FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  At least on this occasion the waiters were attentive. Dansford was famous for punishing what he regarded as a lack of attention in busy restaurants by rising from his chair and walking to the entrance to the kitchen, where he’d lie flat on the floor and block the path of any waiter coming or going. When they’d stop in bemusement at the crazy American prone in front of them, he would demand Denmeade attend his table and his guests immediately.

  But now Denmeade himself hovered.

  ‘And what is the most expensive wine you have?’ Dansford asked in a voice loud enough to be heard by at least half the diners in the room.

  ‘Why, the 1956 Nuits-Saint-Georges, Mr Drocker,’ Denmeade said in a carrying voice, enjoying the moment, the two Irishmen immediately en garde.

  I groaned inwardly and Henry, a light drinker who had left half his glass of champagne, looked thoroughly nervous. He was by nature a quiet and conservative man.

  ‘And how many bottles do you have left?’ Dansford demanded, raising his voice so that the entire restaurant grew suddenly deathly quiet and expectant.

  ‘Four, sir,’ Denmeade replied, clearly not wishing to have the establishment’s wine cellar seen as overly miserly.

  ‘Ah, then bring them all!’

  Losing his composure, the head waiter hesitated. ‘All? You mean … all four bottles, sir?’

  ‘Certainly!’

  Denmeade gave an obsequious bow and departed, totally defeated. I looked over at Mercy B. Lord, my right eyebrow arched. The entire restaurant was hushed and you could hear the rattle of cooking paraphernalia coming from the kitchen. But she hadn’t lost her composure and smiled brilliantly back at me. Dr Kwan cleared his throat. ‘I need to go to the men’s room,’ he announced in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Arthur O’Reilly personally escorted the waiter pushing the service caddy upon which stood the four bottles of Nuits-Saint-Georges. He seemed to have regained his composure somewhat. ‘I haven’t wiped them clean from the cellar rack, Mr Drocker. Perhaps you’d like to choose the bottle you desire?’

  Enjoying the moment, Dansford pitched his voice in the direction of the silent diners, as the food on their plates slowly cooled. ‘Open them all, please.’

  ‘But, Mr Drocker —’

  ‘Just do as I say.’

  I remember thinking, Shit! This isn’t happening!

  The audience, because that was what it had become, watched as all four bottles were opened. Never mind the champagne cork popping, there was a distinctive murmur at each squeak and plop of the corks. I noticed that the hotel manager had appeared and that the entire kitchen staff had entered and stood at the doorway to watch. Dansford then picked up each dusty bottle, examined it and brought it to his nose. Then, choosing one, he asked the very nervous waiter to pour a splash into a glass. The waiter lifted the bottle but his hand was shaking, so Denmeade took it from him and poured a liberal splash of crimson into the glass.

  By this time it seemed there was no way we could be further embarrassed. No doubt the wine would be suitable and the diners could all go back to eating and, with the entertainment finally over, we could order dinner and the night would proceed more or less as planned, though I was growing concerned that Henry hadn’t returned to the table.

  Dansford rose from his chair and, playing to his audience, brought the glass to his lips. You could have heard a pin drop. He took a mouthful, gargled in the appropriate manner, then suddenly his eyes grew wide and he hurriedly placed the glass on the table and began to claw at his throat, sinking to his knees as he choked, eyes popping.

  There was consternation. Several women cried out, and the hotel manager came running, no doubt thinking that not only was the hotel’s most expensive wine off but that they’d somehow poisoned an important patron.

  Dansford rose to his feet and resumed his seat just as the concerned and solicitous manager reached him. Then, leaning back in his chair, Dansford indicated the bottle and announced, ‘That is a beautiful wine. You may pour it.’ He waited until all our glasses had been filled, rose and extended his glass in a toast to the audience. To thunderous applause from the diners, he said, ‘Thank you, you have been most patient and shall be rewarded.’

  Resuming his seat he said quietly, ‘Not a bit hungry, but I feel a severe bout of piano-playing coming on. Will you excuse me?’ Instructing the waiter to bring two of the bottles, he made his way to the piano on the bandstand. His opening number was ‘Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey’, which he sang with great gusto, thumping it out on the piano in just the manner it was meant to be performed.

