The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [41]
His heart thumped, as if someone had stepped on his chest. Should I listen to this? Suppose that were true, he said. What would you want me to do about it?
You’re a lawyer. Isn’t that your job?
I am a lawyer, he said, his face getting hot. And I should warn you against making libelous statements you can’t prove.
She gave a long, exaggerated sigh. Wallace is my friend, she said. I talk to him on the phone every week. Yes, he has some strange ideas. He’s a free thinker. And he’s made some questionable choices. But who hasn’t, may I ask? I’ve known him for twenty-one years. He’s the best lawyer this firm has. She put her hand on the doorknob, and twisted it, with the door still shut. Do something about it, she said. Don’t pretend you don’t know how.
Following the map, Marcel takes Kennedy Road to where it intersects with Queen’s, along the waterfront; he crosses the road and leans against the railing, taking a breath of sea air. The water is the color and texture of ink; in the jagged reflections of a thousand lights, it seems to boil, and congeal, and dissolve again.
He remembers when his family used to go for walks in Green-wood Park, along the Hudson, and he would climb up onto the concrete barriers and lean over to stare into the water. It always smelled faintly of gasoline, a few milk containers and Coke cans bobbing up against the wall. What would happen if I fell in? he would always wonder, imagining himself thrashing in the oily muck, unable to find a handhold; and just at that moment he would feel his father’s rough fingers, the fingers of a moving-company man, on the back of his collar. Gon get yourself killed, Marcel remembers his father saying, lifting him gently into the air and placing him back on the sidewalk. There was the reassurance, the comfort, of having those hands to catch him; but he remembers the grain of disappointment he always felt under his tongue, knowing that the danger was only imaginary, that it was a question he would never have to answer.
Wallace Ford’s house is not on Hong Kong Island, as Marcel always assumed. It is on another island, with the strange name of Lamma, a mile or so to the south, and a ferry ride of forty-five minutes from Central. We’ll expect you around seven, Ford told him. That way you’ll be on the boat while it’s still daylight. It’s something to see. He sits on a plastic chair on the upper deck, facing forward, eating saltines and watching the horizon. Even looking at boats makes him a little queasy; he always remembers being sick, at four, the one time he took the Staten Island Ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. His roommate at Williams, who was on the sailing team, taught him a simple cure: soda crackers to settle the stomach, and keeping your eyes on the horizon, tricking your inner ear into thinking you’re standing still. But you can hardly expect it to work here, he thinks, inhaling the smell of instant noodles and Happy Meals blowing up from the lower deck, with a folder of documents in your bag that spells the end of a man’s career. The deck tilts slightly, and he grips the arms of the chair, staring fixedly at the dim silhouettes of mountains in the distance.
Excuse me?
He turns and sees a young girl sitting in the chair next to him, and beyond her, a tiny old man, holding a cane across his lap. Sorry, she says haltingly. My grandfather says you must have some sea illness. Is it true?
He nods, not knowing what to do.
He says the best thing is to sleep, the girl says. Not stay out here. There are too much noises and bad smells. She stands up, and the old man stands, too, and beckons to him, pointing at the door. For a moment he stays where he is, wanting to say, No, I’m all right. But how would she translate this; what would the old man think of his courtesy? He stands up, shakily, and follows them inside. The upstairs cabin is nearly empty, perhaps a little quieter. There, the girl says, pointing