In March, Hong Kong’s air is itself a second skin. Beneath that skin, warm blood moves, and wherever it moves, moisture follows. Walls sweat. Iron railings bead with water. Glass windows fog over; you can write letters on them with your finger, and after a while the words slowly dissolve.
This was 1986.
When Shen Hui passed through the Luohu checkpoint, she clutched a black imitation-leather handbag that held an introduction letter from her advisor. The train from Nanjing to Shenzhen had taken a full day and night, hard seat, and both her legs were swollen from sitting. Through the checkpoint, she transferred to the Kowloon-Canton Railway, and the carriage suddenly became bright and clean. Outside the window, hillsides were planted with trees whose names she didn’t know, their thick leaves so deep a green they turned black. The villages of the New Territories clustered past one by one; occasionally a fish pond flashed by, its surface reflecting heavy shadows of cloud. Emerging at Kowloon station, a tide of Cantonese swept over her, and the traditional characters on the signboards cascaded densely downward. She was pushed forward by the crowd, the collar of her shirt already soaked through with sweat and stuck to her collarbones; she kept pulling at it as she walked, and it wouldn’t come loose.
She was staying at her aunt’s place in Sai Ying Pun. Her aunt, Tong Yuet-ngo, her father’s older sister, had moved here in the late seventies and lived alone on the fourth floor of an old tong lau on Queen’s Road West. The staircase was narrow and dark; where the plaster had peeled from the walls, the red brick underneath showed through, the damp having softened the lime in the mortar. At the end of the fourth-floor corridor hung an incandescent bulb of too low a wattage, casting yellowish light that stained the doors on either side the color of an old photograph. Her aunt worked quality control at a garment factory, out early and back late. She had cleared a small room for Shen Hui, window-facing, the window looking directly into the light well of the building opposite, where you could see other people’s laundry hung out to dry, bright patterns that all tilted in the same direction when the wind blew.
Shen Hui was twenty-three, a graduate student in the English department at Nanjing University. Her advisor had secured her a short-term visiting permit from the comparative literature department at HKU to consult old colonial-era periodicals in the Fung Ping Shan Library’s collection. The department had approved her travel expenses for one round trip; she was permitted to stay seven days only.
She arrived on a Monday evening. Her aunt wasn’t back yet, having left a key with the neighbor across the hall. Shen Hui went up to the fourth floor and, under that yellowed light at the end of the corridor, found the note that read for Miss Hui next door, hesitated, and pressed the doorbell.
The door opened, and first came a gust of cool air. Behind it stood a woman, something past thirty, wearing a loose silk house blouse. The ground color was smoky pink with a very pale woven pattern; the neckline was cut low, and when she pulled it up it was still low. Her hair was permed, just past her shoulders, slightly wavy; it looked freshly washed and not yet dried, the ends still damp. Her features were delicate and languid, her eyes long and upturned, curving into two shallow arcs when she smiled. She glanced at Shen Hui, said “oh,” and turned inside to get the key.
The corridor light illuminated her completely. She walked barefoot on the tile floor, her footsteps almost soundless, only the soft rustle of silk trouser hems. Her ankle bones were round and prominent; her toenails were painted deep red, and on the grey-white tiles each step opened a small blossom of color.
When she handed over the key, her fingers grazed Shen Hui’s palm. Shen Hui took the key, looked up to thank her, and her gaze swept across the woman’s neckline. The smoky pink silk lay against her collarbone, and below the collarbone a stretch of skin gleamed with a faint golden luster, filmed with the finest beads of sweat. Shen Hui’s eyes lingered a beat too long, then moved away.
The woman smiled. “Your aunt said you’d come from Nanjing. Research.” Cantonese-inflected Mandarin, each word bitten off short and crisp, the last syllable lifting upward. “If you need anything, I’m right next door.”
Her name was Hui Man-yi.
Later, Shen Hui came to know her story gradually. Man-yi worked the cosmetics counter at a Japanese department store in Causeway Bay, selling foundation, lipstick, perfume. She had been married once, wed at twenty-five to a Teochew man in the gold trade, divorced at twenty-eight. “He was a good man,” Man-yi said when she spoke of her ex-husband, her tone even, her hands peeling an orange. “A genuinely good person. The problem was mine. I can’t stay with someone for long.” She handed the peeled orange to Shen Hui and ate the white pith left on the rind herself.
The first two days Shen Hui and Man-yi only nodded to each other when they passed in the corridor. Every morning at eight she went out to take the tram to HKU, sitting all day in the Fung Ping Shan Library’s rare books room, wearing white cotton gloves to turn the yellowed old periodicals. When she came out in the evenings and walked onto Bonham Road, the damp air pressed in from every direction. Looking down from the upper deck of the tram, she saw the street lined with arcade-fronted shops: herbal tea stalls whose signs blocked half the pavement, the slanting sun bright on the windows of the buildings opposite, dazzling gold. Back in Sai Ying Pun, she bought a pineapple bun downstairs, went up, showered, reviewed her materials, and slept.
Tuesday evening her aunt worked late again. Shen Hui was alone in the room turning over documents she’d borrowed from the library that afternoon. Two knocks at the door; she opened it to find Man-yi standing outside holding a pot of soup, wearing that smoky pink house blouse, sleeves pushed to the elbows. “Your aunt asked me to look after you.” She set the pot on the table and lifted the lid; steam hit Shen Hui full in the face. “You scholars don’t know when you’re hungry.”
Shen Hui indeed hadn’t eaten dinner. She’d spent the whole afternoon in the library and come home and forgotten. She brought out the bowls to her aunt’s small dinner table, and Man-yi didn’t leave; she sat down beside her and began to talk, about the past, about herself.
Man-yi had a gift for speech. She seemed to say everything, yet nothing was ever quite said through. When she spoke of her marriage, she only smiled. When she spoke of customers at the counter, she imitated how they pursed their lips to try lipstick, and the impression was uncannily exact. “Women buying lipstick,” she said, holding a finger before her lips as she illustrated, “are mostly buying it for someone else to see. They put on a full face of color, study themselves in the mirror for a long while, and what they’re thinking about is someone else’s eyes.” She finished saying this, then turned to look at Shen Hui; the glance lasted half a second and was retrieved. “What about you? Is there someone waiting for you back home?”
Shen Hui said no. Man-yi said mm and didn’t ask further.
When she saw Man-yi to the door, she stood in the corridor for a moment. The window at the end of the corridor was open; the night breeze brought in the salt smell of the sea, mixed with the oil smoke from the dai pai dong downstairs frying in their woks. Under the light, the corridor stretched long and narrow, the terrazzo floor worn to a shine, reflecting a dim and blurred glow. Man-yi’s slippers struck the floor one step at a time, pa, pa, pa, the sound gradually receding. She went inside, looked back and smiled at Shen Hui, and the door closed. Through the last crack before it shut, a line of light.
Shen Hui went back inside to wash the bowls. The tap water was warm, warm to the degree of body temperature. She set the bowls on the drying rack and found that her fingers were trembling slightly.
That was Wednesday afternoon. Shen Hui was examining an 1892 English periodical at the library when she found a dried gardenia pressed between the pages, its petals turned to translucent paper that crumbled at a touch. She asked the librarian to remove it, and spent the afternoon copying notes from a long article by hand until her wrist ached. She left earlier than usual; the streetlights on Bonham Road were already on, the shadows of the plane trees sifting faintly across the road. She waited at the tram stop when someone tapped her from behind.
She turned. It was Man-yi. Today she was in work clothes: a black dress, cleanly tailored, with a thin leather belt at the waist, small gold studs at her ears. Fully made up, eyebrows drawn thin and precise, lips a true red. The whole of her put together and complete, utterly unlike the barefoot, loose-haired woman at home.
“What are you doing here?” Shen Hui was startled.
“I got off early today.” Man-yi pointed to a small street across the way. “I was going to catch the bus on Connaught Road. Then I saw you standing here.” She looked Shen Hui up and down and reached out, patting her twice on the back of her shirt. “How long were you sitting? There are creases all down your back.”
Those two pats landed on her shoulder blades, through the thin damp cotton, the warmth of the palm unmistakable. Shen Hui’s shoulders gave a small involuntary flinch; then she felt the flinch was too obvious and quickly straightened herself.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“Come with me.”
Man-yi walked beautifully. Her heels clicked on the stone pavement, da da da, her waist narrow; when she walked quickly her skirt hem swayed lightly an inch above her knees. Shen Hui followed behind. They wove through two narrow streets and arrived at a cha chaan teng hidden in an alleyway, so tight that two people had to turn sideways to pass abreast, the ground slick beneath them. Half the neon on the restaurant’s sign was dead; of ice room, only ice still glowed. The interior was old: the faux-leather booth seats worn to a shine, old ceiling fans turning overhead with a low hum.
Man-yi sat down with the ease of long familiarity, rattled something off in Cantonese to the waiter, and ordered a whole table’s worth: wonton noodle soup, dry-fried beef ho fun, pineapple bun with butter, iced lemon tea. The waiter brought cups and saucers, crockery knocking against crockery.
The noodles arrived. The broth was clean and bright, the wonton skins thin, the shrimp inside swollen to a full pink. Shen Hui took two mouthfuls and her hand moved of its own accord, reaching for three, four dumplings in succession. She’d had only a bun at lunch; now hot broth had reached her stomach and her whole body eased, the tension in her brow unknotting.
Man-yi sat across from her with her chin in her hand, watching. Her own bowl sat untouched beside her, chopsticks resting on its rim. She simply watched Shen Hui eat: gaze falling from her brows and eyes to her mouth, from her mouth to her hands, watching how her fingers held the chopsticks, how she lifted a wonton toward her lips. Shen Hui bit through a dumpling and the broth ran out; she quickly lowered her head to the bowl, lips touching the rim, drew a mouthful with a small sound. Man-yi saw this and the corner of her mouth slowly curved.
When Shen Hui looked up, she met Man-yi’s eyes directly. She paused. “Why aren’t you eating?”
Only then did Man-yi pick up her chopsticks and stir her noodles unhurriedly, lifting a single strand, winding it around the tip, and drawing it slowly into her mouth, lips closing around it.
Shen Hui looked back down at her soup. On its surface floated a thin slick of oil; in the lamplight, the droplets caught the light in tiny rings of iridescence. She felt the heat rising in her face.
The dry-fried beef ho fun arrived. The wok breath was strong, the beef tender, the bean sprouts crisp, the flat rice noodles coated in the charred fragrance of soy sauce. Shen Hui ate several mouthfuls quickly and got sauce at the corner of her mouth.
Man-yi pulled a napkin from the holder on the table, leaned over, and pressed it to the corner of Shen Hui’s mouth. She wiped slowly, eyes curved upward, mouth curved too, very close, close enough that Shen Hui could see the small crumbled specks of mascara on her lashes. She wiped carefully, pressing the napkin once to the corner of the mouth, then drawing it lightly in the direction of the chin.
“You.” Just those two words, voiced soft and low.
Shen Hui sat frozen, chopsticks still in hand. Man-yi had already settled back, taking a bite of her pineapple bun.
“Back in Nanjing, are you alone like this too, gnawing on bread?”
“In Nanjing there’s a canteen…” Shen Hui got halfway through and even she found it funny. Man-yi watched her laugh and laughed with her.
“I’m telling you, Hong Kong has more good food than you can imagine, and plenty of it cheap. You just don’t know the streets yet. Tell me what time you finish, and if I’m free I’ll take you to eat.”
Shen Hui said she couldn’t possibly trouble her.
“What trouble? Your aunt asked me to look after you. She gave me two boxes of pastries; I owe her the favor.” She laughed again as she said it, narrowing her eyes, the shadow of her lashes falling on her cheekbones.
Man-yi stirred her iced lemon tea, then without drinking it held the straw out toward Shen Hui. “Try this.”
