At low tide, the retreating sea would leave a wide strip of sand, and it was always full of things that could be cooked and eaten. Much like the beach here. And as I walked back carrying my bucket, I saw something moving toward the house, and I thought it was some great animal, something huge and unknown, a monster come to life. I dropped the bucket, but thankfully it made little sound. So, unseen, I crouched behind a twisted curl of rusted sheet metal that I assumed had lain by the track since way before we came to the old village. I was scarcely brave enough to look, but I did, and I saw them. It was not a creature. It was men. They were wearing uniforms I had never before seen. Green, but different shades and patterns–a kind of camouflage. At least two had guns, and all had knives. One was wearing a helmet. It had a dent in it. I remember that.”

“They were from beyond the border. Am I right?”

Reuben’s voice took the edge off the memory; dulled the pain a little. Nevertheless, she knew her hands were shaking. Another sip of oversweet wine lightened the tremor.

“Yes. Later, I learned who they were. Remnants of the old People’s Army most likely gathered under the banner of one of the bickering Party cadres. Of course, security from down on The Island was stationed along the border, just as they are today–but that wasn’t always enough, right? Even now, or so I’ve heard. Anyway, small groups could get through. Some would hunt. Some would steal. The men that afternoon took something else.”

“I’m sorry.” Reuben’s eyes and the downturn of the corners of his mouth showed that to be true. “That’s enough storytelling, I think.”

“No.” Her utterance was steel. She could taste her own defiance on her tongue. Reuben’s lips sealed. Belle continued. “They just opened the front door and went in. And I heard my mother’s voice. She was shouting at them. It was the same tone she used on me, to scold me–but louder, more ferocious.” Belle smiled, though it was a fleeting expression that shrank as more words came. “I couldn’t make out her words. And I couldn’t understand the shouts of the men since I didn’t know the language. I heard a crash, and a male voice yell what sounded like a curse. I like to think she at least hurt one of them. But then I heard her scream. She never called out for help. For me. I guess she didn’t want them to know I was out there somewhere. She protected me. I ran.”

Belle looked back out toward the sea. Reuben used the pause in the tale to flip the fish again. It smelled like it was almost done. Belle looked back and watched the dark smoke rise from the grill. It grasped at the air and pulled itself up to the sky. The stars were shining brighter than she had ever seen them.

“It was hours before I gathered the courage to go back home. The sky was darkening. There were no men there. I don’t know where they went. She was on the kitchen floor. On her back. They had stripped her completely naked, and there were bite marks on her thighs. Her chest. There was blood under her fingernails. I’m certain she didn’t make it easy for them. I always looked at her and was amazed by how smooth and flawless her skin appeared. How perfect. Before, I mean. On the floor there, that day, it was bruised and reddened. There was a cut above her eye and a flap of skin hung down like a swollen lip. Red underneath, but no blood flowing. I touched her forehead with the back of my hand. Cold. I told her thank you. Then I covered her with a blanket. It was all I could do."

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“And since then?”

“This is me.”

“You’re still young. You didn’t have to choose this life. Village to village, bar to bar. There’s more out there.”

She held the bottle out toward him. Her arm was no longer shaking, and her eyes were fixed on his.

“Then what’s your excuse?”

He took the bottle from her.

“I’m old.”

Before she knew it was happening, Belle realised she was laughing. He was too, and orangey-red wine trickled from one corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand before he spoke again.

“Why the wig?”

Belle twirled a finger among the cardinal red strands. It was the first night she had worn it. She had found it poking out of an open box in the tin sheet shed she had changed in before beginning her evening’s work. The lady in charge said she could keep it.

“A change of look. Something more exotic. Attention-grabbing.”

“Did it work?”

“You tell me.”

Reuben looked at her from beneath the tangle of his hair, and she noted for the first time how thick and full it was for a man who must have been at least sixty. Seventy? The drink had glazed his eyes with a dewy film. It added a flickering vitality to his expression. She considered how her own eyes must look. She was lightheaded. No. More than that; it was as if her head and her shoulders, and the heart in her chest, were all prepared to float away like untethered balloons. She sat straight and crossed her legs, a hand resting on each knee as if to anchor her. Meanwhile, he looked away.

“Fish is done,” Reuben said.

The musician slid the fish off the grill and onto a plastic plate he had taken from his bag. Patches of burnt scales remained welded to the barbecue grate. The flames continued their song, though their task was complete.

Belle removed one hand from a knee and held it out in front of her. The world tilted on its axis. “Is the bottle empty?”

“Finish it.”

She took it. The last gulp burned worst of all, and the too-sweet pulpy residue that sloshed at the bottle’s base stuck to her teeth. The world swung from east to west, and for a second, Reuben appeared to be sitting on a slope, one upon which he might slide away at any moment. Belle looked to the flames, and their dance brought her horizons back level.

“Best to let the fish cool a little,” Reuben said. “Do you sing?”

The question caught her off guard; she could only offer a politely voiced “me?” in reply. Reuben was already raising himself from the ground. His legs unfolded like creased paper, and their length surprised Belle; perhaps a trick of the skittish shadows cast by the flames. Reuben walked over to his guitar case and brought it back to their two-person circle. With a click, he forced it open.

“I bet you do,” he said. “There was a time when any popular bar worth its name had a Filipino band playing tunes on a Friday night. You have music in your genes.”

“Mum was a good singer.” Belle was still holding the empty bottle. “She said I was, too. But I never thought so.”

“Well, I bet she was right. But first, take a look at this.”

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