But how to finance it? India was far away and airline trips there were expensive. And if he did not want to eat street food, he would have to stay in a fancy hotel, preferably one with Chinese food. It would cost money. He needed a client there to finance his visit.
As dusk fell, the night market became busy. The chefs started work.
Dilip Kenneth Sinha and Madam Xu arrived moments later, as if the venue’s cooks and diners had shared a bus.
‘Go easy on the garlic and spice tonight,’ said Madam Xu. ‘I am meeting a client after dinner at 7:30.’
Sinha shook his head. ‘I’m afraid, dear lady, that we shall have to order for you separately. Wong and myself can no longer taste food that has not been spiced. Years of ill usage have damaged our palates beyond the reach of subtle flavourings.’
The fortune-teller took out a small flannel and wiped down the surface of the table in front of her. ‘Well, we don’t have to have Indian. We could have Chinese—Szechuan for you and Cantonese for me. You could have your chilli crab.’
‘Correct. Or we could go for Malay. We haven’t done that for a while.’
Wong nodded: Lontong,’ he said. ‘Need lontong tonight.’
‘Good choice,’ said Sinha. ‘There are few things as comforting after a long day’s work as rice cakes and eggs swamped in a spicy cream sauce. I suggest that we have, on the side, a plate of otak-otak. There’s something about the pleasing stink of fish paste that sets the world to rights.’
‘I fancy a roti john,’ said Madam Xu.
‘Panggang,’ said Wong.
The lengthy discussion of what to order was an important part of the ritual. Despite the delay it caused to the actual meal, the meal tasted far better if its various components had been carefully compared, analysed and matched.
The consensus was to go for Malay cuisine. Its Thai influences of shrimp paste and chilli would satisfy Wong and Sinha’s macho cravings for burned tongues, while the more subtle flavours of lemongrass and coconut milk would be suitable for Madam Xu’s delicate palate.
Once ordered, the food started to arrive quickly. Barely eight minutes later, Wong was holding a bowl of lontong and shovelling soaked rice-cakes into his mouth. Sauce dribbled down his chin.
The three members of the investigative advisory committee of the Union of Industrial Mystics ate in silence. As one of the great sages said: To he who has been made to wait, dinner is Heaven and Heaven is dinner. For a moment, the three-legged stool made up of Heaven, Earth and Man was at peace. Wong was a happy man.
Then Joyce McQuinnie slipped on to the stool next to him. ‘Yo, boss man.’
Shh-chka-shh-chka-shh-chka-shh.
‘You looked a bit blue in the office,’ she said. She was talking unnaturally loudly, as she often did when she was wearing headphones and having a conversation at the same time.
‘Blue?’ Wong looked down at the back of his hands peering at his veins, which were sometimes bluish. They were the same brown as usual, although one was stained with lontong sauce.
‘I mean like, you know, down.’
He glanced down at his feet. His ankles, a sliver of which showed between his sheer Shanghainese socks and his trouser legs, were also the usual shade of brown.
‘I meant down in the dumps.’
Wong looked at her. ‘Which dumps?’
‘No dumps. I meant—never mind. I bought these. Thought they might cheer you up. Winnie forgot to empty the letter box this morning and I found them sticking out.’ She handed him two envelopes. ‘One of them is from Nevis Au Yeung. The other’s from —’
The feng shui master grabbed the first envelope and tore it open in one swift movement. Au Yeung the billionaire! Number 39 on the Forbes rich list for Asia. A billionaire had written to him. What sort of tip might a billionaire give to someone who had performed a good service for him? It could be millions. It could be a spare apartment or house or car. It could be a yacht. How much could he sell the yacht for?
Inside the courier packet was a small, white envelope bearing the name—no, it must be a mistake. He narrowed his eyes and glared closely at the handwriting on the front again. No mistake. The envelope was addressed to ‘Joice, c/o Mister Wong’.
‘For you,’ said Wong crossly, handing it over.
‘Oh. Really? Well this one’s definitely for you, anyway.’ She tossed him another envelope.
The young woman laughed to find that her letter was from Foo-Foo Au Yeung. It was a note inviting her to lunch. She read it out loud for Wong’s benefit. ‘“Nevis has given me $100,000 to go and find a Chitty. He has always wanted a flying car. Would you like to meet for lunch? We can spend some of the money on lunch, and the rest on shopping. He’ll never notice.’’’
Joyce was thrilled. ‘Cool. Shopping with someone else’s money. I could put up with that for an afternoon, no sweat.’
Wong tore open the other envelope and squinted at it.
It was a letter on lilac scented paper from Mrs Jackie Lavender of Perth. Dear CF, it said. I never really got a chance to say goodbye. And you did, quite possibly, save my life. I owe you a debt of gratitude and I always pay my debts. I’ve decided I’m going to visit Singapore to express my gratitude in a personal way. See you soon, my dear little man. Perhaps we could do some light exercise together?
The feng shui master closed his eyes. He remembered the ancient Chinese proverb: From a hungry tiger and an affectionate woman there is no escape. But that in turn reminded him of his encounter in the Sing Woo supermarket. After fifty-six years of life on earth, he was still being showered with trials and tribulations.
Why did the gods hate him so?
More than a thousand years ago, a scholar went to see a great master of a school in a city called Chang’an.
The scholar said: ‘Master, I come to you to be led to a state of enlightenment. I believe only you can deliver me to such a state. I need transcendence.’
The teacher looked at him and said: ‘I need to shit.’
The scholar was confused. He said: ‘Why do you say this to me?’
The master said: ‘I don’t want to move. So I wonder if you can go to the toilet and shit for me, please?’
The scholar: ‘But I cannot do it for you. You have to do it for yourself.’
The master said: ‘Yes.’
And the scholar understood.
Blade of Grass, every student must undertake his own personal journey. There is only room on The Way for one person at a time.
When does the journey end?
The Zen masters tell the story of the famous poet Bai Juyi.
He went to see the Monk Niaowo and asked him how he could become One with Heaven. Monk Niaowo said: ‘Do good. Do not do bad.’
The poet Bai Juyi said: ‘That is so simple. A child of three knows it.’
Monk Niaowo said: ‘A child of three knows it. But a man of one hundred cannot do it. Enjoy the journey, for the journey is the end and the end is the journey.’
From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’
by CF Wong, part 34.
NURY VITTACHI did not win the Vogel for his first novel, was not shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize with his subsequent books, and has never been nominated for a Nobel Prize for Literature. ‘I hope to make it a clean sweep by not winning the Pulitzer next year,’ the Hong Kong-based novelist said.
The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook Page 27
