FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  I questioned Mercy B. Lord about Chinese superstitions, and while she agreed that I was right, she reminded me that superstition wasn’t unique to the Chinese and that we all share it in one way or another. Even rational people may feel a twinge on Friday the thirteenth, especially if they walk under a ladder, then see a black cat crossing the road. ‘In the orphanage one of the kids found a natural stain on a river stone that resembled the Virgin Mary. It was around Easter and the nuns immediately saw it as a miracle and reported it to the bishop in Hong Kong. Now every Easter hundreds of pilgrims arrive to pray to the Singapore Virgin who resides in the Hong Kong cathedral.’ She paused and looked directly at me. ‘Several miraculous cures are attributed to her.’

  ‘Aha, ecumenical superstition!’

  ‘Very funny, Simon.’ But I could see she wasn’t amused.

  ‘And you believe it’s an authentic sign? A miracle?’ I asked.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Of course!’

  Sidney and Johnny Wing, the elder brother seated behind his desk, the middle brother in one of the chrome and yellow leather jobs, looked up at us as Ronnie entered with me in tow. Sidney managed the semblance of a welcoming smile, but Johnny immediately looked away, as if my arrival was of little or no importance.

  Johnny Wing, I was to learn, was greatly feared by the mostly Straits-Chinese employees, and his silent, morose demeanour didn’t help endear him to me, either. I was to discover that he wasn’t regarded as a bundle of joy by the newspaper, magazine and radio reps calling into the agency. He never accumulated squeeze, because he never entertained or accepted an invitation.

  Neither of the two brothers stood as I reached down to shake Johnny’s hand and then stretched across the desk to reach Sidney. Both had limp grips, the fingers only barely responding to my touch, but this was simply the Chinese male handshake, more an acknowledgement of someone’s presence than an indication of character or a sign of welcome.

  Ronnie introduced me formally as Koo Kee, adding my Christian name, Simon, almost as an afterthought.

  Sidney said something in Cantonese to Johnny, who nodded and replied without changing his expression. Then the elder Wing leaned back to take a good look at me. ‘Welcome, Kee, please sit,’ he said, pointing to one of the yellow and chrome Scandinavian atrocities.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled and seated myself.

  ‘So, Kee, you look Chinese but, hey, man, you’re Australian?’ This was said with a smile and I took it as a playful comment.

  ‘Yes, fourth-generation. My great-great-grandfather left Shanghai in the mid-1850s for the gold rush in Australia. I’m afraid his was the last marriage to a Chinese woman until my dad married my mum.’ I was conscious of being too voluble, but couldn’t stop. ‘I guess my looks are a throwback, because I’m a dead ringer for my great-great-grandmother.’ I hesitated a moment then said with a grin, ‘In Australia my friends call me Fortune Cookie, but I’d be happy if you called me Simon.’ As replies go, it was overkill.

  Sidney didn’t smile at the mention of my nickname and Johnny showed no reaction whatsoever. ‘The fortune cookie is not Chinese. We do not have such a thing,’ Sidney remarked.

  ‘No, I know, it’s American.’ I grinned again. ‘Most Australians wouldn’t know that.’

  ‘When we print your Chinese name card, Fortune Koo Kee is a very good name. You must use it. It will look good in Chinese characters,’ Sidney said, pleased with his observation. I was to learn that Chinese in business with the West quite often adopted an English name, one that was usually intended to add an impression of power; Hercules, Napoleon, Samson, Churchill and Atlas were common, and Fortune not unusual.

  ‘And how should I address you? By your Chinese names?’

  Stabbing his chest with his forefinger, he said, ‘Sidney,’ then pointed to his brother and said, ‘Johnny.’ Johnny grunted and nodded his head but didn’t smile or even glance at me.

  While outwardly friendly enough, the brothers were beginning to make me feel distinctly awkward. Thank you for the welcoming party over the road,’ I said in an attempt to conceal my lack of composure.

  ‘You look Chinese,’ Sidney persisted. ‘You say your mother is Chinese?’

