by Bill Whiting
“Yeah, I’m sat in the lounge, love. No, no, just phoning you. Er… well… er wondered how… how’s the weather doing there?”
Even business calls seemed invariably pointless to King…
“Have you heard from Wilson? Is it in the post then? Mmmm… good. Good. No, no, I wasn’t worried about it… I just wondered. Everything’s okay then? Mmmm… good. Ah, well then. No… flight boards in half an hour. Yeah, I’m sat in the lounge. Yeah. No, just phoning you.”
King considered his silent conversations with himself more economical, and considerably more considerate, than the intrusive electronics employed by others. The mobile callers irritated him hugely. And he had developed a hatred of laptop users, who sat next to him going tippy-tappy-tippy-tappy-tip-tip-tippy-tappy, for many hours on long-haul flights. Indeed he was surprised there were no known instances of such a person being smothered to death in the night.
And as usual, that evening when his flight was called and dozens of others headed for gate twenty, King joined the herd, with Norman in tow.
No matter how often he travelled, King was always tense as he entered an aircraft cabin. To his left he knew the wonder of First Class was situated, with its precious luxury of personal space, lay-flat beds, round-the-clock service, Dom Perignon champagne and only six passengers per available toilet. Then there was Business Class, with rather less of everything, though still quite a lot.
And then, there was the ultimate horror, Economy, where King was ticketed. Here, Roman galley slaves would have had more leg room than the poor souls crammed into an airless cabin, crammed with unwashed backpackers, drunk loudmouths, argumentative children, crying babies and tension-transmitting thrombosis hypochondriacs.
And the source of King’s anxiety was not so much the location of his seat, but who exactly would be sat next to him? The ideal prospect was someone like him: a quiet, still, non-laptop-user, who didn’t snore or slurp soup, and was respectful of the tiny space others had paid to occupy. The worst prospective neighbour was anyone with a baby or young child, all of which King thought should be sedated, or kept in cushioned boxes in the hold. Next in the undesirable list were talkative businessmen, who thought their boring business was extremely interesting – or anyone with the dreaded combination of alcohol over-consumption and marriage difficulties.
Thank God, on this flight there were no such creatures next to King’s window seat. But the adjacent seat was occupied by a new nightmare scenario for King on a British Airways flight: an obese American. Americans are among the fattest nation on earth, and that was fine by King, when they are standing in their vast continental-sized country. But not when squeezed into aeroplane seats. King put Norman into the overhead locker, looked down at his seat, and frowned. The American took the point and dragged about ten pounds of midriff fat out of seat A and into seat B, and then squeezed it down below his extended seat belt. King squeezed into his seat, but knew that it would not be long before the blubber invaded again.
The plane landed about twelve hours later for the American blob, and seemingly, about six months later for King. He was tired, tense, sticky and depressed as, desperate to disembark, he waited impatiently for the well-refreshed and pampered First and Business Class passengers to take their privileged precedence and be ushered away.
Then, off the plane at last, he headed for the exit with Norman’s little wheels clattering behind him. At any one time there seemed to be around twelve million people in the halls of Hong Kong’s Kai Tak airport. And usually about one million of them seemed to be at the immigration queue. This was not at all bothersome to the Chinese people, who seem to assiduously avoid open spaces and feel at their happiest in the human equivalent of a very warm and noisy ant nest. But after twelve hours in a plane, squashed next to a hippopotamus from Philadelphia, King needed space, and wanted no companion other than Norman.
After an hour or so, he was out of the airport and lit a cigarette. His thoughts turned to one of the many five-star hotels, just thirty minutes away, and in his opinion, man-made heavens. Cool, efficient air conditioning, immaculate service, splendid Western and Chinese cuisine, bars with spectacular views, and wonderfully equipped rooms with cavernous turbo baths, and sumptuous king-sized beds with crisp white linen.
