Category: Novel

“Snesh nursh yaaargh garble fzzpt wargh Shenzhen”

The announcement crackled over the PA at Shanghai’s Hongqiao Airport, and for the nth time Alex glanced up from his book to see if his flight was boarding. It wasn’t. It was delayed, again, making it now more than three hours late. He wasn’t annoyed, however, because in a moment of Shanghai serendipity, he’d found book two of the Song of Ice and Fire in the airport bookshop and was now happily immersed in Westeros.

Still, these delays were getting annoying. Hongqiao Airport is an oldschool Chinese airport, with no shops but ridiculously overpriced teashops and souvenir stalls, poor duty free selection, terrible local restaurants and trench toilets (bring your own toilet paper!). He’d wandered the entire airport at least a dozen times, and was beginning to get hungry. Sighing, he stood up and looked around again, then grabbed his rickety luggage cart and set off once more.

Pausing in front of a flashy-looking “cafe”, he thought briefly about a coffee. Then, as before, he looked at the menu:

Fabulous exotic coffee! 108RMB
Precious foreigner coffee! 118RMB
Golden Boss exquisite coffee! 168RMB

Outrageous. Almost 15 bucks for a small cup of coffee- and looking over the bar he could see the waitress surreptitiously pouring Nestle 3+1 into a fancy cup, before ostentatiously topping it up with hot water from a fancy Italian espresso maker.

China.

Shaking his head and moving on, he passed the souvenir shop, teeming with fat Americans buying overpriced stuffed pandas and fake Yixing teapots, and the shop full of cognac and cheap smokes. He’d already picked up a bottle of scotch and a carton of ciggies, so another trip through would just mean risking the perfume counter chemical warfare lady. He was sure she was a very nice woman, but at about four feet tall she was invisible behind the shelves until she suddenly popped out and sprayed anyone within range with her sampler of choice. Today’s was Gucci for Men, and most of the males in the area (and a few unlucky females) had been dosed heavily enough to smell like a Russian mafiosi heading out on the pull.

Onward.

Finally, at the end of the terminal, he got to The Cheap Restaurant. Officially called Love Food Experience, it was where all the stuck resident foreigners eventually ended up, simply because it served food at a mere 3x multiplier, instead of the 10x closer to the gate. Its shabby tables were filled with hunched, miserable travelers like Alex, flying local air and stuck, once again, for unexplained reasons. Resigning himself to getting screwed, he went up to the counter and looked over the menu.

“En, ni hao. I’ll have the bacon sandwich please.”

The girl at the counter smiled uncomprehendingly.

“Bacon sandwich? Pai kon sandwich?”

“Ah OK. 45 RMB. You wait five minutes OK?”

Handing over the money, he grumpily went to the end of the counter to watch the show. In its way, it was a hell of a performance. The counter girl was joined by two older, uniformed ayis, and they bustled about the prep area, with all of them trying to do everything at once and achieving very little. After a few minutes, he turned to the windows, watching the planes taxi and wondering once again what the hell he was doing here.

“Hello sir, pai-kon sandwich!”

The voice from behind broke his reverie, and he turned to take his paper wrapped sandwich. Wandering back down the terminal, he found an empty corner seat by the window and settled down to his book. As he read, he unwrapped the sandwich and without looking took a bite.
Into a unusually flavored combination of sweet bread, sweet mayonnaise, cold tomatoes, and… raw bacon. Slimy, cold, raw bacon. Gorge rising, he spat the mouthful out into the paper and stared at it. Even after four years in China, there were still some things that he just couldn’t understand, and now the China rage was beginning to escape.

He’d been patient. His flight was delayed, the airport sucked, and he’d paid too much just to have one familiar-ish thing, and it was raw. Uncooked! Full of trichinosis and whatever other nasties lived behind the counter at The Cheap Restaurant. It was time, he thought grimly, for a laowai fit.

A quick note on the phenomenon of the laowai fit. China is a difficult place for most foreigners, and no matter how hard they try, they carry around within them a little seed of rage. Once in a while, when all other options are exhausted and they are feeling particularly put-upon by the system, that seed erupts into the weapon of last resort, and a massive, screaming, laowai temper tantrum emerges.

Socioculturally, the laowai fit is a very potent means to getting things done, if done correctly. The Chinese are very face sensitive, and when someone loses their temper, all parties lose face. As foreigners have no face to lose, erupting into a righteous rage very often will get them what they want- and let off the tension at the same time. Done incorrectly, they do occasionally end up in jail as a result, but as they say, that’s China for you.