Shen Hui hesitated, bent down, closed her lips around the straw, and drew a mouthful. The iced lemon tea was tart and sweet, cold enough to make her teeth ache. She frowned.
Man-yi took the glass back and drank from the same end of the straw, the end Shen Hui had touched. She said nothing.
A small television mounted on the wall was playing the news. Shen Hui couldn’t understand much Cantonese; Man-yi translated as she ate, then drifted off topic partway through, talking about which place in Causeway Bay had the best silk stocking milk tea, then drifting somewhere else again. She told Shen Hui about an egg waffle vendor in front of her department store, an old man in his sixties who called her 靚女, beautiful girl, every time he saw her. “Sixties, and he’s still calling people 靚女,” Man-yi said, pitching her voice low and drawing out the Cantonese cadences: “靚女今日食咩呀…” (Beautiful girl, what are you having today?) The impression was so perfect that Shen Hui almost sprayed her mouthful of noodles. Man-yi passed her a napkin, laughing too, laughing until fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes.
Shen Hui took the napkin and wiped her mouth, then looked up at the woman across from her whose eyes had curved to crescents with laughter. Man-yi’s smile was contagious; when she laughed her whole face came alive, and even the gold studs at her ears swayed gently with it.
When her laughter subsided, Man-yi returned to talk about her counter. A woman had come in to try lipstick, going through six or seven shades, each one requiring Man-yi to swatch it on the back of her hand, then studying herself in the mirror for a long time. “Selling cosmetics, what you’re selling is company. Some women buying lipstick are really buying someone who will stand there and study their face for a long time. Think about it: how many people, in the whole course of a day, really look at your face with full attention?”
As she said this, her eyes were looking at Shen Hui’s face with full attention. This time Shen Hui didn’t look away. The two of them held each other’s gaze across the table cluttered with dishes and cups for several seconds. Man-yi was the first to look away, raising her hand to call the waiter for the bill.
The restaurant’s ceiling fans droned, and the air that came down from them was warm. The two men at the next table were arguing in Cantonese, very loud; one threw down his chopsticks and stormed out, the other chased after him. Someone in the kitchen shouted something and crockery crashed. The whole restaurant was clamor and disorder. Shen Hui sat in the exact middle of all that noise and felt a low ringing in her ears, as though she could no longer hear anything at all.
All she saw was Man-yi sitting across from her, the curve at the corner of her mouth, the gold earring catching the light.
When they were done eating, they walked back to Sai Ying Pun together. Night had fallen; all the neon signs on Queen’s Road had lit up, red and green and purple, stacked on top of each other, turning the whole street into a stage.
Up the stairs to the fourth floor. Under the yellowish incandescent light at the end of the corridor, the two doors stood side by side, one lit and one shadowed. Man-yi opened her door, walked two steps inside, then turned around and came back, leaning against her own doorframe, tilting her head to watch Shen Hui unlock her door.
“Every night you’re just in there alone with your books?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it lonely?”
Shen Hui thought a moment. “I’m used to it.”
Man-yi studied her with her head cocked. “That’s the most dangerous thing,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “Once a person gets used to something, she stops feeling its absence herself.”
She didn’t wait for Shen Hui to respond; she went inside, the door left not quite closed, a crack remaining. A few seconds passed, then she poked her head back out. “What time do you get back tomorrow?”
“Around five or six.”
“Tomorrow I’m off early.” Her hand rested on the doorframe, fingertips tapping twice against the wood without thinking. “What do you say I take you around? You’ve been here so many days and haven’t seen anything but the library, have you?”
“All right,” Shen Hui said.
Man-yi took a receipt out of her pocket, turned it to the blank side, and in the corridor’s light wrote a string of numbers, then added a line of address beneath. The characters were hurried, the strokes long and trailing. “This is my counter’s telephone. When you get to Causeway Bay, call this first and I’ll come out to meet you. Daimaru department store; you’ll find it.” When she’d finished writing, she folded the receipt once and reached over to tuck it into the breast pocket of Shen Hui’s shirt, her fingertip grazing the pocket’s edge, giving it a light tap.
“See you tomorrow.” She smiled. “Good night.”
Shen Hui went back into the room, washed her hands, and sat on the folding bed. The corner of the receipt showed above her pocket; she pulled it out and pressed it between the pages of the notebook at her bedside. She put her hand to her own shoulder blade, the place where Man-yi had patted her that afternoon, through her shirt. The skin there held a memory of being touched. She turned over in bed and thought again of Man-yi holding the straw out to her, thought of those two words you when she’d wiped the corner of her mouth, thought of the few seconds of eye contact in the tea restaurant. All of it done so naturally, naturally enough to make her wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing. Did she mean it, or not? With a woman like this, three parts real and seven parts play, if you pressed her she could laugh and step back, and if you believed her she’d have got the better of you anyway.
She lay awake for a long time. One by one the lights in the building across the way went out; outside the window only the sounds of the dai pai dong closing up remained, iron stools dragged across pavement, scraping and scraping.
Thursday.
Before leaving that morning, Shen Hui rummaged through her travel bag and pulled out a cotton sundress, white background with small blue flowers. She’d bought it in Nanjing before she left, thought it pretty, brought it along, and hadn’t worn it yet. Today she shook it out and put it on. It was fitted at the waist, the hem reaching mid-calf, the neckline a small round collar that bared a short length of collarbone. She stood before her aunt’s crooked full-length mirror for a moment, then undid her hair and redid it, letting it sit a little looser than usual. Before leaving, she took the receipt from her notebook and put it in her bag.
She sat in the library all morning. While turning over periodicals she kept reaching out to touch the side pocket of her bag. At three in the afternoon she gathered her things and left, two hours earlier than usual. She took the tram to Causeway Bay, found a public phone booth beside the Daimaru department store, put in her coin, and dialed the number on the receipt. It rang twice and was answered.
“Is that Man-yi-jie? I’m here.”
“This early?” Man-yi laughed on the other end of the line. “Wait for me at the side entrance. I’ll change and be right out.”
Shen Hui stood outside the side entrance and waited. The street was packed with people; overhead the signboards hung dense and layered, one above the next, cutting the sky into fragments. A few minutes later Man-yi came out through the side door, already changed into casual clothes, a paper bag in her hand. She was lightly made up today, wearing a sleeveless apricot-yellow blouse over white high-waisted wide-leg trousers, her hair tucked to one side to show her ear. Her earrings were different today, a small green gemstone that shifted color as it caught the daylight. A thin string of silver bracelets had slid down to her forearm and she couldn’t be bothered pushing them back. Man-yi spotted Shen Hui across the crowd and raised a hand. She came through the throng toward her, the stream of people parting on either side. The moment she reached Shen Hui she smiled and said, “Dying of heat, are you? Let’s go. I’ll take you somewhere cool.”
Man-yi walked her through Pak Tak Street and into a small lane, both sides lined with clothes shops and jewelry stalls, garments hanging on iron frames that stretched halfway to the sky, requiring a sideways turn to pass beneath. Man-yi walked ahead, stopping at one shop to hold a floral blouse against Shen Hui and tilt her head to look. “Too busy. You have fair skin; plain colors suit you better.” A few steps further she spotted a silk scarf, stretched it out and looped it once around Shen Hui’s neck, studied it, then shook her head and unwound it. “After all you’re young; it needs a lighter color.”
Shen Hui stood and let herself be arranged. When the floral blouse was held to her shoulder, Man-yi’s fingers brushed her collarbone; when the scarf was wound around her neck, fingertips grazed her earlobe. Each item picked up and put back left one more trace on Shen Hui’s body. Man-yi seemed entirely unaware of it, but Shen Hui was aware, clearly and completely. She found herself waiting for the next one: what would Man-yi pick up to hold against her now?
They stopped in front of a very small jewelry shop.
“Do you wear earrings?”
Shen Hui touched her own earlobe. “My ears aren’t pierced.”
“Come here.” Man-yi took her by the hand and walked to an old full-length mirror propped outside the shop. The mirror was set in a wooden frame, most of the paint long since peeled. Man-yi stood behind her, looking at her in the glass. Then she reached up and swept the hair back from Shen Hui’s ear, baring it. Her fingers paused on the curve of the ear, their warmth distinct. Shen Hui watched in the mirror as her ear was exposed. Man-yi’s fingers traced the arc of the ear down to the lobe and pinched it gently.
“You have lovely ears,” Man-yi said to the mirror, her voice just behind Shen Hui’s ear, her breath brushing the back of her neck. “What a pity.”
Shen Hui saw Man-yi’s face in the mirror. Her chin was almost resting on Shen Hui’s shoulder. The two of them overlapped in that mottled old glass, Man-yi’s apricot yellow and Shen Hui’s white. Shen Hui’s heartbeat quickened, quickened until her chest felt faintly tight. She wanted to step sideways but her feet wouldn’t obey.
“Wait.” Man-yi let go and began speaking Cantonese with the shop owner.
Shen Hui stood alone before the mirror. Her earlobe still held a little warmth where it had been touched. In the glass her cheeks were flushed; she quickly pressed the back of her hand to her face.
Man-yi came back shortly, holding a pair of very small pearl ear clips. “Clips, no piercing needed. Come, hold still.” She rose onto her toes, taking the ear clip to Shen Hui’s lobe. Her left hand steadied Shen Hui’s jaw; her right held the clip between three fingers. Click. It was on. The pearl was tiny, rice-grain size, cool against the lobe.
Man-yi stepped back half a step, studied it, then leaned in again to adjust the angle. In the adjustment her fingers brushed the side of Shen Hui’s neck, grazing a thin cord of tendon. Shen Hui’s neck contracted.
“Ticklish?” Man-yi’s lips curved.
“…Yes.” Shen Hui’s voice came out slightly pinched.
“The other one you do yourself.”
Shen Hui took the second clip; her hand was unsteady and she fumbled twice before getting it on. Man-yi watched from the side and tucked her hair back behind her ear. Shen Hui finally got it fastened.
Man-yi took a small round mirror from her bag and passed it over. In the glass the woman had two small pearls hanging from her lobes. Shen Hui looked at herself. She had never worn such a thing.
“Pretty. Take them; bring them back to Nanjing.”
“How much are they? Let me give you—”
“Don’t settle accounts with me.” Man-yi put away the little mirror and flicked Shen Hui once on the forehead with her index finger. Shen Hui followed behind, instinctively reaching up to touch one of the pearls at her ear. Cool, smooth, a small round weight against the lobe; she was not quite used to it, yet felt herself somehow entirely different.
Coming out of Causeway Bay, Man-yi took her on the streetcar to Wan Chai. They sat on the upper deck, level with the second-floor windows of the arcade buildings. Someone had put a pot of flowers on a windowsill, some red bloom whose name she didn’t know, flowering lavishly.
Shen Hui watched them a moment. “I have a pot of mint on my balcony in Nanjing.”
“Mint is easy to grow.”
“Yes. But the easier a thing is to grow, the less attention you pay it. Sometimes I’d forget to water it, the leaves would wilt, and I’d water it back to life. Over and over.”
“With plants too, you’re careless when you should be careful.” Man-yi turned to look at her, something playful in her eyes.
Shen Hui paused. “Are you talking about plants?”
Man-yi didn’t answer; she turned back to look out the window. The streetcar rocked its way along Johnston Road.
They got off and walked a while, arriving at the waterfront promenade in Admiralty. Victoria Harbour in the evening light shimmered with a grey-blue metallic sheen; Kowloon across the water had not yet fully lit up, its skyline a row of deep-grey silhouettes. The sea wind came in, salty and damp, and blew the loose strands of Shen Hui’s hair straight up.
They walked slowly along the railing. Man-yi said she took the bus to work every day, forty minutes from Sai Ying Pun to Causeway Bay, and she liked the upper-deck seat by the window. Shen Hui said she too liked watching out of bus windows in Nanjing, and in winter when frost formed on the glass she’d warm a circle with her palm and peer out through it. Man-yi said the windows on Hong Kong buses never frosted. Shen Hui said then you’ve never seen frost. Man-yi said she’d never seen snow either.
