Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

Victor Sassoon

  ‘If Sir Victor’s reference was somewhat formal, and certainly didn’t wax lyrical, it was to prove immensely valuable. I made the call to John Robertson’s friend Rob Henderson at the British colonial administration’s passport office and he confirmed an appointment for the following day.

  ‘Rob Henderson proved to be a most accommodating and delightful chap. He and John Robertson had become friends when he’d been with the British Consulate in Shanghai and they’d played cricket together and, according to Rob Henderson, had “frequently imbibed far too much ale”. He also claimed to have met me on one occasion, though I was forced to confess I didn’t recall this. He had received, he said, a long letter from John Robertson explaining my situation and so there was no need to go over it again.

  ‘“Did he explain to you that I was due to have a child?” I asked.

  ‘“Yes, indeed!” He glanced quickly at me. “Obviously that task is now completed – are congratulations in order?”

  ‘“Unfortunately not. I can only hope God might grant me another child at some other time,” I replied in a whisper. It was not quite lying, but I knew to tell him the truth was quite impossible. He would be obliged to call the Hong Kong police and the story of the abduction would reach Shanghai and implicate Big Boss Yu. I knew I wouldn’t remain alive to be a witness at the inquiry that would follow.

  ‘“Oh, I am so sorry,” he said, looking distressed and half rising in his chair. “Shall I get you a glass of water?”

  ‘“No, thank you. I apologise for bringing the matter up – it is just—”

  ‘“Yes, of course. I understand,” he said quickly, to avoid any further embarrassment.

  ‘“Please, don’t feel awkward – it was simply necessary to tell you. Shall we proceed?”

  ‘“Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “Officially you are a refugee who seeks to migrate to Australia, and providing you have the correct papers we will apply to the Australian Minister for the Interior for permission.” He began to check through my papers, adding as he read, “I’m afraid diplomatic language is somewhat blunt – you will find yourself referred to as a ‘white alien’.”

  ‘“Do aliens have to be white?” I joked, trying to get my interview back on track after the upsetting business of my baby. “I always thought they were green.”

  ‘He grinned. “Whether from this planet or outer space, to enter Australia aliens need to be positively white.”

  ‘It was the first time I’d heard of the White Australia Policy.

  ‘“Oh dear,” he said, suddenly coming to the end of my documents.

  ‘“What is it, Mr Henderson?” I asked anxiously.

  ‘“You don’t appear to have anything that shows you’ve arrived in Hong Kong.”

  ‘So I explained the circumstances of my arrival. “I see, just one moment – I’ll see if the senior customs officer is in his office.” With that, he picked up the telephone and asked the switchboard for the Customs Department and had what seemed like a pleasant but fairly long conversation with someone on the other end. After he replaced the receiver, he said, “We’ll send your papers down to customs and get them stamped. In the meantime you will have to fill out this Australian Form 47, an application for a Landing Permit. I will also notify customs to let them know you’ve applied to live in another country. In the meantime, I’ll issue you with a visa to enable you to stay in Hong Kong for three months. I have only one further question. Are you able to take 500 Australian pounds or more into Australia? You see, Australia, like everywhere else at the moment, has a great deal of unemployment caused by the Depression, and even British citizens are finding it difficult to enter. Australian officials will want to know you are able to support yourself. They will also want to know that you are not a Bolshevik sympathiser.”

  ‘“Provided I can obtain Australian currency here in Hong Kong, yes – I can access this amount. As to the other point, the Bolsheviks are responsible for why I am no longer in Russia, so I am hardly a sympathiser.” I handed him the receipt showing the deposit in the Bank of China.

