TH: Wong King Fai’s short story “The Girl Without a Face” 無相女 was published in the Hong Kong Literary 香港文學 magazine in 2009 and is included in the author’s collection Hong Kong: Mock City 香港：重複的城市. In 2023, it was shortlisted for the Taipei Golden Horse Film Project. We are pleased to present the Chinese translation of the story by Chris Song.
A1. The Scent of the Cloth
The dawn light spilled, strained through venetian blinds onto a single bed. There lay a figure with a cloth draped over its face. The refracted rays cast systematic indifferent stripes. From the bedside mini stereo an old lullaby began:
In the woods and fields, how free it feels. Dear friend, are you heartbroken?…
The cloth bore a scent—an amalgamation of blood and tears, eerily reminiscent of a shroud. Charles lifted the fabric, a feeling—teetering between nausea and exhilaration—washed over him.
This aroma signified a life stance, a philosophical thought, a mode of emotion, a sensation, a past relationship, and perhaps so much more…
Past events felt disconnected as if they weren’t his own experiences. Charles had spoken to friends about this past, but those in the city found it hard to believe, dismissing it as some fanciful tale he might have concocted. Yet over a year later, the memories were still vivid, though they felt somewhat surreal. Only the scent of the cloth remained true, its bizarre stench engraving itself onto Charles’s psyche.
Upon reflection, these poetic moments felt less like his own journey and more like someone else’s story.
B1. The Quirky Case
“Sir, listen to what I have to say, and perhaps I won’t charge you a cent. Tell me, does one’s appearance come from the heart, or does the heart take its cue from appearance?”
“Obviously, the appearance is influenced by the heart.”
“Ah, but you’re mistaken! Imagine, if you were born in poverty yet possessed the visage of a leader, you’d rise above and achieve great things. Conversely, if you were born to riches but wore a sinister look, your fortunes might crumble. The heart cannot change appearance, but appearance can alter the heart. Thus, the tale of your life’s ups and downs is already etched on your face.”
“Nonsense! This is the age of science. Who believes such things anymore? I must be on my way.”
Why are these remote places full of street-side soothsayers? he said to himself.
On his way to the Northwest for a nationwide documentary awards report, he had stopped over in a small village. It was an impoverished settlement. The so-called inn was a mere three-storey structure, with flimsy partitions. Rooms housed a basic bed, a short cabinet that doubled as a desk, with communal restrooms. Windows faced vast natural trees, their branches invading the space, making them impossible to shut. Having grown up in a modern city, this was a travel experience he hadn’t anticipated. His newspaper, in its attempt to save on costs, had bypassed direct flights for a more circuitous, economical route. At dusk, he had no choice but to stay in this rudimentary lodging.
Amid this dreary journey, he had the fortune of encountering a striking waitress. Her eyes, seemingly filled with pools of water, radiated charm. From their first gaze, they felt an uncanny familiarity. Her skin, porcelain-like in its clarity, complemented a high elegant nose bridge. Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with deep brown hues, sweeping left and right with grace. Her modest attire failed to hide her tall, curvaceous silhouette and long legs. She hardly resembled the women typical of the northwest but seemed more akin to a model or actress from glossy magazines.
In the inn’s ground floor dining area, he’d always find excuses to request towels or boiled water, seizing the chance to engage her in conversation. He intentionally shared a few jokes, making her burst into laughter. Perhaps due to her monotonous work, she seemed to see through his intentions, deliberately slowing her pace, seemingly enjoying the extended chats. However, the rotund and irritable innkeeper with his booming voice would always call her from his counter, urging her to work faster, preventing any deeper connection between them.
Anticipating an early journey the next morning, he dined and promptly settled for the night as darkness fell. But in the depth of night, he was jolted from slumber by alarmed shouts from next door, accompanied by the rustling of large trees. Groggy, he was shocked to find his neighbours—a family of four, with the youngest child barely ten—with faces horrifically marred. Their skin was red as if scalded, textured like ripe lychees about to burst, deforming their once familiar features. On the table, a bottle of liquid remained. His father, having been a prop master for films before retirement, had exposed him to many oddities throughout his childhood. He took a sniff and detected an overpowering chemical scent, likely a corrosive agent.
