FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  The wealthy Chinese in Singapore, invariably supporters of Lee Kuan Yew’s PAP government, were happy to see the Indonesian communists crushed, but were deeply disconcerted when the Indonesian army almost eliminated the large ethnic Chinese merchant class, by definition largely non-communist, a move undoubtedly motivated by racism and greed. At least 100 000 Chinese Indonesian citizens were slaughtered and buried in mass graves. Not surprisingly, the local Chinese had a deep and abiding fear that the Indonesians would join up with their co-religious Muslim cousins in Malaya and decide to invade little Singapore, sandwiched between them.

  While this may or may not have been a realistic fear, it was one Lee Kuan Yew was quick to exploit. He initiated universal and compulsory conscription for all males at eighteen. Unofficially the government excluded those of the Muslim faith. Draft dodgers in Singapore faced an indefinite jail sentence, unlike their brothers in the US.

  In Hong Kong the old China hands had never seen the Chinese communists so belligerent. They felt that at any time they would be swamped under a screaming horde rushing in to kill every last stinking gwai-lo.

  The Chinese, having already digested Tibet, clashed with the Indians in 1962 and again in 1967 along their long mountainous border, and Beijing was once more issuing threats to ‘resolve’ the dispute and seize even more of India’s territory, having occupied part of Kashmir since the 1950s. All the while, the Indians and Pakistanis were picking at the open wounds left from the partition of India in 1947, which had cost up to a million lives. Now the dispute over Kashmir looked increasingly as if it would lead to war.

  In 1962 Burma, seized by a clutch of army generals led by the half-insane Ne Win, was well on the way to reducing the rich little nation to beggary.

  Outside Singapore, much of Asia seemed to be going to hell in a handbasket, and communism, despite the annihilation of the Indonesian communists, seemed a real threat. Lee Kuan Yew and his PAP government, while pathologically opposed to communism, needed to demonstrate the advantages of Western capitalism, making his city and his state an example of the virtues of an alternative system without having to resort to the murder of its citizens. The government wanted green space, gardens and decent housing for its multicultural society – a secure place run by Asians for Asians – so that people could continue to live together in harmony. Given the times, it made perfect political sense, even if it wasn’t quite as perfect and harmonious as it seemed.

  There were those among us – myself included, I like to think – who, in retrospect, didn’t much care for the draconian and autocratic way Singapore was run by a government without any truly effective opposition. But as a state it couldn’t be faulted for its social-welfare programs, and there was no significant bloodshed, although there was plenty of bombast and, lamentably, opposition members of parliament were jailed, the communist furphy being used as an excuse. With the Asian world in turmoil and with Indonesia next door, it wasn’t hard to see why the Singapore government wanted its youth to undergo military training.

  As expats, we chose to ignore the darker side of Singapore. We joked about Lee Kuan Yew’s idiosyncratic laws that banned long hair for men, chewing gum and carelessly discarded cigarette butts. These were rules with which we could happily live. We didn’t inject heroin, so the death penalty for the possession of even a small amount of the drug didn’t affect us. We soon gave up chewing gum and told ourselves it was much too hot to wear your hair down to your shoulders.

  If ‘accidental’ fires were razing slum dwellings in the kampongs and destroying traditional Malay village life, modern high-rise tenements for workers were taking their place. Improved sanitation was well overdue. Freedom of speech was a nice idea but it didn’t put food on the table, and we all knew trade unions were self-seeking and riotous organisations. Nobody was willing to point out the essentially anti-democratic nature of the PAP government, least of all those expats, myself among them, who were happy to comply with even the more draconian, as well as bizarre, of Lee’s dictates in order to prosper.

  Nobody wanted communism, and Muslims were not like us – the promise of forty virgins waiting in paradise said it all. So why not go with the flow? Singapore saw itself as the Asian equivalent of Israel, and ‘The enemy on either side of us’ became the mantra of a people who saw the restrictions imposed on them as necessary if they were to enjoy a peaceful and prosperous environment. And none of this affected us directly. The law of convenient compromise ruled the day, although if, on a whim, Lee Kuan Yew had decided to ban alcohol, and he was quite capable of such a thing, then I dare say the island state would have seen a mass exodus of Westerners and the international trade he had so assiduously courted would have ground to a juddering halt. But the prime minister was sufficiently sagacious to realise we needed each other. So all was well in the city state where visitors could experience … well, of course, the magic of people.