But these hotels were nothing remotely like the one-star Pearl River Hotel in Guangzhou, where King and Norman were headed. The Pearl River was economical and there were certainly worse places in Guangzhou. But like Economy in aeroplanes, it was loaded with risk. The Pearl River air conditioning usually worked, but often only for a few hours each day and in a random pattern. There was also plenty of hot water at the turn of a tap, but it didn’t always stop at the turn of the tap. King’s bathroom sink tap often had a very irritating habit of dripping noisily, and the more King focused on not listening, the more he listened. And much else at the Pearl River was unpredictable: the lifts, the in-room TV set, the shaver socket, the telephone, the bedroom lights. It seemed to King there was always a one in ten chance they wouldn’t work.
There was also a limited choice of Western food on the hotel restaurant menu – and if more than ten so-called ‘big noses’ from the West happened to be staying at the same time, it was often all gone after the early birds had eaten their fill. And, whilst the Chinese menu might be just acceptable one day (ducks’ feet are chewy, but nourishing), the next day it could be far less appetising, or easy to identify. King had eaten ducks’ tongue soup, sweet and sour pigs’ arseholes and sliced penis, but wasn’t in any rush to repeat the experiences.
But though King could live with all these problems, it was the uncertainty which really bothered him. Living with the sure guarantee of no comfort and zero amenities was almost better than the ‘on/off’, ‘will it/won’t it’ world of uncertain facilities.
At least, that evening, King was not dining at the Pearl River, but with Tony Wei.
Wei was a wealthy Chinese entrepreneur who, among many other enterprises, owned the factory where most of King’s employer’s brassware was manufactured. Ten years earlier, the brassware had all been made in the UK. Now Wei produced it all and sold it, not only at a greatly reduced price to his customer, but at a very fat profit margin for himself.
Wei was also good company and a generous host; and a much-respected figure, who had overcome great difficulties to make his fortune. He was also engagingly modest. “It’s very easy for a rich man to be humble,” he once told King. King’s mind held a sizeable collection of Wei’s wise words, and he was looking forward to adding to it that evening.
THREE
In Guangzhou, Wei’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes 500 pulled up outside the Pearl River Hotel and King hopped into the back.
“Bill,” shouted Wei, “good to see you, friend. How you? Look well! Tony Wei take you for good food.”
King liked Chinese people and he particularly liked Wei. Wei was always optimistic and brimming with an almost juvenile enthusiasm. And no-one else ever greeted King with such animated tail-wagging pleasure. Wei was probably in his mid-sixties, but it is sometimes difficult to estimate the age of Chinese people accurately when judging solely by physical appearance – and not always easy by other means either. For a start, when it comes to birthdays, many Chinese delete every year of their age which has a number nine in it. Nine is considered by some to be a very unlucky number, so they dodge the issue. Those who are eighteen one year, decide to be twenty the next.
They also tend to lie a lot, though mostly very small and harmless lies. But to them a little lie is more like a little fake. And being able to fake things well in China is a much-admired talent. Creating a brand-new artefact, which looks a thousand years old and sells to a knowledgeable collector for thousands of dollars, may be a crime in the West, but is a respected art form by many in China.
In fact, King himself had obtained a Harvard Business School degree in China, as well as a University of Melbourne doctorate in dentistry, all printed o
ut for less than forty US dollars. He’d got them at a curious street market devoted to ambitious career seekers. Dozens of traders offered impeccably forged qualification certificates of every description, as well as excellent testimonial references from prominent people: perfect for putting extra shine on curriculum vitae.
Tony Wei only had nine-less birthdays. He coveted almost every single lucky number, colour, date and ritual known in China, and shunned every unlucky one. He also unashamedly believed in every major religion in the world. “Tony follow all, because never know,” he once explained.
And King occasionally wondered if Wei’s superstitions were well-founded, because he had indeed been lucky and he was certainly a happy man.
“Hi Tony, good to see you,” King said, as he got into the Mercedes. “Can’t say I’m well, though. My flight was piss awful and the pissing air-con in the hotel isn’t working, so I’m a bit pissed off.”
