Masterson and I went into the compartment at the front of the ferry and both lit up cigarettes. On the row of seats in front of us a man was tackling a weeks-old edition of The Times crossword. We took in the view in silence. The island in those days seemed much emptier, much more rock-like than it is today; it looked like a natural phenomenon on which man had camped, rather than like one of humankind’s most crowded and vivid deliriums. The buildings now crawl all over the hill as if trying to obscure it from sight. Then it wasn’t like that.
‘I’m going to buy somewhere over there,’ said Masterson. ‘It’s just a question of finding the right place. When things feel uncertain, it’s a good time to buy. Confidence is expensive.’ That was him thinking aloud.
‘Things might get worse in China,’ I said, this being a popular bar topic in the Empire Hotel.
‘Things are always about to get worse in China. That’s China’s version of staying the same.’
It was a ten-minute walk to the hotel from the Star Ferry. When we got back Masterson went to his office and I went to mine. There had been a problem with discrepancies between the invoices we were paying for spirits and the actual quantity of alcohol that was moving through the hotel, so I had resolved to check every invoice by hand and try to find at what stage things were going awry. It was tedious work with the prospect of a confrontation and sacking at the end of it, so my spirits were low as I slung my jacket on its hook behind the door and crossed to my desk. Sitting on top of the pile of invoices in my tray was a letter from Maria.
Chang Chun
5 February 1936
Dear Tom,
Thank you for your letter. It took a week to get here which seems reasonable. I too am glad to be back in touch.
Your work sounds interesting. I’m happy that you have found a good job with a congenial employer. I suppose you will have an opportunity to thank the Captain the next time he passes through Hong Kong. My memory of him is not very clear: the only time we ever met was when that gentleman tried to prevent us from having lessons in the library. I felt his judgement was as good as that of Solomon but I daresay that the other gentleman may not agree!
Our work here is progressing well, thanks be to God. The Chapel is growing day by day according to the plans given us by Father Ignatius. It turns out that he had some training as an architect before he received his vocation so he takes a keen interest in our progress. Sister Benedicta works very hard and effectively, as I’m sure you can imagine. There is less talk here of a civil war than I had expected. Events are far away and people have become so used to reports of turmoil that they tend to ignore them. I hope we continue to have this luxury.
My work in the school goes well also. The children are so receptive and eager to learn that it is humbling. One or two of them have an aptitude for Mathematics which is already beyond mine and they have to have special teaching from Father Ignatius when he is with us. In the case of one of them, the Father is trying to get him a scholarship to a special college run by the Dominicans in Shanghai.
It is on a related subject, my dear Tom, that I have a favour to ask of you. We have a boy here called Wo Ho-Yan, for whom I have a particular affection since he comes from the same part of Fukien that I was born in. He was sent here to distant relatives because there were difficulties at home. He became involved to some extent in gangs. But he is a very intelligent and energetic boy. There is however a difficulty here in that he has fallen into disagreement with some local youths. The argument has reached the stage at which some fighting has already taken place and more violence is threatened.
My fear is for the stability of our mission here and for the boy’s future. I will feel I have let him down if he gets off to a bad start in life. I have not said yet that he is only fourteen years old.
This is the favour I have to ask. I have discussed his circumstances with Sister Benedicta and we have agreed that the best arrangement would be for Ho-Yan to be sent somewhere away from trouble. The place which suggested itself to us was our mission in Hong Kong, which as you know is small but growing. We have corresponded with Sister Immaculata who has agreed to take in Ho-Yan to our great happiness.
My request is this: would it be possible for you to secure a job for Ho-Yan, at least for a short time? I would not recommend him to you if I did not believe him to be able and willing. This would enable us to send him to our Hong Kong mission and away from his troubles here. If he does not succeed with you I am confident that he will find alternative employment, but even if the worst came to the worst, which DV it will not, we will take him back here, so we will not be creating a long-term difficulty for you. He speaks Cantonese and some English and I am confident that he will learn more with great rapidity.
I hope you can help but I know that this is a large favour so do not reproach yourself if it is not possible.
Sister Benedicta asks me to send her regards and to tell you to keep up your Chinese! I add my own best wishes from
Your friend,
Sister Maria
It was the third letter I had had from her since we had exchanged apologies for the ‘misunderstanding’. I wrote back and said, yes of course.
Sister Benedicta would have been pleased about my Cantonese. I was making a conscious effort to keep it up. I had moved into a three-room second-floor flat halfway up the Peak and acquired a houseboy called Mun, a dapper man of about my own age whose family in Canton were weighing the pros and cons of coming to join him in the colony. We spoke Cantonese at home; or I tried to. This caused Mun to behave as if I was mad but not dangerous.
I was beginning to be deeply grateful for the work I’d put in, and to develop an affection for the language. It was immensely useful in bargaining and doing deals for the Empire. I began to accompany Masterson on negotiations and buying meetings, and was soon made responsible for this side of the business.
Something Maria had not told me was that Cantonese is one of the world’s greatest languages for swearing. This was wholly in harmony with the Cantonese character, which I had come to see as being like that of cockneys back in England: blunt, direct, argumentative, money-minded, clannish, knowing, worldly, materialist. As for the rest of China, the Cantonese had an old adage: the mountains are high, the Emperor is far away.
