Winfred Wong - Son of the Tank Man

“No, I don’t.”

“So, I’m glad to inform you that we do have a single room available on the third floor, room 301,” he said. “Could you please show me your passport?”

“Sure.” I fished out my travel documents and gave it to him, but as I reached out, I noticed there was a piece of crystal-like camera lens, which was barely discernible through a tiny hole on the edge of the desk. “Is that a camera?”

He seemed shocked when I questioned him, but he managed to keep a rein on his nervousness and replied calmly, “Yes, it’s used to compare your facial features with the ones we’ve in our system in order to ensure your identity.”

“The ones you’ve? But I have never taken a photo of myself in this country. Where did you obtain it? Where on earth did you acquire my facial features, and, in your system!? Seriously?” I prompted.

“Sir, I am sad to tell you this, but I think you have,” he retorted and rotated the monitor horizontally so that it faced me, showing me a clear picture of me signing the incomprehensible document at the clearance point.

Stupefied, “What!?” I bellowed out my astonishment. “I’ve never agreed to this. Never.”

“I think you have agreed, sir,” he grinned smugly and swiftly glided his pale finger along the monitor to drag away the picture of me, so that I could see an electronic version of the document I signed on it. “You agreed when you signed.”

“But –” I interrupted myself by uttering a reflective sigh of remorse, knowing my reckless rashness was starting to take its toll on me, and acquiesced with a dazed look. “Yes, I agreed. Yes, of course I have.”

“So, here is the key card for you.” He gave me a key card, his indifferent smile never faded throughout the whole procedure. “The elevator to the third floor is just right behind you.”

With no delay, I took the key card in a haste, turned around, strode toward the elevators that were splendidly embellished with some glimmering decorative tapes and waited as a deep sense of insecurity was rising within me. Who knew what the other terms stated on the document were? It could be something far worse than I could possibly imagine, and I blamed myself for being so impetuous by rubbing my face with both hands until I dispelled that dark perturbation when the arrival of the elevator startled me.

Room 301 was located on the left wing of the third floor, at the end of a wide, well-lit corridor adorned with brilliant canvases, depicting young people accompanied by indomitable tanks and neatly uniformed infantry gathering at the Door of Heavenly Peace waiting to ascend to the heaven, hanging on the walls, and there was another chandelier that was less attractive than the one in the foyer but was emanating a unique sense of elegance that worked as an aura-changer, though the existence of a yellow tiny trash bin under the hanging light was, in my opinion, too discordant with the surrounding classic ambiance.

Then I gained access into the room by tapping the key card onto a dot-like scanner installed on the golden door knob and twisted it. And when I shoved open the door, a delightful trace of some kind of a soothing perfume eagerly wafted out from the opening of the wooden door and filled my nostrils. I felt indulged and was only able to resume walking after a greedy inhaling that gratified me. The room was not as aesthetical as it was in the corridor, but it had everything I wanted, a mini-fridge, a clean and private toilet, a white coverlet made of some sort of fur on top of the bed, and most importantly, a box-like radio on a coffee table beside the bed.

Nonchalantly put aside my suitcase, I rushed to the round coffee table, held the radio flat in my palms for examinations and switched it on.

“現在是晚上六時–” (It’s now six o’clock at night.)

I bet that, of all the frequency bands, there must be an English channel, so I quickly tuned to another channel by rotating a protruding circular object atop of it, heard a language I didn’t know, then switched it again, heard the same language I didn’t know, then switched again for about ten more times before giving up on it, yet I left it on despite the fact that I couldn’t understand a word so there was noise in the room.

Then I took a nap for a blissful hour. And after I woke up, I wore myself out unpacking my suitcase until a gnawing emptiness in my stomach crept up to my mind, encouraging me to fill my hungry stomach with some food, so I then picked up the key card and my wallet on the table, airily slipped them into my trousers pocket, loosened my limbs and left the room with a vacillating gait, without even figuring out where to go. Then as I was strolling down the corridor, the blood-curdling glares of the people on the street suddenly careered through my mind as though they were prompting me to devise a feasible plan to avoid being recognized before setting out. And the plan I came up with in the next minute was simple. I would simply go to the counter and ask for a surgical mask, which could veil my face and block out the sticky air particles, killing two birds with one stone.

So, after traveling down to the foyer in the elevator, I approached a tall and slim staff greeting me right next to the elevator door and asked, “Hi, I’m wondering if you know where I can get a surgical mask?”

“A mas–k?” she replied slowly while fidgeting modestly and pushed the small golden frames of her horn-rimmed glasses rested on the tip of her plump nose.

Assuming she didn’t understand the word, I made a rectangle shape with my two index fingers and two thumbs before my nose.

“Oh, a mask. Wait please,” she said and walked away.

After about five minutes, she came back with a roll of double-sided adhesive tape in her hand and stretched her arm out toward me. I was speechless.

“Here, your mask,” she said.

I honestly didn’t understand what she was thinking when she thought she knew what I wanted. Perhaps she was recommending me to use a tape to seal my mouth in order to avoid being recognized, I highly doubted that though.

“This is not a mask,” I said meticulously. “No. Not this.”

“Not?” she said in a surprising tone.

“No, it isn’t a mask.” I made a subtle X-shape with my arms to reinforce my message and peered at the check-in counter, looking for the staff who assisted my check-in. “Anyway, thanks for your help.”

When I was about to leave, she suddenly burst out laughing and said, “A mask! Wait please here.” And she walked away again.

I had tried to grab her shoulder to stop her from going, but her movement was so swift that I couldn’t even touch her. And after another couple minutes, she came back with a joyful look, holding a pale blue pleated surgical mask in her hand, and said, “Mask, sir.”

“Great, thank you.” I raised my thumb, received the mask and instantly put it on.

“Pleasure,” she said.

I guessed she meant ‘my pleasure’ when she said ‘pleasure’. So I gave her a smile and headed off to the street when the gnawing emptiness made me feel like there was a void in my center.

Although I had no idea where I could find some food, I thought I’d just keep walking toward the magnificent fountain and try my luck, however, as I stepped out of the hotel and happened to set eyes on a familiar seven-passenger, two-door vehicle that was similar to the unlicensed cab I had flagged down earlier today, except that the body of it was pitch-black now and there was an extra coating on the windshield, I heard a car horn emitting from it. So I edged closer and squinted to try to see through the side window. Then the driver rolled down the window and made another two consecutive car horns.

“Hey, you there,” the driver, sticking his head out the window with the same subtly amiable smile he had, said, staring at me through a pair of dark sunglasses, which made him look dumb at night, yet I could see that he was wearing it to avoid being recognized because he was a fugitive now – what I didn’t know back then was he had always been the most wanted fugitive in the country.