  There are some who were in the restaurant that night who years later claimed it was undoubtedly the best concert they had ever attended. Mercy B. Lord and I left at midnight, having shared a bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges and having sent the remaining bottle over to Dansford, who was still at the piano, playing and singing the ballads from George Gershwin’s folk opera Porgy and Bess. Henry never returned. The last we saw of him was when he left for the men’s room at the start of the evening. Later he told me he’d escaped by fleeing through the kitchen. Once outside, he’d run half a mile before he’d stopped to hail a taxi.

  If Mercy B. Lord was my first great stroke of luck, the second was to occur a month after Dansford Drocker had further enhanced his reputation as the most outrageous and entertaining drunk in the highly competitive boozy environment of Singapore. I met Elma Kelly. It was on a Friday, mid-morning, and I’d been to see and approve the colour separations for a Texas Tiger twenty-four-sheet poster. As it was close to the printer’s, I stopped off at my cousin Peter Kwan’s gallery in Orchard Road. I was in the process of admiring a green-glazed pottery vase when a booming voice announced her presence. ‘Stand to attention at once!’ barked a female version of a British regimental sergeant major.

  I turned to see a very large and formidable-looking woman bearing down on me. I don’t usually bow to the demands of strangers unless a uniform denotes their authority or makes some kind of sense of their demand. ‘Attention? Why, madam?’

  ‘Quiet! Two minutes!’ she barked, tapping the face of her wristwatch and coming to rigid attention herself, her arms, great hams, clamped against a vast, tent-like hibiscus-patterned muu-muu. Her face was partly disguised by owl-like horn-rimmed spectacles and further concealed by a very wide-brimmed floppy white cotton sunhat. The muu-muu almost reached the ground, brushing two enormous feet in plain leather sandals from which unvarnished toenails protruded.

  I dutifully came to attention. What the hell, two minutes, why not? I was curious. She must have been six-foot-something and around sixteen stone. Then I remembered. Shit! It’s Armistice Day! The building had fallen silent and even the traffic noise on Orchard Road seemed to drop a decibel or two. The monstrously large woman stood in front of me, breathing heavily, her eyes tightly shut.

  Then, when the outside traffic noise seemed to suddenly increase and I guess the two minutes had elapsed, she opened her eyes, glanced at her watch for confirmation and pointed to the green-glazed vase I’d been inspecting before her commanding arrival. ‘The dynasty?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know, madam. You’ll have to ask Mr Kwan. I’m still learning about Chinese antiques. Oh, and thank you for drawing my attention to the day, and the time. Very careless of me.’

  ‘It’s Han Dynasty.’ She squinted down at me, ignoring my apology. ‘You look decidedly Chinese, but your accent … Australian, are you?’

  ‘Yes, madam, afraid so.’

  ‘That’s three apologies in as many sentences. No need to apologise, young man. Your frightful accent is not your fault – sins of the fathers, convicts, dreadful mix-up. Liverpudlian, Glaswegian, Mancunian, Cockney, Geordie, Irish and dozens of other local country bumpkin patois – poor hapless convict fellows hardly understood each other, so it’s not surprising they came up with such a terrible hotchpotch of an accent. Your lot have the nerve to refer to it as the Queen’s English.’

  She really had
a decidedly forbidding presence. ‘Are you a linguist, madam?’ I asked.

  Again she ignored my question. ‘Who are you, young man?’

  ‘Simon Koo, madam. Peter … er, Mr Kwan is my cousin on my mother’s side.’

  ‘Interesting. There is no resemblance. You must take after your father.’

  ‘Not at all – he doesn’t look Chinese.’

  ‘My name is Elma Kelly, how do you do? You’re a chunk of a lad. No fat, though. Good peasant stock, solidly rooted to the earth. Li blood, I’d say from looking at you, eh?’

  ‘I’m fourth-generation Australian and a throwback to my great-great-grandmother. My three sisters look Caucasian,’ I added, perhaps a tad defensively.

  ‘Fourth-generation? Ah, I see, the gold rush, eh? New Yellow Gold Mountain.’

  She certainly had a quick mind and knew her history. I was to learn there wasn’t a great deal she didn’t know about the Chinese. ‘Are you the Mrs Kelly who runs Cathay Advertising? Head office in Hong Kong, I think?’ I was taking a punt in an attempt to reclaim some control over the conversation.

