by Vincent Lam
“We just ate, brother,” Chang said, glaring at the tiles.
“Ah, he’s in a bad mood,” said Huong, smiling and gesturing towards Mei. “Chang is already losing to the chief. I’m always ready to eat. I try to set an example with my good spirits. You see, I’ve lost my stake already, but I’m smiling.”
“Because you mark up your shirts tenfold,” said Chang.
Percival woke the hotel boy from his cot and told him to fetch seafood noodles, roast pork, braised lobster, rice, and to open a bottle of cognac. Mei won the dice roll to be the dealer for the new game. Chang sat to his left. Mei began, taking his four tiles from the wall. The boy showed Percival the unbroken seal on a bottle of Hennessy XO, then opened it, put out snifters on the table, and poured. The boy slipped out the door and went to wake the hotel cook. The envelope of cash was heavy in Percival’s pocket.
The play began. Mei withdrew into himself as he usually did, moved slightly to collect and discard his tiles. His eyes were lowered, so that while playing it looked almost as if he were asleep. Chang folded his hands over his ivory pieces, occasionally rubbed his fingers.
After a few draws, Mei laid down an early triplet. “Pong,” he said.
Mrs. Ling discarded noisily, made a fuss of it, almost tossing the pieces. Always a hint of theatre with her. As the play went around the table to the quick rhythm of pieces thrown away and new ones chosen, the tiles clicked softly. Once in a while Mei murmured contentedly, smiled, and focused on the empty space within the circle. Did he have a good hand, or was it a bluff?
Huong said, “Hey, any word from Dai Jai?”
“He’s arrived safely in Shanghai,” said Percival, annoyed at Huong for bringing it up.
“You must be happy.”
“A Chinese boy should study in China,” said Percival.
“He is a smart boy,” said Chang. “Best for him to study.”
“I’m worried about how he will do in China. He is headstrong.” Being critical of Dai Jai, as a good father should be, might help crowd out the ache of the distance. He had an impulse to reach into his pocket, to touch the letter. No, if he was going to gamble he should forget about Dai Jai tonight.
“He will be fine,” said Huong. “Nothing to worry about.”
“The schools in Shanghai are top notch. He will have to apply himself,” said Percival. What if they had missed the bus, that morning? It was no time to think of his son, he told himself, for emotions like regret and worry were the enemy of the gambler. Better to think of the girl in the corner. Let her occupy his attention. Desire could bring luck. Even without looking, he was aware of the handsome line of her legs, one hand on a knee now, and, was he right, was she watching him? He wasn’t certain that she was available. Mrs. Ling had said nothing about her, had not looked in her direction at all.
Mei won the game. Chang had not even had a chance to put down a triplet. He said he was sick of playing. “Headmaster, if I lose another game you take my chair.” They washed the tiles, and built the walls. The newcomer must be a careful person, thought Percival, watching him build the walls with his dainty nail tucked in.
Mrs. Ling said, “Hey, Chang San, you can’t step out now. You must play the headmaster. He has debts. Give him a chance to benefit from your bad luck, too.”
“You three have my money now,” said Chang. “Let him take it from you.”
Mei won the last game of the round and dealt again for the next. Chang muttered that he would have one more try. Soon, using a tile that the stranger had discarded, he put a set of three down on the table. He drew a piece from the wall, cursed, and placed it back into the pile in the centre. It was the tile of six bamboo sticks, and Cho took it and put down a set of three. His head gleamed in the light when he leaned forward to draw his next piece. Chang had only put down one set, and the rest of his tiles were all still standing, when the bald one suddenly made mah-jong and won the game. Chang cried out in frustration and took the few chips he still possessed off the table. “I’ve had enough.” The tiles were tumbled into the centre, and the other two men began to wash them for the next round. The tiles chattered like a hundred teeth.
Huong clapped Chang on the shoulder. “It serves you right for winning that ten thousand from me last night.”
“Complain to Chief Mei,” he said, standing.
