FIRST STOP ON MY 1991 GAP-YEAR ADVENTURE IS SYDNEY, where I stay with model friends in Rose Bay, attend Mardi Gras and get a taste of independence. Next I head to Hong Kong on my way to England, and after that I plan to explore Europe.
Over the years I’ve grown close to my cousin David, one of Clara’s sons, so I’m pleased he’s free to meet up in Hong Kong’s bar district, Lan Kwai Fong.
‘Oh hyellow, Mimi,’ he enthuses as we lightly embrace and fake-kiss, European style, on both cheeks. I love it – so much more sophisticated than my bogan life in Perth.
David guides me down alleyways, along cobbled paths, through unmarked doorways and down dark staircases. We end up sipping cocktails in a small bar called Petticoat Lane, where little birdcages hang from lattice laced with ivy. I’m still underage but no one checks; being Eurasian I can look fifteen or fifty.
I show off to impress my older cousin, boasting about modelling jobs and television ambitions, but he has one up on me: he reveals he was scouted to be a big bank billboard model – seriously scouted on the street, just like in the movies. My cousin David! I can’t contain my excitement.
‘Ooooooh,’ he says, ‘didn’t you know I was the HSBC pin-up boy? Oh, it was nothing.’ He gestures in mock modesty as I sit on the edge of my seat.
‘You should write a book,’ I tell him.
David is a lawyer now. He rolls his eyes theatrically, giving the impression his current job is a little ho-hum compared to the bright lights of fame. We both know it’s the opposite, though: David always has a new serial-killer story to keep me awake at night.
David reminds me about the time Dad took him to the ocean liner terminal at Tsim Sha Tsui to tour the boat that Dad had sailed to Australia on. The story has become family legend. David was just a little boy then, handsome in plaid shorts and braces, his hair slicked down. He made a cardboard replica of the ship to give to Francis, but when David played up, Francis whacked him hard on the backside, and the model ship was left behind. Francis had criticised it for being inaccurate, anyway. David was around six or seven then, a pipsqueak next to his Uncle Francis. Now David the man stands at least a foot taller than Dad.
We seldom get to see each other, but David and I have developed a unique bond over uncanny coincidences in our parallel lives. Francis and Clara could almost be the same person in the stories we tell, both of us attributing ‘not turning out too bad’ to growing up under the auspices of Aunty Theresa.
It’s as though Theresa has been swapping one of us for the other. Throughout much of our childhoods we barely knew of each other’s existence. I walked in one door while David exited through another, but when we speak it’s like looking into a mirror. We both experienced the haircuts Theresa would take us for, and get entirely wrong; the scolding to sit up straight and to keep everything folded and neat; the memorable lavish meals; the walks along Repulse Bay – David following behind Aunty, me following behind Aunty – her consistent letter writing and, of course, thoughtful gifts. The unwavering care of Aunty.
David’s references to his partner over the years turned out to be references to his ever-chipper Chinese boyfriend, Sam. No one was surprised, but Clara likes the arrangement not at all. To neutralise Clara’s acidic approach, Theresa has welcomed Sam into the family with open arms, deliberately appearing in many photographs together with David and Sam to publicly embrace their relationship for Clara’s benefit. But for Clara it remains a sore point. The gesture Theresa makes towards Sam might not sound like much, but in Chinese culture for her generation, it is significant. She also includes Sam in her will, again thoughtful and a very big deal; she knows it may raise the ire of Francis and Clara, but she does it anyway.
As David and I talk late into the night, drinking cocktails, our storytelling about our parents goes deeper and comparisons grow. Clara’s scathing response to David being gay; Francis’s scathing response to me not being born a boy. And so much more. Cousin to cousin, we see that you can take his mother and my father out of Hong Kong, but you can’t take Hong Kong out of either of them.
When we stand up to say goodbye, I am swaying and he’s not. My lack of coordination has everything to do with body mass and capacity, nothing to do with not being able to handle my grog, I assure myself. David is going to meet Sam, and I will navigate my way back to Aunty Theresa’s place. We cousins European air kiss a wobbly farewell.
The next day, Aunty Theresa and I enter the magnificent foyer of the HSBC building, designed by British architect Norman Foster. ‘Look at this.’ She waves her hand upwards, and I take in the enormity of the complex modern masterpiece. ‘On top he designed cannons,’ she says like she knows Foster personally – maybe she does. ‘Feng shui design to protect the money.’ She nods at a staffer ushering us towards a long marble reception desk. ‘And do you know what the Bank of China do with their building design?’ I can’t say I do. ‘They build it like a knife. A knife to cut their competitor. To counteract the cannons pointed at them.’ She makes two pistols with her hands. ‘You look. I will take you to the China Club. It is a good view from there, and you will see. Fighting, fighting, the two bank are fighting.’ She moves her fists as if she’s preparing for a boxing match, tells a receptionist who we’re here to see, and turns back to me. ‘Even the building are fighting, Mimi. But it is peaceful fighting. It is feng shui.’
