The beauty she possessed was so perfect, so profound, that it constricted Alan’s breathing. With a vast effort of will that did him great credit, he found a voice, and asked if he might be admitted to the editor of Business PanAsia. She performed this small miracle for him, and bestowed on him the gift of a smile. Love beat him lightly about the head and neck.
Colin Webb greeted him, and then insisted on reading, while Alan watched in fidgeting silence, every one of the two thousand words he had written.
‘Virry nice, Alan. Virry, virry nice.’ You could hardly tell that he was Australian. ‘I had a feeling this piece was going to be nice. So I was planning to ask you to write something else for me.’ Soon, Alan was accepting a commission for a cover piece. Hong Kong as manufacturing base: the shift to quality. ‘Talk to a lot of people, Alan. Put a lot of work in. I want three thousand words, and I’ll pay seventy-five cents a word for this one.’
Alan, much made up by this, decided to speak to the receptionist on the way out. Hello, you’re very beautiful. You’re rather tall for a Chinese girl, aren’t you? I suppose marriage is out of the question? My God, he was a genius. ‘Hello, er, I wonder if you could tell me the best place to find a taxi around here.’
A white blouse opening in a narrow V. Hair a raven’s wing, iridescent black, falling straight and simple to her lovely shoulders. My God, this really was love. ‘Best place is in front of Fragrant Harbour Hotel. On the waterfront, you know?’
‘Won’t the hall porter be cross?’
‘You give him a dollar, he won’t be cross.’
Alan made a creditable attempt at a winning smile. ‘I’m still new here. Don’t know all the dodges.’
‘How long have you been in Hong Kong?’ The great conversational gambit of the territory.
‘Maybe six months.’
‘You like?’
‘Very good.’
And suddenly, her face was illuminated with delight – almost, Alan thought, with love.
‘Sophie, my dear, how beautiful you are looking today. Alan, what a pleasant surprise. Dean, I believe you are employing the finest journalist in Hong Kong, and I am quite certain that you have the most beautiful receptionist.’
The receptionist spoke one word. ‘André.’
André was standing by the reception desk, one hand in a pocket, with a man, severely rather than elegantly suited, who had the finicky-tough air of a Mormon proselytiser. ‘Dean, have you met Alan Fairs, the journalist? No? Alan, this is your publisher, Dean Holdsworth.’
‘Glad to know you, Alan,’ Dean said, in flawless American. ‘You’re doing the June portrait, right? Look forward to reading it.’ This was a very creditable feat of memory. He shook Alan’s hand with every appearance of warmth. ‘André, if I might have a further moment?’
‘By all means, Dean, by all means. Alan, if you care to wait, we might share a taxi.’
‘All right.’
André followed Dean into his office. Alan did not have to rack his brain for a new conversational gambit. Sophie was now ready, in fact eager, for conversation.
‘You know André?’ she asked.
‘Neighbour of mine.’
Her eyes grew a little bigger. Were they rounder than was usual for a Chinese girl? Or had he never looked quite as closely before? ‘You live on Tung Lung?’ she asked reverently.
‘Yes.’
‘Very beautiful.’
‘Yes.’ A beat later, he decided that he had missed an opportunity.
‘I like to live there one day.’
Alan could think of no rejoinder that did not indicate absolutely helpless desire. They talked a little of the ferry service, and whether or not the restaurant on the far side of the island, where Alan had eaten his Christmas lunch, was better than Ng’s. Then a door opened and jovial voices rang out in the corridor.
‘Well, André, all I can say now is have a good trip.’
‘Consider the target already met, Dean. Consider it obliterated.’
Dean continued to escort André to the door, evidently a mark of considerable favour. ‘Great, André. Just great. Send my regards to the Great Orient.’
‘I shall indeed. Sophie, thanks, as ever, for everything. Goodbye, Dean. I shall call you to touch base on arrival. I have all the documents. Goodbye.’ They shook hands, not without warmth, and Dean wished him good luck as he returned to his office.
‘Alan. Excellent. So good of you to wait. I shall buy you a drink. Not dead set on catching the six thirty, are you? Then perhaps I shall buy you two drinks.’
‘Excellent thought. Two Brewers?’
A slightly pained expression passed across André’s face. ‘I think not. The Harbourmaster’s Bar, do you know it? Rather a favourite spot of mine.’
André led the way out onto the crazy pavements of Causeway Bay. It was impossible to walk two abreast as the tall buildings simultaneously debouched their million inmates onto the streets. André led the way: the crowd seemed to part before him, only to reform itself in front of Alan. André did not check his pace for anyone, not even for the road, picking his way fastidiously through the lorries, trams, buses, taxis and private cars. A man who jay-walked through life. They passed the usual collection of street stalls, all selling clothes of remarkable newness and high quality; to each André gave an all-embracing glance that took in both merchandise and price. He was never off duty. He passed onto Lockhart Road, but to Alan’s surprise kept on, past this street of a thousand bars, ignoring the claims of a man selling fishballs from a vat of boiling oil to a small group of enthusiasts starved after two or three solid hours without food. Here Alan was able to move alongside. ‘Not in Lockhart Road, this place of yours?’
‘My dear old thing. No, it’s in the Fragrant Harbour Hotel.’
Alan at once felt his clothes, a fairly respectable outfit as recently as this morning, grow ancient and ragged about him. Jacketless in the sticky April warmth, a yellow shirt, rather too many buttons undone at the front, and the sleeves rolled past the elbows. No tie, of course, not even one in his bag. And this object, hanging from his shoulder and containing too many papers to yield to the zip, lacked the cool precision of André’s attaché case.
The Fragrant Harbour Hotel stood, as Sophie had justly pointed out, on the waterfront, a precipitous many-windowed cliff. A Sikh, bearded and turbaned, guarded the entrance in top boots and a species of guardsman’s jacket. He saluted André as they walked past him: ‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Good evening, Mr Singh, thank you so much.’
He led the way across the marbled lobby to the lifts. Alan, hit by the sudden chill of the air conditioning, rolled down his sleeves and did up a few buttons. The lift panel bore thirty-four buttons, plus a thirty-fifth labelled Harbourmaster’s Bar. This André hit, and they were fired courteously skyward while André gave a brief summary of the nature of Business PanAsia, its strengths and weaknesses, and the problems it created for itself by its refusal to countenance paid editorial. Then the doors slid open.
Thirty-five floors high, they seemed to have descended to the depths of the sea. The room was murky and green with mysterious enigmatic lights. Towards them gliding or swimming rather than walking the normal way, a woman, an angel fish, perhaps. Her face was painted with a beauty that was formal rather than erotic. Yes, there was a tank of fish, a huge tank, its denizens to be admired rather than eaten. ‘Good evening, Mr Standing.’
‘Good evening, Helen.’ She was clad in a wonderful way, a high mandarin collar on a floor-length dress of green silk. There was something odd about