Kansha

I leant my forehead against the sweltering taxi's window. Outside, the square of Nam Cheong, a small district in southern Hong Kong heaved and spluttered. Four columns of traffic pushed their way through the teeming square. A swarm of cyclists weaved through the dense traffic, risking a sudden death to save a few precious minutes of life. Lining the pavements, irate salesmen behind stall after stall of brightly coloured t-shirts, crimson lanterns, and pungent Japanese delicacies fought for the attention of fickle tourists.

A ringing from the front of the six seater taxi distracted me, and I looked forwards. In front of my brother and I, my father sat in furious silence. The driver was shouting something in a thick Tōhoku accent into the bluetooth speaker hanging from his ear. The driver waved his hands more violently with each sentence, and then turned to his four bewildered passengers. Not bothering to address any of the Americans, he opted to motion towards the door, with an expression that I suppose was meant to look apologetic.

My father turned to me and Daniel, an unfamiliar crease furrowing his brow.

            “Joseph, take Daniel and get out of the cab. Stay right behind me,” he said in his serious voice. Stepping out of the cab, my eyes watered as they adjusted to the harsh sunlight and traffic fumes in the square. My ears were punctured by blaring street noise. A thousand angry drivers leaned on their horns, street merchants yelled at the top of their lungs, peddling knock-off watches and fake crocodile skin handbags. I grabbed my younger brother's hand, and father led us through the roaring crowd towards a quieter looking area. My father held my hand, and I realised, perhaps for the first time, that he was capable of being afraid.

Turning the corner, we found ourselves in a much smaller street, paved with sun-bleached granite blocks. Cracks filled with rainwater creased the road, creating miniature canals between the derelict houses on either side of the road. Silence. It was like we had inadvertently entered an alternate dimension by turning the corner, the bright lights and life of the busy square were instantly snuffed out.

An old man hobbled towards us, pulling a wooden cart filled with empty drinks cans. I looked at the dirt on his clothes, the lines on his face, the weariness in his eyes. The man was wearing brown trousers, torn at the bottom, and the remains of an old Nike sports jacket. I repositioned my hands to cover up the branding on my expensive new clothes as far as I could, not daring to make eye contact.

He stopped in front of us, muttering something non-committal in Japanese, hand slightly outstretched and palm up. Realising father was staring in to the distance a few feet away, mobile out, I started to panic. Ostentatiously, I started pretending to search through my pockets, shaking my head. My left hand protectively closing around the bundle of Yen in my pocket, pushing it down, as if to push it further from the man's reach. It wasn't that I was selfish or greedy, just that I had my eye on a particular set of samurai figurines I had seen in the window of a shop next to our Hotel. To my absolute amazement, out of the corner of my eye I saw Daniels arm outstretched, offering the whole of his meagre holiday allowance to the man. Daniel, six years my junior, had the decency to help someone when I did not. My ears burned as I saw my brother upturn his huge brown eyes towards me, an abyss of disappointment and shame, staring into my conscience.

I almost gave the man my money then, but father came running up.

            “Saru, saru!” he bellowed in his tactless American accent. Leave, leave! One of the few words he had bothered to learn for this business trip. He continued his verbal assault, preferring to swap to English for a few choice curses. Me and Daniel stared in stunned silence as the man bowed hurriedly and hobbled off as fast as his withered legs would carry him. Somewhere, far off in the distance, a siren wailed.

Father was back on his mobile phone, talking quietly into the set, always looking up and down the street as if watching for some danger. Closing the handset, he turned to me and Daniel.

            “Alright, we need to sit here tight for half an hour, someone is coming pick us up.” he said, eyes wandering to the beggar, who was now a small distance away. I peered into my father's eyes, horrified by the reality of  what I saw. It was contempt. For as far back as our family history could be traced, we had been wealthy, powerful, isolated from the lower classes, as they were always referred to. Was I really going to end up like him?

A group of teenagers appeared at the end of the street. Rough looking, with a definite street gang vibe. The one who appeared to be in control marched at the front, chest puffed out like the army general figurines me and Daniel used to play with back in the states. I counted six in all, each intimidating in their own right, but the leader was really something to behold. A thick set brow and blunt nose, upturned nostrils winking as he breathed in and out, like a bull. They converged upon us, gathering in a sort of rough semi-circle. Father pushed me and Daniel behind him, upright and respectable as always, but his suit didn't seem to attract the same level of respect here that it did in a Chicago business building. The bull grunted, lifting his head expectedly at Father.

            “Nihongo ga wakarimasen,” father said, in as respectable a tone as he could muster. I don't understand Japanese. Fat load of use that was going to do. The bull shook his head, and his cronies began to slowly converge upon us, their hands reluctantly drawn from pockets and clenched into punishing fists. Another grunt from the bull, more aggressive this time. Then a roar.

Except, the roar had not come from the bull's mouth. Behind us, the old man came marching back, waving a walking stick menacingly, as if it was some kind of medieval weapon. He spoke curtly to the teenagers, like a scolding parent. My eyes flickered between the now frozen gang and the defiant old man. As he spoke, his arms were animated, flailing around. He motioned to Daniel with his stick, and then the end of the road, and then back to the chest of the bull himself. Ending his rant with a kind of resolute tone, he watched the gang expectantly. The bull's cronies looked to him for orders, but he was speechless. A slight twitch in his left eye, and then without a word he turned and hurried in the opposite direction. Astounded, his gang followed suit, leaving us in the dark street with the old man, who was now wheezing heavily from his speech.

I think my father tried to thank the man. He really did. But words came out sparsely and in the wrong order. Stuttered, as if by a child learning to talk, really talk  for the first time. The old man laughed gently, winked at my brother, and turned. Walking into the viscous smog, he raised his hand in farewell.

“Kansha,” he said. Thankyou.