Chris Song’s Note:  “The Charred City” conveys the manic restlessness Hongkongers felt after 1997. The story is set in the stifling social atmosphere of post-Handover Hong Kong, which was “charred”, ironically by pervasive celebratory fireworks. The protagonist, at the behest of his girlfriend, investigates the mysterious disappearance of a tenant who has left behind a message resembling a suicide note. Through the emails written by the tenant, the protagonist feels an implicit connection and identification with her…

In the heart, there’s a pane of glass, unopenable, impassable, yet to shatter it forcefully, I fear a price in blood must be paid.

When fate cannot be broken, one has to leave.

—“Althusser”

i.
◯

This is a case where there’s only a suicide note but no body, and it’s unclear whether it’s a suicide or a homicide. Of course, without a body, it can’t be considered a murder, but since the client insists on the nature of the case, I shall treat it as such. Besides, as a private detective, I have no police authority to decide, so I just have to put the “customer first”.

The scene of the incident is a place called Ma Kau Lau in Sai Kung. The village house is three storeys high, and the suicide note was found on the second floor in a four hundred and fifty square feet unit, with two bedrooms and one living room. The furnishings inside can’t even be described as simple; there’s no furniture in the living room, just covered with colourful newspapers and a few empty cardboard boxes scattered around. One of the rooms was locked, and I couldn’t see inside, but intuition and smell were enough to be sure there was no one nor a body inside; the other room had only a mattress on the floor, next to it a suitcase full of clothes, and near the door, a black iron pot filled with whitened charcoal ash, the room still full of the scent of carbon. I forcefully tore off the tape and cloth curtains sealing the windows, pushed open a yellowed pane of glass, and was greeted by a large expanse of green grass. Perhaps because it had rained last night, the scent of the wind carried a bit of the pungent smell of grass and dew, which was refreshing. As this place is situated high, you can see a small corner of the sea in the distance. In this season of drizzling rain, the mountains and trees, grass and sea all have vague outlines that make one’s vision waver.

When my gaze returned from the window to the room, I was suddenly unable to focus due to the strong contrast in light, and the mattress, suitcase, and iron pot in the room seemed to float—where did the body go? Did the person who committed suicide suddenly become enlightened and leave as a living person? Or was the victim of the murder moved elsewhere? Picking up the paper on the bed, who is “Althusser”? No matter how you look at it, this isn’t an ordinary name, especially since the landlady who hired me said the tenant’s last name was Yuen and first name Siu-dip (literally, “little butterfly”), also going by Annabel. Of course, “Yuen Siu-dip” doesn’t sound like a person’s name either, a bit eerie! It seems my luck is doubly bad this time, first being forced by my live-in girlfriend Yan to take over this case of “tenant missing, rent overdue, suspected dead” from her aunt and then facing an empty house and a nonsensical suicide note (what does glass have to do with fate?) pondering whether this woman, called either “Althusser” or Yuen Siu-dip, has turned into a corpse!

Looking at my watch, it’s almost noon, I almost forgot I have a lunch date with Yan, I must leave quickly. Lately, she’s been like she’s caught the city’s prevalent “mania”, often liking to pull out the Basic Law of the Special Administrative Region to judge my habitual lateness.

As the car turned out of the intersection, I glanced at the village house in the rear-view mirror, grey-white, tranquil, even a bit gentle, then the fog slowly closed in, as if the woman’s hands were coming together in the wind as a gesture of farewell… At that moment, I didn’t realise that in the future, I would be inextricably linked with this woman’s shadow!

ii.
◯

“What’s happened? Any clues or tracks?”

Yan finally calmed down as I clumsily cut into my bleeding steak with a hesitant knife. I had arrived at the restaurant precisely fifteen minutes late, earning myself a severe glare from Yan, followed by a mutual silence as we browsed the menu, sipped water, and waited for the waiter’s attention. With the main course served, perhaps placated by the food, she inquired about the progress of the case, prompting me to share my findings from the morning’s investigation.

“So, a missing person’s case?”

“Perhaps, but can’t rule out suicide or murder…”

“Can’t find her or the body?”

“Yes, so I suggested he should get the cops involved. They’ve got the resources, the gear……”

“That’s a no-go, trust me. My aunt won’t have it. Blowing this up in the media? Forget about renting out the place again. It’ll be a haunted house. And let’s be real, going to the cops might just end up as another name on their list of missing persons. Between you and me, the police here can make a mess faster than they can solve one,” Yan said with confidence.

