Hadley Page 2

  The man with the ponytail – I had finally placed him. And there he was again, on the television. The same clip of the gorgeous Panda Koo being repeated.

  “Ah-Jeung, turn that back.”

  “Ah? Turn what back? This is TV, no tape.”

  “But that man…”

  “What man?”

  I strode forward and tapped the television. “That man. He’s American and I know him. Why is he smirking at me?”

  Ah-Jeung responded in fast, impatient Cantonese.

  “I know him now,” I said, sitting down. My heart was beating way too fast for someone whose only exercise was bar hopping and smoking two packets of cigarettes a day. At seven in the morning I was wearing flannels with a big red stain and, my eyes closed, was thinking about the man on TV who was giving my head the spins.

  It was Joe. Joe the American.

  I had never known his other name. I had met him on my first newspaper, the Sotobech Sentinel, back in the sodden Fens twenty-odd years earlier. The news story at the time was a remake of ‘Great Expectations’, Chris Torment’s first movie, which wasn’t a story at all. There was no one famous in it and I had struggled to find my peg – until I saw some spectators, all wearing dark suits, sitting in, or leaning against, three black Cadillacs. Away from the tilting Portaloos, mini-vans, buzzing transformers and boxy, upright 1980s English caravans, all in a haze of the smoke of fried onions, there was a bunch of guys who looked threatening and undoubtedly American.

  Joe had been part of the group and was monitoring the film shoot, looking alert and intense, just as he did now. I had approached the men and asked them about the film and ended up being invited to Joe’s house to watch a James Bond movie with the other men in suits, at least one of whom was wearing a shoulder holster… The details were no longer clear.

  I left the office the next night and crossed the road to the Rawhide Club, where the velvet walls were draped with whips and studded with gunbelts and cartwheels.

  “Hadley! You come back!”

  Three Filipinas, wearing sweaters over their bikinis, skipped over to the front door end of the bar, eager for their Sprite fix.

  “Hey there, girls.” I saw the detective from the night before, sitting alone in the middle of the bar and staring at his drink. What romantic interlude lies in store for you tonight, detective, here in the Exotic East? What stairway to a particularly murky heaven awaits you? The detective turned slowly towards me and nodded. I smiled and nodded back as I downed a San Miguel which had appeared without my having to order it. This was my quality time. A Thai girl approached, efforts of a smile on a beautiful face which I stretched out to touch – and then I froze.

  “Hadley? Hadley, what’s wrong?”

  Behind the beautiful Thai, behind the nodding detective, sitting at the far end of the bar next to one of the VIP sofas and tables discreetly hidden behind plastic foliage, was the man with the ponytail.

  “Hadley? You’ve gone all red.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I have to…”

  What did I have to do? What had I done to warrant this attention? (Was it the trousers?) The man was stalking me day and night. I said my apologies to the Thai girl and walked the length of the bar, past the detective, to Joe’s stool. I studied the profile and the man ignored me. It was a smiling face now, self-conscious. One second there was a lot of hand movement, rubbing of the jaw and the cheeks, and then he was still. I felt my heart do one of its unhealthy skips.

  “Do you remember me?”

  Joe, the American movie man, turned and smiled. He looked like an overweight boxer with hairs on his nose.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  He turned back to the bar. I stared some more and Joe was smirking again. A lot of neck movements now, like a hen, as he studied a photo of Clint Eastwood as Rowdy Yates on the wall in front of him.

  “But I remember you. I remember you from Sotobech.”

  “You don’t know me from Adam, pal.”

  “No, but I do. You mustn’t mess me around. I met you in Sotobech when they were filming ‘Great Expectations’. I came to your house.”

  Joe turned and looked at me. Never one for reflection, I thought back briefly to the Fens and remembered ‘Cadillac’ written on the wing mirror of one of the limos. Almost twenty years earlier.

  “‘Great Expectations’? I know that movie,” Joe said, looking me up and down, his eyes resting briefly on the red stain next to my crotch. “David Lean, 1946. Class act.”

