The Backpacker (35 page)

FIVE

Saturday night came around; Rick and I slogged our way up towards Government House dressed in our new suits, bell-bottoms swinging freely.

‘Albert Road?' he asked.

I pulled out the scrap of paper and stopped beneath the street sign, wiping away the river of sweat that was obscuring my vision. ‘That's what he said.' I had copied part of a street map from someone's guidebook back at the youth hostel but it seemed that the governor's residence had been replaced by a zoo. We had been around the place twice now. Using my rolled up silk tie as a swab I soaked up some of the sweat on my face and neck. ‘It's got to be here somewhere,' I panted. ‘I need a drink.'

Rick took the damp map from me, and was about to ask a passer-by when a black limousine drew up, the electric window sinking into the door. ‘Hello again.' A man's head poked out of the window. ‘Lost? It's just up ahead. Keep going around the curve in the road and it's on the right, 'K?' The pane of glass emerged from the door and slid back up as the car moved off.

‘Fooking hell,' Rick fumed, staring at the car's vanishing tail lights.

‘Is that the Scottish guy you met in the police station?'

‘Yeah. Could have given us a fooking lift.'

After resting and sweating a few more pints, we walked off in the direction the car had gone. We were arguing about whose fault it was that we'd taken the wrong road earlier, when the Scot stuck his head out through a small iron gate in a twenty-foot high perimeter wall. ‘In here boys.'

We shrugged and followed him, accompanied by a policeman, through some bushes and out onto an immaculate floodlit lawn, beyond which was a huge house thronging with people. Black limos were pulling in through the large entrance gates and stopping on the circular drive, while press cameras flashed as local celebrities and dignitaries stepped out in dinner suits, accompanied by their gowned women.

‘Now,' the Scotsman said in a croaky voice that sounded like a posh version of Sean Connery's, ‘as you know, gwailos are a little thin on the ground at the moment,' he broke off as we ducked under a conifer and then continued, ‘so I'd like you two to remain in the picture but in the background. Give the old hoose a bit of white presence, if you catch my drift, hmm?'

‘What the fuck's a gwailo?' I whispered to Rick.

‘Dunno. Don't ask.'

We all walked in single file around the manicured flowerbeds and in through a side door that led into a long, dimly lit corridor. We were told to get washed and smartened up in one of the toilets, before being taken into the main entrance hall where all the action was.

By ‘action' I mean a lot of dreary looking fat Chinamen in suits, all smoking cigars and looking like they were about to have a heart attack. I'd never seen a fat Chinese person before, and it was quite a shock after having spent so much time in parts of Asia where people are lean and healthy, especially the men. These guys were all bloated and ashen-faced, but accompanied by the most stunning women I'd ever seen. Up until that point I hadn't seen an ugly Chinese woman in Hong Kong, but these women took my breath away.

‘Right,' said the Scotsman, suddenly appearing through a side door, ‘I want you two to just stand here against this wall, like soldiers. Straight, man, straight! Don't talk to anyone, don't look at anyone, just stand there and smile, 'K? You'll be paid later, and then you can get back to wherever it is you came from.' He turned and went across to the other side.

‘What?' I moved forward but Rick held my arm. ‘What's all this "go back to where you came from" shit?'

‘That Scottish prick.'

‘Pick up that vase and hit him over the head,' I said through clenched teeth, grabbing the rim.

‘No. I've got a better idea.' He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me towards an open doorway on the other side of the hall. In the room a lot of people were sipping cocktails and eating hors d'oeuvres.

‘See it? Just to piss him off let's go straight in there and mingle with the crowd.'

Without hesitating or even replying, I looked back at the Scotsman to see if he was watching, and when he started to speak to one of the dignitaries in the crowd we walked quickly but casually across the hall and into the room. I walked straight up to the sea of faces and held out my hand to the first person nearest the door. ‘Good evening. John Harris,' I said at the top of my voice.

The Chinese man broke off the conversation he was having with a middle-aged woman and turned to me, putting on the most fake smile I'd ever seen. ‘Evening,' he said shaking my hand. ‘Glad you could-ahh-come. My wife.' He gestured to the woman and I shook her hand before kissing it.

Rick was beside me in an instant, and I turned to him, catching a glimpse of a fuming Scotsman in the background. ‘This is Sir William George Garthrick Jenner.'

‘Helloo.' Rick tried an upper-class accent but he just sounded gay. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.'

‘Ahh-good evening,' the man said in his croaky voice. ‘My wife.'

‘Helloo, my name's Sir William, so pleased to meet you.' This time his voice sounded like John Merrick, the elephant man.

The man snapped his fingers in the air and a tray of drinks was brought over. We took a glass of champagne each and said cheers before the man and his wife moved off to another person, ‘Ahh if you'd excuse me?' The second he left our side we both took a step further into the room and struck up a conversation with another couple. As Rick introduced himself I looked behind to see the Scotsman standing in the doorway. Brilliant! What a nice twist; he invited us here and even he's not allowed into the room. I lifted my glass to him and tipped an imaginary hat before turning around and being struck by lightning.

