Testament 2 - 7

Hong Kong Type #10

7.

In springtime, the sky was gloomy and the air damp, making it difficult to breathe. There was always a hint of death in the atmosphere. The red flowers from the cotton tree were scattered on the road, trampled by passers-by. The small granular flowers from the Chinese hackberry covered the ground, mixing with rainwater and turning into dirty clumps of mud. Even the usually active Fox didn’t want to go out on the streets in such weather.

My progress with reading was still very slow. Medication made it hard for me to concentrate, yet the doctor said I could not reduce or stop taking it, or else my illness would rebound. Strangely, sometimes it felt as if I was not the one reading, but the book was talking to me. In that case, I didn’t have to try so hard. All I needed to do was relax my mind, even if I was a little drowsy, and I could get into condition, much like what some people described as channeling spirits. I don’t know if this was some kind of abnormal mental phenomenon.

Since my childhood, I’ve taken pleasure in the company of words, rather than spending time with people. I was the type of child teachers would refer to as “quiet and introverted.” It is said that my mom was also of this disposition, very shy with few friends. As the youngest daughter in the family, she particularly received my grandpa’s doting and protection and had very few opportunities to interact with boys. If it hadn’t been for the fact that our families knew each other, and Dad tutored her for a few years, developing mutual affectionate feelings for each other, it would have been questionable whether Mom could have found a suitable match.

I remember when I was little, relatives always said that my brother resembled Dad, and I, the sister, resembled Mom. Sometimes, looking at my mom’s old photos, I feel that the most similar parts between us are the slender figure and brownish hair. When I was in school, teachers mistook more than once that I had dyed my hair and reprimanded me. Even my father had to explain to the school that this was my natural hair color. Besides that, it is the eyes. I've forgotten most of what my mom said, but what left a deep impression on me was this sentence, “Young sister’s eyes are like two tiny goldfish swimming head to head.” So, before I ever saw a real goldfish, I’d heard the name. But I didn’t know what a goldfish looked like, and assumed it must be a beautiful, slender fish completely gold in color.

Later, Dad took me to Tung Choi Street in Mong Kok, commonly known as Goldfish Street - not my mom, who seldom went out by then - that was the first time I saw that goldfish were those kind of clumsy, even ugly fish. The reality was so far from my imagination that I was deeply disappointed. Looking at those angelfish, guppy, cardinal tetra, tiger barb, swordtail, black molly etc., each with their own glamour or splendor, only those orange goldfish were so dull in appearance, and I almost burst into tears at that time.

There’s no denying that I inherited my mother’s eyes, which are like a pair of goldfish facing each other. Such eyes could be considered cute when I was little, but as I grew up, regardless of how you put it, they lacked aesthetic appeal. They look a bit comical, but at the same time a bit melancholic. That’s why I hate looking in the mirror and looking at my own photos.

It’s okay, I told myself. Eyes are for looking at things, not for being looked at by others. I make good use of my eyes to read books. My small goldfish eyes are still useful.

In order to thank Teacher Bei for helping me find a job as a research assistant, I made a special trip to buy his favorite cake. Actually, it was his late wife’s favorite, but I didn’t know what Teacher Bei liked, so I didn’t have any other choices. However, stepping foot in the cake shop where I once had a bad experience wasn’t an easy decision for me. I paced back and forth in front of the shop several times, still hesitant and unable to make up my mind. I was so frustrated with my lack of decisiveness that I was nearly brought to tears.

Finally, I bit the bullet, lowered my head, and made a beeline for the cake display counter, pointing at the cake I wanted to buy, and told them in the simplest way that I wanted one. When I looked up, the faces of the staff were all unfamiliar, most of them I had never seen before. The manager who had dismissed me was standing nearby, introducing food to a customer. He glanced at me, but didn’t react. As for the girl at the cash register, though I knew her, she treated me with a mechanical politeness as if I were a stranger. I successfully walked out with my cake, realizing that my prior concerns were unnecessary. Being a person of little significance, nobody would remember me.