  “No, not that one. They were doing a remake. And you and your friends were there. Driving Cadillacs.”

  Joe drummed his fingers on the bar. He caught the eye of the Thai girl and winked. “‘Great Expectations’, you say. Funny, I’ve never seen it. Maybe they never got around to making it. Have you seen it?”

  “No, but…”

  “They say seeing is believing. I reckon they didn’t make it in the end. I reckon they came to their senses, out there on that God-forsaken swamp, and gave up the whole shooting match.”

  “So you do remember?”

  Joe slapped his hand on the bar and got up from the stool. He looked at me and sighed.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, brushing ash off my shoulder. “We can talk more about the movies. Big James Bond fan myself.”

  Joe started down the aisle to the door and turned, a smile on his face.

  “Tip of the day,” he said. “Don’t be so scared. Take a risk here and there. Nice pants, by the way.”

  And with that, he was out through the velvet curtains into the neon light and road-side incense. I asked the mama-san if she had seen Joe before. She said he was a first-time cheap Charlie.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I WAS CALLED, apparently on Candy Kam’s recommendation, to audition for a speaking part in the Hong Kong movie – a movie that I was convinced Joe was involved in up to his jiggling hen’s neck. Not only did Candy want me to audition, she also wanted some of the film crew to come round to my office to see how I spent the day.

  “We need to catch you in your full action,” she had said.

  Action? Ha! I had done some real reporting for Shrubs, boarding planes to neighbouring trouble spots. I had even been held by little known rebels in the Philippines who spent their spare time running through Eagles songs on acoustic guitars. I was amazed at how often my intros, or first paragraphs, would be, or could be, the same as those I had written on the Sotobech Sentinel. I had been sent to Pakistan, Afghanistan, Indonesia and South Korea, but I hadn’t done much reporting in Hong Kong.

  No one had told Candy that there was a Hong Kong Shrubs reporting bureau, on the same floor as the Asia-Pacific desk, in which there were real reporters who did things like go out and meet people. They had accessories – digital recorders, fancy phones. They said things like “let’s take this offline” and “let’s think outside the box and when we’ve done that, let’s do lunch”. I hadn’t done lunch with anyone in close to fifteen years, but managed to turn up for the audition at the Wanchai Arts Centre at 2 p.m. on the nose. I was wearing a grey tee-shirt, grey jacket and grey trousers. I had also put mousse on my untidy hair, which made it look slightly grey. Candy met me in the foyer and led me through to the Lion Dance Practice Room. She took a seat behind a desk where two Western women were shuffling notes.

  “You’re welcome,” Candy said inappropriately, motioning me towards a chair. My village house was about the same size as a dentist’s waiting room and I was not used to so much uncluttered space.

  “Mr Arnold,” said the woman in the middle. She was American, bookish, mid-40s and wearing glasses. “Welcome to this audition.”

  “Thank you very much. I want to thank…”

  “My name is Gretel. Candy you already know.”

  She didn’t introduce the woman at the end of the desk, who was dark and hard and fiddling with a video camera on a scarred tripod.

  “Thank you.”

  “I am the co-producer,” Gretel said. “We ar
e going to ask you some questions which you will answer to camera. First I would like you to give this a quick read.” She gave me a page of script. “Until you are familiar with it. And then, as naturally as you can, give it to camera. How do you feel?”

  As Gretel spoke, her face expanded into a wide smile which would switch back into a grimace. Like Condoleezza Rice. Or Margaret Thatcher.

  “I know Chris Torment,” I said.

  “Oh really. He’s a fine actor.” Gretel stared at me.

  “Oh really.” I stared. “I also know Joe.”

  “Joe?”

  “Joe. Yes.”

  “Mr Arnold…”

  “Hadley.”

  “Hadley, we must move this along.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay, I suggest you don’t try to memorise the lines. Familiarise yourself with them, use them as a prompt, then talk to us. Talk to the three of us as if you were in the Foreign Correspondents’ Club with your colleagues. Ad-lib. Be as natural as you can. Please go ahead. You are Philip.”