  ‘“Good. Now it’s only a matter of waiting for the Australians to respond. I shouldn’t think there are likely to be any complications,” he replied. But I must have looked somewhat concerned, because he then said, “We have a directive concerning White Russians from the Australian Government for when we British officials vet them, as we do in Hong Kong and elsewhere. The directive gives our officials authority to judge whether the references furnished by the applicant are trustworthy.” He smiled at me. “I have been following the directive since 1926, first when posted to the British Consulate in Harbin, then in Shanghai and now here. Your references are excellent, and it is generally left to me to decide if you are likely to prove undesirable or otherwise as an immigrant to Australia.” He grinned boyishly and, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “I hereby pronounce you highly desirable.”’

  Jimmy and I couldn’t help grinning at Rob Henderson’s line.

  ‘Well, that’s about the end of it. My Landing Permit came through from Australia six weeks later. Two or three days after, I forget exactly, a messenger delivered an envelope that contained a First Saloon ticket on the Peninsula and Oriental line, as well as a letter from the manager of Lane Crawfords, the great department store in Hong Kong. The letter invited me to visit the store at my convenience, and stated that they had been authorised to allow me to select luggage and any clothes I might need for the boat trip and for my destination. A suggested shopping list was included for me to follow, which contained considerably more than I would have dreamed of purchasing myself and included a range of baby clothes, linen and toys. Actually, the suit I wore to Government House when you received your medal, though slightly altered, was one of the garments I selected. I still have the shoes and evening gowns, although the pretty summer dresses are long since gone.’

  It was reassuring to know that after all Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan had been through, at least Sir Victor Sassoon had done the right thing and looked after her from afar. It must have been a terribly sad time. But for me, anyway, there still remained several questions – my usual problem, wanting to tie every knot. I desperately needed to ask her about the magnificently crafted crate that contained all her furniture, and that she’d eventually had remodelled into bookshelves. And then there was Vowelfowl, the plummy-voiced parrot.

  In writing this I have put her story together as if all the elements came together at one period in time, whereas, as I have explained, the threads of her story emerged as a result of numerous conversations with her over several months, often with Jimmy present. Sometimes we’d sit down and she’d talk for a while, and I cherished these occasions. At other times we’d simply receive a short snippet in answer to a question. But I am, if anything, persistent, and I’m sure there were times when she thought my constant questioning was payback for all those occasions she’d mercilessly drilled me in the library as a child.

  When eventually an opportunity arose for me to ask about the crate and the parrot she laughed.

  ‘You never give up, do you, Jack? The beautiful crate of furniture and Vowelfowl were my final surprises from Sir Victor. On the two-and-a-half-week boat trip to Melbourne, about three nights out to sea one of the officers said to me, “I say, dashed funny that parrot of yours – amusing the ship’s crew no end.” So much had happened to me since I’d escaped from Shanghai, none of which I had been able to control, that I simply replied, “Oh, good”, or some such similar remark. This particular officer had made a pass at me earlier when we’d been having pre-dinner cocktails, and I didn’t want to encourage him any further. But the following morning I questioned my cabin steward, who immediately confirmed the presence of Vowelfowl on board. In a later letter to John Robertson I asked him how this had come about, and he replied that the Chinese chauffeur, Ah Chow, had driven up to the doorman of the Cathay Hotel – Georgii Petrov, of course – and dropped off the parrot, declaring it was for Taipan Sassoon.


  ‘As for the great crate, that surprise materialised when I went below deck to see if I could arrange to have Vowelfowl brought outside for some light and air. The baggage master was most cooperative, and as I was looking for a ten-shilling note to tip him, he remarked, “Madam, I’ve been with the shipping line for thirty years. I’ve seen every conceivable type of box, crate and container imaginable, but I’ve never seen anything as carefully crafted as the box containing your furniture. Not a single nail, madam, and every plank is dovetailed and perfectly matched and polished.” We walked over to the great box and he pointed to a scratch low down on one of the planks. “It happened in the loading, madam. Do I have your permission to have the ship’s carpenter attempt to polish it out?” It was then that I saw, two or three feet above the scratch, beautifully carved in letters two inches high along one of the planks that ran midway along the enormous crate, words that tore at my heart.

  “Thank you for the strawberry milkshake love affair. V.S.”’

