Chatting distracts me from feeling queasy as the dark water all around us slaps a little more violently against the sides of the boat and the two glasses of Champagne fizz and churn in my stomach. Henri listens attentively as he steers the yacht, but it’s a matter of concern to me that he now wears the same frown on his face that I saw earlier today.
Perhaps he’s thinking about his big race at the weekend, or maybe he’s getting tired of me talking about Jon all the time? I decide to change the subject in case it’s the latter. ‘So, Henri, except for when you were at boarding school in the UK, have you always lived in Hong Kong?’
‘Yes. Most of my life. I was born in France. My mother is French. My father Chinese.’
To me, this perfectly explained his incredible good-looks. There is something rather gorgeous about his wide green eyes, his olive skin, and his amazing bone structure. I quickly give myself a mental reprimand for even thinking the words ‘incredible’ and ‘gorgeous’ to describe my new friend.
When we arrive safely back at the mooring, Henri asks me if I’m feeling hungry.
‘Only, there’s a very good restaurant on the marina. They do a great sweet and sour dish.’
I honestly don’t feel hungry so I feel a little reticent. Being invited onto Henri’s yacht to watch the light show in the harbour is one thing, and fine by me, but going for a meal afterwards in a restaurant feels like a step too far, as though I am signing off on this being a proper date.
I politely decline and he looks momentarily disappointed before offering to call me a taxi.
I suddenly remembered about the old Post-it note that I’d wanted to show him. ‘Oh, before I go, I wanted to show you something. I found it inside Jon’s travel folder.’
I quickly fish the note out from the bottom of my bag.
‘I found this attached to this old Star Ferry brochure. It mentions you – or, Harry Chen, at least – and I was hoping you might know what it means?’
Henri stares down at the note with disbelief on his face and then he looks bemused.
Harry Chen still owes me a chip.
‘Oh, my, I can’t believe it. He actually kept it all these years!’
‘So … you do know? You know what kind of chip it refers to?’
‘Yes. I do. And I still have it in my possession to this very day.’
He disappears for a moment below deck and returns with a coin purse. From the purse, he pulls out a large, shiny, golden coin. At first impression, it looks something like one of those big gold-wrapped chocolate coins you give children at Christmas.
We slide into the seats on deck with a table between us and conspire under a light emanating from the mast. Henri places the coin down in front of me. It’s stamped with an imprint of the number fifty in numerals, an image of a flower – a lotus flower – and the words ‘Casino Lotus Macau’.
‘This chip is one of two that Jon and I won in Macau on a night of serious gambling and drinking back in the late 90s.’ I can see from the smile playing on Henri’s lips and the light shining in his eyes that he’s remembering a night that must have really meant something to him. I desperately want to know more. I’ve heard of Macau because Jon had mentioned it to me once. He’d described it as a mecca of casinos, gambling, and glitz in an autonomous territory once ruled by Portugal which is now, like Hong Kong, a special administrative region ruled by China.
‘Macau? Yes, I’ve heard of it. So … it’s not too far from here?’ I query.
Henri shrugs. ‘Not far at all. Just an hour away by boat.’
‘And this isn’t a coin. It’s a fancy gambling chip?’ I pick it up and find it surprisingly heavy. ‘Can you tell me what you remember about that night?’ I urge him.
Henri rakes his fingers through his short dark hair and laughs. ‘Sure. I remember how back then we’d both had a pretty tough week on the trading floor. But it was payday, and as we were hot-headed, cashed-up professionals who were always looking for the next adventure, we decided to head over to Macau to try our luck on the roulette tables.’
‘What happened? Tell me about roulette.’
Having never gambled or been inside a casino myself, I’m fascinated by the concept of winning and losing, and how that might be something that could be swayed by cosmic ordering.
Henri laughs again. ‘Well, with poker or blackjack or craps, you have to possess a certain kind of seriousness and a degree of knowledge of the game. Whereas, for a pair of chancers like us, roulette is easy because there are no secrets to learn – it’s a game of pure chance and luck.’
Chance, luck … and fate, perhaps?
‘We somehow managed to crash a party at The Lotus Casino and it turned into a wild night.’ Henri continues. ‘The Champagne was flowing and the roulette wheel was spinning. For some reason we were winning more than losing for a change. And, when it was over, in the early hours of the next morning, I do recall that we caught the first ferry back and went straight into work. In those days, we really thought nothing of burning the candle at both ends.’
‘And so, this chip was your winnings from that night?’
‘Yeah, well, I thought so. But Jon maintained this chip belonged to him. Hence the note.’
He leans in to tell me more and, in that moment, with our faces just inches apart, I find myself looking deeply into his eyes and catching my breath at the intensity with which he returns my gaze. ‘You know, there’s a famous old story about a man who used to gamble at The Lotus. He wanted to win so badly that he sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the secrets of their roulette table. That’s why the game’s also known as “the devil’s wheel”.’ His lips curve into a boyish smile and his eyes shine with mischief. ‘And that’s why the numbers on the wheel add up to 666.’
