“My subject’s called Song Ping. There’s little evidence about him. Mention of a name here, there, in this newspaper cutting, that letter. Very elusive, of course, but—”
His old eyes shone. “Is he an entity? One person and not two?” He grinned a gappy grin. “What area?”
“Area?” How the hell did I know? “Well, China.”
“Yes, but where in China? An inland province? The Bund? Regions linked to European powers?”
“Er…” I’d pinched the name from a newspaper.
“You see, Lovejoy,” he explained kindly, “China’s name means Middle Kingdom—the center of the universe. All else was barbarian. But the capital ruled, and that meant the emperor. China was a matter of provinces, governors, officials in tiers of mind-bending complexity. In living memory, warlords formed yet another perilous grid. Commerce was another. The poor struggling populace was enmeshed. Executions were routine.
Invading armies did as they wished. Add famine, floods, plague, and poor old China suffered—knowing a man’s origin really does help. It’s needles in haystacks.”
“Er, doesn’t his name help?”
The old man smiled. “Sometimes names are swapped—a boy is given a girl’s name to deceive malicious ghosts who might steal the lad. You can’t tell much.”
I stared. “Don’t they mind about the girl?”
“Not so much, traditionally. On the junks you often see—”
The penny dropped. My face prickled. “—a little boy with a bell on a spring, and corks tied about his middle. And the little girl without?”
“Quite so. Until recently exposure was a regular practice.” Surton nodded sad emphasis.
“Female babies were left on hillsides to die. Against Crown Colony law, of course, but it never did quite cease.” He misinterpreted my look. “I see it shocks you. Truly terrible.
But mouths to feed, Lovejoy. Local folk convince themselves girls are worthless. Some pregnant women pay to have sex tests—then hop into China for an abortion if it’s to be a girl baby. Ten years ago China’s official sex ratio was one hundred newborn girls to one hundred and eight boys. Unbelievable. Miles outside the norm.” He smiled sadly.
“They corrected it instantly—abolished statistical reports.”
Ling Ling, in the sampan. “Were you here that time it snowed, Doc?”
He cackled. “Good heavens, yes! Forgotten all about that! What, twenty years since!
Half a dozen flakes at Sa Tin Heights. People were charged to take a look! Though many homeless died of cold.”
I encouraged him to ramble on in a welter of reminiscences, prattling about people I’d never heard of, the great business taipans, the tong syndicates, times before this or that building went up. I listened for antiques, but nothing. It was only when the lass brought our third mug that he came to and apologized.
“No need, Doc,” I said, putting on rapture. Not hard, really, because thank God I’d found the right man. “I loved your tales. I’d like to hear more…”
“Come to supper one evening,” he said eagerly. “There’s only my wife and myself.
When’d suit you?”
“Well, I’m free tonight, but I hate to impose…”
“Good heavens! Our pleasure, Lovejoy!”
He gave me an address, Felix Villas on Mount Davis Road. Eight o’clock.
Heading down towards the main road for a taxi, I noticed something odd. The sea below was now practically free of craft, all except for two big warships slowly moving in. And fewer cars on the roads, fewer people. The heat must have got to everybody at last. Yet there was a faint breeze cooling the skin. Joy! The sky was still blue glass, the sun scorching your head, but now the tops of trees were really swaying. In rustic old East Anglia they’re always at it, stirring the heavens to cloud. Nature in Hong Kong usually seemed motionless; the only place on earth with painted weather. Now this general shuffling. Maybe it betokened better things?
Pleased at having wangled the invitation I needed, I decided to walk. A group of canary singers were just folding for the day in the Hing Wai Teahouse by Queen’s Road. I stayed, listening to the racket. Johny Chen had told me about this Cantonese hobby.
You take your cage bird to this caff, hang the cage up, swill tea, possibly smoke a puff or two from a bamboo pipe a yard long, and generally encourage your bird to carol better than everyone else’s. You gain prestige if it does a good job. These scenes possess a seeming innocence.
Under the pretense of admiring one particular canary, I bought tea and sat under the sacking shade. Most were skeletal old blokes who grinned welcomes, appreciating my interest. After a while I asked to use the phone, dialed Surton’s home, and got
“Waaaiiii?” from the amah.
“Could I speak to Mrs. Surton, please?”
“Missie! Deeen-waaah!” led to the usual receiver clatter and sandal slap-slap during which I worked up my next character—timid, worried sick.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Surton? We’ve never really met, only your husband invited me to supper tonight.”
“Yes. Lovejoy, isn’t it? He’s just telephoned. You’ll rather have to take potluck, I’m afraid, but we’re so looking forward—”
