by Rea Tarvydas
The minibus swerves into a small parking lot that serves as the terminus of Big Wave Bay Road. It squeals to a halt. The crowd straggles down a narrow road past overflowing garbage bins. Disappears in the direction of the beach. I’m the last passenger to step down onto pavement.
The parking lot overflows with cars. I scan the perimeter. There are no people except for an elderly couple who squat in the shade of a banyan. The man holds his head in his hands and appears to be sleeping. The woman sits with her knees far apart and stares down at her faded slippers. Close by the couple is a small, white sign with a gold number. There it is. Number nine.
The gate is tall, ornate, tarnished gold-and-black. Two dust-streaked Grecian urns perch on gateposts. A small, black speaker box juts out of the ground. I press the red button and wait.
“That you, Blank?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One question.”
“Shoot.”
“Best punk band you’ve seen live?” Static snarls over the intercom.
I consider his question. “Green Day.”
“That is an absolute shit band, Blank.”
The gate slowly swings open.
I walk up the long, curving driveway through the shade of tree branches that meet above the road, a flickering green cathedral. Alive. I round a final corner and there is the house. It is white with a grey-tiled roof and a wraparound verandah, and faces the South China Sea.
The house sits high atop a granite headland; white metal railings hold it away from the cliff edge. The view is spectacular. In the distance, small islands emerge through a dull haze. The sea is deceptively calm from this height, a deep dark blue. I think I hear the faint roar of surf but it could be fatigue.
A motorcycle and a black Mercedes sedan are carelessly parked in the wide driveway. I cross a lawn staggered with flagstones to an open door on the deep verandah. I hear voices. I enter without knocking and follow the sound of men playing cards to a sun-filled room in the back.
Four men sit in varying degrees of disarray, propped up by their elbows. The card table is scattered with red, white, and blue poker chips. The side table is full of dirty glasses and half-empty bottles of gin, vodka, and whiskey. A ceiling fan slowly moves the air around.
I take a seat at the table.
Jerry introduces the men. Chef, a Belgian who works at a country club; Load Toad, an Englishman with a trading company; and, Zubis, a well-groomed Canadian who owns a string of restaurants in the entertainment district.
The men nod over their cards.
“How long have you guys been at it?”
Zubis checks his watch and says, “11:00 AM.”
“Blank’s the next Golden Boy,” Jerry says and pushes his long dirty-blond hair off his brow. His forehead is paler than the rest of his nut-brown face.
“Not true,” I say even though it’s true. I want it; need it, more than I’ve ever verbalized. At twenty-nine years of age, I’m the same age Jerry was when he made senior vice-president. No. VP can’t come soon enough.
“Yeah, it’s true,” says Jerry ruefully.
I survey the living room. The space contains little. An oversized sectional with colourful pillows, and a large canvas of abstract art resting casually against the wall. An oversized ornate mirror is propped against the other. The hardwood floor is bare.
“Great stereo.” I nod at electronics.
“I listen to records on big-ass speakers,” says Jerry and throws poker chips in the pot.
“That a Linn?” asks Load Toad.
Jerry nods. “Akurate. With WATT/Puppy speakers.”
“The speakers remind me of Darth Vader,” I say.
“Blank, I’m your father,” says Jerry and laughs.
“Records. That’s brilliant. Reminds me of the old days at the Factory,” says Load Toad.
“House music,” says Jerry and snorts.
“Different strokes, eh, Jerry? No. The Factory was fucking brilliant. Wonderful music, mates and days. You know, I curse myself for taking it for granted,” says Load Toad.
“You ever been to Ibiza, Load Toad?” asks Chef.
“Yeah. Me and my mates used to head down, now and again. Stay up all night Friday, Saturday. Pass out cold on the plane on the way back. Christ, I can’t do that anymore,” says Load Toad.
“Always wanted to go,” says Chef. “Pass the olives.”
The air is filled with cigarette smoke even though the windows are wide open to the patio. Outside, water gurgles in a pond tamped down with broad-leafed lily pads and neon-orange carp break the surface. Beyond the patio is a lush garden that has gone wild. Fiery blooms hang from branches of a tree I don’t recognize. The breeze pushes fern-like branches and blooms trail.