“Then you should come to Nanjing.” Shen Hui said it and immediately felt it was too forward; she quickly added, “Nanjing’s snow isn’t heavy either, just a thin layer.”
Man-yi turned her head to look at her. “Are you inviting me?”
Shen Hui’s face warmed. “…Not exactly formally. Just, if you wanted to see snow.”
“All right.” Man-yi said those two words very softly and slowly, drawing the last syllable out. She looked sidelong at Shen Hui. “Don’t take it back later.”
Out on the harbour, a Star Ferry was making its way toward Central, its lit-up hull drawing a thread of gold across the dark water, long and long, then tapering, and breaking.
They walked on a while longer. Man-yi smoothed her wind-blown hair, then reached over quite naturally and tucked the loose strands at Shen Hui’s temple back behind her ear. Her fingers traveled from the temple down, past the curve of the ear, the tip pausing to touch the new pearl at the lobe.
“It looks lovely,” she said.
On the way back they passed through several narrow lanes, dark, only a few streetlamps overhead filtering light down through gaps in the drying poles. One alley was so tight they had to go single file. Man-yi walked ahead, her white trousers faintly luminous in the dark. She stopped and turned: “Watch out, water on the ground.”
Shen Hui looked down. There was indeed a puddle, mirroring a few inches of sky above. She was hesitating when Man-yi reached back and took her hand.
“Step over.”
Shen Hui was drawn across the puddle. On the other side, Man-yi didn’t let go. They walked like that for seven or eight steps, until they reached the lit mouth of the alley, and then Man-yi released her hand. Man-yi walked ahead again, quick now, as though nothing had just happened.
At the base of the tong lau, they went upstairs, passing under the yellowish light at the end of the fourth-floor corridor. Man-yi stopped at her door, key turned in the lock, and looked back.
“You’ve been walking all day. Come in for some soup before you go. I made it before I left; it should be just right by now.”
Man-yi’s flat was somewhat larger than her aunt’s. The sofa was covered in a dark red velvet throw; on the tea table sat a celadon dish with a few salted plums. In a corner stood a small bookshelf lined not with books but with bottles of cosmetics and a few fashion magazines. On the stovetop sat a clay pot of lotus root and pork rib soup; when uncovered it released a rush of steam.
Man-yi filled two bowls, pushing the larger one toward Shen Hui. She sat on the sofa with the small bowl, tucking her bare feet under the cushion, legs folded. She picked a slice of lotus root with her chopsticks and ate it; the coral nail polish on her fingers caught the lamplight. Her hands were beautiful, the knuckles evenly shaped, fingers long and slender, nails neatly trimmed.
Shen Hui drank her soup. The lotus root had braised to a soft yielding texture, coming apart in fine threads when bitten through. After the whole afternoon on her feet, a bowl of hot soup went down and her whole body eased into a pleasant drowsiness. Man-yi talked across from her. She described the year she’d spent in Singapore, how her aunt there had made her pastries every day, all kinds, the best being pandan coconut cake, green and soft, the taste of coconut filling your mouth with one bite.
“You must try some if you ever get the chance.”
“Then I’ll need to go to Singapore,” Shen Hui said.
“Hong Kong works too. We have good pandan coconut cake here.” Man-yi smiled over at her.
She told more stories: about learning to sing as a girl, spending two months in a church choir before being asked to leave because she kept going off key. “And not just a little off,” Man-yi gestured with her hand, “the width of a whole street. The choir teacher said in twenty years of teaching she’d never seen anyone go that far off.”
Shen Hui laughed until she bent over. “And then?”
“Then I stopped singing. Took up mahjong instead. Mahjong is easier to learn.”
When her laughter died down, Shen Hui asked, “What do you do on your days off? Stay home?”
“Watch television. Listen to the radio. Sometimes go get my hair done.” Man-yi set her bowl on the tea table, fingers tracing circles on its rim. She traced several before going on. “Today was good fun. It’s been a long time since I spent a whole day going around with someone.”
Through the window came the distant sound of the customs clock tower striking the hour. Shen Hui checked the time and said her aunt would soon be back.
Man-yi walked her to the door. The corridor light fell on both of them. Man-yi leaned against the doorframe; Shen Hui stood opposite. Three steps between them.
“Thank you for today,” Shen Hui said.
“Nothing to thank me for,” Man-yi said, and smiled.
Shen Hui should have turned and left. But she stood there, hands at her sides closing into fists, then opening again. She wanted to say something; her lips moved, and what finally came out was only “good night.”
Man-yi looked at her. The corridor light fell from the side; half her face was in light, half in shadow. She reached out and touched Shen Hui’s arm lightly, then withdrew her hand.
“Good night.”
Shen Hui went back inside. That night, lying on the folding bed, her aunt already asleep in the next room, breathing faint and even, the clock outside struck eleven. She raised her hand before her face, palm upward, and in the dark could see nothing at all.
She turned over. On nights when the south wind blows back, even the pillowcase is damp.
Friday.
Shen Hui finished the last batch of photocopies at the Fung Ping Shan Library ahead of schedule and left at three in the afternoon. Instead of going straight back to Sai Ying Pun, she took the Star Ferry across the harbour to Tsim Sha Tsui on her own. On Nathan Road, gold shops ran end to end, the gold in their windows blazing under the lights. She stopped in front of one. The glass reflected her own face: thin, eye sockets faintly hollow. She was wearing the white lawn blouse, collar buttoned to the very top. She looked at that top button, thought a moment, and undid it.
She walked a few more streets and turned into a small cosmetics shop. The storefront was narrow, shelves crammed with bottles and jars. She stood in front of the lipstick display for a long time. The lipsticks were arranged in rows of different colors; she knew none of them by name. She picked one up and twisted it open: a red so deep it was almost dark, close to the true red Man-yi wore to work. She stared at the pigment for a while, then put it back. She took another, a pale shade, and brought it close: pink with a hint of orange in it. She pressed it to the back of her hand and dragged it lightly, leaving a faint pink streak with slightly blurred edges.
The shop assistant came over to ask if she’d like to test a color; she shook her head, put the lipstick back, and left.
She took the ferry back. Standing at the stern, she watched the Kowloon shore recede bit by bit. The evening sea wind poured in through the collar she’d unbuttoned, cool against her skin.
The sun had gone down by the time she got back to Sai Ying Pun. On the stairs, at the third-floor landing, she heard it: Man-yi’s door was open, and from inside came the sound of a radio. A song by Alan Tam, cut off halfway and changed to another channel, the news. Changed again: Danny Chan’s Pian Pian Xi Huan Ni.
Shen Hui went into her aunt’s flat, changed her clothes, washed her face, and sat on the folding bed. The radio next door was still playing, a different song now, a woman’s voice, unhurried, each word drawn out and lingering. The music came through the thin wall and drifted around the small room; Shen Hui sat on the folding bed and listened for a long while before the song stopped.
A silence. Then footsteps, Man-yi’s slippers on the tile floor, moving from somewhere inside the flat toward the front door. The door opened.
The footsteps reached the corridor and stopped.
Shen Hui stood up. She walked to the door and put her hand on the handle.
The doorbell rang.
She opened the door. Man-yi was wearing an old grey t-shirt and denim shorts, her hair loosely gathered at the back. No makeup; her brows and eyes were bare, her lips their natural pale pink. She was holding a plate of sliced mango.
“Today’s mangoes are especially sweet. Try some.”
Shen Hui let her in. Man-yi set the mangoes on the table, sat on the folding bed cross-legged, back against the wall. She put a piece of mango in her mouth; juice ran down her fingers and she bent her head to lick them. As she did, her lashes dropped, lips touching the tips of her fingers, the tip of her tongue curling lightly against her fingertip.
Shen Hui watched her do this, felt something tighten in her chest, and quickly looked away to take a piece of mango herself. It was very sweet.
“You leave the day after tomorrow,” Man-yi said.
“Yes. Eleven-thirty train in the morning.”
Man-yi speared a piece of mango with a toothpick and held it out to Shen Hui. Shen Hui took it. They ate the mango piece by piece like that, their fingertips sticky with juice.
“Will you come back to Hong Kong?”
“I don’t know. If I have the chance.”
Man-yi made a soft sound of acknowledgment. She wiped her fingers on a napkin, then rubbed them on the knee of her denim shorts. Her head was down as she did this; Shen Hui couldn’t read her expression.
Man-yi stood up. “It’s late. Your aunt will be back.”
She walked to the door, pulled it open, then stopped. She turned back.
“Come to my place tomorrow.”
“For what?”
Man-yi tilted her head and smiled, something a little teasing in it. “I’ll do your makeup. You’ve come all the way to Hong Kong; you should dress up at least once.”
She left. Her slippers on the corridor tiles, pa, pa, two steps and she was at the next door. It opened and closed.
Shen Hui sat alone on the folding bed. She pressed her hand to the place where Man-yi had been sitting. The sheets still held a trace of warmth.
Saturday. Her last full day in Hong Kong.
In the morning she went to HKU as planned, returned her borrower’s card, and handed in the photocopy receipts to the library office. Coming out, the sun was bright, but the air had lost none of its moisture. Sunlight bore down through the wet air and everything had soft edges.
In the afternoon she returned to her aunt’s flat and packed. She didn’t have much; a single travel bag held everything. Her aunt, rare to be home, made her a bowl of noodles and tucked two packets of sun cakes into the travel bag.
At four o’clock the doorbell rang. Her aunt went to answer it. Man-yi stood outside, wearing a washed-soft cotton blouse, white background with small blue flowers, buttons fastened to the second.
“Yuet-ngo-jie,” she said sweetly, “I’ve come to borrow Hui-hui for an hour.”
Her aunt said fine. Man-yi took Shen Hui to the flat next door. When Shen Hui stepped inside, she noticed the tea table had been covered with a clean white towel on which a row of cosmetics had been set out with care: foundation, loose powder, an eyebrow pencil, an eyeshadow palette, blush, and four or five lipsticks, the gold and silver tubes arranged in a line like a small orderly arsenal.
“Sit.” Man-yi patted the chair in front of the dining table. She stood and took a triangular sponge from a clear plastic box. “Chin up.”
Shen Hui raised her chin. Man-yi squeezed a little foundation onto the back of her own hand, picked it up with the sponge, and began to pat it lightly across Shen Hui’s face. Man-yi stood very close, close enough that Shen Hui could see the underside of her chin, the hollow of her collarbone, could smell the light soap scent of her clothing, and beneath it the base note of all the perfumes she tested at her counter each day; impossible to name, only feeling warm and deep and lingering.
“Your skin is very good,” Man-yi said as she worked. “Fine pores; you don’t need much base.”
Her hand moved from forehead to cheekbone, from cheekbone to chin. When she passed over the lips her hand paused. “Your lips are dry.” She set down the sponge, picked up a lip balm from the table, and applied it directly to Shen Hui’s lips.
The balm’s touch was soft and smooth. Man-yi applied it slowly, starting from the center of the upper lip and tracing along the arc of the Cupid’s bow. Her left hand cupped Shen Hui’s chin, thumb resting at its center.
“Relax your mouth,” she said.
Shen Hui relaxed.
Man-yi finished the upper lip and moved to the lower. Her gaze was entirely concentrated on Shen Hui’s mouth, focused with no glance to spare. Shen Hui had never had anyone look at her mouth like this. Man-yi’s eyes followed the lip balm as it moved, studying each part before passing on, taking a whole mouth and breaking it into smaller portions, each requiring its own full attention before she could move on.
When the balm was done, Man-yi continued. She took a very fine eyebrow pencil and filled in Shen Hui’s brows, one hair at a time. “Your eyebrows grow in thick. Thick brows have character.”