“I would ask if you needed some company to console yourself,” said Mrs. Ling, “but I doubt you can afford it now.” Her eyes passed over the girl, who smiled politely. So, the girl was indeed Mrs. Ling’s. Percival stood, went to the purser, who asked him how much he wanted to change. He had intended to say fifty thousand, but with the girl watching, he heard himself say one hundred and soon changed it all for bright plastic tokens. He sat in the chair that Chang had vacated. Just sitting at the table, he felt the tingling excitement of possibilities. The first round of games went quickly, with small, cautious wins from each mah-jong as the new mix of players settled into a rhythm. They began with ten piastres per point. Percival won a few hundred, lost a thousand, and won it back. He lost a few hundred more and kept his eyes down, watched Cho’s hands. The newcomer was doing well. A cocking of the left wrist betrayed nerves, the light drumming of the fingers of his right hand hinted that he was waiting for just one or two important pieces to make mah-jong. People made the effort of controlling their faces, but often let their hands talk.
The clicking of the tiles counted out the passage of the night. Around and around went the play, small money. Yes, Percival decided, he felt the brush of the girl’s eyes on him. He tried to find something that might catch her reflection. There was no mirror, and there were drapes on the windows. He commented that the hotel boy was taking a long time with the food and glanced over at the door, looking at the girl sideways. Percival suggested they make it a hundred piastres per winning point. The other players agreed. Percival made the Great Snake Suite, and won three thousand piastres. He was pleased with the feel of the chips in his hand but cautioned himself not to react. He must not appear to be a man who cared much about three thousand piastres. Now, determined to test his luck, Percival ignored an early mah-jong to work for a more elaborate sequence, a bigger win. He felt certain that the right tiles would come. He soon lost two thousand piastres and felt betrayed. Where was the luck he had felt? He lost three thousand in the next round, when Mei went out.
Ignore the worry, he thought. The fear of loss could make itself true. He must have only confidence. The métisse girl smoothed wrinkles from her dress with the back of her hand. Briefly, he remembered the money due to the Teochow Clan Association the next day. All of that was far away. He was short a few thousand from losses, no matter. He drank his cognac, sought its glowing assurance that he was poised for a big win. He could not stand up after losses and expect to win a girl. There was nothing attractive in a man who lost money and walked away.
In the next round, Percival proposed to double the points’ value. The table banter hushed. Now he would see what this night was about. “With a five thousand minimum,” he added. To wager five thousand on a round was to demand a change in the mood of play. No one withdrew. The stranger touched his fingers to his lips. Quiet play circled, pieces were drawn and discarded with conviction. Soon Percival won thirty, with a hoard of two pongs, one kong, and a pair. There it was, the luck! Another wash of the tiles, another serious, silent game, and he lost six. That last loss brought him back down to a hundred and fourteen.
New walls were built, and after several careful turns, Percival knocked over his row of tiles, showed his finished mah-jong, and collected his winnings from the others again. He had a hundred and sixty-four thousand piastres. Cho groaned and showed that he had been close. An amateur, thought Percival, revealing his hand after the round was done. As if it mattered. Mrs. Ling turned her pieces face down so that no one could see.
“The teacher is giving lessons,” called Huong, and raised his glass. Percival lifted his cognac, sipped it, and savoured the intoxicating feeling of mon
ey. A table could not back down on the size of wagers. Those who won wished to swallow more. Those who lost needed another chance to win. The tiles were washed again, the four walls built. With these stakes, Cho seemed to become clumsy and played erratically, his left wrist cocked up a little. Mei moved precisely, calculated his risks. After a win and then a loss to the silent man in the green eyeshade, Percival was at a hundred and eighty. Cho was inexperienced, but bold.
Percival saw the girl lean over to speak to Mrs. Ling. Mrs. Ling would have been offended to be called a pimp, for she prided herself on her discretion, taste, and judgment. She took her girls’ preferences into consideration, for both the situation and the price varied from one introduction to another. The confidence of winning money strengthened Percival’s desire. Soon, he made another complex hand, and two hundred thousand sat before him. He drank his cognac and looked directly at the girl. She looked away. He felt his face flush. Had he been too forward? He was afraid that he had offended her. The boy came with the food. Percival had ordered enough for everyone in the room, and offered it, saying, “Dai ga, sic!” He gave the boy a big tip.
