‘Well, that’s very sad,’ Miss Bachelor replied, ‘but, isn’t it nice to know she’s in heaven with all the angels?’
My hand shot up. ‘No she isn’t, Miss. She’s in one of my daddy’s coffins!’
My family has made a zillion dollars waiting at the end of the line to bathe and dress your ordinary bloke or sheila for the very last time: arranging the hair; applying pancake and filler to hide wrinkles, liver spots or burst capillaries; surgically collapsing beer guts so corpses fit into caskets; adding lippy, mascara and a little eye shadow. You’d think being in the funeral business we’d be in the thick of things. But the hoi polloi were still a mystery to me. I was, in truth, several steps removed from the lives of most of the people who went to their final rest under my family’s expert ministrations.
Ordinary people (and I hated myself for thinking this) were almost a different species. The living, breathing, spitting, fighting, lonely desperate housewife or her jobless, alcohol-fuelled, frustrated husband; the suicidal teenagers; the abused kids out there on the streets; the ordinary Mr and Mrs Average with their 2.5 children in the ’burbs – all were strangers to me. The closest I ever got to any of them was listening to some pumped-up, sassy-arsed, horn-rimmed behavioural-psychology graduate-turned-researcher talking about the subliminal effects of three cigarettes sticking out of a hard pack or the phallic pleasure young women derived from all-white filter tips in a tactile soft pack.
I don’t mean I was superior. God knows my family’s social journey over four generations was as common as they come. I’ve honestly never seen myself as better or smarter, and in the looks department I’m way behind almost everyone. But, for instance, I couldn’t imagine my mother having a crap, or even having the need for one. People in the street, yeah, that was easy, even the bunnies in the agency … but surely not my elegant mother? I simply could not envision her – feet in those Charles Jourdan high-heeled courts nestling within her lacy knickers, the skirt of her navy Chanel suit rucked up around her waist – reaching for the gold-plated crap-paper holder with manicured fingers that carried a hundred grand’s worth of gold and ice. See what I mean? It really was high time I jumped off the deep end and swam out into the real world.
Singapore was real, and I assured myself that I’d only be gone for three years – a change of scene, renewed inspiration for my painting, proof that I wasn’t entirely worthless, and the chance to build the best advertising creative department in Asia. Moreover, I’d be rid of the W.D. & H.O. Wills account forever, and a lengthy plane flight away from the pervasive influence of my family and the death business. By this, I mainly meant Forceful Phyllis, aka Chairman Meow or Mother, who had never ceased to pry into my life, overseeing all I did even now. Much as I truly loved her, it was time to free myself from her influence. The only downside to Singapore was my mum’s dreaded Chinese family. No doubt she would manage her network of relatives as effectively as any spymaster, but I told myself that if I showed sufficient reserve and was no more than politely dutiful, they’d be manageable.
And there was one more reason for going to Singapore: I longed for anonymity, to simply walk down a street and be just another face in the crowd. It wasn’t the fact that I had a Chinese face – there were lots of those in Sydney – it was that mine seemed hard to ignore. People glanced at me for a little longer than they might look at any other person they’d pass in the street. They’d do the same to people in wheelchairs. While I wasn’t a freak and had no physical deformities, my face was round and flat, with a button nose and fairly large mouth that turned up slightly at the corners. My mother would say, ‘Simon was born with a smile on his face.’ I recall that at art school when we were studying human features, using each other as models, a smart-arse student named Ken Done painted a portrait of me as a pale yellow dinner plate with two long black olives for my eyes, a tiny potato for my nose and a small, slightly bent cucumber for my mouth and called it Koocumber Salad. Somehow it bore an uncanny resemblance to the original, and everyone recognised me immediately and had a good laugh, including myself, until the bastard got a high distinction for it. But despite my face, to stick to the food analogy, I felt about as Chinese as Yorkshire pudding.
I dialled Graceless Gertie when I arrived at the agency at 8.45 a.m. on Wednesday, only to be ticked off sharply and told that she didn’t expect to be called before 9 a.m., when the agency officially opened for business, and furthermore that the chairman arrived in his office around 11 a.m. and she’d call me when he felt disposed to see me.
