Hong Kong Story

 

Maja’s sister self lived in Hong Kong, this much she’d learned, trial and error. Every few weeks she dreamt of walking through a city, skyscrapers and buses and people standing in a crowd at crosswalks. For years this city appeared to her in odd unconscious moments and she’d wonder where. Waking she’d have vague memories of looking about and noticing the signs were written in a foreign language, one that should’ve been illegible to her, yet thanks to the illogical freedom common to dreams, she was able to read them, understand them. Where were her dreams taking her? Always a city and always this same city. There was the sense the dreams would never stop visiting her until she’d found out where. There was also, curiously, the equally strong sense that once she’d discovered where, the dreams would cease having to arrive and she’d be free of them. 
Scrolling through photos taken of cities across the world, she came across one that struck her as strongly familiar. Tall glass skyscrapers in Hong Kong. Yes, this. This was it. The city in her dreams. Later that night, as if to confirm the find, she dreamt herself walking the streets of Hong Kong, holding a crimson umbrella above her, a very Hong Kong rain pattering the fabric. The dream confirmed to her with confidence this had always been the case. For years she’d been wandering the night streets of Hong Kong unawares. But now was different. Now she knew. 
But was this her? After waking from another dream not long after, she was left asking. In the dream she had been walking among crowds of people, crowds upholding umbrellas, a light drizzle phantoming the bright air above and around. In the dream she walked a long time among the flow of people, up and down into subways, in and out of buildings. She was welcome everywhere, apparently, but anonymous to everyone, including herself. At one point in the dream she had stood before a shop window, what kind of shop she can’t remember, staring at the window glass, flirting perspectivally with its dual nature. With subtle adjustments of her eyes, she would look through glass, notice the space behind it, then look at it, savoring its gleaming smooth surface. Between those two worlds, beyond the glass and along it, a reflection existed and it was hers. If she stood there long enough, in her dream she wondered, might she make its acquaintance, become friends with it? In the dream she seemed convinced reflections were a lonely lot, wraiths without a proper home. If she could merge with it, maybe she could carry it beyond the glass, walk away with it, take it home with her. But no, somehow she knew, since she was dreaming, this wasn’t possible. Living in two worlds at once herself, this was wishful thinking. And since that was the case, the reflection she brought to the glass would remain apart from her, almost someone else. 
Her sister self, she called it. 
In this Hong Kong of dreams, where did she live? Among several hundred thousand apartments, among millions of rooms, which was hers? Waking, she’d strain to remember what she looked like. Early twenties, late forties? Formal dress or in raincoat, t-shirt, and jeans? Trying to remember her in detail was like trying to read through blurry cataracted eyes. No, the sight of her would remain abstract, undetermined. The feeling of her, however, was vivid, cleanly defined. She was a real person, obscurely existent this very moment, every given moment on the other side of the planet, somewhere within the city limits of Hong Kong. Forever it was nighttime where she lived and perhaps it could be said Maja was her daytime self. They were sisters of a sort, two women sharing a self. It wasn’t enough to be just one of them. There was this inability yet this desire to join them. How to accomplish that? Maja knew without needing to consider the issue explicitly: by going there, flying to Hong Kong. 
She knew she would need to travel alone. Against her husband and her actual sister Mauraleen’s protests, she did so. It took two consecutive red eye flights to arrive, traveling in night-direction of the revolving planet. She’d left at night on the western coast of the United States and arrived in Hong Kong at night also. It was raining, just as her dreams had predicted. The air was brilliant with all manner of lights and the streets were furious with people. Stepping from the train into downtown Hong Kong, the scenes around her struck her as impossible, one whole New York laid over another. Yes, it felt strongly familiar, and yes, she wasn’t dreaming. She was walking at last as her real self through the real Hong Kong. Though this much as confirmed through feeling, the main question wasn’t: in which direction should she walk to find her other self? For hours and without direction she walked, hoping she’d catch a hint from herself. She even stood for long moments at shop windows, hoping to recognize the reflection before her. But it was no use. This was all too real, too common. It was a city like any other. No matter how much she wandered, it wouldn’t submit to the demands of a waking self. No, she decided, this was not the way to search for what she hoped to find. She’d have to buy a room at a hotel, sleep, then will herself upright, sleepwalking. Out the room and down the hall, down an elevator and out the hotel door. Would have to sleepwalk her way to a shop window and wait for someone to step from the place, bag in hand filled with a recent purchase. What do they sell here, she would ask. Jewelry, the person would reply. Not the kind you wear, the kind you feel. How does that work, she would ask. Invisible necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings. Put them on then feel their worth and weight, augmenting your natural features. Together they make something intangible from the commonplace: beauty. Haven’t you heard, she would then tell her, this other woman, somewhat also herself, that sort of thing’s in the eye of the beholder. Of course, the woman would reply then, having predicted as much. But you, haven’t you heard, it’s been blind for a while now. It feels more than it sees, inward instead of outward. So it’s enough to carry these in a bag, not even put them on. Pretty is as pretty imagines. Hearing this, she’ll then realize, she’s dreamt all this, lived all this, so she could prove herself right on this count, but also wrong. Standing there she’ll watch herself turn and walk, happy to have disappointed herself. It will have been worth all the seeking and travel, to stand without a purpose among millions of strangers. If that’s the price she’d have to pay to become one of them, so be it. The exchange rate was favorable and the city was rich with coinage.