  ‘Yes, Straits-Chinese.’

  ‘But you can’t speak Cantonese.’ It was a statement, an indictment, not a question. Then, before I could reply, he said, ‘You are half-Chinese and you do not have your mother’s language.’

  There are times in all of our lives when we inexplicably lose the plot, do or say the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong place. It was at that precise moment that I fucked up big-time. Why then I will never know. Perhaps I was already feeling the burden of the job I’d been given by the Yanks and was realising that it wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe it was an overreaction to the premises or to the fear I sensed amongst the production staff of the change I represented. But in retrospect it was unforgiveable, and I can only think that it was an attempt to establish myself as an independent and consequential future creative director of the agency. I simply don’t know, but whatever the reason, I most certainly should have known better and kept my big mouth well and truly shut. I had already overcome the temptation to tell Ronnie about the family restaurant chain, which would have been both unnecessary and decidedly unwise. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know any better. When we were kids, my mother had drummed into us a maxim apparently derived from Little Sparrow: When you are confused or angry, say nothing. I was both confused and angry about the observation Sidney had made to Johnny in Cantonese when we’d entered Sidney’s office, and that I’d understood perfectly.

  I smiled, looking first at Sidney and then at Johnny. ‘I speak and understand Cantonese well enough to know that you insulted me when we entered.’

  It was the first time I heard the infamous Sidney Wing giggle, just two high-pitched notes in a girlish voice.

  Ronnie jumped up. ‘Simon, hey, you must have misunderstood,’ he protested.

  It was my last chance to backpedal but I didn’t take it. Instead, I maintained my slightly superior smile and added the insult of a shrug. ‘What is there to misunderstand? You said plainly, “He looks like a Chinese peasant,” and Johnny here replied, “And that’s the way we’ll treat him!” Shall I repeat it for you in Cantonese?’

  Sidney, his face expressionless, stood up. ‘We will go to the cocktail party now.’ Johnny rose with a grunt and both walked to the door, leaving Ronnie standing and me seated. Moments later their footsteps could be heard crossing the landing to the stairs.

  Ronnie frowned deeply. ‘Shit! What now? This is bad, Simon. They have lost face.’

  ‘And I haven’t? What’s with you guys? Sidney giggled like a fucking schoolgirl when he realised I knew what he’d said.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. He’s always had the giggle, it’s spontaneous, some sort of affliction he can’t control. It can be terribly embarrassing. Once it occurred during an after-dinner speech by the Prime Minister. Fortunately, they were at school together, so he didn’t end up getting a tap on the shoulder from a government goon.’ Ronnie grinned, trying to calm me. ‘If St Vitus’s Dance was a sound, it would be my brother Sidney’s giggle.’

  Ronnie’s lengthy reply gave me time to recover from my anger. ‘So you think I should have taken it on the chin? Said nothing?’ I was growing increasingly mortified by my enormous gaffe, but felt stupidly compelled to defend myself.

  Ronnie thought for a moment. ‘You must find a way to apologise.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Apologise! Me? No way!’ Jesus, Simon Koo, get real, back down!

  ‘Shi mianzi – causing someone to lose face – can have very serious ramifications, Simon. In Chinese society what may appear a minor indiscretion to a Westerner can sometimes create an enemy for life. You must think about this carefully and we must find a way to repair the damage.’

  ‘But shit, Ronnie, this wasn’t of my making. Why doesn’t Sidney find a way to apologise to me?’ It was a final pathet
ic attempt at justification.

  ‘Because it is you who are at fault!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You should have kept your mouth shut. It would have given you the moral advantage – now you have handed it to them.’

  ‘C’mon, Ronnie, I was appointed by New York, not by Sidney.’

  Ronnie laughed. ‘Sidney holds the purse strings. It was never going to be easy to get the budget to hire the right people to build your creative department, but now it will be impossible.’

