The next one left at 6.20 a.m. Apart from medical emergencies, when acutely ill or injured persons had to be evacuated from the island by helicopter, it was the only way to leave the island. He was trapped. Paul wondered if it was possible to swim to Hong Kong. The East Lamma Channel at Pak Kok was no more than two kilometers wide, but the current was strong, there was a lot of shipping traffic at night, and the weather was poor. There had been a strong wind blowing all day, and it had gained in strength that evening. He looked at the water and saw white crests on the waves in the light cast from the pier. He couldn’t swim in that. His only chance was to find a private boat that would take him over.
Paul tried to reach Christine on the phone, but neither she nor Tita Ness answered. He ran to the Island Bar, where there were still a few people, British and Australians who had lived on the island for a long time and knew him by sight. When Paul explained why he needed to get to Hong Kong as quickly as possible, silence fell in the bar. No, none of them had a boat. But the barkeeper knew a fisherman who had a small motorboat that was moored in the harbor. He lived around the corner, just up the steps, in the upper part of the village.
The fisherman had already gone to bed. He opened the door grumpily. He was a head shorter and few years older than Paul. He looked suspiciously at the barefoot stranger who was drenched in sweat and whose gray hair was sticking to his face. At this hour? He shook his head.
Paul offered him a thousand dollars.
No.
Two thousand.
The old fisherman sized him up more thoroughly but shook his head again.
Three thousand.
At least he was awake now. He stepped out of the door, looked at the dark sky, the palm leaves swaying in the wind, and the churning sea. In this weather? No.
Five thousand.
No.
Ten.
Can you swim?
Paul nodded.
Did he have the money with him?
Paul said no. Explained, appealed, showed his Hong Kong ID card. Promised. Ten thousand. In cash. Tomorrow evening, latest.
The man gave a long sigh. Okay. Ten minutes, at the pier.
Paul ran back, only now noticing how cool it was. His bare feet were cold; he could hardly feel them. In the bar, someone asked him if they could lend him more clothing; he got a windbreaker and some shoes that pinched his toes.
The fisherman brought a faded yellow life vest with him and tossed it to Paul. Then he climbed onto a tiny square raft and paddled out to his boat, which was fastened to a buoy twenty meters offshore. He untied the rope, fiddled with the motor, pulled a strap a few times until the motor sprang to life with an unsteady rattle, and picked up Paul from the breakwater.
It was an old wooden boat, barely five meters long and wide enough only for one person. In it were two oars for an emergency, a fish trap, a net, bamboo poles, Styrofoam markers and a plastic pail.
To balance the weight out better, Paul sat at the bow. The fisherman passed him a powerful torchlight to search the black waters for big pieces of driftwood. They ducked as they passed underneath the pier and kept as close to the shore as possible. Despite that, the boat began to bob up and down. Paul knew that this was only the beginning; it would get worse when they rounded the tip of the island at Shek Ko Tsui and crossed open water in the channel between Lamma and Hong Kong.
He thought about Christine, and tried to calm down. What might have happened? There were only two weeks left to the due date, so this was not a matter of a premature delivery with all the complications and risks that implied. The pregnancy had progressed with no particular problems until now, apart from frequent morning sickness and water retention in Christine’s arms and legs. She had been able to carry on working until yesterday, and had spent the summer and the fall preparing for her new life. She had rearranged Paul’s house, given notice on his future mother-in-law’s small apartment in Hang Hau and found her a new one in Yung Shue Wan. As soon as Christine had found a tenant for her apartment, she, Josh, her mother, and the baby would move to Lamma.
The regular prenatal appointments had not given any cause for concern. According to the results of the early diagnostic tests, the baby was healthy. Nevertheless, the astrologer’s words still haunted Paul.
You will give life. You will take life. These first two predictions had come true. Not a day passed in which he did not think of the third prediction, even though he had grown calmer in recent weeks when the doctors had reassured him that the baby was now able to survive a premature delivery.
You will lose life.
Paul saw the blinking of the beacon marking the tip of the island. They would be traveling alongside land for about a hundred meters more. Now fifty, thirty . . . Paul turned and tried to look the fisherman in the eye. He was standing upright at the stern, with his legs spread wide, one hand on the motor and the other holding a cigarette that had gone out. Ten more . . . five more . . .
The first broadside crashed into them with full force, making the whole boat shake. The water pounded the side of the boat relentlessly in dull thuds. Paul put the torch away and clutched the sides of the boat with both hands in order not to be pitched overboard. The fisherman, too, was now sitting down, and holding on to the stern of the boat. The spray had completely drenched both men in seconds. Fat, salty drops of water ran down their faces. The wind was coming from the northwest, chasing dark clouds over the night sky illuminated by the city. Paul, who had always thought himself seaworthy, felt as sick as a dog. Waves crashed into the boat over and over again, and it slowly began to fill with water. The fisherman shouted something at him, but was drowned out by the noise. He spat out a few curses in Cantonese and pointed at the pail. Paul tried to hold on to the boat with one hand and use the other to bail water out of the boat. Suddenly, the boat pitched upward so steeply that he fell backward and his back crashed into the side of the boat. Their boat was at a dangerous angle. Paul crawled back to the bow on all fours. The fisherman was shouting something again, but it was carried away in another direction by the wind.
