The Prelude to the Moon 

 “…The moon does wax, the moon does wane,

and so men meet and say goodbye.

I only pray our life be long,

and our souls together heavenward fly!”  

translated by Lin Yutang (1895-1976) on Su Shi’s Prelude to the Water Melody

The radio broadcasts one of the famous songs by Teresa Teng to boost the festive mood. Allying with the lyrics from a classic Chinese poem, Prelude to the Water Melody, Teng’s magnetic voice, so tender and sweet yet poignant, releases Eliza’s consciousness to travel back and forth—a spirit without visibility and gravity—from the lyrics to her memories, from the train to the escalators then to the exit. 

Jess, Eliza’s best friend, stands near the staircase of Exit E with her head tilting down, eyes completely fixated on her iPhone, fingers nimbly tapping the screen, showing no interest in her surroundings. 

It has been more than ten years since Eliza and Jess graduated from their teacher training program. What Eliza always wonders is whether her students are time thieves. “This is for the students.” “That is for the students.” Successfully manipulated by the seniors with their suspiciously fake smiles, the prevalent clichés intoxicate everyone in the teaching field to burden their subordinates with extra work—and to console their souls that what they do is not for further promotion, more power and status. Unlike them, she does not yearn to reach the moon, nor the stars. She would like to explore a new track to fly beyond.

Eliza smiles. She unplugs her earphones, unwittingly humming the tune while she withdraws her pocket-size mirror and scrutinizes her own appearance. She wears some make-up this evening. She knows she has to due to her sickly paleness—her usual look—colorless lips, a jaundiced face, and two black pouches loosely hanging below her bloodshot eyes. A caring machine of others she has been trained to be—particularly these days when students often venture out to form human chains and chant slogans—operating 24 hours like 7-11. But who keeps an eye on her? 

“Happy Mid-autumn Festival,” Eliza calls out to Jess. 

Jess gazes up from her phone, grins and gestures at a plastic bag she is holding, “Your favorite drink, Taiwan Green Tea.” Having stayed in Hong Kong for a long period of time, she has picked up its swift pace.  

Eliza first met Jess, an American-born Chinese, at the University of Hong Kong, having been assigned to the same tutorial. Both of them—with a few years of working experience—were generally older than those who had freshly graduated from their degree courses. Perhaps it was their age binding them together.

II. 

6:30 pm. Darkness is gradually settling in, penetrating into every street in Tsim Sha Tsui in an indifferent manner. Greeting Eliza and Jess out of the MTR station is just a blast of hot and stuffy air infused with fumes, smoke, ashes, and other unnamed pollutants. They are surrounded by a mountain range of high-rise buildings—like a huge concrete basin, billboards of which are like giants’ eyes glaring at them furiously in the dark. The whole place is a firing furnace, liberating its fatal rays to ingurgitate their lives. 

The heat does not stop their movement, nor does it slow the pace of the people enclosing them. Unlike the previous years, fewer people come out tonight to celebrate—more people have imposed a self-curfew these days due to the escalating ferocity of recent conflicts. Eliza and Jess still need to squeeze their way through. “I wish I was lucky enough to catch a falling star,” Jess says abruptly. Eliza responds, “Maybe tonight.” Their eyes meet and lips spread. 

“Five girls in total?” Jess asks. They prefer to use the word “girl” rather than “woman” though they are already thirtysomething, just one or two years away from forty. “All single, looking for the right person?”

“Yes, three guys: an engineer, a surveyor, and an accountant. They are my old schoolmate Sylvia’s friends or colleagues,” Eliza replies. “Shit! Girls outnumber boys again,” Jess swears and then pouts her lower lip as if a little girl begged for a treat but was ruthlessly turned down. They look at each other and cannot help laughing out loud, which brings a few stares from those around. 

III. 

It is a small café located on the fifth floor in a commercial building, a tiny western-style open kitchen with a few tables densely placed around. At the center of the wall, inside a large picture frame, is displayed a photo of the artwork Prelude to the Water Melody by the contemporary artist Wang Dong Ling—his name gracefully yet vigorously and illegibly crafted in modern Chinese calligraphy. Su Shi’s poem. Teresa Teng’s song. Eliza grins. The rhythm rings in her head again. The strokes of the characters—emancipated from their original forms and reconnected to spin into lengthy, unbroken pitch dark ribbons on the bleached white paper—overlap and entangle in numerous knots from past to present, leaping with the music in her mind. 

Eliza and Jess are warmly welcomed by Sylvia and her group, having arrived earlier and seemingly already immersed in a deep conversation. Sincere greetings, grinning faces chiefly from the ladies and attentive gazes, perhaps some quizzical looks from the guys. Sylvia proposes the three-question game particularly for the newcomers to warm up. Nodding in agreement, Eliza looks around the group. Right in front of her is Winnie. 

As if she knows what Eliza is thinking, Jess directs a question to Winnie, “The first question is: ‘Do you need to work long hours?’” 

“Who doesn’t?” Mable cuts in with a slight twinge of melancholy in her voice. Mable keeps changing jobs—every one or two years, she would leave for another workplace. Eliza understands her exasperation. Sylvia said Mable once sent more than a hundred application letters to find an ideal job. What’s more, last year she broke up with her boyfriend. 