  Getting back to things of less earth-shattering import, winning the Singapore Tourist Promotion Board business was our first truly big local account, won against other international agencies. The three competing foreign agencies now knew we were no longer the Three Wing Circus and had to be considered genuine contenders in any future pitch for new business. The Citizen commercial had shaken them up somewhat, but this was the very first government publicity account won purely on merit. Not only did it mean a big budget but also tremendous prestige for the agency. It made an unequivocal statement to the Chinese business community that the ancient practice of ‘squeeze’ in the business of the state was over. The Sidney Wings were henceforth rendered ineffective. A conviction of bribery or favour-mongering now carried a prison sentence for both parties.

  I greatly looked forward to my next luncheon with Elma, where I could thank her for recommending Mrs Sidebottom to us. Finally, we’d stuck it right up Sidney Wing’s arse with the big government win. Childish as this may seem, it felt real good.

  But then Dansford had the idea of holding a reception two days after the win to introduce the Tourist Promotion Board to the agency. He had not had a drink for days, stopping forty-eight hours before the presentation and remaining sober afterwards in anticipation of the reception that was to take place at the poolside at Cuscaden House Hotel. At 11 a.m. on the day of the party, which was due to start at 6 p.m., I went into his office to question him about some small detail and arrived just in time to see him clearing his desk. Dansford was meticulous and always left his desk spotless.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘about to call you, Simon. Just off to the Town Club for a “settler”.’

  My heart sank. ‘Mate, please, it’s been almost a week. You’ve been bloody magnificent and as a consequence we’ve landed the biggest and most prestigious account in Singapore. No grog until you get to the reception tonight – you promised.’

  Dansford looked hurt. ‘Buddy, would I let you down?’

  ‘Well, yes, you would,’ I carped. ‘But please, Dansford, you fuck this up and Sidney Wing will have you by the short and curlies. We lose this account on the last turn and the phone to New York will run red hot. He’s thoroughly pissed off about the presentation. He and Johnny are only attending because he’ll lose face if he refuses. Half the bloody government will be there. There’s even been mention the big guy may attend. As MD you run the show, and you need to be sober as a judge, mate.’

  ‘Simon, I give you my word.’

  I shook my head. ‘Let me come with you. Remember the bank?’

  ‘That won’t happen again. The bank owner was a horse’s arse!’

  The incident had occurred some months previously. The owner of a small Singapore bank, one of Sidney Wing’s accounts, threw a cocktail party to celebrate its twenty-fifth anniversary and Dansford had arrived pretty smashed, whereupon the owner, a pompous Chinese, had taken him to task in front of the assembled guests. To everyone’s amazement and horror, Dansford replied to this dressing-down by directing at him a string of extremely explicit Cantonese expletives. He must have learned them
from Chicken Wing, because it was well known he’d made no effort to learn any of the local languages, not even a few essential words of Singlish. The upshot was that we were fired on the spot and Sidney lost a great deal of face in the process. The bank incident, as it was referred to, was yet another double underlined entry in the Wing payback ledger.

  Dansford looked annoyed. ‘Buddy, I don’t need a nursemaid! It’s a settler, that’s all. I don’t want to get the shakes at the cocktail party.’ I remained silent, hoping he’d come to his senses. ‘I tell you what, if I break my pledge I’ll dye my hair pink,’ he promised.

  ‘Mate, you can dye it all the colours of the rainbow; if you fuck up and arrive drunk we’ll blow the account before I’ve had time to render the first layout.’

  ‘Steady on, Simon. I’m going for a settler, calm my nerves, that’s all.’ He extended his hands and I had to admit they were shaking. ‘See!’

  ‘Dansford, your hands shake every morning – nothing unusual about that.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Not this bad at eleven o’clock. Imagine what I’ll be like this evening. A settler, that’s all.’