After five years as a secretary in a law firm, Yan’s tone had grown increasingly professional and eerily reminiscent of her boss, Han Sai-cheung, also the largest shareholder of K. Han Law Firm. His wife, once my employer, led me to surveil near the law firm to investigate his affair, which is how I met Yan. But that experience was far from pleasant; his wife and mistress brawled in the office, the police were called, and even Yan and I were taken to the station for questioning. Now, listening to Yan’s logic, shockingly similar to Han Sai-cheung’s phone conversations I once eavesdropped on, sent a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t quite place the origin of the fear, as I’m not one to think about several things at once: it’s my fatal flaw.

“Look, this could involve a human life! We can’t take it lightly. We can’t just shrug it off. The cops might be our best shot, especially if there’s a chance of foul play.”

“But if she’s already gone, either way, what can anyone do?”

“We gotta stay ahead of the curve, you know? Stop a tragedy before it’s too late.”

“Sure, but no crime yet means the police are hands-off. Our hands are tied!”

“Not quite. No crime yet means we’ve still got a chance to change the outcome. We need to find her, get her help, or keep her safe!”

“First…” Yan took a sip of her soup and then looked up at me with a glint in her eyes, sharp as scissors, cutting into my gaze: “First of all, you think the cops can actually track her down? Second, do we even know if she’s, you know, still kicking? Plus, my aunt just wanted you to chase down the rent dodger, not crack some murder mystery or whatever.”

I bowed my head and sipped my soup, as Yan’s voice climbed higher, a strange behaviour this past month. When her voice hits the octave, her mania reaches a boiling point, and that’s when the tableware bears the brunt. In such situations, “silence” has the best cooling effect, even though the soup in front of me was sour, thick, and spicy, and no comfort to my stomach.

“Let’s just drop it, shall we? You wrap up my aunt’s case; she’ll make it worth your while.” Yan’s smile returned, motherly and cajoling, but it made me uncomfortable.

“And here,” she said, slipping on her coat and standing up, “is something from her. The key to the other room in the apartment, where it all went down. She dug it up last night, thought you might need it. I’m off to the grindstone again—keep me posted, okay?”

I took the key, cold and hard metal stinging my hand, making even swallowing difficult. After watching Yan leave, I finally had space in my ears and mind to notice the piano accompaniment of the Japanese drama Love Generation playing in the restaurant. I lit a cigarette unconsciously, only to remember it was a non-smoking establishment and hastily snuffed it out, leaning back in my chair to reminisce about the drama’s plot.

iii.
◯

It was a misty morning three days later when I returned to the scene of the “incident”. In the intervening days, consumed by the urgency of investigating two extramarital affairs—shadowing, eavesdropping, and photographing—I was as busy as one could be, feeling life and death hinged on the thinnest of threads, much like arranging a wedding or a funeral. Hence, I had utterly forgotten about the landlady aunt’s “case”. In this city, after the political Handover and the economic downturn, misfortune struck with an outbreak of avian influenza. The epidemic spread, sparing neither man nor beast, and with the government busy making an example of chickens to warn the monkeys, the controversies over “right of abode” and the “NPC’s interpretation of the law” set the whole city on edge. Meanwhile, people of all ages, wealthy or indebted, were preoccupied with business and love affairs up north. Daily news featured wives poisoning husbands with chicken soup before dismembering them, the photos more stomach-turning than any horror film’s special effects. Yet, amid this “mistress frenzy”, the detective agency saw a rare economic revival, inundated with cases—wives tracking husbands, husbands secretly checking on wives, and even children investigating parents. When extramarital affairs involved financial settlements, the only choice was all hands on deck or total annihilation!

Yan’s call came yesterday evening as I was pushing through the crowds at the Lo Wu border, having just captured the residence of a mistress in Huangbeiling village in Shenzhen. I was hurrying back to present my findings and collect my fee from the client, planning to rest the next day. But the lingering presence of the woman, known as either Althusser or Yuen Siu-dip, disrupted my plans. Resigned, I handed the film over to my assistant for development and found myself driving on the damp, misty roads to a scene devoid of a corpse.

Using the key Yan gave me, I opened that room, which, contrary to expectations, was not empty. Inside stood a table and a chair, with a computer and its mouse atop the table. The room, long uninhabited, was musty with a smell of mildew. I opened the sealed curtains and glass, letting the outside wind carry in the drizzle. It was a bit cold, but the presence of the computer and table was oddly comforting, at least lending credence to the belief that this had once been a space where someone lived.

After plugging in the power, I switched on the computer, hoping to find some information about the person of interest or even their whereabouts. But, unable to enter the password, I couldn’t access the main screen. Frustrated by another night of habitual insomnia, I felt a surge of anger but quickly calmed myself down. Anger wouldn’t solve anything, and as a private detective, I needed a clear head. So, I called on A and B, my assistants, to come over and bypass the computer’s password lock. Joe and Jane, a cohabiting couple, didn’t actually go by those names. They disdained their ordinary names for being too banal and common, choosing instead to be called Joe and Jane, arguing that Chow Yun-fat had also played extras before becoming an international superstar. They believed that someday they too would transform from extras into significant figures, though they hadn’t yet agreed on what kind of significant figures they would become.

