FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  The session in Sidney’s office had affected me. My own mother was Chinese, yet my chances of understanding the complexities of her race seemed remote. Those generations of isolation from Chinese culture, not to mention the influence of my occidental ancestors and compatriots, had reprogrammed my mind and decidedly altered my genes. All I felt was a sense of alienation. Curiously, my unprepossessing appearance didn’t seem to ruin my chances with women, where I was as successful as most of my mates at bunny-hopping. In other words, in the glorious early years of the pill, I got my fair share. For the first time, women were sexually liberated and could decide to go to bed with you without fear of pregnancy, which had often surfaced in the sober morning light. But now, in Singapore, where I more or less blended naturally with the surrounding populace, I was overcome with apprehension. Ronnie’s warning had certainly contributed to my caution, but I knew that even without it, I might still have found myself inhibited by my looks, telling myself that I was unworthy of her, the one woman I longed for more than any other woman I had ever met.

  I was besotted with Mercy B. Lord and spent nights alone in my hotel room trying to unravel her personality, figuring her out, trying to analyse what it was that made her tick. She had been raised a Catholic but within the local community, and was therefore potentially a bridge between the Christian and Buddhist–Taoist cultures. She’d told me more than once that she was constantly aware of the misfortune of her Sino-Japanese blood. All these things must have contributed to who she was. I wondered if I had fallen in love with someone psychologically stuck between cultures, with the need to keep her Japanese heritage secret. I had yet to discover which influence – the Catholic, Japanese, Chinese or Peranakan – was dominant in her.

  Now, in the restaurant, tormented by jealousy, I fretted about the German who was willing to buy what he wanted. Surely Mercy would not consider such an exchange? But then, I asked myself, was she the good Catholic she seemed, full of the moral rectitude firmly inculcated in her by the nuns? Or would Chinese pragmatism and yearning for wealth persuade her to take up the German’s proposed assignation the following night? Five grand American was probably close to six months’ salary in her present position, a temptation that might require a fair dollop of Christian ethics to overcome. Counting rosary beads and saying several hundred Hail Marys might seem a small price to pay for such a highly profitable night.

  Our reception, rather her reception, when we’d entered the Palm Court Grill proved that she was a bombshell, beautiful, sexy and desirable to every man in the room who would, like me, fantasise about her in bed that night. Perhaps the handsome grande dame in the diamond necklace would also do so – you never knew with the upper class. I even conjured up the image of a fat Kraut, now definitely ex-Hitler youth turned rich industrialist, masturbating in the shower in anticipation of tomorrow night with Mercy B. Lord – a disgusting and unworthy thought but nevertheless ashamedly mine.

  These were my confused and not very pleasant musings in the salubrious surroundings of the Palm Court Grill as I ate grilled lobster tail in a ginger, chive, garlic and butter sauce and shared a bottle of champagne with this astonishingly beautiful and charming young woman whose motives or morals I had not the slightest reason to doubt. Moreover, I told myself she was her own woman and free to do anything she wished and I was simply one of the many foreign escorts with whom she would have dined. I knew almost nothing about her personal life and it had been strongly suggested by Ronnie that I not attempt to pry into it.

  Although she was being paid to chaperone me for two weeks, I still felt I owed her much more than a posh meal to thank her for the fortune fortnight she’d given me. She had gone out of her way to show me every aspect of life in Singapore, unpeeling each social layer so that I had, if not an expert’s knowledge, at least a working one of how it functioned and what I would need to know if ever I was to appeal to the hearts and minds of the various segments of society likely to use consumer products. For example, I knew that Dansford Drocker was to bring with him an international soap-powder brand as a new account, which he would personally supervise. Thinking I would get a head start, I’d asked Mercy, ‘What brand of washing powder do people most commonly use in their machines in Singapore?’

  ‘It’s a local brand called Hands On,’ she said, deadpan.

  Trying to be funny, I said, ‘Shouldn’t that be “Hands Off”?’

  She burst out laughing, but not at my joke. ‘Oh, Simon, the average wash is done by hand, fingers and knuckles against a washboard. Most people can only dream of owning a washing machine.’

