It was also agreed that Song would continue to act as housekeeper for the Castle, even though she would live with Zhang. “Song very good with servants,” said Zhang.
Song herself seemed content with these arrangements. Even without living in the Castle she would remain an important presence in Philip and Tommy’s lives. She would have a husband to supervise. She would have money of her own. But I admit I never asked her what she wanted. I told myself that doing so would have embarrassed her.
So anyway, there I was – master of the Castle and chairman of a Chao Yinhang that had doubled in size. The “railway” survived. I was lonely.
My sons saved me. August came round, Philip and Tommy turned four, a package arrived from Julia, and my universe righted itself. Without pausing for thought, I picked up the phone and called her. It turned out I remembered her home number.
“Come back,” I said.
“It’s the middle of the night, Wendy.”
“The little boys miss you.”
“May I speak to them?”
“I should have called sooner.”
“I understand.”
So I walked down the hall with the receiver. Philip and Tommy tried to talk to her at once. “Newmommie!” “We will buy you a cat. We have money saved from our allowance.” “No, Song will not mind if you live with us. She is marrying Mr. Zhang.” “Please come.” “Yes, we’re sure it will make Daddy happy.”
My relationship with Sam had changed by the time Julia came back to Hong Kong. I had partly discovered and gradually realized that, along with being a capable investment banker, he was a Canadian intelligence officer. Riding those two horses struck me as a hard job, but Canadians exist in two languages, so perhaps it seemed normal to Sam. He had decorations he couldn’t wear and, as Serena might have put it, “things he had to do and things he couldn’t.” He had run Operation Wendy or whatever it was called on short notice when Henry disappeared, and did so on behalf of the five English-speaking nations that regularly share intelligence.
He wasn’t Simon’s boss and Simon wasn’t his. Technically, Simon was a contractor. Psmith & Graves was a legitimate firm of which Simon owned 100 percent. He liked doing small tasks for Her Majesty, as he put it. I think he’s retired now. He allowed his firm was swallowed up by a giant bank that never realized what they had.
Serena was an MI6 recruit. Sam had Simon give her a job as cover. It was Sam’s decision to take her off the deal. I am proud to say I have never asked Sam about Serena. I avoid asking Sam questions about anything, because he might have to lie, which neither of us would enjoy.
Sam was very nice about my marrying Julia. He would have married her himself if he could have, but she for no discernible reason preferred me. He agreed to be my best man. Given all we’d been through together, it would have been impolite not to ask him. And to be honest, I didn’t know whom else to approach.
33
China persists. Hong Kong prospers. I go to glamorous parties and serve on important committees. My opinion is sought on many subjects. Last year the Chief Executive awarded me the Grand Bauhinia Star, the citation celebrating charitable activities that I tend to regard as penance. By the absurd standards of the place, I am far from wealthy, but I have a certain standing. This gives me little pleasure. Despite my funny clothes, I do not wish to be a public person. My funny clothes are a way of holding people at a distance.
Philip and Tommy went to Exeter, which was probably wise. Hong Kong, their stepmother convinced me, is not a good place to be an adolescent. They are at Harvard now, like their forebears. I suppose I could go back to America too. I could live in Boston and care about the Red Sox. But I’ve gotten used to the weather here.
I have immersed myself in China for much of my life. It has an exoticism that, like Simon’s high heels, permits everything else. It has a tragic history, like the American South. I studied the language and married into the race to flirt with thoughts and desires I was reluctant to acknowledge. The Chinese are “heartless.” Am I? The world is not necessarily a nice place. What does it have in mind for me? Now that I’m older, now that I have the right wife, now that I am Chinese, it is easier to work things out. If you want to call me heartless, I will not disagree.
We all exploit our connections. What would otherwise be the point of being close? The Chinese have a word for it: guanxi. They are genuinely puzzled by the notion of a friendship you do not take advantage of. Americans call it “emotional blackmail,” and are more ambivalent.
Family is both refuge and prison. Charleston has been that for my mother. Where else could she have gone after her unsuitable husband’s dramatic exit?
I have agreed, at Julia’s urging, to take my sons to Charleston. I hope they don’t like it. My grandfather is dead, but they ought to meet my mother. Some day soon I must face the issue of telling my sons who Song really is. Eventually, I will need to admit how shamelessly I used them as bait for Newmommie.
But it is possible I misunderstand my situation. Perhaps Henry was Song’s instrument rather than her master. So was I. She left me alone for eight years and then summoned me to action. I obeyed. She killed Amanda – and made me a captive with her crime. Having stepped into Henry’s shoes, I cannot take them off. In a sense, I belong to Song.
Julia informs me that I have given her everything she wants. Part of “everything” is me. When we sit at the table of an evening, our current refugee having cleared away the main course, and she says in her resonant voice, “You’re dessert,” I am both emperor and slave. I am a block of ice on a warm night, regally melting. Transcendence and oblivion become one.
I have never attempted a “Sunday afternoon.” I still don’t know whether Sam made the whole thing up. But the concept has stayed with me. Who is in the superior position – the person who decides what happens or the one for whose benefit everything is being done? What mixture of love and blackmail does a perfect marriage entail? And where does fault reside? You could become a mystic pondering these questions.
I have plenty of time to become a mystic now. And who knows? I might have the talent. I was an intellectual before I was a hero…
But as usual, I overcomplicate matters. Autonomy is an illusion. Being called is a gift. Among the daughters of Henry Wong, the least was asked of Amanda, and she suffered the most. Perry Miller’s Puritans were right about grace. We none of us deserve our luck. If you stop and think about it, you can see that. If you are honest with yourself, as Julia reminds me, everything in life becomes clear. There are no secrets.
Wong Castle
Midlevels, Hong Kong
30 September 2016
Also by Harrison Young
The Daughters of Henry Wong Page 26