The Headmaster's Wager (17 page)

After a week, a telegram came from Shanghai. “Arrived. Registered for school.”

So it had worked. Percival was both lonely and relieved. There was the debt, diminished but not discharged. Perhaps after securing the safety of the school, he would go to China himself. Or maybe he would go to visit. After all, there was still money to be made. Even before making money, he must pay back what he owed. It was somehow comforting to have these practical problems to address. He slept soundly and deeply, awoke determined to fill his thoughts with dollars, piastres, gold, and the challenge of saving Chen Hap Sing from the creditors. The house echoed a hollow quiet—perhaps he would call Mrs. Ling.

1967,
CHOLON, VIETNAM

Several days after Dai Jai's telegram arrived, Mak caught up with Percival in the school hallway. He said, “I have met an American, a Mr. Peters, who is newly arrived at the State Department in Saigon. He might be the person to help us with our certification.”

“How much will you need?” asked Percival. They had already judged that if the graduates of the Percival Chen English Academy could be exempted from the American English proficiency exam, it would be worth a red packet of considerable size. They could probably increase tuition by half.

“Mr. Peters is the type of American who needs to be convinced,” said Mak. “I will nuture the idea slowly, but it may not be a matter of simply giving a gift. If you meet him by chance at the Cercle, don't raise the issue. If he knows who you are and brings it up, speak as if it means very little to you—that it is simply a way for us to make things easier for them to hire staff.” Mak's words were cautionary, but his tone was excited.

Percival nodded. “He needs to feel it is in their interest, a favour we are doing for them.”

“Even better if he thinks it is his own idea.”

“Then he is complicated, or even worse, political?”

“I'm just getting to know him. If you somehow meet him, remember what I said.”

“The certification means nothing to me. We would be helping him out with it.”

“I think I can make this work—but please don't spend what you don't yet have,
hou jeung
. Focus on your debt. Whatever you do, stay away from the mah-jong tables.”

The following week, Mak instructed Percival to attend a particular cocktail hour at the Cercle. Mak brought over an athletic-looking American with excellent posture, saying to him what a nice coincidence it was that the headmaster of his school happened to be here. After being introduced, Percival inquired about Peters' work, which the American described as “cultivating innovative channels of communication.” Percival nodded as if this meant something to him. He talked a little about the school, asked for nothing, and offered nothing, a neutral stance, as Mak had prescribed. They had a whisky together, and each paid for his own.

One morning, a month following Dai Jai's departure, Percival received a letter from his son. Dai Jai described the French Concession in Shanghai, where he had taken a room. He related some of the strange expressions of the Shanghainese. He wrote that being in China made him understand how small and backwards Cholon really was, and thanked his father for sending him to his motherland.

Percival slipped the letter into his shirt pocket, almost as pleased as if he were with his son. He felt lucky, and went to the garage where the Peugeot was in hock. They would flip a coin, he suggested to the garage owner. If the owner won, he would keep the Peugeot free and clear. If Percival won, he would take it back, and the loan, which was about a third of the car's value, would be cancelled. Percival said that he would otherwise pay off the loan immediately with full interest and take the car away. A bluff—his pockets were empty. The garage owner eyed the big Peugeot, which he had been driving and enjoying, and agreed to the wager. A few minutes later, Percival slipped into the seat of the car, and with the engine purring to life felt the ballooning pleasure of his own good luck.

The good-luck feeling weakened later that day, when the Teochow Clan Association's treasurer visited the school and insisted upon a
payment of a hundred thousand piastres by the next day, threatening foreclosure on Chen Hap Sing. That night Percival braved the clinking glass negotiations of a money-circle banquet at the Jade Orchid Restaurant to borrow more cash—yet more debt, guaranteed by promises, and propped up by his strained smile. The rates he was obliged to pay were now the highest in Cholon, nine percent monthly. It could have been worse, but Mei vouched for him, confirmed that there was strong demand for English-speakers in the police. “Bottoms up!” said Percival, and he poured a round of cognac from the bottle of Remy Martin XO that he had ordered for the table—swallowing the rich amber warmth, and the expense of the cognac. It was expected that the borrower be generous. After the dinner broke up, Percival drifted through Cholon in the back of the car. Despite his luck earlier that day, debt circled him like a relentless predator.

