FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘See you at the agency, 9.30 sharp, day after tomorrow!’ I called after her. A hand waved behind the rear window in acknowledgement. ‘Elma Kelly, who in God’s name have you sent me?’ I cried aloud as I climbed into the rear seat of the second cab, once again free to breath God’s fresh air, or at least the sweltering, stifling fug that passed for air in Singapore.

  On the day Mrs Sidebottom was due to visit the agency, Dansford arrived, as usual, precisely at 9 a.m. He looked frail, his face sporting several fresh shaving nicks, and his thick, brick-coloured hair still wet from the shower he’d taken after his stomach had performed its usual series of morning evacuations. Though immaculately laundered and freshly groomed by Chicken Wing, he was nevertheless in no fit condition to be confronted with Mrs Sidebottom’s breath.

  I’d warned him and suggested he remain seated behind his desk while we sat at the coffee table some ten feet away. ‘Dansford, for goodness sake, don’t get up and greet her. I’ll knock twice to allow you to grab the telephone and then when we enter you can smile and indicate the telephone has your attention, then point to the coffee table. For God’s sake, don’t leave your desk.’

  ‘Pretty damned rude, don’t you think?’ he’d replied.

  I looked at him sternly. ‘Mate, take my advice, okay?’

  But of course he did no such thing. I met Mrs Sidebottom in the foyer at nine-fifteen, where I caught just a whiff in passing of Listerine mouthwash fighting a losing battle with the bad breath. The germ-killing gargle had as much hope as a tot hammering its fists against the back of an angry gorilla.

  I knocked twice then opened the door slowly, expecting Dansford to be engaged on the phone, but he rose from behind his desk and came forward to meet us, hand outstretched. The first whiff was sufficient to wipe the welcoming smile from his pale face, the second produced an involuntary movement – his left hand shooting up to cover his nose and mouth – then, bent almost double, stomach heaving, he mumbled something through his fingers and bolted for the door. He later told me he’d retched into the executive toilet bowl, then decided he lacked the courage to return and fled into Sidney Wing’s office.

  I apologised to Mrs Sidebottom more or less honestly. ‘Big night last night. Dansford had a whiskey client from Tennessee who wanted to see the sights, Bugis Street and … well, the bright lights of Singapore,’ I explained.

  Mrs Sidebottom nodded knowingly. ‘No explanation necessary, Simon. My Cecil found himself often enough in Wan Chai for the same reasons – oh, the Wan Chai district is Hong Kong’s equivalent of Bugis and Victoria streets.’

  I showed her the layouts for the Tourist Board pitch and briefed her on the copy I needed. By the time I’d completed this task Dansford still hadn’t reappeared. After I’d apologised again for his absence, we did a brief tour of the agency. Fortuitously, Sidney was in America, Johnny out somewhere and Ronnie had not arrived. I then sent the agency messenger boy out to hail a taxi to take Mrs Sidebottom home. Needless to say, she was henceforth briefed by phone.

  I have often wondered why a misplaced sense of good manners, or a lack of courage, or an excess of kindness prevents us from telling someone, in the nicest possible terms, that they have a bodily odour or some other socially disadvantageous problem that, with some attention, might be overcome. But we don’t. It’s especially difficult with someone who has social pretentions or is genuinely posh. I mean, how would you tell the Queen she had bad breath? I admit, I’m just as much a coward as everyone else.

  I wondered about Cecil, though. Surely, as her husband, he’d say something to her? But then again, if you were born with the name Sidebottom and your parents chose to compound it with a name like Cecil and you took to calling your nearest and dearest Mrs Sidebottom, you probably had enough problems. Come to think of it, Simon Koo isn’t exactly a presidential name either. If, as seemed increasingly remote, Mercy B. Lord agreed to marry me, she’d become Mercy B. Koo! A bad pun on ‘thank you’ in French.

  If I appear to have emphasised Mrs Sidebottom’s weaknesses, then let me hasten to say that she was pleasant and easy to work with and did a great job of the Tourist Promotion Board copy. Furthermore, inspired by her retail experience (as a girl she’d been an assistant to a senior window dresser at Harrods), she suggested the giant panels or screens that, without a doubt, were one of the major contributions to our winning the business.

