“It’s a silly thing to think,” she said. “My mother always said I was foolish like that.”
“大智若愚,” Shan Dao said indignantly.5 Yukying couldn’t help but be a little in awe. He was certainly a match for Tinseng, quoting Laozi like it was nothing.
“I don’t know if that counts as wisdom,” she said. “It’s provincial, if anything.”
His frown deepened. “Hope is not foolish,” he said. “It’s the cornerstone of progress.”
“I’ve always thought so, but it doesn’t seem true these days,” she said, rubbing the soft lamb’s wool between thumb and forefinger. “It feels like . . . maybe hope is too big a word. Laurence and A-Kwan always argue on such grand scales.” But what about the woman who had made this shawl, and the woman who had bought it? Where were they in those huge visions of war?
Shan Dao stood. “I must go check on Tinseng,” he said.
“Wait.”
He looked down at her. Sunlight hit the ember of his eyes, bright as the reflection of the sky.
“Did Tinseng tell you about Barcelona?”
“Yes. He has a plan.”
“Okay. Good.” She didn’t ask any more and, once he’d left, settled back in her chair to stare out between the slats of the railing. Thin brushstrokes of cloud hovered over Spain, catching the rising light from the east. She wondered what was next. Would she be able to absorb the beauty of Barcelona today with all this in mind? She wondered, too, if she would be able to catch Marissa anywhere today, and if she would be able to help her at all. She wondered if Shan Dao would stay in their lives after this was over; but she really had no say in whether they worked out. She could only . . . well.
As she tucked the shawl under her arm on her way to breakfast, she wondered what Shan Dao’s mother would think of hope.
With the largest portion of her worry evaporated, she endeavored to enjoy the morning reading on the deck with Laurence. They saw no sign of Chiboon or Tinseng, but that wasn’t surprising, nor Cheuk-Kwan, which was a little odd, but Yukying was absorbed now in Betty Friedan’s book, and besides, how much trouble could they get into on the ship?
Protectiveness has often muffled the sound of doors closing against women, she was reading, when someone’s shadow darkened her page. It was Chiboon, looking a little ruffled around the edges.
“Ah, um, Yukying . . . your brothers . . .”
She sighed as she stood, handing her book to Laurence. “Where are they?” she asked and followed Chiboon’s hurried steps to the other side of the deck.
They arrived too late: Tinseng and Cheuk-Kwan were already standing. She knew it was bad the way Tinseng stood up straight for once, using his height to full advantage. Shan Dao stood next to Tinseng, glaring hard at Cheuk-Kwan.
Yukying sighed again. “Boys,” she said quietly, pulling their attention away from one another and onto her. “What’s the problem?”
“I asked a simple question,” Cheuk-Kwan said, “but I was told to mind my business.”
“Because it’s not your business,” Tinseng said, uncharacteristically sharp.
“He really isn’t minding his business, Yukying,” Chiboon added unhelpfully.
“I’m sure Cheuk-Kwan was just curious,” Yukying said, trying to soothe things.
“Curious—that’s one word for it.” Tinseng tilted his head. “I think it suits you, didi. You’re very curious lately. Is there anything I can sate your curiosity about? Any other little questions occupying your mind?”
“You know what?” Cheuk-Kwan seethed. “Fuck you. You deserve to get caught. They have special prisons for people like you here, you know.”
“I’d rather be in jail than look at that ugly face.” Tinseng sniffed, unbothered and dismissive, exactly the reaction he knew would most irritate his brother. “Come on, Shan Dao.” He stubbed out his cigarette and nodded at Yukying as he left; she could see the hurt in his eyes. She looked between Tinseng’s retreating back and Cheuk-Kwan’s hunched shoulders and wondered which one she should follow—but Tinseng had Shan Dao, after all. She turned and looked at Cheuk-Kwan expectantly for an explanation.
“Don’t,” was all Cheuk-Kwan said as he threw himself back into his seat. He drained his glass and held it up for another.
Yukying sat delicately and asked the waiter for a lemonade, then picked up a section of newspaper abandoned on the table. Chiboon, reading the mood, sat and unfolded the society section to hide behind, ordering a coffee. The chatter of the tables and nearby pool drifted around them as Cheuk-Kwan sulked over his juice. Whenever she took a sip of her lemonade she glanced over, but her little brother remained unmoved. Such a stubborn boy.
“Chiboon,” she said, “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t. I was asleep for the whole thing.” Chiboon ruffled his paper. “Although, I had a strange dream—you know, like how an alarm goes off in your room but becomes a rooster crowing? I think there was yelling, but in my dream it was fog horns. Or maybe it was a lot of hissing, but in my dream it was snakes. Either way, it was very close to my ear.”
Cheuk-Kwan bristled. “Well where else was I supposed to talk to him about . . . that? The fucking hallway? Tinseng refused to talk in his room because his precious Shan Dao was asleep.”
“So was I!”
“Please. You had your eyes closed, but you kept fluttering them like you were having a seizure. As if someone looks like that when they sleep.”
“You—!”
“Boys.” Yukying set down the paper, nearing the end of her patience. Chiboon, of course, folded at the first sight of Yukying’s frustration.
“He finally told him, jiejie,” Chiboon admitted. “That he knows Tinseng is . . . like that.”
Of all the things she had expected to hear . . . She quickly looked over at Cheuk-Kwan, who grimaced but nodded. She couldn’t believe it, but there was Chiboon nodding too, with a growing smile at her incredulity.
“Really?” she asked, voice cracking. It had been too much to hope; she hadn’t let herself near the thought.
“Really,” her little brother said. She reached for her drink; she needed to swallow down this lump or she would start crying.
“That was very brave of you, A-Kwan,” she said when she could speak again. She placed her hand over his. “I’m proud of you.”