‘Tell me more about the chip? Did you have to sell your soul to get it?’
‘No, nothing like that, because lady luck was on our side that night. We came away from that table with not one but two of these “lucky” golden chips.’
‘Lucky? Why are they said to be lucky?’
‘Because that night they had a bonus on their value. But I remember that what happened next wasn’t so lucky.’
‘How so? What happened?’ I’m completely enthralled by this story.
‘Well, when we got back to Hong Kong, I had both chips on me. So, I flipped one over to Jon. But as he was still quite drunk he missed catching it and it went straight into the harbour.’
I gasp. ‘Oh no! What did he do?’
‘He insisted that it was my chip I’d lost and not his. That I still owed him a chip. I guess he must have written it down on this Post-it note in case he forgot about it when he sobered up.’
‘That is a wild story. I wish I’d known Jon back then,’ I say wistfully.
Not that I could ever imagine myself being as wild and adventurous as him.
Back then, during the time Henri and Jon where having such fun, I was a bored and boring twenty-seven-year-old woman – working in a bank, dressing in scratchy tweed suits – whose idea of fun was watching stock prices and whose only focus in life was the dream of eventually buying my own house and moving out of my parents’ home.
Oh how I wished I’d just packed a backpack and used my savings to travel and to live!
Henri looks thoughtful. ‘You know, if it hadn’t been for the big crash, I’m sure Jon and I would have gone back to The Lotus the very next chance we had to spend this chip and give the wheel another spin. But the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘The big crash? Is this the day you spoke of when Hong Kong reverted back to China?’
‘Yeah. It was the prelude to all the protests and riots we still see today and the very start of a banking crisis. All the financial institutions closed their doors, the casinos shut down, and everyone prayed for a currency exchange-rate recovery.’
‘And was there one?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Instead there was a commercial meltdown. The government at the time couldn’t s
tabilise the currency and all our investors’ dreams – together with our jobs – went up in smoke. Up until that point, Hong Kong had been booming, everyone making and spending lots of money, but it was the beginning of the end of an era. I stayed because Hong Kong is my home and I’d just met my now ex-wife. Jon took a chance and jumped ship. I can’t say I blamed him.’
We both sit in silence for a moment, reflecting.
I want to ask him more about his marriage but that seems far too personal a subject.
‘And … you and Jon never saw each other again?’ I venture instead.
‘No. I’m afraid not. Like I say, it wasn’t so easy back then with no Twitter or Facebook.’
Henri slides the golden chip in front of me. It shines under the mast light and lights up both our faces in a golden glow.
‘Maya, the coin is yours. I’ve finally repaid Jon his chip and now he can rest in peace.’
I stare down at the chip and wonder what I’m supposed to do with it.
‘If you don’t mind me suggesting it, I really think you should take yourself over to Macau tomorrow night and put it on the roulette table at The Lotus. Give it a spin in Jon’s memory. Have some fun, win or lose. That way, we’ll have both done right by him.’
‘But this chip is decades old!’ I remind him.
‘Ah, but you can be sure a casino will always honour its debts and its chips.’
My heart skips a beat. It did seem kind of fortuitous once again seeing the symbol of the lotus flower. I’d seen it in the ashram. I’d seen it when I’d been offered my divine wish by the swami at the airport in Delhi. Now here it was again in Hong Kong.
Was it linked to my fate somehow?
I’m tempted to do as Henri suggested because tomorrow is Friday and my last day here before I leave for Singapore. He also made it sound like the right thing to do in Jon’s memory.
Win or lose. It sounded like a great adventure and something that could be a lot of fun.
And, Henri was right. I really needed more fun in my life.
‘I assume the ‘fifty’ stamped on it means it was worth fifty Hong Kong dollars?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah, I think so. Plus whatever the bonus was on that night. You never know, with inflation, it could be worth a small fortune now,’ Henri suggests with a grin.
‘Fifty Hong Kong dollars is actually worth less than five pounds GBP. So, if you’re right, it could be worth a very small fortune indeed!’ I say, laughing at his infectious optimism.
He shrugs his shoulders and challenges me with his sparkling green eyes again.
I touch the chip with the tips of my fingers and I smile, remembering another of the cryptic messages Jon had left me on a Post-it note. The one that I still hadn’t figured out.
Divine number nine!
‘You know what? I think you’re right. Going over to the casino and spending this chip would be a wonderful way to honour Jon.’ I breathe, feeling a heated thrill rushing through my veins.
Henri wriggles his eyebrows at me playfully. ‘Atta girl! Go spin that devil’s wheel!’
‘But I can’t go alone. I’ve honestly never been inside a casino in my entire life. Henri, if I’m going to do this … then you’re going to have to come with me to Macau tomorrow.’
Chapter 15
Hong Kong
I would have completely understood if Henri had declined accompanying me on the Macau trip today. After all, tomorrow afternoon he sets off on his boat race. He’d already explained how all his race supplies were being delivered to his dock first thing this morning and that he was meeting his crew members who were arriving on a flight at noon. Yet he had still agreed to come along tonight!
