Blue Noise
by Ralph Lam
CONTENT WARNING: RAPE, SUICIDE
A house needs a strong foundation. One to last generation after generation, one to contain the euphoria of newlyweds, one to witness the growth of a happy family. This two-storey condo in Tai Po with windows that faced neither the mountains nor the sea had none of that.
***
Gravel crunches: a beige-yellow shuttle bus rattles off into the distance. Luggage drops, pounding the dirt; rising dust mixes with an air of disappointment.
Lila, her fingers tap-tap-tapping on a leather handbag, the first wedding gift she reached for on the table, walks up to the front door: a tall gate. She slides the gate to the right; right, a supposedly fortuitous direction.
One or two meters, who knows, away from the front door, Darren can already picture the living room: austerity at its finest.
Despair, the feeling that had festered at the pit of Darren’s stomach since he had said his “I do’s” and pressed his lips to Lila’s—her father would be happy that Darren’s sticking to the agreement. Kisses are meant to be shared with those you cherish: the one who Darren cherished had worked at a street stall in Mong Kok and he only got to kiss her once.
There was a lavish dinner after the ceremony. He had thought about his future while his mother had thought about Lila’s parents’ bank account. She gorged herself on roast pig skin and washed it down with acrid rice wine. She didn’t need to pay for any of the food.
Lila’s shoulders, tap, slump over, tappity-tap-tap. She, too, can see the vintage television sitting upon the tapioca table, a staple of cheap pre-furnished housing.
The tapping—metronomic march in allegro—grows faster.
It’s just a temporary accommodation. Lila’s father stared at his daughter’s pouting lips. She was sitting curled up at the end of her king-size bed. Darren stood beside her. She held his hand tight: not reciprocated. She wanted to be somewhere on the main island. He wanted to be at a particular stall in Mong Kok.
Temporary: funny word. Tehm-puh-reh-ree. Founded on uncertainty. The word demonstrates lack of permanence. Used by those who want to avoid the obligation of promises. This house promises Lila’s father a (permanent?) respite from the demands of his daughter.
Lila, you understand right? We will find a house in the Mid-Levels quite soon. The father shot a sideways glance: an indirect command. Darren nodded; oscillation of a bobble head pushed by external force. He wasn’t used to being given things. A sharp crack of the belt and a bloody welt: on the house. The turmoil of mind never breached the surface of his countenance.
***
The television is gone, no more prismatic reflections in an ashen ocean. Tapioca is still the strongest flavor in the room. The walls furnished with semi-convincing copies of Warhols and Caravaggios. Elaborate phonograph in the corner, leaking Darren’s favorite song. A lavish chandelier on the ceiling, appears to be crystal, upon closer inspection, just cheap glass. The inhabitants: discordant, dissonant.
Upstairs. In the north corner is Lila’s closet; orgy of designer brands. Such luxury, money isn’t the problem. Anything to keep Lila satiated: the enfant terrible of profligate spending. She wants a baby. No, her parents want a baby. No, her parents and his mother want a baby. Baby, daughter, son, granddaughter, grandson, responsibilities: anchors on a ship run aground.
Darren wonders how Mong Kok street stall girl is doing. Of course, rape is quite a fickle thing. Blood is not a pleasant liquid. Crying is not a euphonious sound.
He thinks—no—he knows she should be doing fine, maybe.
Perhaps he could visit her over the weekend. Walk down the busy pavement. Find her, take her to a hole-in-the-wall. Let one thing lead to another. Oxytocin: a dangerous chemical. He tosses the plan aside. Too risky; also, it’s not a part of the agreement, they won’t let him.
***
Lila, out the door dressed to the nines, back in a hospital gown—blue like the blue of a lake. His son: pink flesh and a pink covenant of dedication. Baby? From where? He… he doesn’t know.
He holds the child, no, sorry, his child, with the affection of a Chinese mother conducting a honeydew melon inspection: hold it up, shake it once or twice, knock on it, repeat a couple of times. Lila snatches the baby away from him, she doesn’t like Darren shaking her, sorry, their child. He stares. This woman he married—who is she?
Maybe he just doesn’t know her that well, maybe.
Lila enraptures the child with coos and tsk-tsk’s: faux-acapella.
