Love and the Art of War

by Dinah Lee Küng

  The gossip about Joe and Camille had surrounded Jane, even in her retreat. It never pounced, just lurked in an ugly way, circling the gentle ponds of work and leisure she frequented. Until, one horrible morning over a breakfast of bangers and beans in the basement canteen, Jane received an overt danger signal—an invitation to lunch with the BBC ‘nuns.’ From vestal virgins, these ex-mistresses had hardened into survivors of long-term office trysts. Married producers and faithless boyfriends had discarded them for perkier replacements, younger research assistants or secretaries. Swallowing their pride, they tended the BBC’s various temple altars until the first pension cheque.

  Jane ate one lunch with them, but their lined lips and out-dated hairdos made her shiver. She imagined her future without Joe as these harridans chummed it up like chthonic hyenas gnawing at her incipient plummet from status as the beloved of a coming man to cast-off of a confirmed high flyer.

  Jane had declined membership in that grim club but fatally she’d also rejected an offer to take that Director’s Course—a sure path to more career independence from Joe. She’d just finished her extended maternity leave, and then added sick leave. When she returned to work from her bout with the flu and Sammie’s colic, she begged off any research trips or overtime. She’d folded her petals for a long winter’s nesting with her tiny Samantha.

  During those sunless months of night feeds and diaper changes, Jane caught little sight of Joe. It seemed from one night to the next, from the three-week recces to the month-long shoots, that Joe might take the opportunity of Sammie’s birth to slip away from Jane altogether. She never demanded that Joe raise his flag in honest combat. She never questioned those rumours about Camille or that ignominious transfer to Obituaries—even to herself.

  She survived that dark winter, shrinking down from a lively, curious young woman who expected laughter or love into a stubborn emotional adjunct asking only minimal loyalty. She brandished Sammie’s caterwauling needs as more important than anything else.

  In the spring, she finally abandoned her own broadcasting dreams to seek a ‘proper’ job as a librarian. She recruited Lorraine as an investor in Number 19, and offered to glamourize the attic flat’s baby-frayed appearance so that Joe and she could acquire the first floor with its crumbling balcony. She presented Joe with half-finished plans already in the contractor’s hands and paid for the redecorating with her final severance packet, all before Joe could sputter.

  Had Jane planned to ‘fight Joe and Camille without fighting,’ Baldwin might well have applauded her. Instead, Jane had reduced her claims out of cowardice and worse, moved Lorraine in right over their heads, retreating to the very effacing, emotional routine that had bound her as a daughter. A newborn, a mother-out-of-law at home, and Jane off to the library stacks for good—Joe had taken all these changes on board without protest, losing Jane in the process.

  The Northern line rumbled up to the Tottenham Court platform. Jane squeezed herself a sliver of space that left her face pressed against the door, her hand fighting for a hold on the pole, and her soul in the bottom of her shoes. She worked her way through the crush of Christmas sale shoppers and holidaying students to a seat at the end of the car reeking of beer and vomit. She settled in the half-seat cleared by an obese neighbour. She thought of foot soldiers press-ganged by warlords to the right and left, pitted against each other by ambitious noblemen in a merciless, endless quest for domination. She took out her class notes . . .

  Like Jane, Baldwin so obviously never tired of plumbing the treasure to be found in books. At their last class before the holiday break, enthusiasm had radiated off the shoulders of his droopy tweed jacket as he chalked up ideograms and dates and turned with transfixed expression to convey the darkening mood of the late Spring and Autumn era;

  ‘So evocative, don’t you think, from the feudal time we associate with Confucius. As the era unfolded, larger states ate up the smaller ones. By the 6th century BC, most small states had disappeared. A few powerful princes dominated China. Take the leader of the Jin, aiming to swallow up Yu and Hu—’

  ‘Yoo-hoo, watch out!’ Keith mugged.

  Baldwin wilted a bit, but he forged on: ‘Aiming at the two small states, Hu and Yu, the prince of Jin borrowed a path through Yu territory to attack Hu. After taking Hu, of course, the Jin prince turned right around and destroyed Yu on his return journey.’

