The one thing that’s strange about our Deity-designed efforts is the difference between what we do and what we think we do. We think we made a hit at the office party—in fact we made fools of ourselves with that typist. Don’t get me wrong. Women do it too, believing that new dress is a knockout when it looks like spilled gruel. But we’re all in there trying.
Two o’clock in the morning and I lay awake thinking about this after my American sports-convention-in- Mongkok lady had departed. My West German lady had, so to speak, come and gone in great heart. La Colorada had given me name, address, phone number, an invitation to visit the USA, in return for which I’d offered her free hospitality at the hotel in Wan Chai which I lied a friend happened to own, and the use of my yacht moored vaguely off Kowloon. Sternly I told her that I usually didn’t fall for every woman, but she was special. She left in tears. She was flying in the morning, thank God.
The point is, I felt sickened. I mean, okay, so I’d misbehaved. There was moral purpose to it, namely saving my skin from the omniscient Dr. Chao. He was doubtless a Triad’s front man. And destitution, Hong Kong had convinced me, was a condition best avoided. I’d always believed that I was independent. There were crimes to which I would not stoop. Even an ineffectual wastrel like myself would draw the line at certain shames. I’d been shown otherwise.
There was something else, really rotten. I was a crackingly good gigolo.
Take the Iserlohn lady, for instance. A merry lass, eagerly treating the whole escapade as one huge joke. She was a puzzling twenty-six, married, hubby something in tractors.
She and her pal had vowed “to try it out this trip” after hearing women in Bangkok talking about hired men. She wanted me same time tomorrow night, but I cried off, saying I was fully booked. She pouted, sulked, said I’d get no tip. With a mental shrug I relented, and promised to check her in for an hour. We arranged to meet at the Tiger Balm Gardens, wherever that was. Some hopes. With a final flourish, I said she was so marvelous I’d not charge her. She was thrilled and paid me double. See what I mean?
Is every moral man up for grabs? Given the right—indeed, the wrong— circumstances, is every politician, priest, judge for sale? Every nun a secret wanton? Every matron a prostitute? Every hungry antique dealer a coward easily bullied into being gigolo, liar, thief, anything? Answer: Who knows until they’re put to the test? Leung and Ong, my silent watchful Laurel and Hardy nerks in their limousine, might have been cherubs once upon a time. Now look at them. Hatchets. To me such serfdom was living death.
Yet here was I, in that very state and congratulating myself on my success. Three clients so far and a hit with them all. Hundred percent. Smugly is ugly, and I felt both. I was so tortured in conscience I knew I’d not sleep.
A note pushed under the door woke me hours later from profound slumber. Steerforth wanting his cut and saying when to be at the Digga Dig. Lorna and Mame had booked us. He’d bring them from the ship.
Ten o’clock, at the Flower Drummer Emporium.
It seemed nothing more than a factory for plastic flowers situated off Nathan Road down from Boundary Street. The day had not quite steamed up so I felt quite perky. Or was I becoming acclimatized? The traffic was streaming in pandemonium and people were milling but I was fast learning to ignore the contumely and concentrate on essentials.
The factory doorway at least gave me shelter from the sun. A watch seller on a bicycle stood among the street hawkers, so I was relieved to check that I was on time even if the other bloke wasn’t. Slouched against the doorjamb, I inspected the scene and started teaching myself: Here in this busy street, what were the real essentials?
The background was noise—of cars, light lorries, taxis, engines, clattering barrows.
Nothing much there. Okay, tick off noise. The people were mostly of course Chinese, moving with that casually loose walk, talking. They varied: slim smart youngsters looking bound for business school, bulbous elderly women in black pajama suits, thin old men in high-necked Eastern suits, the singlet-and-shorts brigade of peddlers already hard at it along the curbs. Nothing there, either. Or was there?
Across the way I’d glimpsed a patch of pavement for a second through the traffic. Many pavements are covered like cloisters with rectangular pillars. The far side was like that.
I kept looking, wondering what had caught my attention. A few minutes later I heard a hawker shouting. He was a trinket man, everything the world could possibly need on his bicycle parked against a pillar opposite. As the traffic chugged and nudged, I moved slightly.
A stubby shape trundled across my field of view, two miniature poles thrusting at the ground, the whir of skate wheels inaudible. Only there for a second before a lorry’s green canvas hood came between, but I knew it was my leper Titch being ballocked.
Probably ruining the hawker’s trade, discouraging customers.
The statistical odds against seeing somebody twice in a couple of days in Hong Kong must be a lot less than elsewhere. How many encounters did this make now, three? But I might have been mistaken. Steerforth had said the poor blokes were quite common.
Yet, if Hong Kong’s population was four million, with, say, a million tourists at any one time, and its surface area was—
“Lovejoy. Come.” Leung and Ong, plus three subordinate nerks, but all the bloody same.
“Right, lads. Morning.” I refused Leung’s offer of a handful of sunflower seeds. He seemed to live on the damned things.
Would you credit it, but we only went next door.
Outwardly the place resembled a restaurant, its facade stilled and shuttered in a slice of that blinding sunlight. It was actually an oppidum, an armed encampment. We were admitted in what can only be called a threatening manner. The dark interior hummed air to coolness. Women moved, tidying and cleaning. Bar mirrors reflected what they could manage. A stage was just visible, silent and empty. Is there anything sadder? A honky-tonk, perhaps down on its luck.
Stairs, a series of screens, curtains, a swinging door and the sudden ice-cold bliss of a softly lit room. My goons left me there just inside the doorway. I didn’t care. The cool was delicious, the stillness unbelievably soothing. It was a tranquil island in Hong Kong’s electric activity.
“Do come in, Lovejoy.”
Even the voice was tranquil. Ling Ling was sitting in a carved rosewood chair. Two men were with her, but her kingfisher-blue cheongsam made her brilliant and I couldn’t look anywhere else. She was lovely, lovelier, perfect.