The eyeshadow was applied with a finger. Man-yi dipped her ring finger into a dusting of apricot powder, closed Shen Hui’s eyes, and blended it across her lids with a light and even touch. That ring finger pressed on her eyelids with exquisite gentleness. Shen Hui sat with her eyes closed, feeling Man-yi’s finger moving slowly across her eyelids. She held her breath.
“Breathe,” Man-yi said.
Shen Hui exhaled.
“You look beautiful with your eyes closed.” Man-yi’s voice came from just above her. “Do you know your lashes are very long?”
Shen Hui did not know.
“Good. Open.”
She opened her eyes and Man-yi’s face was right there, close enough to see a ring of dark brown flecks in her irises.
“Look at me. Don’t blink.”
Man-yi took a mascara wand and brushed it lightly across Shen Hui’s lashes. Shen Hui struggled not to blink; her eyes began to ache with the effort and tears gathered. A single drop hung at the tip of her lashes. Man-yi saw it and caught it with her little finger.
“About to cry?” Man-yi smiled.
“You told me not to blink.”
“Hold on.”
Shen Hui held on. Man-yi finished, stepped back half a step to look. “Good. Last step.”
She picked up a lipstick: gold tube, a pattern pressed into the cap. She twisted it out and showed Shen Hui; the pigment was the faintest, most delicate rose.
“This shade is called Misty Rose,” she said. “I think it will suit you.”
Her left hand cupped Shen Hui’s chin and lifted it slightly. Her right held the lipstick and began at the center of the upper lip’s bow. The lipstick was cool and smooth. She drew it very slowly.
She finished the upper lip, then the lower. At the end she drew her thumb lightly along the outer edge of Shen Hui’s lower lip, wiping away a little color that had strayed beyond the line.
“Done.”
She held out the small round mirror.
Shen Hui looked at herself in the glass. She almost didn’t recognize herself. The makeup was light: the base clean, brows and eyes drawn with fine precision, a barely-there blush swept across the cheekbones. The Misty Rose against her complexion looked, in the end, like the color her lips had always been born with.
“Is it beautiful?” Man-yi asked.
“…Very beautiful.” Shen Hui raised her head.
Man-yi smiled. She capped the lipstick, set it in its box, and pushed it toward Shen Hui. “For you. Take it back to Nanjing.”
Shen Hui said no.
“Here we go again.” Man-yi tapped the box with her finger. “If you don’t take it, I’ll be unhappy.”
Shen Hui took the box. She wanted to say thank you, but those two words couldn’t hold the full swelling weight of what was in her chest. She looked down at the gold tube.
“Man-yi.”
“Mm?”
Shen Hui raised her head. Man-yi stood before her, both hands held behind her back. The light outside had dimmed; the lamplight inside caught her in a ring of warm amber.
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Man-yi tilted her head slightly and waited.
Shen Hui stood up. The chair scraped backward across the floor with a short, small sound. She didn’t know what she meant to do as she rose. Her feet moved first; her body followed. She walked to Man-yi. Man-yi was half a head taller. Less than a step between them.
Shen Hui raised her hand. It hesitated in midair. Her fingertips curved slightly, suspended beside Man-yi’s cheek.
Man-yi didn’t move. Her eyes dropped; lashes cast a small shadow on her cheekbone.
Shen Hui’s fingertips came down. They landed on Man-yi’s cheekbone, touching a small patch of warm skin. Her hand was shaking. Her fingertips moved from cheekbone to cheek; the cheek was soft, the bone beneath hard.
Man-yi’s lips parted slightly.
“…Hui-hui.”
That name: in Nanjing, only her family had called her that as a child. Man-yi said it in a Cantonese cadence, the last syllable of Hui stretched out, its trailing edge holding the lightest of sighs.
Man-yi raised her hand and covered the hand Shen Hui had placed on her face. Her fingers interlaced with Shen Hui’s. She tilted her head slightly and pressed her cheek against Shen Hui’s palm.
Shen Hui’s fingers tightened of their own accord, touching the small patch of skin beside Man-yi’s mouth. Man-yi’s lips trembled slightly.
She slowly drew Shen Hui’s hand down from her face, and kept holding it. Their hands were joined in the space between them. Man-yi’s thumb moved across the back of Shen Hui’s hand, once, twice.
Shen Hui lowered her head and looked at their clasped hands. Man-yi’s hands were well cared for, and the coral nail polish at this angle carried a faint cast of orange. Shen Hui slowly raised Man-yi’s hand. She lowered her head and pressed her lips to Man-yi’s knuckles.
The lipstick hadn’t quite dried; it left a trace of color on the skin. She held her lips there a moment and felt the finger beneath them curl slightly.
Man-yi’s other hand came up and rested on the crown of Shen Hui’s head, lightly, stroking once down along her hair.
From next door came her aunt’s voice, calling through the wall: “A-Hui, dinner’s ready!”
Man-yi withdrew her hand. Shen Hui let go too. As they separated, Shen Hui saw the pale lip print left on Man-yi’s knuckles. Man-yi looked down and saw it too.
She stepped back half a pace and said something low, in Cantonese. Shen Hui couldn’t understand.
“What did you say?”
Man-yi smiled and shook her head.
Her aunt called once more from next door. Shen Hui walked to the door and looked back at Man-yi. Man-yi stood in the middle of the room, one hand hanging at her side, the other pressed to her chest.
Shen Hui went back to her aunt’s flat. Her aunt said something from the kitchen, voice coming through the door. Shen Hui answered and walked into the small room.
She sat on the folding bed, the lipstick box in her hands. Her face still held its makeup. The light from the building opposite came through the window, falling across the floor in patches of light and dark. She opened the box, twisted out the lipstick, and looked at it. The pigment showed a small dent where it had been used, taken from her lips earlier. She raised it to her lips and applied it again, deepening the color a little. She looked at herself in her aunt’s crooked full-length mirror. The bottom corner of the mirror had gone dark with age and her reflection was always missing a piece. But her lips, with their lipstick, were whole.
She raised her hand: the hand that had touched Man-yi’s face. She pressed her palm against her own cheek and closed her eyes.
A long while passed. From next door came the radio, turned very low, indistinct.
Sunday.
At nine in the morning the three of them left together. Her aunt hailed a cab; all three climbed in, her aunt in front, Shen Hui and Man-yi in the back seat, a handbag’s width of space between them.
The taxi drove through Sheung Wan, through Kennedy Town, heading in the direction of Kowloon. Outside the window the streets retreated quickly past: arcades, signboards, flyovers, tram rails.
Hung Hom station. The plaza outside was white with morning sun. They walked inside together, all the way down to the platform. The platform was crowded, mostly travelers with large bags.
The train hadn’t come yet. Shen Hui set her travel bag down beside her feet. Her aunt held her hand and went through a litany of reminders, said she should come back when she had time and they’d go eat seafood, then pulled her into a hug.
Man-yi was wearing a simple cream-colored dress today, hem to the knee. Her hair was down and the wind kept disordering it. No makeup; her brows and eyes were bare, her lips bare. She leaned against a concrete column with both hands in her dress pockets and had barely spoken throughout.
Her aunt checked the time, said she had something to take care of and needed to go, and left Man-yi to wait with Shen Hui for the train. When she had gone, the two of them were alone on the platform.
“Write when you get there,” Man-yi said.
“I will.”
“Write in Chinese. My English is terrible.”
Shen Hui laughed, and while laughing felt her eyes grow bright with tears. She quickly raised her hand and pressed the back of it to the corner of her eye.
In the distance came the sound of the train approaching, a heavy rumble rolling in along the tracks.
Man-yi straightened from the column and walked up to Shen Hui. They stood very close. The crowd on the platform flowed around them; no one paid them any attention.
Shen Hui was wearing the white shirt again today, the one she’d arrived in and was leaving in. The top button, which she had undone in Tsim Sha Tsui two days ago, she had since done back up. Man-yi reached out and adjusted her collar, fingers touching that button.
“Don’t button it,” she said. “It looks better open.”
Her fingers rested at Shen Hui’s collar for two seconds, then withdrew.
The train arrived. The doors opened; people surged on board.
Shen Hui picked up her travel bag. She looked at Man-yi. Man-yi looked at her.
“Go on,” Man-yi said.
Shen Hui boarded the train. She found a window seat and set her travel bag on her lap.
Through the window, Man-yi was still standing on the platform, both hands in her dress pockets. A cream-colored dress against the grey-white of the platform: a soft, diffuse brightness.
The train started. The platform began to fall away. Man-yi’s figure fell away with it, growing smaller, obscured by pillars and other people’s bodies. And then she was gone.
Shen Hui leaned her face against the window glass. The glass was cool. Outside, Hong Kong receded: dense layers of buildings, flyovers, billboards, drying poles, all of it falling back, falling fast.
The train crossed the Lo Wu bridge. Below, the water of the Shenzhen River was turbid, the grass on both banks flattened down. On one side of the bridge and the other, that grey-green river between them, a narrow strip, narrow enough to wade across, and yet impossible to cross.
Shen Hui closed her eyes for a while. When she opened them again she reached into her travel bag. First she felt the pearl ear clips, two small grains. She reached further and found the box. She opened it, twisted out the lipstick, and looked at it: a small dent in the pale rose pigment, the mark of last night’s use. She capped it again, held it in her palm for a long while, then put it back in the box and pressed it deep into the travel bag.
Later, Shen Hui really did write letters. She wrote in fountain pen on ruled paper, mailed to that address on Queen’s Road West in Sai Ying Pun. She wrote about getting back to Nanjing, about the weather, about the food in the canteen getting harder to eat every term, about the mint on her dormitory balcony putting out new leaves. She wrote about many small ordinary things and filled three pages. At the very end she hesitated for a long time, then added one more line: What was that thing you said in Cantonese that day? What did it mean?
Man-yi wrote back, one letter, two letters, three letters. Her handwriting was like the woman herself, every stroke trailing a hint of something. She wrote about happenings at the counter, wrote that a new dessert shop had opened downstairs: “the owner makes tong sui, but her sago mango pomelo is so thick that when you put a spoon in you can’t pull it back out.” She wrote that she had taken in a tabby cat, found in the alley downstairs, and named it Hui-hui. “Since you left, I’ve kept a cat with your name. It sits on the windowsill all day looking out, who knows what it’s looking for.”
The third letter’s ending did not answer what the Cantonese words had meant. It said only six words: Come back to Hong Kong and hear it.
Shen Hui wrote back and said she would. But the years that followed were, in their way, ordinary. One term dragged into the next, always something holding her back. The letters came more slowly: first once a month, then once every two months. Then a letter from Man-yi went unanswered. Shen Hui wrote again, and that too had no reply.
She asked her aunt to inquire; her aunt said Man-yi had moved away and no one knew where. The new tenants next door, a young couple, had replaced the yellowish incandescent bulb at the end of the corridor with a brighter one.
Shen Hui kept the lipstick. It sat in the innermost corner of her desk drawer, beside a tin that held paper clips. Sometimes when she rummaged through the drawer she came across it and twisted it out to look. The pigment had gradually dried, a thin film of haze forming on the surface. Misty Rose. The color was still the same color, faint and faint. The pearl ear clips were in the same drawer, two rice-grain pearls, their luster a little dimmer than before.
Shen Hui graduated, stayed on to teach, and later moved to another university. She learned to wear makeup, to put on lipstick before going out, learned to wear dresses and choose earrings. Her colleagues said she was a different person these last two years, more outgoing, more ready to smile. She said was she? She hadn’t noticed herself.
But every plum-rain season, when the rain fell for days over Nanjing and the air grew too thick to breathe, walls sweating, the clothes in the wardrobe damp to the touch, she always thought of March in Hong Kong. Thought of the old tong lau in Sai Ying Pun, thought of the yellowish light in the fourth-floor corridor. Thought of a puddle of water in a narrow alley, and the few inches of sky reflected in it.
