FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Shall I pick you up or send a limo?’ On the two or three occasions when we’d been out all day and I’d suggested I drop her home she’d refused, her excuse being that she needed to check in at the office.

  ‘No, I’ll meet you in reception at eight-thirty. We’re dining at the Palm Court Grill.’

  ‘But it is patronised mainly by Europeans …’

  ‘Precisely,’ she replied.

  The Palm Court Grill was where overseas visitors staying at Raffles were able to repay some of the hospitality they’d received from their local hosts and was Singapore’s most expensive eatery.

  ‘Then allow me to send a limo to pick you up.’

  ‘Already arranged.’ She laughed. ‘Squeeze. Big Black Buick.’

  I arrived back at Raffles Hotel fifteen minutes late because Ronnie wanted me to cross the road to the agency and inspect the area intended for my office. It was two days before my two weeks with Mercy B. Lord were up and they’d only just marked the area out on the floor. ‘Will it be ready in time?’

  ‘Of course!’ he’d replied, ‘It’ll only take a day to install – the top half is glass and the varnish on the wooden part will take perhaps another day to dry.’ So much for the two weeks he’d originally required. It was also obvious that Sidney had chosen to spend the absolute minimum on what could be laughingly called an office. Certainly it was not one that would give the occupant any sense of importance or reflect his seniority. It was so small that it would need to be built around the desk – either that or the desk would have to be lowered over the wooden and glass partitions that were to form the walls. I couldn’t complain. Ronnie sat in the open with the staff, and as a director and partner was in theory senior to me. But my American appointment carried with it unspoken but clear seniority, especially regarding decisions about creative product for foreign clients or those gained through business submissions initiated by Dansford Drocker or myself.

  Mercy B. Lord was seated in a large peacock-tail wicker chair, one beautiful leg stretched deliciously and provocatively from the black silk cheongsam, when I arrived. Now, I’d like to hear a convincing argument for why a full-length, black, figure-hugging, mandarin-collared cheongsam split halfway up the thigh on a beautiful woman in stilettos isn’t the single most sexy way imaginable to present the female body. Almost everything except the elegance of bared arms and the occasional flash of leg is hidden from the eye, yet the promise of what lies beneath this glorious casing is enough to send any red-blooded male crazy.

  I felt that this was simply the most beautiful visual and emotional experience I would ever have. I know that’s saying a lot – the world is full of beautiful women, and what we see often belies what lies within. Beauty may only be skin-deep, but superficial as it often is, it can be a shattering experience, a single moment or event so powerfully fixed in our subconscious that the edges never blur and the image never fades. I promise you that, on my deathbed, when I review for the last time the sights and sounds, the places I’ve been and races I’ve seen, people I’ve known and things I’ve been shown, when the grand kaleidoscope of everything I’ve done passes through my mind’s eye and I’m about to step off this mortal coil, Mercy B. Lord in a black cheongsam will be there at the forefront of my visual memory.

  She rose as I approached and unconsciously assumed a graceful pose, her weight on one hip, the exposed leg in high heels slightly forward, her right hand holding a small black-velvet evening bag that accentuated her long crimson nails. Most cheongsam carry some embroidered motif, a bright spray of flowers or a golden dragon design, on the front, but hers, apart from what appeared to be a tiny gold toggle that closed the mandarin collar, was completely without any such artifice, her own superb figure all the decoration one could possibly require. The simplicity added to her elegance.

  ‘Holy macaroni!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is this all for me?’

  ‘Count yourself lucky, Mr Koo. I’ve been here half an hour and have been propositioned four times.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You look simply amazing. Too wonderful for words.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She laughed happily.

  ‘I apologise for being late. Ronnie Wing wanted to show me what is laughingly known as my future office. I’ve been inside bigger domestic toilets. Shall we have a drink at the bar?’

  I moved closer to take her arm then saw it. I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. The mandarin collar of the beautiful gown had a dragon motif embroidered around it, also in black – in effect, black on black. The tiny gold toggle looked like a gold chisel embedded in the dragon’s body. It was Little Sparrow’s dream made flesh.

