From what will probably be chapter 2. Working header, “The national hemorrhoid”
Six men and one woman sat across the conference table, staring impassively at the three foreigners facing them. The men were uniform- late sixties, jowly and liverspotted, with incongruously black hair. On their wrists were gaudy, expensive Swiss watches, and their grey suits immaculately tailored. The woman was tall, leggy and attractive, and her main role was to serve tea and translate. When she spoke, it was in an affected girlish titter.
Cards were exchanged, and laid out on the table. Tea was drunk, and small talk begun. Property prices! Hao, hao. Western culture! Hao, hao. Chinese culture! Hen hao! And as the spiral dance of Chinese business neared the center, discussion began to focus on fame, face and money. Representing COT, China Overseas Town co., the men at the table had one thing on their minds- their legacy. They had clawed their way to the top of the business landscape through maintaining good relationships with government officials and their families, well-placed money spent on alcohol and gifts, and herculean efforts of drinking, whoring and flattering. After a lifetime of hard graft, they were set on ensuring that they did something new, something that their children could be proud of. They were going to put on a show.
Finally, Chen Bo, the most senior representative, indicated that the presentation should begin. The lights were dimmed and the projector turned on to reveal the logo of the brand new Star’s Light Productions. Grandiose music began to play tinnily from the laptop’s speakers, and Roger stood and paced toward the screen. Straight and tall, he was the picture of an elegant Englishman. His blazer had an artfully disarrayed hankie in the pocket, his trousers fit impeccably, and his voice rang melodious across the boardroom. He was just starting to warm up when he was interrupted by the chirrupy twitter of the interpreter explaining what he was saying.
The slides had photos of Cirque de Soleil, of distinguished looking foreigners posed in artistic headshots, and concept sketches of a stage gloriously decorated, with a willowy young woman soaring in flowing robes over the heads of the audience. It was a masterpiece of bullshit, with no relation to truth or reality, but it was pretty. The investors watched with increasing excitement, as pictures of scantily dressed showgirls passed across the screen. As the presentation moved toward its conclusion, the showgirls became increasingly bare, until at the end the screen was filled with nothing but closeups of nude, bodypainted women in enormous headdresses gyrating for the camera.
The rest of the formal negotiations went smoothly, if inconclusively. Goldblatt took over, presenting the numbers and the projections, comparing their potential earnings to the headlining Cirque shows in Vegas. After an hour of talking, Chen glanced meaningfully at his watch, and Goldblatt immediately spoke up.
“Mr. Chen, it’s been a long afternoon. We would like to invite you to come to dinner with us, we have reserved a room at the InterContinental, and would be honored if you and your colleagues would be our guests.” When the translation was given, he smiled approvingly and grunted “hao!”. They all stood, shook hands around the table, and filed out to the waiting cars. Things were looking up.
#
The interior of the InterContinental was exactly as expected of such places in Shenzhen. Gaudy, marble and gilt, with slavish service and Marco Polo Rococo interiors of snowy white linen, red lacquer, and everything in between. It was a temple to conspicuous consumption and bad taste, and as they walked across the lobby toward the elevators the Chinese strolled like returning princes, Goldblatt tagging along behind them chattering away, Walrus wandering aimlessly and Roger goggling at the sheer chutzpah of it all. In his eyes, it was like the interior designers had taken their inspiration from the Harrods Food Hall, but had thought that the Victorians had just not tried hard enough.
They were ushered through into their private dining room, with Grecian pillared walls and Chinese screens surrounding a massive, round table topped with white linen, gleaming crystal, silver cutlery including carved chopsticks on silver dragon stands, and a large glass lazy susan in the center. Playing the host to the tee, Goldblatt ushered Chen and his wingmen to their seats, settling them in before standing aside to whisper to the maitre d’, who immediately disappeared. Within seconds, he reappeared with a bottle of red wine and flunky. With great formality, he presented the bottle for approval. Upon receiving Goldblatt’s nod, he opened the wine ceremoniously, and poured a measure into his glass for tasting. Goldblatt swirled the wine meditatively, took a sip and swished slowly. Finding it acceptable, he gestured to the table and the maitre d’ immediately poured out generous glasses and stepped back from the table.
The formalities completed, Goldblatt waved the flunky over, who produced a large bottle of Coke. As the Chinese nodded happily, the maitre d’ took the Coke, opened it with a flourish and topped up each of their glasses until they were brimming, then moved around the table. Horrified, Roger covered his glass, but noticed both Goldblatt and the Walrus accepted the Coke. The translator sipped her tea and smiled.
