you for lunch at noon. The secretary said on the phone, “Our chairman of the board, Mr. Zhou, will pick you up punctually in the hotel lobby.”
You arrive in the lobby, and, immediately, a fashionably dressed man walks up to you; he has broad shoulders and a solid build, a broad face and a square jaw. He presents his business card to you in both hands.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.” The man says he’s seen your play and has boldly ventured to take up a bit of your time by inviting you to share a meal with him.
You get in his big Mercedes limousine, an obvious sign of wealth. The chairman of the board drives the car himself and asks what you would like to eat.
“Anything’s fine. Hong Kong is a paradise for food,” you say.
“It’s different in Paris, the women there are all so wonderful.” Mr. Zhou is smiling as he drives along.
“Not all are, some in the subways are tramps,” you say. You start believing that the man really is a boss.
The car drives past the bay and enters the long underwater tunnel to Kowloon.
Mr. Zhou says, “We’ll go to the racecourse, it’ll be quiet at lunchtime and good for talking. It’s not the racing season. Normally, if you go there for a meal, you have to be a member of the Jockey Club.”
So, a wealthy man in Hong Kong likes your play. You start feeling curious.
The two of you are seated, and Mr. Zhou orders some plain food, stops joking about women, and becomes serious. Only a few of the tables are occupied in this spacious, comfortable dining room, and the waiters stand some way off quietly in the courtyard. It’s not like most Hong Kong restaurants that are bustling and packed with customers all the time.
“I’m not bluffing. I swam here illegally from the Mainland. During the Cultural Revolution, I was doing hard labor on a military farm in Guangdong province. I had finished middle school, I wasn’t stupid, and I wasn’t going to sacrifice myself like that for the whole of my life.”
“But crossing illegally was dangerous.”
“Of course. At the time, both my parents were in prison, the house had been ransacked, and whichever way you looked at it, I was a mongrel offspring of the Five Black Categories.”
“What if you came across sharks—”
“That wouldn’t have been so bad, at least I’d have had a chance to fight it out to see if I was lucky. It was people I was frightened of, the searchlights of the patrol boats were sweeping the water all the time. When they found anyone trying to cross illegally, they’d just open fire.”
“Then how did you get across?”
“I equipped myself with two basketball bladders, basketballs used to have a rubber bladder with a tube that one blew into.”
“I know them, children used them for floats when they were learning to swim, plastic products weren’t widely available in those days,” you say, nodding.
“If boats came along, I’d let out the air and swim underwater. I practiced for a whole summer. I also took some drinking straws with me.” Mr. Zhou has a smile on his face but it doesn’t seem genuine. You sense that he is sad, and he no longer looks like a rich man.
“The good thing about Hong Kong is that you can somehow get by. I suddenly got rich and now no one knows my past. I changed my name a long time ago and people only know me as Zhou such-and-such, the chairman of the board of the company.” A hint of arrogance plays at the corners of his mouth and eyes and once again he has the look of a rich man.
You know this is not directed at you. You’re a total stranger and he hasn’t hesitated to tell you all about his background. This arrogance has developed because of his present status.
“I liked your play but I don’t think it can really be understood by Hong Kong people,” he says.
“When they do understand, it will be too late.” After a pause, you say, “One needs to have had a particular sort of experience.”
“It’s like that,” he confirmed.
“Do you like plays?” you ask.
“I don’t usually see plays,” he says. “I go to the ballet and concerts, and I book tickets for famous singers, operas, and symphony groups from the West. I’m starting to enjoy some artistic things now, but I’ve never seen a play like yours before.”
“I understand.” You give a laugh, then ask, “Then why did you think to come and see this play?”
“A friend phoned and recommended it,” he says.
“Does that mean that there are some Hong Kong people who do understand the play?”
“It was someone from the Mainland.”
You say that you wrote the play when you were in China but that it can only be performed outside China. The things you’re writing nowadays don’t have much to do with China.
He says it’s much the same for him. His wife and son were both born in Hong Kong and are genuine Hong Kong people, and he’s been here for thirty years and also counts as a Hong Kong resident. His only dealings with the Mainland have been in business, and that was getting more and more difficult. However, for better or worse, he has managed to extract a big amount of capital from the place.
“Where are you thinking of investing?” you can’t help asking.
“Australia,” he says. “Seeing your play made me even more certain.”
You say that your play doesn’t really have a China background, it’s about ordinary relationships between people.
He says he knows that. Anyway, he needs somewhere to go, just in case.
“But won’t Australia have an aversion for Chinese if masses of Hong Kong people flood there?” you say.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“I don’t know how it is in Australia, I live in Paris,” you say.
“Then how is it in France?” he asks, looking right at you.
“There’s racism everywhere, and naturally it occurs also in France,” you say.
“It’s hard for Chinese in the West. …” He picks up his half glass of orange juice, then puts it down again.
You feel some sympathy for him. He says he has a small family, born and bred in Hong Kong, and his business would be able to keep operating. Of course, there’s no harm preparing for a way out.
He says he is honored that you agreed to have this very ordinary meal with him, and that, like you as a person, your writing is very frank.
You say, it is he who is frank. All Chinese live behind masks and it’s quite hard to take off the masks.
“It’s probably when there’s no profit or loss for either party that people can become friends.”
He says this incisively; he has clearly been through many ups and downs in his dealings with people.
A journalist is to interview you at three o’clock, and you have arranged to meet at a coffee shop in Wanchai. He says he can take you, but you say he is a busy man and there is no need for him to do this. He says should you come back to Hong Kong to feel free to look him up. You thank him for his kindness, say this is probably the last time you will put on a play in Hong Kong, but that in future you are sure to meet again, though, hopefully, not until he is in Australia. He quickly says no, no, if he goes to Paris he will certainly look you up. You leave him your address and telephone number, and he immediately writes his mobile phone number on his business card and gives it to you. He says to give a call if you need any help and that he hopes there will be an opportunity to meet again.
The journalist is a young woman wearing glasses. She gets