  I shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. ‘My contract stipulates I become a director after three months and Dansford Drocker, when he arrives as managing director, will support me, and with you on side …’

  Ronnie shook his head. ‘Guanxi, my friend – I will support my brother. I have no choice.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I will do my best to repair this damage, but listen to me carefully, Simon. In future, when dealing with the Chinese, always leave them a way out of any face-losing situation. Get this into your head once and for all: if it is a contest between face and the truth, then face will win every time. If you do not apologise to Sidney and Johnny, then prepare yourself for future acts of revenge, which I seriously doubt you can survive.’ He looked at me steadily. ‘Simon, despite that face of yours, this is not your culture. This is not something you can win. Morality, justice, integrity, call it what you may, none of them play a part in this.’

  I remained silent for quite some time, knowing I was between a rock and a hard place. ‘Okay, so how do I go about this?’

  ‘Simple. We retranslate,’ Ronnie said, obviously relieved.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Well, you were mistaken about what you heard. Your knowledge of Cantonese unfortunately let you down, a common enough occurrence with foreigners who do not speak it as their mother tongue. Now, with my help in translation, what was said is entirely the opposite to the unfortunate meaning you placed on what they in fact said.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘One word, that’s all you need to change, and not the word, just the inflection. You heard Sidney say, “He looks like a Chinese peasant.” ’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he did say.’

  ‘No, no, you’re quite wrong! You think the word peasant was an insult. In our society a peasant can become rich and powerful and enjoy every privilege. We do not have a class structure the way you do in the West. What Sidney really said was, “He looks like a Chinese,” and Johnny then replied, “And that’s the way we’ll treat him,” meaning that you will be treated like one of us.’ Ronnie spread his hands. ‘See how easy it is to get the wrong end of the stick when you’re not absolutely fluent in a foreign language?’

  It was clever, very clever, and I almost believed Ronnie’s off-the-cuff explanation, but more importantly I knew I must accept it. I grimaced. ‘I asked you to be honest with me and you have been. Now, how do we go about this so that I don’t have to eat crow?’

  ‘Eat crow?’

  I grinned, ‘It’s Australian for losing face.’

  ‘You must stay here and I will fetch them and explain how the mistake was made and that you wish to most humbly apologise and appear genuinely contrite. Then we will all return together and mix with the staff, and Sidney will welcome you and tell the staff how fortunate we are to have you join the agency.’

  ‘Simple as that – I just cop it sweet?’

  ‘More Australian idioms?’

  ‘Yes, it means I just have to accept what’s coming to me, that I am going to lose face. Will that be enough?’

  ‘I hope so. When aroused, my brother can be a vengeful bastard.’

  ‘Okay, go ahead. I’ll wait here and practise looking abject and truly humble.’ I grinned. ‘Oh, and by the way, I know I’m a dead ringer for a Chinese peasant.’

  Ronnie turned and took a step towards the door, then he half-turned and gave me a serious look. Ignoring my self-deprecating attempt to lighten the mood, he said, ‘I am confident you get the idea, so make it look good, Simon.’

  ‘I’ll try, mate, but I don’t know if I’ll ever understand your mob.’

  ‘You won’t, so don’t try too hard. When in doubt, say nothing or ask me.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what my mum says. I should have remembered.’

  He paused, looking down at his shoes. ‘Never trust a Chinese in business, not even me. Forget about such nice Christian concepts as conscience or guilt. Anything is permitted as long as you don’t get caught or it directly compromises your guanxi.’

  ‘Ronnie, why are you doing this? I mean helping me? For instance, how do you know you can trust me?’

  ‘When I was no longer capable of standing after our tour of Bugis Street, you carried me to a taxi, took me home, put me to bed and haven’t mentioned it since. You allowed me to save face.’

  I laughed. ‘Mate, you’ve got it wrong! I don’t recall a thing about that day.’

  He smiled. ‘Stay there, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’

  Ronnie must have done a great job on his two elder brothers because when they returned Sidney smiled and Johnny almost did. Looking humble, eyes downcast, I explained my inadequacy with Cantonese and begged for their forgiveness, which was duly and seemingly generously granted. I promised fervently to become more proficient at the language.