When all the glasses were filled, Goldblatt raised his glass to Chen, rapped it twice on the lazy susan, and declared “ganbei!”. As if synchronized, everyone at the table said “ganbei” and drained their glass. While the waiters were refilling the glasses, the first course arrived. The waiters presented small, covered bowls, removing the lids with militaristic coordination. Inside, in a milky rich broth dotted with oil, floated stringy, gelatinous strands. Roger poked at it with his chopsticks while the Chinese began to eat. “Shark fin” whispered The Walrus. “Doesn’t taste like much in itself, really. It’s very expensive, so no ethical compunctions about the fate of the sharks. Buying this gives them lots of face, so eat up and look happy!”
Using his spoon and chopsticks awkwardly, he sampled the soup. It was rich and flavorful, but the shark’s fin was strangely lacking in taste or texture. He leaned over to The Walrus and muttered “What’s it supposed to taste like? This just tastes like chicken soup!” The Walrus chuckled and whispered back “That’s right. It’s so expensive and prestigious because it tastes exactly like what it’s cooked in. Each bowl of this soup is made from two whole chickens!”
The meal progressed, with more ganbeis and innumerable dishes. Abalone, seafood, fish, all piled in the center of the table until the lazy susan was stacked with dishes three high. With each course, the diners got rowdier, with Goldblatt making rude jokes in Mandarin and Walrus chatting up Yuan Ling, the interpreter. Roger lost track of the conversation, of time, and why he was there… it became some kind of whirl of food, noise and booze. Finally, after a wobbly confection of dragon fruit and turtle jelly, Goldblatt lurched out of his seat to stand next to Mr. Chen.
“Mr. Chen! This has been a fantastic meal, and we are very glad you could join us. Will you come to sing songs with us, and drink whisky? It seems the best way to celebrate our new friendship.”
Mr. Chen belched companionably, and waved a hand in assent. “Hao hao!”. Goldblatt called over the waiter and handed over his credit card. While they waited, Mr Chen weaved over and offered Roger a cigarette. As he raised his hand to say ‘no thanks, I don’t smoke’, he heard Walrus’ frantic whisper “Take the damn thing! If you don’t, you’ll offend him.” He took the cigarette with a thank you, and accepted the light that Mr. Chen offered. As they smoked together, Chen looked up and said “now we go fuck like friends, yes!” and walked out the door. Stunned and confused, Roger just stood there until Goldblatt called him over and said “You’re doing well. Now we’re going to KTV, so just keep drinking, keep laughing, and for God’s sake don’t pay any attention to what’s happening under the table!”
On that note, like a conga line of inappropriately-dressed drunken sailors, they weaved out of the hotel and into the muggy Shenzhen night. They’d found their partners.
#
The KTV was like a circle of hell, if hell had sufficient quantities of mirrors and black light. The private room was opulent, in a shabby sort of way, with red velvet sofas spotted with unidentifiable stains. As they entered, they were greeted by a short, thin manager, wearing a white tuxedo jacket over a tight t-shirt and sporting heavily greased-back hair. He ushered them to the room, then left them with a bottle of Glenlivet and half a dozen plastic bottles of green tea. As they settled in around the low table, Roger was surprised to find that it covered a spacious, carpeted well underneath. He began to wonder about Goldblatt’s words, but before he could draw the logical conclusion, the manager returned with a bevy of scantily clad, giggling women.
Without any instruction, they lined up in front of the men and began to pose. Mr Chen stood up and walked up and down the line like a drill sergeant inspecting his troops, then pointed to two of the girls. They immediately went to his side, and he returned to his seat, smirking, and let them pour him a whisky and top it up with green tea. After he had chosen, in order of seniority, all his aides chose one girl each, then looked expectantly at the foreigners. Goldblatt gestured a tall, longhaired one over, and said “pick one. It’s expected.” With a sensation between titillation and dread, Roger chose a short, delicate girl with a pixie cut. When it came to his turn, the Walrus looked them up and down, then went and had a quiet word with the manager.
“Making a special order” he said. “Nothing here to my tastes.” The manager took the girls out, and a few minutes later returned with a tiny, thin girl in a short kilt and white blouse. Her hair was tied back in pigtails, and she looked at the Walrus shyly from under her bangs. He nodded, and the manager sent her over to sit next to him. He put his arm around her with a lustful look, and smiled.
“How old is she?” Roger whispered. “That can’t be legal!”
He replied, looking offended. “She’s legal, I assure you. I just like my women to be more… girlish. You should try it, there’s nothing like a young Chinese girl.”