So, as he felt the rage bubbling up inside as he strode purposefully back to The Cheap Restaurant, Alex was expecting a catharsis, an escape from the frustrations of the airport. This wasn’t just about a raw bacon sandwich- this was the opening shot in a cultural war!

“Snergle blarth skreebo Shenzhen werkle lai!”

Jolted from he reveries of vengeance, he looked up at the departure board. His flight was boarding now, and he hadn’t got his money back yet! He hurried to the restaurant, waving his sandwich at the counter girl.

“This is raw! I have a flight! I want my money back”

She looked up quickly, because “I want my money back” is a terrible thing to all Chinese shopkeepers. She smiled and said “What’s your problem?”

“It’s raw. Bacon needs to be cooked. You gave me raw meat!” He took out a slice of greyish bacon and wobbled it at her. “See? I can’t eat that!”

“OK, no problem. I cook for you now.”

“No! It’s too late. It must be cooked BEFORE it goes in the sandwich. Just give me my money back, I need to catch my plane.”

“No money back, I cook new for you.”

“No, money back now, or I get the police! You served me raw food, you lose your license!”

For some reason, all conversations like this end up in pidgin English.

The argument went back and forth, and volumes got louder as the departure time approached. Finally, seeing a group of new potential customers heading her way, she gave in, on the principle that she could screw them out of the difference, and having a screaming laowai complaining about being fed raw bacon might scare them off.

Finally victorious, clutching his money, Alex ran to his plane and his appointment with Shenzhen.

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.

Character intro for Max the Greek.

“This is your card, is it not?”

These words were delivered in a ringing, confident tone and a terrible fake Eastern European accent.

“No.”

The magician’s victim looked at the tall, thin saturnine man with a pencilled on Cesar Romero moustache who was holding up his card with a mixture of pity and contempt. It seemed that he just couldn’t get his routine to work right. He’d picked three cards already, and they were all wrong. It was beginning to get embarrassing. The man waving the card looked a little nonplussed, but forged on relentlessly.

“I said ‘is it not?’ yes? Take it, take it now” he said, handing the wrong card over face down. “We do this old-fashioned way.” Waving his hands and muttering, then snapping his fingers, he said “now see. Is your card, yes?”

The victim turned over the card looked up with a smirk, then quickly doubletaked down. He was holding his card, and he gaped speechlessly while the magician took it from his hand, put it back in the deck, and swaggered smugly off.

Max the Greek was a bit of an oxymoron. Despite looking like he was born impeccably mustachioed with a deck of shaved cards in his hands, he’d actually had a previous career as a successful advertising creative director. After launching his own agency and reaping the rewards of his initial success, he was found by his secretary under his desk one morning, clutching a bottle of whisky in one hand, a photo of his ex-wife and children in the other, and sobbing uncontrollably.

While not a terribly unusual occurrence in the world of advertising, Max’s breakdown led to an unexpected moment of clarity. Forsaking the money, stress and glamour of the ad world for a life of indigent magic, he rested content in knowing that now he could continue to lie to people for fun and money, but now they actually appreciated it. Reborn in his mid-forties as “Max the Greek, the mediocre magician”, he indulged his aversion to winter by traveling between his home and Shanghai annually. Despite his chosen name, he was neither a “Max” nor a Greek. He was in fact named Dougie McPherson, and he was born and raised in Australia. He had inherited his swarthy Mediterranean looks from his Merchant Marine father, and his Scottish last name from his father’s erstwhile best friend, who had in fact been married to his mother at the time of Max’s conception.

This made both geneaology and family dinners somewhat awkward.

At the moment, he was doing his regular Australian gig, which was harassing customers with card tricks in a swanky Perth restaurant. It is worth noting that what passes for swank in Perth is quite flexible, and the proprietor of the restaurant had quite wisely decided that Max was a better investment than a gypsy violinist, despite his amazing tendency to make gin and tonics disappear and seduce the more feminine members of the audience.

However, he was approaching the beginning of the winter season, and soon Max would have to start looking for Shanghai work. As he did every year, he’d drop his old friend and collaborator the Walrus an email as soon as he got off-shift, see what was shaking in the ‘Hai.

 

This is probably a bit short, but I’m working on the second act before I have another go…

The office was spacious, loud and crowded. Row upon row of desks filled the entire floor, filled with teams of designers, writers and salespeople all chattering away and drinking endless cups of green tea. Tucked away in the corner, a small sub-office with just six desks. Only three were filled at the moment, with two foreigners and a tiny Chinese woman tapping away at their computers.

