The Eurostar wasn’t too full and his fellow passengers in second class were all dressed decently and had an air of middle class propriety about them. Jim read the Financial Times because it felt like the sort of paper one should be seen reading while travelling on business. He checked his investments and was pleased to see that the Internet frenzy was still turning copper wires into gold.
The train went slow all the way to the tunnel, then there was darkness outside for twenty minutes and the voice on the intercom told them they had reached the continent. The train picked up speed rapidly until it was zipping along through the countryside at a pace impossible on the English railway tracks.
They arrived at Lille Europe bang on time. Marcel was standing by the information kiosk as usual and sucking nervously on a cigarette without a filter. He shook Jim’s hand gloomily and ran a hand over the baldness merging with his forehead.
“The train, it was good?”
“It’s always good,” Jim replied. “How are you, anyway?”
The Frenchman shrugged and turned down the corners of his mouth.
“And your family?”
He shrugged again and indicated that they should walk in the direction of the carpark. He flicked the dead Gauloise into a gutter and paused to light another one with a yellow Bic.
“You’ll kill yourself with those, you know, Marcel.”
“It doesn’t matter. I like it.”
“Any more information about Brico-Prince?”
“They are not happy,” Marcel said.
“That’s why I’m here,” Jim said, trying to be a bit more positive but the Frenchman, whom he liked generally, was depressing him.
“What else do you know?”
“It is always the same problems.”
“Which are?”
“Late shipment, wrong quantities, bad quality. It is not the way to do business. How can I talk to them? I feel stupid. I have no excuses. My reputation—”
“The Hong Kong office is not doing their job,” Jim interrupted the whining litany.
“We know that,” Marcel said, opening the door of the dirty Renault Cinq. “We cannot tell them this. They don’t care. Ils s’enfous. This is our problem and we are their problem.”
They drove in silence for half an hour until Marcel said, “I put you in the usual hotel near the Opera. You will have dinner with me, yes?”
“Of course. What is a visit to France without dinner?”
Marcel nodded, more content now because he’d obviously told his wife he was busy with the English colleague tonight.
They pulled into the Brico-Prince carpark and walked over to reception. A pleasant blonde lady who had once been younger but hadn’t realised yet, asked them whom they had come to see.
“Nous avons rendez-vous avec M. LeJardin.”
She made a call, gave them dog-eared visitors badges to attach to their lapels and said, “Il est au courrant.”
Fifteen minutes later their contact arrived and led them into one of the meeting rooms. The furniture was cheap as was the coffee he placed before them from a vending machine down the corridor.
LeJardin was a small man with a large handle-bar moustache and an enormous belly. He looked more like a restaurateur than the Purchasing Manager of one of the largest DIY chains in Europe. Launching right in, their client listed a catalogue of incompetence and all Jim could do was make assiduous notes that allowed him to avoid staring into LeJardin’s irate eyes.
“I don’t know what is the point. It is foolish to work with a company like yours. All the shipments are a disaster. Everything is a disaster. It is crazy, it is ridiculous, it is not professional. What has happened?”
“We’re currently working on it, M. LeJardin. My boss, Mr. Campbell will be flying out to Hong Kong to discuss with the manager there—”
“I don’t care about your manager and your boss and his boss, Mr. Beauregard. I care about the rubbish you are delivering. It is a disgrace.” At this point he broke off and burst into rapid French, some of it rude and directed at Marcel. LeJardin waved his arms around and his moustache twitched wildly giving more tenor to his remarks.
Jim forced himself to remain calm. With the French much was show. Their style of business was more emotional and there was a lot of noise and bluster. Le son et lumiere. Sound and light. Getting equally angry or grovelling would not solve the issues, however he had to get to the bottom of them.
Finally LeJardin ran out of steam and said more constructively, “Bon, ce’st qu’on va faire, what we will do is this. We will deduct the cost of goods with poor quality plus a handling charge of ten per cent with all shipments that have problems. And in the future we will use an independent inspection company to check every shipment that goes out.”
Jim became alarmed. “An inspection company? That puts extra costs in the calculation.”
“Ce ça. You or your Hong Kong Office will have to bear the costs. Every shipment must have an inspection and we will only release the goods then. We are tired of receiving containers with three, four or five boxes missing every time. Who is stealing these products? The customs or the factory staff or maybe they don’t know how to count. Ce’st vraiment fou.”
Jim began haggling. “Ten percent is quite a lot.”
“It is what we want, and we are the customer.” LeJardin’s hand slapped hard on the table-top.
The debate raged back and forth with Marcel stepping in every once in a while. It was like a tennis game where balls were volleyed over the net and Marcel intercepted the long shots. The two Frenchmen puffed madly on cigarettes until the small room was thick with grey smoke, practically obscuring their vision.
“Which inspection company will you be using?”
Jim didn’t have much experience in this field. McPherson Ferguson guaranteed the full process and few clients bothered to pay extra for a third party to check the goods when this was the importer’s job. He knew there were some large inspection companies, the biggest was Swiss and prided itself on integrity and independence although they’d recently been through a number of bribery scandals in the Far East. They’d probably localised as well and had their version of Bob Chen doing dodgy deals with the factories.
