The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [45]
No.
Opium, Ford says. The crack cocaine of the nineteenth century. In a few years everyone in south China was smoking it, and the British were making so much that the Chinese were running out of money. Literally. Not enough silver to pay the bills up in Shanghai. By the time the emperor started looking at a map, the British had their warships sitting in Hong Kong Harbor and there wasn’t anything he could do.
I’m not following you, Marcel says.
You’re smart, Marcel, Ford says. All those East Coast schools. But sometimes I think you don’t have enough dirt under your fingernails. When I was your age we were paying off witnesses at the Pacific Gas fire down in Orange County. We were giving briefcases of cash to burned men in hospital beds. Should I go on?
Don’t, Marcel says. His hands are trembling; he thrusts them into his pockets. For God’s sake. Enough.
We want power, Ford says. Isn’t that right? We want a seat at the table. But nobody is innocent, Marcel. We’re the last people on earth who can afford not to know that. Take my advice. Don’t make waves. Listen carefully—and let them know you’re listening. Someday your silence will be worth so much they’ll bankrupt themselves trying to pay you off.
He stands up and holds out his hand.
Tomorrow I want you to meet me down at Exchange Square, he says. There’s some friends I want to introduce you to. Business partners. You’d be amazed at the opportunities that come your way in a place like this.
When they step outside the gate Vinh lights a kerosene lantern, which crackles and sparks and gives off a whiff of greasy smoke. You watch your step, she says. Sometimes there are snakes in the road. Be careful. Follow close behind.
I will, he says. There are insects singing all around them, unfamiliar clicks and chirps, and a low hum that reminds him of crickets, the sound of late summer evenings in Yonkers. He feels a strange sense of clearness, of spaciousness; the sensations of the world are almost unbearably vivid. The white glow of the lantern wick. The distant buzz of a motor scooter. The faint smell of incense. A small girl’s voice, shouting something he can’t understand.
Do you know Mr. Ford for a long time? Vinh’s voice comes out of the darkness.
Not really. I met him five years ago.
You are maybe a little afraid of him.
He speeds his pace, until he is walking alongside her. Of course I am, a little, he says. He has a lot of power. He’s very important. But why do you say that?
She turns her head and looks at him earnestly, her eyebrows drawn together. There is no need to be afraid, she says. He is a good man.
Sure he is, Marcel is about to say, but the words stick in his throat, and he only nods.
When I met him I did not speak English at all. Three years ago. He gives me tapes and books. Every day we have lessons. He is a good teacher.
And you are a good student. Your English is excellent.
Also he teaches me the Internet, she says. Online investments. Already I have made a little money. A pair of large moths dance around the lantern, and she brushes them away. I think the black Americans must be very generous, she says. Hong Kong people are not like this.
Marcel laughs softly. Not all black Americans, he says. We’re all different. Mr. Ford is—well, Mr. Ford is special.
She nods, as if considering this idea carefully.
Vinh, he says, you’re not from Hong Kong, are you? How did you come here?
From Cambodia, she says. A wisp of hair has come loose from her braid; she pushes it away from her forehead. I was a refugee. I live in the camps for a long time.
And your family?
She looks over his shoulder with a distracted smile. My parents are dead, she says. A long time ago. During the war. I have two sisters in Siem Reap.
They reach the bottom of the hill and pass along the waterfront; the seafood restaurants are crowded with families, shouting conversations across enormous round tables. The ferry