  ‘No, if you don’t mind, let’s go straight in,’ Mercy B. Lord urged as I dragged my eyes away from that golden shaft. ‘The restaurant is full and I’ve booked for eight-thirty, the only time I could get. The booking clerk let me know he was doing me a favour fitting us in and somewhat sternly cautioned me about being late. I’m afraid it isn’t the greatest table, Simon. This is Raffles, after all – snooty and still very British.’ She smiled. ‘Besides, if we go to the bar they’ll think the fifth proposition, from one Simon Koo, was an offer too good for me to refuse.’

  ‘I’m delighted to be the one you’ve accepted,’ I joked as she took my arm and we made our way to the restaurant.

  ‘Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,’ she teased as we walked. ‘The first was a Frenchman, who said with an exquisite accent and manners that he was dining alone and would I care to join him. Then I had two separate Americans, both of whom invited me for a drink, and then a German, who came right out and asked me how much.’

  ‘The first three were easy but what did you say to the crass Kraut?’

  Mercy B. Lord laughed. ‘I told him he couldn’t afford me.’

  ‘Good answer.’

  ‘No, he then said, “Try me.” ’

  ‘Oh, that’s tricky.’

  ‘I named an outrageous sum, five thousand dollars, then just for fun added, “US, of course.” ’

  I laughed. ‘And?’

  Mercy B. Lord giggled. ‘ “Is that for a short time or for the whole night?” he asked.’

  ‘A German with a sense of humour – how unusual.’

  ‘Oh? You don’t think I’m worth five thousand US dollars, Simon?’

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re priceless,’ I answered, feeling myself colouring.

  ‘Well, of course I’m not. We have three of Singapore’s most expensive, experienced and desirable ah ku on the Beatrice Fong Agency books and they charge US$250 for the night. Five thousand would buy one of them for weeks. He, the German, said that if I agreed to meet him tomorrow night he’d have the money.’

  It was an awkward moment. I mean, what does one say? But for once in my life I got it right and sidestepped more or less neatly. ‘Mercy B. Lord, let me tell you, the German is right in only one respect – you are simply the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and probably ever will see, but your value cannot possibly be estimated in mere dollars.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon, you’re sweet.’

  She wore nothing other than the cheongsam and black high-heel courts, not a single piece of jewellery. Chairman Meow possessed a diamond choker and pendant earrings, the choker half an inch wide with God knows how many carats in the set. I tried to imagine it and the earrings on Mercy B. Lord. Why do diamonds so often end up displayed on necks and ears, wrists and fingers that are past their best? My dad once told me that young women should be given diamonds and older women should be told often that they are loved. But glitter can add little to perfection, and as we reached the restaurant door, I knew I was escorting a woman very close to perfection.

  But I was entirely unprepared for the effect our entrance had on the busy restaurant. In seconds it went from babble to silence. Then an elegant-looking European woman who looked to be in her sixties, wearing a pearl-coloured satin evening gown and a diamond necklace that appeared to contain half the annual produce of an African diamond mine, started to clap,
the sound sharp in the silent restaurant. Then a stout bloke, a whisky-nosed, sanguine Colonel Blimp type, scraped back his chair and stood. Holding up his glass, he called out, ‘Bravo!’

  I can only assume the almost exclusively European diners must have thought Mercy B. Lord was an Asian film star because all the men then stood, most of them holding up their wine glasses. When the clapping ceased, a distinctly Australian voice from the far end of the restaurant shouted out, ‘You lucky bastard!’ He was probably pissed, but this brought a sudden gale of appreciative laughter.

  All I could do was to try to control an inane grin. Had I been Noël Coward, or someone like him, I’d have said something people would have remembered for years. Mercy B. Lord clung to my arm and managed somehow to smile brilliantly, hopefully giving the impression that we were an item, even lovers, although I could feel her entire body trembling against mine.

  The maître d’ now started to fuss – he was obviously surprised at the reception and thought he’d been caught napping and should have known who we were. ‘A very nice table has just become available, sir, madam.’ He glanced down at his booking list. ‘Mr Koo, may I offer you both a glass of champagne?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, while Mercy B. Lord gave him the courtesy of another brilliant smile.

