The Headmaster's Wager (19 page)

Percival soon won the first game's pot of eighty thousand. He thought of the letter in his pocket. Dai Jai was safe. He had nothing to lose except Chen Hap Sing. He could always return to Shantou, he reminded himself for courage. They washed the tiles and built the wall to play again. Mei won the second round, eighty thousand, but was uncomfortable. Mei played well until the sums began to bother him. After Percival took another pot of eighty thousand, Cho flinched, and then seemed relieved to take the next round of eighty himself. Cho won another game and drained his glass.

“I'm surprised your pockets are still so deep,” said Cho. His hands were more calm, Percival noticed. Percival must ignore him. Yes, he told himself, Cho was indeed a beginner—too eager to celebrate his wins. A half-hour later, Percival had three hundred and forty thousand before him. He scolded himself for being as pleased as he was. A good gambler must be detached from the money and focused on making the right sequences, not the pots won or lost, he reminded himself.

The other games in the room had ended. Everyone gathered to watch the big-money table. Mei grumbled that he was tired, that he had been playing for a long time. He counted his chips nervously. He looked around, but no one offered to replace him. The
métisse
beauty stood a little behind Mrs. Ling, watching the game with concern. Percival turned his pieces face down, kept them in memory lest someone be inclined to give signals to his opponents. The others did the same. They cupped their pieces secretly when they drew them. With something that sounded like desperate bravado, Mrs. Ling proposed they up it to forty per player per game.

Again, the players washed the tiles and built the walls of chance. Percival took a round of a hundred sixty. He had four hundred and
sixty thousand. There was almost enough to discharge the Teochow Clan debt. A bit more luck and there would be money for himself as well. Mrs. Ling pulled more notes from her purse, the last of her money, it seemed. The purser came to the table to change it for chips.

“How do you think this evening will go?” Cho asked Percival, a mocking growl, but one in which he tried too hard, showed his own nerves.

“The tiles will speak.”

“Ah, a percussion of wealth. Like music.”

“To the winner's ears.” Percival tipped up his cognac and poured another, a warm comfort within the circle of electric light. The shade above them corralled the players into its glow. Alcohol did not impair his play. If he kept his emotions level, he assured himself, it permitted him to follow the instincts of his hands.

Mrs. Ling took a game. Within another two plays, she was broke. The first tin glow of morning glanced in shyly through the drapes.

“Alright, now I will win it back,” said Mrs. Ling, hastily pulling forward the girl in the blue dress by her hand. “I need a few piastres. Who would like to be introduced to my beautiful friend?” The young beauty looked down as Mrs. Ling extolled her charming spirit and eagerness to please.

“I will have the introduction,” said Cho.

“Can you afford it?” asked Mrs. Ling in a sing-song taunt. “It seems that your luck has shifted tonight, Cho, since the headmaster began to play. Don't feel badly. He is good at this.” The girl looked up. “Besides, whoever takes the introduction will have to do some teaching. She is especially fresh, you see?”

Cho retrieved a fat, sealed envelope from his pocket. He ripped it open with his fingernail and tossed fifty thousand piastres across the table at Mrs. Ling's heavily jewelled hands. There was the gold Percival had sought desperately, begged for, borrowed against everything for. Mrs. Ling did not even look at the money. Cho said, “The schoolteacher has loans to pay. You would have nothing yourself were it not for the meat you have brought to market.” He reached over to grab the girl's enticingly bare arm, and instinctively she stepped back.
He had to put out a foot to stop himself from tumbling out of his chair. Mrs. Ling put a hand on Cho's shoulder. It was an attractive woman's hand, but her grip was firm nonetheless, and she eased him back into his seat with a teasing smile. She laughed, absolving everyone, and then shot a look of reproach at the girl. “Does the headmaster wish to bid? I believe this has become an auction.”

Percival said, “Do you think we are in an American bar, Mr. Cho?”

“Ah,
hou jeung
, he is merely showing us how keen he is for the prize. Who could blame him? You can show your interest with, say, eighty thousand?” Mrs. Ling's fixed smile played one man off the other as she looked from Percival to Cho. “Mr. Cho, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I have not agreed to any introduction, so please. A gentleman keeps his hands to himself until such a matter is settled.”