  So as you can see, there was a whole heap I had to learn not only about Mercy B. Lord, but also about my market. Fortunately, I had impressed her with my enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s as if you’re really interested, Simon. I like that. I like that a lot,’ she’d admitted. ‘Most of my foreign clients are only interested in what they can take from Singapore, and haven’t the slightest interest in the locals, whom they see as merely factory fodder, cheap labour. It’s funny how the poor are not expected to have brains, hearts, feelings or sensitivity, only arms, legs and strong backs, and ears only for receiving instructions.’

  We’d been everywhere, from the obscenely rich streets with unbelievable displays of pure ostentation to the poorest kampongs with rutted, muddy and puddled dirt roads; chooks; ribbed, flea-bitten, mangy mongrel dogs; garbage; and the pervading stench of garlic, rancid cooking oil, open drains and sewage. Mercy B. Lord told me I was fortunate to have missed the season for durian, a delicious-tasting fruit much favoured by the locals with a smell like a bad latrine that pervaded the island’s atmosphere. We’d been up the river in a dinghy equipped with an outboard belching smoke and out to sea on ferries to some of the surrounding islands, big and small – Pedra Branca, Pulau Ubin and Sentosa among others. We’d eaten well: satay from bicycle carts or street stalls and countless delicacies in holes in the wall where we were served food of incredible variety – Malay, Indonesian, Chinese, Indian and a mixture of every one of these cuisines, hot, spicy and invariably delicious.

  We’d met hundreds of people, some of whom spoke Cantonese or Hokkien, though most of the poorer people seemed to speak either Malay or Indonesian. The local Indians spoke either Hindi or Tamil, and in all cases Mercy B. Lord acted as interpreter. Children, emboldened by my smile and the gift of a lolly, would take me by the hand and turn it over and examine my palm. ‘They say they know you’re a foreigner even though you look like a Chinese because the palm of your hand is pink,’ she’d explained on one occasion.

  I’d asked her what she thought of the present one-party government and she’d hesitated for a moment and then said quietly, ‘It is not a subject I can discuss, Simon.’ Then she’d added, ‘For the poor, food on the table and a regular wage is more important than the freedoms permitted in a democracy where they starve.’ In all other things she had been entirely open, as well as a constant, courteous and utterly professional companion and guide.

  But the sum total of Mercy B. Lord was more than all her parts. I longed for every bit of her, on almost any terms, although I couldn’t think of any terms – emotional or otherwise – I had the right or the courage to put to her. I was like a child taken into a lolly shop with money in his pocket but with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth taped. Ronnie’s warning produced fanciful explanations as I lay in bed at night in my hotel room conjuring up a rich and powerful Chinese ‘Ming the Merciless’ billionaire who, for some reason or another, couldn’t openly accept her as his concubine but to whom she was beholden because of some kind of nefarious blackmail. My febrile imagination even considered the word ‘enslaved’. Or perhaps some all-powerful politician leading an outwardly blameless life kept Mercy B. Lord tucked away for his private delectation.

  My addled mind was an indication of the emotional mess I was becoming. In an effort to put myself out of my misery, I’d asked Ronnie to tell me more, to explain why Mercy B. Lord was untouchable. ‘Is it s
imply professional? Is it her job with the Beatrice Fong Agency, or what?’ I’d demanded.

  His reply rocked me back on my feet. ‘Simon, I beg you, don’t take it any further. I can’t and I won’t tell you more, other than to say that the formidable Beatrice Fong has powerful connections, guanxi. You sleep with Mercy B. Lord – that is even if she would consider you – and they’ll throw you out of this country so fast you won’t even bounce. Forget her – she’s out of bounds.’

  I had mixed feelings about the fact that Mercy B. Lord had polished off half a bottle of French champagne as well as the complimentary glass and still seemed perfectly in control. It was a vastly more expensive leg-opener than the legendary Australian Porphyry Pearl. While I hadn’t intended the bottle of champagne to be a means of seduction, I was nevertheless impressed by her demeanour; outwardly nothing appeared to have altered; she was flirtatious and engaging, amusing and considerate of my gastronomic needs, but no more so than when we’d first been seated. My admiration for her expanded commensurably.

