Mr Wong Goes West (33 page)

Enrico Balapit and Ubami Sekoto stood on the top of the aircraft steps, looking down at the scene below them.

‘I can’t quite believe it, can you?’ the co-pilot said.

The first officer shook his head. ‘Crashing the world’s most expensive plane—that was not fun.’

His companion nodded.

‘But surviving the crash? That was pretty cool.’

‘You want to grab a drink?’

‘No…I want to grab a case of drinks.’

Balapit brushed the snow off his colleague’s shoulders. ‘It’s settling. Going to be a white Christmas.’

‘Leave it. I like the snow.’

‘I guess you don’t get a lot of snow in Tanzania.’

‘Only on top of Kilimanjaro.’

‘Let’s not talk about mountains. I’ve had enough mountains to last me a lifetime.’

‘Agreed. One exception: they do this thing called Nacho Mountain in the canteen.’

‘I’m there.’

‘Mr Wong! Mr Wong.’

The feng shui master turned to see who was calling his name. He was astonished to see the tall, swaying figure of Cecily-Mary Crumley of OffBox tottering up to him in extra-high heels. ‘Oh. Miss Crumley. How are you?’

‘Mr Wong, I heard you were on the plane that crashed, and that the passengers were on their way to London, so I thought I might as well come and greet you.’ She gave him a warm smile—not at all the reception he would have expected from a prospective business partner in a deal which had fallen so spectacularly apart. Maybe she was just a very forgiving person? He started to apologise. ‘So sorry about—’

‘Did you hear the news from Cindy?’ she asked.

‘Cindy?’

‘Cindy Daswani.’

‘Oh, him. What news?’

‘About the pens?’

‘The pens.’

‘The highlighters.’

‘Yes. No.’ He did not want to be reminded of their existence.

But Ms Crumley clapped her hands together in delight. ‘Before I left Singapore I made some enquiries—just on a sort of million-to-one off-chance that anyone might want highlighters with black ink. I found one of the wholesalers who did stationery supplies to Asian governments. It was amazing. Civil servants all over east Asia were looking for exactly this sort of product.’

‘They were?’

‘They
all
wanted the pens. Perfect for censorship, you see—they’re always worrying about what they call “sensitive” news. Our little black pens were perfect. A quick flick of your wrist and the information is gone. They have ranks of people doing that sort of thing.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘My wholesaler got orders for all one hundred and eighty thousand pens in twenty-four hours. It looks like it will be an annual order from several of the governments in Asia. It’s going to be one of our biggest lines.’

‘You sell them?’

‘Every last one. It’s huge. I want you and Mr Daswani to make more of them. Just the same. Black ink only. I’ll send you details.’

Wong was speechless. He eventually managed to breathe one word: ‘Good.’

‘One last thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Here’s your cheque.’ She pulled open her handbag and pulled out a file containing an envelope with the name Harmoney on it. ‘Sorry that it was delayed.’

The feng shui master took it in his hand and bowed. He tried to say the words ‘Thank you’ but was having trouble breathing.

As the crowds started to thin into a handful of small, scattered clusters and head for the buses taking them to the main terminal building, Joyce heard someone call her name.

‘Jojo! My
darling
.’

The young woman spun on her heel and her jaw dropped. The shaven-haired woman racing towards her looked familiar but alien at the same time. ‘Mum?’

Joyce’s mother had had her trademark Big Hair removed, and was now sporting an ultra-short style that showed the shape of her head and made her look like a post-punk female rock star. She had an earring in the top of her right ear and was wearing trousers.

‘My darling sweet baby—I was
so
worried.’ She swept Joyce up in her arms and tried to swing her round, but then decided that she was too heavy. So she just hugged her tightly and scattered air kisses near her cheeks, being careful not to smudge her make-up. ‘My sweetheart. You’re safe.’

‘Yes, Mum. I…I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since I heard you were on that plane. Oh, my darling. Let me hold you. Let me look at you.’

She put her hands on both sides of Joyce’s face, squeezing mercilessly. Then she gave a theatrical sniff and pulled out
a handkerchief conveniently sticking out of the top of her handbag and started dabbing her eyes.

‘It’s nice to see you, Mum,’ said Joyce, lowering her head onto her mother’s left shoulder.

‘This side,’ whispered the older woman, transferring Joyce’s head to her right shoulder.

Joyce nestled into the fabric—something that was denimish and designer-ish at the same time—then realised what was going on. She jerked her head upright. ‘Are you filming this?’

‘Keep your head down, baby girl,’ her mother said, applying force to Joyce’s neck.