Driven by his journalist’s instincts, he hurriedly took photos and started to interview them. The middle-aged male victim, named Edmund, had long since left the village for city work. His recent return was to sell the ancestral home; he had not expected his whole family to suffer this disfigurement. Moreover, the presence of the chemical after the incident was baffling. “Do you have enemies here?” Charles inquired. Edmund thought for a moment and listed four or five people—all, astonishingly, relatives. Clutching the bottle of corrosive liquid, Edmund declared through gritted teeth, “I will find out who did this!” Perhaps too emotional, a huge blister on his face ruptured, oozing greenish fluid with a pungent smell. Edmund writhed in agony, no longer able to speak.
“This might be breaking news,” Charles mused. Abandoning his original itinerary, he opted to stay longer, awaiting further developments.
Events unfolded in an unimaginably sinister way. The next night, seven more households suffered the same horrifying fate, each incident leaving behind an identical bottle of the mysterious liquid. Four or five of these families were related to Edmund. Yet, Edmund vehemently denied any involvement. The remaining families didn’t even know him. Hypothetically, Edmund diluting the corrosive agent for vengeance and managing to harm seven families in one night without a trace seemed implausible. The situation was bewildering, with no clear leads. Driven by journalistic curiosity, Charles conducted numerous interviews and took photos. Was this the act of a deranged serial assailant or an elaborate revenge scheme? He hoped this enigma would be wrapped up swiftly.
By the third night, the sinister plague had expanded from seven to thirty households. Fear gripped the entire village; nobody dared close their eyes. At dawn on the fourth day, the grotesquely disfigured victims rallied in protest. Their corroded faces, ghostly and haunting, bore the trauma of their plight. They brandished vials of the corrosive substance they’d been attacked with, a ghastly sight. The armed forces hesitated, retreating rather than confronting the marching horde. They reached the Village Chief’s home, and there was a tense standoff. As a keen observer, he documented the scene with his camera and interviewed some protesters. Beneath the blazing sun, after a lengthy wait, the Village Chief only dared to peek through the curtains. The crowd grew restless, calling him a “cowardly turtle”. Finally, the Chief emerged, a peculiar figure with thin eyebrows, beady eyes, and plump lips. In a raspy voice, he shouted, “Enough of this commotion! Everyone should be working for prosperity. We will investigate. Now, go home!” As he signalled for the police to disperse the crowd, they advanced with protective shields. In the ensuing chaos, a child stumbled, spilling the caustic liquid. The chemical splattered on his face, causing a ghastly reaction. The existing blisters erupted like simultaneous volcanic eruptions, spewing a smoky foul-smelling green ooze. He managed to capture a close-up: the boy’s face, once swollen, had now caved in, skin sagging like a fleshy drape over skeletal contours. Outraged, the victims roared with anger. Sensing the impending calamity, he retreated, using his experience as a reporter to judge the volatile mood. As expected, bottles flew, and chemicals splashed, causing onlookers and the police to scream in agony. Then, a crow-like voice cut through the chaos. Silence fell. The Village Chief lay on the ground, slowly rising, his face resembling a decaying corpse.
No one had anticipated that the disfigurement of the Village Chief and many police officers would catalyse such a profound change.
The Chief ordered the village sealed, forbidding anyone to enter or leave. A census was taken, logging residents and their facial status. Those disfigured were numbered in the order of their transformation. A board was set up, counting those yet untouched. Initially, residents thought this was to solve the case. However, it soon became clear: a war of faces had begun.
Lacking leads in the investigation, the disfigured began targeting those whose faces were intact, wanting them to share their pain.
Natural faces became an endangered species, and the streets were awash with madness.
He, an outsider, found himself ensnared in this vortex of chaos.
With one thought prevailing, he dashed to his inn, grabbed her hand, and together, they fled.
A2. Streets They Wandered
Charles, intertwining his fingers with Crystal’s, led her through the throng that filled Temple Street.