  The small state of Joe yearned for success and respect, the powerful state of Bella wanted celebrity and an accessory baby, while Lorraine’s lame fiefdom dreamed only of one last curtain call—even if the audience for this swan song consisted of blind welfare workers.

  All Jane wanted was to be loved—to be at peace with Joe and Sammie again.

  Jane’s ruminations on Stratagem Twenty-four lasted until she crossed Primrose Hill Road and stopped on the kerb under Joop’s Painted Angel.

  After restoring the windowpane, Joop had repainted ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill,’ over a face more defiant than ever. The angel’s wingspan touched the freshly painted wooden frame. One protective fist stretched straight ahead of his gaze. Joop encircled the whole portrait with painted barbed wire entwined with olive branches. How long would Joop remain in the square to embellish his avatar? The angel rose again from broken glass shards.

  Jane’s strength surged as she took in his renaissance and she finally admitted the hardest truth so far: Bella wasn’t her true enemy. Nor was Joe.

  Her true enemy was herself. In the same situation, Lorraine might pretend indifference, play dumb, gain time with a canny shrug, but Jane suspected Lorraine had never lied to herself, not about the quality of the character parts that paid their bills, nor the character of her men offstage.

  Why hadn’t Jane done what she wanted? Why hadn’t Jane known what she wanted? Why did she just retreat from stronger souls who overwhelmed her and drove her into the escape of books? Even a painted angel showed more determination than she had.

  In the dusk, Chalkwood Square glowed with the blue flickering of televisions, orange reading lamps, and grey computer screens. Lorraine’s lights were on, too. Jane delayed her homecoming, resting her purchases on one of the red benches in the cold square. Her life was a piece of this civilized arena; she could recall the winning battle to keep the library branch operating back in ‘98, the loss of the dear old 74 bus service, the compromise over paving off the top of the square to through traffic, the summer festivals, the Bonfire Nights and now, the departure of middle-class literati for hedge-fund glitterati.

  The Greek restaurant had closed, the French restaurants changed hands and the butcher who opened early to sell you the bacon you’d forgotten for breakfast had died years ago—the very day after he retired. Businesses had started up and failed, a post office was lost and the park’s opening hours extended.

  But what about when it came to her defending the interests of the small State of Jane? Why hadn’t she had that wedding? She’d never disdained weddings as bourgeois. That had been a convenient excuse borrowed from the times. She actually loved weddings. She always had. Joe thought it was her fear of failing at marriage like Lorraine, but now she thought it was something worse—she had been afraid of succeeding at something Lorraine had never managed?

  Why hadn’t she taken that Director’s Course? Was she afraid of competing with Joe and succeeding without him?

  She’d ended up a librarian—a very good one, some said—but yet, perhaps not good enough? The district boss had sidled up to her at the launch for the revamped reading room and asked, ‘How long do you plan to work at this career, Jane?’

  As she put on the kettle for Lorraine’s tea, she felt a different person from the Jane who’d left the house that midday for nothing more than a few chops and vegetables. She saw things more clearly and from a greater distance—her mother’s presence, kind but always overshadowing, and Joe—seeming so unfettered and confident but really as sensitive as a tropical plant.

  And Dan? When her answering machine emitted Winston’s blea
ting plea they meet for a snack and homework at the Moonbeam that same night, she realized she’d hoped to hear Dan’s voice instead.

  After tea, she made her way back up to Belsize Park. Frying fish, stewing pork, and soy smells floated to Jane’s grateful nostrils on a steam clouding the Moonbeam’s dining room, but Winston’s hunted expression would dampen any appetite.

  ‘Of course, I get this Number 24, using an ally to attack a common enemy but I can’t think of anybody who doesn’t like Nelson.’

  ‘Well, there’s you, for starters.’

  ‘Ha ha. The real problem is the sticky follow-up, the one where you turn around and betray your ally. What’s the word Baldwin is so keen on—vanquish? I wouldn’t want to vanquish anyone helping me corner Nelson. I’m a nice fellow, Jane. These tactics go against the grain, even for a useless piece of plywood like me.’

  Jane reminded Winston through his distress to order some food. He chose the Menu of the Day, sliced beef in oyster sauce on a bed of noodles that had seen crispier moments.