  Seated with a glass of French champagne, I raised it. ‘Well, here’s to a black cheongsam on a beautiful woman,’ I said.

  ‘Phew! I had no idea it would cause such a disturbance. I’m very sorry if I embarrassed you, Simon.’

  ‘I was mortified,’ I teased. ‘But I’ll manage to live it down … eventually. But, of course, you understand, I’ve lost a great deal of face.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise,’ she said, half-seriously.

  I lifted my champagne glass again. ‘Mercy B. Lord, your entrance will go down as one of the best moments of my life, and as for you, it’s a long way from the orphanage, kid.’

  We clinked our champagne glasses, but she said only ‘Hmm’, then brought her glass to her lips. The little rich boy had got it wrong again. I guess it’s never a long way from the orphanage.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s almost two weeks since I arrived. I’m going to miss you as my daily companion more than I can say.’ The idea of not having Mercy B. Lord in my life each day, looking morning fresh and beautiful, waiting for me in the tea-house, didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘I have good news,’ she said, neatly avoiding a mawkish moment.

  ‘Uh-huh? Tell me.’

  ‘I think I’ve found your flat. Exactly what we’ve been looking for. It will give you great prestige.’

  I couldn’t help reacting to the ‘we’, even though I knew she had no intention of moving in with me. No chance of that happening. But apart from a spare room with good light where I could paint, I hadn’t a clue what I wanted and so I’d simply given her my painting-room brief and then said she must find something unfurnished she’d personally love to live in.

  The flat above the garage at home had been designed by my mum, with the exception of the room in which I painted, and seemed to have everything I needed with none of the gold taps, Persian rugs, French antiques, Chippendale furniture, and the rest of the conspicuous crap that filled the big house.

  While I knew a bit about antiques and enjoyed discovering their history, I had no desire to surround myself with them. I suppose I wasn’t really into things; I liked to look at them and think about their past but I didn’t need to own them to enjoy them. Browsing through an antique shop was a pleasant pastime but didn’t leave me lusting after any of the items. By asking Mercy B. Lord to find me an unfurnished flat, I was trying to keep my surroundings simple, comfortable and welcoming, but not much more.

  ‘If you like it, that’ll do me fine, as long as it has a view,’ I’d concluded.

  My mum’s Singapore family had done their homework and my rental allowance was extremely generous. This meant Mercy B. Lord had a bit of scope. She assured me there was quite a lot of good rental real estate within my price bracket. I knew I’d end up with more than I needed, a pad that made me seem more important than I really was, but what the hell. This was how things worked in the East – you were what you seemed to be and were accepted at face value. Perhaps that’s where the expression originated. Face had to be constantly maintained; it had to be a major preoccupation.

  ‘Can we have a house-warming party after I’ve moved in? I need to invite my relatives, my mum’s people. If we include the kids, there could be about twenty altogether.’

  Mercy looked thoughtful, so I took a deep breath and said, ‘You wouldn’t consider being the hostess, would you?’ Then I added quickly, ‘Just that, no suggestion of anything else, just … well, I don’t think I could organise something like that. We could have it catered for, hire maids, a waiter, whatever it takes, I could book it through your agency, if you wish …’ I was babbling.

  Mercy B. Lord sidestepped this neatly. ‘It would be cheaper and better if you went to a restaurant, Simon.’

  ‘But doesn’t that, you know, defeat the purpose? House-warming, new flat and all that?’

  ‘No, no, not at all! The outside is what matters.’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘Where it is, the location, street, the building. The rest must be private.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Face.’

  ‘You know, Mercy B. Lord, I have been here less than two weeks and already I’m sick and tired of bloody face.’

  ‘Then you must go back to Australia at once, Simon,’ she said simply. ‘It is not usual to be invited into a Chinese home unless you want to impress someone who you definitely know has less wealth than you.’

  ‘By “outside” do you mean splashing fountains, peacocks in the gardens, carp in the pond, that sort of thing?’