  I would have insisted on playing nursemaid, but I had to check the colour separation for a Marlboro poster at the printers. Lee Kuan Yew, on one of his whims, had three days previously banned cigarette advertising on TV, effective immediately, and there’d been a rush on poster sites and production. I remembered to call Mercy B. Lord to ask her to pick up my suit from the cleaners and told her I’d be home by five to change for the cocktail party.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling? You sound worried.’

  ‘Yeah, well, get ready for anything to happen tonight. Dansford’s gone to the Town Club for, as he puts it, a “settler”.’

  ‘Oh dear, what now?’

  ‘He promises he’ll dye his hair pink if he isn’t sober at the party,’ I laughed.

  Five o’clock came and Sidney, Johnny, Ronnie, Mercy B. Lord and I were waiting around the pool at the Cuscaden House Hotel. The cocktail party was on the third floor and guests arrived in a lift that opened up to reveal the pool and garden area. This enabled us to greet each of them in person as they stepped out of the lift. All was perfection: French champagne in silver ice buckets, canapés on silver platters covered with white damask napkins to prevent them from drying out in the late afternoon sun, Indian waiters in white gloves, starched white jackets, black pants and polished shoes standing to rigid attention. A baby grand, no doubt intended by the hotel to lend a sense of elegance to the poolside venue, stood under a red and white striped canvas awning with huge displays of orchids on either side of it. The venue, fit for a maharaja, was in readiness to receive the minister for tourism and eighteen assorted bureaucrats and politicians, as well as Long Me Saw and Molly Ong, our new bosses. The only one missing was Dansford Drocker, Managing Director, Senior Vice President of Samuel Oswald Wing Advertising and host of the cocktail party.

  Mercy B. Lord had been initially reluctant to come because Sidney would be present but she’d eventually agreed. While this sounds like a small victory, it wasn’t. It was the first time we’d been to a formal agency occasion, or for that matter any other official occasion, together, and I was anxious for it all to go off smoothly, especially with Sidney in attendance. By 6 p.m., when the first of the guests started to arrive, there was still no sign of Dansford. Most of the male guests, all dressed identically in white, the uniform of Lee Kuan Yew’s senior government officials, had come directly from work so there were no spouses in attendance. The guests of honour were, of course, Tan Sri Long Me Saw and Molly Ong, unless the PM showed up.

  As the first guests emerged from the lift I glanced at Sidney Wing, hoping that, as chairman, he would take over the role of host. It was an opportunity for him to gain lost ground and get one up on Dansford and me. But instead he gave me one of his Ming the Merciless looks and stood back. Ignoring the scowling Johnny, I glanced at Ronnie, but he simply shrugged and looked helpless. He was obviously under instructions from Sidney not to be his usual ebullient self or to get involved with the welcoming proceedings, thereby adding to my embarrassment. But it wasn’t a complete disaster; I’d played host at garden parties in our Vaucluse home often enough when Chairman Meow pronounced my dad unfit for duty, so I knew what to do.

  With Mercy B. Lord beside me and with the first guests approaching, I muttered out of the corner of my mouth, ‘C’mon, kid, best smile. We’ve got to do this together.’

  Taking my hand, she pressed it and smiled. ‘Meet and greet is my business, darling.’

  It was soon obvious that my partner was a big hit, although I was a bit nervous about Molly Ong’s arrival. Molly had been appointed marketing manager of the Tourist Promotion Board, more for her Miss Singapore looks and status than for any business acumen she might have possessed, and I didn’t know how she’d react to any serious competition in the looks department. In her mid-twenties, she was a stunner, but Mercy B. Lord was every bit as gorgeous. To add to the duo of beauties, Long Me Saw appeared with a surprise guest, the ex-wife of Indonesia’s President Sukarno. Dewi, every bit as beautiful as the other two women, was being groomed by the Saw cinema empire for movie stardom. Molly and Mercy B. Lord thankfully hit it off immediately, while Dewi remained attached to our new client’s arm.