I wouldn't like to say that I didn't believe in love at first sight up to that point. How can one say there's no such thing when the only way of knowing is to fall in love at first sight? It's like, no one believes in ghosts until they see one, but then it's too late not to believe.

As I moved closer she began to blush, her milky-white skin turning the colour of one of Jack's Red Delicious as she lowered her eyes. I think I even blushed when I introduced myself.

Two almond-shaped eyes looked up at me, the edges turned up slightly in that beautiful Asian way. Her small button nose and full red lips gave her such an extreme amount of sex appeal, mixed with a childlike beauty I'd never seen before, that I think I actually gasped out loud. Her blue-black hair hung straight down onto tiny shoulders that were exposed from the top of her ball-gown so invitingly that I almost kissed them there and then. Further down, her small breasts gave a gentle bulge to her top half, while her sides curved into the smallest waist and most perfect bum I'd ever seen.

‘Hi,' she peeped, holding out her delicate hand, ‘I'm Apple.'

I shook her hand and laughed. ‘Apple?'

‘Yes,' she said a little more sternly, ‘Apple', and proceeded to spell it for me.

‘That's a fruit,' I said, trying to keep my eyes off her cleavage. ‘You weren't named after a fruit were you?'

A blank expression. ‘Prease speak more srowry, thank you.'

‘Why are you called Apple? That's not a Chinese name.'

‘No, not Chinese name. Eve'yone have Chinese name but also have Engrish name.'

Her femininity was a shock. She spoke and carried herself in a way that I'd never seen before, in a way that Western women have long since forgotten.

I watched her sip her orange juice before saying that I'd just arrived in Hong Kong and was looking for work.

‘My boss is gwailo, I work in gwailo company,' she said. ‘Many gwailo.'

‘What's a gwailo?'

‘You are gwailo. Gwailo white man.'

The penny dropped. ‘What do you do for your boss?'

She giggled. ‘I am sec'etaly, but boss not here. On'y me. I win competition to wisit government house,' she screwed up her face, ‘but don't like it.' She told me that she worked for a huge property company and thought that they may have a job to suit me. Not being involved in the business dealings herself, she gave me her boss's name and number and said that I should phone the following Monday morning.

After we had chatted for about ten minutes someone banged a gong and announced that dinner would be served shortly.

‘Will you sit next to me?' she asked coyly. ‘I'm af aid.'

‘I'm not invited,' I said, surprised at my own honesty. ‘But I want to see you again. Can I have your phone number?'

She blushed and pointed to the card she'd given me.

‘But that's work,' I said looking up. A few people started to leave the room to go to dinner and I suddenly panicked, thinking that I'd never see this girl again. I really panicked. ‘But can I–'

‘John,' Rick was standing behind me tapping my shoulder, ‘the game's up.'

Most of the people had left the room, and the Scotsman was coming towards us, straightening his bow tie while he stretched his neck, a look of grim determination on his face. ‘What about tomorrow,' I asked, turning back to Apple. ‘It's Sunday. What do you do on Sundays?'

‘John, come on, let's go.' Rick was impatient.

‘Hold it, Rick. What's the number of the youth hostel?'

‘I don't know. Come on!'

‘Apple?'

‘Monday.'

The Scotsman arrived. ‘Excuse me, miss,' he said sternly, ‘you need to go into the dining hall now.' She blushed again and was taken out by one of the waiters.

He turned and said something to me too, but I was too preoccupied with Apple's wiggle to notice. Her wiggle, her hair, her... everything.

SIX

I knew there was something wrong with me because I spent the whole of Sunday walking around the youth hostel in a daydream. People, their faces and actions came and went but all I could think about was Apple's eyes and lips and the way she spoke. Rick kept talking to me but all I did was nod mechanically and say, ‘Mmm, what?' He'd repeat the question or statement but before the sentence was finished I was off to dreamland once again.

Things that would normally have made me laugh seemed insignificant too, and I'd just snort obligingly at the joke and nod while staring into space. For example, the TV in the hostel was switched to one of the Chinese channels that night, and was showing a kind of Miss World contest, only instead of being Miss Hong Kong it was called Miss Factory, China. One by one the workers came up to the interviewer, dressed only in their bikinis, and had to utter a few rehearsed words into the microphone. According to one of these girls, when asked what she wished for should she be crowned Miss Factory, she replied, ‘I would like to eat lamb chops, that is my dream.' Everyone in the hostel roared with laughter. Except me. I seemed to be staring right through the TV set.

I wondered where Apple was and if she had a boyfriend or not.

After two sleepless nights, Monday morning came around, and at nine o'clock I was on the phone to a Mr Leiky, Apple's boss. She had yet to arrive at the office so he was answering the early calls. I told him the story of my meeting with his secretary (with a few necessary omissions) and he asked me to come along for an interview.

I phoned up Best Tailors to say that I'd be a day late returning the suit, and by half past nine I was in a McDonald's restaurant toilet changing out of my shorts and flip-flops. With borrowed clothes on my back and a borrowed briefcase in my hand that held only my ragged beachwear, I strode into the company's plush reception area and was shown into the office by Apple.

