We'll See the Animals One Day
Excerpted from the novel Tears in Rain (unfinished)
Spring 1950
Beneath the stuffy, cotton-made lamb suit, Kim Shan peeked out over the stage and into the audience. The stage lights were nauseating, daring the performers to avoid eye contact with those in the seats below. The moisture had wicked into the insides of the cotton that made up his lamb mask, and he could see tiny shrivels of steam emancipating from his sweat – the angle of the lights accentuating the effect. Before the performance, he had checked the seats below in the designated area for parents from his class. He was looking out for his father’s familiar face, complete with the same chevron moustache that he had known since he was born.
His tall, gangly friend James, type casted as the giraffe, nudged Kim Shan in the shoulder. That was the cue for him to move forward with the rest of the farm animals. He hadn’t been on a trip since his mother passed away, but remembered the one time the family visited London just two years prior. He remembered urging his parents to let him see all the animals he had read about on his prized 100 Animal Stories. At the London Zoo, he recalled the three giraffes and the flock of lambs being put in separate enclosures. His father told him that giraffes were from a place called “Sashahara” in Africa and that there was a logical and scientific reason why their necks were so long. This piece of knowledge did not go down well with his kindergarten class teacher, who had told him that God made it so because they were made to look out for angels from heaven. On the bus back to their hotel, his mother argued with his father over whether they should stay, and not return to Hong Kong. His father contended that no one in London would employ a Chinese doctor and that he did not want to be selling dim sum at a Chinese restaurant. His mother urged him to think of the future for Kim Shan. On the flight back, his mother talked neither to him nor his father, sulking whilst downing one glass of wine after another.
Kim Shan pushed to the front of the flock of animals and began to recite the short monologue about sheep, “Baa, baa, baa … the wool that I have is great for coats….” The cat boasted of her ability to catch rodents whilst the cow humbly provided milk for the benefit of children’s healthy bones. He peeked again over the stage towards the second row and saw Evelyn and Uncle Wai Yip sitting on either side of the empty wooden seat. Evelyn caught his stare and waved back, smiling from ear to ear. Wai Yip followed and waved as well, but Kim Shan caught his uncle side-eyeing the empty seat.
Wai Hong puffed on his third cigarette outside the community centre. Suet Mui had been here with him on Christmas Eve. It was right after their trip to London, when their son performed as another sheep for the Christmas celebrations. What is it with all the sheep? To Suet Mui’s displeasure, he had excused himself in the middle of the show, right after his son’s chorus. He was smoking the same brand as he did for years – World filter cigarettes. He tried to remember how many cigarettes he had smoked that day in front of the same polished wooden plaque that bore the name of the centre. Vaguely, he recalled the number three from the depths of his memories. It might have been two, or four, which he acknowledged to have been a possibility. He threw the unfinished stub into an ashtray and made his way back into the main hall.
The stage lights glimmered brightly on Kim Shan’s face as he eyed his father making his way to his seat. His father gave him a curt wave before squeezing past Evelyn at the end of the aisle. For the rest of the performance, he sang his little heart out.
Later that night, Kim Shan smelled the familiar blend of liquor and cigarettes on his father’s clothes as he was carried to bed. The odour was soothing and lulled him closer to his dreams. He regained strength as he was laid onto his England national football team pillow. He opened his eyes and asked his father, “Could you sing me a song?”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? You’ve had a lot of singing tonight already, Shan-shan,” Wai Hong said as he pulled the matching covers over his boy’s body. He had grown quite a bit these two years. He wondered if he might need to find a longer blanket the next time they were at the department store.
“Ma ma would have sung me a song even if it was late,” said Kim Shan, “Could you tell me a story?”
The words stung Wai Hong’s chapped lips. He felt his lips bleed onto his tongue as he bit into it, “Ma ma … Ma ma isn’t here anymore, boy.”
Kim Shan turned and faced the wall, hiding his soured face. His father mistook it for anger, but it was not. He stood up, lingered for a second, and turned around to switch off the lights, “Goodnight, Shan Shan.” For the past two years, they had not really talked about Suet Mui. It was not as though Kim Shan did not know that his mother had passed away. It was not as though Wai Hong did not know that a time had passed which would not return. Perhaps too much of it was unspoken: words and feelings hidden and pasted over like the crack on the wall behind the football poster.
The next day, Wai Hong woke Kim Shan at seven for the trip back to school. Wai Hong had pulled some strings with his old friends down at the church to get Kim Shan admitted to the Brothers’ School for All last year. Kim Shan would probably have passed the admission process on his own without a hitch, for he never lacked talent and smarts.
In the family’s ivory Ford Anglia, father and son played a game of naming English team players. Without trying to be polite, the father was genuinely losing this round. Kim Shan stumped him when he named the reserve keeper. Secretly, Wai Hong would have preferred that his son put his memory to use elsewhere better.
The roads wound on as the drizzle of rain washed over the car’s windshield. A leaf was stuck on the corner of the glass, just out of reach of the ageing wipers. “I wish I didn’t have to return to boarding school,” tested Kim-shan, his eyes fixated on the deep brownness of the leaf. Ever since his mother was ill, his father would, at times, act erratic. He wished that this was one of his more communicative days.
“I’ve always thought that boarding school was the right choice for you. Ever since your mother left, I’ve thought you shouldn’t be spending too much time at home,” said his father. In fact, he barely spent any time at home when his son was not around, electing to hole up at the hospital instead. He continued, “It will be better for you to socialise with kids your age. I wish that I was sent to boarding school at your age.”
“You know I hate the kids at school… and the brothers are too strict,” said Kim Shan as he ventured further into unknown territory.