LeJardin said, “We like a company called Global Quality Assurance. They have a French owner and are not too big. They will charge maybe two hundred and eighty U.S. dollars per day.”
“It’s expensive,” Jim said tersely.
“Losing Brico-Prince as a customer will be expensive for you, Monsieur.”
“We don’t want to lose your company. These are just procedural problems that will be resolved.”
LeJardin made a face as if to say he’d believe it when he saw it.
Later, as they left, the atmosphere was much less charged. The air had been cleared and a plan of action had been agreed. McPherson Ferguson would still be hit hard. Jim was determined to put those costs in the pocket of the Hong Kong office. After all, the fault lay with their sloppy work. He’d send an email once he got back to the hotel and tomorrow he’d discuss these embarrassing balls-ups with Dougie. The most consistent problem was the short shipments of cartons. In every container that was ordered there appeared to be a number of cartons missing once the goods arrived in Europe. It sounded ridiculous, as if someone was doing it on purpose. The rest was wrong packing, incorrect shipping marks, poor aesthetics and functionality which occurred statistically but pointed to poor merchandising and production follow-up.
By the time they got back to Lille it was seven thirty. Jim went upstairs to his room, took off his tie, splashed water on his face and was ready for a night of French hospitality and great soothing quantities of Bordeaux.
Chapter 6
One couldn’t complain about the office. McPherson Ferguson had done themselves proud with an office in Wing On Plaza that boasted sea-views from every manager’s room. The biggest was Bob Chen’s which had an astounding panorama because it engulfed the entire corner. It was decorated with antique
Chinese lacquer cupboards and an eight by four foot executive desk in dark rose wood with a matching chair that looked more imperial than comfortable.
Louise passed through the reception where Winky, the operator usually sat. It was only ten past eight so most of the staff hadn’t arrived yet. The company crest hung from the wall—it depicted a Harrier or some other bird of prey with a flagon of wine in its talons and the bleak word “Persevere” scrolled below.
She walked past the conference room with its heavy leather chairs, then the various manager’s offices: the Accountant, the Merchandising Manager Hardgoods, the MM Toys, the MM Furniture, the MM Textiles, and finally reached her smaller but still well appointed office, as she was pleased to admit to her friends.
She wasn’t a full manager but being the only Westerner in the office, she had certain privileges which none of the local staff had so far disputed.
Next door, Madeleine Fong was already at work, her features harried as always and papers spilling onto the floor, textile swatches and samples covering all chairs and usable surfaces. She was hacking away on her keyboard.
“Okay, there?” Louise said.
Madeleine was consumed by her job. Somewhat past thirty, with a salary high enough to frighten off any ordinary, conservative Chinese boy who was searching for a housewife, she was pretty in a plain way and spoke English better than she wrote it. Louise and her had gone out for drinks a few times and communicated well although somewhat superficially. Madeleine was always talking about her possessions and how much her girlfriends were earning. This wasn’t her fault, Louise knew, they were the standard topics of conversation for any Hong Kong yuppie.
Madeleine came around from behind her desk and hugged Louise, asking if she’d had a nice time. Originally they’d planned to go together but the Chinese girl had cancelled, pleading work and shipment difficulties at the last minute. Louise wasn’t sure yet if she’d tell her colleague about the South African and what they’d done in his big, hard bed.
“My goodness, you never stop do you?” Louise said.
“There’s too much to do and the factory is not cooperative because we are asking too low a price.”
“Which one?”
“All of them,” replied the Chinese girl.
“Not my silk collection for the Principles buyers?”
Madeleine nodded, painfully.
“Damn, you should have let me know.”
“You were on holiday.”
“But for this kind of thing you can disturb me. You mean they haven’t done the samples yet?”
“They say they are too busy at the moment.”
“Not even the boxer shorts?”
“They’ll be ready tomorrow.”
Louise was angry, not with Madeleine but the attitude of the factory. It was as if they didn’t want the business. Probably they didn’t. She had to think.
“Let me sit down, get a cup of tea and then once you’ve got a bit of time let’s get together and go over the status and how we’re going to handle it. The buyers will be here in a week and we must have the full collection complete. And the factory never gets the samples right the first time.”
Madeleine nodded and glanced over at her papers. Louise patted her on the arm.
Louise said, “Have you heard that Mr. Campbell is coming out from London?”
“He’s the General Manager, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“What are we going to do about the silk collection, Louise?”
“I was going to ask you that question.”
Madeleine shook her head and Louise smiled. Nothing was ever simple, it seemed. Things in Asia were always more complicated than they first appeared or than they logically should be.