Joe, who had studied computer engineering and specialised in hacking web pages—a skill not unlike our professional training as private detectives—appeared before me an hour later. During the wait, I dozed off in the chair, too exhausted to lie down on the mattress in the next room that might have been graced by a corpse. It took him about fifteen minutes to crack the computer’s defences and the screen lit up with the start-up message.

“Man, this system is a bit of a beast, trickier than I expected. Right now, I’ve only cracked into the email. There’re a bunch of image files, look like photos, but they’re locked tight for the moment. I’m gonna need to snag some fancy decryption tools to get at those, give me a few days. But hey, for now, steer clear of anything that’s not the inbox, alright? Wouldn’t want to jumble up the setup I’ve got going here,” Joe said, donning his coat with the air of an expert, as if he were wearing Mark’s coat in A Better Tomorrow.

“Got it, thanks.”

I walked Joe from the room to the door, yawning twice along the way. My memory was still sharp, thankfully, so I asked him, “Did you get the film developed from yesterday?”

“Yeah, all sorted. The client’s coming by the agency at two to pick them up.”

“Make sure to hand over the side chick’s timetable, the residency docs, and all that jazz from the desk, okay?”

“You got it, no sweat!” Joe was about to step out when he suddenly turned back, “just wondering, what’s the deal with this place? Feels like the back of beyond, right?”

“Working a cold one.”

“Okay. Got it.”

Joe always maintained professional ethics, knowing the art of what to ask and what not to. I believe he’ll surely become a significant figure one day.

iv.
◯

After Joe left, I went to the washroom to splash water on my face, a ritual to shake the cobwebs from my mind. Then I settled in front of the computer and opened the email inbox. Inside the “Sent” folder, there were several stored emails. I began with the first one—

From: althusser@hotmail.com
To: derrida@hotmail.com
Subject: The City’s Malaise

Derrida,

It’s been a month since I returned to Hong Kong, and my skin ailment shows no signs of healing. Red patches have developed, starting to ulcerate, and there’s a sensitivity to light, as if I were a leper. The air in Hong Kong is filthy, the water unclean, the black harbour is awash with refuse, and the city is steeped in an acidic stench. The clouds are a sullied grey, the roadside trees a withered brown, and the faces of people have a sickly yellow pallor. A morning cup of distilled water has me grappling with diarrhoea, lying on the floor, feeling the concrete’s damp, unyielding hardness. In the afternoon, walking the streets of Central, the vehicular din throbs in my ears, a pulsing motor noise that hammers against the left atrium of my heart all night, as though my blood were reversing, retreating from the consciousness in my brain. I dreamt of returning to California’s sunshine and beaches, where the pale sand is kind and the sea is a warm, embracing presence, yet the sun there is monotonous and lonely, prompting my return. But I came back to find the city itself afflicted with a skin disease, festering from the inside out, oozing, cracking, peeling. Despite the government’s daily slaughter of chickens, I still manage to eat chicken fillets with celery and curry chicken rice, their clucking in my ears a seeming indictment, asking why the sick people and city aren’t the ones being executed, why the sick chickens, who didn’t choose their illness. Indeed, falling ill wasn’t my choice either. What’s wrong with my body? Must it decay from within? Or has the city reached the end of days, beginning with its own destruction? Yesterday morning I read a piece of news—a woman eviscerated her husband, ground his bones for soup, his flesh for barbecue pork buns. The colourful news photos showed a chopping board, iron pot, and cleaver—Derrida, I can’t bring myself to visit the dim sum restaurants anymore.

—Althusser

The computer screen scrolled slowly downward, my fingers on the mouse gradually stiffening, an itch creeping up my scalp and neck. Just as I read “barbecue pork buns,” a chill draft swept in from the window, shaking my body with a jolt, followed by a metallic knock that nearly sent me tumbling from my seat.

The visitor was the landlady, her hair silvered, face etched with deep lines, eyes downturned in inverted triangles, and a chin that stretched long. For some reason, her familiar features, suddenly framed as if by a wide-angle lens of a movie camera, seemed grotesquely stretched and pulled out of shape. Her approach forced me—chair and all—to retreat a step backward.

“Yuk, what have you found? Can the rent be recovered? It’s all I have until my day of lying down in a coffin!”

“Whoa, let’s not talk about coffins, okay?” I scrambled to gather my things, readying to flee, and blurted out a hurried lie, “There’s a lead. I’ve copied down some information and am heading to the immigration office now to check her travel records. If she’s still in Hong Kong, the rent won’t slip away.”