  She nodded. ‘You see, people are afraid you may be critical of the kampong where they live, the look of the street, the house, the building. You may discover that they’re not as wealthy as they wish to appear and so they lose a great deal of face. That is why you will always be invited to a restaurant. In that way people can gain face by the choice of the place or the expense of the meal. They will often spend much more than they can afford, even put themselves into debt to do this.’ She smiled. ‘If you want to know where you stand in someone’s estimation, check the prices on the menu of the restaurant they select. But, of course, there won’t be a menu on the night, because it will be a banquet. You can tell from the number and quality of dishes what your standing is and how they hope to influence your opinion of their own status.’

  ‘You mean if I invite someone home – my relatives, for instance – they’ll think I’m rubbing their noses in my good fortune?’

  ‘Certainly, especially those who are less fortunate than you.’

  ‘And those who are more fortunate?’

  She laughed. ‘The Chinese are very careful to make sure you don’t lose face but equally careful that you don’t gain it at their expense. If you gain, then they may lose. It is essential that people be left to imagine your wealth, status and good fortune. Later they will sort things out, but initially I recommend the neutrality of a good restaurant and a truly splendid banquet.’

  ‘Okay, I give you permission to pick a restaurant where the squeeze factor benefits you personally.’

  Mercy B. Lord said seriously, ‘I will book you a good restaurant and be your hostess,’ then she smiled. ‘And thank you, Simon, I am honoured.’

  There wasn’t much more to say. It explained why, on my third night in town, I had been the guest of my mother’s cousin and the rest of my Singapore relations at an elaborate banquet held in a posh Chinese restaurant.

  ‘Did you tell them we’d take it, the flat?’ I now asked.

  ‘No, no, you must see it first, I insist. I think you will like it. You will gain face,’ she said again, happy for me.

  ‘Please, not that word again. And it’s unfurnished and within my budget?’


  ‘Well, it’s furnished at the moment, but the owner is happy to remove the furniture. And yes, of course, I have kept it within your rental allowance. But if you like it, and since you want it unfurnished, I will bargain for a better deal.’

  ‘I’m quite sure I’ll like it. Phone them in the morning and tell them it’s a deal.’

  Mercy B. Lord hesitated. ‘No, Simon, I cannot accept that responsibility. You must see it first.’

  ‘Right, Miss Lord,’ I laughed, saluting her. ‘Then as soon as you can arrange it.’

  In the two weeks I was with Mercy B. Lord I had learned that she wasn’t simply a walking Singapore encyclopaedia, capable, beautiful and excellent company. She had a mind and a will of her own. She was not unlike a young version of Chairman Meow, and perhaps this was why I was tentative. I sensed Mercy B. Lord had a side to her I didn’t wish to animate.

  It is often said that men fall in love with versions of their mother, but the thought that this might be true didn’t occur to me at the time. Nor did I realise that Mercy may have banked on the spontaneous reception we’d received as we’d entered the restaurant. She may well have selected the Palm Court Grill because it was almost entirely patronised by foreigners where she knew she would be noticed in her new gear, whereas a roomful of Chinese male diners may have admired her looks but were less likely to react publicly. In the course of business Mercy B. Lord had been in the company of many foreigners, most of them men in senior positions who wouldn’t have been backward in remarking on her looks. She undoubtedly knew she was attractive to men, even sexy, but she carried this knowledge with modesty and a sense of decorum. It was only natural that, once in a while, like many beautiful women, she felt the need to strut her stuff. And while she’d rejected the guys who had approached her in the hotel foyer, she had nonetheless seemed to enjoy the experience and felt quite comfortable telling me about these encounters, almost as if she was prompting me to react. She was as far from a cockteaser as you could get, but she was a beautiful woman who, on this occasion, was flirting with me. I told myself it was nothing, the new gown, looking gorgeous, the unacknowledged need to be admired. After all, given my looks, I was the perfect foil for her beauty. Yet I’d felt her tremble at the reception we received as we entered. Now I asked myself, was it nervous tension or the excitement of having triumphed? For a woman with no family or normal social support, her looks were all the power she possessed.