  I’d passed the Ronnie grog test on our trial client-entertainment night in Bugis Street, but the hangover I experienced the next morning would, had I shared it equally amongst my premiership-winning Sydney university rugby team, have left them in a parlous state. I vowed never again. I’d made my statement, earned my stripes, and in future it would be a few beers of any brand Ronnie cared to nominate, as long as they were cold. Ronnie could hold his booze, and so it seemed could Mercy B. Lord, and I guess, at great cost to my wellbeing, could I. Five glasses of champagne would have seen most bunnies well on their way to an indiscretion, although I sensed no loosening of any moral resolve Mercy B. Lord may have brought to the evening.

  I could feel the warm glow of the champagne, the first small signs of impending inebriation. Not reckless abandon by any means, but certainly a lessening of inhibitions. Be careful, mate, the voice within my head cautioned. But if Mercy B. Lord felt any such inner glow, she showed no outward signs of it and seemed to be functioning perfectly normally.

  We completed the meal with very ‘English’ fresh strawberries and cream, a pot of fragrant jasmine tea for Mercy B. Lord and coffee and Drambuie for me. She excused herself to go to the ladies and I sat dreading the moment when she must leave me. If only I smoked I could have lit up a good Havana cigar and appeared to any casual observers to be completely at ease, taking my beautiful escort for granted as I blew the aromatic Cuban smoke into the air above my head.

  Mercy B. Lord returned, struggling to suppress a giggle. ‘Lady Townsend invited me to afternoon tea tomorrow,’ she laughed. Looking up at me wide-eyed, she said, ‘It was rather disconcerting. She said that she’d like to get to know me.’

  ‘Lady Townsend?’

  ‘Yes, the lady with the diamond necklace who clapped when we entered.’

  My mind immediately leapt to an outrageous conclusion: another Mercy B. Lord assignation. Holy shit! Things were rapidly getting out of hand – in my overheated imagination, at least. Fortuitously, my flat, bland peasant face is good at concealing emotion. ‘Well, I guess the meaning of that sentence very much depends on inflection,’ I grinned.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you said that, Simon. I thought it might just be my imagination. Anyway, I told her I was unavailable tomorrow.’

  ‘And she said … ?’

  ‘She handed me her card. “Do call me soon,” she said, “I’m sure I can be helpful,” then she added, “Your beauty deserves to be enhanced with diamonds, a subject I know rather well, my dear. But not gold, gold is for when, alas, your skin is somewhat older.” Whatever do you think she meant, Simon?’

  I shrugged. ‘Who can say?’ The evening was effectively over; it was big black Buick time. ‘Your driver will be waiting,’ I said. ‘May I escort you to your limousine, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Oh no, we’re taking a taxi, Simon.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow is Thursday, so I can’t show you the flat, can I?’ She opened the velvet purse and, reaching into it, produced a set of keys. ‘I have the keys so why don’t I show you tonight?’ She hesitated. ‘Unless you’d rather not, of course …’

  I swallowed hard. ‘Great idea. I’ll get the maître d’ to call a cab.’

  By the time the taxi dropped us at a location beside the river I was a mess. Just the thought of being alone with Mercy B. Lord – I mean completely alone at night in a private place where no other person could possibly know we were together – was both tremendously exhilarating and bloody scary. I told myself this was no different from coaxing a bunny to bed, something I’d done several times. You ended up somewhere – her place, yours, an anonymous hotel room – but somewhere private, anyway … What was the difference?

  The difference was that Mercy B. Lord was no bunny and, according to Ronnie, had powerful connections. If we began a relationship and it was discovered, I would be kicked out of Singapore ‘so fast you won’t even bounce’, as he’d put it. Beatrice Fong and Sidney Wing, her boss and my boss, were both somehow implicated in the mystery, and were no doubt friends or more likely shared guanxi. Beatrice was powerfully connected and influential and also, for some reason, guardian of Mercy B. Lord’s love life, which was a conundrum that ended with the word ‘forbidden’ no matter which way you looked at it. It was, I told myself, reason enough to be very careful indeed.

  ‘It is a short walk from here, Simon, perhaps half a mile. In this way even the taxi driver won’t know the location.’

