Mondo Desperado

by Patrick McCabe

  By saying which he is overstating it ever so slightly, of course, for I never was, and have never attempted to give the impression that I was, at any time, ‘Bruce Lee’s best mate’. That I might eventually have become such if he had not expired so tragically must remain permanently open to question. Personally, I like to think that I would. But until his untimely death, the truth is that he and I were friends, no more – pen friends, in fact, essentially, apart from the rare occasions when he would pay me a short visit, if he happened to be in the country on business.

  To be perfectly frank, the first time I received a letter, I could scarcely believe it! I had not the faintest idea that his personal fan club – to whose advertisement I had responded through the pages of the Barntrosna Standard – forwarded the mail directly to him! And was quite taken aback, when I saw before my eyes, the words: ‘I would like to come to your house’ – in absolutely perfect English! To this day I am astonished that it didn’t prompt an instantaneous return of my asthma. No more than the underhand taunts of the Bridge Bar Social Security Association who, that very evening, proceeded to chuckle when they observed me purchasing my lemon soda as I began to consider the astonishing turn of the day’s events. Sidling closer to me, if you don’t mind, enquiring obliquely as to whether I had purchased the latest Standard or not and how much it might cost, did I think, to ‘post a letter to China’? I declined to respond, for by then I had become totally immersed in my own private thoughts, considering my hero beneath the burning sun in his warm-up suit, mimicking the ways of the monkey and the cobra. It was hard to believe that it could ever have happened, I repeated to myself. But it had! I had actually received a letter from a man whose physical prowess was legendary not only in Hong Kong but now in Hollywood as well! It was difficult not to permit a smile of triumph play upon my lips – especially when I looked over and saw the heaving, rocking figures within that self-styled assembly of critics whose greatest achievement in life appeared to be the acquisition of a 10p increase in their social security payments. Their shouts of ‘Up Mullingar!’ and ‘Peking for the cup!’ were as superannuated butterflies of sound carried off by the breeze as I strode out into the transformed evening.

  *

  The day I received the letter (Bruce! Lee! Each word seemed a fanfare of chimes!) saying that he would consider it a great honour and a privilege if I would allow him to be my guest one Saturday, I came close to fainting and was forced to support myself by clinging to the table’s edge with my fingers. What still overcame me was the absolute perfection of his English! It was quite astounding! And, I reflected as I came back to myself, slowly releasing my thoughts – demolishing once and for all the cheap jibes such as ‘Ah, sure, they can hardly write their name out there!’ and ‘You wouldn’t expect to be able to read their writing, would you? Count yourself lucky if you get a few scribbles!’, which were common currency in ‘cosmopolitan’ Barntrosna!

  Which is the sort of small-town provincialism I find truly galling and beneath contempt. As if, just because you happen to be a lethal killing weapon capable of disposing of squadrons of sword-wielding, fright-wigged adversaries in two seconds flat, you are incapable of performing a simple task such as sitting down and writing a letter! Some hope! Instead what I would really like to see is some of these self-appointed protectors of the English language doing it! If, of course, they can manage to get the time off from that other important writing of theirs, which of course involves the weekly inscription of their dreary sobriquets on myriad unemployment benefit and assistance cheques.

  No, as in everything else he did, his handwriting was fastidiously, scrupulously neat, and, like his well-aimed kicks to the midsection, contained no unnecessary strokes or embellishments of any kind. What he wished to say, he stated clearly and unambiguously. The question was, quite simply – would I be prepared to have him as my guest or not? The words floated before my eyes like beautiful nymphs preening themselves on a pavilion by a serene lake.