“That’s a relief. She seemed so demure, so quiet and neat, I thought she was trustworthy. Who knew she’d turn out like the last tenant, ducking out on the rent.”

“How did you come to rent the place to her?”

“What do you mean how? She came to me.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. What does she do for a living? Where’s her family? Does she have any close friends?”

“How am I supposed to know? Just back from Australia, she claimed. Searching for a job. She was all calm and collected. Handed over US bucks. Fluent in English, too. Figured she’d find work easy. Gave me three months’ rent, all upfront. Fresh, green cash. Seemed straightforward, just light luggage. I didn’t think twice, rented out the space. Never guessed she’d duck out on the rent.”

The landlady’s rapid-fire phrases had my head spinning.

“Australia or California?”

“Isn’t it the same?” she retorted with her piercing triangular gaze.

“Yes, of course, it’s the same. So, her name is really Yuen Siu-dip? Have you seen her ID or passport? Any other names, perhaps?”

“If I call her Miss Yuen, isn’t it obvious she’s a Yuen? How am I to know all that? The ID and passport are all in English, how would I understand? What does this have to do with the rent?”

“Nothing, nothing, I understand. I’m off to recover your rent now. Goodbye.” I dashed down the stairs, leaving her echoes in the empty house.

It was only after I’d plunged into the car that I remembered I hadn’t copied down Althusser’s email address. Who is Althusser? A key figure, perhaps. Just one email to them, or even a meeting, might bring the truth tumbling out like stones once the water recedes.

As I drove away from Ma Kau Lau, the weather began to clear, sunlight piercing through the cloud fissures, casting a prism of colours across my windshield.

v.
◯

“So, this Yuen girl, she might’ve skipped town, huh?”

“Can’t be sure. A friend at the registry says there’s no record of her name. She could’ve used a fake ID, now maybe she’s under another, lurking in some city corner.”

“How’d my aunt rent to her without an ID? Didn’t she check any documents when signing the lease?”

“Asked her, got nothing but chaos back. No help at all.”

Dining at home with Yan had become our bespoke weekend evening ritual. The workweek demanded a relentless pace, darting from one corner of the city to another, so these rare days of rest we coveted a tranquil interlude in the steady space of home.

Tonight, Yan presented a departure from the usual, her attire meticulously chosen a vision in a silver chiffon gown with a faux-diamond butterfly brooch, her hair woven into braids secured with ribbons, evoking images of a fairy-tale bride en route to her wedding in a horse-drawn carriage. Her face was delicately powdered, the blush and frosting lending a sweetness as tender as a cream cake, her lips tinted a soft rose, glistening like petals dropped in water, each smile rippling with an inviting charm that tempts one to lean in for a stolen kiss. As we broached the topic of her aunt’s unresolved case over dinner, a macabre subject indeed, the suspense it wove into our conversation added an indefinable layer of mystery to the meal, as if ethereal thoughts hovered in the air around us, casting a spell of enchantment over Yan’s already bewitching ensemble.

“Seems Miss Yuen’s a rent-dodger, using different names, scamming her way to free stays.”

“Not so fast. I read an email of hers. Looks like she’s genuinely job-hunting back from abroad, sensitive sort. She’s not bad, just… untraceable right now.”

“The aunt’s flying to Canada tomorrow, wants the case wrapped before she’s back. Rent or no rent, can’t have the place empty. We need to let it again it pronto, get it?”

“Crystal clear. I’ll do my best.”

Yan smiles, pleased, like a blossom falling—only to be sliced by the stark chime of the clock.

“Shall we have some red wine?” Yan’s suggestion met no objection from me, though a shadow of concern lingered. The past month had seen her temper flared by the antics of a new intern at the law firm, her hours lengthened beyond reason. Our encounters were often marred by her solitary sullenness or critical tirades over my smallest faults, sometimes escalating to the hurling of dishes in a fit of rage—such tender tranquillity was rare. The unexpected romance of the moment left me somewhat flustered, nearly spilling wine onto Yan’s dress.

“Yuk…” A Yan began, then halted, enveloped suddenly in silence, the wine tasting faintly sour.

“Yeah?” I scooted closer, noticing she was wearing a new perfume, the fragrance of jasmine.

“Should we get married?” Her eyes were clear and bright, as luminous as the faux-diamonds at her throat.

“Why the sudden thought?”

“It’s been five years. Time to make it official.”

“Isn’t this good enough? Why fix what isn’t broken?”

“I’ll be thirty soon. They say it’s riskier to have kids after that. The kids might be less healthy or smart.”

“But we agreed—no kids, right? Too busy for that with everything going on in life.”

