I recall almost every word of that first telephone call to Samuel Oswald Wing, the day after I arrived in Singapore. I was bright and bushy-tailed in my new khaki gabardine suit, blue shirt and shiny shoes, and ready to start my brilliant new career. Ronnie was the first Wing I spoke to and the first I was to meet face to face, but ‘spoke to’ is not really accurate, because before I had time to say anything, he was off again. ‘Congratulations, you are the star on the top of the Christmas tree, Simon.’
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘Star billing even before I start?’
‘Absolutely! Your two ads in the New York Art Directors Annual are 100 per cent shrink-proof, double-stitched ant’s pants. Yes, sir! Singapore gets the show pony that’s hot to trot, the best of the lot!’
‘Mr Wing,’ I laughed, ‘we have yet to meet. I’m almost as broad as I am tall and if I was a pony I’d have trouble raising a trot – I have a black eye and a bruised cheekbone – but I was hoping I might come into the agency. You know, meet you all, see my office, familiarise myself with the location, all the usual stuff …’
‘No, no, no, I must come to you first, Simon! It is the Chinese way. Lunch at the Town Club, a hotel limo will take you. I will call them now. Does twelve o’clock suit? We will chew the creative fat.’
I confess I winced. The idea of this maker of bad metaphors holding me captive in his club for the afternoon didn’t appeal one bit. I hesitated, then asked, ‘Would it be appropriate to invite Miss Mercy B. Lord?’
‘Jesus Christ, no!’ Ronnie Wing was obviously taken completely by surprise, then quickly recovering, he said, ‘No women allowed, old chap, it is the Chinese way.’
‘Mr Wing, how will I recognise you?’ I was to learn that ‘the Chinese way’ was anything Ronnie wanted it to be at the time; it was his major ethnic weapon.
‘Just tell the doorman you’re Ronnie Wing’s guest. I will have signed you in.’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘Oh, and, Simon, it’s Ronnie. We are going to be close creative buddies, collaborators, fellow conspirators, in fact – two peas in a very exciting creative pod.’ He laughed. ‘The cart horse and the show pony. I’ll pull and you can run ahead, a two-horse show, eh?’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE TAXI DROPPED ME off at the Town Club in Battery Road at the mouth of the Singapore River. It was not without some trepidation that I entered the bar just a minute or so before noon on my first full day in Singapore. If the phone call was any indication, I was about to meet a Chinese bloke who appeared to have introduced ad-speak into Asia, and I wasn’t sure I was quite up to the task of participating in a luncheon conversation littered with clichés. My busted cheek, bunged-up eye and the large patch of white surgical plaster just under my ear did nothing for my confidence either. Pull yourself together, Simon, I thought. Pretend you’re down at the pub listening to Ross Quinlivan delivering his one-liners: ‘The only thing less substantial than the smoke in this morning’s Wills meeting was the client, who, as usual, left all the hard decisions up in the air.’ Hopefully Ronnie Wing would talk about what needed to be done to build a creative department. That is, if he realised the need for one in the first place.
Lunch obviously began early in the tropics. The bar was already one-deep and all the stools seemed to be occupied. All were expats, I noted with some surprise. All wore lightweight tropical suits, white shirts and conservative, nondescript ties. Most were distinguished by being overweight, from pot-bellied to grossly fat. I’d imagined that, with the federation of Malaysia, independence would have put an end to colonialism, but this mob looked every inch the part, and I was soon to learn that the narrow-minded, bigoted archetype was still very much alive and well in Singaporean society.
Then I saw that one stool was vacant at the far end of the bar next to a tall, thin Chinese wearing a blue striped seersucker suit and a pink shirt with a brightly coloured psychedelic tie, similar to one I owned. Perhaps it was not as ‘look-at-me’ as the Mickey-Mouse-with-banjo tie, nonetheless it was out there attempting to make some sort of statement. Resting precariously on the padded leather stool was a martini, the green olive clear to see in the elegant glass. From his voice over the phone, I’d expected a short chubby guy, not a beanpole. Ronnie Wing was really very tall for a Chinese – six foot and then some – his black hair worn long in a very un-Chinese haircut that was especially noticeable among the short-back-and-siders lining the bar.