  ‘Miss – never daft enough to add a permanent man to my life. Silly business, marriage – mostly quarrels and compromise. Had a sailor-boy once, nice chap. Only saw him once in a while; good arrangement – serviced me well, ha ha. I was much younger then. Died … torpedoed in the war.’ She looked at me as if with dawning comprehension. ‘Ah, I’ve put a face to a name. I know who you are. Wing Brothers, eh? Sly Sidney, Awful Johnny and Cheerful Ronnie! Damned clever move getting the Americans to buy in. Frightful trio, know absolutely nothing about advertising.’ She threw back her head and chortled. ‘You have the misfortune to be the creative director appointed by the Americans, no doubt in an attempt to make some sort of sense out of the chaos, out of the three ding-a-lings. Sidney hasn’t a creative bone in his body and only thinks about making money. Johnny is a morose and thoroughly nasty fellow who does all his brother’s dirty work, and Ronnie, number-three son, is a delightful chap with plenty of brains and character, but, alas, lacks the intestinal fortitude to stick up for himself. He’s also rather too fond of the bottle, though that’s probably Sidney’s fault for making him entertain foreigners. Besides, it’s hardly unique in this part of the world, where the right elbow is kept constantly bent and busy. The whole place runs on a wing and a prayer, sorry – ha ha – couldn’t resist the pun.’ She paused to snatch a quick breath. ‘But, my dear boy, just how are you managing in what’s commonly known in advertising circles as the Three Wing Circus?’

  Whatever else, Elma Kelly knew her competition. I tried to grin. ‘With some difficulty,’ I replied, then building on her circus analogy added, ‘Sometimes I sense I’m the clown, but mostly the animal trainer. Attempting to put a Chinese creative team together isn’t easy. I can’t say I’ve made much progress, and I’ve been here over a year.’

  She seemed to appreciate the honesty of my reply and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s five past eleven, the sun is not nearly past the yardarm and I never drink until sunset anyway, but do you fancy a spot of tiffin, Simon?’ Then without waiting for an answer she added, ‘I think you probably need an introduction to Chinese thinking, oriental Winguistics,’ failing to resist another even worse pun. ‘Excellent Peranakan restaurant around the corner, quite clean, spicy though. Do you tolerate spicy food?’

  ‘Yes, but it depends on the amount of chilli.’ I’d skipped breakfast and the invitation – lunch with the redoubtable Elma Kelly – was not one to be passed up.

  I suppose, strictly speaking, she represented the competition but it seemed there was nothing I could tell her about the three Wings, and of course I wasn’t going to mention the pseudo research for Big Lather or the new Asian research model we had recently completed. I happily accepted Elma’s invitation to tiffin. ‘Thank you. I can’t get over the food in Singapore – the variety and quality is astonishing.’

  ‘Good. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. But mark my words, Simon, there will come a time when you crave sausages, peas, gravy and mash, and when you do, the Tangle Inn here in Tanglin Road is just the place – shepherd’s pie, English cheeses, even bacon and eggs – run by a grumpy Englishwoman. My countrymen can be unpleasant, and she’s one such, almost as big as I am, packed tight with bile, watches her customers from a large peacock-tail wicker chair – quite bizarre, my dear. Now come along, Simon.’ She hesitated as if making a decision. ‘We won’t invite Peter. Much too early for him, and besides, he has a fussy appetite. Too much garlic doesn’t agree with him. Did you know Sidney Wing buys from him? As do I.’ She brought her forefinger up to touch the side of her nose in a decidedly unladylike manner. ‘Say no more, it might only confuse matters, eh? Peter is a loyal soul, but he is Chinese and we don’t know how well he knows the notorious Sidney or how much he spends on stuff to impress his chronically censorious ancestors, do we? The Chinese rate people in terms of money, not character. That’s lesson one.’

  If this was intended to be confidential, it failed because her booming voice carried to Peter and anyone else in the building. I was to learn that Elma Kelly only spoke at full volume in a sort of glottal bark.

  Once outside she walked to the edge of the pavement, put two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle, a sound bullet that cut through the steady din of the Orchard Road traffic and found its mark. She raised her free arm, two fingers extended, and within moments two rickshaws moved towards us. ‘It’s only a short ride,’ she volunteered.