  *

  The day before my guest arrived, I was – I confess it! – hopelessly giddy and had barely sat down before I was up again, busying myself around the room plumping cushions and rearranging the maestro’s books on the coffee table. As I have been collecting since the earliest years of my adolescence, I possess an extensive selection, titles including Bruce Lee: Dragonmaster, Bruce the King, I Knew Bruce Lee, The Sword and the Snake – I Loved Bruce Lee by Lung-Chi Wan, Hong Kong Kickback – The Films of Bruce Lee, Bruce Lee – Why? – An Investigation into the Mysterious Death of a Martial Arts Genius and some two or three hundred others I arranged about the various rooms. Which perhaps was overenthusiastic in retrospect, because by the time he arrived the front door opened only with great difficulty. I had arranged in advance for the Red Lotus Temple to deliver – direct to my residence! – their special set menu for two and it was piping away good and hot in the oven when the doorbell rang.

  I must admit he was a little plumper and, indeed, somewhat taller, than I had imagined. But there could be no mistaking it – it was the high-flying crimefighter from the orient in all his glory. The charisma and sexuality that defined a proud, underdog masculinity confirmed that. He must surely have thought me a complete incompetent – I was so nervous! – as I dropped forks and repeated questions I had asked him heaven knows how many number of times! But, if this was the case, he graciously didn’t show it. (I would have expected no less from him, to be truthful!) And when I brought in our serviettes and the steaming hot meal of chicken chow mein and pancake rolls, his eyes lit up as might a child’s. ‘Why! These are from the Red Lotus Temple!’ he cried. I was flabbergasted. ‘You mean – you know it?’ I gasped. ‘Oh but yes!’ he replied. ‘It is one of most famous Chinese restaurants in world!’ I was thrilled beyond my wildest imaginings. I had been completely unaware of this fact!

  How many topics we covered throughout the course of that little meal I cannot even begin to say. Suffice to observe that by the time we were finished there was little I did not know about the various protection rackets, Mafia heists and assorted ‘stings’ that go on around the world every day. The fascinating aspect of it all is that the more we talked, the more eager and interested – intoxicated, indeed – I became. ‘Tell me, Bruce!’ I began anew, when just at that precise moment, inexplicably, he began to laugh and actually spluttered some noodles down the front of his neatly tailored black jacket. On reflection, perhaps he wasn’t laughing at all and one of the noodles became somehow lodged in his nostril, for there was nothing inherently amusing in my simple utterance of his name that I could see. In any case, I saw no point in drawing attention to it and continued with my question: ‘Tell me, Bruce,’ I said, ‘do you see crime as a one-man personal vendetta brought on perhaps by something you witnessed as a child perhaps – the death of your parents at the hands of an unseen assailant, for instance – or is it something you feel you would have always wanted to pursue, regardless?’ He thought for a moment, and then, lodging yet another noodle somehow in his nostril, he attempted to remove it, with the result that he coloured deeply, as a glittering moistness entered his eyes, a series of events culminating ultimately in the displacement of his plate and its entire contents which fell to the floor and arrayed themselves randomly about his feet, providing for both of us a situation which for a few brief moments was potentially very embarrassing indeed! But, fortunately, I remembered that I had, at the back of the refrigerator, one remaining Vesta Beef Curry which, I felt sure, if I cooked it swiftly and properly, would more than suffice to excite his palate. ‘Don’t worry, Bruce!’ I cried. ‘You haven’t come all the way from Hong Kong to leave the McGeough house hungry! Oh no! Not by a long shot!’ He found this quite amusing and signalled to me to stop as he lay down on the sofa and rubbed his moistened eyes with his world-famous, death-dealing hands.

  To this day, I continue to congratulate myself on the presence of mind which I displayed on that occasion, for we continued then to have what I can only describe as the chat of a l
ifetime, what with Bruce not only agreeing to permit me to act as his official biographer and the chronicler of the story of our friendship which I felt was sure to blossom, but gratefully accepting from me modest donations to the Dragon of the Winged Tail Academy for those of slender means from the backstreets of Hong Kong who demonstrate at an early age their love of, and proven proficiency in, the martial arts. Those who complete their studies continue at another university just south of the city, where full training in cinema acting is given, with special visiting professors on hand to instruct the youthful crimefighters in the art of unpredictable and often seemingly incomprehensible dialogue which is so essential to the continuance of the preservation of law and order on the streets of the orient and to the endurance of such electrifying motion pictures as He Kills Like A Bullet! and Die A Thousand Times!.