  Three weeks before the pitch, Sidney Wing returned from America and, after hearing from Johnny about the proposed presentation and the giant screens, called an emergency meeting where he objected vehemently to the expense.

  ‘You’re crazy, Dansford. You won’t win a government account by spending money on wooden panels with pictures,’ he insisted.

  Dansford remained calm. ‘I agree, Sidney, but we’re not spending money on wooden panels with pictures, as you so nicely put it – we’re spending money on a great idea.’

  ‘Who says?’ Johnny could be relied upon to support his older brother.

  ‘Well, I do,’ I said.

  Sidney laughed. ‘Oh, surprise, surprise!’

  ‘It won’t work, Simon,’ Ronnie joined the debate. ‘It’s not the Chinese way.’

  ‘Oh? And what is that?’ Dansford asked.

  Sidney exploded with one of his St Vitus giggles. ‘I’m surprised I need to tell you after all this time.’

  ‘Are you going to say it’s guanxi?’ I suggested.

  ‘Well, well, well – Simon, the expert on Chinese ways,’ Sidney said.

  Ronnie, ever the peacemaker, said quietly, ‘Simon, it won’t work. Listen to Sidney.’

  ‘Go ahead, Sidney, tell us why,’ Dansford said.

  ‘I must lead this team. It’s government business. I have contacts. It was I who brought in Citizen Watches, now a big account. I didn’t spend money on expensive panels! All this creative bullshit! I made a cheap commercial and look what happened. It’s not what you know …’ he left us to complete the sentence.

  ‘The Citizen commercial was a great creative idea that belongs wholly to Simon,’ Dansford said firmly.

  Sidney banged his fist on his desk. ‘Mine! My account!’ he shouted like a recalcitrant child. ‘We will do it my way!’

  Dansford remained calm. ‘That’s not what your prime minister seems to be saying. He has abolished “squeeze” in government; it is a punishable offence.’

  ‘He cannot, you cannot. It is tradition. It will always be the way!’ Sidney insisted.

  ‘Or, for that matter, the impression we got from the brief by Tan Sri Long Me Saw, the chairman, and Molly Ong, the marketing director,’ Dansford offered.

  ‘Ha, they are only puppets!’ Johnny growled.

  ‘With the greatest respect, you don’t know the system and I do!’ Sidney spat.

  Ronnie, attempting to calm things down, said, ‘The accepted etiquette … er … protocol …’

  ‘I need to consult people. There are things I must do. You are spending our money, wasting our money! These panels are just rubbish!’

  ‘And bribing a member or members of the government is the right way?’ I asked. It was getting very heated and decidedly personal, two systems ranged against each other. Smoke and mirrors versus a good idea and transparency – at least, that’s the way I saw it at the time.

  ‘A banquet held for a minister, with the courtesies that follow, is the Chinese way. There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Ronnie protested.

  Dansford sighed, finally losing patience. ‘Not the goddamned Chinese way again!’

  ‘This is bad rice,’ Johnny scowled. ‘You must listen to us.’

  ‘Well, no, Johnny. I don’t think so. We’re going Spam for Uncle Sam.’

  Sidney Wing now completely lost his cool. ‘I will call New York!’ he announced angrily.

  Dansford’s jaw jutted. ‘As you wish, Sidney. While you’re at it, remind them again how you did all the work on Citizen Watches. But we’ll still be going ahead with the panels. Oh, and we won’t be needing you a
t the presentation.’

  Sidney, furious, called New York after we’d left, and pointed out to Arthur Grinds (he who grinds slowly but exceedingly fine) – Senior Vice President International – that it was impossible to win a government account without inside influence and that he, Sidney, should be put in charge of the pitch, given his success with the Citizen campaign, despite the miniscule budget. He urged New York to veto the wasteful expense on the panels at once.

  This resulted in a call from New York to Dansford demanding he explain himself, which he did, sticking his neck way out for the cost involved and insisting we go with the panels. It was a brave decision, as the panels were Mrs Sidebottom’s idea and he could have dropped them without upsetting anyone except me, and I wouldn’t be there forever. The entire presentation was visual, so without the panels we had only a theme and slogan, but we needed to show how it could be made to work.