  Six-thirty came and went, then seven, with the cocktail party due to end around eight. Sidney was smirking and I was panicking, not by this time because of Dansford’s absence, but because of his possible appearance when all was running rather well. Only a handful of people, those who’d been at the original pitch in the town hall, had asked about his whereabouts and then only in a cursory or polite manner. Three stunningly beautiful women were sufficient distraction. In the immortal words of the now fortunately absent Dansford on the visit of the Texas Oil boss to the agency, ‘Simon, with all those foxy chicks, advertising ideas are irrelevant.’ This was especially true at the cocktail party, because Molly Ong and Mercy B. Lord joined forces and made it their business to charm the champagne-fuelled male guests. As well, Dewi, not for one moment releasing the arm of her ebullient escort, turned out to be a very pleasant match for the movie mogul and chairman of the Tourist Promotion Board.

  To use a clutch of metaphors, our ship of fate sailed on through a tranquil evening sea without an apparent cloud in the sky. Even the torpedo-armed Wing submarine had found a gaggle of government servants they wanted to impress and seemed temporarily disarmed.

  But then, at seven-fifteen, the lift doors swung open and out stepped Dansford, dressed in a cowboy outfit complete with tooled leather cowboy boots, shouting, ‘Yeehaa!’ and firing two Colt cap guns in the air above his head. What’s more, his hair was dyed bright pink.

  A shocked silence fell as everyone turned to face the lift. I confess I was momentarily speechless and then I heard Mercy B. Lord laugh and cry out, ‘Dansford, you’re late. Delayed at the hairdressers, I fear.’ A gale of laughter followed as Mercy B. Lord hurried up to Dansford and took him by the arm. Turning, she announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Dansford Drocker, who you can see is feeling decidedly in the pink after winning your tourism account. She turned to the smiling Dansford, who, though drunk, had enough nous to realise he was being rescued. ‘Now, Dansford, because of your delay at the hairdressers it’s a little late, so why don’t you just wave “howdy” to everyone, and then get straight down to the entertainment.’

  ‘Oh, well done!’ I heard Molly Ong exclaim in admiration. ‘That girl has a lot of class.’

  ‘Yeehaa!’ Dansford yelled and fired off the toy six-guns before holstering them. ‘Howdy, folks!’ he yelled, then allowed Mercy B. Lord to lead him to the baby grand, grabbing a bottle of champagne from a surprised waiter on the way.

  She seated him and Dansford, taking a quick slug, placed the champagne bottle beside the piano stool and prepared to play. ‘Go, cowboy!’ Mercy B. Lord cried, laughing.

  Stomping a cowboy boot to the beat of the music, Dansford laun
ched into ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ and followed this with a medley from the musical Annie Get Your Gun, delivering all the lyrics in a light operatic voice. How Dansford could perform at such a high level when drunk was truly remarkable. All this was met with wild applause and it was obvious the party was going to be an even greater success.

  Molly Ong, a little tipsy on champagne, then asked Dansford if he knew the music to West Side Story and came to stand at the piano as Dansford launched into a medley. When he reached Leonard Bernstein’s lovely ‘I Feel Pretty’, she accompanied him in a very pleasant contralto voice that had everyone gathering around the piano. The song could have been written for Molly. She was pretty – more than pretty – and in a way the city had given her its key.

  I glanced over at Mercy B. Lord and decided that she, too, deserved the key to the city for her quick thinking and grace.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ Long Me Saw called, clapping loudly. ‘Champagne, beautiful women and good music – perfect! I can see our tourist program is in excellent hands!’

  With the exception of Sidney and Johnny, everyone seemed to think Dansford’s hilarious arrival was the best part of the evening. The pink-haired cowboy had been a big hit and, as usual, his additions had proved to be so much more than his subtractions. The final comment came from Dewi Sukarno. ‘I rike Mr Dansford – he very funny man and good music also!’

  Later, back at the flat, I hugged Mercy B. Lord then kissed her. ‘Darling, that was remarkable, the quickest piece of thinking I’ve ever witnessed. You saved the show single-handedly. It was poised on the brink of disaster.’

  Mercy B. laughed. ‘You’re quite wrong, Simon, it was all arranged.’

  ‘What?’ I asked surprised, ‘Dansford arriving late and drunk?’

  ‘No, just the plan in case he did. Remember the night of our celebration when we’d completed the research project and he ordered those bottles of horrendously expensive French wine?’