  ‘Now you are one of us,’ Sidney said finally and then let out his girly giggle. Ronnie’s previous warning about causing him to lose face meant that I’d probably not been forgiven, and I had a distinct feeling Sidney had made up his mind about me. Perhaps it was simply the position I was going to occupy in the agency that he disliked – making creative decisions where previously he had been the sole arbiter of everything.

  Returning to the cocktail party, Sidney, with Johnny nodding all the while, dutifully jumped through the welcoming hoops, but the overall atmosphere in the hotel room remained edgy and tense, in particular when members of the staff were addressed by either of the two older brothers. It was fairly obvious that both Wings felt something verging on disdain for the general run of employees, who, not surprisingly, were extremely uneasy and overly attentive (we would say ‘sycophantic’) in their presence. I’m certain I wasn’t the only person in the room who was hugely relieved when, at eight o’clock, this social misery was finally over.

  Fortunately, I wasn’t required to go to dinner with the Wings. I had, amazingly, delightfully, and at her suggestion, a dinner date with Mercy B. Lord. Under normal circumstances I would probably have gone back to the hotel to lick my wounds and attempt to assuage my mortification with a few beers, but I’d been looking forward to this dinner for the past two days. Her invitation had been delightfully couched. ‘Simon, I have been to a Wing cocktail party. Ronnie works the crowd as best he can, but he can’t compete with the deathly miasma produced by the other two brothers. You’re going to need cheering up afterwards, and so I give you permission to take me to dinner. Besides, I have just had a new cheongsam made and I’m anxious to get your opinion on it.’

  ‘My opinion?’ I’d asked, surprised.

  ‘Of course. You knew about Mary Quant and greatly surprised me by remarking on my Vidal Sassoon hairstyle. Not too many men could do that.’

  She wasn’t to know, but I’d learnt everything I knew from Sue Chipchase, who’d been an early adopter of the Mary Quant miniskirt – hardly surprising, with her legs. She wore her blonde hair in what she’d once described to me as the famous five-point geometric cut by Vidal Sassoon. I distinctly recall her casting scorn on the beehive fashion most of the bunnies had affected. ‘It looks like a nice place for all sorts of nasties to live, darling,’ she’d said in a very Vogue voice with one eyebrow arched.

  In fact, Sue Chipchase and Mercy B. Lord could have been the Snow White and Rose Red of style, each with similar fashion sense, glorious legs and the same helmet-style haircut worn close to the head with five geometric points lying against their cheeks and necks, the pure gold Chipchase sheen repla
ced by the polished anthracite of Miss Mercy B. Lord. I asked myself whether I had fallen in love-lust with an oriental Chipchase, who, like the golden version, was also forbidden fruit.

  And now this peach had asked me to invite her to dinner after what she correctly surmised would be a disastrous welcoming party – quite how disastrous I decided on my return to the hotel not to mention.

  I was greatly looking forward to the dinner and even more so because she was allowing it to be my treat. I’d longed for just such an occasion but had been reluctant to ask. Mercy B. Lord was with me from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. every day except Thursday, when she was needed in the office. The problem I faced was that I knew if I asked her to dinner she would be obliged to accept. Ronnie’s cryptic warning and my own battered looks were both discouraging, but now, to my enormous delight, she’d taken the initiative. After ten days my bruised jaw had recovered, the cut to my neck had healed and only a smudge of purple and yellow showed below my eyebrow; I was almost back to being just plain old unprepossessing Simon, who, you will recall, was hardly God’s gift to womankind.

  ‘I insist on taking you to a posh restaurant where the Beatrice Fong Agency isn’t owed squeeze,’ I’d said at the time.

  ‘I’ve picked the restaurant,’ Mercy B. Lord replied, then grinned. ‘Not a hint of squeeze in sight.’

  ‘Good, but expensive, I trust.’

  She laughed merrily. ‘One goes there to be seen and that’s always expensive.’