In Lau’s dark, provocative debut about two Chinese language teachers in an increasingly suppressed Hong Kong, politics becomes personal.
Two months after Wai’s gruesome suicide by an electric drill, her cubicle remains untouched. Even the bizarre mirrors that cover her desk and bookcase stay in place, a sight that the other teachers in the Chinese department at the Sing Din Secondary School avoid. But Ling, who sat closest to Wai, is reminded every afternoon when the sea of mirrors reflects the glare of the sunlight. Her life has changed dramatically since Wai’s death; forced to teach Wai’s classes, Ling finds that her workload has increased to the point that “she didn’t leave school until eight or nine o’clock each night.” Worse, her principal is pressuring her to take the LPAT, a test used to measure Chinese language teachers’ ability to teach in Mandarin. Many schools in Hong Kong are switching from teaching in the native Cantonese to the Mandarin of the Chinese mainland. The principal warns, “Competition is fierce. Ling, you’re smart. You understand what I’m getting at.” The author skillfully toggles the narrative between the present and the past to contrast the two teachers’ approaches to an unavoidable professional challenge. Awkward Wai alienates her colleagues by insisting on speaking Mandarin in staff meetings. Clever Ling’s social savviness, which enabled her to coast at the school for 10 years, is no longer enough to save her from mirroring her colleague’s downward spiral—unless she makes a radical change. The use of mirrors (the word is repeated more than 100 times throughout the novel) is a powerful metaphor, not only for Ling’s lack of self-reflection but also for a society that values surface appearances (designer brands and plastic surgery are popular topics of discussion in the teachers’ office). Translator Feeley’s concluding essay offers insightful context on Hong Kong’s current political situation.
A taut, chilling novel about the weaponization of language as a tool of oppression.