Oops, off on the wrong foot yet again! Naturally I knew what time he arrived, but it had seemed advisable to be on the record as having called first thing. In fact I’d hoped Gertie might not have arrived yet, so I could later casually mention that I’d called previously and gather a few much-needed Brownie points.
I was aware that I’d been somewhat forward during our initial encounter, after Brickman, with a little help from his dragon lady, had ruffled my feathers. So I decided that this time I would keep my cool, no matter how irascible he, or they, proved to be. If he referred to Chinese pussy, I would attempt a conspiratorial grin. I would offer to carry the chair in with me in an attempt to make a good impression on both of them, having guessed that they worked as a team, a hunch Odette had confirmed at our lunch yesterday.
Despite the asinine little lecture from Her Grace (my future name for her), I remained upbeat. Besides, if I agreed to go to Singapore, surely they’d be pleased. My confidence was slightly shaken when, at ten minutes past nine, Her Grace called and said in a clipped voice, ‘Mr Koo, under no circumstances are you to leave your office until the chairman calls you … whenever that might be.’ For a moment I considered our relative rank in the agency and thought I probably didn’t have to take her crap, but decided to let it pass. ‘Kindly do not be late this time, Mr Koo.’ Her sharp tongue was plainly the result of years of practising the art of being bloody difficult. I’ve noticed that some people take every opportunity to exercise their skill at getting under one’s skin. Not me, not today, no way, José. Today I’m bulletproof.
I called Odette on the switch and asked her to give me a bell the moment the chairman arrived. She had previously told me he called her as soon as he removed his suit jacket. ‘It’s always the same routine, never so much as a good morning, just straight down to business. Always the same bark down the phone. He tells me who he doesn’t want to speak to each day, who to keep waiting to the point of rudeness and who to put through immediately.’ She giggled. ‘Bob Menzies is mentioned as the number-one no-speak every morning, even though he hasn’t called since they quarrelled after the election in 1949!’ After a pause she had looked at me directly and said, ‘By the way, be warned, Cookie. Charles Brickman never forgives and never forgets.’
Of course, with Bob Menzies at the top of the list, I didn’t for a moment think that small-fry like me would qualify for even the lowest spot on the chairman’s hate list. On the other hand, by ignoring her call to place the chair elsewhere, I may well have made it onto Her Grace’s list.
I disregarded her instruction to stay put, until Odette called me to say the chairman had arrived just after 11 a.m.; then I thought I’d better stay put, which meant being stuck in my office for the remainder of the morning and through my lunch hour. By 2.30 I was feeling the effects of the four cups of coffee I’d consumed earlier and was busting for a slash. Of course, you guessed it, the chairman’s call via Her Grace came while I was pointing at the porcelain. I returned to find the red light on my phone throbbing as if in pain, which meant call the switch.
‘She’s not happy, Cookie. Better skedaddle upstairs. Chairman’s waiting,’ Odette informed me.
I’d borrowed a blue and white polka-dot tie from my dad to replace Mickey Mouse playing the banjo on a bright pink background – the tie I’d worn to our previous meeting. As I recall, I’d even dabbed Brylcreem on my coarse, longish hair. Greasy Hippy – not a good look. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Grace.’ Her mouth was pu
lled into the characteristic duck’s arsehole. ‘Shall I take the chair in with me?’
‘I see you make a habit of being late, Mr Koo.’ She nodded towards the chair in the corner.
‘Sorry, I was in the men’s.’ I kept my voice cheery as I retrieved the chair.
‘You may go in,’ she said with a terse nod.
Brickman sat at his desk, positively yelling down the phone at someone whom I took, after listening for a few moments, to be the gardener. ‘Bring the Victoria Brickman camellias out of the bottom nursery! The ones you bagged and tied last week. I want them put down the driveway! Four foot apart. Use a tape measure. Take the Queen Elizabeth standards out and burn them. Should have done the same to the ex. I told the stupid woman roses weren’t right for that location; nothing but mildew and black spot! Besides, they’re pink. I fucking hate pink!’