Percival counted out eighty thousand piastres' worth of chips into a little stack. Tonight, he would win back some of the ransom, keep Chen Hap Sing, and he would also take the girl. Early in the evening, he might have toyed with the idea of losing Chen Hap Sing and being free of it, yet it was only a mental trick to allow himself to gamble. He would never want to lose his father's house, his house. Now that he knew his opponent, he was even more determined to win. The girl smiled almost imperceptibly at Percival and rested her eyes on the chips beneath his hand. Had the smile really been intended for him alone to see? He tidied the stack of tokens as if undecided, but before he could slide it forward, Cho threw out more bills, some landing at Mrs. Ling's feet.

“There, fifty more. Enough for a whole street of whores. I hope she is worth it.”

Mrs. Ling kicked off a ten-thousand-piastre note that had landed on her toes and inspected her fingernails, then looked to Percival. The room became alive with speculation. Once started, it somehow became permissible, and the men eyed the girl's hair, her breasts, her legs, and whispered their appraisals. She blushed. Mrs. Ling glowed. Percival placed his eighty thousand back with the rest of his stacks of chips. Mrs. Ling was discomfited by this. The headmaster was usually predictable in his desires. “Let's play one more game,
Mrs. Ling,” said Percival. “The girl will be your bet. Mr. Cho? Does that suit you?”

“I would rather pay for what I want than be tricked out of it,” said Cho.

“Tricks, Mr. Cho? Isn't this a mah-jong table?” said Percival, as he began to wash the tiles. “The only tricks are those of luck. Two hundred per player, then?”

“If you want to play, let's play.” Cho looked up from under his eyeshade.

The spectators whispered, laid side bets on the game. Cho's eyes bulged angrily at Percival. He took back the money that he had tossed at Mrs. Ling's hands and ignored the ten thousand that was on the floor. Mei pushed himself back from the table, apologized sheepishly, mumbled about a policeman's salary. The room was alert again.

Percival said, “Alright, Mrs. Ling's bet will be the girl, and each of us will bet two hundred thousand piastres.”

The four walls were built and broken, the pieces divided into the players' hands. Because Mei had bowed out, they dealt a fourth hand which sat unplayed, face down. Percival took a tile from the wall—it was four circles, a piece that he needed. A good draw to start. He reminded himself to betray no excitement.

On his second turn, Cho hesitated, coughed a little, and sipped his cognac. He cocked his left wrist back, settled the piece he had drawn in his hand and cleared his throat. Then Percival said, “If you are happy to wager two hundred on this girl, let's just make it four hundred each.”

“Now you want me to decide if that is a bluff.”

“You think that naming your problem will draw out an answer?”

Cho glared, furious at Percival, said nothing.

“As long as you don't mind such a big bet on a Chinese game,” said Percival. “I know you don't like us Chinese, so if you want to fold for half the bet, if you don't want to play this last round of a Chinese game, I'll understand that it's not because you're afraid of losing. Your fingernail confuses me though, it's such a typical Chinese affectation—old-fashioned though.”

If he lost the half million now, Percival would not be able to make his payment and would also have a new debt. Cho tapped his fingers, scanned the backs of the ivories. Chen Hap Sing would be gone, thought Percival, and it surprised him that there was still a tantalizing, terrifying freedom in that idea. He rubbed his chest where the letter was folded. The ancestors' spirits would decide.

“Spare me your tricks. Four hundred each,” said Cho.

“I won't give another half of a girl,” said Mrs. Ling. There was laughter from the circle of spectators. “But if I win this, I will still have her, and it will be the best introduction I never made.”

The play went around. Percival drew a piece that was not what he needed, and was obliged to discard. The same once more. Even the spectators were tense, silent.

One by one, each of the players put down a triplet. Luck answered, and Percival was soon just one piece short. Several pieces came through Percival's fingers which might have helped him if he tried to build his hand a different way, but he decided to hold out for what he needed—the five circles. Cho tapped furiously at the table with his long, sculpted fingernail, drawing and discarding one tile after another with his other hand. Percival touched the next tile in line to be drawn, felt the blood surge in his ears, and slid the tile towards him.

