FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Alas, my ignorance knows no bounds,’ I admitted. ‘But I think I can take it fairly hot.’ Despite my apparent candour, we were still feeling each other out. So far, I was someone who couldn’t be trusted to act without losing face in public, allowed myself to be beaten up by the weaker sex, was a near wowser, had disgraced myself in front of the expat, all-white, all-male members of his racist club, was potentially a sexual predator on an important doorstep and, finally, knew nothing, or very little, about the world’s second-most popular cuisine. If we were, say, five rounds into a boxing match, then they’d all have gone overwhelmingly to Ronnie Wing. His jabs, straight lefts and right crosses had all landed. The next punch was going to be obvious and I was ready for it; talk of food follows talk of drink as sunset eventually follows sunrise. Ronnie Wing was, perhaps not intentionally, being just a tad condescending. I was the redneck Australian and he the Singaporean sophisticate.

  ‘So you’re not really a gourmet, Simon?’ he asked right on cue, indicating a number of dishes to the waiter.

  ‘By no means. The only cuisine I know a bit about is Chinese.’

  ‘Your mother is a good Chinese cook?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ I tried to imagine Chairman Meow in a kitchen but failed. ‘Most Australians eat Chinese once a month or so. We’ve had local Chinese restaurants since the gold rush in the nineteenth century.’ I realised that I could have delivered an unexpected knockout blow right there and then by telling him about the almost ninety-strong Little Sparrow Chinese restaurants.

  ‘Chinese? But as you know, I’m sure, there are many more than one style of Chinese food. I believe most of the gold-rush Chinese were Cantonese, and men – not the greatest of cooks. Besides, I understand very few were allowed to stay unless they’d married a local white woman. The White Australia Policy …’

  ‘Yeah, very regrettable.’ Ronnie was still quietly putting me in my place. Another left jab followed by a right uppercut. I suspected that, despite his sophistication, Ronnie Wing measured people in the traditional Chinese way – by the extent of their wealth. Had I chosen to do so, I could have lifted myself from being the fool on the airport tarmac to the son of a wealthy family, got myself renewed face and respect simply by telling him of the Little Sparrow restaurants. But I wasn’t going to kowtow to a bloke who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing and judged everything by its brand name, nor was I going to ride on my family’s coat-tails any longer. I reckoned what respect I might gain in Singapore had to be of my own making.

  Ronnie, having gained the upper hand, now said, ‘Well, what do you think? Shall we kick on after lunch, Simon? With your eye and cheekbone you can’t have had a lot of rest after the long flight from Sydney. Would you rather … ?’ He left the afternoon choice of activity hanging in the air.

  I realised he was testing me and that if I wished to save face, I would be obliged to go along with whatever he had in mind. The only way I could think to do this was to match him, drink for drink and deed for deed, and hope that I’d be the last man standing. Stupid, I know; little boy stuff, but it was the traditional Australian male way to restore what, to my mind, needed to be a relationship of mutual respect and, if I could pull it off, it just might work with the Chinese. In boxing parlance I could choose to retire hurt and live to fight another day, or go another few rounds. But if I couldn’t stay the distance, I realised, Ronnie would have the knockout blow he was hoping for.

  My dad seldom if ever lost the plot when he was pissed and I’d never seen him falling-down drunk. With luck I’d inherited this characteristic. Chairman Meow would often say, ‘Your father is fooling nobody but himself when he pretends to be sober!’ But I knew for a fact that in big-business circles he was admired for his equanimity. As Kipling said, ‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs …’ Though I doubt that Rudyard, who may well have had a very active elbow himself, had such a meaning in mind when he penned ‘If —’, the greatest coming-of-age poem ever written.

  ‘What the hell, let’s go. This is a chance to get to know each other. C’mon, let’s paint the town red, eh? By the way, it’s bloody good of you to do this.’

  ‘One rule, Simon – you don’t pay.’

  ‘Wait on, mate. I’d like to pay my way. I’d feel better.’

  Ronnie laughed. ‘What happened last night with Mercy B. Lord? Did you pay?’