Beyond the garden lies a steep, rock-covered hillside. A line of hikers traverses the mountain’s spine, their brightly coloured hats trailing down, before disappearing into the scrubby brush. I hear the call of birds hiding in the vegetation.
“Caught any snakes lately, Jerry?” asks Zubis.
“One last week. The gardener’s on watch.”
“Did you kill it?”
“Nah. The gardener threw it in a basket and took it somewhere.”
“He probably sold it at the wet market,” says Load Toad. “Snake soup has curative properties, eh.”
“I’ve tasted it,” says Chef. “A little chewy, but not bad.”
“Christ, is there anything you’ve eaten that you haven’t liked?” asks Load Toad.
“No,” says Chef.
The men settle into play.
Chef wins several hands in a row.
“Chef, you’re on fucking fire,” says Jerry and throws down his cards in disgust.
“Meh, it’s nothing,” says Chef. He slaps his heavy arms like he’s trying to increase his circulation. There are splatter burns on his forearms, small red craters. Scars.
“You should taste his food,” Zubis says to me. “He’s a genius.”
“I just write the menu, manage the kitchen. I miss cooking real food for real people,” says Chef.
The men play poker until shadows lengthen in the garden.
“Fancy some seafood?” asks Load Toad.
“Curry with prawns. I know a place.” Chef rubs his bald head like he’s polishing a stainless-steel bowl.
Jerry pulls a battered green Jaguar out of the garage and we all pile in. Zubis rides shotgun while Load Toad, Chef and I crowd the backseat. It’s a tight fit.
“Still driving this piece of shit,” says Zubis.
“It’s functional, isn’t it?” says Jerry. “Besides, I’m giving it to the man.”
Load Toad nudges me and says, “Ask him what man.”
“What man?”
“Some wanker I won it off in a poker game,” says Jerry and smirks in the rearview.
“Don’t remind me,” says Zubis drily. “Are you at least maintaining the engine?”
“I want you to know that I don’t care,” says Jerry. “But yes, yes, I am.”
“Watch out for the minibus,” says Zubis.
“Cheffie, you’re crushing me,” says Load Toad. He squirms in his seat.
“Sorry, sorry,” says Chef and shifts his weight. “You ever see a skinny chef?”
“No, sir,” I say.
“You ever do, don’t eat in his restaurant.”
“Or hers,” says Load Toad. “Equal opportunity and such.”
“Of course, of course. The kitchen is open to everyone.” Chef makes a sweeping motion like he’s pushing a curtain aside with his hand.
Zubis says, “I heard you’re sleeping with the head pastry chef over at The Peninsula, Chef.”
“We’re friends,” says Chef. His ears redden more.
Jerry accelerates rapidly. The car jitters into oncoming traffic, overtakes a minibus and swerves to safety at the last moment. Horns sound and the minibus driver waves both arms out the window.
Zubis grips the armrest. His knuckles are white.
&
nbsp; “Take that, you bastard,” shouts Load Toad. He shoves his head out the window and glares back. His hair is whirling around his head, bushy sideburns a tangled mess. He drops back into his seat with a whoosh. “I hate minibus drivers.”
I laugh. It feels good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
“But seriously, Chef. How do you do it?” asks Jerry. “I’ve met her and she’s fucking gorgeous.”
“It’s nothing, nothing,” says Chef.
“C’mon, Cheffie,” says Load Toad and pats his hair down with pudgy hands. The effort is futile. “Out with it.”
“We share a certain interest,” says Chef carefully.
“Christ, not the spanking again,” says Load Toad and groans.
“You don’t understand. I’m under a lot of pressure in the kitchen,” says Chef. His voice is plaintive. “And I like to be told what to do.”
“Be careful,” says Zubis.
“She’s over in TST,” says Chef. “The wife will never know.”
“I know,” says Zubis.
“Yeah, but you’ve got inside information, on account of your connections,” says Load Toad.
Zubis gives Load Toad a dirty look and says, “Hong Kong’s a small town. People gossip.”