One of the foreigners was having a bad day. Alex Grimm had been working in magazines in China for years, and this one was a pretty good one, as these things go. The pay was reasonable, the bosses Japanese, and the content fun. He was having a bad day because it was 40 degrees and 98% humidity, the air con wasn’t working, and the deadline was coming fast. Still, that’s what publishing was all about, so he kept working on the photos in front of him, cloning out the defects for print. His boss, Natasha, was having a worse day, trying to reconcile an advertiser’s demands for copy with her editorial ethics. It was never an easy job, but this case was worse than usual as the client bought ads in all five Chinese language magazines, not just the fledgling English one.

Turning away from her shouting into the phone, he was saving out his work when she called him over. “I need you to go review this restaurant/club place in XTD again. The Fun House- you know the one we panned and advertising sent back the review?” He did know exactly which place, because she’d been shouting about it all afternoon, and he’d written the initial review that caused it all. This was China lifestyle writing at its best- be honest, get bawled out. She continued “You’ll be getting the full treatment this time, the manager and PR girl will eating with you. I got them to agree to an ‘invited us’ in the copy so it doesn’t come across as pretending to be a blind review, but I doubt much will be wrong with it. You’ll be going with Judy, who will keep them happy from an accounts point of view.”

He grunted, not pleased with this but at least heartened by the prospect of an evening’s free booze and food. Besides, Judy, the account rep, was sexy and possibly interested. He tried not to think about the potential for conflict of interest and complicating his working life, but instead focused on the champagne and steak he’d get for turning a blind eye to his ethics. It was cold comfort, but at least was cold with bubbles.

Natasha looked over her monitor with a rueful smile. “I know, I know. But it’s where we are, and what we do, and we’ve got a magazine that’s way more honest than everyone else. Pick another battle, and drink some bubbly for me. I’ve got a gallery opening to go to, and it’s going to bore the piss out of me. If you’re really upset, we can swap?”

He laughed. Natasha was a good person, a full-on butch from England with a stunner of a girlfriend. She was as hardass as an editor could be, but still a decent human being- and there was no way he was going to suffer through another boring gallery opening full of pretentious foreigners and wannabe contemporary artists playing at glitterati. Nope, it was off to the touristy theme restaurant he’d go, and get good and drunk in revenge. With an exaggerated gesture of resignation, he went back to his photoshopping, ignoring the whispered “drama queen!” from Natasha.

#

The Fun House was crowded with tourists, as it always was, since it had been written up in Lonely Planet as a ‘good French restaurant’ in 1999 and nobody had bothered to update the listing since. Now a carnival themed bistro set in an old shikumen along the main drag of Xintiandi, it drew in footsore tourists who needed to eat and couldn’t decide between Paulaner’s pseudo-Bavarian fare and The Fountain’s innovatively bad fusion cuisine. The atmosphere was one of frustration, sweat and alcohol, fuelled by roving beer girls in tight, short PVC outfits hawking Tiger, Heineken and Qingdao.

It was, thought Alex, the sort of place that immoral restaurant critics were sent to after death, to suffer eternity surrounded by bad food, mediocre service, and fat, loud American tourists. He settled deeper into his seat in the corner, and lit a cigarette while Judy chattered to the PR girl and the manager. As he smoked, he looked around the room. The dinner crowd was slowly dissipating, leaving the dance floor free for the incoming Salsa night. He was turning back to Judy’s cleavage when his eye was attracted by an incongruous scene in the opposite corner, were a greasy, lank haired fat man in a faded tailcoat was making obscene balloon animals for a group of rowdy, late-middle aged Americans. As he handed over his last creation, which appeared to be a bright green giraffe with a raging purple erection, the manager noticed him and gestured for him to come over.

“Let me introduce our entertainment!” he said with a touch of pride as the man approached, “This is Professor Walrus, an internationally famed magician! He had a TV show in Singapore, you know. Professor, meet Alex and Judy, they’re from The Hunt.”

Alex shook hands with the man, noting the Dali moustache and bloodshot eyes. “Hi. Alex Grimm. Good to meet you.”

The Walrus produced his card, and proffered it with a flourish. “My card. I always enjoy meeting members of the fourth estate.”

With a grimace, Alex replied “yeah, well, I’m not exactly a journalist you know. According to the government, I write for a direct marketing publication. But thanks, anyway.” He pulled on his smoke one last time, then looked around for the ashtray.”

Seeing this, the Walrus leaned over and said “let me deal with that!” and took his cigarette butt with a flourish. He picked up the edge of Judy’s skirt, leering down into her ample cleavage as he did so, and after making a little pocket in the fabric stuffed the cigarette down, grinding it in with his thumb. Pulling back his hands, he rubbed them briskly and stuffed them in his pockets, saying “there you go, all gone!” and leaving Judy to marvel at her unburnt skirt.