Truly tall Chinese are not that common in Australia, and I realised that I’d subconsciously hoped for a shortarse like myself. Ronnie Wing was hunched over the bar, both hands loosely encircling his own martini glass, staring into space or, rather, at the spirits bottles against the mirrored wall behind the bar.
Several of the men glanced over at me as I entered and I couldn’t say their looks were overly welcoming or even neutral, as one might expect on entering a bar, even at a private club. I thought my somewhat battered face might be the reason, although I didn’t exactly look prepossessing at the best of times.
Walking up to the Chinese guy, I said, ‘Ronnie? Ronnie Wing?’
He jumped at the sound of his name, as if he’d been deep in thought. ‘Jesus, you’re Chinese,’ he said, turning to face me.
‘Yeah, fourth-generation throwback,’ I laughed.
‘You should have told me,’ he said, recovering. ‘We could have gone somewhere else.’
‘Why?’ I said, looking around. ‘This seems okay.’
‘As a general rule, no Asians are allowed.’
‘Well, that’s okay. I’m Australian, but you’re Chinese, I take it?’
‘Well, yes, Straits-Chinese, not entirely the same thing.’
‘The same as my mother. Nevertheless, Asian …’
‘Of course, but only half a dozen or so families – the males, of course – are members here: Long Me Saw, one of the movie magnate brothers; the Sultan of Brunei; a couple of billionaires whose families, like ours, go back two or three generations. Some were heroes, or served the British somewhere along the line, and were rewarded with honorary membership in perpetuity.’
I was hard put to see his point and realised I shouldn’t pursue the subject, but I couldn’t resist one last question. ‘Ronnie, how is Straits-Chinese different? As I said, my mum is Straits-Chinese like you, but she’s obsessed with the Chinese aspect.’
‘You mean how do Straits-Chinese differ in culture from the Chinese somewhere else? Like, say, Hong Kong?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Well, it’s quite different here in Singapore, where mixed marriages with the Javanese and Malays are not unusual. I look very Chinese because my father, like his father before him, went back to China to find his wife. But whether we’re racially mixed – that is, Peranakan – or not, we still think of ourselves as Chinese unless we marry Caucasians; then our offspring are Eurasian.’
‘But your culture, do you follow traditional Chinese customs?’ It seemed I couldn’t stop myself asking dumb questions. My nerves were getting the better of me.
Ronnie Wing nodded politely, no doubt wondering when this crap would end. ‘Yes, a lot of stuff comes from the old culture – attitudes, religion, beliefs, festivals, superstitions – these things die hard for the Chinese. It’s our way to hang on through thick and thin. Even though we are ethnically integrated here in Singapore, we still hark back to China. It’s an old culture and a strong one. Our ethnic group makes up 75 per cent of Singapore’s population.’
I nodded my head briefly towards the men at the bar. ‘And this happy little gin-and-tonic lot think of themselves as the supremos.’
My host laughed. ‘Nothing quite like the English middle class abroad – a place in the sun for shady people.’
‘Well, speaking in plain English, if it’s awkward with me in here, why don’t we go elsewhere?’
Ronnie Wing’s expression changed. ‘No, fuck them. We’re staying.’
That one familiar well-worn expletive broke the ice. I laughed. ‘Mate, good on ya, but it�
�s not going to upset me in the least if we leave.’
Ronnie Wing shook his head then suddenly jumped up. ‘God, what am I doing? Keeping you standing, prattling on like this.’ He indicated the vacant bar stool. ‘Here, sit. I hope you don’t mind, I got you a martini, very dry, Bombay gin.’
I laughed, extended my hand, and he took it. ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ I said. Unlike most Chinese, who barely touch your hand, he had a good firm grip. Okay so far. I placed the glass on the bar and seated myself beside him.