The game paused. The boy placed the dishes around the jumble of tiles and people helped themselves to food and cognac. Mrs. Ling took a bowl and began to eat. The girl remained seated and ate nothing. She crossed one soft hand over the other, so that together they were a perfect seashell.
“Headmaster Percival Chen,” said the man with the green eyeshade. “You have sent your son to China.” He spoke in Vietnamese. He ate as he talked, unconcerned if his food showed through his words, crunched a lobster thorax and sucked on the stringy insides. A piece of lobster claw tumbled from Percival’s chopsticks to the tablecloth. He knew this man, now that he heard his voice. “It was wise for your son to leave our country, since he doesn’t like to speak our language.” Cho scooped out the red eggs with two fingers, shoved them into his mouth, the pinky discreetly extended. Was that why he had been silent until now, had he been deciding whether to let himself be recognized? Cho drained his glass of cognac. “Anyway, your son is lucky. He has bad politics but a father who can raise money.” He lifted a bowl of noodles to his mouth and ate noisily, shovelled with his chopsticks.
“You joke with me as if we were friendly,” said Percival.
“You didn’t recognize me at first. I’m not offended. This country changes so quickly that one may not remember who one knows. Some say friendships are out of fashion. That may be the reason you Chinese love money so much?” The other players continued eating, smiled politely but uncomfortably at this conversation. Was Cho revealing himself because he was losing at the table? Was it to unsettle Percival, put him off his game? Of course, the man in the bamboo grove had been more shadow than substance, but there was no mistaking the harshness of the voice, the elegant phrasing. Percival was surprised at the roundness of his features, the ample cheeks. The man was muscular, as Percival had thought, but older than he imagined. He had the pale complexion of a creature that spent its time hidden from the sun.
“I have never seen you here before. But I do know you.”
“Well said,” Cho laughed, and continued to eat. He looked directly at Mrs. Ling, and then at the girl. Mrs. Ling acknowledged Cho’s interest with a slight nod. The girl shifted awkwardly, pulled the edge of her skirt out smooth, clasped her hands, focused on the mahjong tiles. It made her even more attractive, a girl’s shyness within a woman’s body.
As he lifted his glass, the rich cognac fragrance of old flowers filled Percival’s nostrils. Rising through his body came the impulse to lunge at Cho and seize him by the neck, to smash his head on the table, to smear the ivory tiles with blood. Cho stared openly at the girl, as if he were enjoying her already. Did he stare to show that he dared? wondered Percival. Was it just to throw the game off balance? The girl looked away, now flushed. Percival’s fingers wrapped tight around the stem of his cognac glass, near to crushing it into shards. He would grind the cutting fragments into Cho’s eyes with his own bloody palm, and pummel the blind, shredded face with his fist. Instead, Percival sipped the amber from his glass. He would crush Cho’s throat in his hands, feel the cracking of the windpipe, hear the whistling scream. He willed himself to loosen his grip on the cognac snifter. His mah-jong luck was strong tonight and he did not wish to waste it. Mrs. Ling glanced at him, questioning. She disliked situations that she did not understand. He stretched, yawned, to reassure her that it was alright, just a game of mah-jong.
When everyone had satisfied themselves with the meal, and pushed away the now cold and greasy dishes for the hotel boy to collect, Percival said, “It’s late. Let’s make something of the evening. Let’s have ten thousand per player per game.” Mei squirmed a little but did not give up his seat. Not to play big would be to lose, for his money was already in Cho’s hands. “First mah-jong takes the pot.” Huong whistled, rubbed his hands together, amused. “I was lucky to lose early,” he said. “I couldn’t afford to lose now.”
“Let’s make it twenty,” Cho said. He had the casual manner of easy money, which he had taken from Percival. Percival nodded his agreement to twenty-thousand and looked around to solicit the other players. Mei made no comment but remained at the table. Mrs. Ling gestured to get on with it. The four players rolled the dice to see who would deal. Mrs. Ling won the roll, counted out the place to start, and took four tiles from the wall.