At Teacher Bei’s house, nobody answered the door, so I headed up to the roof to check. To my surprise, I found him smoking alone there. Although there’s nothing inherently odd about smoking, it was somehow incongruous with my image of him as a teacher, which startled me. He seemed a bit embarrassed when he saw me with a cake in hand and caught him smoking. When we returned to the second floor together, he explained that he only smoked a bit when he was feeling restless. Hearing his concern about tarnishing his image, I couldn’t help but find it a bit funny.

Since I often came to disturb him, I was very familiar with the things in his house. Without waiting for him to arrange anything, I went to the kitchen and fetched a tablecloth, plates, and cutlery, then made two cups of black tea. The cake wasn’t large, so I cut a quarter for the teacher and myself, leaving half for his late wife. I knew he would offer the foods his wife enjoyed during her life to her portrait as a tribute. His wife’s portrait wasn’t a photograph but a sketch, framed in dark wood and hung on the wall above a low bookshelf of waist height. Atop the bookshelf were delicately kept mementoes such as small ornaments, a porcelain cup, a wooden comb, glasses, and so on. A small glass vase housed fresh flowers long term, while a pair of small glass cups for candles was occasionally lit. The teacher’s wife in the sketch was quite delicate and lifelike. I could imagine the teacher talking to his wife’s portrait when he was alone. Somehow, I felt this was the perfect marital relationship.

While eating cake, Teacher Bei asked me about the progress of my research. I briefly outlined some of my reading outcomes, such as Morrison’s situation after coming to China, how he learned Chinese, translated the Bible, and the transition from block printing to movable type printing, and so on. He kept making exaggerated reactions, as if I had made some earth-shattering discovery.

“Don’t underestimate what you are doing! Imagine you are the author of Genesis, and it is up to you to record the creation of the world.”

It was not surprising to hear such bold words from the manly Teacher Bei. But if a frail girl like me truly believed I was something great, I would definitely become a laughingstock. I merely took his words as encouragement. What I was more concerned about was the “restless feelings” he mentioned earlier. So, I asked him:

“What about you, teacher? The work you are doing is equivalent to the creation of the world itself, right?'

He took on a serious look and said, “Yes, all creation is also the creation of the world. However, there are also stories of failed creations. Even gods can fail. For instance, in Japanese mythology, when the male god Izanagi and the female god Izanami married, they got the order wrong. The female proposed first which resulted in the birth of an incomplete child, Hiruko, literally a ‘leech kid,’ who had to be exiled in a boat made of reeds. After trying once more with the male proposing first, they successfully gave birth to the world and all its creations.”

I strived to hide my surprise, as if trying to prevent a secret from being exposed.

“Even gods aren't necessarily infallible,” he added.

“The failed creation is really interesting.”

“In the end they are gods. Despite making mistakes, they finally rectified the problem. Not necessarily something a human could do.”

“But even gods must make continual efforts to succeed, that can be an encouragement to humans too.”

“Yes, that’s exactly the case.”

Teacher Bei suddenly fell into deep thought and after a while, he said, “My wife and I once had a ‘leech kid’—a child who was not well-formed, who died soon after birth. If the child had survived, he would be five years old now.”

I didn’t expect that Teacher Bei had such a painful experience apart from his wife’s passing away, and I was so shocked that I couldn’t speak for a while.

“However, that is perhaps for the best. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known how to raise that leech child now. There is no chance to try again. After all, a man is not a god.”

Teacher Bei gave a bitter smile and got up to clean the cups and dishes on the table. I was a bit shell-shocked and sat there motionless. After the teacher returned from the kitchen and saw my worried expression, he hurriedly comforted me:

“Sun Fei, I'm sorry! You bought a cake with good intentions, and I brought up these unpleasant matters - I shouldn’t have. I’ve heard that the Leech God will return. He doesn’t just disappear like that. After the Leech returns, he should engage in some kind of work. Even though he’s not whole, he will also be a god that contributes. So don’t give up even if you are a leech!”