  I cannot begin to impart to you how overjoyed I was that night as I lay in my bed thinking over the events of the day. As I contemplated the intersecting, Mekong-style cracks in my ceiling, I could just imagine them in the Bridge Bar, seething with jealousy, practically about to self-combust such would be the insane fire of envy within them. It was difficult not to chuckle as I saw them there, perched on the stools like some forgotten human flotsam, the collars of their greatcoats turned up as they muttered: ‘Look at McGeough! He thinks he’s great! Just because he met Bruce Lee!’

  Imprecise, I fear. No, I am not great. But neither am I – nor will ever be content to be – a peanut-munching, lotus-eating Schadenfreude peddler who lives on handouts from the state. That is a situation which shall never come to pass, for I shall ensure it. As I shall that whatever royalties I receive from my book – Bruce Lee and Me – shall never see the lining of my pocket but go straight to the Academy, via the kind auspices of the Barntrosna Standard Bruce Lee Fan Club PO Box which my friend has advised me to use as a cover lest the Mafia get wind of our little scheme. And which, I might add – according to the latest information available to me – is prospering wonderfully! Why, only last week, another impoverished Hong Kong boy cried ‘Aiyahhh!’ triumphantly as he prepared to embark for Hollywood, sailing confidently through the air in his cotton pants, a helmet of ebony hair upon his head with a sheen of polish upon it so bright as to rival the Master.

  As for the progress of the book itself, things are a little slower, for, as Bruce well knew, and shared with me so many times, no less than in the ancient art of kung fu patience is everything. And as regards the task on hand is absolutely of the essence, for I wish my story to be as near perfect as possible. To outline and candidly delineate not just the background to my years of friendship with Bruce Lee but that of the martial arts as we have come to know them – the heists, the head-busting she-wolves, the drug lords, the torn trousers, the pieces of other films that get stuck in by accident. And until I have that story told to my satisfaction, I see no point in concerning myself unduly as to whether I receive the occasional letter from a publisher or not. Or, indeed, addressing myself to the semi-intoxicated asides which show no signs of abating in the Bridge Bar, despite the fact that it is now over a decade since my first visit from the bard of the broken bone, and that rarely a day goes by without someone’s hand being cupped and the query sailing forth from the shadows as to whether I’ve been in the Red Lotus lately. Not to mention assorted shadow-choppings, numerous ‘Ha! Hatchas!’ and wry asides casting doubt on the very existence of the Monkey School.

  There was a time when I would, out of common decency and good manners, have acknowledged and attended to these veiled imputations. But no longer. My mind, I fear, is much too pre-occupied for that. First, there is my sealed envelope marked Barntrosna Standard and then there is my MS, with its neatly typed legend, Bruce Lee and Me (retitled), to be popped into a Jiffy bag addressed to my publishers in London. And, last but not least, there is my little cup of Chinese tea to drink – the best in all of Hong Kong (specially imported for me by the Red Lotus Temple) – before I retire, comfortably attired in my loose cotton pyjamas, to dream of youths who got a second chance and who, perhaps because of me and a man they called ‘the Dragon’, might one day course the Mao-red skies before landing with the force of a human grenade upon those who would dare to wage war upon his much-loved humanity, both Chinese and European, exultantly crushing every bone in their heads.

  I Ordained the Devil

  Now that I am approaching my seventieth year and consequently nearing the end of my ministry in the Church, I often get young curates coming up to me saying, ‘Your grace, what was your most unforgettable experience in all your days as a minister in the one true Church?’ or ‘Of all the extraordinary events which have taken place over the years, my lord, which stands out most in your mind?’

  Obviously, when such a question is put to one, immediately a multitude of images and memories come flooding into one’s mind, like so many moths to the flame; that glorious day in the seminary in Maynooth, for example, when I myself was ordained; the occasion on which two of my colleagues were received by the Holy Father himself in the great city of Rome; the centenary of the college where I was educated and in which I once concelebrated Mass – the list is endless. Where to begin, dear reader? His grace swoons into a maelstrom of possibility.