  ‘No, I offered, but I was told it was …’ I hesitated, ‘something called “squeeze”.’

  ‘You got it in one, son. We’ve had dozens of Yanks visiting over the last year and they’re all on big expense accounts, which they’re keen to use, so we’re about to take advantage of some of the accumulated squeeze.’

  ‘What, with restaurants?’ I asked, wondering how many meals you could eat in one afternoon and evening.

  ‘Everything: bars, brothels, places of interest – not all of them sex destinations – and, yes, restaurants. They all owe us a large amount of goodwill or, if you like, squeeze. Americans are generous, uncomplicated people, and they like to spend.’

  ‘You mean all those count for squeeze purposes?’ I fear my voice was rather sharp.

  Ronnie Wing decided to ignore my tone. ‘See, you’re already learning to tap-dance to the Singapore beat, Brother Simon,’ he drawled, exaggerating his vowels to accentuate his American accent.

  ‘And then we can expect repayment in kind for their patronage?’

  ‘In this instance, yes, repayment of one kind or another. Squeeze isn’t bribery. It’s a mutually understood but unspoken part of Chinese business. The seeming generosity of the Chinese is really a short or long-term investment.’

  ‘And I’m expected to participate?’

  Ronnie shrugged, his mouth puckered. ‘Entertainment is an essential part of business; you do it in the West, we do it here.’

  ‘So with the overseas visitors, I’ll be taking them not just to bars but also to brothels? Mate, I’m not sure that doesn’t make me a pimp.’

  ‘Pimp?’ He could no longer ignore what I was saying and was momentarily silent, head to one side, eyes narrowed, his expression quizzical. When he spoke I could see he was serious, although perhaps also trying to keep things light. ‘You look more Chinese than me, Simon, but you really are a Caucasian on the inside. Pimp?’ he repeated. ‘That’s a thought that could never occur to a Chinese man. Let me explain. Our attitude to women is more than two thousand years old. Females are born inferior to males – it’s a natural law in Chinese society. The only occasional exception is a very rich widow or spinster – and I mean very rich.’

  ‘Nobody told my mother she was inferior,’ I said, trying for a lighter tone as I realised that perhaps I’d gone too far with the pimp thing. But Ronnie wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘There are four – no, five categories of women, excluding royalty. Excluding ancestors, who are worshipped, the first category is mother and grandmother. The second is wife and daughter, although in a peasant society a daughter is bitter rice and only tolerated as a glorified servant. The third, in a rich man’s house, is the concubine, then servant or peasant and, finally, whore. The West sees it differently, of course. They are taught that paid sex is sinful, dirty, clandestine, that the urges all men feel must be curbed by going for a long run, taking a cold shower, thinking pure thoughts or, as a last resort —’

  ‘Masturbating?’ I suggested, still trying to keep it light.

  Despite himself, Ronnie laughed. ‘No, I was going to say praying for guidance. A Texan executive from Mobil Oil told me that, during his first “man-to-man” with his father at thirteen, he was advised to pray if he had any uncontrollable urges. He was six foot four inches, two hundred and thirty pounds, an ex-college football quarterback and he was still obeying his daddy.’

  ‘So when you showed him Singapore at night, I guess all his prayers were answered,’ I laughed.

  ‘Something like that. It took the East to liberate him, though he’ll probably go home to his wi
fe and teenage son and tell the kid the same crap, or the modern equivalent. Probably suggest the boy has a good workout with weights in the gym. Unfortunately nothing is going to help. Men are men, and as long as they have a rampant cock, white guys will be secretly on the lookout for an Alice to take them into Wonderland. To the Chinese man, it’s all just bullshit. Sex is there for the taking, as long as we do it with a woman who is from a subservient class.’

  ‘A bar girl or a pro?’

  ‘We don’t see it as anything strange. The first sexual experience I had was when I was thirteen. It was arranged through the correct channels by my father. The Chinese version of the birds and the bees is very different.’

  ‘I can see that would work. But what about love? That doesn’t ever come into it?’