Percival soon won the first game’s pot of eighty thousand. He thought of the letter in his pocket. Dai Jai was safe. He had nothing to lose except Chen Hap Sing. He could always return to Shantou, he reminded himself for courage. They washed the tiles and built the wall to play again. Mei won the second round, eighty thousand, but was uncomfortable. Mei played well until the sums began to bother him. After Percival took another pot of eighty thousand, Cho flinched, and then seemed relieved to take the next round of eighty himself. Cho won another game and drained his glass.
“I’m surprised your pockets are still so deep,” said Cho. His hands were more calm, Percival noticed. Percival must ignore him. Yes, he told himself, Cho was indeed a beginner—too eager to celebrate his wins. A half-hour later, Percival had three hundred and forty thousand before him. He scolded himself for being as pleased as he was. A good gambler must be detached from the money and focused on making the right sequences, not the pots won or lost, he reminded himself.
The other games in the room had ended. Everyone gathered to watch the big-money table. Mei grumbled that he was tired, that he had been playing for a long time. He counted his chips nervously. He looked around, but no one offered to replace him. The métisse beauty stood a little behind Mrs. Ling, watching the game with concern. Percival turned his pieces face down, kept them in memory lest someone be inclined to give signals to his opponents. The others did the same. They cupped their pieces secretly when they drew them. With something that sounded like desperate bravado, Mrs. Ling proposed they up it to forty per player per game.
Again, the players washed the tiles and built the walls of chance. Percival took a round of a hundred sixty. He had four hundred and sixty thousand. There was almost enough to discharge the Teochow Clan debt. A bit more luck and there would be money for himself as well. Mrs. Ling pulled more notes from her purse, the last of her money, it seemed. The purser came to the table to change it for chips.
“How do you think this evening will go?” Cho asked Percival, a mocking growl, but one in which he tried too hard, showed his own nerves.
“The tiles will speak.”
“Ah, a percussion of wealth. Like music.”
“To the winner’s ears.” Percival tipped up his cognac and poured another, a warm comfort within the circle of electric light. The shade above them corralled the players into its glow. Alcohol did not impair his play. If he kept his emotions level, he assured himself, it permitted him to follow the instincts of his hands.
Mrs. Ling took a game. Within another two plays, she was broke. The first tin glow of morning glanced in s
hyly through the drapes.
“Alright, now I will win it back,” said Mrs. Ling, hastily pulling forward the girl in the blue dress by her hand. “I need a few piastres. Who would like to be introduced to my beautiful friend?” The young beauty looked down as Mrs. Ling extolled her charming spirit and eagerness to please.
“I will have the introduction,” said Cho.
“Can you afford it?” asked Mrs. Ling in a sing-song taunt. “It seems that your luck has shifted tonight, Cho, since the headmaster began to play. Don’t feel badly. He is good at this.” The girl looked up. “Besides, whoever takes the introduction will have to do some teaching. She is especially fresh, you see?”
Cho retrieved a fat, sealed envelope from his pocket. He ripped it open with his fingernail and tossed fifty thousand piastres across the table at Mrs. Ling’s heavily jewelled hands. There was the gold Percival had sought desperately, begged for, borrowed against everything for. Mrs. Ling did not even look at the money. Cho said, “The schoolteacher has loans to pay. You would have nothing yourself were it not for the meat you have brought to market.” He reached over to grab the girl’s enticingly bare arm, and instinctively she stepped back. He had to put out a foot to stop himself from tumbling out of his chair. Mrs. Ling put a hand on Cho’s shoulder. It was an attractive woman’s hand, but her grip was firm nonetheless, and she eased him back into his seat with a teasing smile. She laughed, absolving everyone, and then shot a look of reproach at the girl. “Does the headmaster wish to bid? I believe this has become an auction.”
Percival said, “Do you think we are in an American bar, Mr. Cho?”
“Ah, hou jeung, he is merely showing us how keen he is for the prize. Who could blame him? You can show your interest with, say, eighty thousand?” Mrs. Ling’s fixed smile played one man off the other as she looked from Percival to Cho. “Mr. Cho, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I have not agreed to any introduction, so please. A gentleman keeps his hands to himself until such a matter is settled.”