Alex grinned, and waved The Walrus over. Leaning in and speaking quietly, he said “so, don’t you find that butting out cigarettes wears out your thumbtip?”

Walrus looked annoyed, then smiled. “Ah, you know something, do you? It would, but this one was custom made for me- hand carved out of horn in Nepal. It’s fireproof. Where did you learn about magic?”

“One minute” standing up and smiling to the rest of the party, Alex said “excuse us for a moment” and took The Walrus aside.

“This isn’t a conversation to have with them listening, is it? I used to do special effects, and I’ve worked with magicians before. I’m not Magic Circle or anything, but I can build a decent illusion.”

“Can you then…” muttered the Walrus. “Give me your card. I think I have a project coming up and I may need a your assistance. You’ve worked on big shows before?”

Intrigued, Alex looked at him for a hard moment before replying. “Back in Montreal, my partner and I did a bunch of ads, some movie work, some Cirque type stuff- but it all ended after 9/11. He’s still in the game there, but I write for a living now. What’s this project?”

The Walrus smiled smarmily, and replied “now isn’t the place to discuss it, really. Let’s meet tomorrow for a coffee, I’ll fill you in. Is your partner free these days? I need an experienced crew.”

“OK. 2 o’clock tomorrow, at the Starbucks next door. Let’s talk”

With that, Walrus went back to his performance, and Alex went back to his champagne. Life was looking interesting.

The bar at the Golden Fish was an large affair with an elaborate fisherman theme. From the brass portholes on the wall to the nets and buoys draped from the pillars, it was clearly supposed to be a fisherman’s bar. However, to Alex’s Maritimer eyes, it lacked the key ingredients for a real fisherman’s bar, namely row tables and fully tiled walls and floors. He knew, deep in his Nova Scotian soul that a real fishermen’s bar would have regulars, and regular friendly barfights. The row tables ensured that there was enough scope for the kind of friendly ribbing needed to set them off, and the tiling made cleanup so much easier.

For China, it wasn’t so bad, and Alex wandered in, looking for Walrus and the crew. Before he could find them, his attention was attracted by the Filipino band, which had just given the microphone to a fat, sweaty, balding American in a plaid shirt, who signaled to the band and began to belt out Sweet Home Alabama to an adoring crowd of locals. Pushing past the fat man’s audience, he saw a little clot of foreigners sitting around the a table at the back, with Walrus presiding magnanimously from the head. Seeing Alex, he waved him over, and gestured for him to grab a beer.

“Welcome to the team!” At closer inspection, Walrus was very obviously drunk. His nose and cheeks were beginning to glow, his hair hung lank and sweaty, and his eyes were a bit glassy and defocused. “Just did a round of baijiu shots with the local management team. You just missed them. Want me to order you one?”

Baijiu, or literally white wine, is a Chinese spirit distilled from millet mash. With an alcohol percentage pushing 60%, and a nose redolent with notes of decaying bananas and industrial solvents, Alex had always felt that it smelled like the cheap nail polish remover sold in Dollarama back home. In more speculative moments, or after being forced to drink it, he would suspect that the resemblance was because the margin on dollar nailpolish remover was better than for using it for drinking purposes. It certainly worked as a solvent. One time, when he had no other options, Alex used it to remove sharpie from a painted wall. It worked, but didn’t remove the marker ink. Instead, it dissolved the underlying paint.

So that explained the sudden-onset drunkenness. Foreigners only drank it when they had to, when they had no other choices, or when they were tired of living. Chinese businessmen often required it from their partners, with Alex suspecting that that it was a form of passive-aggressive cultural warfare. Walrus would have an unpleasantly spectacular hangover in the morning, and sweat the scent of baijiu for days.
“No thanks, I’m not a fan.” Alex grabbed a bottle from the table and raised it to the assembly. “Cheers. I’m Alex Grimm.”

#
It was a hodgepodge of faces around the table. A striking Chinese woman sat next to Walrus, frowning into her cola. To her left, two hispanic-looking men, one with long, curly hair tied at the nape of his neck, the other with a shaggy Keanu Reeves circa Bill & Ted’s mop. Next to them sat a smiling white guy with weatherbeaten skin and a massive hawk nose. Alex sat down between him and the swarthy man with the pencil moustache, and the introductions began.

Ellie, the Chinese woman, was in fact a Hong Kong New Zealander with a flat, nasal accent. She was assistant producer, videographer, and from all symptoms feeling generally miserable. When the next round came by, it became apparent she didn’t drink- which probably accounted for her state of mind. Karaoke isn’t for the sober. The Hispanic-looking guys were Miguel and Luis, a pair of extreme sports videographers from Mexico who’d been persuaded to take a break from their Asian tour to document the progress of the show.