From one second to another, the storm abated, and the sea grew a little calmer. They had made it into the shadow of a container ship that was moored offshore by Lamma. Their boat was heading straight for the black side of the ship, which rose in front of them like a colossal sea monster. Paul shuddered as he saw how small they were compared to the freighter. They traveled through calmer waters for a few minutes. Paul bailed water out of the boat with both hands, as quickly as he could. The fisherman slowed the boat down a little, as though he wanted to draw breath before making the great leap across the East Lamma Channel. They had barely passed the container ship when they took a sharp dip. The wind was now blowing at them straight on, just like the swell, which was much greater than it had seemed from land. Paul looked at the lights of Hong Kong in front of them. The high-rise buildings appeared so near, and yet impossibly distant at the same time. If they capsized, they would not be able to swim the distance in this storm, neither to Hong Kong nor back to Lamma. Their only hope would be to be seen by a ship and be rescued.
Two large steamships were approaching from port and starboard; they would have to cross their paths. For a moment, Paul wondered if they could do it or if they should turn back instead. Once more, he tried to catch the fisherman’s eye, but the man ignored him. He had eyes only for the two freighters, and seemed to be calculating a route that would bring them through the two vessels. They headed toward the ship approaching from portside. Paul couldn’t see a gap, only walls of steel towering over them. The captain must think they were blind or crazy; he had sounded his horn three times, echoing in the night. Soon they were so near that Paul could even see small patches of rust on the side of the vessel. They reached the eddy around the stern, turned ninety degrees, and with another daring turn, the fisherman had them on course again. The second freighter appeared directly in front of them, and the swell around its bow hit the side of their boat at an angle. Paul fell forward onto his s
tomach and felt a sharp pain in his head.
He stayed face down, and heard the fisherman shout, but did not move. The boat was beginning to fill with water frighteningly fast again, so Paul began to bail out water again from a prone position. Faster, he heard the old man scream, faster, faster. After a few minutes, the waves grew less powerful. Paul lifted his head and saw Green Island at what he estimated to be two hundred meters away. They had reached the wind shelter of the island.
The fisherman set Paul down at a small jetty by Kennedy Town; he would spend the rest of the night in the harbor. As arranged, Paul gave him his ID card for security, thanked him, and ran to the road. There must be a taxi, even at this hour. His shoes were tight and soaked with water; he pulled them off and ran on barefoot.
The first taxi driver stopped, saw what state this prospective passenger was in, and drove on. The second did the same. The third wanted to know if Paul had come from a shipwreck. Something like that, he said, and asked the driver to take him to the hospital in Kwun Tong by the quickest route possible.
Paul curled up in the back seat, shivering all over. The trembling did not get any better, even when the heating in the car was turned up so high that the driver started sweating and rolled down a window. Paul was trembling not just from the cold. The fear was worse. Nothing must happen to Christine. She was everything that he had left. He wanted to tell the doctors that if they had to decide between saving the life of the mother or the child, they should save Christine.
The clock showed that it was just past two in the morning when they reached the hospital. The trauma and emergency unit knew who he was talking about immediately. The pregnant woman with the bleeding, whose waters had broken. She was on the maternity ward, third floor. Before they could say anything else, Paul had disappeared up the stairs.
The labor ward was busy even at this hour. Women and men in green and white uniforms hurried down the corridors and no one took any notice of Paul’s strange appearance: a tall Westerner, breathless, in a white shirt and white pants, so wet that his clothing clung to him, barefoot, holding a pair of shoes dripping water. He heard loud groaning coming from a room, and the soothing voice of a nurse; from another room came the piteous screams of a newborn.
He found Christine in the next room. She was lying in bed dressed only in a white nightgown, with no cover, with a drip by her side. She was hooked up to a cardiogram that was monitoring the baby’s heartbeat and her contractions. Her smile when she saw him. She was pale and sweating. Her lips were cracked. What was wrong with her eyes? Either they had given her medication or the exhaustion had drawn a veil over her gaze. He took her hand and kissed her on her forehead, her eyes, her mouth. My darling. My little one. Are you all right? Is everything okay?
A nurse came in, looked at him in surprise and wanted to know who he was.
The father, Paul said. The young woman gave Christine a questioning look and she nodded in confirmation.
Your wife is doing well, the midwife said. The baby’s heartbeat was normal and the contractions were still weak. The waters had broken but there was no cause for concern. The doctor would carry out a caesarean section soon. He was just busy with another birth at the moment.
No cause for concern. The wrong words.
Christine realized that. She pressed his hands. Paul pulled up a chair and sat down at her bedside. He wanted to be strong for her, but he felt only how weak he was. After Justin’s death, he had really thought that there would never be anything else that he need be afraid of. Now he was learning otherwise.