  Jane understood his distress. Prince Nelson acted more the coming hegemon of the Printing Kingdom of Chu every day, with more computer sales and software tutorials—and to Chu Senior’s delight—ever bigger profits. ‘Dad asked me the other night whether I was going to pass this class with honours. You know the joke about the Chinese Father, “You belong to 99%? Why you not 100%?” I’ve got one day left to use Stratagem Twenty-four.’

  ‘How about Nelson’s new girlfriend, Sabrina?’

  ‘Selina.’

  ‘Could you borrow her to attack Nelson?’

  ‘Let me think. He’s taking her out a lot, but there’s something holding him back and that’s his crush on HeiBai Girl. Selina’s bitching about it all the time.’

  ‘Hey Bye Girl?’

  Winston moaned into his tofu. ‘Black and White Cat Girl. She’s an Internet phenomenon.’

  ‘Like Obama Girl?’

  ‘Kind of. She wears a cat mask and a fur bikini with a long tail attached. She is the dream girl of millions of randy Chinese geeks, including Nelson. The words HeiBai refers to Deng Xiaoping’s old saying, it doesn’t matter whether the cat is black, hei, or white, bai, as long as it catches mice, only Deng was talking about Communists and capitalists. When she uses it, she means, sort of, whatev.’ Winston squirmed a little in his chair.

  ‘What does she sing?’

  ‘About lovers separated by forces beyond their control.’

  ‘Separated by family feuds? Like Romeo and Juliet?’

  ‘No, more like the Three Gorges Dam flooding their villages. Nelson stays up nights listening to her tinny voice through his earphones. When she called for earthquake relief donations, he emptied his entire savings account.’

  He pushed his desolate stir-fry around on his cold plate. ‘However, by day, the Nelson-Selina romance is hotter than ever. Which is more than I can say for these noodles.’

  Brusque shouts and the banging of gallon-sized woks echoed through the emptying dining room and heralded the end of the Moonbeam’s evening shift.

  Winston shouted louder over the clamour, ‘’Course Selina’s mother, Dragon Lady Leong, is really pissed off about Nelson. Mother Leong had Selina practically engaged to a med student in Kuala Lumpur.’

  ‘My son-in-law, the doctor, hmm?’

  Winston scoffed. ‘He’ll have to become head of neurosurgery at the Royal Free to satisfy that ogress. Anyway,’ Winston offered Jane the last two shrimp har gow congealing on a wilted lettuce leaf at the bottom of a steamer basket. ‘Nelson made his move on Selina before Madame Leong could run interception.’

  Through the noise of the kitchen clean-up, Jane heard the Moonbeam’s front door chimes tinkle. Winston looked up and whispered, ‘Oh my God, Jane. You’re in luck. It’s her.’

  Three Chinese women entered the red glow of the dining room. The first, her face pale with thick white powder under a ruched turban, cackled into her mobile phone, while from her other elbow hung a Gucci handbag as big as an orange leather tugboat leading her into harbour. Her two cohorts followed, lesser court attendants with complexions closer to human tint.

  ‘That’s her,’ Winston hissed. ‘That’s Madame Leong. God, I forgot, it’s Thursday, their mah-jong night.’

  ‘But aren’t the Ng’s closing up?’

  ‘Wah, Cecilia’s mother can’t say no to Madame Leong.’

  ‘Wow. A cigarette holder. Do you think it’s real ivory?’

  ‘Elephants slaughtered by special order.’ Winston averted his eyes as the trio passed in a cloud of jasmine and nicotine. There was something un-Chinese about Madame Leong, something thick-featured and garish in style compared to the Ngs and their exhausted daughter. She’d stepped out of the pages of The Letter, the Somerset Maugham tale of Malaysian planters, mixed-blood mistresses, and hysterically jealous wives. Cecilia was clearing Jane’s plate and bowl with her resigned discretion and left Winston undisturbed, still hunkered over his rice bowl. Jane asked why Madame Leong looked so different.

  ‘The Leongs are Nonya—families descended from European, Malay, and Chinese traders on the peninsula.’ Jane observed Mrs Ng fawn and cluck over the late arrivals with hot tea and little dishes of salted peanuts and pickled cucumber slices.