  I put Joe to one side as if he were of no importance and looked at the script. What I said when I was in the FCC with my colleagues bore no resemblance to this. It seemed… extraordinary.

  I frowned as I read:

  MAGNUS

  So Philip, how’s that young filly of yours?

  PHILIP

  Not too shabby actually.

  MAGNUS

  That’s good. Because I was wondering how she was. Captain, can we have some more drinks here? A pink gin and the usual. Actually, Philip, the reason I asked you here this evening is because of the riots. You know the scene. What’s going on?

  PHILIP

  Oh, Magnus, how much time have you got? The riots. What a mess. It’s going to get bloody, that’s for sure. Talk to me about riots. The Chinamen think they’ve got us on the run. They don’t know what we’re made of. The Yanks think we’re limeys. I’m not so sure.

  And there it ended. I was shocked. I gave a little cough. “I’m sorry. This is part of the film?”

  “We’re still writing it. We’re making it up as we go along. Consider this just your audition part.”

  “You want me to do it now?” I had started sweating. Never a good sign.

  “In your own time. No need to memorise it. Use it as a prompt. You’re in the FCC with your colleagues.”

  “You be a star,” Candy added. It was pure, affectionate encouragement. “You’re welcome.”

  “It’s just that I’ve never called anyone a Chinaman in my life. I don’t want to sound self-righteous, but I don’t know anyone who has. And I think pink gin went out of fashion around the time of the first opium war. But it sounds good. Gin with a splash of Angostura bitters, right?”

  “Never mind the pink gin. It’s a prompt.”

  “Has Joe seen this?”

  “Joe?”

  “Yes. Has he seen this? I doubt he would give his approval, if he were being forthright.” I took off a pair of grey-tinted sunglasses. “He seems a forthright sort of person, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know Joe. We must move on.”

  “It’s just that this conversation is strange. Hong Kong is not like this.”

  The woman at the end of the desk raised the camera. I spent a few moments with the lines. I tried to feel them and managed to put Joe out of my mind. Again. Magnus and Philip, they were the ones to worry about here. Who were these guys? This was a crossroads. The movie world, with open arms, awaits at the end of this audition. Just don’t mess it up. Remember what your English teacher said when you were playing Queen Anne with the pointy hat and long billowing gown and the fags in your pocket. Don’t gobble your words. Let hump-backed Richard III woo you. Relax. I was thinking of what Gretel had said. Improvise. You are at the FCC now. You are speaking to three colleagues, and you’re talking about those riots licking at the door of the club, gathering steam on Ice House Street outside. You can see clubs and rude banners waving outside the window. Terms of abuse. What are you, as Philip, saying? I took a deep breath and looked at Candy. I paused several seconds. And then:

  “Bugger me, the riots!”

  This was a bellow. Candy shot back in her chair, scraping the floor. She almost fell over. I had shot my bolt. I had nothing more. There was a long pause.

  “Um, don’t talk to me about them,” I whispered, rising fast to another bellow. It was coming back. I had to ad-lib. Just slow down a bit. “You guys, you think you’re limeys. But what do you know. You’re… you’re shabby. Actually, you and your fillies.”

  I turned along the line to the woman holding the camera which appeared to be rocking. I pursued the ad-libbing. I was in the FCC.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Where did the northern accent come from? It was some Yorkshire comedian from my youth. Never mind that now. “I said look at me when I’m talking to you! You… yank.” Change the pace. Show your versatility, your range of emotion. I turned back to Candy, leant forward, looked down at my wringing hands and then up at Candy’s horrified face.

  “How long have you been in this town?” I asked.

  “But… but I was born…”

  Gretel hushed her up. I had them in the palm of my hand. This movie business was a cinch.

  “Four months?” I asked incredulously. “Four months? I’ve been in this town fifteen years. I know these people. Who do you know?” My shoulders were shrugged, my arms were stretched. “Don’t talk to me about taxis. Don’t give me your pink gins. You drink pink gin? You do? I’ll tell you what you are. You’re nothing less than… an arse. What do you say to that? Ah? Ah?”