To cut a short story even shorter, I got the job. The interview was nothing like the ones I was used to in England where three or four people sit and grill you for half an hour, trying their hardest to catch you out. This was a one to one in which we basically just chatted about everything, from the part of London we both came from to what it was like to live and work in Hong Kong. Apple's boss seemed more interested in whether or not I was an accomplished footballer than a good worker, and I soon forgot all about my earlier worry of how to hide the fact that I'd spent the past two years fucking about on beaches instead of working. There was a minor sweat when I knocked over the briefcase and one of my flip-flops slid out, but I hurriedly kicked it back in without him noticing.

On the way out, I asked Apple if she wanted to go out to the pub that night, and to my complete delight she agreed. ‘Tonight,' I repeated, unsure if she was aware what she had consented to.

‘Yes, I do understand Engrish you know?'

Her boss came out and found me sitting on the edge of her desk. ‘You don't waste any time, John,' he said, and I quickly jumped off. ‘Apple, could you get this typed up before lunch. Thanks,' and he went back into his office.

‘What time shall we meet then?' I asked, moving back in and leaning over her computer.

She smiled, her brilliant white teeth flashing like the flesh of an apple against the red peel that was her lipstick. She didn't know any of the pubs by name so we agreed to meet at the bottom of a street called Lan Kwai Fong at seven and go from there. Even with limited funds, over the past few weeks I had come to know the area quite well and I thought I could easily impress her with my knowledge of its nightlife.

Lan Kwai Fong is what Wan Chai used to be in the fifties: the centre of Hong Kong's nightlife. Wan Chai is still there, and still has bars, but with its decrepit old brothels and downbeat discotheques it has categorically refused to reinvent itself, and consequently repels the younger generation rather than attracts it. In any case, anyone wanting to pay for sex would go to Tsim Sha Tsui where the really beautiful Chinese girls are employed, and not Wan Chai where the dregs from the rest of Asia are gamely worked.

Lan Kwai Fong is a small, comfortable street full of bars, without a red light in sight. I sat in one of them, alone, sipping a beer before Apple arrived. Most of the people sitting around the bar were foreigners, and I began to think that I could be sitting in any bar anywhere in the world when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I looked round.

‘Hi,' said the Chinese girl in an American accent. ‘Just finished work?'

‘No,' I said, turning around on the stool, ‘haven't started. Tomorrow's the big day. You?'

She held up her briefcase. ‘With anyone?'

‘Um... ' I hesitated.

What I'm about to say may not sound like much to most people, but for me it was a big deal. A
very
big deal. I actually said ‘yes' to that girl's question, and it wasn't until later, thinking back, that I realised how significant it was for me to say it. She was stunningly beautiful, and as she walked away I almost couldn't believe what I'd said.

When Apple came we went off to another pub up the street to avoid any embarrassment, and sat at the bar. ‘You look beautiful, Apple,' I said, ‘really beautiful. I think–' I was cut off mid-sentence by the sight of the same girl from the other pub appearing over Apple's shoulder. She had obviously followed me. ‘I-I think we should go... ' My concentration was completely thrown as the girl came in and sat beside us, so close that if I said anything personal she would overhear it.

Apple looked at me and frowned. ‘John?'

I began to sweat. Shit, I thought, what am I so scared of? I haven't done anything wrong. ‘I, um, I'm just going to the toilet. Back in a minute.' The barman directed me to a door in the corner and I went in. I did want to go the toilet anyway but seeing the girl had made the urge stronger. I felt as though I was trying to hide something from Apple. Wrestling with these weird new feelings, I started to wash my hands when there was a crash and a scream from outside.

Apple and the American girl were on top of each other when I came out, rolling around on the floor pulling each other's hair out. Bar stools and Cantonese expletives went flying as their bodies crashed into everything in their way. I couldn't understand what was being said but by the look on Apple's face she was about to kill the other girl. Her claw-like fingernails came out and raked across tender skin, accompanied by the American girl's animal cry.

With the help of the barman I managed to separate them, and the American fled, clutching her briefcase in one hand and her scratched cheek in the other. Apple immediately ran into the toilet with her handbag before I could really get a look at her face. She emerged two minutes later looking as beautiful as before.

‘What happened?' I asked as she sat down.

‘That girl call me prostitute,' she panted, immediately standing again and going red in the face. ‘She says I only with you because you are gwailo, and... '

‘OK, OK,' I placed a calming hand on her shoulder and looked over the bar at the barman, who seemed as interested in the subject as I was.

He nodded, ‘It's true, I heard her say it.'

‘I never have gwailo boyfriend before,' she said sitting down, a tear welling in her eye.

I couldn't help myself and leaned across, kissing her once on the lips, while the barman turned away and pretended to polish some glasses.

She said that one kiss was enough for our first date because we were really only supposed to swap phone numbers and, maybe, after one week we could hold hands in public. ‘It is Chinese custom.'

I shrugged. ‘That's OK, I'm not Chinese,' I said, and leaned forward and kissed her again.