“The agency’s steady now. I can quit the firm, focus on our home.”

“I’m not against marriage. Just don’t want kids.”

“So why marry at all?”

“You’re marrying just for kids?”

“Why not? A family without kids just doesn’t feel whole. And they say if a woman hasn’t had a child, she’s not really complete, you know?”

“Who’s saying that? Don’t I know whether you’re a ‘complete woman’?”

“Can you not joke right now? I’m serious. I really want to have a kid or two with you, you know, to have a happy life and someone for us when we’re old.”

“What century are we in? You still buy into that ‘raising kids for security in old age’ idea? And if you really love me, you’d get why I’m not keen on having kids.”

“I get it, you were raised by relatives, but that doesn’t stop you from being a great dad!”

“You just don’t get it. Raising kids is a lifetime responsibility. Are we ready for that? Plus, look at the mess of a world we’d bring them into. U.S. throwing its weight around, tensions across the strait, endless Israel-Palestine conflict, not to mention pollution, AIDS, poverty, nuclear, terrorism…”

“That’s got nothing to do with us!” Yan’s voice rose, eyes reddening with anger, lips whitening with shock.

“How can it not? We live here! This is the world our kids would inherit!”

“That’s an excuse!”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s the reality!”

With a sudden move, Yan stood up, trembling in her silvery chiffon dress, her voice cracking like a heart being crushed. Feeling a pang of sadness, I tried to soften my voice, gently touching her shoulder as I tried to explain, “Look, Yan, I’m not against getting married. We can sign those papers once your aunt’s case is done. But having kids? That’s not in my plan. You get that, right?”

“If we’re not having kids, then what’s the point of marrying?” She shrugged off my arm.

“Is it just about kids for you? Is that why you want to marry me?”

“Or maybe you don’t want to marry me at all, and that’s why you’re against having kids!”

Her line of questioning hit me out of left field, reminding me so much of Han Sai-cheung that it sparked an uncontrollable aversion within me, “No, I’ll say it again. Marriage, yes. Kids, no!”

The sound of shattering glass followed, red wine splattered everywhere like spilled blood, impossible to undo.

After Yan left, the room fell silent, save for a persistent buzzing in my ears, probably the aftermath of that glass breaking. It whirled inside me, a lingering sorrow I couldn’t reclaim. Before she stormed out, Yan had angrily discarded her dress on the couch. It lay there, looking for a moment like a bridal gown and then, suddenly, like a garment for a funeral. Happiness and ruin are that close, leaving no room for choice.

I turned on the TV to fill the silence with some semblance of reality, to clear my thoughts. Why did Yan suddenly want kids? In the past month, she’d been so volatile, almost manically upset with herself and everyone else. Was it related to getting married or having kids? Her tone had started to echo Han Sai-cheung’s, sometimes repeating his exact words—fear gripped me at the thought. I made myself a hot coffee with no sugar in the kitchen and lit a cigarette, watching the smoke intertwine with the steam, rising, then sinking into oblivion…

vi.
◯

Sleep eluded me last night, and by morning my head felt like an unclaimed object, throbbing with foreign pain. I thought it better to dive into work rather than lie in bed tangled in restless thoughts, so I found myself back at the scene of the case, reopening Yuen Siu-dip’s emails.

Sender: althusser@hotmail.com
Recipient: derrida@hotmail.com
Subject: The City’s Resonance