  I put my hand to my ear (a lovely touch) and ended with a mocking: “I can’t hear you.”

  I sat back triumphantly. I had strayed from the script, it was true, but I was letting it all out. It was natural – I was a natural. I looked at Gretel who in turn was staring back with her mouth open. She’s speechless, I thought. She certainly didn’t say anything. None of them did for a while.

  “I think that’s what you call a wrap,” I said.

  “It was certainly very expressive,” Gretel said. The woman with the camera was making noises into a handkerchief.

  “I can do some more, if you’d like.”

  “No, please. That was exactly the right length.”

  Candy stretched out a hand to me and said: “You are terrorist.”

  “Mr Arnold,” Gretel said. “That was just fine.”

  Now that was a coincidence. Because when I did my Jimmy Stewart impression, in the bar after a few eye-openers, that was the line I used. “Well that’s just fine.” To be sure, this appeared to be an omen.

  “Now. If you’re ready, we’d like you to answer some questions. Into the camera.”

  “Fire away.”

  “I’m sorry.” The woman with the camera left the room. Why did she have to run?

  Gretel read from a sheet of paper. “Could you tell us, in your own words, of some experience in Hong Kong which reflects the city and your feelings for it?” She looked up. “A relationship, perhaps. An encounter with a local girl. Some first impressions.”

  Now this really was a good omen. Why would they ask for more if they hadn’t liked the acting? They like what they have seen so far. Candy was behind the camera now. I swung my eyes moodily towards her.

  “On my first day, I checked in at an old hotel in Wanchai,” I said. “The Luk Kwok – Six Countries – you’d know it, it was in the Suzie Wong movie. It was knocked down years ago and has since been rebuilt. Anyway, I’d checked in. A small room. The first thing I noticed was the damp, the smell of damp. It was everywhere in those days. Newspapers were delivered in cellophane. Stamps you glued on yourself in the post office, otherwise they’d stick to anything.”

  Was this really interesting? I wondered.

  “I’d bought an alarm clock which would turn itself off at any sound. The alarm, that is. In those days that was new. You could shout at it in the morning and if wou
ld turn itself off. I was sitting in my room trying to get it to work. But I couldn’t make it ring. You know why? The air-conditioner. The air-conditioning was so loud, it was turning off the alarm before it had a chance to make a noise! There was nothing wrong with the clock. In fact I still have it. Made in Germany. The joke is, or was, that the air-conditioner was loud, and yet the room was so damp. These days you don’t hear the air-conditioning, yet your room’s freezing and there’s no damp!”

  Gretel’s eyes had glazed over. “Wow,” she said, allowing herself a little chuckle. I joined her. “Well, this is just fine, Mr Arnold. Just fine. But we were wondering about more personal experiences. The clash of cultures. Hong Kong love, perhaps.”

  “Yes, yes. To be sure. I’ll get to that. Anyway, the next morning, here I was in the heart of the city. I was woken up by a cock. Not an alarm clock! A cock crowing in the heart of the city! It was March, like now, and dark clouds hung over the hills and I felt completely alive. This was the other side of the world to me. I was in my twenties and I felt reborn. I strode out of the front door on to the street, stood on the pavement, and stretched my arms in the air with a big smile on my face. I felt a new beginning. There was a man standing next to me, an old Chinese guy looking the other way, waiting for a bus. He turned in one swift movement and gobbed down my trousers.”

  “Gobbed?”

  “Gobbed. Spat.” I made the noise. “All down my trousers. But the funny thing was, I wasn’t angry. I’m English. I may have apologised. But I was surprised. And so was the old Chinese guy. You know, the old Chinaman. He leapt into the air and said something I didn’t understand. I looked down and saw the gob on my khaki trousers. Just then the old man reached down and tried to wipe it away. He was elongating the stain. He was elongating it. It was now about seven inches long and sticking to my knee.”

  “Seven inches? What did you do?”

  “I changed my trousers.”

  “No. I mean before that.”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Did you hit him? Or start shouting?”