It was obvious that for any future projects we couldn’t simply continue with the scam. The time had come to put to Dansford my idea of creating a viable market-research model for Asia.
‘Excellent suggestion. We’ll get New York to back the project,’ he said.
‘But they think what we’ve done is terrific, that excellent research facilities already exist. They’ll want to know why we should fix it if it ain’t broke.’
‘Ah, tell them that we weren’t entirely satisfied with the Big Lather model and want the university to work on an ethnocentric or Asian model.’
‘What, and then hand it over to SEARA – make it legit?’
‘I guess that’s the idea.’
‘Dansford, I’d rather not. Sidney doesn’t believe in research, and that way he’d end up owning the only legitimate research company in Singapore, with Beatrice Fong.’
‘There’s something very Chinese about that,’ Dansford laughed.
‘Yeah, but I don’t believe I should contribute to making either of them richer than they already are. Besides, we’ll have to create the organisation, train the people, get someone to run it, and finance it initially. I can’t see Sidney agreeing to supply the money for something he doesn’t believe will work. If we do it within the agency, it’s a catch-22 anyway – it won’t be seen as independent research.’
‘So, what have you got in mind?’
‘Well, for a start, let’s simply look at it as building an Asian research model. By the way, I like the term ethnocentric; we’ll use that – it sounds suitably academic. Forget about the research company that may eventually use any prototype model we evolve. My cousin, who’s an associate professor of sociology at the Singapore Institute of Technology, has agreed to come on board but, of course, knows nothing about advertising. That would be my contribution.’
‘For someone who earlier admitted to me that he had doubts about research, you’ve come a long way, Simon.’
I laughed. ‘That was Australia and cigarettes. Quite different.’ I sounded like Ronnie. ‘I can clearly see the need to get to know the Asian market and mindset a lot better than we do. Anyway, I thought we should make it a university initiative.’
‘Oh, now that’s interesting.’
‘The sociology department builds the model in conjunction with their new school of business, which then licenses it to us – or anyone else for that matter. That gives it the authority. Then, if Sidney or Beatrice Fong cares to take SEARA any further, they have only to make the decision to start a legitimate research company without getting the agency involved. What do you think?’
‘I can see you’ve done a fair bit of thinking on your own, Simon. But have you thought that you won’t be able to do your share of the work on agency time? Unless, of course, we sponsor it.’
‘No chance, and when would I find the time during the day anyway? It will have to be at night, in my own time. My cousin, Dr Kwan, is prepared to do the same. He has his own reasons for doing so. The university need not be involved until much later. I don’t think we need a sponsor, not yet anyway.’
‘Well then, what can I say? Damned good initiative. It’s also a big relief.’ He grinned. ‘Frankly, if Big Lather had failed and Colgate, as they usually do, had done a post-mortem, I’d hate to think what would have happened to my – our – prospects in Asia.’
‘Dansford, I owe you big-time for having faith in me and taking a risk on my behalf when you could so easily have played it safe, covered your arse and said no to the project.’
‘My absolute pleasure, dear boy. I’m of the firm opinion that we’re here for a good time, not a long time. Covering your arse invariably leads to mental constipation. Big Lather is in R&D and soon it’ll be in test market, so all’s well that ends well. But, come to think of it, with you and Doc Kwan working on a genuine research model over the next few months, it may be a good idea for SEARA to quietly close. Go broke. That way we can begin with a clean slate. The good thing is that you’re keeping it in the family, just you and Doc Kwan. Nobody else need know, if you see what I mean.’
He obviously meant the Wings – in particular, Sidney. ‘Oh, yes, of course, but there’s a possible catch. We need a third research partner, a field researcher to test, you know, hypotheses, various concepts. It’s essential to the project. I thought perhaps Mercy B. Lord. She now has some experience and she’s pretty bright. She’s the obvious choice if she’ll agree to do it in her own time – weekends, nights. Of course, I’d pay her …’
Dansford’s reaction was unexpected. His head jerked and he was clearly taken aback. ‘Oh!’ It was an exclamation not a question.