Derrida,

Here I am, nestled in the bushes across from the high-rise for eight hours now. February skies like a widow’s mourning veil, and the wind, a widower’s anguished cries. The street lamps come to life one by one, like orphans without a home to return to. Hunger sets in, my legs ache; a lone sandwich at noon has been my sustenance while standing vigil here, not even a bathroom break until my relief arrives. Yes, I’m hungry and weary but not alone. Others are stationed around me, armed with digital camcorders and cameras, on high alert, while across the street, a huddle of teens in Nicholas Tse-style garb—coloured sunglasses, heavy metal necklaces, shiny leather pants, printed bandanas, silver rings, slung bags, and paired-wing tattoos—have been camped out since last night. Unlike me, they’re here to catch a glimpse of their idol, hoping for a photo op. Me? I’m on the prowl for evidence of a new romance, if any, involving their idol. What tedious work this is! Is Nicholas Tse breaking up with Faye Wong? Is he roaming the night with Cecilia Cheung? What does it matter to me? Why must I repeat the cycle, lifting my lens toward someone else’s window? I used to track some washed-up tycoon’s sex scandal with starlets, and now it’s a pop singer’s love triangle. What’s next? Isn’t it all the same formula, the same old story? Studying photography in California, I thought shooting seals and sea lions on the beach was monotonous. Now, I long for those days—their eyes and noses were far more appealing than any celebrity’s window. Derrida, why must we work to live? Whose grand design is this? If it’s a must, why not have more viable options? If this is survival of the fittest, does it mean those who can’t adapt don’t deserve to live? No wonder the city’s winters grow longer and colder. Did you hear? Another group of overstayers was deported back to the mainland this morning, and there’s nothing but curse words on the streets and in the eateries, labelling these expired residents as parasites, greedy and vicious… I don’t know them, but where does this teeth-gritting hatred stem from? My grandmother was from Guangzhou; I’m descended from mainland immigrants myself, so I suppose I’m also a target of these curses. Besides, I’m not eloquent; I can’t wedge into any disputes. Perhaps that’s why the paper has me on celebrity gossip duty! (They say I don’t need to interview anyone, just get the pictures, and we can make up the captions.) Yes, I dislike talking, this city’s too loud anyway. Everyone’s in love with their own voice, drowning out the next person’s whisper, yet nobody wants to listen. So, I’m assaulted by layers of noise—cars, cell phones, jackhammers, excavators, subway ads, the chatter of men, women, children, the elderly. Come dusk, I look up to a birdless sky, sealed by clouds. The city’s quarrels are suffocated beneath heavy clouds, even the sounds seem sick. I snap a photo of the empty expanse, and feel a moment’s peace, then hear a bird’s call… It’s eleven at night now. No sign of Nicholas Tse coming down or returning, nor of my relief. Am I destined to crouch in a corner like a mouse with body odour for the rest of my days? Derrida, the sky is a widow’s face, the wind a widower’s lament, and the street lamps and I are taken for granted, mere adornments for the city’s sleepless nights…

—Althusser

Her work and mine were disturbingly alike—both of us intruding into the private lives of others. Her subjects were public figures, her audience the consumer’s gaze, while my tools were merely the skills for making a living. Thus, I understood her—a countless number of hours standing watch, often for nothing. Yet, my thinking isn’t as convoluted as hers; making a living always requires compromise. Switching professions wouldn’t necessarily mean a more comfortable life, especially with the mortgage far from paid off, and Yan’s clamouring for marriage… The thought of Yan tightened something inside me. It was then that the door opened, and A, shouldering his bag, entered. It took nearly an hour to crack the computer’s image encryption, and slowly, a hazy photo illuminated the screen—vague wisps of clouds and a few sparrows in distant flight.

“What is this, some kind of art piece?” Joe always liked to channel his inner Chow Yun-fat from An Autumn’s Tale.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll handle the rest,” I brushed him off.

“Alright then, I’m off.”

“Hold up.” I hesitated, lacking a better plan, I instructed him firmly, “Joe, I have a case for you, off the record. Don’t breathe a word to anyone. I need you to dig into K. Han Law Firm’s Han Sai-cheung. Find out who his current mistress is. Once you have a name, find out… find out if she’s pregnant, will you?”

“Han Sai-cheung’s at it again? Extramarital affairs and maybe a love child? Our agency could thrive for fifty years on his scandals alone!”

“Cut the sarcasm. This is serious. And remember, this investigation is top secret. Report back to me only.”

“Got it, you can count on me. I’m excellent at keeping secrets!”

“That’s good to hear. I trust you’ll do well.” Seldom did I offer such personal praise, which seemed to throw Joe off balance. He shrugged, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed downstairs, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl upwards, a snare for birds, and my mind drifted back to Yuen Siu-dip’s emails. Compelled, I sat down and typed out a brief message to the one called “Derrida”.

vii.
◯

It’d been two weeks since I last saw Yan, since our quarrel that had severed our contact as if she had vanished from this city altogether. We had our share of rows before, but weekends were our truce, marked by Yan arriving with fresh groceries to cook in my kitchen, a ritual that mended our rifts. These past weekends, however, were spent either alone with takeout or bustling about, working. At this time, I’d wrapped up cases involving Shenzhen mistresses and a missing pet, yet Yuen Siu-dip’s case remains in limbo, the email to Derrida bounced back with a digital shrug, declaring the address undeliverable, non-existent. Was Derrida once real, now a ghost in the machine, or always just fictional? The clarity I sought remained elusive. Initially, I was disheartened, teetering on the brink of surrender. My relationship with Yan seemed to be in its fall, dangling by a thread, and the landlady’s troubles could well end in an ellipsis. But Yan’s sudden silence had left an indelible mark, an unease that refused to let me be. It’d led me back to Yuen Siu-dip’s computer and room, sifting through her emails, uncovering a world view that strangely began to intersect with my own. In a way, her sensitive take on life offered solace to my hollowed spirits, creating a resonance between us—an unexpected kinship born of shared solitude.