* * * *
First thing in the morning, Jim would get on the phone to Hong Kong and let Bob Chen know that he was fed up of taking the rap for poor products. It was the man’s job, after all—he ran the bloody office down there and it was his responsibility to make sure that the goods were shipped correctly: that they went out on time and that all the quantities matched. Jim knew it wasn’t easy. He’d been down there once a year and he’d visited factories in Shenzhen where most of the products were made: textiles, toys, electronics. Across the Hong Kong border at Lo Wu station, an hour by train from Tsim Sha Tsui where the McPherson Ferguson offices were located, one came into a great big industrial city that went on for thousands of square miles. Once it had all been fields where the peasants waded in the water. Now these peasants were wealthy because they had sold or rented their land to rich Hong Kong or Taiwanese bosses who’d turned the fields into factories. Every factory looked the same, Jim remembered, grey and filled with young female workers who lived six to a bunk-bedded room and glued or sowed the cheap products that companies like McPherson Ferguson sold to their Western clients.
Jim got his thoughts back to the present. He and Marcel were in a restaurant called “La Vache Qui Rit” and it was famous for meat. The landlord spotted immediately that Jim was English and began making fun of him in a harmless Froggie way.
Jim had asked for his beef to be well done and the landlord berated him for being a heathen. Marcel recommended the sampler plate which consisted of eight different cuts. When it came it was an enormous quantity of meat and the landlord explained each one, pointing with his butcher’s knife and watching Jim’s face.
“It’s four hundred grams of pure French beef,” Marcel said, as if he didn’t think Jim could handle it. On the side came a serving of gratinated potatoes, a dish that no restaurant in England could make as well.
“Will Mr. Campbell be able to make any improvements?” Marcel said gloomily, then reached for the wine the landlord had poured for his appraisal.
There was a tense moment as Marcel concentrated on the vintage. His eyebrows pulled together and he delicately moved the liquid around his mouth with his tongue. He gazed critically at the landlord, holding him in suspense. Then he swallowed, tasted one more time and said simply, “C’est bon.”
The landlord nodded in silent relief. He had been sure of his cellar but one could never know with a bottle or its cork. It wasn’t the money that mattered but one’s reputation if a bottle was sent back by a client.
“It’s a St. Julian, premier cru and should have much depth and aroma,” Marcel explained.
Jim tasted his wine and found that it was great, but more than that he couldn’t say. For him there were only three adjectives to describe wine and women: good, bad or acceptable. A man like Marcel, steeped since he was a toddler in his native viniculture, could explode with adjectives and adverbs to describe the character of a wine.
Jim smiled politely and enjoyed his drink.
The last time they’d had dinner Marcel had gotten angry with the restaurant. It had been a famous wine which he’d ordered, a 1976 and it hadn’t come up to expectation. The sommelier had insisted that the older wines often lose their flavour and Marcel had rejected what he thought a crass statement.
“Ca ne reste pa en bouche,” he’d yelled, jabbing a finger at the label and the other man had gotten equally irate until they’d settled on another bottle which wasn’t as old as the first one but had appeased Marcel. He knew about wines.
“I don’t know what’s going on in Hong Kong but it can’t get much worse,” Jim said.
“It is a disgrace,” Marcel commented, cutting harshly into the pink-red flesh as if it was Bob Chen’s chest.
Jim said in between mouthfuls, “I’d like to go down there myself, probably will go in the next two months or so. There’s an English girl there who’s doing textiles. She should have some insight if they’re working well or not.”
“I don’t understand the Chinese, sometimes everything’s perfect, sometimes they make everything wrong.”
Jim nodded and began cutting the tenderloin. “That’s what I hear. I know a girl, she’s Chinese…” He let the sentence hang.
Marcel regarded him slyly. “A girlfriend?”
“What is she like, your girl?” Marcel wanted to know.
“Tall, elegant, you really have the feeling that she’s a woman. Not like with some English girls these days who pretend to be men and dress that way.”
“Yes, I read about this in the paper. The modern women, they want to be like men, drink and swear and have the same jobs. And instead of make love they want to fuck.” The Frenchman grinned at his obscenity.
“I don’t mind that,” Jim said, “just that a woman should be feminine, soft and delicate and smell like spring.” He heard the words coming from his mouth and was surprised at himself.
Marcel’s face became severe as he carried on attacking his steak. “A woman should behave like a woman. C’est vrai ça.”
“I’m not sure it will go anywhere with this girl. It’s just the beginning and she’s very conservative...”
They carried on eating and Jim found the meat good but because it was still red—because it was “a point”—he had to chew it thoroughly.
After the meal they went next door and had another bottle of expensive wine.
Marcel enlisted his support. “It’s okay, we have had a hard day.”
“It’s been a bastard of a week and…” Jim stuck one of his colleague’s cigarettes in his mouth, “it’s not going to get any better.”
By the end of the evening they were good friends again. Business was unimportant. Mutual respect was the key. They were both drunk, stinking of garlic and smoke. Jim staggered to the lift and didn’t envy Marcel who had to go back to a wife who would demand explanations simply for the sake of it.
* * * *
The phone rang on his desk and Scrimple picked it up not expecting anybody interesting.
Dragon Breath Page 9