Good thing I didn’t wear the pink Mickey Mouse tie. I realised that the conversation might be going on for a while so I placed the chair carefully on the Aubusson and sat down to wait while the chairman continued his tirade.
‘Josef, now you be bloody careful with those camellias! Check the pH of the soil first. I want the prize for new varietals at next year’s show. If I don’t get it, I’ll have your miserable wop guts for garters.’ He paused. ‘Josef, I mean it. There’s been a lot of work gone into creating that camellia. You should bloody know that! Oh, and tell Mrs Josef I’d like her spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tonight. Righto then.’ He slammed down the phone. ‘Bloody nurserymen, think they know everything!’ he muttered. ‘Yes, well, what’s it to be, Koo?’ His voice was only half a decibel or two below the tone used for the hapless Josef but he retained the impatience.
‘I’ve decided to accept the job in Singapore, sir … Thank you,’ I added hastily.
‘Pussy, eh?’ It was strange, a bloke like him being obsessed with a new camellia and then suddenly switching to the subject of sex. Or perhaps not, when you think of stamens, cross-pollination and the like.
I attempted a determined grin. ‘No, sir … I’d like the opportunity to build my own creative department.’
‘Umph!’ But then he seemed to focus and in a fairly jovial voice said, ‘Well, that’s good, Koo. Three years, that’s the contract. Don’t let us down, son. Show ’em we Australians mean business.’
‘Show who, sir – the Wing brothers?’
‘Nah, they’re bloody lucky to get you. I mean the Yanks. Feather in our cap sending someone like you who looks the part. You are Australian, aren’t you, Koo? Oh, yes, I remember. Fourth-generation. Throwback.’ He reached over and took a cigarette from an open silver box that hadn’t been on his desk the last time I’d been in his office. I later learned from Odette that, in a fit of pique, he’d thrown it against the wall and it had only recently been returned from the jeweller. The top of the lid was facing me and I read the inscription:
To Charles Brickman
In appreciation
Bob Menzies
The New Liberal Party
1946
He tapped one end of the fag on the surface of the Georgian desk a couple of times, then absent-mindedly lit up, inhaled, exhaled and fanned the smoke away from his face. ‘Bloody gaspers,’ he said, placing the Ronson desk lighter back beside the box. ‘Any questions?’ Both remarks were made in the same flat voice, without a pause. He wasn’t coughing as much this time, though each sentence was still punctuated with a small gasp and his voice was gravel shifting over tin.
‘Yes, sir – when? When am I expected to arrive?’
Brickman stabbed the intercom. ‘Miss Grace, when?’
‘When what, Mr Brickman?’ came the crackling reply.
Second stab at the intercom. ‘When is Mr Koo needed in Singapore?’
Silence, then Miss Grace appeared and crossed to his desk to stand directly beside me. Reaching over, she removed several sheets of paper from his in-tray and I caught a whiff of her perfume. It evoked dead rose petals and violets in small muslin bags found in the underwear drawers of old ladies. ‘The contract, it’s all in there,’ she said, placing it in front of him. ‘Mr Koo has to sign it there,’ she stabbed a freckled finger at the last line on the first page, ‘and then initial the bottom of every page.’
‘Yeah, righto,’ Brickman said impatiently, ‘every page.’ Then he picked up the contract and began to read, cigarette held above his shoulder, smoke curling up to the ceiling. My eyes followed it and I noticed, to my surprise, that the white gloss ceiling directly above his head was stained a dirty brown with nicotine. Curiously, it suited the elegant room, made it seem more lived in, gave all the antiques a present tense, a current working life.
The document, I remember, was six pages in total, and either Charles Brickman was the world speed-reading champion or he was only pretending to read. Each page took him about ten seconds, his breathing punctuated with regular wheezy gasps and the occasional grunt. After a minute or so he looked up, slapped the contract down again, puffed, exhaled and said, ‘Pretty straightforward. Don’t seem to be any problems.’
‘I’d like to read it, sir.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he pushed the contract across the desk. ‘Go ahead, son.’
‘Er … May I take it away with me?’