  Jimmy was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘I think dat Sir Victor, he done love you, Countess.’ As usual Jimmy had found the right words while I floundered, wondering how to react. All I could think of at the time was how men get screwed up with power and money, and somewhere along the way lose the most precious things to them – the things that in the end matter the most. I later discovered that Sir Victor Sassoon, who had been so concerned with building a monument to power and prestige, had been chased from Shanghai just a few years later by the Japanese. The grand old city of the twenties was then closed to westerners by the communists in 1949. I’m not sure Sassoon returned to see it again.

  Well, we had what was now the whole story – except, annoyingly, how Big Boss Yu knew when Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan would arrive in Hong Kong in order to send Sister Bradshaw to waylay her. I simply had to ask, or this singular detail would haunt me forever. ‘I still don’t know how Big Boss Yu knew you were on the ship in order to make arrangements for Sister Bradshaw to intercept you,’ I said finally.

  ‘You never forget, do you, Jack? Well I did begin by saying there was a certain amount of conjecture involved, and I have thought about it myself a great deal since. If I know anything about China and Shanghai at the time – and particularly Big Boss Yu, who was commonly referred to as Shanghai’s unofficial mayor – then you may be quite sure he was also the eyes and ears of the Chinese Government. It would have taken a big bribe at a very high level to arrange my escape – not because I was important, but because I was in prison over a matter concerning two dragonheads. Not even a high government official would have accepted a bribe if an all-powerful dragonhead was involved, and in this instance both Triad bosses were concerned. Chiang Kai-shek was probably the only one who could have escaped the retribution that would have resulted.’

  ‘You mean they had to go to him – they had to bribe Chiang Kai-shek?’ I asked, astonished.

  She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No, of course not, Jack! There is a much simpler answer. Big Boss Yu organised the bribe himself.’ She could see we were puzzled. ‘John Robertson’s reason for wanting me under Chinese jurisdiction was because a high Chinese official had approached him and suggested that for the correct amount of money my escape could be arranged, but only if I could be transferred to the Chinese court. The Chinese official would have been approached and encouraged to do this by Big Boss Yu. As they say in the movies, the whole thing was a set-up. It was a typical Chinese solution – everyone got rich and the gwai lo was outwitted. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for Big Boss Yu then to discover all the details of the escape, including the name of the Eastern Star. But he had no way of knowing the arrangements when I got to Hong Kong, and that’s why he had to intercept my arrival by sending Sister Bradshaw to the ship. Big Boss Yu, I’m quite certain, would have shared in the bribe paid by Sir Victor and used his share to pay Sister Bradshaw and the nursing home.

  ‘As I said, all this is only conjecture. Later, I wrote to John Robertson and asked him if he had been approached by a Chinese government official in order to arrange my escape, and he admitted as much. Such a dear man – he was later killed when he was shot down flying a Beaufort bomber over Germany.’

  Jimmy and I now finally had the entire fantastic story – or rather, we thought we had. But several years later the three of us were in Hobart to sign a contract for a new boat. We shared a bottle of wine over dinner while discussing the possibility of opening the Asian market for the export of abalone, and took coffee in the hotel lounge afterwards. Hong Kong was mentioned over the coffee, and I don’t remember the precise turn in the conversation but it led to one more episode in the life and times of Countess Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan, involving a rather bizarre attempt to ensure the safety of the daughter she’d never seen.

  I only hope I can do justice to the tale – the details are important, because, whatever happened, she was never likely to know the outcome of her actions. The incident occurred when she was waiting for permission to immigrate to Australia. She knew no Europeans in Hong Kong except for Rob Henderson, who on two occasions invited her home to his rather small flat to have dinner with his wife and children, but she was careful not to abuse his hospitality. Instead she spent her days wandering around Hong Kong or taking the ferry to Kowloon. Soon she grew to know parts of the city few westerners would have experienced, and her fluent knowledge of Cantonese and the ways of the Chinese people allowed her to move about freely. She had only to enter a Chinese eating house where the locals ate and she’d soon be invited to join in a meal, always careful to pay her share. Pretty soon she became familiar with the lay of the land, and each day would bring more surprises as she explored the island.

