Please Enjoy Your Happiness (24 page)

‘Would you like some tea?’ asked the nurse, whose name was Lydia Wong. It was the first time I had tasted Lapsang Souchong, which smelled of burnt pine and tar. If I drink it nowadays I am reminded immediately of that day when I was a stand-in for the US Navy. ‘Do you like this tea?’ the nurse asked. ‘This is a poor man’s tea, made from the most inferior tea leaves. It is roasted, and that way the flavour is released. It is very good for sex. It is good for women before sex. I always drink it.’

A horn honked at the approach to the orphanage. It was Chaplain Peeples, resplendent in his tropical whites and gold gilt and displaying an array of campaign ribbons across his chest. He paused to wipe a streak of dirt off his white shoes. He was purer than purity itself. The children were astonished but then they surged towards him when the taxi driver began extracting six sacks of those toy firearms and teddy bears out of the cab.

‘Rogers,’ he bellowed. As usual, he was angry with me, for
which there would be no explanation. ‘Get over here!’

I looked at the nurse and gave her a wink, Yuki. The wink made her blush. She was still sipping her cup of Lapsang Souchong.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I was grinning because I wondered, in a moment of fantasy, if he would ask me whether I had brought the sex manual with me when I went to the Hall of Flowers. But he said nothing about that. He was huffing and puffing, and I sensed he was displeased that I had arrived before him.

So, to embarrass him, I asked what had made him late. I made sure the director and the nurse were close enough to listen in. I also was wishing the director would unleash those two little boys again so Chaplain Peeples could have them pull at his hairy leg. ‘I am sorry you were late,’ I said. ‘What held you up, sir?’

Behind me, I heard Nurse Wong say, ‘Yes. Why are you late, Chaplain Peeples?’

The chaplain did not answer because the kids were swarming the sacks. He began gently pushing the children back, patting them on the head, which I knew from the cultural awareness class I had attended on the ship was an offence to human dignity in many Asian cultures, as was displaying the sole of one’s shoe.

I wagged my finger at him.

‘What are you attempting to do, Rogers?’ he demanded.

I did not feel like explaining myself. ‘It is nice to see you here, sir,’ I said. ‘The children are very excited. We were all worried about you. Nurse Wong was very nice. She brought me a cup of amazing tea, which she said she also drinks because it is—’ I caught myself and stopped.

Of course, Yuki, the children had a wonderful time chasing
the chaplain and me around the school grounds. There must have been about twenty toy rifles as well as assorted toy handguns, guns that fired caps –
bang
,
bang
,
bang
– and even a BB gun or two that went
pop
,
pop
,
pop
. The chaplain was saying ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ in a very loud voice, as if it were Christmas and not a very hot afternoon in late August. After the kids had ambushed and killed him several times, the chaplain made a speech. I knew what he was going to say because I had written it.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen. On behalf of the United States of America and the United States Navy and also with the best wishes of the children of the United States, we hope you enjoy these gifts given to you as part of Operation Handclasp. These gifts came to you from freedom-loving boys and girls who hope you share their democratic values. I hope you have fun. Thank you to the director for inviting us to come here.’

I heard Nurse Wong translating the speech for the director. The director was shaking his head and looking chagrined. I asked the nurse if there was a problem.

‘No problem,’ she said quietly. ‘Except that we did not issue an invitation. If we knew he was going to make a speech like that we would have preferred to come to your ship ourselves to pick up the gifts. I said this was a publicity stunt, and it is.’

The chaplain and I shared a taxi for the ride back to the ferry. He sat there, erect, his knees touching each other, his officer’s peaked hat squarely on his head, his hands clasped in front of him as if he were the torchbearer for Operation Handclasp, which of course he was. I was just his minion.

‘Nice speech,’ he said. ‘Good job!’

‘Chaplain, I have a question,’ I said respectfully. ‘I need your opinion. I need guidance, I guess.’

‘Yes, son,’ he replied.