  Wiser perhaps to confine oneself to that question which is put with the greatest frequency, namely: ‘Which was your truly most unforgettable, most traumatic experience?’ Instantly that eliminates those days which have with the passage of time become suffused with an orange-amber glow and which, far from being traumatic, have served to act as a soothing palliative to the soul in troubled times.

  But as each human being on this earth knows, and knows only too well, there are other days; suffused with no glow, orange or amber or otherwise, but shot through with a pervading, monochromatic greyness, a sliver of which unyielding, ungenerous colourlessness, no matter what swirling obfuscating clouds one attempts to contrive as a protective shield or cloak, inevitably shines through. Yes, I have experienced such days in the course of my long career. Events have occurred which mean that, but for God’s grace and the power of human prayer, I should not be sitting here today in this enormous Chesterfield chair, imbibing moderate sips of my Dubonnet and nibbling the occasional Ritz cracker so thoughtfully prepared for me by my housekeeper, Mrs Miniter. I should not be here today, girding myself to begin this tale – which to date I have related to but a single soul, a genial young student who visited me some months ago, keen to hear of my past experiences in a long and varied career. Initially, I was most reticent, but he was an intelligent young man, and his bright-eyed enthusiasm and eagerness eventually won me over. Yes, in the end I capitulated and told that young man, Hughie Turbot, the selfsame story I am about to relate here. Of how, as a young bishop in the diocese of Car and Clash, I ordained what I took to be a fresh, energetic young curate, well versed in both theology and pastoral care, champing at the bit to begin work with his flock in the parish of his birth, but who, in fact, turned out to be not remotely like that at all and to be in fact, the Horned One, the Beast, call him what you will – the Devil, in other words.

  Of course, if I had advanced such a theory back then, in the dear glorious days beyond recall, when the students were arriving in droves at summer’s end to begin the new term at St Mackie’s Seminary, people would have said I had taken leave of my reason. ‘What – Packie Cooley the Devil, your grace? I’m afraid you must have received a little too much sun over the holidays!’ And indeed, if I am honest, I can genuinely see why they might have harboured such a consideration. For on that first evening when I myself first set eyes on him, just about the very last thing on my mind was any notion that he might be the evil one. Yes, he was a handsome lad indeed, young Packie, with a fistful of golden copper curls that tumbled with some abandon across that high polished forehead of his, and upon his lips that evening, that bright – and to us, it seemed, entirely guileless – smile to which we would soon become accustomed. No, the only thing black about Packie Cooley in those
days – precious innocents! – was the spanking new soutane which his mother had bought specially for him in a clerical outfitters in Dublin and which flapped gaily about his legs as he chased the greasy leather football across the moistened expanse of the junior field, crying aloud with all the excitement of a young child: ‘Ah, lads! Pass it to me, will youse, lads! Give me a welt of it!’ How we laughed when a near-superhuman effort on his part to intercept – especially on damp days such as this – the oft-recalcitrant orb as it made its way across the leaden skies ended in disaster as he completely misjudged the path of its trajectory and ended up face down in a very large patch of sodden earth in the centre of the field which had the consistency of the blancmange regularly served up to us for dessert, and then raised himself up on his fists as best he could, appearing for all the world as some kind of primeval Mud-Man of whose exploits you might read in a child’s penny comic. Little did we know, of course – how could we – that this was but an exasperatingly cunning ploy designed to win our sympathies and affections – which it undoubtedly did, for it is to that single incident the heart-warming cry which was to become a feature of the college’s corridors and quadrangles, ‘Good man, Packie!’, may attribute its genesis. It was to be the first of a number of many conniving strategems spawned for no reason other than to completely obliterate any suspicions that might attach themselves to the person of Packie Cooley and reveal his true identity – His Satanic Majesty, Diabolic Walker Among Men!