Beth Eunhee Hong

This is a flash fiction piece I wrote in 2014, about a hotel by the beach in downtown Vancouver I often passed on my long meandering walks in my teens, twenties, and now my thirties. It’s rough and unfinished, but I have been also building up the courage and resilience to start publishing more and more creative writing. Thank you, as always, for reading.

“It’s fine. No one’s gonna die if we arrive a few minutes late,” Eugene drawls, glancing at his sparkling silver Tag Hauer watch with narrowed black eyes. “Is the world gonna end if we get there at 6:05? Is this a job interview?”

“No, but  it’s about being respectful to other people’s time,” I snap back. That was the annoying thing about Eugene — he was an only son, so he was never accustomed to exerting himself for anyone.

“Who is this guy we’re meeting, anyway?”

“He’s —” I pause. The truth is, I don’t really know who we’re meeting. All I know is that he’s some kind of friend of my father, who’s still in jail in Japan serving a life sentence. He emailed me saying he was visiting Vancouver and had something to tell me. Even though I pressed him for more details, all he said was to meet me at the Sylvia Hotel for a message from my father. 

And what message could he have for me anyway? I’d received letters from my father now and then in Canada — my mother fled to Vancouver fifteen years ago, after the “incident” that had landed my father in jail —but I never read them, and rarely wrote back.

My Japanese is way too basic to understand the kanji in my dad’s letters, and I couldn’t be bothered to ask my mother to translate, tired as she was from her two part-time shifts. I think the last thing I wrote to him was when I was fourteen, I wrote something in hiragana about wanting to become a novelist. Like I even could, given my financial situation.

Looking down at the frayed edges of my leather shoes, I curse myself for not having worn any socks in my rush to meet Mr. Sawazaki. It’s July, so soon my feet would be stinking to high heaven. Ah well. Nothing to be done about it now.  I did brush my hair this morning, long and ratty as it is, and finally wipe all the grime off the lens of my glasses with some Windex I found in my neighbourhood’s plastic disposal bin. There was a full pump left in there, so I got two birds with one stone.

We walk down the slope of Davie Street toward the Denman strip —a promenade of glory for all the locals. Meanwhile, it’s a momentary escape from the mundane for us Burnaby peasants.

I cross the street and see a blue “S” sign poking out from a white building in the distance. That must be it: Sylvia Hotel.

Flashing blue lights greet us as we approach. Three police cars and officers in impassive black sunglasses stood in front of the hotel, speaking into their radios.

There’s no police tape or security blocking the door, so I assume it’s safe to walk in. We step inside, and I marvel at the refined old-world decor of the building, which is a lot more subtle than I imagined while looking at the hotel’s website. Eugene’s shoulders, meanwhile, slump with disappointment.  We walk up to the front counter of the hotel restaurant.

“I’m here for a reservation — Takashi Sawazaki?” I ask the greeter.  

“Oh, he’s not here yet,” she says. “Please come in and I’ll show you your seats.”

“See, I told you,” Eugene muttered.

“Shut up.”

All around, older men in polo shirts and sandals sit chatting mutedly, forks and knives clinking quietly against porcelain plates. The comforting aroma of roast beef and baked salmon fills my nostrils. There’s silver cutlery on the table — real silver, gleaming white, edged with intricate swirls and floral designs.

My steps are softer than usual, and I fold my hands in my lap as soon as I am seated on the chair, which is covered in a shiny green and gold patterned cloth. I cross my ankles and fidget, while Eugene leans back and sips his water. 

Outside, the view of the ocean is exquisite. Sunlight reflects on the water and shimmers like a chandelier. Women stroll the sidewalk in skimpy bikini tops and shorts, while cyclers and rollerbladers glide past. The serene scene is only disrupted momentarily by the jarring metal rattle of a homeless man’s shopping cart full of cans rolling past. The police have left.

When will Sawazaki be here?

Fifteen minutes crawl by. I’m beginning to think he’s not going to show. Then, Eugene cranes his neck and whispers theatrically, “Hey, is that him?” 

A tall Japanese man, lean and straight as a beanpole, walks our way. He’s easy to spot — the only other Asian customer in the restaurant apart from us. He’s dressed in a faded dark blue shirt and brown khakis. His face is deeply tanned and overcast, like the skies here before a long storm.

My heart starts racing. Who is this man? If he’s a friend of my father’s, how do I know he’s not a yakuza? Did my father leave behind some debt? If so, I’d have to be ready to yell and scream in front of everyone that I don’t have any money and can’t repay him. 

Sawazaki bows his head briefly. We make short, tense introductions, in English and Japanese. Remarkably, Sawazaki speaks fairly good English, so we decide to carry the conversation in English. 

“Please order anything you want — it’s on me,” he says. 

I order prime rib steak — something I probably won’t taste again for awhile. Eugene gets the scallops in butter sauce, while Sawazaki orders a vegan bean curry. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eugene stifle a snort-laugh and have to stomp on his foot under the table to get him to stop.

As we wait for the food to arrive, Sawazaki unzips his leather briefcase, and pulls out a rectangular box wrapped in an exquisite green silk pouch. I notice how he pales slightly as he places it delicately on the table. He breathes a heavy sigh. 

“I’m here for two reasons,” he says, clearing his throat. 

“One, I’m very sorry to inform you —” he sighs again, looks down into his lap, and pauses for what feels like the longest five seconds of my life. 

“Your father…. died last week,” he says. “He had gotten into a fight with another inmate and was rushed to the hospital, but didn’t make it.”

I cough, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. Eugene’s eyes, wide as saucers, look at Sawazaki, then at me.

“I didn’t really know your father very well, to be honest, so I feel very strange about coming here,” Sawazaki says, his hand scratching at the bald patch on his head. 

“I’m a prison guard at Ashikaga ward, and I exchanged a few words with your father. He heard I was vacationing to Vancouver, and begged me to give something to you, as he said his daughter was living in the same city. That was three weeks ago.” 

“Which brings me to this— “he says, putting the green pouch forward.

 “It’s a birthday present for you, from him.” Sawazaki says, gravely. “He told me you liked to write stories, so he’d asked me to buy you this for your birthday and give it to you when I came to Canada.”

Feeling numb with shock, I stare at the pouch for several seconds. Finally snapping back to reality, I reach inside and slowly take out a heavy black clamshell box. In white, “Montblanc” was embossed on the surface.

When I glimpse the beautiful silver pen inside, I drop the box on the table with a soft thud and burst into tears.

Otou-san. It’s been five years since I last wrote to him, and yet he gave me a pen to write all the words he would never read.

I am brought back to Earth by the second greatest shock of my still-young life.

Eugene, who never exerts himself for anyone, gently wraps his arm around me for a hug.