The night went on, with the girls pouring drinks, singing songs, and getting groped. Roger tried to avoid the worst of it, but he was surrounded. After a few hours, he noticed that Mr. Chen was looking distracted and sweaty, and appeared to have lost one of his girls. He looked around for her, then noticed that all the girls were disappearing under the table. His girl poured him another drink, smiled prettily, and slid into the well like an eel. Before he could object, he felt her hands undoing his belt and fly, and as her mouth engulfed him he heard Goldblatt speak.
“Now, gentlemen. To business.”
The men raised their glasses and drank, then drifted off into their own, very private reveries.
#
The next day, they sat around the same table, bleary and hungover. Mr Chen looked green and more toadlike than usual, but amenable. Goldblatt presented the papers to him solemnly, along with a large cup of green tea and a creditable Mont Blanc fake. Mr. Chen sipped the tea, signed the papers without looking, shoved them back across the table and looked up with an unusually shrewd look for such a seasick face.
“We will be introducing you to our project managers tonight- they will control the disbursements and oversee the production, as we agreed”
His English had improved remarkably since the previous day, and Goldblatt looked perturbed. He didn’t like that one bit, because while he acknowledged that he was required to take them, he didn’t like being blindsided and possibly outmaneuvered, certainly not while hungover and worried about his increasingly itchy crotch. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then nodded.
Mr Chen continued. “Their names are Tiger Lee and David Wang. Tiger was trained as a Chinese opera acrobat, and David has worked for the past 15 years in Vancouver in trading. We’re sure that they can get you what you need, and help with all your production issues.” He sat back and sipped at his tea, with a triumphant look on his face.
Worried now, Goldblatt continued the meeting, tying up loose ends and clarifying details, but as he did his mind was racing with questions, like “Who are these two guys?” “What’s COT trying to pull on us?” and “Will I need antibiotics again?”
#
The first meeting of the newly formed Star’s Light Entertainment was a low-key affair, in a crowded abalone congee shop in Mongkok, Hong Kong. Walrus, Goldblatt and Roger sat around a chipped formica table, poking at their porridge and looking annoyed.
“Where is he?” Roger muttered, then sniffed suspiciously at the rubbery lump he fished out of his congee.
“He’s coming. He went to the accountant this morning to finalize the paperwork, it should all be done soon.” Goldblatt looked his usual impeccable self, wearing a three-piece suit even in the Hong Kong heat. “You should have more faith. The man knows what he’s doing, even if doesn’t exactly show.”
Ignoring the others, Walrus leaned back and waved to the counterman for three more beers, turning away quickly so that the grumpy waiter would be obliged to deliver them to the table instead of just leaving them on the counter to be picked up. As he threaded his way through the crowded dining room, the door banged open and a man walked in. Tall, thin, and enormously overdressed, the newcomer stood dramatically in the doorway while he surveyed the crowd, then minced through the tables towards the Star’s Light crew.
“Is that him?” Roger asked somewhat rhetorically, as he watched him approach. “I expected someone a bit less… flamboyant.”
Walrus looked up toward the door, then grunted. “Yep. That’s The Ponce. Always loves to make an entrance. Ah. Beer. At least that’s a positive.”
Flamboyant was certainly one word to describe the newcomer. Named Bob Williams, he was a South African ex-professional figure skater who was almost universally known as “Bob the Ponce,” or just “that flaming poofta.” This was somewhat ironic, as he’d been kicked out of the national sports program for his relentless pursuit of black women, which was quite thoroughly against the rules in the apartheid era. Now older, wiser, and far more corrupt, he focused himself on the Holy Trinity of Money, Fashion, and Cunt.
Today, he was dressed down for casual business, with a tightly-fitted silk shirt the color of faded roses, handmade loafers polished to a luminous shine, and his signature daffodil yellow trousers, tailored to accentuate his skater’s legs and show off his still-perky buttocks to their maximum effect. Capping it all rose his pride and joy- his immaculately styled, vaguely bouffant man-perm, held in place with a variety of modern adhesive products and hours of patient work.
You could take away Bob’s clothes, his money, his hordes of women and he’d survive, because he knew he’d be able to win it back… because he had his hair and his charisma. He knew that he had clarity, he had perspective, and he was going places. He just couldn’t understand why everyone was convinced that he was gay.
Pulling up a chair, he lowered himself elegantly into the chair, and tossed a sheaf of papers onto the table. “There you go gentlemen, sign and revert, we’re incorporated by end of day.” Dramatic gesture accomplished, he finally took notice of Roger, and held out his impeccably manicured hand.
“You must be Roger. Good to meet you. Is that blazer Saville Row? It’s exquisitely fitted, but you have the frame for it. You must give me the name of your tailor before this is done.”
Somewhat stunned, Roger muttered “of course, of course,” before turning his attention to the paperwork, and the job ahead of him.