  We made three revolving screens, each thirty feet high and ten feet wide. Then we produced separate narrow photographic panels with full-colour images printed on them by a local silkscreen company. These were clipped onto the basic panels so they could be easily removed and replaced with other scenes. The printers had baulked at our request at first. No Singaporean or Hong Kong silkscreen company had ever made one-off posters this large and kept them in focus at close quarters. Simple enough today but in the late 1960s it was a major breakthrough.

  We chose the town hall as the venue for our presentation, as it was the only building with both a stage and ceiling sufficiently high to accommodate the panels. On the big day a dozen government people plus the Singapore Tourist Promotion Board chairman and marketing director were present. We’d decided on twin presenters, Dansford and myself, speaking from separate podiums with microphones at either side of the town-hall stage, the three giant screens set up between us, side-on, so that only their outer edges faced the audience. Using microphones for so small an audience was a tad melodramatic, but we hoped the big sound would add to the impact of our presentation.

  Dansford, sober as a judge, having not touched a drop for two days, began the presentation, and even if his hands were a bit shaky, his voice was, as always, commanding.

  ‘We are indeed fortunate to have all the attractions any tourist could want – great shopping, exotic sights, Muslim, Hindu and Chinese temples and mosques, a magnificent harbour and great beaches,’ he began. This obviously went down well, with smiles all round. The music began and the first giant screen slowly swivelled from profile to en face, showing the aspects of Singapore he’d just mentioned. This brought spontaneous applause from the small audience, who I could see were delighted that it wasn’t going to be the usual boring presentation.

  I gave them enough time to take in the screen and to allow the music to fade. ‘But!’ I exclaimed, the word punched from the microphone and left hanging in the air. Chinese music began and the second screen swung round to show an aerial shot of Hong Kong. ‘Hong Kong has better shopping and a better harbour.’

  The first screen kept rotating until its back faced the audience, displaying a series of magnificent temples as the music changed to a well-known Malay folk song. ‘Malaya has better temples,’ Dansford added.

  The second screen now rotated to reveal Thailand’s beaches and the soundtrack changed to the tinkling tones of traditional Thai music. ‘And Thailand has better beaches,’ I concluded.

  ‘So what have we to offer?’ Dansford asked. The music rose to a crescendo as the last screen slowly turned to face the audience. On it were dozens of smiling faces, adults and children, representing the ethnic mixture that was Singapore – Chinese, Malay, Indian, Indonesian, Eurasian, European, along with the slogan:

  SINGAPORE

  THE MAGIC OF PEOPLE!

  It was all over, red rover. The theme fitted perfectly with Lee Kuan Yew’s vision of a multicultural society. We went on to say that good tourism is based on the experience of different cultures and exciting new food, and we had both in abundance. The last screen rotated to reveal hundreds of images of ethnic foods, both raw and cooked, clearly more variety than all the other nearby tourist destinations could provide. We then suggested that the tourist campaign be both international and intra-national, the former showing the cosmopolitan nature of the island and the latter designed to encourage the shopkeepers, hotel employees, taxi drivers, rickshaw owners and the general population to participate in the campaign by making tourists feel welcome and happy.

  Lastly we suggested that, with a little care, we could make Singapore the only green city in Asia, where trees and green spaces and people could coexist, unlike the crowded, ugly slums of Hong Kong or the putrid klongs of Thailand. We called this ‘The Greening of Singapore’, and it was this suggestion, apparently, that delighted the prime minister.

  While all this was happening, a dozen helpers were working quietly behind the screens to remove the first set of images from the thin panels and replace them with new ones. A hundred-strong children’s choir, representing all the ethnic groups in Singapore and clad in red shorts and white shirts emblazoned with the Singapore flag, assembled barefoot on the stage and sang the national anthem, as all the panels rotated so that they completely dominated the town-hall stage. Above the heads of the choir the giant words were repeated:

  SINGAPORE

  THE MAGIC OF PEOPLE!