She called the Nanjing rainy season huí nán tiān, the day the south wind returns.
A friend said: Nanjing doesn’t have a south wind season.
She smiled and didn’t answer.
Maybe it did. When the damp rises in a person’s heart, wherever she goes is the return of the south wind.
Chinese Version:
回南天
三月里的香港，空气本身就是一层皮肤。皮肤底下有温热的血在走，走到哪里哪里潮。墙壁在出汗，铁栏杆上凝起水珠，玻璃窗蒙了一层雾，用手指可以在上面写字，过一会儿字迹又慢慢淌没了。
这是一九八六年。
沈蕙从罗湖口岸过关的时候，攥着一只人造革的黑皮包，里头装了她导师开的介绍信。南京到深圳的火车坐了整整一天一夜，硬座，她两条腿都坐肿了。过了关，换乘九广铁路，车厢一下子就明亮干净起来，窗外的山坡上种满了不知名的树，厚实的叶片绿得发黑。新界的村镇一簇一簇从眼前退走，间或闪过一面鱼塘，水面上映着浓重的云影。到了九龙出站，满街的广东话涌过来，招牌上的繁体字密密层层往下坠。她被人潮推着往前走，衬衣领口已经被汗浸透了，黏在锁骨上，一路走一路扯，扯不开。
她住在西营盘的姑妈家。姑妈佟月娥，她父亲的姐姐，七十年代末移居了过来，一个人住在皇后大道西一栋旧唐楼的四楼。楼梯又窄又暗，墙皮脱落的地方露出底下的红砖，潮气把砖缝里的石灰泡得发软。四楼的走廊尽头有一盏白炽灯，灯泡瓦数低，照出来的光发黄，把走廊两旁的门都染成了旧照片的颜色。姑妈在制衣厂做质检，早出晚归。她给沈蕙腾出了一间小屋，靠窗，窗户正对着对面楼的天井，可以望见人家晾出来的衣裳，花花绿绿的，风一吹全往同一个方向倒。
沈蕙二十三岁，南京大学英语系的硕士生，导师替她争到一份港大比较文学系的短期访问批文，查阅冯平山图书馆收藏的英殖时期旧刊。系里批了差旅，来回一趟，只许待七天。
到的那天是礼拜一傍晚，姑妈还没回来，留了钥匙在隔壁托邻居转交。沈蕙上了四楼，在走廊尽头那盏发黄的灯底下摸出那张写着“隔壁许小姐”的纸条，犹犹豫豫去按门铃。
门一开，先是一股冷气扑面。后头站了一个女人，三十出头的年纪，穿着一件宽松的丝质家居衫，底色是烟粉色的，上头有极浅的暗花，领口开得低，拢了拢也还是低。头发烫过，及肩，有点微卷，大约是洗过了没吹干，发梢还是潮的。五官生得秀丽而懒散，一双眼睛细长上挑，笑起来弯成两道浅弧。她看了沈蕙一眼，说一声“哦”，转身进去拿钥匙。
走廊里的灯把她整个人照得很亮。她赤着脚走在地砖上，脚步声几乎没有，只有丝质裤脚摩挲的窸窣。她的脚踝骨圆润而突出，涂了指甲油，是深红的，踩在灰白色的地砖上，每走一步便开出一小朵颜色来。
她把钥匙递出来的时候，手指碰了一下沈蕙的手心。沈蕙接了钥匙，抬头道谢，目光扫过她的领口。烟粉色的丝质衫料贴在锁骨上，锁骨下面那一片肌肤泛着浅金色的光泽，有一层极细的汗珠。沈蕙的目光多停了一瞬，随即移开了。
她笑道：“你姑妈讲你从南京来的，做研究。”粤语腔的普通话，每个字咬得又脆又短，尾音往上扬。“有什么要帮忙的，隔壁就是我。”
她叫许曼怡。
后来沈蕙才渐渐知道她的事。曼怡在铜锣湾一家日本百货公司的化妆品柜台做事，卖粉底、口红、香水。结过一次婚，二十五岁嫁了个做黄金买卖的潮州人，二十八岁的时候离了。“他很好的，”曼怡讲起前夫的时候语调平平的，手上剥着一只橘子，“好人一个。我自己的问题，同人家处不长。”她把剥好的橘子递给沈蕙，自己吃橘子皮上残留的那点白丝。
头两天沈蕙和曼怡只是在走廊里碰面点个头。她每天早上八点出门搭电车到港大，在冯平山图书馆的善本室里坐一整天，戴白手套翻那些发黄的旧期刊。等傍晚出来，走到般咸道上，潮气立刻从四面八方贴上来。她从电车的上层往下看，街道两旁骑楼底下尽是小铺子，凉茶铺的招牌遮住了半个人行道，斜阳照在对面楼房的窗玻璃上，金灿灿的。回到西营盘，在楼下买一个菠萝包，上楼，洗澡，看材料，睡觉。
礼拜二晚上，姑妈又加了班。沈蕙一个人在屋里翻白天从图书馆借出来的文件。门上响了两下，开门一看，曼怡端着一锅煲好的老火汤站在外头，穿着那件烟粉色的家居衫，袖子挽到手肘。“你姑妈交代我看住你的。”她把汤锅搁在桌上，掀开盖子，白气扑了沈蕙满脸，“你们读书人不晓得自己饿。”
沈蕙果然没吃晚饭，一下午泡在图书馆里，回来就忘了。她把碗筷端到姑妈的小饭桌上，曼怡也不走，在一旁坐了下来，说到从前，说到她自己。
曼怡讲话有一种本事，什么都说了，又仿佛什么都没说透。说到她的婚姻，只笑一笑。说到柜台上的客人，学她们试口红时微微噘嘴的样子，学得极传神。”女人买口红，”她把手指竖在唇前比画着，“多数是买给别人看的，嘴上涂满了颜色，对着镜子端详半天，想的全是另一个人的眼睛。”她说完这话，转头看了沈蕙一眼，那眼风只扫了半秒就收回去了。“你呢？有没有人等你回去？”
沈蕙说没有。曼怡“嗯”了一声，也不追问。
她送走曼怡的时候，在门口站了一会儿。走廊尽头的窗户开着，夜风送进来海水的咸气，混着楼下大排档炒镬的油烟。灯光底下那条走廊极长极窄，磨石子地面被踩得发亮，反射出模模糊糊的光。曼怡的拖鞋一步一步踢在地上，啪，啪，啪，声响渐远。她进了自己的门，回头朝沈蕙笑了笑，门合上了，门缝里最后漏出一线灯光。
沈蕙回屋洗碗。水龙头的水是温的，温到有体温的程度。她把碗搁在沥水架上，发现自己的手指在微微发抖。
那天是礼拜三下午，沈蕙在图书馆翻阅一份一八九二年出版的英文期刊，内页夹了一张干枯的栀子花，花瓣已经成了半透明的纸片，一碰就碎。她请管理员帮忙取走了花，自己对着那篇长文抄笔记，抄了一下午，手腕发酸。沈蕙比平时早些出来，般咸道上的路灯却已经亮了，法国梧桐的影子隐隐约约筛在马路上。她在电车站等车，有人从背后拍了她一下。
回头一看，是曼怡。今天穿着上班的行头，剪裁利落的黑色连衣裙，腰上束了一条细皮带，耳朵上一对小小的金耳环。化了妆，眉毛描得极细，唇色是正红。整个人收拾得妥帖周全，和在家里那个赤脚散发的女人判若两人。
“你做什么在这里？”沈蕙吃了一惊。
“我今天提早放工。”曼怡指了指斜对面一条小路，“本来要去干诺道搭巴士，看见你站在这里。”她上下打量了沈蕙一眼，伸出手来，在她的衬衫后背上拍了两下。“坐了多久？背上都压出印子了。”
那两下拍在肩胛骨的位置，隔着薄薄一层湿了的棉布，手掌的温度分明。沈蕙的肩膀微微缩了一下，缩完了又觉得过于明显了，赶紧挺直了。
“吃饭了没有？”
“还没。”
“跟我来。”
曼怡走路的样子是好看的。高跟鞋踏在石板路上嗒嗒嗒的，腰很细，走快了的时候裙摆在膝盖上面一寸的地方轻轻荡开来。沈蕙跟在后面，穿过两条窄街，到了一家藏在巷弄里的茶餐厅。巷子窄得两个人并肩走要侧身，地上湿漉漉的。茶餐厅的招牌半边的霓虹灯坏了，“冰室”两个字只亮了一个“冰”。里头格局很旧，卡座的仿皮面子磨得发亮，顶上吊着老式的吊扇，嗡嗡地转。
曼怡轻车熟路地坐下来，和伙计用粤语叽叽呱呱地说了一通，点了一桌子东西。云吞面，干炒牛河，菠萝油，冻柠茶。伙计端了杯碟上来，碟子碰碟子叮叮当当的。
面端上来了，汤是鲜的，云吞皮薄，里头的虾仁饱满得撑出了粉红色。沈蕙吃了两口，手不知不觉就快了，连着夹了三四只。她中午只吃了一个面包，此刻胃里落进了热汤，整个人松了下来，眉头也舒展开来。
曼怡在对面托着腮看她。自己的碗搁在一旁，筷子横在碗上，迟迟没动。她就那样看着沈蕙吃，目光从她的眉眼落到嘴唇，从嘴唇落到手上，看她的手指怎样捏筷子，怎样夹起云吞来往嘴边送。沈蕙咬破了一只云吞，汤汁淌出来，她赶紧低下头去就碗，嘴唇碰着碗沿，吸溜了一口。曼怡看到了这里，嘴角慢慢弯了起来。
沈蕙抬起头来的时候正好对上了曼怡的目光。她愣了一下。“你怎么不吃？”
曼怡这才拿起筷子，不紧不慢地搅了搅面条，挑了一根出来，绕在筷子头上，慢慢地送进嘴里，嘴唇抿了抿。
沈蕙低下了头，盯着自己碗里的汤。汤面上浮着一层细油花，灯光照下来，一圈一圈的虹彩。她觉得脸有些热了。
干炒牛河端上来。镬气很足，牛肉嫩，豆芽脆，河粉上裹着一层酱油的焦香。沈蕙连着吃了好几口，吃到嘴角沾了一点酱色。
曼怡从桌上的纸巾盒里抽了一张纸巾，凑过来，按在了沈蕙的嘴角上。她擦的时候眼睛是弯着的，嘴角也是弯着的，离得很近，近到沈蕙能看见她睫毛上残留的一点点睫毛膏的碎屑。她擦得很慢，纸巾在嘴角上按了一按，又往下巴方向轻轻带了一下。
“你呀。”她说。就两个字，声音又软又轻。
沈蕙僵在那里，手里还捏着筷子。曼怡已经坐回去了，拿起菠萝油咬了一口。
“你在南京也是这样，一个人啃面包？”曼怡用吸管搅着冻柠茶，冰块碰在杯壁上叮叮当当地响。
“在南京有食堂……”沈蕙说到一半，自己也觉得好笑。曼怡看她笑，也跟着笑了。
“我告诉你，香港这个地方，好吃的东西多得很，不贵的也多得很，你不认得路而已。以后你结束的时间告诉我，我有空就带你去吃。”
沈蕙说这怎么好意思。
“有什么不好意思？你姑妈托我照看你的。我收了她两盒糕点，这人情要还的。”说着又笑了，笑的时候眯起眼来，睫毛的阴影落在颧骨上。
曼怡搅完了冻柠茶，没有喝，把吸管递到沈蕙嘴边。“你试试这个。”