  Both rickshaw men were scrawny and barefoot, each wearing just a pair of sweat-stained khaki shorts, their ribs showing clearly under their sun-blackened skin. I don’t suppose you put on a lot of weight pulling people around the streets. The scrawnier of the two gave Elma an almost toothless grin and indicated his rickshaw, then said something in what I took to be Malay or Singlish – although he spoke too fast for me. He grinned broadly again, showing a mouthful of red gum and a single yellow tooth I’d missed the first time round. ‘He wants double the fare,’ she laughed, and nodded to her man then said, ‘Don’t pay your fellow more than twenty cents. He’ll make a show of looking disappointed, but it’s only around the corner and if I wasn’t quite such a behemoth we’d walk it in a couple of minutes.’

  Peranakan cuisine has reputedly absorbed influences from all the major cultures in Singapore – Chinese, Malaysian, Indian and Indonesian – and then made up its own mind. Tiffin is an Indian word for a light meal, although Elma Kelly ordered enough to feed a medium-sized hungry family. There was no menu in evidence. ‘No point in consulting you, dear boy, you’ll just have to trust me. Not the kind of restaurant where they have menus, or tablecloths.’ She rattled off all the dishes she required to the kowtowing proprietor, and when she finished I asked her to explain what she’d ordered.

  ‘I can’t imagine why you would want to know. You’ll be gone in a couple of years. You’re on a contract, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, three years,’ I laughed. ‘If I make it. It’s been a bit over a year and it feels that long already.’

  ‘Pity – we could use you right now, though it doesn’t pay to break a contract. Did you know we’re part-owned by an Australian agency?’

  ‘No, I had no idea,’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, well, George Patterson Advertising, one of your bigger shows, what. We don’t make a big splash about it. Most of my accounts are British and they might not take too kindly to colonial interference, in particular a brash lot like the Australians. Bill Farnsworth, the chairman, leaves me pretty much to my own devices but he’s proved very useful. I like the Australians, despite your appalling accent. Good chap, Farnsworth, cultured too, patron of your art gallery and owns an original Gainsborough; has a definite neurosis about socks.’

  ‘Socks, you mean foot-type socks?’

  ‘Foot-type socks! Yes, socks, the woollen and cotton kind. He insists they must be worn to just below the knee.’

  ‘You mean when wearing shorts?’

  ‘N
o, no, that’s British army and navy. Under long trousers. He insists every male employee must wear them in this manner.’

  I glanced momentarily downwards, thinking about the grey cotton ankle-hugging socks I was wearing. ‘But why? And here, in this heat?’

  ‘Gentlemen don’t wear short socks, he insists. So when he comes out, I purchase twenty-four pairs of long hose from Lane Hancock for the male staff. Our Chinese employees think I’m completely daft or that they’re some sort of good-luck charm. Bill’s Chinese name is “Big Boss Long Sock”.’

  The first dish arrived and I asked Elma what it was called. ‘You won’t remember the names of the dishes – much too complex. Takes a lifetime of dedicated eating. Well, then, no more shop talk. Shall we relax and enjoy the food?’

  ‘It’s not about just remembering food names,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve tasted a good deal of local food and can probably recall the names of most of the dishes. The agency gave me a delightful and very pretty guide for two weeks when I arrived. We went everywhere and ate off bicycle carts, street stalls, tiny hole-in-the-wall family eateries and on river and harbour sampans. It was marvellous. It’s just that I want to remember this particular meal. You’re the first person I’ve met in the local advertising scene who is not in my own agency. Dates, times, places are important to me, especially those associated with particular circumstances and people. I want to be able to recall the conversation and the food we were eating when it took place.’

  ‘You really are a strange boy, Simon. But be warned, I shall test you at the conclusion of the meal.’ Then she surprised me by saying, ‘You were most fortunate to have the services of the delightful Miss Mercy B. Lord. Lovely gal. I’ve tried several times to employ her, but she won’t leave Beatrice Fong. Can’t imagine why, my dear.’ Her right eyebrow rose above the black horn-rim of her owl-eye spectacles. ‘Now, there’s a particularly nasty piece of work. Execrable old woman!’