‘What? What’s the problem?’ I asked, surprised.
Dansford quickly regained his composure. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Simon, but stay away from Mercy B. Lord.’
‘But why? She’s so obviously the right person to work with us.’
Dansford, now back in control, said quietly, ‘Simon, I’m no expert on Chinese bosses and their employees, but from what little I’ve learned I don’t think Beatrice Fong will see it that way.’
‘Christ, Dansford, it’s the girl’s own decision. It’s her free time! What’s it got to do with Beatrice Fong?’
‘I’m not sure that’s entirely correct, Simon. The old lady seems to have a very firm and decidedly unhealthy hold over her, and Sidney as well.’
‘Dansford, what are you trying to tell me? Is there something I should know?’ I had the distinct feeling that he was warning me, as Ronnie had done that first day in the Town Club.
‘No, I’m not trying to say anything, Simon. But it’s pretty damned obvious. Those two, Sidney and Beatrice Fong, are thick as thieves. Sidney accepted that Mercy B. Lord should work on the phoney SEARA research. Now I’m to persuade him, them, to close down SEARA and you employ her to work on your new model?’ He spread his hands. ‘It doesn’t look good.’
‘They need never know. Anyway, let them keep SEARA. I’m sure if there’s a problem, Mercy B. Lord will refuse my offer or agree to keep it in the family.’
‘She’s not in your family, son.’
‘No. I should be so lucky. But she’s trained to be discreet.’ As I spoke my heart skipped a beat. I still hadn’t confronted her admission, or slip of the tongue, about doing reports on her clients. I’d buried it, deciding they were just routine reports, perfectly normal.
‘Hmm, I’m not too sure about that.’
‘Mate, Mercy B. Lord is an employee of the Beatrice Fong Agency. She’s not a part of anyone’s guanxi. She’s an orphan, for fuck’s sake! She doesn’t have to answer to anyone. If you think about it like that, no ties, no extended family obligations, she’s perfect for the project!’
Dansford grinned. ‘It’s never a good idea to mix business with pleasure, Simon.’
‘Who said I am?’
‘You did, a moment ago. You said, “I should be so lucky.” I know you’re very fond of her. Not a good idea, old son.’
‘There’s nothing between us,’ I protested, adding foolishly, ‘I’ve never so much as laid a finger on her.’ It was technically, if not emotionally, the truth. I admit, this time my heart was doing more than just skipping a beat. I could hear it boom-boom-booming.
‘Simon, it seems to me that the fact that she’s unconnected, has no support, no guanxi, allows people like Fong and Wing to prey on her. They’ll make sure one way or another that she’s dependent on them.’
‘That’s exactly my point. The culture doesn’t allow talent alone to prosper. If she’s trained in research, she’s potentially a free and independent agent. That at least makes it worthwhile.’
I was suddenly furious and struggled to contain myself. Thank God for a bland, flat peasant face. I knew Dansford’s logic was sound, but I felt it was bitterly unfair that Mercy B. Lord could be seen to have no rights, to always be a pawn in someone else’s game, the orphan with nobody on her side. I had become convinced that her absence from Singapore
each Thursday night had something to do with Beatrice Fong – something unpleasant. Admittedly she’d said nothing, but it was in her eyes, her body language, where I saw something close to fear. I told myself that helping her had nothing to do with my falling in love. For better or worse, she had me on her side. I was not going to let her down, watch her drown, even if she’d never actually asked me to help her.
Dansford sighed. He could see I was determined to have Mercy B. Lord on our team. ‘Well, as you said, she’ll either agree or she won’t. If she’s reluctant, my advice, for what it’s worth, is don’t try to talk her into it.’
‘She’s not the type to be talked into anything,’ I said, a little defensively. ‘We need her. Besides, she should be encouraged, helped. Why should she be a prisoner to Beatrice Fong’s needs? She has rights of her own.’
Dansford gave me a small smile. ‘Simon, in my experience, we’re all prisoners, one way or another, of someone else’s needs.’