“Is this about sex? You know, Europeans are more relaxed about sex,” says Chef. He drums his sausage-like fingers on his tanned knee.
“It’s not about sex. It’s about discretion,” says Zubis.
“Yeah, this is why I don’t believe in marriage,” says Jerry.
At a fork in the road Jerry veers abruptly to the left, passing the golf course at high speed. In the distance a trio of golfers tee up. The grass glows electric, greener than the surrounding vegetation, surreal. Jerry’s driving faster and faster, weaving between lanes, straddling the centre line. Floating on a cushion of air.
Then we brake through a traffic circle and arrive at Shek-O with a jerk. There’s no space in the public lot. Jerry double-parks in front of a tourist shop that overflows with rolls of rattan beach mats.
“Exactly how am I supposed to get out?” asks Zubis.
“Throw a leg over, old man,” says Jerry and holds open his door.
“I’m not old.” Zubis scrambles over the gearshift and emerges on the driver side. His blue linen shorts catch, rip along the side seam. “Jesus, Jerry. My shorts are ruined.”
Chef leads the way down a quiet side street to a nondescript local restaurant, a favourite by the looks of it. It’s packed. The patio is illuminated with a combination of strip fluorescent lighting and strings of white Christmas lights tucked under the frayed awning.
After we settle into a table, Chef proceeds to order dish after dish of seafood and fresh fish: prawns and hairy crabs and whitefish. We feast, we cannot stop ourselves, and cold beer flows. All of a sudden I’m exhausted.
“Jet lag’s a bastard,” says Load Toad as Jerry deposits me into a cab. I fall asleep on the drive back into the city. When I awake the next morning, I have a hazy memory of walking through the hotel lobby, back to my room with its harbour view and, for a moment, I wonder if it’s real.
Jerry and I work hard that first week, late into the night. At the end of each workday I return to the hotel to sleep as best I can. What a joke. Midnight on Black Rock Hill. Never mind.
Late Thursday afternoon I ask, “Where did you meet the guys you play poker with, Jerry?”
“There’s a pub in SoHo called The Globe. Great place with little tabletop jukeboxes. I’ll take you sometime.”
“What’s on tap?”
“A real mix. San Miguel, Jaipur, Old Speckled Hen. It changes.”
“Sounds good.”
Jerry drains his cup of coffee and says, “Listen, Blank. It’s a good idea to have friends outside the office. Bankers are a buncha assholes. Speaking of, I’m having dinner with Worley Man tonight and you’re coming. Eight o’clock, the Kathmandu Restaurant on Old Bailey Street.”
The dining room of the Kathmandu is narrow and dark. A pair of yellow eyes, stencilled with kohl, stares at me from the wall above the reception desk. Tapestries hang from the walls and burnished objects of art rest in little niches.
I edge past a group of Gurkhas, some in their jackets, some in their shirt sleeves, drinking together at the small bar. They’re celebrating, uniformed arms raised, saluting one another. “Nepalese holiday,” says the owner and shrugs apologetically.
The restaurant consists of a single line of tables covered with roughly-hewn tablecloths, and a narrow aisle. The walls are covered with blue paint so dark and flat, it absorbs the small amount of light cast by candles. I can hear the cooks working but cannot see them. Clanging metal.
“Over here, Green Day,” calls Jerry. He stands and points at a chair opposite. Unfortunately I’m facing the back of the restaurant, exposed. Never mind.
Jerry introduces Mrs. Worley, a preternaturally pale woman with straw-like, bleached-blonde hair fashionably cut at a sharp, irregular angle. A sensitive face. She wears a white slip dress, her undergarments visible through the flimsy material. She glows in the dark of the restaurant.
“Mike Blank. How d’you do?”
“I’m wonderful, Mike,” she says, her voice as bright as her hazel-green eyes. “Mr. Worley assures me he’s on his way. He’s called and said he’s walking down to the taxi stand, this very minute.”
“Let’s order a few appetizers while we wait for the old man,” says Jerry.
“I’ve had Indian, of course. How is Nepalese any different?” Mrs. Worley asks.
“The spices.”
“What spices?”
“Nepalese spices.”