Wai Hong was patient but dismissive. “You’ll learn to like them one day. I couldn’t think of kids you’ll be happier around. On the other hand, you get to spend a lot of time playing football after school hours. If I had put in the amount of time you do, I would have played real professional football.”
Kim Shan knew there was no point in persisting on this topic and tried hard to consider the positives. Indeed, he loved football and had dreamt of playing professionally one day. Perhaps his father did know best. His father was the wisest man he knew. He tried to change his thinking but could not manage to erase the sulk on his face for the rest of the ride.
Wai Hong let his son off at the roundabout before the school entrance. A young boy of Kim Shan’s age waved at him. Wai Hong told him that he would pick him up again on Sunday, two fortnights later. Kim Shan watched as the family car pulled away from the curb and down the windy drive that led to the roundabout, wishing that time could speed up and he would see his father arrive again.
For the next four weeks, he worked hard on his studies and tried to stay out of trouble. He achieved a B on his mathematics mid-terms, something that he had not been able to do before, and an A in his English and History classes. But trouble always found its way back to him. Two weeks after he was brought back to school, he had a bust-up with Hing Fai, a boarder who also played on his football team. Earlier in the morning during practice, they could not see eye to eye after a collision when both blindly went for the same cross. When brushing their teeth later that night, Hing Fai chided him for being sent to boarding because his mother was dead and his father did not want anything to do with him. Kim Shan retorted by saying that Hing Fai had two parents alive who sent him to boarding school because both did not want to have anything to do with him. Kim Shan acted strong but his heart was weak, and he shoved Hing Fai into the adjacent sink. The prefects on duty called for the brothers immediately, and Kim Shan was sent to the discipline master that night.
On the phone call to his father the following day, his father gave him a dressing down.
“But he insulted Ma ma, and you as well,” Kim Shan talked back when his father asked him why he had lost his cool.
“It’s all in the past already. Ma ma is not coming back.. There’s no point dwelling on her any more. You have a bright life ahead of you – don’t waste it.” He ended his monologue drily, “You know that your mother would have been disappointed in you. You have to make her proud. You know she loved you.” Kim Shan wanted to yell into the phone but did not do so. The scream came out of the void in his throat that reached straight into the place where his heart was supposed to be. At that moment, he had already forgotten who he was angry with.
In a fortnight, he was allowed to return home. He managed to steer out of trouble’s way because he was temporarily banished from football practice. His father arrived on time in the family car on a damp Friday evening. As Kim Shan exited the main entrance to the school, he saw the bobblehead of his father leaning on the window frame of the driver’s seat. The giant willow tree planted in the roundabout made his father look miniscule. His father seemed deep in thought, as always. Kim Shan took a moment, whilst his father was unaware of his presence, to appreciate his father’s figure. He seemed to have grown a bit older in the past month. The accustomed smile on his father’s face had developed an aching quality. His usual lean face had gotten marginally tighter in the past year, accentuating a pair of high cheekbones. His moustache, with its same painter’s brush aesthetics, seemed to barely hang correctly. Kim Shan recalled himself staring at the mirror just earlier that morning when he was washing up. He had struggled to see his father’s features in himself; he had grown older and taller for sure.
That night, father and son stayed up late in the father’s study to listen to England’s game against Spain in the World Cup. Kim Shan knew his father wanted to tune in to the Brazilian match instead, as they were the host nation, but his father told him it was unnecessary. His father joked that it wasn’t as though the Brothers at the school would let him stay up the following week listening to the radio. Moreover, his father predicted that the English would be eliminated soon anyway. When the game started, the radio announcer mentioned where the game was played. Kim Shan left his seat and wandered over to the bookshelf. Between a book about psychopathology and another about world history, he took out a folded world map that his father had bought him. Laying it out on the glass panel above the large wooden desk, he pointed out where Rio de Janeiro was located. Tracing his fingers northwards, he stopped at the place where the Amazon rainforest was marked. His father’s glance shifted from the spot where the trees were drawn, towards Kim-shan’s face.
“Do you remember that I’ve promised Ba ba and Ma ma that I’ll take you there to see the animals one day?” said Kim Shan after a short pause.
“I do, son. You also promised to take me… I mean us, to a safari in Kenya and to the Arctic to see the polar bears.” Wai Hong’s eyes softly focused on the light’s reflection on Kim Shan’s cheek.
“I don’t think … I still want to go anymore,” said Kim Shan as his fingers traced the length of the Amazon River, passing by the cartoon figure of a jaguar.
“One day, that feeling will come back. I do not know when, but it will. You might not be going with your Ba ba and Ma ma then. You might be going with your own wife and kids when the time comes,” said Wai Hong as he put his hand on his son’s neck. Kim-shan gave a brief jolt as his father made contact, snapping out of his trance. It had been a while since any words actually gave him any comfort over his hurt.
The English lost 1:0 to the Spanish thanks to a goal from Athletic Bilbao’s famed striker Zarra. At the end of the game, his father folded the map up, and returned it back in between the two books on his shelf.
Wilfred Wong is a writer and psychiatrist living in Hong Kong. He has special interests in child and adolescent mental health and psychodynamic psychotherapy and is an Associate Consultant at Queen Mary Hospital. He is a Member of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, and a Fellow of both the HK College of Psychiatrists and the HK Academy of Medicine. Blending his academic interests and stories learned from his clients, he is working on a book about a psychiatric facility and its occupants set in mid-20th-century Hong Kong. Outside of work and writing, he enjoys playing football and training in jiu-jitsu.
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He was looking out for his father’s familiar face of his father
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