  It was during a conversation with a group of women in a small marketplace in Kowloon that she first heard about Wang Po, the Abbot of Po Lin (the Temple of the Precious Lotus). She had bought a bowl of steaming congee at a food cart where several women were squatting sharing a meal. She asked if she might join them and make a contribution of salted eggs to their food. This caused some initial bemusement that soon turned to merriment – she was, of course, blonde with blue eyes and yet spoke with the perfect rhythms and intonations of their language and was willing to squat with them in the dirt and share their food. They made room for her and she was soon involved in animated conversation when the subject of Po Lin came up. One of the women had visited the temple recently, giving up an entire day’s work to travel to Lantau Island, where it was located. She went on to say that at the temple she’d lit joss sticks and made a donation to the Buddha, asking him to release her husband from his fear of heights and to grant him well-paid work in the construction industry. Her husband, while fearless on water, found it impossible to climb up bamboo scaffolding.

  She explained that she’d already made several donations to the Tao to no avail, and hoped a different God would produce better results. She complained that her husband was treated like a yellow dog working on her father’s sampan, carrying cargo back and forth from the junks and ships on Victoria Harbour. The women joined in, laughing at the vicissitudes of life and at a woman’s difficult lot, each with her own sad story to tell.

  Po Lin Temple sparked Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan’s interest from this first introduction to it. She later bought a book that contained several articles on the major points of interest in and around Hong Kong Island. In it she discovered an article about Lantau Island and the seemingly contradictory Buddhist monastery, in the grounds of which stands the Taoist temple.

  The peasant women with whom she’d shared lunch had spoken in reverential tones about Wang Po. He was considered the greatest seer throughout all of China, who, in the women’s own words, ‘no longer counts the years but those who count them for him claim he has passed his 110th year by the Chinese Lunar calendar.’ She had at first thought this might be women’s talk, but an article authored by a professor of anthropology at Cambridge confirmed Wang Po’s venerable status, and quoted his age as being well beyond a hundred ye
ars. The article went on to say that he had been given the status of an ‘immortal’ and that it was extremely difficult to gain an audience with him even though his faculties, with the exception of his failing eyesight, were at the time of writing perfectly intact. The author then suggested that those who held the monastery purse strings could, in the event of a donation of suitable largesse, bring an audience about. She looked at the front of the book to see when it had been printed, and discovered it was only two years earlier.

  The concept of two religions living in apparent harmony side by side intrigued her – she couldn’t imagine Protestants and Catholics sharing a cathedral, or Muslims and Christians a mosque. The venerated seer was said to wear both the rich purple robe of a Buddhist abbot and the black hat of a Taoist pope. She decided to visit the island, and the following morning rose early and took the tram down from the Peak, then the ferry to Silvermine Bay, from where she rode a rattletrap bus as far as it would take her and joined the other passengers, a throng of peasants, to climb a steep path a further mile up to the monastery.

  On a sudden whim she purchased some joss sticks. As she belonged to neither faith, she felt she should be even-handed and burned them at the feet of both the statue of Lao Tzu, the ‘source’ of Taoism, and Buddha, asking for the safety of her daughter. It was a simple, heartfelt gesture – more to give a purpose to the journey than from conviction. But that night as she lay in bed an idea began to form that seemed at first impossible but was nevertheless enormously compelling. She rose at dawn and ate a little rice and, without waking the amah, slipped out of the flat. The first tram left the Peak again at five a.m., having made the first trip of the day up to bring the gardeners, cleaners and other humble folk that arrived each day to attend to the needs of the wealthy. She took the ferry to Silvermine Bay, then once again the old bus, which creaked and bumped and farted blue smoke and finally climbed the last mile, to be among the first of the day’s pilgrims to reach the monastery.