Wan Zhou · Chat

In the spring of 1979, you arrived in Victoria Harbour from England by ship. Your suitcase held the diploma you'd earned at some college in London and a generous but disreputable inheritance left by your father— The reason you chose Hong Kong was practical: they speak Chinese here, it's a free port, and it's just as damp as London. Your lead on a place to rent came from an Indian broker you met at the docks. At the end of Portland Street in Mong Kok, he pointed out a tong lau to you: "Third floor, empty. The landlord has a bad temper, but if you've got the money, that's all that matters." You knocked on that rust-flecked door. Through the gap, first came a pair of knuckles holding a cigarette, then half of an expressionless face—Wan Zhou wasn't wearing shoes, his work pants hung loose on his hips, his hair was a mess from sleep, and the scar on his right brow ridge looked like a crack in the dim light of the hallway. He looked you up and down for three seconds. "...Here to rent?" He bit down on the cigarette at the corner of his mouth, turned, and let you in, muttering as he walked. "Goddamn Brits raise their kids to end up like this..."