It was a shame we couldn’t make a whole day of it, as there is obviously so much to do and see in Macau – it’s not called the Las Vegas of Asia for nothing – but, that said, leaving later in the afternoon actually suits me better too, because today is my last full day here in Hong Kong and I still have something of great personal importance to do.
This time, my plans aren’t in Jon’s agenda or mentioned on any of his Post-it notes. The only information I have to go by is written on the back of an old photograph.
1975
Shangri-La, Stubbs Road.
Happy Valley, Hong Kong.
I’d looked up the street name in advance to make sure Stubbs Road still existed and – happily – had found that it did. But would the beautiful pink house with the walled garden and tall wrought-iron gate where I’d been born half a century ago still be there? I’d read that the area was popular with ex-pats and had been extensively redeveloped to the detriment of many of the original homes and historic buildings.
Happy Valley, despite its rather twee name, is actually a sprawling lowland area just a few miles inland behind Causeway Bay and between the mountains and Victoria Gap. The area is famous for its racecourse. One of the oldest institutions in Hong Kong, according to Jon.
The concierge tells me to take the Number Fifteen circular bus from Central and the journey should take just half an hour. In Victoria Gap, I decide to get off the bus at the very top end of Stubbs Road because the map shows the road runs around the outer perimeter area of the racecourse.
I’m feeling a little intimidated and lost already while standing on the pavement in the morning heat and I’m not entirely sure this is the best place to start my search. I showed my photograph to the bus driver in the hope he might recognise the house if it was on his route, but he’d just shaken his head so now I find myself completely surrounded by towering high-rise apartments.
I look both up and down the road and realise there are no discernible landmarks to guide me except for the racecourse itself, which is likely to be the only thing still standing that was here forty-five years ago when I was here last. I continue to walk along the pavements as the morning sun rises steadily in the sky, but I see there are no single homes on this road anymore.
After an hour of walking and searching for a wrought-iron gate and the old pink house, and after showing the photo to everyone who passed me on the road, just in case they happen to be longstanding locals who might recognise it, I finally have to accept that my beloved childhood home is both long gone and long forgotten.
There are now likely to be hundreds of homes built on top of what was once our Shangri-La. I’m crushingly disappointed. I feel tearful. But I have to accept that with real estate in Hong Kong said to be amongst the most expensive in the world, and building plots at a premium here, it makes total sense.
I take a few snaps of the area to send to Pia anyway. At least I can tell her I tried, and she can see for herself exactly what Stubbs Road looks like now – a truly modern metropolis. I make my way back to the bus stop wondering if I’d even been wise to pursue this nostalgic endeavour. All I’d done was set myself up for disappointment and all I’d achieved was bursting my own idealistic Happy Valley memory bubble.
For so many years throughout my childhood this house had still existed in my imagination. While growing up in dull and rainy Manchester, I’d fantasised about coming back here and finding the house bathed in sunlight, the garden still full of fragrant pink roses. I’d hoped that somehow and someway I’d once again call Shangri-La my home.
But now I know for sure it doesn’t exist anymore.
And that makes me feel incredibly sad and empty … as though I am now ultimately and truly homeless.
The nearest bus stop is just across the street from the entrance to the Jockey Club.
It’s a tall modern building with offices and, as I’m here right now and looking along the length of the road I can see no sight of a bus, I consider that it might at least be worth going in with an enquiry about the whereabouts of the old house and what might have happened to it. Maybe there would be someone there who knew it once?
It couldn’t hurt to make just one last attempt to jog a local memory, could it?
Inside the reception area there is a young woman behind the welcome desk.
She smiles and greets me but I know she’s far too young to know this area from decades ago. I decide to show her the photo anyway, since I’m here, and she suggests that I take a seat.
She takes my photo into the back office and I hear her asking for someone else to help me. That someone else turns out to be a much older man who introduces himself as Mr Lee after striding up to me while holding out my photo, an encouraging smile on his face.
‘Hello. I believe you are looking for this place?’
I spring to my feet. ‘Yes. Hello. My name is Maya Thomas. This is the house where I was born. I’ve been exploring the area and I wondered if you might know if it still exists?’
I suddenly realise that I’m wringing my hands and I sound like I’m pleading with him.
‘Yes. It still exists. I know it very well. This really is a wonderful old photograph!’
As he hands it back to me, my jaw drops open and my hopeful heart skips a beat.
‘My parents took it before we left Hong Kong when I was five. You say you know it well?’ I realise I’m shaking with happiness and I’m just about to ask for directions when Mr Lee indicates a display cabinet against a wall. He leads me over and I see it contains horse racing trophies, memorabilia and a book entitled: The Rich History of Horse Racing in Hong Kong.
He takes out the book and I wonder what this has to do with the house.
Mr Lee flicks to a section about The Jockey Club Museum and then taps a neatly shaped fingertip on the page. ‘Look. Here’s your house. It’s been our museum for the past thirty years.’
I stare at the picture in the book and think my eyes must have grown to the size of saucers.
This was without any question the house I’d always known as Shangri-La!
The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3) Page 16