  Ronnie sighed, feigning impatience. ‘There you go again, Simon. Well, perhaps in today’s society and in some rare instances, yes, you may be right. The idea of love has been introduced, probably by Hollywood, but it is not necessarily an improvement. Chinese marriage partnerships are essentially based on wealth. Among the wealthy and would-be wealthy, which is just about every Chinese alive, marriage has two purposes: procreation and asset accumulation. Two fortunes working together are better than one; love simply isn’t necessary or useful, and comes a very poor third.’

  ‘But you Chinese are smart enough to know what’s going on in Western men’s heads …’

  Ronnie grinned, serving himself seconds from one of the curry dishes, although, curiously, he had barely touched his plate. Perhaps it was the oriental equivalent of Ross Quinlivan’s cheese and tomato sandwich. ‘Absolutely! And like everything else we’ll exploit it. In Asia, bar girls are a part of doing business with the prurient West. It isn’t Wonderland and Suzie Wong isn’t Alice, but after half a dozen martinis or beers it can seem that way to a horny business associate. He is confronted with a beautiful young woman who is happy to satisfy his every desire … even the darkest, most shameful of them – shameful in his own mind, I mean.’ He spread his hands. ‘So, there you have it in a nutshell, it has nothing whatsoever to do with pimping. It’s just doing what’s natural and it’s yet another opportunity to influence your client favourably.’

  You will have gathered by now that Ronnie Wing was highly articulate, and he certainly had a better command of English than I did. But why shouldn’t he be more articulate? Such a thought was racist, I silently reminded myself, and resolved to look up the word ‘iconoclastic’ when I had a moment and a dictionary. (I discovered much later that an iconoclast is someone who attacks traditional beliefs and values, just in case, like me at the time, you don’t know what it means either.) The Texan had possibly rejected his childhood faith and was no longer a god-botherer, but had been left with all the hang-ups from his early indoctrination. I guess I was, and possibly still am, no different, influenced by the Koo background, Little Sparrow’s dream, and my mum’s ambitions to bring us all closer to our Chinese origins. ‘I think I get the idea. I will be expected to entertain …’ I hesitated then grinned, ‘… in the local tradition.’

  Ronnie abruptly changed the subject. ‘Simon, you levelled with me about the airport incident and that was good, very good. This isn’t a big city – well, not in the sense of the businesspeople who make it hum – so the story would have reached me or Sidney hopelessly distorted and as a far from amusing incident that would not have been to your ultimate advantage. The Chinese don’t do business with anyone who has been publicly shamed.’

  ‘You mean Miss Mercy B. Lord will talk?’

  ‘No, she’s Beatrice Fong-trained and completely discreet. You can depend on her to ride shotgun for you, as she did at the airport. But there will have been others watching, first-class passengers. You weren’t the last off the plane, were you?’

  ‘No, there were only a few passengers ahead of me.’

  ‘I can hear the gossip going on in the Meyer Road mansions from here. All Chinese, even the very rich, are acute observers. Their lives have always depended on being one jump ahead of ever-present danger, having a big stick to use against a potential enemy. We are a people overwhelmed by paranoia. It starts with the peasant, knee-deep in a rice paddy pushing a wooden plough behind a buffalo, and ends with the emperor … or his modern counterpart, Chairman Mao.’ He smiled. ‘I’m glad you told me about the airport incident because it’s going to affect things, the way we manage things in the office.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Well, at the moment I’m run off my feet coping with entertainment. We’ve recently had planeloads of look-see Americans sent from the New York office, and Yanks looking for new business opportunities in Asia are landing in increasing numbers – but you know that; it’s why New York bought Wing and sent you here in the first place. I’ve also had several Germans involved with the engineering plants out at Jurong. They relish the local fleshpots, and the Yanks, while they pretend to play it straight, are just as bent as anyone else. There’ll be heaps more Westerners with manufacturing or marketing partnerships in mind coming to check out the territory. It’s why you’re here, and Dansford Drocker is due to arrive soon.’ He seemed to be thinking aloud. ‘And you will both have your first day in the office —’

  ‘You mean when I’m allowed into the office.’