It had taken considerable persuasion on his part to bring Crystal outdoors. Sunlight scared her, as did the world outside, teeming with life. Hours she would spend indoors, engrossed in television shows or box sets. Charles often wondered how she spent her days when he was at work. He had bought her a myriad of designer dresses, which, when draped over her slender frame, looked exquisite. Yet, she lacked the courage to flaunt them outdoors. Their rare nights out would see her barely venture a few steps before insisting on turning back, as if the city would swallow her whole. “The people of the city are terrifying,” she’d often whisper. Yet Charles could never quite grasp her sentiment. In a world adorned with glittering dresses and the sheen of civilisation, what was there to fear? Today was different. It was Crystal’s birthday, and her spirits were inexplicably lifted. Knowing her fondness for the film Endless Love by Derek Yee, which she’d watched (and cried to) at least seven times, Charles decided to take her on a stroll down Temple Street.
As dusk painted the sky, Crystal wore a mask, the kind one might associate with Italian operas. A child, perhaps four or five, stared at her curiously, clearly intrigued by the strange visage. In a city like Hong Kong, no one ventured out wearing such a mask. Charles felt Crystal’s hand tremble, her wish to remain unnoticed evident. A woman soon whisked the child away, shooting Crystal a disdainful glance, mumbling, “What’s there to gawk at? Pretentious and odd.”
“Pay her no mind. Let’s explore this part, a true reflection of Hong Kong!” Although Charles couldn’t see Crystal’s face, he sensed the tidal waves of her emotions.
They chanced upon a lane where fortune-tellers had set up shop. An old seer, clad in traditional attire, approached them, posing a philosophical query, “Do you believe that appearance reflects the heart, or the heart moulds the appearance?” They exchanged no words, simply walking past. Yet Charles caught a glimpse of an inscription behind the old man, “Without colour or form, true essence elevates,” leaving him pensive.
In the crowd, they clung close, Charles’s arm around Crystal’s waist. But between them, it felt as though a river flowed, wide and impassable. In this time of peace and prosperity, they had evaded past calamities, yet the joy of yesteryears seemed distant, perhaps lost forever…
B2. Days of Flight
He and she lived like rodents, scavenging for food and taking refuge in a cave by night. Inside the cave, they lit a small fire for warmth, sleeping side by side. In the firelight, her face was flushed and radiant; he was captivated by her beauty. But a furrow marked her brow, suggesting deep thoughts.
“Do you miss your family?” he asked on a whim.
“No,” she replied.
“…”
“I’m an only child. My father died when I was young, and my mother passed away a few years ago. The innkeeper, a friend of my father’s, took me in, and I worked at his inn. My best friend is Chris.”
“Chris?”
“Yes. We grew up together. I want to see her tomorrow, but it feels risky…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll accompany you at dawn.”
“…”
“What is it?”
“Thank you,” she whispered softly.
They shared a brief, tender moment, her eyes curving into crescents, so enchanting. Yawning, she asked, “Do you think we’ll ever escape?”
“We will,” he responded, mirroring her yawn. “But first, we need to rest.”
Exhausted from a day on the run, they were soon asleep.
The next day, they reached Chris’s house. He waited outside while she entered. Time stretched, and an anguished scream broke the silence. When she emerged, her face was gruesomely disfigured.
He pulled her along, fleeing back to the cave. She didn’t eat for two days. On the third, she seemed to have an epiphany, seeing some twisted merit in her blemished face. Now bearing a mark of identity, it seemed she felt liberated. She became number 2007—the 2007th person to be disfigured. Only 39 remained with their original faces. She started to frequent the market, bringing back food and a mirror. She’d gaze at her reflection, treating her wounds as if applying makeup, delighting in her unique appearance. “Now, on the streets, we all look the same,” she mused joyfully.
Watching her, he felt a blend of admiration, confusion, and a growing unease.
As days turned, she cared for him. With the village sealed off, the inn transformed into a restaurant. She worked by day and brought him food by night.
One day, he found a body hanging from a tree, the very fortune-teller he’d met upon entering the village. Presumably unable to bear his disfigurement, he took his own life. Remembering how his father, a prop-maker for films, had crafted masks, he had an idea. He skinned the fortune-teller’s face, preserving it with chemicals she brought him. He wore it, adopting the fortune-teller’s identity as 997.
