[EXCLUSIVE] “𝑅𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 [An Excerpt]” by Luwei Rose Luqiu, translated by Chris Song

Chris Song’s note: Roses in the Floating World 浮世薔薇 is the debut novel of Luwei Rose Luqiu 閭丘露薇, bearing an autobiographical touch as it recounts the lives of three generations of women—Miss Zhao, Ruolin, and Xiaoyu. The narrative follows these three women across the different stages of their lives, spanning Shanghai, Hong Kong, New York, and Ukraine, all against the backdrop of shifting political landscapes in China and globally. This excerpt portrays Ruolin, who has lived in Hong Kong for many years, suddenly receiving a call from her mother, Miss Zhao, after thirty years of silence during the COVID-19 pandemic. As she grapples with memories of her Shanghai upbringing and her current life in a soul-wrenching Hong Kong, she contemplates whether to return her mother’s call…

She received a call from Miss Zhao early that evening. In many respects, it would have been an ordinary day had it not been for that call.

In the eyes of her friends, she is a very self-disciplined and hardworking person. However, by her own admission, it is a reflection of her dullness because there is so little variety in her existence.

As usual, she had got up around nine, washed, changed into her running gear, and looped her exercise mask around her arm. At ten, she took the lift downstairs and greeted the security guard at the entrance with a casual “Morning”. Stepping outside, she passed the Wan Chai wet market, the smell of freshly baked egg tarts drifting from a nearby bakery. She crossed the street and began her run, heading up Bowen Road from Wan Chai Gap Road. She liked this time of day when there were fewer runners on Bowen Road. Most people headed off to work earlier than her. But these past two months, as more people caught the virus, many companies had shifted to working from home, and Bowen Road was busier no matter the hour.

By mid-March, Hong Kong already had a summer feel. In the past couple of years, the heat had come earlier and earlier, a sign, perhaps, of climate change. Still, she only planned on running five kilometres. Even with a sports mask, she found it hard to breathe. She checked what pace she was running at—it was a full minute slower than when she ran without a mask. But she dared not take it off. Just the other day, a white man running ahead of her at a bend had been stopped by two policemen who appeared out of nowhere when he lowered his mask to catch his breath. They fined him, as per government rules, five thousand Hong Kong dollars.

Running past the three of them, she had slowed her pace deliberately, feigning a lack of interest. Though she couldn’t clearly see the policemen’s faces under their masks, she guessed they were young, under thirty. Their stance had a certain air of arrogance. The unfortunate white man, mask still pulled beneath his chin, stood there with his hands on his hips, visibly frustrated.

She felt a surge of anger, knowing that it could easily have happened to her. Every time she finished her run, she, too, would pull down her mask, taking in a few gulps of fresh air. What infuriated her even more was not knowing where those two officers had come from, sneaking up like that. It reminded her of something a few years back, in a small town in Missouri. A local friend had warned her that when driving under the overpass just before leaving town, she should watch her speed; there was always a police car hiding there, lying in wait.

“What are they hiding there for?”

“Handing out speeding tickets. It’s their main source of income. Shameless greed!”

Her friend had said it with a kind of helpless resignation, and back then, she herself had felt a sense of pride, knowing that the police in Hong Kong would never stoop to such tactics.

But now, the Hong Kong she once knew was slipping away, vanishing bit by bit.

Just like the Shanghai she was born and raised in, which had long since become a place she could barely recognise.

She liked to finish her run in Happy Valley. She would reward herself with brunch at a cha chaan teng, its interior a nostalgic nod to the past. Her favourites were the luncheon meat with fried egg, the pineapple bun, or sometimes beef brisket noodles. And, of course, there was always a cup of steaming Hong Kong-style milk tea.

She fell in love with it the first time she tasted it. That was over thirty years ago, when her mother brought her to a Hong Kong cha chaan teng. Yes, her mother—Miss Zhao.

Before she discovered Hong Kong-style milk tea, she had always enjoyed Western tea, a taste her older cousin had introduced her to.

Her cousin was twelve years older than her, living in the downstairs wing of the house back then. After graduating from high school, she was sent to Chongming as part of the Down to the Countryside Movement. Later, when educated youths were allowed to sit for the college entrance exam, it became one of the few ways to return to the city. Those who didn’t pass would try every trick they could—like persuading their city-dwelling parents to retire early and let them take over their jobs. After all, no one wanted to be stuck in the countryside forever, and no parent wished that fate on their children. After four attempts, her cousin finally made it to college.