The one with the big nose, shook hands formally and introduced himself as “Antonio Valdevera. I paint, I do concepts, and I can turn any line you draw into a pussy with just three strokes of my pen!”

“He can, too. Don’t bet against it.” This came from the Max the Greek, who was seated to Alex’s left. “Max. Max the Greek. I am a line manager, but I am really a magician of uncanny skill. For example, I can make things disappear without smoke or mirrors. See? Look over there, I show you.”

Max gestured grandiosely toward the stage, where the Sweet Home Alabama was entering its fourth encore and the fat man (who later turned out to be the lighting expert from Vegas, as well as not knowing any other songs) was looking like he was about to have a heart attack. As Alex looked over, Max scooped up his beer and skulled it, sweeping the glass elegantly back into place and belching thunderously.
“You drank my beer.” The rest of the table was grinning at Alex’s discomfiture.

“No. I made it disappear, without smoke or mirrors.” Max looked smug. “I could make it reappear again, but I think you’d not appreciate it. Besides, it’s your round. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

Alex shrugged, grinned, and went to the bar.

#
Things were getting messy in the bar. Antonio, Max, Ellie and Alex had left the table and started to play pool. Somehow, over the course of the evening, they had decided to play penalty doubles with tequila shots. Every uncalled shot that was pocketed required a shot, and Alex was feeling woozy.

His current state was mostly a result of lack of practice, compounded by noticing Ellie’s love of V-necks and total disregard for undergarments. Although quite flat for a Chinese, he still had trouble focusing on the game whenever she bent over. Max had got her to take a shot near the beginning of the game, and that seemed to have washed away her inhibitions. She was drinking like a fish, had reached the point redfaced inebriation, and her constant bending and standing to adjust her shots had seriously affected his game.

As he woozed up to the table, he realized that much more and he’d have trouble comfortably leaning over the table. Thin summer shorts weren’t helping, either. Not a terribly successful womanizer, he’d found it hard to get comfortable with local women. Although he found them very physically attractive, he had found they were generally too clingy and lacking in independence – he wasn’t a fan of having to text every 30 min to avoid a punishment pout. Somewhere, deep in his booze-addled brain, the idea that maybe Ellie could be a possibility filtered in.

“Your shot mate”

Max thrust the cue into his face, breaking his reverie.

He stepped up to the table, called “Six, corner pocket” and chalked his cue with confidence before he bent over to shoot. The six went wild, tipping the eightball into the side pocket, losing him the game and requiring a double penalty shot.

As he looked despairingly around the increasingly blurry room, two superimposed Maxes gestured for him to come to the bar.

“Your shout mate. Then we break”

So here’s the current draft of the first chapter of the novel. Like all China expats, I have a China novel brewing… and this is mostly based on a true story.

GUANXI, OR THE GREAT SHENZHEN FIASCO OF 2006

 

Chapter One
Three Wise Guys go to China

It was a particularly dirty rain, with the gutters overflowing along Fuxing Lu. The water sheeted down at an angle, fat oily drops pounding into mucky grey puddles constantly spraying out from the wheels of passing cars. The Walrus peered out briefly from under the sheltering awning of the baozi shack into the street, then pulled back, muttering.

He was an unusual sight, even for the streets of the Concession. He was wearing a worn red velvet tailcoat buttoned tight over his paunch, and sagging black tuxedo trousers that had seen far better days. His stringy, shoulder length hair was pulled back from his receding hairline into a little queue at the back of his neck. His fat, jowly face was almost the same shade of grey as his hair, save for bright blue eyes under bushy white eyebrows and am incongruously black waxed Dali moustache and tiny, braided goatee.

To an average observer, he looked like a circus ringmaster, down on his luck. To a more seasoned Shanghai aficionado, he was The Amazing Walrus, impresario, close-up magician, and freelance talent scout. However, for the moment, he was just a badly-dressed waig’ stuck in the plum rains with no cabs in sight.

With an unhappy grunt, he pulled his collar up and wandered off into the downpour, aiming to find a cab at the Radisson on the corner of Huashan Lu. As he ran from awning to awning, dodging the spray from passing cars, he once again asked himself how he ended up in Shanghai, then cursed he stepped into a pothole concealed under the surface and the felt the grey, greasy water filling his shoes.

#
Joe Goldblatt, Jr. sat back in his chair and looked squarely at his guest, ignoring the rain that thrashed at the window. Sonny “Long” Wang looked stolidly back, and lit another cigarette. Joe was nervous, though it would never show from his appearance. From his suspendered trousers to his monogrammed, tailored shirts, he looked every inch the lawyer he used to be before the California Bar kicked him out for fraud. With iron grey hair and Nixonian jowls, his face inspired initial confidence, followed by a slight sense of distrustful unease. Leaning back in his chair, he settled his paunch more comfortably over his belt and began to speak in the slow, measured tones of a man speaking to an idiot.