Together, 997 and 2007 could walk the streets freely. With everyone sharing the same disfigured face, no one questioned his new identity. As the days passed, the counter finally reached zero. It turned out that this act of disfigurement was akin to a vaccination—once experienced, immunity followed. The village returned to its prior harmony. No one wished for the barriers to be lifted; instead, they feared outsiders breaking in.
C3. The Last Dinner
In the buffet room of the InterContinental Hotel in Tsim Sha Tsui, reflected by mirrors against the sea, Charles was dressed in a new dark green Calvin Klein suit. Crystal wore a long black Zara deep-V dress, with silver DKNY high heels and a crystal chain by Just Gold around her neck. Crystal’s tall figure and graceful curves drew the attention of many diners. On her face, she still wore that distinctive Italian mask. A few days ago, Crystal had suddenly proposed a lavish dinner, to which Charles, although not too thrilled—considering the expense of the evening’s attire and dinner would exhaust a whole month of his journalist’s salary—had agreed.
“Cheers!”
Their champagne glasses clinked together.
The Italian mask retained a gentle smile.
“I offer you one wish now, what would you desire?” he asked.
“I wish to have a face of my own.”
“A face is but a bag of skin. Isn’t this current situation great? In Hong Kong, you can have anything; the most important thing is to have money. With money comes status, identity. I used to wear the mask, and you worked for me. Now you wear the mask, and I work for you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“What’s different?”
The Italian mask maintained its gentle smile.
“I… I will save up… for surgery.”
“How much would it cost for a face like mine to revert to its original?”
“I… I will work hard.”
“With your salary, there’s rent, my expenses, taking care of our parents. How much can you save every month?”
“…”
“I’d like to go for a walk.”
Wandering on the Avenue of Stars, under the evening breeze, the two walked in silence. Everywhere, there were lovers nestled close and the vast expanse of the sea.
“Can you hug me?” Crystal asked.
Charles held her close, their bodies pressed tightly together, as if they could hear the distant beating of each other’s hearts…
B3. Writhing Without Faces
The first time he felt her skin, it was three nights after her face had been marred. They squatted in a narrow alley, satisfying their hunger with noodles. A group of burly men walked past, shining their flashlight his way, the beam catching his undamaged handsome face. The men hollered, chasing them.
Seeking refuge, they slipped into a storage shed of a nearby home, hiding amid clutter. Pressed against her, he felt the warmth of her scarred form. Their pursuers passed by without noticing them. She pressed closer; they were almost one. Turning to face him, her eyes—glistening with an inner light, intense and inviting—were surrounded by a decaying, maggot-infested visage. It reminded him of the first time they met in that hotel.
She took his hand, leading him away from the village lights, into the encompassing dark of the wilderness. They journeyed together, covering much ground. Eventually, they found themselves in a secluded plain bathed in moonlight, the distant village lights merely specks.
She turned her back to him, her face up to the moon, slowly shedding her outer garments and every restraint. Her back was slender, skin so thin that the outline of her vertebrae seemed to wriggle. Her exposed form was a testament to vulnerability and strength.
He sat stunned in the wild grass, captivated by the unearthly beauty before him. As she turned, she gleamed in the moonlight—an almost ethereal form with the allure of budding roses. Yet, her face stood in stark contrast—decaying, filled with writhing maggots, seemingly incongruent with her impeccable body.
She approached him gently, removing his clothes. Their shadows intertwined in the moonlight for what felt like eternity. But her warmth and understanding couldn’t erase the haunting image of her ruined face, even when he shut his eyes.
She gently opened his eyes. In the meeting of their gazes, her eyes were filled with unspoken understanding and acceptance. She moved away from him; he felt as if floating, the world limitless. She found a piece of white cloth and wrapped her face, lying flat on the ground.
She didn’t move, lying still. He stood up, feeling as if his legs were not his own, and moved next to her. She still didn’t move, lying quietly. Her body emitted a perfect platinum glow under the moonlight, a dazzling brilliance, her face completely wrapped in white, harmoniously matching her glowing body. It seemed like a virtual computer world, not reality. The ultimate beauty in the silence of zero degrees.
She lay still, silent. The curves, the golden ratio, all perfect. This was a body crafted from platinum, the thin bones seemed to be part of a computer program, rhythmically undulating. A formless body, under his control, only faint moans coming through the cloth. She dared not make a sound, fearing to alert the villagers.