  I didn’t ask her why she thought to take such a precaution. ‘A walk would be nice – the river, a little fresh air – great. Look, it’s a three-quarter moon and light enough to see the neighbourhood. Very clever of you to arrange the moonlight,’ I smiled. ‘But why don’t you go barefoot? Half a mile in six-inch heels on a tarred road isn’t going to be much fun.’ I paused. ‘You can see where you’re going, and you can wash your feet at the flat.’

  ‘My God, a man who understands.’ She stopped and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Simon.’ Then, holding onto my arm for balance, she removed her shoes.

  ‘Here – let me carry them,’ I offered.

  ‘Ah, the tar is still warm,’ she murmured, handing me her shoes. ‘Oh dear, what a lovely relief!’ Then she took my arm and pecked me on the cheek again. ‘Thank you, you’re a very sweet man, Simon,’ she said softly.

  How can a peck so soft it barely brushes the skin leave your heart pounding like a schoolboy’s? And why does the word ‘sweet’, an indication of nothing beyond simple gratitude, create such a flare of hope? It might even have been a gentle and courteous deterrent, a premature warning. Ferchrissake – I was twenty-nine years old! I had lost my virginity at twenty, at a time when girls had to be careful about going ‘the whole way’. But a few years later, with the emancipation brought by the pill, they had been generous with their favours and I wasn’t exactly a novice. Even so, I was no Don Juan, but I genuinely loved women. I mean, I loved the gender, not simply as sex objects but for their complex, funny, caring, wild, generous, intelligent, unpredictable, raunchy, loving, gossiping and even sometimes bitchy natures. I loved the way they smelled, the make-up they used, their skin, hair, everything. But I also loved to make love and never thought, as some guys did, that I’d conquered them in some sort of primordial battle, or that the morning after they became the sexual equivalent of a notch in your rifle butt or a casual boast in the pub.

  Making love was a mutual joy, or so it seemed to me. I’m not suggesting I was a good lover, but I liked to think I was better, perhaps more caring, than average, and those bunnies who chose to sleep with me, I’m happy to say, would invariably do so more than once and seemed to enjoy the way they were treated. Mornings after were nice, too: coffee and toast, freshly squeezed orange juice in the kitchen, the girl perched on my kitchen stool after a shower with a towel wrapped like a maharajah’s turban around her head and wearing my dressing-gown, listening to the radio …

  But this time I had no idea
what the next step might be. Mercy B. Lord, apart from being extraordinarily pleasant, helpful, patient with my ignorance and always obliging, had never given me a reason to feel that she was physically attracted to me. Perhaps because she had grown up in an orphanage, she didn’t touch spontaneously as most women do, and I sensed a reserve, a no-go zone she had marked out. I asked myself what the invitation to inspect the flat could mean. Was it simply because tomorrow was Thursday and she was not available, that my time with her was running short and we needed to make a decision? Or had she planned it for when she was at her most ravishing?

  Anyway, at last the champagne seemed to kick in, and Mercy B. Lord became delightfully animated on the walk, often running a few steps ahead like a child, turning to point something out – the moon reflected on the surface of the river, an elaborate wrought-iron gate painted gold, a red post box with the royal coat of arms, a lingering reminder of the colonial past. We talked nostalgically in a light-hearted way of the past week or so and reminded each other of some of the things we’d seen or enjoyed. She teased me about my silly washing-machine question, then noted that the flat didn’t have a washing machine. Hire a maid to do the cleaning, washing and ironing, she advised. ‘She gets a job and a wage and, besides, a couple of years’ wages won’t cost you a lot more than a washing machine, a dryer and a vacuum cleaner,’ she explained.

  With about a hundred yards to go she pointed out a new-looking multi-storeyed apartment block, imposing only in the sense that the houses surrounding it were traditional Singapore bungalows. High-rise architecture in the mid-sixties still suffered from post-war pragmatism, even though there was no longer a shortage of building materials. Multi-storeyed buildings were square blocks of concrete that made very little attempt to look good, except perhaps for a bit of moulded cement tizz around the window frames and an imposing front door that distinguished them only slightly from a 1950s municipal housing block. The heavy hand of government pragmatism in town planning was everywhere and size was thought to give sufficient prestige. In Singapore at that time, location was the most important factor.