I leave my friend’s solo show. It is located in a gallery in a mezzanine on a rooftop 21 floors above Hennessy Road. It was once where the current owner’s grandfather kept his mistresses. Nothing about the current owner betrayed this fact, however.
I stand next to an accomplished architect in the elevator as we descend to street level. He is the one who told me about the mistresses. It is unclear what happened to the grandfather or the mistress. But from the way the architect gesticulates it is understood that a good time was had by all.
The architect oversaw the overhauling of the space into the gallery it is today. When it comes to buildings, he says, he overhauls so they are rawer. His accent is French. I thought he said he wears overalls so they roar.
I have come straight from the airport and carry a small suitcase. I had a good time from where I came, but not in the way I imagine a kept woman in Wanchai would. There is a low hum, not unlike low hums heard in elevators. Except this hum is yawning itself into a whine, a loud whine. The architect looks at my suitcase. What’s in your bag? He feels my suitcase. It’s vibrating, he says. Before I can explain, the elevator doors open and out walks the accomplished architect, gesticulating.
In the streets fewer people are wearing masks. People are coughing openly. Unabashed coughing. Wild hacking. And it is all too loud on the street for anyone to hear my suitcase.