COFFEE & BISCUITS

Every morning at around 7:30 am, a dozen or so of residents of Sea Cove would gather around the dock to catch the first boat to Central, the business district of the city.  This is usually a time when residents would comment to each other on the weather of the day, discuss the results of a soccer game, or comment on the news from the previous night.  Always, quietly standing by the stairs of the dock would be a figure whose face is hidden behind a book, with a partial view of a bush of fizzled hair sticking out from the pages.  Today this figure is wearing a wrinkly gray business suit with flat heels.  She again is standing quietly by the stairs of the dock.  Her head along with its bush of fizzled hair is concealed behind a small book titled “Conversational Italian;” on her left wrist dangled a large duffle bag, and on her right hand holds a half-eaten sandwich.  Her face would occasionally emerge from the pages to check whether the boat has arrived.  A tall sixty-ish, sandles-wearing man in a t-shirt imprinted with the image of a Salmon approaches. 

“Good morning, Hannah.” The man greets, in a rather fatherly tone, as he stands next to the woman whose name is Hannah.  Although the man wears sandals and a T-shirt, he has an authoritative air that demands a truthful answer, even to the most trivial questions.  He looks straight into the eyes of whomever he speaks to, at times piercingly.  But this imposing bearing is softened by his completely white hair.  He is not the image of a kind, jolly, old man that Father Richard Wilson projects, yet his tone, at least to Hannah, does soften his hard manner.

“Good morning, sir.”  Hannah’s face emerges from behind the book, and smiles as she answers.  She has an unguarded and generous smile, one that can only belong to someone young.  In fact, she is indeed younger than the other people who have gathered around the dock, but the time of youth when one is thoughtless and impulsive has passed her by.  She turned thirty two weeks ago.

The man continues, “Does the air conditioner still leak?”

“The security called up somebody to fix it.  It’s okay now.”

“And what’s that book you are reading today?”  Upon this question, Hannah hastily waves the book aside, then proceeds to stuff it in her duffle bag.

“Oh, it’s nothing.  Just something related to work.” 

“’Conversation Italian’?  How is that related to work?”

“There is a line of Italian designs coming in next week, so I just want to be able to read the labels on the bags.  You know, it does help to understand what material the bags are made of,” answers Hannah, and, a little breathlessly, adds, “and how is your fish pond coming along?”

“You know how it is with construction here, it is a hassle to transport the construction material here, and when the workers are not monitored, you can guess what will happen.  Moral hazards.  And the rain, well, it softens the soil,” the man speaks analytically, as if explaining to a business client minor nuisances that arise from the implementation of a project. 

At this time, their attention is shifted to an approaching boat. 

One morning, my Dad was flipping through the newspaper as usual when an advertisement caught his eyes.  It is a bank auction of foreclosed properties.  Being interested cheap real estate properties, he went to the auction.  By the time he left, he is an owner of an apartment at Sea Cove.  Later, he said the reason for the purchase is fish.  You see, my Dad is an avid fishmonger, and catches are getting smaller in the water next to his home.  He believed that he could find more fertile fishing grounds in Sea Cove.

 One day my father was digging the soil of his garden to plant a loongeye tree when the shuffle hit something hard. It was concrete in the soil.  He dug further and discovered that the soil actually covered up a beautifully designed fishpond, half of which lies in our garden;  the other half lies in the garden of Uncle Tom, our neighbor. 

Doesn’t Uncle Tom know about this pond from his days being one of the original residents of Sea Cove?

Once upon a time, there is a small but sophisticated city in which dwells some of the earth’s most cosmopolitan people.  In this city, highrises tower over your head everywhere you go, developers are always searching for the next property to profit from, and luxury properties are rarely left unnoticed or unoccupied by the rich and famous; it is a modern city where you cannot see the stars at night, where taxis pack the highways like ants on a trail, where the sophisticate and the ruffines alike rule the night, and where silence and peace are elusive animals.  This city could have been any major cities you know, but in the story I am about to tell, this city happens to be Hong Kong.  And in this city of action, there is a quiet residental village at the corner of an peripheral island, far away from the eyes of the bright center. 

Yes, far faraway, at the corner of the Island, this pretty little residential village lies idol and undiscovered by the sea.  In this place, birds sing and the only music you hear is the rthym of the waves.  At night, diamonds of stars light up the sky and rolling waves hum its lullaby like it always has.  A dozen houses with orange Spanish tiled roof and white painted walls line behind the stretch of sandy beach.  White picket fences stand in front of the front yards of houses.  Each house has three levels– living room, kitchen floor, and master bedroom–ach endowed with a balcony with a generous view of the ocean.  Cradled around these houses are the mountains, and where these mountains lead to is something that awaits to be explored.  Walk across this village, you can easily see into the living room of the houses, as no curtains are drawn, and the living room windows are all wide and clear, naked to the view of the ocean. This is a place where you can keep your door unlocked.  The living room window of every house in this village faces the ocean, and every ship and fishing boats that cross the Hong Kong sea channel into Macau or into China can be seen from inhabitants of this village. 

Yet if you look carefully, you see that the white painted walls are not so white, and the picket fences have cracks.  Black water stains marked some of the walls.  And although remnants of past glamour can still be found in the Roman architectural exterior of the club house behind the line of houses, negligence have rendered the exterior a shell with no substance.  With no staffs under its roof, the club house has allowed the Wild grasses outside to grow to knee level.  And if you do manage to explore the mountains, and hike all the way to the top, by luck you may discover the helicopter lot, which is hidden in the grasses that had grown tall enough to obscure its existence.   It has been left unused for years, with the circle target market painted in red fading into the ground.

Residents call this village of peace and dilapitation, the Sea Cove. 

I asked my brother to utilize his expertise in interior designs and all that is delicate and refine to describe in details the house of one of my characters in my aspiring novel.  (My brother knows this character; we have talked about it over winter break)  Here is his take, on the billionaire, Tom Hu: 

Unlike many people of similar status, Mr. C has great taste all on his own.  He has always have an eye for beauty in antiquity, and it shows in every piece of furniture hand picked by him.  All the chairs, tables, and sofa are made from the darkest oldest wood, crafted to perfection, and accented with figurines covered in gold leaf.  With the one exception of the glass table in the middle of the dining room, the rest of the apartment reflects a maroon dim light whenever a lamp is flicked on.  The walls are cladded with wood panels much like the chairs, climbing up to the cherry ceiling that spans from beam to beam.  The cornice mouldings are laced with plant-like motif and beautiful concealment of all joints and flaws. 

Mr. C knows progression well, from modern material to his vault of antiques.  The front doors are 2 double-swing panels of etched glass, with a figure of the ancient guardian on each.  The glass table is the first item that greets mr. C when he walks in his antique palace.  He leaves his keys on the table top.  The base of the table is a colossal ceramic urn, filled with water and gold fishes.  Mr. C likes the idea that the fishes will watch over his keys and all spirits that pass through that thresholds.  He has a routine to his apartment, and the routine defined the placements of items:  his slippers, his newspaper, his tea cup, his ottomen.  Everything finds its place in Mr. C’s heart.