‘What? Show it to a lawyer? This is white bread, Koo, nothing hidden. Slice it any way you want, it’s plain and simple – snow white on the inside and brown crust on the outside.’ I wondered briefly where he’d picked up this example of Madison Avenue jargon that was so patently out of character for a guy like him. ‘Run it up the flagpole and let’s see who salutes’ was the most commonly used Hollywood-movie example. I confess I had heard very few people use any of these parody lines until I got to Singapore and met Ronnie Wing, the youngest of the three Wing brothers.
‘Still, sir … I’d like to read it carefully.’ I could hear my mum’s shocked voice: ‘What! You signed it without showing it to Uncle Herbert?’
Uncle Herbie is my dad’s brother, the family lawyer and in Mum’s opinion one of the few members of the family who commands respect. She would refer to him as being sharp as a tack, so he can’t have been a fool. His hair was jet-black and his eyes almond-shaped, except that they were a pale, washed-out blue. On a girl they’d be spectacularly seductive, but on him they were disconcerting and weird, as if they were fading or slowly dying.
‘Koo, what do you know about contracts?’
I grinned. Was he feeding me my next line? ‘Enough to read them carefully before signing them, sir,’ I responded predictably. Perhaps I should have mentioned that I have a Commerce degree.
‘Hmm … Righto then, have it back in an hour.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll still be here to witness it.’
‘I’d like at least until morning, sir.’
His bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘It’s only six pages, Koo!’
‘Still, I’d like to take it home, sir.’ The whole thing was getting a little out of hand, but I must have had some of Chairman Meow’s genes because I was not going to budge. Anyway, a six-page contract was bloody long.
Brickman sighed and stabbed his fag to death in the beautiful ashtray. ‘Righto, son, good move,’ he said, to my surprise. I recall he wore what might, conceivably, emerge as a smile, given enough time.
‘Thank you, sir. What time shall I return it?’
‘When your lawyer has looked it over, of course,’ he said with a wave of the hand. He paused and the smile emerged in all its tobacco-stained splendour. ‘Oh, and Koo, while you’re about it, whatever salary package they offer, double it, and build in a new business bonus – 3 per cent of the gross total billing for the first three years based on media-placement billing and production costs. Not the net profit – there’s never a net profit after the bloody accountants have made all their highly imaginative deductions. Then, after three years, for as long as the account and you stay with the agency, 2 per cent of the gross. I’m not sure who’s paying, the Americans or the Chinese. Either way it’s
not us.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, there’s also a hardship allowance.’
‘Hardship?’
‘Yes, mysterious East, malaria, dengue fever, dysentery, open drains, shit and piss in the kampongs and rivers, living away from home, missing loved ones – let’s say that’s an extra grand a year. Do you know anyone in Singapore?’
‘Yes, sir, my mother has relatives there.’
‘Business?’
‘Yes, sir, palm oil. They’re among the biggest exporters.’
‘Good. Have them look at some suitable accommodation for you. It’s a small island, a bit broken-down, but this bloke Lee Kuan Yew is changing things for the better. You see, Singapore is the ideal bridge between East and West. The international brands are becoming interested in the Asian market. That’s why New York is buying into Wing Brothers.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Their clients can see the potential in an emerging market and want a piece of the action. Millions of potential new shoppers buying soap, detergent, tobacco, Coca-Cola, you name it. You can assume accommodation will be scarce and rents sky-high. If we’re the first international agency in the market, you can bet your army boots that others will soon follow. Get someone in your family to work out the cost of what would be suitable for your needs in terms of size, prestige and location. Rent at the high end of the market. Put that in the contract. Spell it out, right down to the dishwasher – that’s the housekeeper’s salary. Remember, it’s the level of his accommodation that makes a single senior executive look good.’ He paused, threw his head back and blew smoke into the air. ‘You must have the best, number-one pussy trap. Don’t put that into the contract, but be sure to spell everything else out precisely. You’re only going to get one go at it. It’s all about being taken seriously by our Chinese agency partners.’
What he was talking about was ‘face’. The Chinese are very big on face. My mum uses the word at least twenty times a day. To lose face is a fate worse than death to the Chinese.
FORTUNE COOKIE Page 10