“Rest,” he said, in a low voice.
“Why are you so wet?”
“I’ve been swimming.”
She laughed and closed her eyes. Suddenly, she clutched his hand and bit her lips, raised herself, groaned, and sank back onto the pillow.
“Can I do anything for you?” he asked with concern. He could not remember any of the breathing techniques that they had learned in the antenatal classes.
“Stay by my side, that’s enough,” she said. “You mustn’t be worried.”
“I’ve been telling myself that all through the pregnancy. It’s not that simple.”
“Trust in Master Wong.”
“Why him especially?” He had tried to sound casual but Christine lifted her head, amazed at the fear in his voice.
“Because all his predictions come true.”
“Please, please, no.”
“Why not? He prophesied that you would give life.”
“Yes. And?”
“In a few minutes it will happen. What could go wrong? Apart from that, he would have said.”
“What?”
“If something were to happen to me or the baby.”
“Don’t say that,” Paul said.
“Do you still not trust in the stars?” she asked. “People need something that they can believe in, don’t they?”
“I, I don’t know,” he said. ”I can’t say that I believe in them. But I can’t say that I don’t believe in them either.”
She smiled again. “You’re much more Chinese than I thought.”
He saw the next contraction coming in her face. Only now did he become aware of the strange noise that filled the whole room. How could he not have heard it before? A mysterious pounding. A completely unique sound, that reminded him of a horse galloping. Fast and relentless. For a long moment, he did not know what it was. It was his baby’s heartbeat. He could hear the heart of his unborn son.
Paul listened. What magical strength this sound transmitted.
What kind of person was behind this heartbeat? A fearful one or a brave one? A tender soul or a coarse one? What secrets would he come to the world with? Every life was a promise. Every life was a gift.
Paul continued sitting next to Christine in silence. He stroked her face and her belly. She groaned quietly. At some point two midwives and an anesthetist came in and prepared her for the operation. They raised her and sat her on the edge of the bed and the doctor put a long, very fine needle into the epidural space of her spine to numb the lower part of her body. Paul looked away. One wrong prick of the needle, too far to the left or too far to the right, and Christine could end up wheelchair-bound. Extremely unlikely, of course, statistically speaking.
He walked alongside Christine, holding her hand as she was wheeled down the corridor and into the operating theatre.
He had to let go at the entrance to the operating theatre. The obstetrician asked if he wanted to be present for the operation. That would be fine, but he just had to change out of his wet clothing first, which was not a bad idea anyway, and put on a cap, a face mask, and hospital scrubs. Paul followed the obstetrician into a room, undressed, and pulled on the scrubs. Then his courage left him. The fear of being overcome by panic during the operation was overwhelming.
You will lose life.
Whose life was he to lose? Christine’s? In Hong Kong, there was practically no risk of a healthy woman dying in childbirth. His son’s? A caesarean section was the safest method of delivery for a baby; again, the figures showed that nothing would likely happen. How much could statistical averages and graphs be relied on when it came to a life? Not much at all.
The worst feeling was the powerlessness, the feeling of having to look on helplessly while his fate was being decided. How often he had held conversations with himself in the months before Justin’s death, begging that someone might save his child, that a supernatural force might make everything right after all. He had tried to pray. He had made sworn pledges – to sell his apartment, to build a temple, to fund an orphanage in the Philippines – if his son were healed. He had done everything, but not found a god within himself to whom he could turn.
Paul collapsed onto a bench and waited. Through the door, which was ajar, he could hear the chatter of the doctors and nurses. To his amazement, he felt that he was becoming calmer for the first time that night.
His son came into the world eighteen minutes later.
Paul list
ened to the animated voices in the operating theatre, but could only hear fragments. Blood loss. A mystery.
Paul followed the doctor. “How is my wife?” he asked. “How is my wife?”
“She’s fine. You can go in now,” one of the doctors said.
Christine lay on the operating table, her body covered with a green screen, with her white legs sticking out at the bottom. Paul went to her. She was conscious and her forehead was covered in tiny beads of sweat. She reached for his hand. He had never seen her smile so beautifully before.
The obstetrician was suddenly by their side. He was very sorry. It was difficult to explain. Their baby had had a twin. It was not possible to establish on the spot whether it was a boy or a girl, a fraternal or an identical twin. They had just found the remains of it in the placenta with the afterbirth. It was incredible that no one had noticed it in the scans before, but that sometimes happened. The second fetus must have died early, at only a few weeks’ gestation. It had probably not been healthy, or perhaps the mother’s body had only been able to nourish one of the fetuses, so had rejected the other one. If that were so, one baby had been sacrificed so that the other one could live. Perhaps that was some comfort.
You will lose life.
“Is our son healthy?” Paul asked.
“Yes, of course. He’s doing well,” the doctor answered lightly, brushing away his concern. He brought him to a side table where a midwife was weighing and measuring the baby.