The Year of Dangerous Loving
The fortune-teller gravely presented the card to Hargreave. Chinese writing was on one side, the translation in English and Portuguese on the other. He read aloud: ‘You must work hard because you will have many sons.’
Olga thought that was very funny. ‘So you’ll have to be a lawyer, darling! Many sons!’ She stood up and hugged him. ‘And maybe I better get a job too?’
That Sunday night, as they lay in each other’s arms, she said, ‘Will I see you next Friday?’
‘Yes.’ Oh yes, he had to see her next weekend. But how much longer could he afford to keep doing this? It was as if she had read his mind, for she said:
‘But what about all this crazy money you are spending? Crazy money. I will speak to Vladimir about a special price. Why don’t I come to you, in Hong Kong? We save the hotel bill and all the dinners – I will cook for you, darling!’
Hargreave smiled. The China moonlight was streaming through the French windows, dusting her naked goldenness in silver. He loved her for her concern about his money; that showed she wasn’t a whore at heart. But he hesitated: he wasn’t sure about her coming to Hong Kong yet – he didn’t care what people thought, or guessed, her alibi as a singer was good enough for Al Hargreave as an individual – but was it good enough for the Director of Public Prosecutions? And even if it was – which it was, for Christ’s sake, plenty of Hong Kong bigwigs were known to have mistresses, and a good few were known homosexuals – even assuming he could get away with her alibi, was he ready to make that kind of commitment? Wasn’t it quite a step, from a discreet hotel in Macao to taking her home to his apartment for all his neighbours to see? And even if that was okay, was it a wise thing to do when Elizabeth was suing him for divorce? And even if that didn’t matter – which it didn’t, because the marriage was over, whether he was shacked up with half a dozen girls or none – was it quite fair on Liz to have it known that her husband had a Russian girlfriend in residence? And most importantly, was it fair on Olga to take her into his A-grade government apartment and start the mental process that she was going to become the mistress of it? Was he ready for that yet? And was she, this Russian girl who had never had a real love, who had been forced into prostitution – was she ready for the heady business of being taken into his privileged life, even if only for a weekend? What would she expect the following weekend, and the next? Oh, Hargreave knew what he wanted, he wanted her every weekend, but how would she feel when he simply couldn’t afford her any longer – which was surely going to happen sooner rather than later. All these questions flashed through Hargreave’s mind, then he said:
‘Yes, come to Hong Kong. We’ll go out on my boat for a few days.’ The boat was the answer.
She sat up. ‘You have a boat?’
‘In fact we’ll go sailing for a week,’ he said. ‘Next Monday is a public holiday, so I’ll take leave from Tuesday to Friday; we’ll have eight or nine days on the boat.’
‘Oh how lovely!’ Olga cried. Then she frowned anxiously. ‘But supposing they won’t let me in with my new identity card – the immigration man may remember, me.’
Hargreave had forgotten that detail. ‘Then I’ll bring the boat to Macao to fetch you. I’ll check you through Hong Kong immigration formalities at the Marine Department as crew.’
‘Oh, wonderful, darling! And I will tell Vladimir to go to hell, he must drop his price!’
Hargreave smiled. Yes, it would be very nice to get Vladimir down. ‘And what will he say to that?’
‘He will finally do it – he knows he is getting a bargain because you are a good customer. And for me you don’t pay, ever again, I will give you back my share!’
Hargreave grinned. Oh, this was ridiculous – the DPP getting a kick-back from the Heavenly Tranquillity! She could keep her share, but he loved her for offering it. And he would pay the going price if he had to – he didn’t want any trouble from Vladimir. But yes, something had to be done, he couldn’t afford this much longer. But for the moment he could afford it, and a whole week with her on the yacht was going to be wonderful.
‘Oh darling,’ Olga said, ‘I can hardly wait!’
9
And nor could Hargreave.
He worked hard, to leave his desk clear for the holiday ahead. Every morning before dawn he drove down to his chambers and put in three hours’ work before his staff arrived, before his telephones started ringing. He kept his consultations to the minimum and declined all invitations to lunch. At lunchtime he went to the gym and pushed himself hard through the circuit of exercise equipment, then had a sauna and a hearty meal at the health-bar. He was getting fit and he felt good. He worked until about eight o’clock, then went home and rode his exercycle for half an hour whilst he watched the news and the weather report on television. There were no storms brewing nearby. He drank only a beer or two before Ah Moi served him another hearty health meal with plenty of salad: he was saving up his drinking-time for next week. Oh, he was so looking forward to the trip. He went to bed early with half a dozen different vitamin pills inside him and slept soundly. He woke up before dawn, eager to start the new day – one day less to wait. It was going to be a lovely adventure with his lovely girl on his lovely boat around Hong Kong’s many lovely islands. On Thursday night she telephoned him.
‘Hullo, darling! Are we really going sailing tomorrow?’
‘Really!’
‘Oh – all the girls are so envious, I’m so excited! Okay, I must go and work now. Is there anything I must bring?’
Work. The only thing he wanted her to bring was some good news from Vladimir. ‘Only your sweet self.’
‘And I’ve told Pig Vladimir to go to hell because I’m taking a holiday next week, there will be nothing to pay after Sunday, darling, next week is free.’
He was very pleased to hear that. ‘And what did he say?’
‘To hell with Vladimir. If I went back to Russia last week when my permit ended I would have some holidays before I started work, not so? Darling, I must go and sing now, goodbye. Know what I’m going to sing?’
Sing. That’s better. ‘What?’
‘“Slow Boat to China”. For us.’
Hargreave grinned: ‘That’s a lovely song.’
‘For us. I must go now – but darling?’
‘Yes?’
‘I love you! Okay,’ she giggled, ‘goodbye!’ The telephone went dead.