She used to think her cousin’s tea was delicious. She loved sitting in the pavilion, watching her cousin prepare it with slow, deliberate movements. Her cousin would first place the tea leaves into a sachet she had sewn from gauze, then bring water to a boil in a small pot. In went the tea sachet, and once the water was bubbling, she’d add an equal measure of milk, letting it heat slowly over a gentle flame before stirring in sugar. When they drank tea together, her cousin would play music, letting Ruolin listen along. Everything from classical symphonies to American country songs. Ruolin still remembered “Yesterday Once More” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, and of course, there was Beethoven and Mozart.

Her cousin played the violin. The sound would drift up from the downstairs wing to the attic where she lived. Whenever she heard it, she would rush down, dragging a stool to sit by her cousin’s side. To her, her cousin looked so graceful when she played, like a princess—exactly how she thought a princess ought to be. After practising, her cousin would let her have a go. No matter how hard she tried, she could never make the bow glide smoothly across the strings; it always squeaked and stuttered, producing scratchy jarring sounds. Then her cousin would tap her on the head and laugh, saying she had no talent.

She knew that her cousin’s dream was to study at a conservatory. But after the cousin was sent to the countryside, whenever she came home on breaks, her violin was no longer heard. Her cousin had become quieter, and her temper had got shorter. From the attic, she often heard her cousin raising her voice at their grandmother and her mother—almost as if they were arguing. When her cousin saw her, she no longer had the same patience, barely acknowledging her. Always irritable, her cousin seemed, to her, to have lost her beauty.

Growing up, she often thought back to those days with a sense of gratitude toward her cousin. Because of her, Ruolin had had the chance, at such a young age, to discover the power of words and music. The summer after she finished elementary school, her cousin came up to the attic and tossed her two books. She was a little startled, because her cousin usually treated her books like treasures, guarding them closely.

“You’ve finished your exams. There’s nothing you can do now but wait for the results. So, enjoy yourself—read these novels.”

She remembered: one was Jane Eyre, and the other was Gone with the Wind.

She was particularly struck when Jane Eyre said to Rochester: “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you—and full as much heart!”

Because of these lines, she watched the film adaptation several times. She was drawn to the dubbing voice of Qiu Zhifeng, especially in the scene where Rochester, alone in the vast, empty mansion, calls out Jane Eyre’s name in despair, his voice heavy with the pain of having lost something genuine. It made her imagine her future—if ever she were betrayed in love, she would have no choice but to leave.

When she got to middle school, she would spend her lunch breaks in the library. For someone who had never left Shanghai, books were her window to the world, her way of imagining love. The library was full of classics, but her favourite was Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. The carefree world where one’s only concern was love and marriage felt relatable because she thought that was the life she wanted. She admired Elizabeth, but she adored Darcy even more, to the extent that, for a long time, she envisioned her future partner as someone like Darcy.

Her cousin’s college entrance exam scores had not been high enough for her to get into her first choice, Chinese literature. Instead, the cousin was reassigned to a major in international finance. She remembered how disappointed her cousin had been back then. But four years later, that field had become one of the most sought-after, and as one of the first graduates, unlike those in the literature department, her cousin didn’t have to worry about finding a good job. Her cousin started working at the Bank of China, where she became a loan officer.

Her cousin had become what people called a “leftover woman”—nearly thirty and still unmarried. It made her the subject of whispered conversation among the old ladies in the lane, and it also made their grandmother and her cousin’s mother visibly anxious. Eventually, through a matchmaker, her cousin married a man who had come to Shanghai from Fujian for college but had never managed to find a girlfriend.

Back then, for a Shanghai woman to marry someone from out of town was not seen as anything to boast about. But as her grandmother put it, it was better than not marrying at all. As for herself, she thought this new groom seemed honest enough, with his small, squinty eyes and constant, cheerful smile—harmless, inoffensive. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that getting married simply because both were of marrying age, and then settling down to have children, was not the life she wanted. Nor, she thought, was it the life her violin-playing cousin would have wanted.