‘Welcome to Singapore, Simon.’ He extended his glass. ‘And chin chin.’ He spoke with just a hint of an American accent.
‘Thanks, Ronnie. Nice to be here.’ We clinked. ‘I better come clean. I’ve never tasted a martini. What makes it dry as opposed to wet?’
‘Martini and Rossi – the dry vermouth – and I personally believe the gin you choose dictates how dry a martini is.’ He chuckled. ‘Never heard of a wet martini. Only degrees of dry.’
I nodded and took a cautious sniff. ‘If this is what the juniper berry smells like, I’m not sure, but there’s always a first time, I guess.’
‘Okay, that’s enough of the small talk. What the fuck happened to your face?’
I was beginning to like this guy. ‘Do you mean the face I was born with or the face I have now after being beaten up by a savage Chinese female assailant?’
He indicated my wounds and said, ‘Are you telling me that happened here … in Singapore?’
I nodded.
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? You only got in last night! What, did you go straight to Bugis Street?’
I kept my expression serious and shook my head. ‘Nah, it happened within a minute of landing in the middle of a tropical rainstorm, when I was viciously attacked by a furious, baby-wielding woman with an umbrella who knocked me down. The police were involved. I was finally rescued by Miss Mercy B. Lord, who cleared things with the cops, took me to the doctor and then out to dinner.’ I could contain myself no longer and started to laugh. ‘Ronnie, you might as well know up front what a drongo I am.’
‘Drongo?’
‘Fool. Actually, the term comes from the word for a dud racehorse, but drongos are really birds. Miss Mercy B. Lord has promised to teach me the customs so I can stay out of trouble.’
‘I hope you prove to be a fast learner, Simon,’ Ronnie Wing said laconically.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ I picked up the martini and took a fairly generous slug. My mouth exploded and I sprayed gin and vermouth onto the tiled floor at my feet. ‘Jeezus!’ I said, wiping my mouth. The men at the bar turned as one to observe me. I had ‘done an airport’ within a couple of minutes of arriving, but this time I was not the only one who lost face.
‘I see what Mercy B. Lord means,’ Ronnie said nonchalantly. He wasn’t buckling to the fuckwits who’d turned to stare. ‘Your first martini always tastes like an old crone’s piss.’ This got a laugh from most of the expat eavesdroppers and I could see Ronnie had recovered effortlessly from an awkward situation. The men at the bar resumed their conversations and Ronnie said quietly, ‘Would you like a Carlsberg instead?’
‘Yes, please, any beer will do.’ I was to learn that Ronnie only talked brand names. The beer was set before me as, almost simultaneously, a servant in a starched white uniform with large, highly polished brass buttons arrived with a mop and bucket.
I reached for my wallet to give him a tip but Ronnie gripped my arm. ‘My club, old chap. You can’t use your money here, you’ll get me into trouble.’
‘But I —’
‘Not the Chinese way,’ he said, then added with a grin, ‘I’ll lose face.’
‘You mean, again,’ I said. Over the beer I told him the details of my humiliation and loss of face at the airport. ‘So if it hadn’t been for Miss Mercy B. Lord,’ I concluded, ‘I would probably have had to use my one telephone call to get you to bail me out after a cold, wet night in a police cell.’
‘She’s the best in the business,’ Ronnie said, ‘and Beatrice Fong is one of the few people Sidney doesn’t resent paying for her services.’
‘Oh, I thought the Americans were picking up the tab.’
‘They are, but Sidney uses Beatrice in various ways.’ Ronnie didn’t choose to elaborate. ‘We want you to spend the next two weeks with Mercy B. Lord getting your bearings. It will give us time to build your office,’ he added.
‘What? I’m not to come in for two weeks?’ I asked, surprised.
