Kowloon Tong by Paul Theroux Page B

simply better educated than the stiffs in Hong Kong, which was no distinction—the colony's schools were appalling.
    Mr. Hung kept at it, calling him at work.
    Bunt soon reached the point—which seemed inevitable given his browbeaten nature, especially when the other person was persistent—of knowing that eventually he would have to agree to some sort of party. Nagging succeeded with him where reason failed: it was his mother's doing. The only question was, what sort of party?
    "If it's a banquet you're thinking of," said Bunt, who was used to Hong Kong banquets—the tedium, the indistinguishable dishes, the waste, the transparent disguises of food, the fish heads, the pigs' feet, the spongy tripe, the tendons, fifteen courses of this glop were not unusual—"any sort of banquet, you're wasting your time. Chinese food gives me a splitting headache."
    "Not a banquet, just we two," Mr. Hung said.
    But that was as bad as a banquet. Bunt, feeling weak, feared being near the man who had broken him. And Hung was so eager—that also made Bunt reluctant.
    "Just a drink then," Bunt said.
    "More than one!" Mr. Hung cried out.
    A binge, in other words. When a Chinese person, any Chinese person, had two drinks, he turned red and gasped and looked stricken and paralytic, with bloodshot puffy eyes and an expression of agony. The Chinese did not get drunk, they got sick—their livers couldn't process the alcohol—and it was not a pretty sight when they were laid low, struggling to ventilate, striking the belly-clutching postures of poison victims.
    "I suppose I could meet you for a drink," Bunt said, intrigued by his reverie of Hong Kong drunks.
    If the drink was strong enough it would mean an early night, and when Mr. Hung agreed, Bunt began to relish the sight of him lying on his side next to the bar, with a red swollen face, vomity froth on his lips, a blue tongue, and steam shooting out of his ears.
    "By the way," Bunt said, "my mum is getting a bit anxious about the deal."
    "I will bring you up to speed when we meet."
    When a person in Hong Kong used jargon correctly, especially American jargon, it was a sign that you had to proceed with caution.

8
    E AGER TO GET it over with, murmuring
Never again,
Bunt arrived at the Regent early and stared across the busy harbor at the top of the Upper Peak tram station, his way of locating the Peak fire station roof and tracing the treetops to Albion Cottage. The sight of home calmed him. He was glad that he had gotten here first because of the chance it gave him to observe Mr. Hung, moon-faced and confused, entering the lobby bar. In this glimpse, Bunt learned a little more about the man, his awkwardness and impatience, his unfriendly way with the waiters. Hung had a soldier's way of walking and an officer's arrogance, as though he expected people to step aside. But they didn't, and it made him stumble and bat his hands. What was he holding?
    "There you are," he said, seeing Bunt. Attempting to smile, Mr. Hung merely assumed an expression of greed.
    Standing at attention, nodding slightly, he kept his hungry look and tapped a cigarette on the case of his cellular phone. His suit was the one he had worn at Fatty's Chophouse, the label still on the sleeve. His new shirt was creased where it had been folded in the box, and his tie was badly knotted. His shoes were brilliant black.
    "Here I am," Bunt said, looking at Hung closely. His father had stood stiffly that way, and he had seen men in clubs with that posture. Hong Kong was a business center but it was also a garrison—so many men had a military background. Bunt studied the way Hung carried himself and wondered, Had Hung ever mentioned the army?
    "So good to see you again," Hung said.
    With his teeth clamped shut, Hung poked the buttons on his phone in a hard, destructive way, as though putting out its eyes.
    "I'm glad you started without me," he said.
    The Chinese man had mastered the insincere formalities of