沈蕙犹豫了一下，低下头含住了吸管，嘬了一口。冻柠茶又酸又甜，冰得牙齿发麻。她皱了一下眉。
曼怡把杯子拿回去，在沈蕙嘬过的那一头又喝了一口，什么也没说。
这家店的墙上挂了一台小电视机，正在播新闻。沈蕙听不太懂粤语，曼怡一面吃面一面给她翻译，翻到一半跑了题，说起铜锣湾哪里的丝袜奶茶最好喝，说着说着又拐到了别处。她讲她百货公司楼下有一家卖鸡蛋仔的，老板是个六十多岁的伯伯，每次见她都叫她“靓女”。“六十多岁了还叫人家靓女，”曼怡学着那老伯伯的声音，压低了嗓门，拖长了粤语的腔调，“靓女今日食咩呀……”学得惟妙惟肖，沈蕙差一点笑得把嘴里的面喷出来。曼怡递了纸巾给她，自己也在笑，笑到眼角都起了细纹。
沈蕙接过纸巾擦了嘴，抬头看着对面这个笑得眼睛弯成月牙的女人。曼怡的笑容是有感染力的，笑的时候整张脸都是活的，连耳垂上的金耳环也跟着轻轻晃。
曼怡笑完了，又讲到了她柜台上的事。一个太太来试口红，试了六七支，每一支都要她在手背上打样，涂完了对着镜子端详半天。“卖化妆品嘛，卖的是人陪。有些女人买口红，买的其实是一个人对着她的脸端详半天。你想想看，一天到晚有几个人会认认真真盯着你的脸看？”
她说这话的时候，目光正认认真真盯着沈蕙的脸。沈蕙这回没有低头，也看着她。两个人隔着一张堆满了碟子和杯子的桌面对视了几秒钟。曼怡先移开了眼，招手叫伙计埋单。
茶餐厅里的吊扇嗡嗡地转着，风吹下来是温的。隔壁桌的两个男人在用粤语吵架，声音极大，摔了筷子走掉一个，另一个追出去。伙计在后厨喊了一声什么，碗碟哐啷响。整个茶餐厅喧喧嚷嚷的，乱成一团。沈蕙坐在这一团喧嚷的正中间，觉得自己耳朵里嗡嗡的，什么都听不见了。
她只看见曼怡坐在对面，嘴角弯起来的弧度，金耳环在灯底下闪了闪。
吃完了，两个人一起走回西营盘。天黑了，皇后大道上的霓虹招牌全亮了起来，红的绿的紫的，叠在一起，把整条街照成了戏台。
上了楼，到了四楼走廊，走廊尽头那盏发黄的白炽灯还亮着，把两家的门照得一明一暗。曼怡开了门，往里走了两步，又折回来，靠着自己家的门框，偏过头来看着沈蕙开门。
“你每天晚上就一个人在屋里看书？”
“嗯。”
“闷不闷？”
沈蕙想了想，说：“习惯了。”
曼怡歪着头看她。“这个最要命，”她说，嘴角往上勾了一勾，“一个人一旦习惯了一样东西，就再不会自己觉得缺。”
她没等沈蕙接话，进去了，门没关严，留了一条缝。过了几秒钟，她又把脸探出来。“明天你几时回来？”
“大概五六点。”
“明天我下班早。”她的手搭在门框上，指尖在木头上无意识地叩了两下。“我带你去逛逛如何？你来了这么多天，除了图书馆什么都没看过罢？”
“好啊。”沈蕙说。
曼怡从口袋里掏了张收银小票出来，翻到背面，就着走廊的灯光写了一串号码，底下又添了一行地址。字是潦草的，撇和捺拖得极长。“这是我柜台的电话。到了铜锣湾你先打这个，我出来接你。大丸百货，你找得到的。”写完了，她把小票对折了一下，伸手过来，塞进了沈蕙衬衫的胸口袋里。她的指尖碰到了口袋沿，在上面轻轻弹了一下。
“明天见。”她笑了一下。“晚安。”
沈蕙回了屋，洗了手，坐在折叠床上。胸口袋里那张小票露出了一角，她把它抽出来，夹进了床头那本笔记本里。她把手放在自己的肩胛骨上。曼怡下午拍她的地方，隔着衬衫，皮肤上残留着一点被触碰过的记忆。她翻了个身，又想起曼怡把吸管递过来的动作，想起她擦嘴角时候的那两个字“你呀”，想起方才在茶餐厅里四目相对的那几秒钟。这种事做得那样自然，自然到让她疑心是自己想多了。她到底是有意还是无意？这般女人讲话，三分真七分玩笑，要是抓她的话柄她可以笑着抽身，要是当真她反而得了便宜。
她很久没有睡着。对面楼的灯一盏一盏灭下去了，窗外只剩楼下大排档收摊的声音，铁凳子拖在地上，刺啦刺啦的。
礼拜四。
沈蕙早上出门前在旅行袋里翻了一阵，翻出一条白底小蓝花的棉布连衣裙来。这条裙子是出发前在南京买的，买的时候觉得好看，带来了又一直没穿。今天她把它抖开来穿上了，收腰的，裙摆到小腿中间，领口是小圆领，露出一小截锁骨。她对着姑妈那面歪歪斜斜的穿衣镜站了一会儿，又把头发散开来重新扎了一回，扎得比平时松一点。出门前她把小票从笔记本里取出来，搁进了随身的包里。
沈蕙在图书馆里坐了一整个上午。翻期刊的时候时不时伸手去摸一下包的侧袋。下午三点她收了东西出来了，比平常早了两个钟头。搭电车到了铜锣湾，在大丸百货旁边找到了一个公用电话亭，投了硬币，拨了小票上的号码。响了两声就接了。
“是曼怡姐吗？我到了。”
“这么早？”曼怡在电话那头笑了一声。“你在侧门等我，我换个衣服就出来。”
沈蕙站在侧门外面等。街上人挤人，头顶密密匝匝的招牌，一层叠一层，把天空切成了碎片。过了几分钟曼怡从侧门出来了，已经换了便装，手里拎着一只纸袋。她今天化了淡妆，穿一件杏黄色的无袖上衣，底下是白色高腰阔脚裤，头发别到一边，露出耳朵。耳环换了，今天是一颗小小的绿宝石，在日光底下转一转就变了颜色。手腕上一串细细的银镯子滑到了小臂上，她也懒得推回来。曼怡隔着人群就看见了沈蕙，抬起手来招了招。她从人群里走过来，人潮从她两边分开。一走到沈蕙面前，她就笑着说，“热坏了罢。走啦。带你去凉快的地方。”
曼怡领着她穿过百德新街，拐进一条小巷子。巷子两边全是衣店和首饰档，衣服挂在铁架子上，撑到了半空中，从底下走过去要侧身。曼怡走在前面，经过一家店的时候停下来，从架子上扯了一件碎花衬衫在沈蕙身上比了比，歪着头看了一眼。“太花了。你皮肤白，穿素净的颜色更出挑。”又走了两步，看见一条丝巾，抻开来在沈蕙脖子上绕了一圈，端详了一下，又摇摇头解下来了。“到底是小姑娘，得找浅一点颜色的。”
沈蕙站着由她摆弄。碎花衬衫比到肩上，曼怡的手指擦过她的锁骨；丝巾绕上脖子，指尖蹭过了耳根。每一件衣服拿起来又放回去，沈蕙身上就多留下一道碰过的痕迹。曼怡大约自己全然不觉得，可沈蕙觉得了，觉得得清清楚楚。她发现自己在等下一件——曼怡又会拿起什么来往她身上比？
走到一家极小的首饰店门前，曼怡停住了脚。
“你戴耳环吗？”
沈蕙摸了摸自己的耳垂。“没有穿耳洞。”
“过来。”曼怡拉着她走到店门口的一面旧穿衣镜前。镜子嵌在木框里，木框上的漆已经剥了大半。曼怡站在她身后，从镜子里看着她。然后她伸出手来，拨开了沈蕙耳边的头发，露出了耳朵。她的手指在沈蕙的耳廓上停了停，指腹的温度分明。沈蕙在镜子里看见自己的耳朵露了出来。曼怡的手指沿着耳廓的弧度滑到了耳垂上，轻轻捏了下。
“你的耳朵生得好，”曼怡对着镜子说，声音就在沈蕙的耳朵后面，呼吸拂在后颈上。“可惜了。”
沈蕙在镜子里看见了曼怡的脸。她的下巴几乎要搁在沈蕙的肩膀上了。两个人在那面斑驳的旧镜子里叠在一起，曼怡的杏黄色和沈蕙的白色。沈蕙的心跳快了起来，快到胸口有一点发闷。她想往旁边挪一步，可脚不听使唤。
“你等等。”曼怡松了手，跟店主讲起了粤语。
沈蕙一个人站在镜子前面。耳垂上被捏过的地方还有一点热。镜子里的自己脸颊泛红，她赶紧用手背按了按脸。
曼怡不一会儿就过来了，手上多了一对极小的珍珠耳夹。“夹的，不用穿耳洞。来，别动。”她踮起脚来，把耳夹夹到了沈蕙的耳垂上。左手扶住了她的下巴，右手三根指头捏着耳夹，卡的一声，夹住了。珍珠很小，米粒大，贴在耳垂上，凉凉的。
曼怡后退了半步，端详了一下，又凑上来调了调角度。调的时候手指碰到了沈蕙的脖子，碰到了脖子侧面一条细细的筋。沈蕙的脖子缩了一下。
“痒？”曼怡的嘴角弯了弯。
“……嗯。”沈蕙的声音有些发紧。
“另一边你自己来。”
沈蕙接过另一只耳夹，手有些不稳，夹了两回没夹上。曼怡在旁边看着，伸出手把她的头发拢到了耳后。沈蕙这才夹好了。
曼怡从包里翻出一面小圆镜递给她。镜子里的人耳垂上挂着两颗小珍珠。沈蕙看了看自己。她从来没有戴过这种东西。
“好看的。你拿着，带回南京去。”
“要多少钱？我给你……”
“跟我还算什么帐。”曼怡把小圆镜收了回去，拿食指轻轻戳了她额头一下。沈蕙跟在后面，下意识地用手去碰了碰耳朵上的珍珠。凉凉的，光滑的，小小的一颗贴在耳垂上，她有点不习惯，又觉得自己整个人都不一样了。
从铜锣湾出来，她带着沈蕙搭叮当车到了湾仔。车坐在二楼，可以平视路两边骑楼的二层窗户。有人家在窗口养了花，一盆红色的不知什么花开得极旺。
沈蕙看了一会儿，说：“我在南京的阳台上养了一盆薄荷。”
“薄荷好养吧。”
“嗯，好养。可就是越好养越不上心，有时候忘了浇水，叶子蔫了，赶紧又浇回来。这样反反复复的。”
“你对花草也是这样？该上心的时候倒不上心。”曼怡侧过头来看着她，眼神里有一点俏皮的笑意。
沈蕙愣了一下。“你说的是花草吗？”
曼怡没回答她，扭过头去看窗外了。叮当车摇摇晃晃地开过了庄士敦道。
下了车走了一阵，她们到了金钟的海滨长廊。维多利亚港在傍晚的光线里泛着灰蓝色的金属光泽，对岸的九龙还没完全亮灯，天际线上的楼房是深灰色的剪影。海风吹过来，咸的，黏的，沈蕙额头上的碎发全吹了起来。
两个人沿着栏杆慢慢走。曼怡说她每天搭巴士上班，从西营盘到铜锣湾要四十分钟，她喜欢坐上层靠窗的位子。沈蕙说她在南京也喜欢在公共汽车上看窗外，冬天的时候车窗上结了一层霜，用手掌捂出一个圆圈来往外看。曼怡说香港的巴士车窗上永远不会结霜。沈蕙说那你没有见过霜。曼怡说雪也没有见过。
“那你应该来南京。”沈蕙说完了才觉得自己说得冒失了，赶紧又加了一句，“南京的雪也不大，薄薄一层。”