“What are you doing? Take it! You must take it now that your hand is on it! You cannot draw another,” barked Cho.

“You think I can see through it with my fingers?” said Percival. He pressed the piece into the table face down, as if trying to divine its identity, pushed it around in a lazy circle. “You think you can tell me what to do?”

Cho whispered, “I have already, haven't I?”

Percival took the piece, made it his. He tilted it up to see. The five circles. “Ah!” he cried, a half-scream, for now it was unnecessary to conceal his greed and the pleasure of this revenge. He showed his hand, but did not hurry to take his money. The room applauded, calling out that the headmaster was teaching, suggesting lewdly that he had more lessons to give.

Mrs. Ling stood, directed the girl delicately by the elbow, and guided her hand to Percival. “This is Jacqueline.” It was only once there had been a flurry of excited congratulations, once Cho had cursed, thrown his chair down, and stalked away, once a new cognac bottle was opened and poured, and once the envious, aroused men in the room had finished crowding around Percival, that Percival looked up at Jacqueline's face and allowed himself to see that she, too, was pleased with the evening's outcome.

PERCIVAL TOOK JACQUELINE'S HAND AND LED
her out of Room 28, along the hallway, down the stairs. The lobby bustled with hotel boys busily serving the guests bowls of congee and putting out salted eggs, pickled radishes, and dried dace for breakfast. They had already heard about the game and called out to Headmaster Percival Chen, bowing, thanking him for the thousand-piastre notes that he distributed like leaflets as he went. The bundle of money was heavy inside his jacket, the girl on his arm delicate.

Outside, sun baked night-time mud into the hard earth of day. Jacqueline stood next to Percival. Had he once dreamt of her? Now that it was just the two of them, hesitation mingled with his desire. He could tell her to go home, say that he was tired. What a strange thought, to doubt his pleasure. After a night without sleep, his instincts bled together just as night bled into morning. He touched the letter in his pocket, which now made him sad. He scolded away his melancholy. It was simple. He had won her, an uncommon beauty, along with a large sum of money. Nothing could be better.

The white Peugeot's nose appeared down the street, edged its way forward from an alley, nudging through the morning crowds. Percival gestured and Han Bai saw them. Other girls whom Mrs. Ling had introduced to Percival appeared more attractive half-masked by darkness, their faults glaring in sober daylight. Jacqueline was the opposite. In the morning light, she was too beautiful for the makeup
and borrowed dress she was wearing, the shoulders of which were a little narrow, the waist a bit high. A man should follow his desires, Percival reminded himself. It was unhealthy not to, especially in this climate.

In Vietnamese Percival said, “Do you want to come with me?”

“Isn't that the idea?” she replied in English.

The car pulled up. Han Bai came around and opened the door for his boss and the girl. Percival helped her in, for there was nothing else to do, despite his knot of uncertainty and self-consciousness. Fatigue, nothing more.

“Do you want the windows down?” asked Percival.

“No,” she said. “I like being on the inside. Looking out, like this.”

Han Bai eased the car forward, crept slowly through the growing bustle of people.

“Are you tired? Do you need to rest?” Percival asked. Before she answered his first question, he nervously asked her another. “Where do you live?”

“It's better that we go to your place.”

“Of course. Jacqueline … you have another name?”

“Do I need one?”

“What I mean is, I would like to know about you.”

“Why?” She met his eyes briefly, then released him.

“Forgive me,” he said, his words trailing off, drowned out by his beating heart. Had he somehow offended her? “It's not necessary.”

Jacqueline took his hand, her fingers light but sure. Was this her first time, as Mrs. Ling had implied? Did she clasp her hand to his in determination to go through with it? They reached the quiet leafy stretch of Chong Heng Boulevard. Percival sat forward a little, began to turn towards her, felt he should speak but had nothing to say. Instead, he looked at Jacqueline's arm, extended over the glaring white territory of the starched cotton seat cover. She caressed his wrist, then his fingers, and rubbed them one by one.