“Ah good,” Wei answered. “We get pissed tonight. Okay. Whatever you like.”
Such misunderstandings often occurred with Wei, and greatly amused King. Often they were simply a result of problems with vocabulary, but sometimes the reasons were more complex. When he first travelled to China, King was accustomed to speaking ironically, a particularly common trait in the UK. For example, during a series of cold and very wet days, he once said to Wei, “Lovely weather again then!”
“Ah, so you like rain,” Wei replied.
On another occasion, when Wei denied he was one of the world’s richest men, King said, “Oh yeah, Tony, poor people always drive around in chauffeured Mercs, don’t they?” Wei looked very puzzled and thought for a moment. Then, as the penny dropped, he beamed and said, “Ah Tony, see! Whatever Bill say, he mean opposite.”
This was a reasonable superficial definition of irony, but it fell short of the true complexity of the humorous sarcasm involved. And upon hearing Wei’s sudden disclosure, King struggled to recall other irony-laden statements he had made in the past, which Wei may have taken literally. And what should he say in future now that Wei had abandoned literal meanings and adopted opposite meanings? Should he ask for higher product prices, poorer quality and slower delivery? Fortunately, in time, King amassed sufficient knowledge of the cultural divides and learned to avoid the pitfalls.
At the restaurant that evening, Wei and King sat down and two menus and a bottle of twenty-one-year-old malt whisky appeared on the table.
“Shark’s fin soup for me as usual, please, Tony,” King said as the waiter poured them a wine-sized portion of Scotch.
King had once baulked at shark’s fin, when recommended by Wei. The slaughter of sharks seemed far from ethical. But Wei was unimpressed by King’s sensitivities.
“No, no, mai wan tee. No problem,” Wei said. “God put shark in water for men to catch and eat. Very good. Shark doesn’t write book or invent telephone. Shark just grow, so we can eat.” King considered this reasoning carefully, but decided that to challenge it would prove futile. And despite his damaged conscience, he did come to find shark’s fin soup quite palatable.
King took a large gulp of whisky and shook his head as it burned its way down. Then he took a second, and looked forward to downing at least half a bottle that evening. King was often drunk on his trips, but somehow, never incapable. In fact, on trips to India he lived exclusively for days on a diet of bottled water, Scotch and packaged crisps. He’d found that consumption of anything else risked diarrhoea and, whilst the Turkish Foxtrot might be a bearable malaise in a First-Class flight cabin home, it was not so in Economy, with its ratio of fifty passengers per toilet.
“So, tomorrow you visit factory,” Wei said, as the soup arrived. “I show you good new product.”
“Yeah, good,” King replied, “and I guess all the workers in the factory will have their safety boots and goggles on. And there’ll be no children working?”
“No, no.” Wei laughed. “Clean factory, very safe. Tony Wei factory, always no kids. No need worry.”
Well, no kids on the day I visit anyway, King thought to himself. He had a good idea things were not so good on other days. Those amazingly low Chinese prices were not achieved by paying good wages, or by meeting the cost of high health and safety standards. But all he needed to do was check things as seen on his visit, and tick the boxes on the Corporate Social Responsibility form as appropriate. He knew his bosses and the company’s customers would be happy enough with that.
And in any case, working conditions were a matter of some concern to Wei. “Tony Wei factory much better for people than countryside,” he’d once told King. “My people send good money home for their family.”
King decided to let the matter drop on that occasion, but did say, “Well, you’ve done well for your family, Tony.”
“Yes,” Wei said. “China now good place. Good for business. Good for family.”
“Where did you come from?” King then asked, “What did you do when you were young?”
“Come from Wuhan,” he responded. “Time of Cultural Revolution. Offered two jobs: work in tractor factory or go in army. Said would go in army, but then told had to go in tractor factory.”
King, thinking the army was an odd choice, enquired why he preferred the army.
“Food better in army,” Wei explained.