‘Yeah, but I’d like to help. If she doesn’t want my help, she’s free to reject it.’
‘Well, take it easy, won’t you, Simon. Don’t let your heart rule your head. As King Solomon says, and I quote: “There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.” ’
‘From the Bible?’ I said, surprised.
‘Aye, my Irish Catholic childhood. I tried very hard to avoid the dogma, but some things stick. For instance, the noble concept of Christian charity.’ He paused. ‘It can often be an excuse to interfere unnecessarily or even perniciously.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS EIGHT MONTHS since I’d first arrived in Singapore. Big Lather was in test market and I was no nearer to bedding Mercy B. Lord. As a result, I was beginning to develop a bit of a complex. I was happy to admit I was no Casanova, nor God’s gift to womankind, but I’d served my apprenticeship between the sheets and more than one bunny had been complimentary and happy to return. I also knew that I was generally liked by the women I’d been fortunate enough to take to bed.
The irony was that here I was in Asia, where there were more women available than I’d had hot breakfasts, and the only one I really wanted didn’t appear remotely interested. That’s not to say we weren’t friends – we got on like a house on fire. But that was it; we were affectionate friends or, as we’d say in Australia, great mates. Despite our declarations of love that night at my flat, which I still clung to with all the desperation of a drowning man, there had been no other expressions of feeling, and I was too nervous to press her to explain.
It was obvious Mercy B. Lord liked my company, and she often initiated a date. Sometimes I’d be in the agency working back and my phone would ring. A laughing voice would say at the other end, ‘It’s seven o’clock, Simon Koo, and I’m hungry. How would you like to take a beautiful woman to dinner?’ Singapore had hundreds of hole-in-the-wall and street eateries, and she’d always choose one or another of these out-of-the-way local restaurants not frequented by expats or wealthy Chinese. We laughed a good deal, never quarrelled, though sometimes we argued – she was her own woman and not without opinions – but we always had a good time. There you go – even with all the right ingredients you can’t make someone love you, I guess. King Solomon may have wondered at ‘the way of a man with a maid’, but it would take the wisdom of Solomon to fathom Mercy B. Lord.
It was all so bloody pathetic. This was Asia, after all, where sex was a commodity, not a sacred rite of passage dependent on a promise of everlasting love, although if Mercy B. Lord had required such an affirmation I’d gladly have given it to her. I admit I hungered for her body, but also her mind and soul. It was not simply lust.
Veronica from the Nite Cap girlie bar would have happily moved in with me to satisfy my every desire. I was potentially her ticket to freedom. While she sold her body and so was technically a whore, prostitute, bar girl, whatever, that was far from the way she regarded herself.
In fact, most women in girlie bars imagined that one day they’d be the sole partners of men who could take them away from a life dictated by poverty, and a lack of education, opportunity and guanxi. All their energy was directed not at pleasing the conventional or aberrant desires of their clients, but at winning some decent man and becoming his loving wife. Drunks don’t generally require a lot of sophisticated technique or sexual acrobatics, for that matter. In the minds of these women, their only assets, other than their appearance, were their seductive arts, cultivated to please a man to whom such a woman would remain forever faithful. In Eastern terms, this had little or nothing to do with love. Madame Butterfly was a romantic Western tragedy, but no bar girl would ever be surprised by poor Butterfly’s betrayal.
Marriage or even being a concubine was an arrangement that brought with it both privileges and obligations. Sex was one of the obligations. Being loved for your own sake was seldom seen as one of the likely privileges. You gave your partner everything he required as a man, and in return he gave you security, safety and respectability. He eventually grew old or preoccupied, and after you produced a clutch of kids you could generally rely on his desire fading a little. A man of one’s own was the ultimate prize and you didn’t need to be a whore to aspire to it. When you think of it, my own culture was not without similar examples.
