Oliver's Story

Hopefully I needed neither at the moment.

'I'll keep that in mind,' I said, 'but now I've had it for today.'

And then he drove me to the villa.

'If you can get ready in the early morning,' John remarked as we pulled up, 'I can show you something interesting. Of sport.'

'Oh, I'm into sports.'

'I'll pick you up at seven, then, okay? There's shadow-boxing in the Botanical Gardens. Very fascinating.'

'A-okay,' I said.

'Have a lovely evening, Oliver,' he said in parting.

'Thanks.'

'Actually, it's lovely every evening in Hong Kong,' he added.

'Marcie, it's a goddamn dream,' I said.

Half an hour later we were on the water. As the sun was sinking. We were riding in a junk to Aberdeen, the 'Floating Restaurants'. Illumination everywhere.

The proverb says a million lights,' Miss Binnendale replied. 'We've only started, Oliver.' We dined by lantern glow on fish that had been swimming till we chose them. And I tried some wine from — are you watching, C.I.A.? — Red China. It was pretty good.

The setting was so storybook, our text inevitably was banal. Like what the hell she did all day.

(I'd been reduced to 'Wow' and 'Look at that'.)

She had lunched with all the bureaucrats from Finance.

'They're so freaking Eng lish,' Marcie said.

'It is a British colony, you know.'

'But still — these characters' big dream is that Her Majesty will come to open their new cricket field.'

'No shit. How jolly good. I bet she even does.'

They brought dessert. We then discussed the Great Escape, now merely two days hence.

'John Hsiang is cute,' I said, 'and he's a stimulating guide. But I won't climb up Victoria till I can hold your hand on top.'

'I'll tell you what. I'll meet you there tomorrow just to watch the sunset.'

'Great.'

'At five o'clock,' she added, 'at the peakest of the Peak.'

'A toast to us with Commie wine,' I said.

We kissed and floated.

How to fill the day till twilight on the top of Mount Victoria?

Well, first the shadowboxing. John knew every move. The sheer restraint of strength was just amazing. He then suggested that we see the jade collection at the Tiger Gardens and have dim sum lunch. I said okay, as long as there's no snakes.

Fifty-seven Kodacolor pictures later, we were drinking tea.

'What does Marcie do today?' I asked. I tried to make it easier on John, who, after all, was an executive, not normally a tour guide.

'She's meeting with administrators for the factories,' he said.

'Do Binnendale's own factories?'

'Not really 'own'. We simply have exclusive contracts. It's the vital factor in our operation. What we call the Hong Kong edge.'

'What sort of edge?'

'The people. Or as you say it in the States, the people-power. U.S. workers get per day more than a Hong Kong man receives per week. Others even less … '

'What others?'

'Youngsters don't expect a grown-up's wage. They're very happy just with half. The end result's a lovely garment, f.o.b. New York, at a fraction of American or European price.'

'I see. That's cool.'

John seemed pleased that I had grasped the intricacies of the Hong Kong 'edge'. Frankly, people-power wasn't mentioned in the tourist office blurbs, so I was glad to learn.

'For example,' John continued, 'when two men want a single job, they can agree to split the wage.

This way they both get work.'

'No shit,' I said.

'No shit.' He smiled, appreciating my American vernacular.

'But that means each one works full time and gets half pay,' I said.

'They don't complain,' said Mr Hsiang as he picked up the check. 'Now, shall we take a drive into the country?'

'Hey, John, I'd like to see a factory. Would that be possible?'

'With thirty thousand in Hong Kong, it's veiy possible. They range from fairly big to family size.

What would you like?'

'Well, how about a mini-tour of Marcie's?'

'A-okay with me,' he said.

The first stop was a Kowloon neighborhood you'd never find on any Hong Kong postcard.

Crowded. Dingy. Almost sunless. We had to honk our way through mobs of people clogging up the street.

'Station Number One,' said John after we'd parked into a courtyard. 'Making shirts.'

We walked inside.

And suddenly I found myself back in the nineteenth century. In Fall River, Massachusetts.

It was a sweatshop.

There is no other goddamn word. It was a sweatshop.

Cramped and dark and stuffy.

Crouched over sewing machines were several dozen women working feverishly.

All was silent save for clicks and hums that signaled productivity.

Just exactly as it was in Amos Barrett's factories.

A supervisor scurried up to welcome John and me, the Occidental visitor. And then we toured.

There was so much to see. The sights were maximal although the space was minimal.

The supervisor chattered in Chinese. John told me he was proud of how efficiently his ladies could produce the goods.

'The shirts they make here are terrific,' John remarked.

He stopped and pointed to a female figure feeding shirt sleeves swiftly to the jaws of a machine.

'Look. Fantastic double-needle stitching. Highest quality. You just don't get that in the States these days.'

I looked.

Sadly, John had picked a poor example. Not of workmanship, but of the worker.

'How old is this little girl?' I asked.

The moppet sewed on deftly, paying us no heed. If anything, she picked her pace up slightly.

'She fourteen,' the supervisor said.

He evidently knew some English.

'John, that's utter bullshit,' I said quietly. This kid is ten at most.'

'Fourteen,' the supervisor parroted. And John concurred.

'Oliver, that is the legal minimum.'

'I'm not disputing the law, I'm simply saying this girl's ten years old!'

'She has card,' the supervisor said. He had a working knowledge of the tongue.