He patted my shoulder, I felt the strength coming from his hand, which steadied my emotions.

I was astounded by Teacher Bei’s discussion of leeches. I thought it was just a coincidence. I was born with a black birthmark on the inside of my left thigh, close to the root of my leg, shaped like a leech. The mark, which I considered a hideous blemish, caused me countless hardships and grievances growing up. I never imagined that the leech could hold such meaning— a naturally deformed child, abandoned by parents, adrift in a foreign land, living an unfathomable life. Yet one day, it must return to the original world, repairing its deficiencies, correcting its wrongs. Although the Leech is considered a historical mistake, it possesses the power to rectify errors. Only leeches that are born from mistakes or deficiencies understand how to overcome them.

I always thought that myths were just some old stories, but I never realized that they connect directly to our hearts. Not long after Professor Xin referred me to the University's mental health centre, I made my appointment. The centre was located on the eleventh floor of a building next to the Yasumoto International Academic Park. I walked into the lobby, only to discover that the elevator only reached up to the tenth floor. There was no one around, no reception or security guards, no one to ask. I tried taking the elevator to the tenth floor and walked back and forth in the hallway, but couldn’t find a passage leading to the upper levels. I knew there was a common study space on the sixth floor, but there was no option for the sixth floor on the elevator.

I returned to the ground level and exited the building. I headed through a pathway at the rear that connected to the Yasumoto International Academic Park, and took an escalator upwards until I found the entrance to the sixth floor. Due to the pandemic causing face-to-face classes to halt, the common space was very quiet with only a few scattered students discussing their coursework. I had never been here before and felt unfamiliar with the surrounding environment. After scouting around, I finally found an elevator tucked away in a hidden corner. Beside that elevator was a sign pointing towards the 11th to 14th floors.

I took the elevator to the eleventh floor, where I found myself in a long, windowless corridor. Despite the bright lights, there was not a soul in sight. Following the room numbers, I made my way to a room at the end of the corridor. On the frosted glass door, the words “靈魂治療中心” and “Soul Therapy Centre” were written in both Chinese and English. I pushed the door open to find a small reception area with no staff in sight. As I was unsure of what to do, I noticed an electronic screen on the counter with instructions to enter a reservation number, so I did as I was told. Words immediately appeared on the screen, and an announcement directed me to Room 3 for consultation.

I lightly knocked on the nondescript wooden office door, and the response from inside was to come in. When I pushed the door open, the scene inside was like entering a completely different world, a stark contrast to the outside.

The walls of the room were painted in a faint blue color, like the dim light before dawn, creating a dreamy ambiance. All the tables, chairs, bookshelves, and cabinets were made of wood, even the chandelier on the ceiling was constructed from small pieces of wood. The floor was covered with a light green carpet, with a few faint footprints remaining. The harbour view could be seen through the glass windows, but it was somewhat obscured due to the overcast sky. Almost inaudible soft music was playing indoors, feeling like a cushion for consciousness. The only thing that met my expectation was a comfortable-looking recliner chair with an adjustable angle.

The therapist’s appearance startled me. At first glance, I almost mistook her for Professor Xin, because their demeanors were strikingly similar. Being both elegantly dressed middle-aged women, the one in front of me wore a soft brown dress, with thick reddish-brown hair cascading over her rounded shoulders. Even her voice and tone resembled those of Professor Xin to a high degree. With half of her face concealed by a dark green mask, I had reason to suspect that she might be Professor Xin in disguise.

The lady asked me to take off my shoes and place them on the wooden rack by the door. I stepped on the soft carpet and walked towards the comfortable armchair. The lady sat on a velvet-covered stool across from me. She introduced herself, saying her formal title was Professor Ho, but she asked me to call her Nami. She asked me if I liked her calling me Sun Fei. I didn't dislike it, so I nodded.

