Page 30 of Don't Point at the Moon

“Fine, then.”

One thing in Zane’s favour—he didn’t seem fazed at all about lugging his case up multiple flights of stairs to Mitchell’s apartment despite the heat and humidity flooding the stairwells. He seemed more put out by Mitchell’s rule that shoes were not to be worn in the flat. Showing Zane around the tiny apartment took no time, with Mitchell saving Zane’s room for last.

“This will be yours for the duration. Not much, I know, but you should have everything you need. There’s a bath towel at the foot of the bed. There’s also an Octopus card with two hundreddollars loaded. Keep that in your wallet. You can use it on buses and trains—”

“I know the deal. We have Oyster cards back home.”

“Similar concept, except you can use this one in convenience stores to buy drinks or snacks. For the record, all forms of public transport, including taxis, are fairly inexpensive. And most taxi drivers speak a degree of English. But just in case, I’ve got a laminated card—business-card size—for you to keep in your wallet, which has our address in English and Chinese. If the driver doesn’t understand you, just show them the card.”

Mitchell had adopted a work colleague’s tip a few weeks after arriving in Hong Kong. Flashing the card had gotten him home on numerous occasions. There were also phone apps that did the same thing, but Mitchell preferred the card version.

“Now, I’m not sure what your mum does for you back home, but I won’t disturb you in your room unless you’re screaming for help. You can keep it as clean or as messy as you like. I won’t be making your bed or doing any tidying for you. I machine wash clothes on Saturday so leave anything out you need cleaning. A lovely Filipino lady called Grace—a domestic helper employed by my landlady—comes in once a week, every Wednesday. She vacuums, mops and cleans the flat from top to bottom, as well as ironing any clothes and changing the bedlinen. She’ll go through this place like a mini typhoon, so don’t get in her way. But I suggest you let her tidy your room. She has her own set of keys, and if you’re in at the time, best to make yourself comfy on the living room sofa while she does your room. You’ll probably be treated to her wonderful laugh and, if you’re really lucky, to her mezzo-soprano rendition of Mariah Carey’s greatest hits with her own interpretation of the lyrics.”

“I’ll go out.”

“If you want. But she’s really nice. Speaks English, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, it’s cool.”

“The controls for the air-conditioning unit are on your bedside cabinet. It’s a super quiet unit, barely makes a hum. At the moment you’ll probably need to keep it going at night. Do you want to grab a shower and change?”

“I’m good.”

Mitchell pushed out an exhausted sigh.

“Zane, you’ve just travelled halfway around the world. Do your uncle this one favour, will you? Go shower and change into something more comfortable. I promise you will feel infinitely better.”

Although Zane did not appear to be entirely happy, he nodded his agreement.

“Is this restaurant posh? Can I wear shorts?”

“I’d say shorts are a good choice. And as long as you’re wearing a shirt with sleeves, long or short, most restaurants here are fine with shorts.”

* * * *

They arrived at the venue just after midday. Mitchell’s first experience of local dim sum restaurants had been a mix of shock and awe. Chipped bowls and saucers, chopsticks and china spoons tossed carelessly onto the table, and a server spilling tea onto the starched tablecloth were all part of the experience. More importantly, his usually polite and subdued work colleagues came to life. Once seated, conversation dialled up a couple of notches, everyone speaking excitedly and simultaneously. From early on, he had learnt to sit back and enjoy the Cantonese banter at his own table and across the restaurant floor. He didn’t care that he couldn’t understand a word. The sound was pure joy. Laughter punctuated conversations. Working in London he would have been hard-pressed to find a colleague who wanted to leave their desk atlunchtime. Not so in Hong Kong. He likened the experience to the excited buzz of after-work Friday night drinks with colleagues back home.

Harold preferred more upmarket establishments. Crisp white tablecloths, spotless cutlery and obsequious waiting staff were a bare minimum. Mitchell half suspected accessibility was also a concern. Not all smaller eateries had a serviceable lift big enough to house a wheelchair. When they approached the round table, Mitchell noticed Harold and William had invited along a couple he had not met before, who were already in a heated conversation with William.

“—naive stupidity,” barked William. “Running through the streets waving the British flag. What were they thinking? Blatant provocation. No wonder the police came down hard.”

“What do you think, Harold?” asked one of the guests as Mitchell ushered Zane to take the seat between himself and Harold.

“They were voicing their desire for self-governance,” said Harold in his usual calm way. “Nobody was advocating that Hong Kong would be better back under British rule, God forbid. One would hope those days of tyranny and suppression are well and truly behind us.”

“Then why not hold up something meaningful? A symbol that represents the birthplace of democracy?” asked William.

“Forgive me, dear, but I believe the subtlety of waving the flag of Greece might be lost on the authorities and most definitely on your average Hong Kong policeman.”

Seeing they had a full table, a server came to take their order, and the subject was dropped. Mitchell took a moment to introduce himself and his nephew.

“Are you okay with chopsticks, young man?” asked Harold to Zane.

“Yes,” answered Zane, a little brusquely.

“Excellent. Do you mind if I order?”

“Fine.”

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