  Ronnie ignored the barb. ‘The day the builders complete your office and his. Anyhow, what I’m trying to say is you’ll both have to help me with entertaining foreign visitors. I’m kept pretty busy as it is with the locals, our old clients, mostly Chinese and Krauts. My older brother, Sidney, as chairman, only takes care of the very top Chinese honchos. Johnny never comes near clients. What with all the work of running the advertising for our old accounts as well, as I said, I need some help.’

  ‘But I can handle, will handle, all your local work, at least the creative component, for all your existing clients.’

  ‘Well, no, it doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘Because the Chinese don’t do business with anyone who has been publicly shamed?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  ‘No, we don’t know that yet. It just might take a while to gain their trust. Which brings me to the point. Putting it plainly, if you don’t drink and fuck, it’s going to make things difficult.’

  ‘Who said anything about the second activity?’ I grinned. ‘Do they have to go together?’

  ‘Well, in Singapore, when it comes to entertaining businessmen and their clients, they usually go hand in hand. Certainly, if the client is too senior for the girlie bars and brothels, occasionally he will hear a discreet knock on his hotel door and discover a beautiful Asian woman who announces that she has been sent for his delectation. She’s an expensive gift from Sidney, and whether the bigwig client sends her away or accepts her, nothing will ever be mentioned afterwards. But for the most part, your average Westerner – Wasp, Catholic or Jew – can’t be taken directly to a brothel and left to his own devices. That, in his mind, would be wrong. Besides it would appear cynical. And, as you suggested, he could well think of me, us, as pimps, especially if we had suggested it. He has first to get gloriously drunk. Then whatever follows can be blamed on the demon drink. He is accountable for what he does sober, but what he does when he’s pissed is entirely excusable. Besides, he can always claim, as he inevitably does the first time, that he was too pissed to recall what happened.’ Ronnie shrugged and opened his arms. ‘That’s showbiz.’

  I guess it wasn’t quite what I’d expected from my first day in the exotic East. In my mind I was going to build the best creative department in Asia, the oriental equivalent of DDB (Doyle Dane Bernbach) in New York, and be an advertising trendsetter, with my award-winning campaigns used in Hong Kong, Malaysia, Thailand and the Philippines. It’d be good stuff, mentioned in the West whenever Asian advertising was being discussed. Now, with my creative brilliance largely ignored, I was expected to be a barfly. With my build, no doubt it would be a big, fat bluebottle!

  ‘Ronnie, thank
s for being honest with me, although I must say I thought that kind of action was largely left to account service.’

  ‘It’s management here, Simon. We are the account managers. The remainder of the staff do as they’re told and don’t have these privileges.’

  Some privilege, I thought. ‘How often am I expected to be out to lunch until midnight?’

  Ronnie looked sympathetic. ‘It’s not often that bad, Simon. The Americans, most of them, have a work ethic, so it’s usually after five or six in the evening. The Germans and the French are the bad guys. They want lunch and then they can play on into the early hours. The Japs are sniffing around, wanting to get into the market too, with the results of their postwar economic miracle. But don’t worry. I’ll handle most of the non-American traffic. How often will we need to play host? In the busy season, three or four times a week, but between the three of us, maybe once or perhaps twice each. Hopefully Dansford Drocker will do his share.’

  ‘With my luck he’ll probably turn out to be a Baptist lay preacher,’ I laughed. ‘I guess I can manage once, or even occasionally twice, a week if I have to, particularly if it doesn’t include lunch. I’m here to build a creative department, remember?’

  ‘And I’m personally delighted that you are.’

  ‘Ronnie, I have an unrelated question. Two, actually.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Well, why would you belong to a club with a bunch of fat foreigners? Surely that’s a classic case of losing face?’

  Ronnie threw back his head and laughed. ‘On the contrary, I gain face by belonging.’

  ‘Huh? Excuse me, how?’

  ‘To the Chinese, belonging to something that is exclusive or difficult to attain but that represents status is the highest achievement of wealth and position. This club has only six Chinese members, after almost a hundred years under British colonial rule. In the eyes of other wealthy Chinese, it is exclusivity that money simply can’t buy, it is ultimate face – there can be no better kind.’