The beginning part wasn’t particularly special, primarily guiding me to recount my childhood and growing up experiences. Naturally, it brought up my mother’s suicide, the relationships with my father and brother, as well as my interpersonal relationships at school. I also mentioned my brief love experience. However, when the narrative reached last summer, my memory suddenly fell into a fog, leaving only fragmented and incoherent images. And I couldn’t explain the reasoning behind those images at all.

When Nami saw me sinking into the mire of consciousness, she didn’t try to pull me out, but instead suggested that I stop. She said that in such situations, the more you struggle, the deeper you will sink. She gently prodded the carpet with her beautifully shaped toes clad in gray-green tights, causing a slight indentation, explaining:

“Don’t try to fight the mire, just stand firm within it, allowing it to gradually settle and recede, revealing the things hidden beneath. The mire of consciousness does not really exist, it is just an illusion. It can consume us, yet at the same time, it appears for the purpose of protecting us. It prevents us from getting hurt by the overly sharp realities.”

She reached out, opened her palm, then flipped over her hand, saying, “Every situation has two sides: a beneficial side and a harmful side. We should not deceive ourselves by only looking at the beneficial side and ignoring the harmful one. Instead, we should understand both the beneficial and harmful sides are two aspects of the same thing.”

“So is suicide also beneficial?”

I asked not to refute or challenge her, but genuinely wanting to know the answer. Nami did not take offense but instead looked as if she had found a pearl, her eyes filled with surprise, and said:

“Good question! Let's try to answer it this way. As far as the individual is concerned, assuming there’s no form of afterlife, suicide would mark the end, hence, we can’t talk about any beneficial or harmful consequences. As for the world, a person’s suicide could either be beneficial or harmful, depending on the specific situation and the person involved, but it has nothing to do with the person who committed suicide. The only thing that matters, is meaningful and valuable to the person who commits suicide is the experience left behind by a failed suicide attempt. This unique experience can become a nightmare and torment, and might even lead to another suicide attempt, but it can also provide enlightenment and salvation.”

I couldn’t fully understand her meaning. This was the first time I’d heard someone talk about suicide this way. Normally, even if people don’t condemn it, they would say something about how precious life is. But she even said that suicide has its own benefits! I suddenly realized that Nami was someone who could effortlessly talk about anything. I decided to tell her about the character spirits.

Nami listened seriously as I explained the background of my research work for the exhibition, and my strange encounter with an entity who claimed to be “character spirits” while typing. I thought anyone would find such a thing absurd, assuming it was a sign of mental instability. However, Nami's face showed a curious expression, as if hearing something interesting, occasionally blinking her eyes and nodding. Once I finished talking, she responded in a positive and encouraging tone:

“You don’t have to feel embarrassed about this experience. It is a valuable one. Whether it’s a real spiritual encounter or a heartfelt illusion, both have spiritual significance. We don’t have to deliberately distinguish between dreams and reality. In this world, there is no such thing as ‘only a dream.’ Dreams themselves are a form of reality, an inner reality. Have you recorded or saved your conversations with the character spirits? If yes, could I take a look? Or perhaps, you can go back and ask the spirits if they are willing to share your conversation with a third party? This is not only related to your own spiritual journey, but also might be connected to a collective spiritual journey. It may conceal the key to unlocking your connection with the world. Please write down this experience of researching the Hong Kong Type as if it’s a creation myth!”

“Treat my own experience as a creation myth?”

“Yes, indeed! Mythology isn’t exclusive to gods. Every one of us should also have our own myth. Because to some extent, each of us is also a god. Or perhaps, it would be more accurate to say each one of us is a spirit.”

Even though Nami was wearing a mask, she covered her mouth area with her hand as she spoke, as if she was joking. It reminded me of what Teacher Bei once said. He mentioned that even if creation failed and resulted in a leech child, it would not be without a purpose.