In the taxi I mentioned the Bandung to Leigh; he didn’t say no, but he thought we should stop at Hing’s first—“Let’s have a look at the towkay” was what he said. We got stuck in rush-hour traffic, a solid unmoving line of cars. There was an accident up front, and the cars were passing the wrecked sedan at a crawl to note down the license number so they could play it on the lottery. There was a bus in front of us displaying the bewildering sign I Don’t Know Why, But I Prefer Sanyo. The local phrase for beeping was “horning,” and they were horning to beat the band. We sat and sweated, gagging on the exhaust fumes; it was after five by the time we got to Hing’s.
Little Hing was sitting in the shop entrance reading the racing form. He sat like a roosting fowl, his feet on the seat, his knees drawn up under his chin. Seeing us, he turned his bony face and bawled upstairs, then he locked his teeth and snuffled and paddled the air with his free hand, which meant we were to wait.
“Your Oriental politeness,” I said. “He’ll spit in a minute, probably hock a louie on your shoes, so watch out.”
We had made Big Hing wait; now, to save face, he was making us wait. Hing spent the best part of a day saving face, and Yardley said, “When you see his face you wonder why he bothers.”
Gopi, the peon, brought a wooden stool for Leigh, but Leigh just winced at it and studied Hing’s sign: Chop Hing Kheng Fatt: Ship Chandlers & Provisioners, and below that in smaller assured script, Catering & Victualling, Marine Hardware, Importers, Wholesale Drygoods & Foodstuffs, Licensed Agents, Frozen Meat, and the motto, “All Kinds of Deck & Engine Stores & Bonded Stores & Sundries.” “Sundries” was my department. The signs on the shops to the left and right of Hing, and all the other shops — biscuit-colored, peeling, cracked and trying to collapse, a dusty terrace of shophouses sinking shoulder to shoulder on Beach Road — were identical but for the owner’s name; even the stains and cracks were reduplicated down the road as far as you could see. But there was something final in the decline, an air of ramshackle permanency common in Eastern ports, as if having fallen so far they would fall no further.
“What’s your club in Hong Kong?” I asked.
“Just one, I’m afraid,” he said. He paused and smiled. “The Royal Hong Kong.”
“Jockey or Yacht?”
“Yacht,” he said quickly, losing his smile.
Little Hing spat and went back to his racing form without bothering to see where the clam landed.
“Missed again,” I said, winking at Leigh. “I’ve heard the Yacht Club’s a smashing place,” I said, and he looked at me the way he had when I said “Honkers.” “You’re in luck, actually. You have a reciprocal membership with the Tanglin here and probably a couple of others as well.”
“No,” he said, “I inquired about that before I came down. Bit of a nuisance, really. But there it is.”
He was lying. I knew the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club and the Tanglin Club had reciprocal memberships and privileges; a member of one could sign bar chits at the other and use all the club’s facilities. So he was not a member, and there we were standing on the Beach Road sidewalk, on the lip of its smelly monsoon drain, at the beck and call of a surly little towkay who had chosen to sulk upstairs, lying about clubs we didn’t belong to. It made me sad, like the pictures hidden in my back pocket I would never admit to having: two grown men practicing lies, and why?
Big Hing came out in his pajamas and gave Leigh that secret society stare. Hing was not a member; he was a paid-up victim of the Red Eleven, who controlled Beach Road and collected “coffee money” for protection. The payment gave Hing a certain standing, for having victimized him the Red Eleven would stick by him and fight anyone who tried to squeeze him. Leigh handed over a letter, and we waited while Hing gnawed the sealing wax from the flap. He put on his old wire glasses and read the column of characters, then he smiled his angry eyeless smile and nodded at Leigh.
“I trust everything is in order,” said Leigh to Hing.
It was a wasted remark; Hing was muttering to Little Hing, and Little replied by muttering into the racing form he held against his face.
“Where’s our friend going to put up?” I asked.
“Booked at the Strand,” said Big Hing. “Can come tomorrow.” He picked up his grandson and bounced the trouserless little feller to show the interview was over.
The Strand Hotel was on Scotts Road, diagonally across the road from the Tanglin Club. As we were pulling into the Strand’s driveway, under the arch with the sign reading European Cuisine — Weddings — Parties — Reasonable Prices, Leigh saw the Tanglin signboard and said, “Why don’t we pop over for a drink?”
I let my watch horrify me. “God,” I said, “it’s nearly half past six. That place is a madhouse this time of day. Fellers having a drink after work. Look, William, I know a quiet little—”
“I’d love to have a look at those new squash courts of yours,” he said. He hit me hard on the arm and said heartily, “Come on, Flowers, I’ll buy you a drink.” He gave his suitcase to the room-boy at the Strand, signed the register, and then clapped his stomach with two hands. “Ready?”
“I’ll buy you a drink,” said Leigh, but that was impossible because money was not allowed and only a member could sign chits. The brass plaque on the club entrance — MEMBERS ONLY— mocked us both. I looked for someone I knew, but all I could see were tanned long-legged mothers, fine women in toweling smocks, holding beach bags and children’s hands, waiting for their syce-driven cars after a day at the club pool. They were eagerly whispering to each other, and laughing; the sight of that joy lifted my heart — I couldn’t help but think they were plotting some trivial infidelity.
“The new squash courts are over there,” I said, stepping nimbly past the doorman and bounding up the stairs.
“Drink first,” said Leigh. “I’m absolutely parched.” He was enjoying himself and he seemed right at home. He led the way into the Churchill Room, and “Very agreeable” he said, twice, as he looked for an opening at the bar.
The Churchill Room had just been renovated: thick wall-to-wall carpets, a new photograph of Winston, a raised bar, and a very efficient air-conditioning system. In spite of the cool air I was perspiring, a damp panel of shirt clung to my back; I was searching for a familiar face, someone I knew who might sign a drink chit. The bar was packed with men in white shirts and ties, some wearing stiff planter’s shorts, standing close to the counter in groups of three or four, braying to their companions or sort of climbing over each other and waving chit pads at the barmen. Leigh was pushing ahead of me and I had just reached out to tap him on the shoulder and tell him I had remembered something important — my nerve had failed me so completely I could not think what, and prayed for necessity’s inspiration — when I saw old Gunstone over in the corner at one of the small tables, drinking alone.
Gunstone was one of my first clients; he was in his seventies and came to Singapore when it was a rubber estate and a few rows of shophouses and go-downs. During the war he was captured by the Japanese and put to work on the Siamese Death Railway. He told me how he had buried his friend on the Burmese border, a statement like a motto of hopeless devotion, an obscure form of rescue, I buried my friend. He was the only client who took me to lunch when he wanted a girl, but he was also the cagiest, because I had to make all the arrangements for him and even put my own name on the hotel register. What he did with the girls, I never knew — I never asked: I did not monkey with a feller’s confidence — but it was my abiding fear that one day Gunstone’s engine was going to stop in a hotel room I had reserved, and I was going to have to explain my name in the register. I never saw Gunstone’s wife; he only took her to the club at night and most of my club work was in the daytime.