“Sonny, you’re overreacting. I gave your girlfriend the role you wanted for her, and I got the picture released on the festival circuit. The fact that the reviewers hated her performance is her fault, not mine. You can’t demand your money back. It’s gone. You bought your share of the film, and it didn’t make money. Enjoy having been an executive producer, and get over it. You can afford it, anyway.”
Sonny leaned back, and blew a cloud of smoke at Goldblatt’s face. He was a thin man, impeccably dressed in Armani, with slicked back black hair and hard, watching eyes. His face was neutral, but his eyes were angry.

“You told me I would make money on this. You told me you’d make Mei Mei a star. You lied to me, you took my money, and you gave me nothing!”

Leaning in, he points a finger at Joe’s bulging belly.

“You got fat on MY money! Mei Mei is angry, I’ve got no money, and you tell me I’m overreacting! I will break you! You think you can do this here, in my city?”

He stood up abruptly, grinding his cigarette out in the carpet and striding toward the door.

“You’ll give me my money back, or I will take it from you. Your choice, fat man.”

Slamming it open, he walked out without another word, leaving Joe trembling at his desk. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced angry investors, but he suspected that maybe he’d gone too far this time. His system was time-proven and effective, but it relied on investors with a lot of money, little sense, and an unwillingness to challenge their contracts in court. He’d been sued, he’d been threatened, and he’d left LA after he ran out of new marks, but he’d never truly felt afraid for his life, until now.

In the beginning, it had been routine. He’d met Sonny through acquaintances, delivered his speech about how he had come to China to make the first Hollywood-quality Sino-American movie, and had promised to make his aspiring actor girlfriend a star if he invested in the production. Now, 18 months later, the money was gone, the film was a flop, and the ‘star’ was the laughing stock of the acting community in Shanghai and LA. In itself, this wasn’t unusual, until he found out that Sonny Wang wasn’t just another nouveau riche Chinese. His money ostensibly came from KTVs and bars around the city, and he was rumored to own not only the venues but the girls who worked there.
In a country where guanxi and relationships were everything, and being a foreigner meant being a mark, he was in trouble. He needed to find another project, fast, to pay of Sonny before he lost more than his reputation.

Still brooding on this, he picked up his coat and walked out in search of some decent niurou lamian and a bottle of beer. Something would turn up.

#
Roger St.John Smyth was profoundly unhappy. Tall, sophisticated and urbane, his clothing was immaculately casual, his hair elegantly mussed, and his tanned face unnaturally pale and crumpled looking. He sat across from a similarly dressed man in the tearoom of the hotel, clutching his watery martini and wondering how exactly he ended up here. A veteran of the club scenes in London, New York and LA, his promising career was cut short by a touch of legal awkwardness, the lingering effects of overindulgence in MDA, and a slightly too-well publicized bout of a curable but embarrassing social disease. Thus, his relegation to China to have one last go at the nightclub game – and his current distress.

“I can’t do it”

His companion looked awkward, but continued.

“You’re just not bankable anymore, even here. Your last club was shut down in ’99, your backers took a bath because of it, and your reputation just isn’t what it was. I can’t raise the money you want for this new project, and frankly I’ve got reservations about your business plan. Do you really think that Communist China – even if you are in Shanghai – is the place to launch a burlesque club? I know you’re convinced this is the sin city of the East, but my investors don’t agree. They think you’ll be crippled by the regulations, or worse, get caught up in the same sort of thing you did with Underworld in New York. That sort of shit gets you shot, here.”

Roger sank back deeper in his chair, his expression becoming more hangdog. “Steve, you know that I was found innocent in all that! My backers took advantage of me, and my medical condition at the time…” His voice trailed off, and he looked up bleakly. “How much can you get?”

“About half. And they insist you raise the other half yourself. If you don’t have a major personal stake in it, they’re not coming to the table.”

“Christ. I can’t raise that kind of money myself, not here and now. I’m barely solvent as it is…”

He put down his glass and took his head in his hands, fingers further disordering his hair, and sighed. “So that’s it then? I have to raise half a million quid myself for this to fly? I’d better get on with it then.”

With a rueful laugh he stood up, straightening his blazer and tie.

“You’ll take care of the bill…?”
He stuck out his hand, not noticing that his companion couldn’t quite meet his eyes as he grasped it. Roger turned away, wandering toward the lobby and the cabs waiting to take him home.