Don’t worry sweetheart, you’ve got my good genes, I’m sure you will be kind to everyone. Lila is louder than she thinks.
Darren, as always, sits in the corner listening to his music, his quotidian occupation. Later, Darren overhears a phone conversation. The dialogue is a half-solved jigsaw puzzle: he thinks he can put the rest together.
You didn’t tell me he was so cold. Lila, crying (not a euphonious sound).
___________________
But I want one now!
___________________
No, don’t sue him. He hasn’t exactly breached the agreement. Can I just come home? The phone emits a muted beep. End of conversation.
***
Some time ago.
Dark alley. Why were they there? Maybe, perhaps, possibly walking home together. Burning cigarettes and dank sewage coalesced into a memorable noxious scent. But they didn’t care, too preoccupied with each other. The ground was wet from the runoff of faulty pipes and clogged drains. But, when someone is slamming your head into the ground, wet concrete is just as hard as is dry.
Darren, forehead bleeding, too weak to stand, only watched from the soft padding of trash bags. Mong Kok street girl (does Darren even remember her name?), navy blue skirt wrapped around her ankles. Some man was thrusting himself inside her. Coterie of tattooed somebodies stands behind him: perverse indulgence—they all take turns.
Mong Kok street girl—blood, not a pleasant liquid, streaming down her legs, crying, not a euphonious sound, reverberating off of rusty metal pipes—was ragdolled, snap, thrown onto the floor, crack (remember that wet concrete is still painful). The last somebody, libido satiated, pulled up his trousers, walked away, everyone followed: no remorse.
Darren, in bed, now awake. A nightmare (maybe?). Looking around, bedroom is moldy and wallpaper droops from unbridled leakage. Bed, springs popping out like maggots in decay, is empty. Where’s Lila? Must be a dream, maybe. Blink once, blink twice, now Darren can see Lila sleeping in bed.
***
The acceleration of an object under gravity is approximately ten meters per second. This is a well known fact. The hangman’s knot tightens when its loop is pulled. This is knowledge possessed by those with intention. Given these two properties, an object of average weight can use acceleration under gravity to prompt a swift tightening of the hangman’s knot.
Darren remembered all of this as he tied the knot, looping the other end of the rope around the chandelier.
Lila said she was leaving the house; she wanted attention from Darren that he could not give because he was too distant and far too aloof from the marriage. He just wanted to see the Mong Kok street stall girl, but naturally, Lila’s family would not let him so he stayed in his corner listening to music from the elaborate phonograph.
Lila said she was leaving the house, but Darren never heard her leave. Blink once, she’s there, blink twice, she’s taken herself, the baby, the maids, and the furniture with her. Lila said she was leaving the house, which made Darren upset, was the despair actually for Lila? Perhaps it was, or perhaps it was for someone else, who?
Darren can’t quite remember Lila or anything before her. Everything seems like figments of a long fever dream. Despair, anxiety, frustration, they all come flooding in. Darren doesn’t like it.
He takes two steps forward, off the chair. He has done his part. Time to let gravity and the noose do theirs.
***
The condo had always been quiet; yet, as of late, villagers had been hearing a wailing from deep within its walls.
Each night brought the same soliloquy from the house’s distressed spirit: a lost love, an unwanted marriage. The villagers also heard the squeals of a newborn baby, or, at least, a grown man’s imitation of one. The shouts and cries were not pleasant to the ear.
The sounds continued for weeks and months. Then they stopped. The spirit had run out of breath. The villagers chose not to question anything: Darren’s body was left to rot. A house needs a strong foundation, one to last generation after generation, one to contain the euphoria of newlyweds, one to witness the growth of a happy family. This two-storey condo in Tai Po with windows that faced neither the mountains nor the sea had none of that. Instead, it contained the despair, delusion, and death of one young man.
About the Author
Ralph Lam is a junior at Phillips Academy Andover from Hong Kong. Ralph enjoys writing about family, culture, and the impact they have on identity; he likes to read his work in front of his plants, they make for a quiet and respectful audience. He also tends to look far too closely into every scene of a movie. Ralph’s work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and published in various literary journals. When Ralph isn’t sitting at his desk, he is traveling across Hong Kong to encourage younger generations to pick up a pencil and write; he believes that everyone should have access to a platform to express their creative agency.