The scent of earth permeated the air; in the distance, dogs barked. He fell in love with her body, she became an angel when her face was wrapped in white. He hung her on an old tree, its trunk filled with primitive textures.
He liked seeing the platinum glow of her body on the tree bark; he liked feeling the rough texture of the old tree and the smoothness of the girl’s skin; he liked the swaying rhythm of the tree in mid-air; he liked the sound of the falling leaves. The formless body made him forget all fears, invoking the primal feelings of nature, wildly unrestrained.
C3. The Most Distant Embrace
Amid layers of civilised attire, Charles couldn’t touch the raw emotions of Crystal. All he saw was the frozen smile of an Italian masque.
They embraced tightly. Their bodies, so close, felt as distant as if separated by a river.
Taking a deep breath, Crystal whispered into Charles’s ear, her voice muffled by the mask, “I have to go.”
Charles was stunned, lost for words.
“I just want to return to where I truly belong,” she murmured.
The vast expanse of the starry sky above them, yet there seemed no planet where both could coexist.
“I’ve harboured a secret,” Crystal confessed. “And in this very moment, I want to share it with you.”
She spoke into Charles’s ear. Time seemed to freeze, and the universe suddenly expanded.
News spread that the village had been out of communication for two months. When government officials investigated, they found every face decayed, and a state of martial law was declared. The World Health Organization suspected a new and unseen virus, pleading for global financial support for research and rehabilitation. Medical experts from all corners of the globe arrived with state-of-the-art equipment. Charitable donations poured in, ensuring every villager could live without worries and focus on healing.
When the quarantine was lifted, Charles, mask removed, took Crystal and fled to Hong Kong. Surprisingly, Crystal soon chose to return to the village. At the pier, Charles bid her farewell. Wearing her Italian opera mask, she boarded the ship, leaving behind only her white cloth. As she sailed away, he remembered the secret she had whispered:
“When we’re on the run in the village, I once wanted to disfigure your face while you slept. I regret not acting on it. If I were you, I’d mar my own beauty and then return to the village for good. Would you?”
The ship’s horn sounded. Charles waved the white cloth to Crystal on the ship. In hindsight, he could never truly piece together the image of Crystal departing. All he could remember was the gusty wind that day, how the breeze felt against his Calvin Klein suit – different than his usual attire. That sensation was the most tangible.
What Crystal left behind, the scent on the cloth, was the only thing that felt truly real and evoked the deepest nostalgia…
How to cite: Song, Chris and Wong King Fai. “The Women Without a Face.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 27 Nov. 2023, chajournal.blog/2023/11/27/face.
Wong King Fai 黃勁輝 (author) is a filmmaker from Hong Kong. Intertwining literature with cinema, he presents a distinct narrative style that traverses the border between image and text. Wong has been awarded the Artist of the Year by the Hong Kong Arts Development Council. They directed the films Liu Yichang: 1918 劉以鬯：1918 and Ye Si: Boundaryless 也斯：東西. His representative screenplay Life Without Principle 奪命金 was a main competition film at the Venice Film Festival and won Best Original Screenplay at the Golden Horse Awards, Best Screenwriter at the Chinese Film Media Awards, Best Screenwriter by the Hong Kong Film Critics Society, and Best Film at the Asia Pacific Film Festival. The screenplay for WU Yan 鍾無艷 competed for the highest box office of the year in Hong Kong, while Help!!! 辣手回春 was showcased at the Berlin Film Festival. Wong has written novels such as Zhang Baozai: The Pirate 張保仔, and short story collections Hong Kong: Mock City 香港：重複的城市 and Transformed Russian Dolls 變形的俄羅斯娃娃. His short stories have been selected multiple times for significant literary anthologies in Hong Kong and China. He was also the chief editor of the “Cinema and Literature” series published by the Hong Kong University Press, and authored Liu Yichang and Hong Kong Modernity: Literature, Cinema, Documentary 劉以鬯與香港摩登：文學．電影．紀錄片, which received a recommendation award from the Hong Kong Public Library‘s Chinese Literature Biennial Award.
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.]