Speaking of concern for health… Vincent would have worried about his father, but he knew only too well what a joke that was. If he had really wanted his father to recover—were that even possible for an old man displaying symptoms of a terminal illness—he would have used the money from Jeffrey Claremont instead of simply pretending it was going toward treatment and ferreting it away for his own escape from Hong Kong. That was what a good son should have done, even if it was only delaying the inevitable. A good son wouldn’t wish for his father’s death. That was a rule that transcended country borders and cultural divides.
Vincent’s mother was dead. He never had any brothers or sisters. His father was, in fact, his only family.
Sure, there was Richard Ranasinghe, a colleague of sorts. But the thought of caring about Richard was farcical. Vincent asked Richard what was wrong, only to gleefully exchange that information for cash. God, but Vincent was repulsive.
He shut down that line of thinking. A lack of worrying never killed anyone, and the more he thought about it, the less he understood why he was so intent on worrying about people anyway. His dream, long cherished since the days of his father’s disappointment, was to move to the United States. To get there, he committed betrayal after betrayal. At this point, he didn’t even know who or what he was betraying.
Overthinking was a form of mental suicide. It was better to turn his brain off and pretend his gradually swelling bank account was a measure of his own personal achievement. Best to have the innocence of a child brimming with pride at having grown taller. Best to pretend to see nothing, to focus only on the money, until it was all done.
So Richard was planning on leaving Hong Kong, huh? He hadn’t breathed a word of that to Vincent. He would miss Richard, Vincent thought. He wished Richard would have told him—but no, those were dangerous ideas. He was, he reminded himself, Richard’s enemy. Enemy meant a person in conflict. Wasn’t that how he was able to sell out Richard? He didn’t care about Richard. There was no point in caring about Richard. Conversely, if an enemy was anyone whose well-being he shouldn’t care about, that saved him quite a lot of grief and anguish.
That was Vincent’s guiding compass. He had to hold tight to it whenever he started to lose himself in the baffling maze of his emotions.
Vincent’s deceased grandfather was on his mind a lot these days. His grandfather had been a double agent in the Chinese Civil War who had let go of that compass in the post-war period. He confessed his misdeeds to his one-time enemies and current compatriots, only to be detested, shunned, and left to die a social outcast. Vincent couldn’t afford to be like his grandfather. He couldn’t get too caught up in emotion and confuse his dreams for reality. It was plainly stupid to think he could be forgiven after doing something so unforgivable, and just as stupid to confuse trust with the delusion that all could be forgiven. As a child, Vincent had loved his grandfather. Now, the memory of his younger, loving self was hurting worse than anything in the world.
But it was almost over. Just a little longer, and he would be free.
As he threaded Hong Kong’s infamously crowded streets toward the harbor, Vincent tried calling Marian one more time. Call number five went to voicemail again. Something wasn’t right. Marian could be a dawdler, but never lazy. Besides, she had never ignored her employer’s son’s calls on purpose.
Vincent was disquieted. Maybe he should go home after all. But just as he turned, he heard a voice call his name in a crisp, gorgeous tenor. Each syllable was clipped so sharp the edge could cut like a knife.
Vincent turned in the middle of the busy boulevard to discover a gentleman with a rich dark complexion standing there. “…Mr. Ranasinghe?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
“It is my duty as an elusive jeweler to pop up out of nowhere. Now, could I borrow you for a short chat?”
“What, right here? In the crowd?”
“No, no. I don’t care where, so long as we talk soon. I wouldn’t want to lose my chance to ask about that check you happen to have in your possession.”
At that moment, Vincent felt like a hand had reached into his chest and yanked out his heart. He didn’t know what to say.
The prize of Vincent’s transparent heart held aloft in his hand, the short Sri Lankan gentleman eyed Vincent coolly. “Evidently, I have struck a sore spot.”
“No, you… That’s a leading question.”
“Come, let us walk and talk about it. The buses and subways will be packed, but—oh, I’ve quite forgotten!—there will be a lot of foot traffic down by the waterfront, won’t there?”
“Sorry, I’m bus—”
“If you will pardon the use of a line that’s been done to death, I think you’d best follow me if you know what’s good for you.”
Before Vincent could ask if that was a threat, Saul was already striding away. The boat race of Vincent’s life had begun, and the qualifying matches were in full swing.
North of Tsim Sha Tsui, halfway up the peninsula, was a nostalgia-flavored shopping hub in Prince Edward—a name which felt almost inappropriate these days—the old and young alike went for a good, cheap meal. Saul walked along in silence before entering an eatery that retained its classic charm from the olden days. Vincent was disconcerted. He would have expected a more casual tea house. Every other customer here was a female tourist.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“A milk pudding shop.”
“No, I mean, I can see that.”
“Fear not. I am not expecting another guest to join us.”
Vincent searched for a reply and found nothing. In the meantime, Saul strode right into the eatery and took his place at a small table in the corner. Saul was in the process of learning Cantonese from Richard, but for now, he conducted all his day-to-day affairs in English. “Hot steamed milk pudding,” he said and held up two fingers.
The store was reasonably famous, but its prices were too high for it to be a favorite haunt of locals. Consequently, Vincent had never been here before. He flipped over the menu—it had Japanese on the back—and found the store’s famous ginger milk labeled as the Japanese equivalent of “jinger milk.” Such a basic error, in an era of online language dictionaries available at one’s fingertips, stirred a feeling of nostalgia in Vincent.
In typical Hong Kong fashion—leaving a customer waiting was sacrilege—a server set two white bowls in front of Saul and Vincent just seconds after they ordered. Each bowl contained a pudding with a thin film on the top—evidently, the shop’s specialty. Steam was still wafting from them.