We are offered tea and more tea, but I accept a soft drink. While we wait at a desk for the banker to come, Aunty reaches into her Louis Vuitton handbag. ‘This was a gift from’ – she looks up and thinks – ‘from the Duchess of . . . Oh, I forget the place. She gave everyone at the party this, in Milan.’ Aunty rifles inside the crocodile-leather pouch. ‘Her castle is very hard to maintain now. It costs her so much, she has to let go many of the staff so is not so comfortable to visit anymore, I prefer not to go. Better to meet somewhere to catch up.’
A Caucasian expat man in a three-piece pinstriped suit approaches us.
‘But, Mimi, a copy is just as good if you do not receive as a gift.’ She pats the crocodile and flashes her charming smile at the banker. ‘This is my very beautiful niece, Mimi.’ I blush and look down. ‘She is a beneficiary of my very beautiful late sister Mary’s estate.’
I smile at the thought of Aunty Mary’s high rosy cheeks and infectious good nature, and my memories of her playing Aunty Mary Cinderella with me at Bicton, her warm embrace as she lifted and spun me around at the park or on the beach. ‘As the executor, I will need to close this account and transfer all of it to this one – Mimi’s account.’ Aunty points to various documents she has neatly laid out to face the banker.
‘Of course, Miss Kwa. Not a problem.’ He excuses himself to finalise the paperwork.
‘Mimi’ – Aunty shifts her position and angles towards me – ‘this is a big amount. As you know, your Aunty Mary left the same to all her nieces and nephews because she wants you to travel and have good life.’ Someone places a plate of cookies in front of us; Aunty winks at me, taking one. ‘They always look after me here. I know the top, top banker.’ She does a little cat’s pyjamas wiggle in her chair.
The amount Aunty Mary has left me is enough to travel for a year and put a deposit on a house – I am extremely lucky.
Aunty Theresa and I exit the HSBC building to hat tipping and bows, then her driver pulls up at the entrance as though to complete the fairytale scene.
‘Mimi, I know you will be frugal and careful. You don’t flash your money in the wrong places. Just like I don’t flash my diamonds if I am in the poor area.’ She holds up a hand to admire her rings encrusted with rubies, emeralds and diamonds. ‘It is good to show compassion. If you can give, give. I always like to help others. But do not put yourself in a position where people will rob you. They will not care what you have in your heart, only what is in your purse.’ She tips the driveway attendant as he closes the car door for us, then rests her crocodile bag in the back seat between us as we drive away. ‘And never boast, Mimi.’
For lunch, as promised, Aunty takes me to the China Club in order to show me the feng shui stand-off between the banks. A tall, elegant woman in a cheongsam checks her clipboard for our booking. The China Club appears much older than the ones we usually visit, the American Club or the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club, but it’s actually brand new. There’s a small framed photo of Princess Diana walking up the same staircase we’re walking up now. Famous artworks and signed photos of patrons make for a fascinating trip to the top floor.
Aunty doesn’t have a booking, of course. ‘My friend always says whenever I want I can sign in under his membership.’ Then she whispers, ‘It’s one hundred and fifty thousand Hong Kong to join.’ We sit down at a table for four; Aunty hasn’t planned to meet anyone else but has asked for extra seats ‘just in case we bump into some friends’. She loves to say, ‘More people, more food!’
The place is like a museum. Pictures of Chairman Mao and Tiananmen Square observe us from the wall above.
‘The man who started this club is David Tang, a very nice man. He likes silks and the old style, the one like I sell in my shop. The one like your grandfather make and sell all over the world. All the corners, from Philippines to England – your family was the best in this business for silk. My uncle – who you would call Grandfather if he was alive, but he is actually your grandfather’s brother – kept the business after your grandfather die.’
She picks up the menus and pretends to read while she talks. ‘He – my uncle – helped your grandfather start the Swatow Lace business on Pedder Street. A long time ago. Your grandfather, my father, joined Uncle when he move from China with Second and Third Mother. Your grandmother is Wife Number Three, you know, so we call her Third Mother.’
I nod as I do whenever she tells this story.
‘So when your grandfather die, in the war, his brother take over the business. During the war the brother was stranded in Shanghai.’ She puts down the menu. ‘And we, your grandfather and me, the children and his wife – we helped to keep the business running under the Japanese even though we must stop many our operation, and the Japanese taking most of the earnings. So then, I have the little Swatow Lace shop at the Mandarin Hotel in honour of your family. And Mr Tang’ – she looks around to make sure no one is listening – ‘Mr Tang is going to open a shop where your family shop was, on Pedder Street. He wants to call it Shanghai Tang. Swatow Lace, our family business, was at 16 Pedder Street, remember I have taken you past there. He is going to open at number 12. You see, you have a connection to all of Hong Kong, Mimi. Everywhere, just look around and you will see.’ She traces her finger down the menu, really reading it this time.
I contemplate the enormity of our Chinese and Hong Kong Kwa history, the smoke from Great-Grandfather’s pipe disappearing down alleyways, curling up tall buildings, wending its way into the wallpaper pattern here at the China Club.
‘You want a club sandwich?’ Aunty asks. ‘You know you love a club, at the club.’ She laughs at our in-joke.
I nod and smile. ‘Yes please, Aunty.’