*
‘What’s this called?’ I asked. We were standing in the kitchen of the Empire on a Saturday morning, when it was closed for business.
‘Choy sum,’ said Ah Wang.
‘Ah’ is the term with which one addresses friends and family in Cantonese. His full name was Ming Wang-Lok. In Chinese, the surname comes first.
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Heart of leaf,’ said Ho-Yan.
‘What do you think?’
‘Bitter,’ said Masterson. ‘But it’s all right.’ For an incessant smoker he took a surprising amount of interest in food.
‘Good!’ said Ah Wang.
Today, it is perfectly obvious that Hong Kong is a society built by refugees. Most of the six million Hong Kongers fled here from somewhere else, or were born to parents who did. After the great influx of 1949, anyone could see this. But then, in the thirties, no one knew or could guess that millions of people were going to flood over the border, and that a significant proportion of China, with all its energies and difficulties, was going to decant itself into Hong Kong. I didn’t suspect it at the time, but Ah Wang and Ho-Yan were the first of very many refugees I would come to know.
Not that Wo Ho-Yan was a refugee in the strict sense; he was fleeing different sorts of trouble. Indeed, the idea of him in trouble was at first hard to understand. He was a short, bright-eyed, round-faced boy, willing and energetic and friendly. There was something a little weak about him, and his manner was more sidelong than that of most Cantonese, but he always seemed keen to oblige. Or that was what I thought. If ever I’m starting to congratulate myself on an understanding of human character, I only have to remind myself of my early view of Ho-Yan. But he was very useful at
the Empire.
By contrast Ming Wang-Lok – Ah Wang, as I came to call him – was a proper refugee. In China he had worked for a southern warlord called General Chang, who even by the standards of his métier was known for the brutishness of his behaviour and the over-refinement of his tastes. (All Ah Wang ever said on the latter subject was – in English – ‘General Chang, he like bound feet very, very much.’) General Chang had some kind of contretemps with his theoretical superiors in the Kuomintang, the National Government of China, and in an unfortunate misunderstanding was machine-gunned to death, along with five bodyguards, on his way home from dinner with a subordinate. Ah Wang had been due to accompany the general to cook one of his specialities at that meal, and had been prevented only at the last minute by an upset stomach. A naturally timid and pacific man, Ah Wang was extremely shaken by his employer’s murder. He ran away and came to Hong Kong. His behaviour was in accordance with a sound maxim, the first part of which is: ‘Trouble in China, go to Hong Kong.’ I often heard proud expatriates quote this to each other over the next few years. The saying had a second part: ‘Trouble in Hong Kong, go to China.’ You heard less of that, then.
Masterson and I had been discussing the possibility of putting some Chinese food on the menu. The idea was to have something to offer those of our guests who were willing to give Chinese food a go but were unwilling to venture out into the white-slave maelstrom of a real Chinese restaurant. Ho-Yan, in his capacity as my general factotum at the Empire, knew our plan. When he heard about Ah Wang’s arrival in Hong Kong – he was good at hearing about things – he told me.
‘Master, a famous cook has arrived from Canton. He would be perfect for the hotel restaurant.’
Hence this meeting. We picked a Saturday morning when Jean-Luc, the combustible Belgian chef, was nowhere near the kitchen.
‘The fish is terrific,’ said Masterson, picking with chopsticks at a large steamed grouper.
‘I’m not so keen on this tripe thing,’ I said. I already knew that the Cantonese loved dishes with a gelatinous texture and, to a European palate, next to no taste. Now I love and can appreciate this kind of cooking. Then, I simply didn’t see the point of it.
‘Yes, it’s a bit on the authentic side,’ said Masterson. ‘But we could tell people that. It would be part of the show.’
‘I like the rice,’ I said. Ah Wang had cooked it wrapped in a lotus leaf. Masterson and I looked at each other.
‘We would like you to come and work for us,’ he said, extending a hand to Ah Wang. No translation was needed. I don’t think I had ever seen someone beam the way he did as he wiped his already clean palm on his apron before shaking Masterson’s hand.
Chang Chun
13 November 1936
Dear Tom,
I’m glad to hear that Ho-Yan continues to do well in your employment. It was a great favour that you did me and I’m happy that he’s not proving to your disadvantage. Our mission work here is going well. People are more receptive to the Church’s teaching when times are difficult. It is the silver lining. That is such a Chinese image! So our grief for China’s difficult time is eased by the thought of the people we are helping to discover God’s peace and save their souls.
Father Ignatius’s chapel is finished. It is a very bare structure with a notable spiritual quality. Father Ignatius has adapted a Chinese design for the entranceway. So the building seems both Chinese and European. I do hope you are able to see it one day.
I am glad that your studies in Cantonese have proved useful and that you are keeping up with the language. I told Sister Benedicta and she said she was pleased also. She sends you her best wishes. She works very hard here and never seems short of energy. It is a great gift.