As he crossed the marble and gilt lobby, he was oblivious to the chirpy greetings of the staff and chaos of a Chinese wedding party coming in. He pushed through the crowd and out toward the line at the porticoed taxi stand. He slouched into the line behind a sopping foreigner who looked even more depressed than himself. The line wound slowly forward, but there were few cabs and many people. Roger pulled a pack of Zhongnanhais out of his pocket and fumbled around for his lighter.

No lighter. No matches. Broke, rejected, and stuck waiting for a cab in the rain. He tapped the foreigner in front of him and made the universal, thumb-flicking gesture for ‘Do you have a light’. The man turned, revealing the damp grey face and bedraggled moustache of the Walrus.

“I’ve got one in here somewhere” he said, vigorously and ostentatiously fumbling in his pockets. As he rummaged around, Roger slowly noticed the tailcoat and tuxedo trousers, now steaming slightly in as they dried.

“Sorry man, no lighter” he said, shrugging his shoulders and swiftly spreading his fingers, “But you can use my thumb!” He quickly clenched his fist and imitated the flicking gesture, bringing a flame out from under his right thumbnail. Bemused, Roger lit his cigarette, and tried to make sense of what he saw.

“Thanks. That’s a good trick- I assume you’re a magician of some sort?”
The Walrus gave a little bow, and produced his card from midair. “Professor Walrus, at your service. Magician, compere, and ringmaster in the circus of the mind! I used to have a TV show in Singapore, before I came here to expand my horizons.”

Coming from a damp, scraggly man in a faded topcoat, it sounded a bit grandiose, but somehow intriguing.

“Roger St. John Smythe. I run nightclubs all over the world, and I’m looking to open one here” He handed over his card, which the Walrus made disappear. With a slightly weaselly look, he asked “will you be needing floor entertainment at your new club? My close-up routine is very popular with the Chinese crowd.”

“Sadly, I don’t have a club here yet. I’m trying to bring burlesque to China, but I’ve hit a bit of a rough patch. Still, I have your card… so maybe I’ll be in touch.”

The line crept forward, the men talked, and soon the Walrus stood on the kerb waiting for the next cab. As it pulled up, splashing his already damp trousers, he turned back and asked “where are you headed? I’m off toward Xizang Lu, but if you’re going anywhere nearby I can drop you off- besides, I’ve got a little idea you might be interested in.” At that, he slid himself lumpily into the back of the cab, and with a bemused sigh, Roger followed.

#
The cab, like all other cabs in the city, was a VW Santana. The driver puffed away behind his plastic shield, his cigarette smoke mingling with the horse-blanket smell of a wet Walrus. He leaned in to Roger, and lowered his voice. “I’ve got an idea, you see. The Chinese, they love shows… David Copperfield, Cirque de Soleil, that sort of thing. If I could get a show together, using the people I know here, they’d back it. They don’t know how much anything costs, and they’ve got money to burn. They just want to have a big event with lots of foreigners to give them face. I’ve got the people, but I don’t have the reputation to sell them on it.”

He leaned in closer. “But I think you do. I’ve heard about some of your clubs- they were the icons of the eighties and nineties! You’ve got a name, you’ve got reputation, and you’re here!” This proposition came as a shock to Roger, considering the source, the location, and the circumstances, but in his current condition he was willing to listen to anyone, even a Walrus.

“I’m listening- putting on that kind of a show can be done. But who will give us the money to do it, and how much can we make? I’m not going to get involved in some sort of crazy project if there’s not a good payoff at the end.”

The Walrus sat back and smiled. “That’s the beautiful part. We get paid out well, whether or not the show goes off. These people want to spend money! That’s all. To have money is nothing without being seen to spend it, so we give them a chance to do it. We set up a company to run the show, we pay ourselves well, and we draw out the process. They will just keep spending, because to admit they’ve lost money is to lose face! If you don’t mind taking their money, they’ll be happy to pay it- and after what I heard about Underground, you’ll be OK with it as long as you aren’t too involved.”

Roger had been listening, but the mention of his old club hit him like a slap. “You didn’t mention you knew about that. Why bring it up now? I was acquitted, and I’ve tried to put that behind me as best I can. You come to me with some form of The Producers for China, insult me, and expect me to buy in? And you still haven’t told me where we’d get the money!”

While he listened, Walrus’s hands were fluttering in the air in mute objection. “Nonononono, you misunderstand. The Producers wanted to make a flop- we want to make a show that never happens! We want to take the money, hire some people, and spin it out… and once we have enough money, or the game is getting hard, we let it die. Easy!”

“And the money?”