“And what exactly are Nepalese spices?” asks Mrs. Worley.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. They’re fucking delicious,” says Jerry. Mrs. Worley laughs, throwing her head back and exposing her long, vulnerable neck. When she laughs, her whole body relaxes.
“You’re funny, Jerry.”
“It’s a fucking mystery. Forget the CIA holed up in The Manhattan out in Tai Tam, tracking digital info out of Mainland China, we’ve got Nepalese spices,” says Jerry.
“There are CIA in Hong Kong?” I ask.
“Yeah. American guys who work on contract, never talk about their jobs, and speak Putahongua like a fucking taxi driver. Just listen and you’ll know,” says Jerry.
“Who?” asks Mrs. Worley.
“Lippincott.”
“I didn’t know.” Mrs. Worley’s voice is full of wonder.
The appetizers arrive. Mrs. Worley tells stories of her two years in Hong Kong, urban hiking in the city and surrounding parks, tours around Asia with the American Women’s Association. “We’re here for a few more years and then we’re definitely going back to New York,” she says and sips sparkling water.
“Have a samosa,” says Jerry and slips a flaky triangle onto Mrs. Worley’s empty plate. She nibbles the edges of her pastry before abandoning it.
When Mr. Worley calls for directions, Jerry tells him we’ll wait on the street for him to arrive. We excuse ourselves from the table and head outside, crossing the street to a large, uniformly grey building that leans back from the sidewalk. From this vantage point, we have a clear view up and down the steep street.
“This is a jail, decommissioned now. It’s a heritage building, not that it would stop the property developers. The fuckers,” says Jerry and pats the brick wall. Three handmade brooms are wedged behind a drainpipe, their bristles aimed downhill at an unknown target.
The front of the Kathmandu is made of a panel of French doors propped open to the evening breeze, and there are gold flickers of candlelight. The Gurkhas have pushed together two large tables and taken over the front of the house. A few are standing at the bar, talking and drinking. When the owner delivers a tray of drinks, one breaks into song and the rest immediately stop what they’re doing and stand facing the Nepalese flag, singing together in one voice. Brothers in arms.
“Who are they he
re with?”
“They probably work security for Li Ka-Shing. He must be out of the country for them all to have the night off.” Jerry paces into the street and stares downhill toward the Mid-Levels escalator. There’s no sign of the elusive Mr. Worley.
“There must be thirty guys, maybe more.”
“He and his family travel around Hong Kong with a sizable detail ever since their son was kidnapped in the ’90s. Gurkhas are short but tough. I wouldn’t cross them.”
“They’re fierce soldiers in the field.”
“You miss the army, Blank?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
That’s when we see him. A man strides purposefully up the stairs that run alongside the escalator. It’s Mr. Worley. He wears a grey suit and dress shoes. He also wears thick, steel-rimmed eyeglasses. When he sees us, he cuts across the street on the diagonal.
“This is Mike Blank. He’s here to help with CRITIC.” Jerry gestures in my direction.
Mr. Worley wordlessly shakes my hand and asks Jerry. “How goes the battle?”
“The pitch is coming together. Blank is a working like — ”
“I’ve got bad news. My source tells me Lehman’s putting together a pitch for CRITIC too.”
“You’ve got a spy inside Lehman’s?” asks Jerry.
“Of course.”
Jerry swears.
“What are you going to do, Jerry?”
“Multiple pitches,” says Jerry, thinking out loud.
Mr. Worley nods once abruptly, turns on his heel, and strides into the restaurant.
“We’ll get there,” I say, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about.
“I’ve been working on getting one meeting with CRITIC for six months. Six fucking months. Can you stay longer than two weeks, Blank?” asks Jerry and scratches his head.
“Yes, sir.” There’s nothing holding me in New York beyond an apartment I can easily sublet and I want the chance to prove myself. I need to succeed. Besides, this account could land me a VP position. Definitely.
We stand in the dark street for a few minutes and talk about next steps with CRITIC, brainstorm how to approach the expanded pitch. “Email me those strategies and we’ll get started right away. Yeah, and remind me to find you an executive apartment. The Harbourview has no fucking soul,” says Jerry as we make our way back into the restaurant.