Our mission in Hong Kong is going well. Perhaps you sometimes hear of it? Father Xavier, a Portuguese priest of great ability, is now our chaplain there. Of course, in some ways the success is a cause for regret since, if it were struggling, I might DV be sent to Hong Kong to help it, and then we would meet again! I often think of our trip back from Europe to Hong Kong. In many respects it now seems to me like a dream.
I hope the Lord in His Providence will find an occasion for us to meet before too long.
Your friend,
Sister Maria
This letter, and more so the ones I wrote to Maria, did not leave me with a clear conscience. There was something that I had not told her. One evening, a few months after Ho-Yan had begun to work for us, I went out of my office to the delivery entrance of the Empire, in order to check through a consignment of spirits which had been delivered that afternoon. I was working by a process of elimination, checking the inventory at every point from the importer’s warehouse to the bar measures. Alcohol continued to go missing, though never at the stage in the supply chain that I was examining at that time. It was a version of the three-cup trick. My current scheme was to leave the supply of spirits locked in the delivery storeroom – to which I was supposed to have the only key – and go back to check the inventory a day later. Part of me knew that I would find nothing missing, but that the end of the month would bring the usual 10 per cent shortfall.
The storeroom was at the back of the hotel, beside the boiler machinery and the maintenance department. In the corridor on the way there I to my surprise heard two Chinese voices. I turned the corner and found Ho-Yan, looking immensely startled at being walked in on, and a taller, thinner young man of about twenty. He had a scar on his left cheek which at first glance looked like a laugh-line. They had been speaking a dialect of Chinese I did not recognise.
‘What’s going on?’ I said.
Ho-Yan, smiling with embarrassment, said:
‘Master, this is my brother Man-Lee. He has just arrived here from our home in Fukien. He does not speak English.’
He said something to Man-Lee, who gave a deep nod that was almost a bow. I extended my hand.
‘Please tell him that I am pleased to meet him,’ I said. This was not strictly speaking true. The reason Ho-Yan had gone to Maria’s mission was something to do with trouble at home; the same trouble had pursued him there and eventually brought him to Hong Kong. Whatever Wo Man-Lee looked like, it was not the opposite of trouble. Once you knew the two were brothers you could see the resemblance, but the older brother was visibly tougher and less accommodating. This is not hindsight.
‘My brother is staying with me until he finds work,’ Ho-Yan added. He was no longer at the mission but now shared a room in Mongkok with one of our waiters. I sensed straight away that the mission was unlikely to know about his brother’s arrival in Hong Kong. ‘He came by on an errand. We will keep out of your way, unless we can be of any assistance.’
‘No, I’m fine. Just doing the bloody inventory, as usual.’
They went away and I unlocked the storeroom, feeling uneasy. I decided that I ought to write to Maria and let her know about this development, since I had at least implicitly taken Ho-Yan into my care. His brother’s arrival struck a wrong note.
In the storeroom, I counted the bottles. Needless to say they were all there. As I was finishing and locking up, George, the maître d’ (a Cantonese whose un-anglicised name was Zhu), burst into the corridor looking more excited than I had ever seen him.
‘Ah Tom, come quickly! Big fight! In kitchen! Ah Luc’ – Jean-Luc – ‘and Ah Wang!’
We ran back through the maintenance quarters, along the passage that led to the kitchen and through the swing doors. A ring of jostling and enthusiastic waiters and kitchen staff stood against the walls. Jean-Luc was carrying a meat cleaver which he had plunged halfway through a whole duck. He was now holding this bizarre object aloft in his right hand. Ah Wang was standing five feet away from him with his arms crossed.
‘This is not how you cook a duck! I cannot work in this zoo!’ Jean-Luc screamed at me.
I can’t claim this was unexpected. Jean-Luc had, as predicted, resented Ah Wang’s arrival in ‘his’ kitchen. A blow-up had seemed likely for some time.
‘What seems to be the problem, chef?’ I said.
Jean-Luc had a bad temper even by the standards of his job, the kind of bad temper which becomes worse when people react too calmly.
‘Seems? Seems? The problem is that I cannot work in this fucking zoo!’ He then switched to French for a little while, before switching back to English with the words: ‘These conditions are impossible. Him or me, you must choose.’ He put down the duck and cleaver and he, too, crossed his arms.
‘Let’s have a word in private.’
‘Him or me! Here, now! Choose.’
‘Very well, Jean-Luc. Ah Wang, you are now Head Chef at the Empire Hotel. Jean-Luc, please feel free to go to Mr Masterson to discuss severance terms.’
Jean-Luc did not open the swing doors, he exploded through them, in the process nearly killing a waiter who was returning from serving beef tea to a guest with bronchitis. Ah Wang looked pleased, but, it has to be said, not surprised. I knew something which Jean-Luc didn’t: the late General Chang had loved European food. In all the excitement, I forgot about my letter to Maria.
Chapter Five
‘This is the only interesting thing I’ve seen since we left London,’ announced Wilfred Austen. We were standing in the doorway of the Kuan Ti temple in Kennedy Town. Immediately above us was a frieze depicting a battle between Taoist gods. In the middle of the frieze a martial-looking god with four purple arms held two of his opponents’ severed heads and brandished two large pikes.
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