She loved the intense bitterness and sweetness of Hong Kong-style milk tea, so different from the smooth, gentle flavour of Western tea. Later, when she moved to Hong Kong for work, a cup of milk tea each day became a habit, something she even missed when travelling. It was like the way she missed Shanghai, recalling the pan-fried buns and tiny wontons from the eateries at the end of the lane. To her, Hong Kong-style milk tea was the taste of Hong Kong. Having breakfast at a cha chaan teng was a ritual, a way to feel she belonged in this city. Especially now, as things that defined Hong Kong slowly disappeared, she clung stubbornly to these routines, weaving them into her daily life.

After her post-run brunch, she would stroll around the Racecourse, returning to her Wan Chai apartment. Her tiny flat was right next to the wet market. The street had a nickname—Wedding Card Street—where all sorts of printed goods were sold. Every Lunar New Year, she would wander down there to pick out red envelopes and spring couplets, taking her time to browse through the variety of wedding invitation designs. When the street was slated for demolition and redevelopment, it sparked many protests. But in the end, she, along with the rest of the city, watched as, one by one, pieces of collective memory disappeared: the Star Ferry Pier, Queen’s Pier, and this Wedding Card Street.

Living there, looking at the neat, modern layout of the redeveloped neighbourhood, she felt a tangle of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, there was a longing to preserve the old Hong Kong; on the other, the city’s changing face was also a part of its history. Especially at night, when the benches in the plaza were filled with people from the neighbourhood. Some chatting, others just sitting in silence. This public space had become everyone’s living room. Maybe change wasn’t all bad.

As a freelance writer, her work schedule was irregular, and that was what she loved about it. Free from the constraints of an employer, she could control her time, choose what to write, and go where she wanted. On days when she didn’t need to go out, she would huddle in her tiny apartment, emailing editors, scheduling interviews, researching, and writing her pieces. The world beyond her had no way of intruding, kept at bay by a single door.

It had been three months since she last took on an assignment.

Each week, she would spend two or three days hiking with friends. That was one of the things she loved most about Hong Kong—how quickly you could escape the bustle of the city and find yourself in the wild. It was a ten-minute drive, or a half-hour walk, and you were surrounded by nature. No matter which peak you climbed, there was always the sea. Last summer, she took a trip to Europe, a journey that left a deep impression on her, and it was then that she began keeping a diary, a place to record her thoughts and her longing for someone. In these chaotic times, she felt grateful that love still existed, a fragile warmth that could make the world a little less cold, even if it came with a touch of bitterness.

Because, really, what else was there worth writing? Hong Kong was no longer what it used to be. Those who were worth writing about were either in prison or had left the city. Those who remained no longer wished to speak. As for the ones who still held forth in the public eye, she had no desire to engage with them in her writing. True, documenting them would also mean documenting this era, the uglier side of it. But she wanted to ignore them. The the other changes she felt powerless to confront or address.

She had always seen herself as strong and resilient. She could go to the most inhospitable places, driven by a need to know the truth, to document the lives and conditions of people there. She could endure all kinds of criticism; as a writer, her words were met with love and hate. But praise or scorn, even outright insults, meant nothing to her—she only wanted to write what she felt compelled to write. Yet, over the past few months, she had been overwhelmed by a profound sense of helplessness, a feeling that kept her from writing for others, even making her wonder if she had forgotten how to write at all.

She stopped her English and Chinese columns, which she had been writing for over a decade, and without hesitation deleted emails from editors of various media outlets around the world. It meant no income for her, and it severed the connections she had gradually built to publish her work. But this was what she wanted. Watching the financial loss, seeing the emails dwindle—strangely, it brought her peace. At last, she felt she was giving something real, something tangible, to this city.

In a place as expensive as Hong Kong, she was fortunate to have her tiny flat, some modest savings, enough to consider herself financially free, able to step into a kind of early retirement.

She never considered herself a writer until she had started to attempt fiction. To her, only those who could write novels deserved to be called writers. Virginia Woolf once said that a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction. “Maybe now you can write a novel,” she often told herself. “You don’t just have a room; you have a complete, undisturbed space. So, there’s no excuse to delay, right?” But she hesitated, lacking the courage to start, putting it off for a long time.

That afternoon, she had arranged to meet a friend for coffee at Pacific Place in Admiralty. Her friend was leaving for the UK, and this was to be their farewell meeting.