From: althusser@hotmail.com
To: derrida@hotmail.com
Subject: The Charred City

Derrida,

Remember how you wanted to see my grandmother’s photo? I had to sneak the office scanner home—no small feat—to get this image digitised and sent to you. As you know, friends are scarce for me, so I had no one to turn to for help. I’m invisible enough that no one notices one wayward scanner. Isn’t my grandmother beautiful? This is her in her youth, named Yuen Siu-dip, a member of a Cantonese opera troupe in Guangzhou. Though she only ever played maids and ladies-in-waiting, I still think she was remarkable—she even performed in anti-Japanese war efforts with her troupe! When did I start borrowing her name? It was the winter of 1997. That summer, Hong Kong was handed over,’ and my husband decided on divorce, claiming my reclusive nature was an obstacle to his career—while others glittered at endless socialites, I was home alone, lost in books and music, blissfully unaware that such solitude was a fault. When I sought to change, it was too late; he’d found a more “suitable” match, and my fate was sealed. That fall, as my grandmother passed away, I wondered if my marital failure had shortened her days. With only alimony in hand, I found myself alone in California. That’s when I began telling people my name was Yuen Siu-dip. Was it an act of penance, a way to resurrect her, or a desperate attempt to shed my own skin, burdened with old memories? One thing’s for sure: I failed. I spent days retching, convulsing, vomiting black, then yellow, white, and finally clear, as if being emptied out, feeling lighter yet heavy with existence. It wasn’t until I landed a part-time photography gig at an aquarium in California, perhaps the salt air, that I began to heal. Returning to find Hong Kong transformed into a charred city, with fireworks masking gunfire, islands and suburbs turned to carbon monoxide dens for the suicidal. The smog, the flares, my skin began to ulcerate, my voice turned hoarse, and I had to escape somewhere desolate. I thought proximity to nature would heal me, but lately, I’ve started to fear light and sound again, even sunshine and birdsong are unbearable. Derrida, I think I’ll soon meet my grandmother. I borrowed her name, hoping for rebirth, yet I couldn’t shed the old skin. I wonder if she, ever the optimistic and strong, would chide me? But I can’t walk any further; the charred city lulls one into lethargy, exhausted. When will the cluttered, gasping places pause their dying breaths?

—Althusser

This was Yuen Siu-dip’s last email, with an attachment: a black and white photo of her grandmother. Honestly, she wasn’t exceptionally beautiful, but the photo exuded a historical aura due to its age. Regrettably, Yuen Siu-dip did not include her own picture, leaving me unable to discern the appearance of the person who sought rebirth through her grandmother’s name. Indeed, the act of borrowing a name is inherently contradictory; how can one truly start afresh with an old name? Therefore, it seemed inevitable that Yuen Siu-dip was destined to retrace the steps of her past, continuing to be an outcast in this world. Of course, I can’t claim to fully understand her, but in my current state, I can empathise with that feeling of being discarded, that sense of one’s existence being wholly negated, leaving one floundering, unsure of how to cope. So, one might desperately cling to something—anything—to fill the void, even if it leads to an end.

Having finished reading the email, dawn had broken, but the impenetrable cloud layer suggested an undecided sky. I stretched vigorously by the window, and just then, my cell phone began to buzz insistently.

viii.
◯

When I arrived at Chater Garden in Central at dusk, I was intentionally thirty minutes late from the time we’d agreed upon.

The garden was serene in the evening, devoid of the daytime bustle and protest marches, with only couples nestled in dark corners, exchanging tender nothings like woodpeckers in soft chatter. In truth, I shouldn’t have chosen to come here, yet I couldn’t fathom the twisted psychology that drove me to revisit this place of old. Yes, in the days before owning my private detective agency, Yan and I would often bring homemade lunches or sandwiches to this very spot, chatting and dining. Back then, Yan brimmed with romantic whimsies—Nepal, the Maldives, Vietnam, Paris, and Tokyo had all been contenders for our dream honeymoon. Now, those days felt as if they’d been swept far away, like dust-covered glass: brittle, cold, blurred, and distant. A face pressed against it only mirrors in the cracks of time, aging all too swiftly—and in a fleeting moment, I was reminded of Yuen Siu-dip’s note left in her room.

Approaching the appointed spot by the fountain, I found Joe just finishing his dinner box. Perhaps it was my own mind playing tricks, but when he looked up at me, his expression seemed tinged with an odd hue of peculiarity.

“Sorry I’m late, hope dinner hit the spot?” I tossed out the question, feeling like a stranger to my own voice.

“Dinner was good! What about you, had something to eat?” Joe asked, tucking away his lunchbox and digging out his notepad.

“Yeah, I’ve eaten.” The lie came easily; no point in dragging someone into my lack of appetite.