“Home, boss?” said Han Bai, as he guided the car through the fluid night.

“It's early.” He thought of the family quarters of Chen Hap Sing. The still heat and the closed rooms would remind him of Dai Jai's absence. He would gain some relief if he opened the doors, but it was the lesser discomfort to keep the room shut off. Dai Jai's letter in his pocket was good company.

The car's headlights arced over the flashing legs of the fragile street girls, their bright-coloured butterfly dresses, lipstick slashes on their tired grandmother mouths. Percival wondered what the night was like at Le Grand Monde. Were people in a good mood at Le Paradis, or the Sun Wah Hotel? He rolled down the window and put his hand into the night air. He rubbed the cool humidity between his fingers—was the joy of luck to be his tonight? He had been compelled to borrow for the snakehead's fee and to send ten taels of gold with Dai Jai. Tonight, another hundred thousand owed. All he needed was a few good rounds of mah-jong.

The big Peugeot floated through the streets, and Percival reflected on his luck at winning it back. The Americans were close to giving them the special certification, Mak had recently reported, and good luck came in threes. The Sun Wah Hotel was just a few blocks away.
The proceeds of the money circle sat in an envelope next to Percival. It was due at the Teochow Clan Association by the end of the next day. In the glancing headlights, a girl's smile flashed, plucked out of darkness. Others walked nearby. Through his fluid cognac haze, he saw their light steps, their slender thighs quick in darkness. If nothing else, this war had brought miniskirts to Saigon.

“To the Sun Wah Hotel,” Percival said to Han Bai.

Han Bai did not change direction. “
Hou jeung
, you said you wished to go straight home.”

“I've changed my mind. I want to see if anyone I know is at the Sun Wah Hotel. It's still early.”

“Ah, boss, that's a dangerous place. There are no little games there, just big-money mah-jong. Maybe you want to go somewhere else. You've been doing well with blackjack. Or let's find you a girl, some pretty company. Do you like that one?” Han Bai slowed the car a little, and Percival considered the crossed ankles, the bare shoulder.

“I don't go with this kind of girl. Anyhow, I feel very lucky tonight.”

“Look, boss,” said Han Bai. “You are already lucky. You got the car back. You've got tomorrow's payment.”

“The car, yes. But the money's not mine, it's borrowed.” Percival thumbed the thick layers of cash. The envelope tingled in his hand, excited the fingers. Borrowed money, however, was a sing-song girl in a bar. It could be touched but not possessed. The sweetest money was delivered by good fortune. The car had given him a taste. “I don't want a night like this to be wasted.”

“Mak said that you promised him not to gamble big money.” Han Bai, an old employee, took more liberty than most drivers.

Tonight, there were no flares or bombardments, which often agitated the southwest sky. A lone military helicopter beat the air as it passed above the car, the single eye of its spotlight peering here and there. Then the sky fell silent again. Beneath it, Cholon was noisy and alive. Pungent food smells, oil and garlic, meat and ginger, drifted through the window. Percival was hungry for the night, to touch the girls who leaned in doorways with hands on thighs, to caress the smooth ivory tiles, and to sweep up piastres from a table.
He did not want more debt, but what of the freedom that could come from some cash?

“Mak is practical. He knows how to get things done in the way that someone arrives at a place by walking—one step at a time, much work. I respect that. But the gods of luck can change everything. In a moment, you are blessed with everything you want, like flying.”

“Or you are ruined. Your money vanished. And worse, that money's not yours. You just said so.”

If he was ruined beyond hope of recovering, he told himself, he could abandon Chen Hap Sing, he could go to China. “I will win tonight,” said Percival. It was not for his driver to say otherwise. “You have passed the road to the Sun Wah Hotel. You must turn back.”

“As you wish,
hou jeung
.”

Han Bai pulled up outside the folding metal gates of the hotel. Percival got out, breathed the night air, thick and damp like a wet cloth. He knocked. Soon, a maid peered through the gates, recognized Percival, scraped a key through the lock and let him in. She knew that he could find his own way up, and lay back down on her cot in the lobby.

