Writer Xu Xi embodies the transnational city that is the subject of her writing. Of Chinese Indonesian descent, she considers herself a Hong Kong native in spite of her former Indonesian citizenship and decision to emigrate to the United States later in life. This subjectivity of origin, the complexity of who defines what it means to be “from” a place, especially when that place has undergone extensive socio-political transformation, is what makes Xi’s latest anthology, Horizon Hong Kong, sizzle with vivacity and perception. Her characters don’t spring from academic inquiry, in spite of her extensive literary career (she has held positions at Arizona State University, the City University of Hong Kong, and Silliman University in the Philippines). Rather, they are inspired by her lived experience as a chosen offspring of this city and a passionate investor in its evolution. Horizon Hong Kong blends genres and voices to probe the city’s murky past and cast a cautious vision for its future.
Horizon Hong Kong draws from a variety of Xi’s previous work, so fans will enjoy this anthology as a sampler of outstanding short stories. Those who are new to her work, or drawn to the topic of Hong Kong rather than the author herself, will appreciate that they are encountering her through a format intended to present highlights of both Xi and her theme. One of Xi’s strengths is her consistency across genres, historical periods, and narrators (male and female). While many anthologies betray differences in quality due to the author’s natural gifting or personal preferences, Horizon Hong Kong is unique in that there is little variation in technical caliber or artistic plausibility among Xi’s early, middle, and late work.
Nevertheless, as a human reader, certain stories caught my attention. Xi bookends her anthology with “Chung King Mansion” and “TST,” narratives that explore similar themes from opposite points of view. In “Chung King Mansion,” the speaker is a nine-year-old, Chinese Indonesian girl who is mesmerized by an “orange lady” she glimpses on the streets of Tsimshatsui, a neighborhood she’s forbidden to explore unattended. This orange lady catalyzes her interest in “grown-up” topics, like why her parents shout at each other late at night and why her older brothers grimace and chuckle when she interrogates them about her mysterious “orange lady” and this lady’s “mansion.” When the little girl escapes and wanders into Chung King Mansion unattended, she makes a shocking discovery:
Her orange hair isn’t quite as orange anymore, and the black roots are prominent …But what I didn’t expect at all is that she is not really much older than me… In the evening, I see my orange lady again. She is all orange, her hair dyed to match her dress and nails…After a little while, she takes one sailor by the arm and leads him into the building. Even though I can’t see her face, I know she’s not smiling anymore. (36-38)
The knife-edge of this story lies in Xi’s ability to depict adult themes like a fracturing home and human trafficking through the eyes of a (relatively) innocent child. In “TST,” she returns to many of these themes but paints them through a very different eyes: the narrator is a murdered prostitute who was sold into the trade as a preteen and believes her eternal purpose is to haunt Tsimshatsui (now abbreviated “TST”) and “talk-story” until listeners are compelled to enact justice for “girls” who are still alive:
Listen to me, it’s not about fate. We girls love to chatter on about fate because it’s a small comfort to think that, really, there’s nothing to be done so why not just shut up and die according to the hand you’ve been dealt? But look at us, we’re all here, and we haven’t shut up, not like those johns whose dead-to-the-world sleep is peacefully silent…You will hear us, me, one of these days, because I know you can if you try. Listen, it’s never too late. Just listen. (281)
The speaker in this story clings dogmatically to life although her physical body was brutally annihilated before we meet her. She has watched Tsimshatsui and her own profession reinvent themselves tirelessly to please – or placate – numerous masters, whether they be colonizers, tourists, or her own countrymen. Her most powerful weapon, like the little girl in “Chung King Mansion,” is telling the unapologetic truth. Which makes this adult voice surprisingly childlike.
The prostitute’s final words, “Just listen,” are not just the conclusion to “TST.” They also conclude Horizon Hong. While the stories sandwiched by the two I’ve highlighted cover a plethora of topics, the themes of colonization, autonomy (or lack thereof), and memory are present in every narrative. Xi frequently expresses them in relational imbalances and sexual politics. Hong Kong itself can be interpreted as a standalone, shape-shifting, character: sometimes a boldfaced protagonist, sometimes an unobtrusive cameo. Nevertheless, its presence is inescapable. Stories that highlight corporate corruption like “Servitude” and “Off the Record” may appear to make moral pronouncements, but when read as a unit Horizon Hong Kong portrays the city and its offspring as they are rather than making a definitive statement on how they must be. Xi asks her readers to do what her final narrator demands: to listen carefully to the shouts and whispers of Hong Kong’s past and present, and to imagine a future where freedom and justice flourish for all.
Grace Utomo holds an MFA in writing from the Savannah College of Art and Design, as well as bachelors’ degrees in English and healthcare administration from California Baptist University. Grace is the author of Walking with Grace: Embracing God’s Goodness in Trauma and Hello, God: Seeking the Lord When Words Fall Short. Before pursuing writing, Grace studied violin performance at the Eastman School of Music under Charles Castleman.