Joyce jerked her head upright and looked around. Five metres away, a film crew with a hand-held camera were circling them.

‘Mum, you’re filming this.’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘You look different. But you haven’t changed, have you?’

‘No, dear.’

J Oscar Jackson Jnr grabbed Wong’s arm and tugged him to one side. The feng shui master groaned. There seemed to be no end of people who wanted to physically drag him places this week.

‘The boss wants to meet you,’ Jackson whispered.

‘The boss?’

‘Her Majesty. As you approach, you bow from the neck down. Then you address her as “Your Majesty” the first time you speak to her, and “Ma’am” from then on.’

‘Mum?’

‘Ma’am.’

Wong was propelled in the direction of a white-haired lady wearing a raincoat, headscarf and dark glasses. She was elderly but stood very straight, reminding him of Sir Nicholas.

‘That her?’

‘That’s her.’

‘No crown?’

‘It’s in her handbag.’

Jackson stopped and bowed. ‘Your Majesty. I am pleased to introduce Mr CF Wong, the feng shui master.’

Wong bowed from the head down, more of a nod, really, and said: ‘Hullo, Mum.’

Jackson stepped back to allow the two of them to have a private discussion.

She smiled, tilted her head and inclined it slightly. ‘You’re the gentleman who guided the plane to the frozen lake in the mountains where it could land safely, I understand, Mr Wong.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ He bowed again. It seemed the right thing to do.

The Queen smiled and her eyebrows rose an eighth of an inch. ‘I’m not really used to people calling me “Mum”,’ she said. ‘Except my children, of course.’

Wong nodded again. That fool Jackson had given him the wrong information. Caused him to make a serious error of protocol. Of course one shouldn’t call the Queen “Mum”. He racked his brain—what was her name? Robbie Manks had told him that day driving around Chek Lap Kok airport—Elizabeth something. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth…?

‘Happy to meet you, Mrs Vagina.’

The Queen smiled again and her eyebrows rose a further eighth of an inch. ‘Never mind. Names and titles are such a bore. I just wanted to thank you for what you did. It
was important for the country. Skyparc may be based on a European plane, but it is basically a British project. And I’m not just thanking you on behalf of my country. One of my own family members was on board, young Armstrong-Phillips, so I have a personal debt to you.’

This was shaping up into the sort of conversation that the geomancer liked. One of the richest people in the world was acknowledging a personal debt to him. Well, she could clear the debt very easily by simply giving him a small country she no longer wanted. Or even a medium or large one. He quite fancied Australia. It was well away from the violent West, and could easily be made into an outpost of Asia. It was also said to have the best Chinese food outside China. This line of thought reminded Wong that the Queen was a property mogul of significant stature. He decided that this might be the safest discussion topic for them. They could use their shared interest in that area to get to know each other better. But he didn’t want to scare her. Perhaps he should start by suggesting some small, foot-in-the-door investments.

‘Your main business is real estate, yes, Mrs Vagina?’

She thought about this. ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose it is.’

‘I wonder: have you consider investing in Shenzhen? Is a place in Guangdong province, China. High-rise apartments quite cheap. Two-bed, five hundred square feet, less than half a million Hong Kong dollar.’

‘You’d recommend it as an investment, would you?’

‘Oh yes. I think perfect for you.’

‘I don’t think I’ve been to that part of China.’

‘You can buy one flat, leave it empty, use it as holiday home for yourself and Mr Vagina. Price will go up, up, up. Guarantee.’

‘Sounds very interesting. Perhaps we can talk about it later, when you visit my present home.’

‘My pleasure, Mrs Vagina.’

Jackson, approaching, caught the end of this conversation. ‘That’s Regina,’ he whispered sharply at Wong. Then he turned to the Queen. ‘I apologise, Your Majesty. I should have briefed him better.’

‘I enjoyed talking to Mr Wong. And I have told him that we will continue the discussion later, at the palace.’

‘Of course.’

Wong could not help rubbing his hands together.

She nodded once more and left them, a smile playing on her lips.

Prince Charles’s private envoy delivered Wong back to his friend Sinha and then marched straight past everyone, head down. Jackson was sure there’d be no one there to greet him: after all, he was a single man these days, focused on nothing but his career. But he felt as if he was a changed man. These last days, he’d learned a lot about life, and about love, and about himself, and about what was important and what was not. He’d decided that he would go home, get some sleep, and then call the boss. Ask him for a couple of weeks off—maybe a month even, so he could go and get some rest, think about things, find out what he needed to do with his life.