‘Sir, I don’t understand the contradictions I see everywhere here,’ I began. ‘This is a British-run colony. According to the material you gave us that was published in the ship’s newspaper, this is a democracy. To me, democracy means moral government as well as personal freedom within the framework of the law. But let’s face it: Hong Kong is a dump. It is full of vice. Children work in the brothels. The US Navy comes in and out of the harbour, and the guys go ashore and drink and spend their money – on vice. Even this toy thing doesn’t sit squarely with me. We used a warship to bring toys. We talk about democracy and freedom. But isn’t this really an attempt to buy the loyalty of people who are not necessarily America’s friends?’

Chaplain Peeples stared at me. He looked deeply offended.

‘Rogers . . . Rogers. You have a very cynical view of the world for someone so young and naive. Who have you been listening to recently? What have you been reading? You write a wonderful speech like that for me, but it sounds like you detested the whole thing. You detest the United States Navy! You are an immigrant . . . don’t forget that. You enlisted in this man’s navy . . . don’t forget that. We are not perfect, but we really are the hope of the world.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Yes, sir. But I am confused.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Nothing makes sense. Nothing! I have just turned twenty and I thought I would not have these kinds of doubts any more. But I do. One of my supervisors told me that the US Navy did not pay me to think. But I can’t help thinking. I can’t help noticing certain discrepancies, like this whole “freedom” and “democracy” thing. I don’t know who or what to believe any more, because these concepts don’t match reality.’ I am sure we
talked about this paradox, Yukiko, in one of those long conversations at the White Rose. I don’t remember Mama ever telling you to serve other customers. She would lean against one of the columns festooned with plastic white roses, and she would stare, and stare, and stare.

‘You are an honest person,’ the chaplain said. ‘But this is really inappropriate thinking. You need to get shipshape and get over it. What if there was a war? If you had to drop a bomb or fire a gun, would you engage in this kind of internal debate?’

We had arrived at the ferry near the grand old Peninsula Hotel, which had a line of Rolls-Royces parked in front and groups of foreign businessmen in pressed suits, and navy officers in full-dress regalia, milling about outside. I said goodbye to the chaplain and left the scene as quickly as I could to catch a ferry that looked as if it was close to departing.

The chaplain headed for the hotel, with the big loping strides of an athlete, not pausing to look this way or that but cutting across a street full of taxis and trucks as if he were a torpedo. Unexpectedly, I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He was single-minded, like a torpedo. But was that bad? Was it pathetic? What had they taught him when he studied theology?

Thirty minutes later I was back in ‘The Wanch’, as we sailors called Wan Chai, cutting through the streets to look for the bookstore where I had met Paul Feng in June. It took me a while to locate it. I was distracted by all my nagging doubts. But there it was. There was a display of the latest issue of
China Reconstructs
in the window. The yellow cover was decorated with black paper cut-outs of butterflies, water buffalos, men and women carrying burdens, peasants hoeing fields. It was almost dusk. I did not think that Paul Feng would be there but then I heard his voice from behind the cash register saying,
excitedly, ‘Mr Paul! Mr Paul! Here you are again.’

He rang up my copy of
China Reconstructs
and asked me whether I would like to attend ‘a meeting’. He said he had told his friends about his ‘young American friend’ and he wanted me to meet them. I expressed some concern, explaining that I would probably get into trouble if I did not head straight to the bars and get drunk but instead socialized with intellectuals. Paul Feng laughed at this. ‘It’s very funny,’ he said. ‘You are developing an acute sense of irony. I think you will be appreciated.’

I did not have much judgement, I suppose, at that age. You told me, Yuki, ‘A man should do what is right. Use your instinct. Use your mind. You don’t have much experience. So you don’t have much choice when it comes to making a decision. Just do what you have to do, learn from your mistakes, and enjoy everything else . . . Go out into the world. Of course, if you make mistakes, I want to hear about them. I make many mistakes. I have many regrets. That is what makes me such an interesting woman.’

