Sai Kung 西貢 meant us leaving our colonial-era civil service flat I moved into on the night of our first date.
It meant swapping a balcony no longer overlooking Kowloon 九龍 and Tsim Sha Tsui 尖沙咀
after high-rises went up,
for the waterfront and dragon boats, slender, long,
rows and rows of benches for oarsmen
paddling, yelling, straining to banging drums.
Yellow, red, green and blue,
moored in the bay,
rising and dipping with the tide,
waiting for their dragon heads, dragon tails,
drums and crews.
It meant feral cows wandering the streets, stopping cars, unaware of the traffic code.
It meant swapping our weekly shopping at City Super,
steaks and oyster shots at Dan Ryan’s in Festival Walk
for the covered wet market.
Sunday strolls through the old town,
fish, curing on the pavements in the sun, salted.
Musky, pungent making our lungs contract, forcing shallow breath.
Preserved pressed duck, sticky, golden, glistening,
hanging in shop windows. Pork sausages, red, bright, fatty.
It meant Mobile Softee ice cream 雪糕車 from my childhood,
sold from a truck,
parked, engine running,
at the promenade by the green taxi stand.
Sai Kung meant
bearing him babies one, two and three.
It meant
him sitting opposite me on our bed,
stretching my perineum with his right thumb,
holding a white and blue fine bone china cup of olive oil in his other hand.
By the time I was heavily pregnant with baby one,
he was captured by his laptop
at the dining table,
writing the first lines of code
for our startup.
Sai Kung meant my womb stretched full,
driving into town for work.
Bringing money home.
Studying for licensing exams.
Cooking.
Cleaning.
Mopping.
Me asking him
to empty the wastewater bucket,
him saying, “wait”, all afternoon.
It meant me losing my shit
at being alone,
at holding it alone.
It meant baby one, ten days late.
Michelle telling me to have daily intercourse, to try to orgasm,
for him to ejaculate as near my cervix as he could.
It meant my milk not coming in.
Then breasts bursting,
unable to express through cracked nipples.
Skin flaking, raw and burning.
Yeast infections.
Baby one crying all night, night after night.
Me fighting back tears,
eyes swollen, red,
needing sleep.
Him rocking her, cradled in his left arm,
holding a syringe in his right hand,
dripping milk, formula into her mouth, his arms frozen numb.
By our second baby,
the shopkeepers in the town called me smiling “always pregnant wife”, 永遠懷孕嘅老婆.
Sai Kung meant
bringing home
a rescue dog we named China.
Him walking China every morning,
jumping into the ocean.
It meant
him walking China and another rescue pup we called Cuba,
baby two in the BabyBjörn,
baby one sitting on his shoulders,
two dogs on leashes in front,
walking down the hill
and along the oceanside.
Sai Kung meant
our classic cream Mercedes,
upholstered in rich green leather,
unable to go another mile,
him uninstalling
his CD changers,
amps and speakers,
slowly,
carefully.
It meant me finding him his Batmobile.
A long, low, crouching dark green V8 Jaguar
with heavy cream leather upholstery.
Zeus Turn seats for babies one and two on the rear bench.
An open-top Miata,
then a Boxster, black for me.
It meant me buying him a Harley for his birthday.
By the time there were two daughters,
the first lines of code,
became staff,
working from our rooftop office.
Then an office down the road.
Then a fishpond filled with koi.
Blinding white and red.
Red and shiny black.
Golden bright.
We bought the koi together in Mong Kok 旺角.
It meant him carrying China to the vet, her dying before she turned three.
He cried. I took him to Grissini in Wanchai. He cried some more.
I only cried this week taking Symi first her annual vaccination, remembering China and our life in Sai Kung.
Sai Kung meant
driving past our dream home,
for years.
Then it suddenly becoming available.
Us moving in,
right by the water.
It meant him disappearing into our startup
with his team,
me driving into town every day,
early, before my house woke,
20 mins heating up brakes and tires instead of 90 mins stuck in traffic,
to sell in private banking.
I held the house,
I funded our startup.
I got back late, my babies were already back in bed.
By the time I fled to Koh Samui,
he was working and sleeping in the office.
By the time I got back to Hong Kong,
I had asked him to come back to the house.
Sai Kung meant
Friday dinners
and Sunday brunches at Jasper’s.
Bacon crispy,
waffles fluffy, golden.
Scrambled eggs runny for him,
well done for me and the babies.
Espresso for him.
Flat whites for me,
spooning extra foam into his cup.
Sing, with his Mancunian accent,
pouring us a bottle
when we only ordered two glasses of white.
It meant my babies, jumping into puddles laughing,
splashing water everywhere,
muddy shoes,
muddy everywhere,
me shouting, “No!”
Our nanny and him saying to me: “That’s their job!”
It meant strolling through the old town in sandals, open, flat.
Hair high in a bun,
Spaghetti straps,
my tattooed tiger crouching on my shoulder blade.
Fabric thin and airy
my hips leading where I walk.
Holding hands with him, fingers intertwined.
Buying spices for curries and Phở,
at shops attended by women sitting in plastic garden chairs.
Transistor radios blaring Chinese opera, Cantopop,
hectic loud reporting from the races in Sha Tin or Happy Valley.
Sai Kung meant lunch on Saturdays.
Ngau Lam Mein 牛腩麵,
steaming up the kitchen window by the minibus stop.
Pineapple buns 菠蘿包 and egg tarts 蛋撻.
Choi sum with oyster sauce 蠔油菜心.
It meant leaving the babies with their nanny.
Sneaking off for tapas on Saturday nights.
Holding fingertips, flirting.
Me pretending I didn’t notice him glancing down my top
over anchovies, prawns, paella
and Iberico ham melting on my tongue at Plaza Mayor.
It meant my hand on his crotch in the taxi back home.
Sneaking into our bedroom,
having him drop into deep sleep.
stepping into the shower,
tip-toeing into my babies'
watch them sleep,
me falling asleep pressing my bum into the small of his back.
It meant
weaning my girls
from breasts to ‘pink fish’ sushi
at the Japanese restaurant
across the road from Tung Hing hardware 同興五金建築材料行,
at the temple.
It meant the girls sitting on his shoulders at Chinese New Year,
watching the lion dance in front of Harrods 順之城家庭用品.
Drums banging.
Cymbals crashing,
piercing the air.
Colours flying high.
Sai Kung meant
introducing our babies
to ballet
at the Russian ballet school.
It meant applying make-up for dozens of little girls and boys,
watching babies one and two
appear onstage
for the Christmas ballet show at Hong Kong Academy,
Me giving them flowers
when collecting them afterwards.
It meant leaving private banking,
joining our startup,
working with him and our team,
side by side in Sai Kung.
Close to my babies,
or meeting clients and investors around the world.
Sometimes alone.
Often holding hands, fingers intertwined,
returning from Berlin pregnant.
It meant
shared birthday parties for the girls in princess dresses,
jumping on bouncy castles.
Cotton candy sticking to lips and hair.
Their godparents Nick and Louise,
Kate and John,
in our garden.
Birthday parties ending
with close friends staying
for steaks he grilled on the barbecue.
It meant
Sunday-morning quickies,
silent on linen white, cool and crisp,
before our girls took over our bed,
banishing him to the edge of our mattress.
The bed I slept in on our first night together.
Chinese.
Wood antique.
Carvings ancient.
The bed we made our babies.
The bed that followed us to Portugal, then France.
The bed that holds me and him,
many schools and school terms after the girls stopped climbing in
for Nemo and croissants.
