“Transcript found 2025, on land known as ‘Hong Kong’”

| by Jack So |

I don’t know if you can hear me, but I finally turned off my email alerts. If that inbox were physical I’d kick the whole thing off the dock. As a sacrifice. Of course.

Greetings, human!

What—

Do not feed me memos about ‘output’, whatever that means. I have seen enough shit.

Do you mean sewage?

I refer to the human who asked his coworker’s hand in marriage after three dinners, and upon her ‘no’ jumped into me wailing, why won’t you let me die? And sewage.

…Why didn’t you?

The fool has much to learn.

Fair enough. [pause] Do you feel like a chat today? I mean, you seem big enough to contain the whole country’s memories…

Human, I have been since long before borders were drawn. Before someone named the harbour after a queen who would never lay eyes on me. Before my banks became known for a silhouette of glass and steel. I remember every tear shed into me. I remember every voice that ripples my skin.

Every voice?

Yes. Two belonged to a fisherman and a tailor, when this land was a port town. Every dusk, the tailor waited on the docks to help the fisherman haul his catch in. The men would steal hand in hand to a nearby cove, where I would wash the day off their bare ankles. They kissed and pleasured each other, oblivious to the moon pulling me around them.

[laughter] Oh, they definitely got sand stuck in places.

Now that was not my problem. Neither did the townsfolk care much — until the tailor’s parents found out, and told him to return when he had sired them a grandchild. The lovers spent their nights on the fishing boat: if I cut my hair like the men on the big ships, I might not have to wash it/ But why deny me the pleasure of combing it each morning? The big ships brought cannons, then churches, then the threat of imprisonment.

Were they okay?

A few men left the ships to join them, and the fishing boat became a small fleet. Sometimes I would hear them singing on the shore, over the crackle of flames.

Wow. Has no one written about them?

I don’t know. I can’t read.

Right. Um… I’ll read to you next time. It seems like a fair trade for your memories.

Of course! [a wave breaks] Not long ago, when your father was your age, a young woman came to me from Peng Chau island. He demands they keep house as I do, she cried, while he teaches our son his trade — softly, so the daughters in her arms would not wake. Take us with you, and protect us, for he will not. I welcomed them, and kept their bodies from the rocks.

Oh my god. Did anyone find them?

Days later, the jade carver recognised his children by their swaddle. Now, his son designs wedding rings on the peninsula. When he comes to visit, he gives me flowers for his mother and sisters. Can you tell them about my daughter? Tell them she is loved. That no jade nor diamond shines with her light. Tell them she swims like a flying fish.

[silence]

I’m glad she’s loved. I wonder if artisanship runs in a family.

Nearly eighty years ago, many fled war to these shores. One boy swam with his mother. When they made landfall, they thanked me through tears and laid embracing in the sun, laughing to blow the sky off. While his mother searched for work, the boy whittled pebbles into animals to sell. Oxen, dragons, sparrows. I will give life to stone with my hands, he told me. But few could afford beauty they had no use for. So he apprenticed in—

Wood. Carpentry. Is that right?

Yes. I had the pleasure of meeting your mother’s father. You don’t resemble him much, but your eyes are the same shade of brown. How is he?

He… doesn’t remember much.

You can remember for him. And one day, when you return to where you came from, I will remember for both of you.

Thank you. [pause] Can I give you a hug? Is that… just a swim?

Take your socks off first. I don’t want your office sweat. Then, you can take your time.