曼怡偏过头来看了她一眼。“你在邀请我吗？”
沈蕙的脸热了一下。“……也不是专门……就是如果你想看雪的话。”
“好啊。”曼怡把这两个字说得很轻很慢，拖着一个尾音。她偏过头来看了沈蕙一眼，“你到时候可别反悔。”
海面上一艘天星小轮正往中环方向驶去，灯火通明的船身在暗色的水面上拖出一条金色的尾巴，长长地拉过去，越拉越细，到最后断了。
又走了一段路。曼怡整了整被风吹乱的头发，伸出手来，很自然地把沈蕙额前的碎发拢到耳后。手指从太阳穴一路顺下来，经过耳廓，指尖在耳垂上新夹的珍珠上碰了一碰。
“戴着好看。”她说。
回去的路上穿了几条窄巷子。巷子里头暗，只有头顶几盏路灯透过晾衣竿的缝隙落下来的光。走到一条特别窄的巷道，两个人不得不一前一后。曼怡走在前面，白裤子在暗中微微泛着光。走了一段，她停住了脚，回头说：“当心，地上有水。”
沈蕙低头看，地上确实有一滩积水，映着上头几寸天空的光。她正在犹豫，曼怡伸出手来牵住了她。
“跨过来。”
沈蕙被她拉着跨过了水滩。到了对面，曼怡的手没有松开。她们就这样牵着手走了七八步，到了巷口有灯光的地方，曼怡才松了手。曼怡又走在前面，脚步很快，仿佛刚才什么都没有发生。
到了唐楼下面，两个人上楼，走过四楼走廊那盏发黄的灯底下。曼怡在自己门前站定了，钥匙插进锁孔里转了一圈，回过头来。
“走了一天了，进来喝碗汤再走。走之前我煲的，现在刚刚好。”
曼怡的屋子比姑妈家大一些，沙发上铺了暗红色的绒布套子，茶几上摆着一只青花瓷的碟子，盛着几颗话梅。角落里有一只小书架，上面摆的全是瓶瓶罐罐的化妆品和几本时装杂志。灶台上果然有一只砂锅，莲藕排骨汤，揭开盖子白气扑面。
曼怡盛了两碗，把大的一碗推给沈蕙。自己捧着小碗坐在沙发上，两条腿盘起来，赤着的脚掖在垫子底下。她拿筷子在汤里拨了一片莲藕出来吃，吃的时候手指上的珊瑚色指甲油在灯光下闪了一下。她的手是好看的，指节匀称修长，指甲修剪得整整齐齐的。
沈蕙喝着汤。莲藕已经炖得绵软，咬开来丝丝缕缕的。整个下午都在外面走，这会儿一碗热汤下去，全身都暖了起来，人也懒洋洋的。曼怡在对面说话，说她在新加坡住的那一年，她舅妈每天给她做糕点，做了各种各样的，最好吃的是班兰椰糕，绿颜色的，软塌塌的，一口咬下去满嘴都是椰子的香味。
“你有机会一定要尝尝那个。”
沈蕙喝了一口汤，说：“那我得去一趟新加坡了。”
“来香港也行嘛。香港也有好吃的班兰椰糕。”曼怡冲她笑了笑。
曼怡又讲了一些事。讲她年轻的时候学过唱歌，在教堂的唱诗班待了两个月就被赶出来了，因为她总是跑调。“跑的还不是一点点，”曼怡用手比画，”是整条街那么远。唱诗班的老师说她教了二十年，没见过跑成这样的。”
沈蕙笑得弯了腰。“那后来呢？”
“后来就不唱了。改去学了打麻将。麻将比唱歌好学。”
沈蕙笑完了，问她：“你平时休息的时候做什么？就在家里？”
“看看电视，听听收音机。有时候去做做头发。”曼怡把碗搁在茶几上，手指在碗沿上画着圈。她画了好几圈，才又接着说。“今天挺高兴的。好久没有这样和人逛一天了。”
窗外传来海关钟楼的方向，钟声远远地敲了。沈蕙看了看时间，说姑妈快回来了。
曼怡送她到门口。走廊里那盏灯照着她们两个人。曼怡靠在门框上，沈蕙站在对面。两个人隔了三步的距离。
“今天谢谢你。”沈蕙说。
“谢什么。”曼怡笑了笑。
沈蕙应该转身走了。可她站在那里，两只手在身侧攥了一下，又松开了。她想说点什么，嘴唇动了动，最后说出来的还是那句“晚安”。
曼怡看着她。走廊的灯从侧面照过来，她半边脸在光里，半边脸在影子里。她伸出手来，在沈蕙的手臂上轻轻碰了下，又收回去了。
“晚安。”
沈蕙回了屋。那天夜里躺在折叠床上，姑妈在隔壁房间里已经睡了，鼾声细微而均匀。窗外远远的钟声敲了十一下。她把手举到眼前，掌心朝上，在暗中什么也看不见。
她翻了个身。回南天的夜晚连枕巾都是潮的。
礼拜五。
沈蕙在冯平山图书馆提前完成了最后一批影印件。下午三点就出来了。她没有直接回西营盘，一个人搭天星小轮过了海，到尖沙咀去走了一圈。弥敦道上金铺一家挨一家，橱窗里的黄金在灯光下烈烈地闪。她在一家金铺前面站住了脚。玻璃映出她自己的脸，瘦瘦的，眼窝有些凹。穿着白府绸衬衫，领口扣到了最上面一颗扣子。她看了看那颗扣子，想了想，把它解开了。
她又走了几条街，拐进了一家小小的化妆品店。店面很窄，货架上密密麻麻摆满了瓶瓶罐罐。她站在口红的货架前，看了很久。那些口红一排一排的，各种颜色，她一支也不认得。她拿起了一支，拧开盖子，浓得发暗的红，和曼怡上班时涂的那种正红色差不多。她盯着那截膏体看了一会儿，放回去了。又拿了一支浅色的，旋出来凑近了看，粉里头透着点橘。她把它抵在手背上蹭了蹭，留下一道浅粉色的痕迹。颜色在皮肤上化开，边缘有些毛。
店员过来问要不要帮她试色，她摇摇头，把口红放回了架子上，出来了。
搭渡轮回来。站在船尾，看着九龙的岸一点点远去。傍晚的海风灌进解开了一颗扣子的领口里，凉丝丝的。
回到西营盘的时候太阳落了。上楼梯的时候在三楼半的转角听到了声音。曼怡的门开着，里面传出收音机的歌声，是谭咏麟的歌，唱到一半断了，换了另一个频道，是新闻。又换了，是陈百强的《偏偏喜欢你》。
沈蕙进了姑妈家，换了衣服，洗了脸。坐在折叠床上。隔壁的收音机还在放歌，换了一首，是女声的，一个字一个字地唱，唱得缠绵。歌声穿过薄薄的墙壁漫进来，在小屋里绕了一圈，沈蕙坐在折叠床上听着，听了好一会儿，歌才停了。
安静了一阵，然后有脚步声，曼怡的拖鞋踩在地砖上的声音，从屋里走到门口，门开了。
脚步声到了走廊上，停住了。
沈蕙也站起来了。她走到门口，手放在门把手上。
门铃响了。
她开了门。曼怡穿着一件浅灰色的旧T恤和一条牛仔短裤，头发松松地扎在脑后。脸上没有妆，嘴唇是原本的淡粉色。手里端着一碟切好的芒果。
“今天的芒果特别甜。你尝尝。”
沈蕙让她进来。曼怡把芒果放在桌上，在折叠床上坐了下来，盘起腿，靠着墙。她拿了一块芒果放进嘴里，果汁顺着手指流下来，她低了头去舔手指。舔的时候睫毛垂下来，嘴唇碰着指尖，舌尖在指腹上轻轻一卷。
沈蕙看着她做这个动作，心口发紧了一下，赶紧移开眼睛，去拿了一块芒果吃。确实甜。
“你后天就走了。”曼怡说。
“嗯。上午十一点半的火车。”
曼怡用牙签扎了一块芒果递给沈蕙。沈蕙接了。她们就这样一块一块地吃着芒果，指尖上都沾了果汁，黏黏的。
“你回去以后还会来香港吗？”
“不知道。看有没有机会。”
曼怡”嗯”了一声。她把手指上的果汁在纸巾上擦了擦，又在牛仔短裤的膝盖上蹭了蹭。她做这个动作的时候低着头，沈蕙看不清她的表情。
曼怡站起来了。“太晚了。你姑妈要回来了。”
她走到门口，拉开门，又停住了。她回过头来。
“明天你来我家。”
“干什么？”
曼怡歪着头笑了，笑容里有一点点促狭的意思。“我帮你化个妆。你来了香港一趟，总要打扮一次罢。”
她走了。拖鞋踩在走廊地砖上的声音，啪，啪，两步就到了隔壁。门开了，又合上了。
沈蕙一个人坐在折叠床上。她把刚才曼怡坐过的地方摸了一摸，床单上还留着一点体温。
礼拜六。这是她在香港的最后一个整天。
上午她照计划去了港大，还了借阅证，把影印收据交到图书馆办公室。出来的时候太阳很大，可空气里的水分一点没少。阳光穿过潮气照下来，万物的轮廓都是软的。
下午她回到姑妈家，整理行李。她的东西不多，一只旅行袋就装下了。姑妈难得在家，下了面条给她吃，又在旅行袋里塞了两包太阳饼。
四点钟的时候，门铃响了。姑妈去开门。曼怡站在外头，穿了一件洗旧了的棉布衬衫，白底蓝碎花的，扣子扣到第二颗。
“月娥姐，”她甜甜地笑着，“我来找蕙蕙，借她一个钟头。”
姑妈说好。曼怡拉着沈蕙到了隔壁她自己家里。沈蕙进去的时候注意到茶几上铺了一块干净的白毛巾，上面整整齐齐摆了一排化妆品。粉底液，散粉，眉笔，眼影盘，腮红，还有四五支口红，金色银色的管子排在一起，是一个小小的武器库。
“坐好。”曼怡拍了拍餐桌前的椅子。她自己站着，从一只透明的塑料盒里取出一块三角形的海绵。“脸仰起来。”
沈蕙仰起脸来。曼怡挤了一点粉底在手背上，用海绵蘸了，在沈蕙脸上轻轻拍着。曼怡离得很近，近到沈蕙能看清她的下巴，看清她锁骨的凹陷，闻到她衣服上洗衣液淡淡的皂香，还有她每天在柜台上试各种香水沉下来的底调，说不出是什么花，只觉得温厚又缠绵。
“你皮肤很好。”曼怡一面拍一面说。“毛孔细，不用打太多底。”
她的手从额头移到颧骨，从颧骨移到下巴。经过嘴唇的时候，她的手指停了一停。“嘴唇干了。”她放下海绵，从桌上拿了一支润唇膏，旋出来，直接涂在沈蕙的嘴唇上。
润唇膏的触感是软的，滑的。曼怡涂得很慢，从上唇的中央开始，沿着唇峰的弧度一路描过去。她的左手托着沈蕙的下巴，大拇指按在下巴的正中间。
“嘴巴放松。”她说。
沈蕙放松了嘴唇。
曼怡描完了上唇，又描下唇。她的目光全部集中在沈蕙的嘴上，专注得一丝旁顾都没有。沈蕙从来没有被一个人这样看过嘴唇。曼怡的眼睛跟着唇膏走，走到哪里看到哪里，看得那样仔细，好端端一张嘴被她拆成了许多个局部，每一个局部都要单独端详过了才肯往下走。
润唇膏涂好了，曼怡继续上妆。她拿了一支极细的眉笔，在沈蕙的眉毛上一根一根地填色。“你的眉毛生得浓，浓眉的人有性格。”
眼影是用手指涂的。曼怡在自己的无名指上沾了一点杏色的粉，闭上沈蕙的眼睛，在眼皮上轻轻地晕开。那只无名指按在眼皮上的力道极轻极匀。沈蕙闭着眼睛，感到曼怡的手指在她的眼睑上缓缓移动。她屏住了呼吸。