  After the anxiety of the presentation came the euphoria of the backslapping and congratulations from the chairman, Tan Sri Long Me Saw. ‘Well done,’ he said, ‘but also lucky, eh? What would have happened if the electrics had failed?’

  ‘Ah, no electrics,’ I explained, ‘we did it all with the magic of people. All the screens were moved by hand. There’s an old Australian saying: always take the spoon out of the sink before you turn on the tap. We couldn’t take a chance with an electrical fault.’

  Long Me Saw gave me a hard look. ‘I’m a film man and I know back-up is essential. The “just in case” factor is the most important in any production. I won’t forget that you understand this, Simon.’ He waved at the stage with the screens and slogan still in place. ‘Not only a big thinker but also a careful one. Well done.’

  It felt good.

  We would later learn that the panels and the manner in which we’d used them were a major element in blowing the opposition’s presentations out of the water. Every agency in Singapore had pitched, including two recently arrived heavies, Leo Burnett and J. Walter Thompson, who a year previously had entered the Asian market and hadn’t stopped banging their drums, as well, of course, as Elma Kelly’s Cathay Advertising. But we won!

  Mrs Sidebottom deserved much of the credit for this. Dansford sent her a case of champagne, a gesture that caused Sidney to have such a conniption that the Three Wing Circus didn’t speak to us for a week. But even before the case of French champagne, the relationship had deteriorated. Sidney Wing had been denied the opportunity to big-note himself in front of some of the government’s most powerful people. He’d been swanking for the past five months about the Citizen Watch award, won by his own glorious efforts, and it had become a bit of a joke in the industry, especially since my part in it had become well known and I’d maintained a decorous silence. Elma Kelly had personally spread the word, although I’d told her it didn’t matter. ‘Iniquitous, Simon! Positively iniquitous! I shall personally see he doesn’t get away with it.’

  We had won the Tourist Promotion Board account without Sidney Wing’s influence, his guanxi, and as a result he’d lost a good deal of face – or, perhaps more importantly, he believed he had. With the Chinese, perception is everything and in this regard they can be their own worst enemies.

  The relationship between East and West in the agency, while never good, was now beyond repair. Even Ronnie, whom we’d always relied on as go-between, was no longer his good-humoured and cooperative self, no doubt due to Sidney’s instructions. In my last months at the agency I was determined to set up the Tourist Promotion Board campaign, after which I knew I had sev
eral decisions to make, not the least of them being about my relationship with Mercy B. Lord.

  I don’t suppose, when you consider what else was happening in the world during the sixties, that winning an advertising contract to put a city or island on the tourist map amounts to very much. But the emergence of Singapore as an unexpected force in South-East Asia was particularly significant at the time and it was important that this be seen to be happening. The world in the late sixties was an exceedingly unhappy place, especially in Asia.

  Perhaps a small explanation is appropriate.

  The Cuban missile crisis in October 1962 had shown the world just how easy it would be for a nuclear war to engulf us all, and the fact that now President Lyndon B. Johnson had escalated the Vietnam War meant more Americans and Vietnamese were dying than ever. Nixon began secretly bombing Cambodia, after bombing the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which ran through Laos and Cambodia. Lots of people were extremely nervous. Both China and the Soviet Union supported the Viet Cong. Would there be another Cuban missile crisis? This time it might easily end in a series of mushroom clouds above Washington, New York, Moscow and Beijing. Both sides had the nuclear capacity to blow the world to smithereens, and both sides had nuclear submarines carrying warheads capable of doing enormous harm. The ones that scared the daylights out of everyone were the fifty or so American and Russian nuclear submarines prowling around below the surface of the world’s oceans. Each carried sufficient warheads to wipe out one of fifty cities. They were positioned so that the missiles, erupting out of innocent-seeming seas, could hit an enemy city anywhere on the globe within half an hour.

  Nearer to home – in fact, next door – Indonesia was almost as steeped in blood as Vietnam. The Indonesian army under Major General Suharto was responsible for the gruesome and merciless killing of half a million of its own citizens in a blood-soaked purge of the Indonesian Communist Party, as well as anyone else who attracted his attention, mainly wealthy Chinese.