It was a simple answer, which served to remind King that truly hard choices only have to be made by people with truly hard lives. He himself had never looked at career alternatives and weighed the comparative rewards with anything like such a basic measure. And it reminded him that, however disparaging he might be of Chinese food, there was good reason why it was central to the Chinese mind.
This had also been demonstrated a year earlier when King asked Wei’s daughter a question. She had been educated in Canada and spoke English fluently. King had often wondered about language and languages. He mused that one can feel without words, but one can’t think without them. So which of the world’s languages were the best for good thinking? Which language had the best words; the most precise, incisive and useful vocabulary? Which language did Wei’s daughter think was best, Mandarin or English?
“It depends,” she answered. “For example, there are about twenty words in Mandarin for ‘perch’, the fish, because there are twenty slightly different types of perch, and in China it’s important that people know, and say, which is which. In the West, the differences are not important to people, so they use only one word, ‘perch’.”
She then went on to explain that English was much richer than Mandarin when it comes to words relating to abstract or emotional things. The Chinese, she explained, have equivalents for ‘love’ and ‘hate’, but nothing much in-between, whereas English has many calibrations; through friendliness, fondness, liking and affection – to dislike, aversion, loathing and many more words besides.
“You see,” she ended, “the words people have in their toolbox reflect what’s important to people in their own cultures. Emotions matter in the West. Food matters in the East.”
King mused on this as he watched Wei relishing his expensive dinner: a far cry from his childhood diet.
“You really like being rich, don’t you, Tony?” he then asked.
“Sure,” Wei fired back. “Rich good, no pain… lot pleasure. But no matter be super rich, half rich okay. Half orange taste just as sweet as whole orange. But important to be boss.”
“Why do you have to be a boss then?” King asked.
“Boss is wolf,” Wei answered. “Rest are sheep. Better to be wolf than sheep. Sheep just eat and grow, for wolf to eat.”
“People aren’t sheep,” a perplexed King said.
Wei laughed and said, “No, I appreciate. But boss important. Boss have respect and respect important in China. But you no understand China way.”
“You’re right there,” King responded. “I can’t say I’m too bothered about respect, or bei
ng anyone else’s boss either.”
“Not true, Bill!” Wei said firmly. “You bother. You complain about flight; complain about hotel; always complain. You not here because you want be here. You here because boss want you here.”
The simple truth of this stung King. And then Wei hammered it home, with words that would never be forgotten…
“Bill, you are sheep with economy ticket,” he said. “Wolf in First Class. You are sheep in sheep hotel. Wolf in five-star hotel. You work much, but get little money. Why that? Because your boss, he take the money. Chinese say, those who tend the worms, never wear the silk.”
King needed no more persuading. His new focus wouldn’t be on worms. It would be on pounds. And he resolved there and then to make ten million of them.
FOUR
In London, money was also firmly on Jamie Miller’s mind. The huge benefits of money proclaimed by the Sure-Thing salesman, not only remained with him after the conference, but grew in stature and number. In fact, he was now totally focused on money – and how to get it.
He had an idea, but first he needed seed corn capital, and then free time to pursue his plan. After sleepless nights pondering the problem, he decided the best answer was to get fired from his job at the advertising agency and secure a substantial pay-off on his employment contract. Of course, it would be easy to get fired. He could just not turn up at work for weeks. Or faster still, he could call the chairman a fat, useless wanker. But simply getting fired for misconduct meant no pay-off would be due.
He needed to be fired for plain, ordinary, everyday incompetence, because that would trigger a termination clause in his contract that would secure twelve months’ pay. The trick, however, would be to do something bad enough to be considered very incompetent, but not so bad that it would be construed as deliberate, and therefore be construed as gross misconduct. Miller knew he could just turn out substandard work on a routine and consistent basis. But that would be a slow process, requiring two verbal and then three written warnings before the process was concluded. Though an employee might be completely useless as an economic asset to a company, he or she still requires a protracted dismissal process. And yet, a brilliant male employee who says “nice tits” playfully to a female colleague, can be almost summarily executed.