He shrugged. ‘No point, no office. I don’t have one, so you can’t share mine. Besides, you’ll be flat-out finding a place to live and learning your way around.’ He paused, sipping at his second martini. ‘Oh, and, Simon, take my advice, she’s a real doll – but then you know that already – just don’t try to sleep with her.’ He paused momentarily. ‘It doesn’t make Aunt Beatrice happy when you shit on her office doorstep. And Beatrice Fong’s displeasure is not to be taken lightly.’
‘Of course,’ I exclaimed. ‘I wouldn’t dream —’
‘Oh, yes you would,’ he assured me. ‘Comfort yourself that this town is crawling with girls, most of them excellent, obliging and cheap. Anything you could possibly want is yours for the asking, except Miss Mercy B. Lord.’
‘As I said, no problem. I understand the doorstep rule, but is that because she’s already taken?’
‘No, she’s unattached,’ he said, not explaining further. Then, lifting his martini, he downed it in a single gulp, reached over and bottomed what was left of mine. ‘Come, finish your Carlsberg and let’s have a bite to eat, and then we’ll go out to play and possibly get gloriously drunk.’
I chug-a-lugged my beer and we set off for the club dining room. ‘The chow’s not bad – the curry’s excellent,’ he informed me on the way. We were seated, with a fair bit of fuss from the maître d’, at a table covered in heavily starched damask with table napkins of the same persuasion and monogrammed cutlery. Chairman Meow would have approved. Ronnie ordered a brand of gewürztraminer, and while he was quite specific about it, I don’t remember the particular label. ‘Ronnie, not for me, mate.’ I held up my hand. Table wine, as opposed to plonk – cheap sherry and port – was just beginning to become popular in Australia. But, to use an advertising term, I was not among the early adopters, those few in any population who start a trend, although some blokes testified that Porphyry Pearl was a guaranteed leg-opener. Some years later I would recall Ronnie’s choice as indicative of the Chinese preference for sweet wines, but at the time I knew nothing about the subject.
‘No wine?’ Ronnie said. ‘I always thought you Aussies drank anything containing alcohol.’
I grinned a little sheepishly. ‘I might as well come clean on this as well. I’m not big on the grog, Ronnie, not much of a drinker. A few beers when it’s hot, that’s about it, with the emphasis on a few, two or three max.’
Ronnie Wing gave me a serious look. ‘Simon, I guess this is a personal question but I need to ask it. You see, what we do this afternoon and tonight will be fairly typical of the Singaporean entertainment given to an important visitor.’ He hesitated as the wine waiter brought the wine and poured a taster into his glass, then sipped and nodded approval. ‘Not for my guest, Napoleon,’ he instructed in the local patois I was to learn was called Singlish, and was a pidgin that combined English, Malay, Chinese and Tamil as well as words borrowed from everywhere else. Napoleon filled Ronnie’s glass to the halfway point and took the bottle away, no doubt to keep it chilled elsewhere. ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes. Simon, I guess we’re going to be partners in crime, so I need to ask you a question. Are you a modest drinker because you’re a bad drunk?’
It was a pretty direct question and perhaps I should have taken exception; I probably would have done back home. ‘You mean lose the plot, fight, throw up on the carpet, abuse birds … ?’
Ronnie grinned. ‘You Aussies have a certain turn of phrase that seldom leaves any doubt as to your meaning, but abuse birds? I don’t un
derstand …’
‘Give the lady you’re with a hard time,’ I explained.
He laughed. ‘Oh, I see. For a moment there my imagination conjured up all sort of possibilities. But only a large goose would have been big enough for the activity that sprang to mind.’
We both laughed. ‘No, as a matter of fact I’m a pretty easygoing drunk. I have a dad who gives his elbow a fair workout,’ I said by way of explaining without explaining. In fact, on the few occasions I had been stonkered, after a rugby grand-final win or when the agency had pitched and won a big account over several other ad agencies, I’d always been the last man standing among my legless mates. It may have had something to do with my tree-stump physique. I was fairly firmly planted.
A waiter wheeled up a trolley that contained at least a dozen covered silver dishes of curries and condiments. ‘Know your curries, Simon?’
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