“呼吸。”曼怡说。
沈蕙呼出一口气来。
“你闭着眼睛的时候好看。”曼怡的声音就在头顶上方。“你知道你睫毛很长吗？”
沈蕙不知道。
“好。睁开。”
她睁开眼睛，曼怡的脸就在面前。近到她能看清曼怡的虹膜里有一圈深褐色的花纹。
“看着我。不要眨。”
曼怡拿了一支睫毛膏，在她的睫毛上轻轻地刷。沈蕙尽力保持着不眨眼，眼眶开始发酸，泪意就涌上来了。一滴眼泪挂在了睫毛尖上。曼怡看见了，用小指轻轻接住了那一滴。
“要哭了？”曼怡笑了。
“是你让我不眨眼的。”
“忍住。”
沈蕙忍住了。曼怡刷完了，后退半步端详。“好。最后一步。”
她拿起一支口红。金色的管子，盖子上压了花纹。她旋出来给沈蕙看，膏体是很淡很淡的玫瑰色。
“这个色号叫‘迷雾玫瑰’，”她说，“我觉得很衬你。”
她用左手托住沈蕙的下巴，微微往上抬。右手执着口红，从上唇的唇峰中央开始描。口红的触感凉润。她描得极慢。
她描完了上唇，又描下唇。末了，她用拇指在沈蕙的下唇边缘轻轻抹了一下，抹掉了一点涂出边界的颜色。
“好了。”
她递了小圆镜给沈蕙。
沈蕙在镜子里看见了自己。她几乎不认得了。妆是淡的，底子干净，眉眼描得极细致，颧骨上扫了一层若有若无的腮红。嘴唇上那层迷雾玫瑰色衬着她的肤色，倒好端端成了天生就该有的颜色。
“好不好看？”曼怡问。
“……很好看。”沈蕙抬起头来。
曼怡笑了。她把口红盖好，放进那只纸盒里，推到沈蕙面前。“给你的。带回南京去。”
沈蕙说不要。
“又来了。”曼怡用手指点了点纸盒。“你要是不收，我会不高兴。”
沈蕙把纸盒接了过来。她想说谢谢，可这两个字到了嘴边，兜不住她心里头那团鼓鼓胀胀的东西。她低着头看着那只金色的管子。
“曼怡。”
“嗯？”
沈蕙抬起头来。曼怡站在她面前，两只手背在身后。窗外的天色暗下来了，屋里的灯光把她整个人兜在一圈暖黄色里。
她张了张嘴，又合上了。
曼怡微微歪了一下头，等着她。
沈蕙站起来了。椅子往后挪了一下，蹭在地板上，发出很短的一声响。她站起来的那一刻自己也不知道要做什么。脚先动了，身体跟着走，走到了曼怡面前。曼怡比她高半个头。两个人之间隔了不到一步的距离。
沈蕙抬起手来。手在半空中犹豫了一下。她的指尖微微弯曲着，悬在曼怡的脸颊旁边。
曼怡没有动。她的眼睛垂下来了，睫毛在颧骨上投下了一小片阴影。
沈蕙的指尖落下来了。落在曼怡的颧骨上，碰到了一小片温热的皮肤。她的手在发抖。指尖从颧骨滑到了脸颊上，脸颊是柔软的，底下的骨头是硬的。
曼怡的嘴唇微微张开了一点。
“……蕙蕙。”
这个名字，在南京只有小时候家里人叫过。曼怡叫出来，用粤语的腔调，”蕙”字的尾音拖得极长，尾巴上带了很轻的叹息。
曼怡抬起手来，覆住了沈蕙放在她脸上的那只手。她的手指扣进了沈蕙的指缝里。她微微偏了一下头，脸颊蹭了蹭沈蕙的掌心。
沈蕙的手指不由自主地收紧了，碰到了曼怡嘴角旁边的一小块皮肤。曼怡的嘴唇颤了颤。
她把沈蕙的手慢慢地从自己的脸上拿下来了。拿下来的时候一直握着。两个人的手交握在身前的空隙里。曼怡的拇指在沈蕙的手背上摩挲，一下，两下。
沈蕙低下头，看着她们交握的手。曼怡的手保养得好，指甲上的珊瑚色在这个角度看过去泛着一层微微的橘。沈蕙慢慢地把曼怡的手举起来了。她低下头去，嘴唇碰在了曼怡的指节上。
口红的膏体还没干透，蹭在皮肤上留了些颜色。她在曼怡的指节上停了一瞬，感觉到那根手指微微弯了弯。
曼怡的另一只手抬起来了，落在沈蕙的头顶上，轻轻地，顺着头发往下抚了一下。
隔壁传来了姑妈的声音，隔着墙喊了一句：“阿蕙，饭热好了！”
曼怡把手抽了回来。沈蕙也松开了。两个人分开的时候，沈蕙看见曼怡的指节上留了一个浅浅的唇印。曼怡也低头看见了。
她后退了半步。低声说了一句什么，粤语的。沈蕙听不懂。
“你说什么？”
曼怡笑了笑，摇了摇头。
姑妈又在隔壁喊了一声。沈蕙走到门口，回头看了曼怡一眼。曼怡站在屋子中间，一只手垂在身侧，另一只攥在胸口。
沈蕙回了姑妈家。姑妈在厨房里，隔着门说了一句什么。沈蕙应了声，走进了小屋。
她坐在折叠床上，手里握着那只口红的纸盒。脸上还带着妆。窗外对面楼的灯光照进来，在地板上投下一片一片亮的暗的。她把纸盒打开，旋出口红来看了一看。膏体上缺了一点，是方才涂在她嘴唇上用掉的。她把口红凑到嘴唇边，又涂了一遍，加深了一点。对着姑妈那面歪歪斜斜的穿衣镜看了一看。镜子底下一角起了黑斑，她的脸在镜中总是缺了一块。可涂了口红的嘴唇是完整的。
她举起手来，方才碰过曼怡的脸的那只手。她把掌心贴在自己的脸上，闭上了眼睛。
过了很久。隔壁传来收音机的声音，调得很低，听不清在放什么。
礼拜天。
早上九点钟，三个人一起出了门。姑妈叫了一辆的士，三个人坐进去，姑妈坐前面，沈蕙和曼怡坐后座，中间隔了一个手袋的距离。
的士经过上环，西环，一路往九龙方向开。窗外的街道飞快地退过去，骑楼、招牌、天桥、电车轨道。
到了红磡火车站。站外的广场上阳光白花花的。三个人进了站，一直走到月台上。月台上人很多，大半是提着大包小包的旅客。
火车还没来。沈蕙把旅行袋放在脚边。姑妈拉着她的手叮嘱了一通，又说什么时候得空再来，到时候带你去吃海鲜。说完抱了她一下。
曼怡今天穿了一条米白色的连衣裙，很简单的款式，裙摆到膝盖。头发披散着，风一吹就乱。没有化妆，眉眼是素的，嘴唇也是素的。她靠着一根水泥柱子，两手插在裙子口袋里，一直没怎么说话。
姑妈看了看时间，说她还有事要先走了，让曼怡陪着沈蕙等车。姑妈走了之后，月台上就剩下她们两个人。
“到了写信给我。”曼怡说。
“好。”
“写中文。我英文很差的。”
沈蕙笑了，笑着笑着眼里就带上了水光。她赶紧抬手用手背蹭了蹭眼角。
远处传来火车进站的声音，沉闷的隆隆声从铁轨上一路滚过来。
曼怡从柱子上直起身来。她走到沈蕙面前。两个人站得很近。月台上的人群在她们身边流动，没有一个人注意她们。
沈蕙今天又穿回了那件白衬衫。来香港的时候穿的就是这件，走的时候也穿这件。领口那颗最上面的扣子，前天在尖沙咀她解开过，后来又扣回去了。曼怡伸出手来，整了整她的领口，手指碰到了那颗扣子。
“不要扣了，”她说，“解开好看。”
她的手指在沈蕙的领口上停了两秒钟，收了回去。
火车到了。车门打开，人往上涌。
沈蕙拎起旅行袋。她看着曼怡。曼怡看着她。
“走啦。”曼怡说。
沈蕙上了车。她找到靠窗的位子坐下来，把旅行袋搁在膝盖上。
从车窗望出去，曼怡还站在月台上，双手插在裙子口袋里。米白色的裙子，在灰白色的月台上，是一团柔和的光。
车启动了。月台开始往后退。曼怡的身影也往后退了，越来越小，被别的柱子和别的人遮住了。就没有了。
沈蕙把脸靠在车窗玻璃上。玻璃是凉的。窗外的香港往后跑，密密层层的楼房、天桥、广告牌、晾衣竿，所有的一切都在跑，跑得飞快。
火车驶过了罗湖桥。桥下的深圳河水是浑的，两岸的草丛倒伏着。桥的这一头和那一头，隔着的那条灰绿色的河，窄窄的一条，涉水都过得去，偏偏就是过不去。
沈蕙闭了一会儿眼睛。再睁开，把手伸进旅行袋里。先摸到了那对珍珠耳夹，小小的两颗。又往里摸，摸到了那只纸盒。她把盒子打开，旋出口红来看了一看。淡玫瑰色的膏体上缺了一角，昨晚涂过的痕迹。她把口红盖好了，攥在手心里，攥了很久，才放回纸盒里，收进旅行袋的最里层。
后来沈蕙确实写了信。用钢笔写在横格信纸上，寄到西营盘皇后大道西那个门牌号码。写到了南京了，写天气，写食堂的菜越来越难吃，写宿舍阳台上的薄荷长了新叶子。写了很多寻常的事，写满了三页纸。到最后犹豫了很久，又加了一句：“你那天说的那句粤语，是什么意思？”
曼怡也回了信，一封，两封，三封。她的字和她的人一般，横撇竖捺都带着一点风情。她写柜台上的趣事，写楼下新开了一家糖水铺子，“老板娘煮的杨枝甘露放了太多西米，稠得勺子插进去拔不出来。”她写她新养了一只狸花猫，从楼下巷子里捡来的，取名叫蕙蕙。“你不在这，我养一只和你同名的猫。整天坐在窗台上往外面看，也不知道在看什么。”
第三封信末尾没有回答那句粤语的意思。只写了六个字：“等你来香港听。”
沈蕙给她回了信，说好。可后来的事情，说起来也很平常。一个学期拖过一个学期，总有这样那样的事绊着。信越写越慢了。先是一个月一封，后来两个月一封。再后来曼怡有一封没有回。沈蕙又写了一封，还是没有回音。
她托姑妈去问，姑妈说曼怡搬走了，不知搬到了哪里。隔壁住进了一对年轻夫妇，把走廊尽头那盏发黄的白炽灯换了一盏更亮的。
那支口红沈蕙一直留着。放在书桌抽屉的最里头，搁在一只装曲别针的铁盒子旁边。偶尔翻抽屉的时候碰到，旋出来看一看。膏体渐渐干了，表面结了一层薄薄的雾。迷雾玫瑰。颜色倒还是那个颜色，淡淡的。那对珍珠耳夹也在同一个抽屉里，两颗米粒大的珠子，光泽比从前暗了些。
沈蕙毕业以后留校教了书，后来又调去了别的大学。她学会了化妆，出门的时候会涂口红，学会了穿裙子，学会了挑耳环。同事说她这两年整个人都不一样了，开朗了许多，也爱笑了。她说是嘛，我自己倒没觉得。
可每年梅雨季，南京城里连着落好些天的雨，空气闷得透不过气来，墙壁出汗，衣柜里的衣服摸上去黏黏的。她在那种天气里总会想起三月的香港，想起西营盘的旧唐楼，想起四楼走廊里那盏发黄的灯。想起那条窄巷子里的一滩积水，和积水上面映着的那几寸天光。
她把南京的梅雨天叫做“回南天”。
朋友说，南京哪有什么回南天。
她笑笑，不答。
也许是有的。一个人心里潮起来的时候，走到哪里都是回南天。