“As an engineer in my company, it’s a blessing for me if I can get off work on time. My usual time is eleven,” the engineer sitting next to Jess says matter-of-factly. He is of medium height but looks a bit older than his age, carries more weight and has less hair than the other two guys. 

“This isn’t a good question,” Eliza jokes, making a face at Jess, attempting to lighten up the atmosphere a bit. “I also need to take my work home. Bury myself in piles of  students’ assignments. Marking, grading...”

“I enjoy my privilege here. Regular work hours. Only teach the naughty to speak. Never do any administrative work. Never be a class teacher. Never take work home. Cool to be a NET*! Proud to be an American here! And to have a similar look as the locals. No discrimination. It’s terrific!” Jess raises her eyebrows after she boasts. She wants to make more friends in Hong Kong, but it is really tough for her to find them at school. Her colleagues are too busy with their work, families, and office politics. “They fight hard for their lives. Me too. It’s super hard in America, a shattered dream of nothing earned, but I’m somebody here. I can’t tell my colleagues I understand Cantonese. They’ll think I’m fake,” Jess confided in her. 

“Hey, how about being away from your family and friends, having lunch alone all the time and having no one to speak to? Plus don’t forget your Asian look! Don’t you often say that they want all NETs to be blonde and have white skin?” Eliza’s rebuttal immediately kills her pretend pride, the sparkles in her eyes fleetly dying away. Jess lets out an exaggerated sigh. The whole group bursts into laughter. 

“Work inside or outside?” another guy volunteers.

“I do both. I take the kids to join different competitions, and sometimes during holidays. I have to be with them in some overseas immersion programs. So does it count if you get to be outside too?” Eliza grumbles. 

“Winnie works with numbers,” Sylvia offers generously. 

“We all work with numbers to some extent. May I ask who doesn’t…” the engineer snaps back. Not waiting for him to finish, Sylvia shoots him an evil glance like the Laser Eyes in X-men. The engineer holds up both hands in surrender, which cheers everyone in the group. Eliza feels that something is going on. 

Winnie holds her laugh. “I’m an accountant but need to go outside at times and do take work home.” 

“What a coincidence! Same here.” 

“And me. Like Sylvia, a surveyor. My girlfriend is her colleague.” 

The other two guys chime in, as if a signal emitted from a clock delivered a finality. The food arrives, diverting their attention—perhaps it serves as a more important function to Eliza—hiding a flash of disappointment on her face when she heard the last line of the surveyor. Fortunately, no one notices as the hot smoke and sweet smell of the dishes tickle their nostrils, reminding them of the bottomless pits inside them demanding to be filled. 

As a host, Sylvia lifts her glass to them and says loudly, “To good jobs. To good health. To good friends!” and then she pauses, “To peace in Hong Kong!” 

They turn quiet for a few seconds before Jess yells, “Happy Moon Festival!” 

The cling-clang of the glasses, the clatter of the plates and the rattle of the cutlery soon become the notes of a festive symphony. Chatting is still on but the conversation topics change: food, wine, travel, sports, movies…. Some share the same interests and they talk and talk, like a dart being shot at the crimson red inner bull; like two colors, sunshine yellow and energetic blue, blending into a new budding green; like the ordinary ingredients, pepper and salt, turning blandness into the taste of Michelin, while lamentably, some others do not: they are the missing arrows; they are the sober grey; they are the sour vinegar without other flavors. Not sure for how long and it just passes. The symphony hits the last note. The result is released—somebodies are winners while losers, nobodies.  

V. 

They are all on the way home. Two couples. Sylvia and the engineer. The two accountants. You can smell it in the air. Endless dialogues. Glances exchanged. Warm and cozy smiles. 

“I will go back home to my family at the end of this year or next,” Jess says matter-of-factly to Eliza, her face suddenly turning expressionless as they walk together to the MTR station. 

Eliza does not turn her gaze to Jess but keeps her eyes on the passers-by undulating around with their faces flashing in front, blurry and then faceless. She wonders if she is also a shadow to them.  She nods and utters, “Understand. Things are getting chaotic and violent here.”

“Everywhere is the same now. I’ve just stayed away too long.”

“What’s next?”

“Who knows?”

Leaning idly on a train door, Eliza stares out of the cabin alone. The train pulls out of a tunnel, heading to her home. Images flash backward. Cloths of pitch dark sky follow one another. It seems infinite. Then not knowing how many stations the train has passed; not realizing how many people swarm in and out; not noting how many gatherings to voice their demands reported in the news, she finds a few shiny objects like sequins emerge, scatter and pattern the boundless dark. These honor guards in their sparkling costumes stationed in their positions to prelude the source of light to come. She unwittingly fumbles for her necklace, her cross, touching it and feeling its cool and smooth surface. Even though it may be another sleepless night, she knows the moon is her companion, and some lone hearts are her allies—enjoying the moonlight with her—perhaps at another time, in another space. She now closes her eyes, whistling the same song again and again.     

*Native-speaking English Teacher