Which brings me back to Mercy B. Lord, the orphan with no guanxi, who was being offered all she could possibly wish for and had everything to gain but refused to comply with accepted Asian societal rules. All right, she didn’t know I was in line to inherit a fortune from my hugely rich family with guanxi bigger than she could ever have imagined. But, nonetheless, I was earning a good income and was not without prospects. Besides, I considered myself a kind, considerate, caring, generous person. I didn’t drink to excess and we seemed to be very happy when we were together. Yet she constantly kept me at arm’s length with two simple words – ‘Not yet’ – that were beginning to sound less like a promise than a rebuke.
Veronica, at the Nite Cap girlie bar, lavished a great deal of tender and loving attention on me and, while I paid for it, she was always generous and gave me far more than the sexual favours I paid for. I always tipped her generously, too, but even so I felt beholden. I’m ashamed to say that without her soft hands, tender mouth and compliant thighs I think I would have perished from loneliness and the ache of longing. Naturally, Veronica’s hope and dream was that I’d take her away from the girlie bar and ensconce her in my flat, something that was not in the least unusual among the expat population. I felt sorry that I had to disappoint her.
I was genuinely fond of my little whore. To openly admit as much is to sound incredibly naïve (sniggers all round in the Cricket Club bar), but I accepted her right to aspire to a happy ending, and she always responded to my needs with more loving attention than I’d ever received from any woman before her. No bunny even came close. The brutal truth was that I was in love with Mercy B. Lord and Veronica was merely a paid substitute. Not nice, I know, but the truth.
I would sometimes imagine a scene where I took Veronica home to Australia to meet a mortified Chairman Meow – history, in effect, repeating itself. Veronica would be my twentieth-century Little Sparrow, my imported peasant bride, but Thai instead of Chinese. Then I’d smile to myself. I wasn’t at all sure that Mercy B. Lord, despite her looks and demeanour, would fill my mum with any less horror, once she knew of her origins. My mother wanted an educated middle-class Chinese girl from a well-connected Singaporean family for me, who wanted sufficient offspring to guarantee at least two healthy male children to begin the ‘re-orienting’ of the Koo family.
Of course, I refused to admit, as Dansford had suggested, that my being in love with Mercy B. Lord was what was influencing me to choose her to partner Dr Kwan and myself in the research project. She was obviously the best choice, having worked with and gained experience on Big Lather. Da
nsford had witnessed this himself and so his reluctance to agree was totally unexpected and therefore all the more surprising. Perhaps he was trying to keep things in the agency on an even keel, knowing that Sidney and Johnny weren’t going out of their way to be pleasant to me. Who knows?
However, I did at least try to do the right thing. Instead of approaching Mercy B. Lord myself to ask if she’d work with us on the research model, I asked my cousin, in his capacity as associate professor, to interview her. Then, if he thought she was a likely third partner, he was to offer her the job, stressing the fact that it was a totally confidential project and had nothing to do with Samuel Oswald Wing, where only Dansford Drocker, who was sworn to secrecy, was aware of it. Finally, he had been told to inform her that the work involved late nights after a full day’s work and that the salary was equal to what she earned with the Beatrice Fong Agency. I even instructed Dr Kwan that if, after interviewing Mercy B. Lord, he thought one of his sociology students who needed the income would be better for the task, he was at liberty to make the decision either way. I admit I took the precaution of telling him what an excellent job Mercy B. Lord had done with the Big Lather field research, but I swear I put no pressure whatsoever on him. I reasoned that if Dr Henry Kwan chose her and she agreed, then who could possibly argue?
As far as I knew, my cousin wasn’t aware of my feelings for Mercy B. Lord. On the several visits I’d made to my local extended family I’d never suggested she accompany me. I was only too aware that her stunning looks and outgoing personality would have resulted in a phone call to Chairman Meow in Australia ten minutes after we’d departed.
Henry interviewed Mercy B. Lord and called me to say she was ideal for the project and had agreed to be a part of it. She was adamant that she didn’t want a salary. He stressed that the confidentiality of the project was of paramount importance to her, too. Apparently she’d loved doing the previous research and would jump at the opportunity to learn more.
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