You had given me once, written on a scrap of paper, the lyrics to ‘You Don’t Know What Love Is’, a song by Don Raye. Billie Holiday recorded a famous version of it. ‘Keep this and read it later, dear Paul, and read it and read it again,’ you said. I noticed you had that look on your face that told me this was a lesson I had to learn. ‘Sometimes in this life you have to risk
everything
, or else you will never know. Sometimes you have to crash, you have to burn. You have to cry out in pain. You have to experience something that cannot be understood just by reading books or writing poetry, like love. You have to go to the highest mountain. You have to go to the deepest valley. You have to search for the love that is waiting for you. And when you find it, please
remember those who have gone before you to find what cannot be denied.’

Yes, I did look at it, again and again, when we were at sea. And I had the sudden desire to run to you and cry out something that I thought was forbidden: ‘I do, Yuki. I really love you.’ Yet that would have been a simple risk to take. It was not even profound. It was true and not true that I loved you from the moment we first met. I know that to be true because here and now, more than fifty years after, I still remember and the memory makes me shiver as if it had happened in the dead of winter instead of in the heat of summer.

I was thinking about all this as Paul Feng guided me through the streets. People nodded to him as if they knew him. They looked me up and down as if I were a piece of offal. I began to feel unhappy, and it showed on my face.

‘Don’t worry, Paul,’ he said in kindly fashion. ‘They are not used to seeing sailors in this part of the city. You are a strange sight to them. Sailors do not have a good reputation. Some of us look at sailors like you as the fist of American imperialism. But don’t forget, this is 1959 and China is in chaos. Please excuse our anger and our despair.’

‘In chaos?’ All I could see around me on the streets of Hong Kong was chaos, Yuki. Noise. Dirt. Rot. Decay. Masses of people foraging for what might help them survive.

‘You should know that the Great Leap Forward, which you
have been reading about in
China Reconstructs
, has failed,’ he said. I couldn’t see his face. It was hidden by shadows. But I could hear the anguish of an idealism crushed. ‘Hundreds of thousands of people are dying in a very cruel famine caused by bad policy. Mainland China is only a few miles away. This crisis is happening all around you, right now. The Chinese government wants to arrest many thousands of young intellectuals, like myself, who were invited to put up posters that frankly aired our dissent. Yes. This really
is
happening now, at the end of what we Chinese call the “One Hundred Flowers Campaign”. The government encouraged us to speak up and be critical, and then it turned on us like a mad dog. People like me ran away to Hong Kong. This is not my home. But here I am safe. I hate it here. But it is safe.’

‘You mean you took a big risk and now you have to deal with the consequences?’ I asked. ‘You suffered and you learned something?’

‘Yes. Something like that. We are both young men. I believe that young men in every nation share the same fate, even if they do not share the same experiences. We are the most vulnerable. We are the first to know fear. We are the first to die.’ I think you also told me that, Yuki.

18

Friends and Enemies

There was a big round Formica table at the back of a restaurant that had unpainted concrete walls, a concrete floor, and a concrete ceiling. It reminded me of the inside of a giant sarcophagus. There were some modest pin-up posters with impossibly innocent Chinese girls clutching pink parasols and ripe peaches. Long industrial neon lights buzzed from above, attracting swarms of insects. The flickering fluorescence made the faces of everyone bent over big steaming bowls of noodles look as if they had been freshly exhumed from their graves. This kind of light exaggerated everyone’s expressions. Some of Paul Feng’s friends gathered around the table looked harshly aghast. Other faces were blank, as if they belonged to someone who had spent months in solitary confinement. Smiles became grimaces. Stares penetrated to the bone. There were eight of his fellow runaways. At least two of them gave me shy waves, and I headed towards those two after Paul Feng made a brief, earnest introduction.

I wondered, Yuki, if this was going to be the type of learning experience you recommended: an experience in which I would either succeed or fail. I sensed there would be no middle ground in a place like this.