“I know a guy. He specializes in finding… impressionable investors. I’ve not spoken to him about this yet, But I’m pretty sure he’d be interested. He used to be a lawyer, but now he produces films. He’s got a big rolodex filled with people who have money to trade for face, and he takes everything he can get. We can stop off at his office, catch him before he leaves for dinner.”

Now fully resigned to this bizarre scenario, Roger just nodded and stared out into the rain as Walrus rapped on the screen and told the driver their new destination. As the rain washed across the dirty streets, Walrus talked and the cab drove on toward Huaihai Lu.

#
The cab turned off Huaihai and stopped at an office block on the corner of Maoming Lu. With a glance out at the rain, Walrus opened the door and dashed to the shelter of the doorway, waving at Roger to pay the cabbie. Looking slightly distressed, he handed over 20 kuai and splashed over to where the Walrus was stooped over having an vigorous argument in Chinglish with the door intercom. Straightening up, he turned to Roger and announced “He’s gone to dinner. I know where we can find him. Let’s go.”

Off they ran into the rain, heading down Maoming toward the old bar street and its dark alleyways. Apparently at random, the Walrus dove into a gated lane entrance, and again into a narrower alley, until they emerged into a small courtyard. There, enthroned in improbable majesty on a small plastic stool, sheltered under a ragged beer umbrella and haloed from the light of a naked bulb, sat the pinstriped bulk of Joe Goldblatt. On the table in front of him was a steaming bowl of lamian, three empty bottles of REEB and a fourth quickly losing the battle. He looked up from his food as the bedraggled pair approached, grunted, and continued to slurp his noodles.

Clearly, Joe Goldblatt was a man who took his eating seriously.

The pair slopped over to him and sat down across from him. Goldblatt caught the eye of the old man behind the stove, drained his beer and waved it, holding up three fingers to indicate that everyone wanted drinks. Then he returned to his noodles. Walrus leaned over, but before he could speak he was waved into silence. Apparently, mealtimes were not for conversation. The REEBs arrived, misted with condensation, and for lack of anything else to do the men drank their beer and stared awkwardly into the rainy courtyard.

Finally, he drained the last of the broth from his bowl and looked over his two damp guests. With a barely stifled belch, he stuck out his hand to Roger and said “Joe Goldblatt. I assume since you’re here with this joker that you two have some sort of idea?”

“Roger St. John Smyth. It’s not so much our idea as his idea, so maybe he’d best explain it to you.”
Walrus looked a little nervous, but sat up a bit straighter and began. “We want to put on a show. Roger here’s a big name in clubs- lots of reputation in England and the US. I’ve got the people, we just need the money. We’ve got a great angle for it- lots of cash for all of us, easy to pitch, and no liabilities.”

“There are always liabilities, Walrus. We’re in China.” Goldblatt leaned back, making his plastic stool creak alarmingly. “Still, I’m listening. What’s your angle?”

“You know The Producers, right? We’ve worked out a China variation.” At the mention of ‘we’, Roger squirmed uncomfortably, but Walrus continued. “We don’t put on a flop, we start a production that never ends. You know what the big money guys are like, the coal bosses and property barons. They just want to flash the cash and be able to brag about it. Once they start, they won’t cut the money because that’d look cheap.”

Goldblatt nodded, slowly. “It could work, if the show was right and the investors personally disinterested in the money. If you could hook a big one- government, property developer, SOE- then they’d do it.” He turned his attention back to his beer, which was almost empty. Absentmindedly waving for another round, he continued “If I were to get on board with this, it would have to bring in a lot of money, very quickly. We’d need to pitch for about 10 million RMB, and keep our costs down to less than a mil for all the hardware, performers and acts.”
Now both men were leaning towards him eagerly, as he gazed into the rain in thought. “That’s three mil each, buried as a year’s salaries, expenses and overhead. When this finally collapses, we need to be able to show that the money has been paid out for show expenses, no matter how ridiculous. However, I know just the man to do our books.”

His attention snapped back to the men, and he said very seriously “This isn’t quite illegal, but the intention isn’t quite honest, either. If you aren’t prepared to keep this absolutely quiet then just walk away and this chat never happened. Are we agreed?”

Both men nodded, thinking of the money. Goldblatt smiled, and said “I’ll be in touch in the morning to talk about prospects. Roger, give me your card. You’ve got to be prepared to front this pitch. This is your big idea, your vision. You’re here in China to bring your special touch to one lucky Chinese investor, to let him have something nobody else will have.”

He took the card, stuffed it in his breast pocket, fished out one of his own and passed it over before returning his attention to his beer. Feeling dismissed, the men turned back into the night to continue their journey home.