She liked the café. From the window seats, she could see the main road outside. During protests, she would arrange to meet friends here. They would sit by the window, sipping coffee and chatting, until they saw the marchers pass below. Then they would step outside and join the flow, walking all the way to Central. In the past, the crowd would disperse at the Legislative Council building, and then the end point became Edinburgh Place. Later, some would continue on to the Liaison Office in Sai Wan, the symbol of Beijing’s governance over Hong Kong.

She had been asked, many time—and had asked it of herself—one particular question: at what moment did she start feeling like a Hongkonger? It was July 1st, 2003. That day, she put on a black T-shirt and set out alone from Victoria Park in Causeway Bay, silently joining the crowds walking toward Central. Looking around at the silent strangers, all dressed in black, she felt a deep sense of comfort. She wasn’t just a freeloader; she was there, standing alongside everyone, striving for more of what should rightfully belong to the people of this city, herself included.

That day, she finally felt a sense of belonging in this city, felt that she was truly a part of Hong Kong. That day, the organisers announced that there were half a million people in attendance.

“You’re the fourth person this month who’s leaving for the UK. I think soon, the UK will have several little Hong Kongs,” she said, looking at the young woman named Pui-san sitting across from her, feeling no sadness, only a kind of resignation.

For the past six months, it seemed like every morning brought news of the police arresting someone. Even she had started to grow paranoid, worrying about what she would do if, one morning, the police rang her doorbell before she was fully awake.

“Well, at least the Hong Kong police would probably let me change and wash my face,” she reassured herself.

In 1997, just as a wave of Hongkongers were leaving the city, she, along with many others like her—people born on the mainland, educated in Europe or North America—arrived in Hong Kong. It was a place close to China, but not too close, where she could stand firmly and witness the changes sweeping through the country. Of course, she was well aware that she was a beneficiary of these changes in the mainland, as her entire generation was. But now, that sense of certainty had been completely stripped away, and faced with the uncertainties ahead, everyone had to make a choice—stay or leave.

Pui-san was a local Hong Kong illustrator. After she designed a book cover for Ruolin, the two had become friends. She had never thought of Pui-san as someone particularly political, seeing her instead as an artistic soul, brimming with a quiet creative energy. It was evident in her style, which was imbued with a soft whimsical freshness while subtly showcasing a solid grasp of design. But even though some time has passed since that day they had coffee in this same café, she recalled the scene vividly. Pui-san was chatting, but was getting distracted her phone. Ruolin glanced at Pui-san over and saw a webpage that listed sites around the city where people needed help to elude the police. Then she noticed the large backpack slung over Pui-san’s shoulder, and it dawned on her that this slight, even delicate, girl was one of those “braves” dressed in black, wearing helmets, standing on the front lines of the protests.

She didn’t ask any more questions. When Pui-san suddenly stood up, saying she had something urgent to attend to, she simply patted her on the arm and said, “Stay safe.”

She had always felt guilty. So much had happened in this city; apart from joining a few protests, she hadn’t done much. Out of fear, out of a need to protect what she had. But there were so many young people like Pui-san, who acted without hesitation, doing what they believed was right. And now, with Pui-san finally deciding to leave and think about her own future, she felt a sense of relief.

The future—who could tell? Years ago, when she was about Pui-san’s age, she was forced to leave China, but eventually, she returned, didn’t she? So had many others like her. Even though, for many of them, they had become the very sort of people their younger selves would have once opposed.

“You should think about leaving, too.” Pui-san set her coffee cup down, propping her chin on her hands, her eyes full of concern. “You’ve written so much about Hong Kong. I’m a bit worried for you.”

“You’re young. Of course, you should leave. As for me, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

In recent months, she had lost count of how many times she’d responded to such suggestions. They always came from her friends born and raised in Hong Kong. Those who, like her, had grown up on the mainland didn’t seem as fearful or anxious.

Maybe it was because, for native Hongkongers, what they were experiencing was the gradual stripping away of things they had always taken for granted, realising they were now living in a milieu they had never known before. Naturally, the reaction was intense. But for someone like her, a Hongkonger who came from a place where nothing had ever been guaranteed, she believed she was mentally prepared for the worst. Perhaps that was why she appeared more at ease.