  Disconsolate, Winston shook his head in wonder. ‘I wonder if Selina really likes Nelson. Maybe she just wants to show that mother of hers she’s not taking orders about Dr Kuala Lumpur.’ He sighed, ‘They act like the greatest love story since—’ and at that, Winston lost grip of his chopsticks and a fat blob of oyster beef fell on his trousers, ‘Shit, since—’

  ‘Since Tristan and Isolde?’

  ‘I don’t know about them. I was thinking Becks and Posh.’

  ‘Maybe Madame Leong’s got the same worry you warned your father might happen to Chu Printers, only in reverse.’ She sipped her cold tea, ‘I’ve got it, Winston. I’ve got it!’

  ‘What?’ Winston dabbed cold water on his trousers, leaving a greasy splotch.

  ‘Nelson teamed up with Selina on that pepper keychain promotion, right?’

  ‘A hit. We had to reorder.’

  ‘Now, if things go even better, Nelson might take over Sultana Software, not the other way around. He might subsume it into a whole Blossoming Garden of Vegetable Computer Products. So, Winston, it’s obvious.’

  ‘Not to me. I don’t follow.’

  Cecilia had refused to complete the quartet for mah-jong, pleading her studies. Mrs Ng took off her apron and filled the last seat. The rising din of the gossiping matrons amidst the sliding, shaking, and clacking of game tiles nearly drowned out Jane’s words.

  ‘Number Twenty-four. Make Madame Leong your temporary ally. It solves all your nice-guy hesitations. She didn’t even notice your existence just now when she crossed the room. But,’ Jane put down her teacup. ‘You rope her in. Stoke her fears of Nelson for her own reasons, right?’

  Winston whistled, ‘I see. I warn Madame Leong that Nelson dreams of running her show.’

  ‘That’s it. That’s it.’

  ‘Hopes to manage her investments.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Talks of her taking early retirement.’

  ‘She’ll hate him.’

  ‘I tell her that Nelson’s hero is Qin Shihuangdi, uniting China all over again. All he’s missing is the clay warriors.’

  ‘And the password to her online bank account.’

  Winston rehearsed his stratagem. ‘First, I leak the news that Nelson’s really excited about getting engaged to Selina.’

  ‘He talks all day about overhauling Sultana’s operations,’ Jane prompted him.

  Winston’s glance hit a Great Wall—the solid sight of Madame Leong’s bright scarlet lips dragging on her cigarette holder as she lined up her tiles. ‘She doesn’t look like the kind of woman who panics easily.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Jane admitted. ‘She looks like she’d take matters into her own hands. Look at the points on those fingernails.’


  ‘And go straight to my father to dictate terms—’

  ‘With a pint load of honey on her knife.’

  ‘He’d freak out if he saw her beady eyes on his company. He knows she’d eat him for dim sum. But he couldn’t trust Nelson after that.’ Winston’s eyes suddenly brightened. ‘It might work!’

  ‘Attack Guo by a Borrowed Path, only Mrs Leong, not Selina, is your borrowed path to attack Nelson’s credibility. Your father might think her offer is for real and panic, or suspect she’s running scared and making a pre-emptive move. Either way, Madame Leong has got to be his personal nightmare.’

  Winston’s glee wilted like bok choy in the Sahara. ‘It won’t work, Jane.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, for starters, none of this is true. And second, I’d have to talk to her.’

  ‘First of all, it’s all possible. And second, of course you have to talk to her. Tonight. Here. Now.’

  Winston didn’t budge. ‘Let me get this straight. First, I spook her about Nelson’s ambitions, she moves in on Dad with her devious defences, thereby getting Nelson into trouble, then I turn around and betray her to Dad? Number Twenty-four makes my head hurt.’

  ‘Winston, get a grip. Baldwin will give you top marks on your homework, you’ll pass the class, and your father will want nothing more to do with the Leongs. Nelson will be fried rice.’

  ‘You’ll hang around in case she shoos me away?’

  ‘Of course not. This is a family affair.’

  Winston still didn’t budge. Jane stood up and whispered into Winston’s ear, ‘Vanquish your fears, Winston. She’s not going to eat you. She’s very well-fed already.’ Madame Leong had just shoved aside her winning tiles to make room for a platter of curried fish heads.