Weird thing was, the maid was right. When I came back and the maid was there, the atmosphere in my apartment was palpably different. Muted Sibelius rather than Thunderous Wagner. If she’d been real, I imagined her sitting under the table, chattering away to her dolls. She’d leave us alone, and the curtains would stay where I left them. Maybe I’d hear the kiss kiss kiss of her feet running across the marble floor in the living room.
If the maid wasn’t there, there’d be this air of reproachment and neglect. It was the same when I went away on business — I went to Canton once, a right fucking shithole it is too — and when I got back she was so pissed off with me that I had to stand there apologising to the thin air.
The path stopped climbing, and crested the ridge. I saw Buddha’s head above the camphor trees, almost close enough to touch. That was one Big Buddha. Platinum, spun on a wheel of deep blue. The trees were dream trees, now. A shadow cat, a cat shadow.
My skin buzzed. My immortality was ebbing away. In this sun it must be turning to bacon. I think I had broken a toenail, I could feel something wet and warm in my shoe. I could feel my organs sag against each other, still functioning, but slowing like tired swimmers.
Why is the moon up there, up above you, Lord Buddha? White, blue, roaring in its silent furnace of sunlight. The moon, the moon, in the afternoon.
I stepped into a once and future century. People, coach tours, a car park, souvenir stands, advertisement hoardings, people crowding around ticket booths — only the British and the Slavs know how to queue — motorbikes... Here and not here. They were on the wrong side of a wall of bright liquid. A babble of languages from the room next door.
Lord Buddha’s lips were full and proud. Always on the verge of words, yet never quite speaking. His lidded eyes, hooding a secret the world needs.
The moon was in on the joke. New, old, new, old. If I met the old garbage man now, I’d say, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any spare time to give you. Not even a minute. Not even a spare ten fucking seconds.
I wondered if that Japanese kid was playing his saxophone in a bar somewhere, over in a bar in Central or Kowloon. I would like to hear him. I’d like to watch his girl watching him. I would like that very much. I don’t think it’s going to happen now. I’d like to talk with them, and find out how they met. I’d like to ask him about jazz, and why John Coltrane is so famous. So many things to know. I’d like to ask him why I had married Katy, and whether I was right to sign and return those divorce papers. Was Katy happy at last, now? Had she met someone who loved her, someone with a respectable sperm-count? Would she be a tender, wise mother, or would she turn out to be a booze-soaked saggy fuck in her middle age? Would Huw Llewellyn nail Andrei Gregorski, or would Andrei Gregorski nail Huw Llewellyn? Would Mr Wae the shipping magnate take his business elsewhere? Would Manchester United win the premiership? Would the Cookie Monster’s teeth fall out? Would the world be over by Christmas?
She brushed near by, and blew on the back of my neck, and a million leaves moved with the wind. My skin was so hot it no longer seemed my own. A new Neal inside the old opened his eyes. Platinum in the sun, blue in the shade. He was waiting for my old skin to flake off so he could climb out and walk abroad. My liver squirmed impatiently. My heart was going through its options. What’s that organ: the one that processes the sugar?
What led me here?
My dad would describe Denholme Cavendish — Sir Denholme Cavendish — as a man educated beyond his intellect. ‘Now, Nile.’ D.C. pursed his lips together in the manner of the old general he believed himself to be. The traffic of Barbican, twenty floors below us, punctuated the pompous old fuck’s dramatic pauses. ‘A key question to understanding the role we’re projecting for you in Hong Kong is this: What is Cavendish Holdings?’
No, D.C., the key question is: What answer do you want to hear?
Play it safe, Neal. Let him feel intellectually on top. And don’t tell him he’s too fucking stupid to get my name right. ‘A top-line legal and investment corporation, Sir Denholme.’
Good. He had an insight coming on. ‘We’re a corporation. A top-line corporation. But that’s not all we are, Nile, my word no. We are a family! Isn’t that so, Jim?’
Jim Hersch smiled his ‘you’ve put your finger on it!’ smile.
‘Sure, we have our family squabbles. Jim and I have had some fine old cat-fights in our time, haven’t we, eh, Jim, eh?’
Same smile. ‘Sure have, Sir D.’ You smooth American fuck, Hersch.
‘You see, Nile? No quarter given to yesmen at Cavendish! But we pull through in the end, Nile, and let me tell you how! Because we understand the value of co-operation. Mutual reliance. Mutual trust. Mutual assistance.’ He lit his cigar like Winston Churchill and gazed at the portrait of his grandfather who gazed back. I wanted to snigger. The man was a walking cliché. How could this fuck-for-brains run a law firm with offices in five continents? The answer was obvious: he only thought he ran it. ‘Playing the Asian markets requires a certain... how did I put it to Grainger, Jim, the other day?’
‘I believe you said “flair and verve in the strategising stages”, Sir D.’
‘Flair! And verve! That’s it, you see, Flair! And verve! In the strategising stages! Now in London, New York, everyone knows what’s what. The playing field is even, the goalposts are fixed. But Asia is the last wild frontier, eh? The bandits of corruption live in the Chinese hills, and make lightning raids! Regulators? Forget ’em! Paid off. Every last man. No, for our townships to prosper in Asia, we have to play by their rules, but play better! I’m talking about originality in capital-manipulation! About reinterpretation! You have to recognise the real but invisible goalposts when you see them! And use whatever means are at your disposal to score. You with me, Nile?’
‘One hundred per cent, Sir Denholme.’
What was the old fuck on about?
‘I want to add a special account to your Hong Kong Portfolio. It’s for an ally of mine. A Russian chap, based in Petersburg, you’ll meet him one day. You’ll be hearing from him soon enough. A splendid fellow. Chap by the name of Andrei Gregorski. A real mover and shaker. He’s done a few favours for us in the past.’ He leaned forward over the desk, tapping his cigar into an intricate ashtray inlaid with jade and amber, and etched with lotus flowers and orchids.
‘He’s asked me to set up an account for his operation with our Hong Kong branch. I want to put you in charge of it.’
‘What do I do with it?’
‘Whatever he tells you to. However much, wherever, whenever. Child’s play for a trooper of your experience.’
We’d come to the clincher.
‘I think I can manage that, Mr Cavendish.’
‘Keep it hush-hush. Just between you, me, Jim and grandfather here, eh?’
I get it. The old fuck’s asking me to bend the law.
‘One thing matters and one thing only.’ I’d always assumed it was his leather chair that creaked, but now I wondered whether or not it was really him. He prodded each word at me with his cigar. ‘Do — you — have — the — balls?’ The blackheads on the tip of his nose urgently needed squeezing. ‘Eh? Eh?’
I’m a financial lawyer. I bend the law every day.
‘They were firmly attached when I last used them, Sir Denholme.’
D.C. was deciding whether or not he liked my answer. Then his laughter ignited, sending a projectile of saliva hurtling between my eyebrows. Jim Hersch smiled too, a photo smile of a manager in a local newspaper. And I was smiling the same smile, too.