He spoke a few lines of soft Mandarin.
‘What’s that?’ asked Maria.
‘It is a poem by Shao Hs˘un-mei, a poet and essayist who admired very much the poets of the West. Your dress reminded me of it.’
‘Say it in French,’ said Maria.
‘It is indelicate, in parts.’ He smiled apologetically and began to recite softly.
‘Ah, lusty May is again burning,
A sin is born of a virgin’s kiss;
Sweet tears tempt me, always tempt me
To feel between her breasts with my lips.
Here life is as eternal as death,
As the trembling happiness on a wedding night;
If she is not a rose, a rose all white,
Then she must be redder than the red of blood.’
Maria laughed. ‘I thought you were going to say “she must be redder than the Chinese People’s Republic”.’
‘Ah. Is not possible,’ said M. Kuang-t’ien, and laughed gently.
Maria steered me away from the two Chinese. ‘We’ll see you later,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘He gives me the creeps,’ she whispered.
‘Why?’
‘“Sweet tears”, “if she isn’t white she’ll be red with blood”, death “between breasts”.’ She shook away the thought of it. ‘He has a sick sadistic streak in him that frightens me.’
A man came pushing through the crowd. ‘Who’s your friend?’ he asked Maria.
‘An Englishman,’ said Maria. ‘An old friend,’ she added untruthfully.
‘He looks all right,’ said the man approvingly. ‘But I wished to see you in those high patent shoes.’ He made a clicking sound and laughed, but Maria didn’t. All around us the guests were talking excitedly and drinking. ‘Excellent,’ said a voice I recognized. It was M. Datt. He smiled at Maria. Datt was dressed in a dark jacket, striped trousers and black tie. He looked remarkably calm; unlike so many of his guests, his brow was not flushed nor his collar wrinkled. ‘Are you going in?’ he asked Maria. He looked at his pocket watch. ‘They will begin in two minutes.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Maria.
‘Of course you are,’ said Datt. ‘You know you will enjoy it.’
‘Not tonight,’ said Maria.
‘Nonsense,’ said Datt gently. ‘Three more bouts. One of them is a gigantic Negro. A splendid figure of a man with gigantic hands.’
Datt lifted one of his own hands to demonstrate, but his eyes watched Maria very closely. She became agitated under his gaze and I felt her grip my hand tightly as though in fear. A buzzer sounded and people finished their drinks and moved towards the rear door.
Datt put his hands on our shoulders and moved us the way the crowd went. As we reached the large double doors I saw into the salon. A wrestling ring was set up in the centre and around it were folding chairs formed up in rows. The salon itself was a magnificent room with golden caryatids, a decorated ceiling, enormous mirrors, fine tapestry and a rich red carpet. As the spectators settled the chandeliers began to dim. The atmosphere was expectant.
‘Take a seat, Maria,’ said Datt. ‘It will be a fine fight; lots of blood.’ Maria’s palm was moist in mine.
‘Don’t be awful,’ said Maria, but she let go of my hand and moved towards the seats.
‘Sit with Jean-Paul,’ said Datt. ‘I want to speak with your friend.’
Maria’s hand trembled. I looked around and saw Jean-Paul for the first time. He was seated alone. ‘Go with Jean-Paul,’ said Datt gently.
Jean-Paul saw us, he smiled. ‘I’ll sit with Jean-Paul,’ said Maria to me.
‘Agreed,’ I said. By the time she was seated, the first two wrestlers were circling each other. One was an Algerian I would guess, the other had bright dyed yellow hair. The man with straw hair lunged forward. The Algerian slid to one side, caught him on the hip and butted him heavily with the top of his head. The crack of head meeting chin was followed by the sharp intake of breath by the audience. On the far side of the room there was a nervous titter of laughter. The mirrored walls showed the wrestlers repeated all around the room. The central light threw heavy shadows under their chins and buttocks, and their legs, painted dark with shadow, emerged into the light as they circled again looking for an opening. Hanging in each corner of the room there was a TV camera linked by landline to monitor screens some distance away. The screens were showing the recorded image.
It was evident that the monitor screens were playing recordings, for the pictures were not clear and the action on the screen took place a few seconds later than the actual fighting. Because of this time-lag between recording and playing back the audience were able to swing their eyes to the monitors each time there was an attack and see it take place again on the screen.
‘Come upstairs,’ said Datt.
‘Very well.’ There was a crash; they were on the mat and the fair man was in a leg lock. His face was contorted. Datt spoke without turning to look. ‘This fighting is rehearsed. The fair-haired man will win after being nearly throttled in the final round.’
I followed him up the magnificent staircase to the first floor. There was a locked door. Clinic. Private. He unlocked the door and ushered me through. An old woman was standing in the corner. I wondered if I was interrupting one of Datt’s interminable games of Monopoly.
‘You were to come next week,’ said Datt.
‘Yes he was,’ said the old woman. She smoothed her apron over her hips like a self-conscious maidservant.
‘Next week would have been better,’ said Datt.
‘That’s true. Next week – without the party – would have been better,’ she agreed.
I said, ‘Why is everyone speaking in the past tense?’
The door opened and two young men came in. They were wearing blue jeans and matching shirts. One of them was unshaven.
‘What’s going on now?’ I asked.
‘The footmen,’ said Datt. ‘Jules on the left. Albert on the right. They are here to see fair play. Right?’ They nodded without smiling. Datt turned to me. ‘Just lie down on the couch.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘I said no I won’t lie down on the couch.’
Datt tutted. He was a little put out. There wasn’t any mockery or sadism in the tutting. ‘There are four of us here,’ he explained. ‘We are not asking you to do anything unreasonable, are we? Please lie down on the couch.’
I backed towards the side table. Jules came at me and Albert was edging around to my left side. I came back until the edge of the table was biting my right hip so I knew exactly how my body was placed in relation to it. I watched their feet. You can tell a lot about a man from the way he places his feet. You can tell the training he has had, whether he will lunge or punch from a stationary position, whether he will pull you or try to provoke you into a forward movement. Jules was still coming on. His hands were flat and extended. About twenty hours of gymnasium karate. Albert had the old course d’échalotte look about him. He was used to handling heavyweight, over-confident drunks. Well, he’d find out what I was; yes, I thought: a heavyweight, over-confident drunk. Heavyweight Albert was coming on like a train. A boxer; look at his feet. A crafty boxer who would give you all the fouls; the butts, kidney jabs and back of the head stuff, but he fancied himself as a jab-and-move-around artist. I’d be surprised to see him aim a kick in the groin with any skill. I brought