“I’ve wrapped up that investigation you wanted.”

“And? What’s the scoop?” I could feel a bead of sweat trickling down my back.

“Han’s playing house with a new flame. A Miss Hong Kong runner-up, Man Lai-wan, holed up in a villa at Hong Kong Parkview.”

The tension drained from me in an instant. The surprise left me tongue-tied.

“Also checked out Wen Liyun’s health records. No baby on board yet.”

“Really? That’s great news! I’ll make sure you get a bonus tomorrow.” With the edge off, my stomach reminded me of its emptiness. Time to eat, then dial Yan for that overdue apology.

“But…” Joe’s usual confidence wavered. I wondered which of Chow Yun-fat’s characters was coming through.

“What?”

“Well, poking around Han’s affair, I stumbled onto something else.”

“What kind of something?”

“He’s got this trainee lawyer, Chow Man-kei. Word is, he’s a relative from his wife’s family. Han’s got a soft spot for him, even set him up with a love nest in the village. Snapped a pic by accident yesterday, and the lady…”

“Who was it? It’s okay, you can tell me.” My words felt heavy and dull.

“It’s Yan.”

“I see.” My newfound calmness snapped like a twig. I fought to steady the world tilting around me.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

“Only bits and pieces. Thought it was Han… What’s Chow’s deal?”

“He’s thirty-two, freshly back from the U.K., a bachelor. The golden boy of his family, doctor daddy…”

“Unmarried?” There goes the adultery angle, I thought bitterly.

“About Yan’s medical records—I didn’t get to that part yet. Should I?”

“No. Drop it.”

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Joe finally began to pack up, ready to leave.

“Why’d you dump this on me? If you’d handled it yourself, no one else would be wiser…”

“Does that make me a coward?”

“Not necessarily. It’s a mess, isn’t it? If I found out something was up with Jane, I’d probably lean on you too—for a bit of distance, a clear head.”

“Thanks, Joe. That means a lot.”

After Joe left, I didn’t head home. Instead, I found myself in the nearby public toilet, surrendering to an uncontrolled bout of vomiting. The expelled matter was black at first, then yellowed, turned white, and finally clear… Slumped on the toilet floor, a sense of emptiness washed over me, legs too weak to stand, too sour to move. Occasionally, men came and went, casting indifferent glances before departing. I lost track of time in that toilet; when I finally staggered out, the park was deserted. Lurching to a nearby convenience store, I gathered a few necessities and then drove straight to Yuen Siu-dip’s vacant house. The night was quiet, the road cold, trees colourless in the dark, the pavement lit only by the scattered reflection of headlights—bearing silent witness to the city’s numerous charred lives…

May 30, 2002

How to cite: Song, Chris and Lok Fung. “The Charred City.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 29 Apr. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/04/29/charred-city.

Lok Fung (the pen name of Natalia Chan) is a poet and cultural critic. She received her PhD at the University of California, San Diego in 2001. She had been the Jury of Taipei Golden Horse Film Festival in 1998, and the anchor of Radio Hong Kong’s Performing Arts programme from 2005 to 2016. Lok Fung acts as the dramaturge of the dance drama Chinese Hero: A Lone Exile, performed by the Hong Kong Dance Company in 2016. She is currently Adjunct Assistant Professor at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Her research interests include cultural and film theory, gender studies, popular culture, performance studies, comparative literature, cross-dressing and fashion.

Her publications in Chinese include six volumes of poetry, nine volumes of cultural criticism and four volumes of short stories and prose. Her book of poems Flying Coffin received the 9th Biennial Award for Chinese Literature in 2007. Her critical work Butterfly of Forbidden Colors: The Artistic Image of Leslie Cheung received the Hong Kong Book Prize as well as “The Best Book of the Year” in 2008. In 2016, Lok Fung was awarded “Artist of the Year in the Arts Criticism Category” by the Hong Kong Arts Development Council (ADC), and “City Contemporary Dance Laureate” by the City Contemporary Dance Company. She was once again awarded “Artist of the Year”, this time in the Literary Arts Category, by the ADC in 2023.

Chris Song (translator) is a poet, editor, and translator from Hong Kong, and is an assistant professor in English and Chinese translation at the University of Toronto Scarborough. He won the “Extraordinary Mention” of the 2013 Nosside International Poetry Prize in Italy and the Award for Young Artist (Literary Arts) of the 2017 Hong Kong Arts Development Awards. In 2019, he won the 5th Haizi Poetry Award. He is a founding councilor of the Hong Kong Poetry Festival Foundation, executive director of the International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong, and editor-in-chief of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine. He also serves as an advisor to various literary organisations. [Hong Kong Fiction in Translation.]

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