However, the anticipation of unknown dangers always depended on each person’s ability to cope with stress. So, whenever someone told her it was time to prepare to leave, Ruolin never once thought of persuading them to stay. She believed it was important to take care of herself first, to make sure she had the strength and energy.

Of course, she didn’t want to leave. Years ago, she had fled Shanghai, but now, she doesn’t want to run anymore. She was no longer that young woman, full of anticipation and dreams for the future. She had already experienced the good life. As a beneficiary of all that change, maybe it was time to give something back. Staying now, perhaps, was a form of self-redemption.

In the evenings, she would stand on her balcony, watching the sunset. She had plenty of time to daydream these days. Life hadn’t lost its meaning entirely; it was just that there wasn’t much left to motivate her. She only wanted to curl up in her little corner of the world, seeking a sense of safety, while her thoughts drifted to him, far away.

And then, as the city lights began to twinkle, she was reminded that another day was coming to an end.

The phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID—it was a mainland number.

“Hello?”

“Is this Wu Ruolin?” The voice was female, sounding like someone in her sixties or seventies, speaking Shanghainese.

“Yes, this is her. Who’s calling?” she asked in the same tongue.

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello?” She was curious. Who was this woman speaking Shanghainese, and how did she have her number? It couldn’t be an old school friend; the voice sounded too old. A relative from Shanghai, perhaps?

“I’m your mother. I’m in Shanghai. The doctor says I have only a few months left, so I want to see you.” The words came out all at once as if the caller feared being interrupted or having the call cut off.

She was stunned, unsure how to respond.

“Think about it. You should have my number. I’ll send it again. I’ll be waiting for you in Shanghai.”

The line went dead.

She set down the phone, and in that instant, she remembered—this was “Miss Zhao”, her biological mother.

She began counting on her fingers, trying to figure out how many years it had been since they last met.

Thirty years, exactly.

She couldn’t even remember what Miss Zhao looked like anymore. If Ruolin wasn’t mistaken, she must be close to eighty by now—after all, she herself was in her early fifties.

So, Miss Zhao was an old woman now. But she could only picture Miss Zhao as she was middle-aged.

She had never seen a younger Miss Zhao; when she was four, Miss Zhao had left home. She vaguely recalled a photograph Miss Zhao had shown her later—a resemblance to a Shanghai movie star from that era. All she remembered was that by the time Miss Zhao reappeared in her life, she had put on the weight of middle age, though she still dressed in a way that belied her age.

But what name would Miss Zhao go by now? When they had those few years together, Miss Zhao’s passport, ID, and business cards bore a different name. One thing, however, had never changed.

When introducing herself to others, she always said, “I’m Miss Zhao”.

So, no matter what name she might have changed to, she was still Miss Zhao.

Was she reaching out now just to see her one last time, or did she have something else in mind?

She stepped back in from the balcony, walked to the liquor cabinet, and took out a bottle of white wine.

She needed a drink. To think things through. Because, despite the blood connection, although Miss Zhao was her biological mother, she was also a stranger—someone Ruolin hadn’t seen in thirty years and who, in total, had been present in her life for less than a year. Above all, if not for the blood ties, she would never have associated with this person.

How to cite: Song, Chris and Luwei Rose Luqiu. “Roses in the Floating World [An Excerpt].” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 13 Nov. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/11/13/floating-world.

Luwei Rose Luqiu 閭丘露薇, an associate professor at Hong Kong Baptist University, researches censorship, propaganda, and social movements in authoritarian regimes. A journalist for over twenty years, she has covered Chinese politics. Her works include books on China’s propaganda, Hong Kong protests, and foreign policy. She holds a Ph.D. from Penn State.

Chris Song (translator) is a poet, editor, and translator from Hong Kong, and is an assistant professor in English and Chinese translation at the University of Toronto Scarborough. He won the “Extraordinary Mention” of the 2013 Nosside International Poetry Prize in Italy and the Award for Young Artist (Literary Arts) of the 2017 Hong Kong Arts Development Awards. In 2019, he won the 5th Haizi Poetry Award. He is a founding councilor of the Hong Kong Poetry Festival Foundation, executive director of the International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong, and editor-in-chief of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine. He also serves as an advisor to various literary organisations. [Hong Kong Fiction in Translation.]