Upstairs, Room 28,
yee ba
in Cantonese, the numbers that sounded like easy fortune. Three tables played, each in a corner. A hotel boy dozed on a cot in the fourth corner of the room, near the purser who sat next to the safe drinking tea. Percival knew some of the players, and others were strangers to him. Mrs. Ling looked up. “Percival Chen, now there's a lovely sight.”

“As are you,” he bowed.

“We have missed you—I was concerned that you had lost your taste for beauty,” said Mrs. Ling. She gave a high, tinkling laugh as she swept a pile of chips towards herself. She wore her necklace of pale jade, the clasp a carved dragon, over a well-tailored black silk dress. Pale jade was for a young lady, but she managed to wear this adornment elegantly. She clothed herself in a precise way that allowed her desirability but placed her respectably beyond reach. “Do you have any new teachers? Does any of them need a wife? Perhaps a girlfriend? ”

“Do you want to marry one of my teachers, Mrs. Ling?” he asked.

“All my young friends have soft skin, and tender hearts,” she murmured. “If your teachers want anything special, I can provide.” Mrs. Ling dealt in specific appetites just as other business people procured Levi's jeans and Rolex watches. The Australians and American ex-servicemen who taught alongside Percival's local teachers were good customers of hers. “Marriage or fun, either. American dollars or military scrip.” She turned again to the chips she had just won, counted attentively. These were good times for Mrs. Ling. In addition to the usual hotel work, there were foreigners who wanted to meet nice girls rather than bar dancers, and families who paid to have their daughters married away to America. In the best of these transactions, Mrs. Ling made money from both sides.

Police Chief Mei sat opposite the matchmaker. Chang, a scrap metal dealer, sat at the same square mah-jong table. Huong, the importer of Italian shirts, sat a little behind Chang and sipped a drink. There was a bald stranger in the game as well. He wore a banker's shade gripped tightly on his forehead—a green plastic halo. On a nearby couch, a
métisse
girl in a light-blue dress was half-reclined, her legs crossed. Her hands were slender creatures nested in her lap, and her elegance made the furniture cheap and shabby. She had strong French bones and warm Vietnamese skin. Her poise made it clear that she was better than the dress. The garment was slightly small for her, a cut which made Percival think of what was beneath, and yet was not so tight as to be vulgar. It was the way that Mrs. Ling typically dressed her girls. Percival had to remind himself not to stare. Mrs. Ling was a decent mah-jong player, but when she went out to gamble she often brought a girl with her, doubling her chances of making a profit.

Mei said, “Percival, so good to see you again. Maybe I'll have a chance to win back some of the money I lent you. Are you sure you should be gambling with that? ”

“I assure you, I will leave with more than I've brought.”

“Well, the head of the Teochow Clan has always admired Chen Hap Sing.”

“Is there anyone in this town who does not know my business?”

“You don't even try to hide it.” The police chief tipped his head towards the bald stranger. “This is a new friend, Mr. Cho. Someone told him the Sun Wah was the best place for a big game.”

Cho's eyes twinkled at Percival, his lips pressed in a grin. He joined Mei and Chang to wash the tiles, swirled them around in preparation for the next game. The smallest finger of Cho's left hand had a delicately curved fingernail that was as long as the digit itself, which he protected within his palm as he mixed the tiles. Mrs. Ling lit a mentholated cigarette. She always insisted that the men should wash the tiles, so she wouldn't ruin her perfect hands. Percival saw how she took this moment to assess her opponents' unmasked expressions, to see if they were nervous or confident in the way they moved. The players began to stack their ivory pieces into the four walls that would frame a new game.

“It's been too long since we've seen you, brother,” said Chang. “I hope you bring me some luck.”

Percival felt the touch of the girl's eyes on him. When he summoned the courage to glance over, she had already turned away. A beautiful girl's presence invigorated a room, like the energy that came from a pile of valuable chips sitting on a table. How much would her introduction cost? The girl was aware of herself, carefully beautiful, not one who stood on the street anxiously watching car windows. She might cost more than Mrs. Ling's usual ten thousand—fifteen, perhaps even twenty. He could not afford twenty thousand piastres for a girl right now, he scolded himself, not even this one.