He woke up next morning at dawn feeling rested, fit and excited. He drove down to the gym, gave himself a quick workout, got to his chambers and finished clearing his desk. At nine o’clock he telephoned the Asia Company and asked them to deliver a week’s supply of meat to his chambers immediately – there was plenty of booze and canned food aboard. He telephoned the yacht club and instructed his look-see boat-boy to hose down the decks, open the portholes, check the oil, batteries and water tanks. He sent one of his clerks down to the Marine Department with his passport and ship’s papers to do port-clearance formalities for him: international destination Macao! With a hey-nonny-nonny and a hot cha-cha! He sent another clerk to the Hongkong & Shanghai Bank to cash a modest cheque – how delightfully cheap after the Bella Mar! He did a few pressing consultations, then, at noon, he summoned his three deputies, delegated the remnants of his files amongst them, discussed briefly the points of law involved, blew a jolly kiss to Miss Ho and Miss Chan, his secretaries, which sent them into fits of blushing giggles – Mister Hargreave had never done that before – and set off carrying his sailing bag. He rode down in the elevator to the parking basement, and drove out into hot, teeming Queensway with a song in his heart. Slow Boat to China, yessir. He drove through the steamy, congested thoroughfares of Wanchai to Causeway Bay, and turned out to the yacht club. He parked beside the clubhouse and strode down to the departure jetty. The good ship Elizabeth was waiting. Ten minutes later he was steaming down the fairway towards the international lane, a smile all over his face.
It was good to be alive! It was lovely to be steering his yacht across the South China Sea to fetch his beautiful Russian girl to go sailing around the myriad of islands – how exotic can a love affair get? And look at this magnificent Hong Kong, look at that breathtaking waterfront with its new skyscrapers towering up, look at that magnificent Peak, at teeming Kowloon with its Mountains of Nine Dragons beyond – look at all that land reclamation along the shores, all those ships from around the world, the freighters and junks and ferries and sampans. Lord, this is a wonderful triumph of human endeavour, a splendid tribute to Chinese industriousness, to sheer guts and sangfroid. This tiny colony on the China coast was a magnificent monument to British law – he was proud of it, although he hated the social nonsense, the one-upmanship. For all he was sick and tired of the law, he was proud of the high standard of justice, proud to be one of the standard-bearers, and he hated all that being trampled underfoot when China took over in 1997 …
He cleared the fairway, then swung between the mass of anchored freighters, into the international lane. There was no wind; the sea was flat, a haze hanging over the islands. He steamed past the end of big Lantau Island, measured off the compass course to Macao on his chart, turned the helm and pushed the automatic-pilot button. He went below to the saloon, down the alleyway to his aft master-cabin, stripped off his suit, and pulled on a pair of shorts. He went back to the galley, switched on the refrigerator, put a dozen beers in and opened one. He took it up to the cockpit. The sea ahead was empty but for the string of China islands: oh, this is what he would like to do with the rest of his life, with Olga – throw away the calendar and sail the world!
It was sunset when he reached the cloudy waters of Macao. He chugged past the ferry terminal, under the high Taipa Bridge, between the junks and sampans, and edged into the Club Nautico. He tied up, hurried ashore and checked in with the Portuguese authorities. Then telephoned Olga.
‘Hullo, darling!’ she cried.
He was grinning with anticipation as he waited for her. When he saw her running down the jetty, laughing, it seemed he had been away a long time.
She was enthralled by the yacht: by the mellow teak, the brass lamps, the spacious saloon, the galley with the little bar, the cosy sleeping cabins. ‘Such luxury! And that nice big bunk in our cabin, oh boy, so sexy! And two bathrooms!’ She was very impressed by the galley: ‘A deepfreeze and a refrigerator! Wow – in Russia we are lucky if we have one small fridge, very old! And such a stove! I can show you what a good cook I am, darling, then you will think I am wonderful!’
‘I think you’re pretty wonderful now.’ He was delighted with her pleasure.
She was fascinated by the wheelhouse: the radar, the satellite navigation system, the sextant, the charts, the radio, the automatic pilot. ‘Air-conditioning … You told me you had a boat, not a palace!’ She went scouting around the upper deck, examining winches and cleats and ropes and halyards, demanding the function of each item. ‘Two steering wheels, two compasses …’ She held a finger up at his nose: ‘But only one Olga, sir! No girls with big tits on my boat!’ Hargreave laughed with her. ‘With this boat can we sail around the world?’
‘Of course, she’s built for it.’
‘Oh, let’s do it! Would it cost a lot of money?’
‘The wind is free.’
‘And love is free! And catching fish is free. And then money is unimportant! Oh darling –’ she hugged him tight – ‘can we please do it, I have some money saved! Around the world …’
That night they anchored off Coloane Island, not far from the Westin Resort Hotel. They lounged in the spacious cockpit in the moonlight, drinking wine. They could hear distant dance music coming from the hotel.
‘Would you like to go ashore in the dinghy for dinner?’
‘When we have our own palace for free? This is so exciting for me!’
She cooked up a storm of prawns followed by sweet arid sour pork. They ate in the teak-panelled saloon by candlelight. Later, lying in the big double bunk in the aft cabin, spent, the moon beaming through the porthole, she stroked his eyebrow and said:
‘I am so happy. You mustn’t worry about Vladimir, darling.’
He wasn’t worried; he’d cross the bridges as he came to them – for the time being he could afford this happiness. ‘What did he say, exactly?’
‘Oh, he thinks he’s such a tough guy. He tried to make me bring the credit-card machine but I refused. Imagine such bad manners, going on your boat with the machine! I said we would pay for this weekend but no more, next week is my vacation. He protested so I wrote in my pay-book, “Olga is making her holidays from Monday to Sunday” and I walked out. The girls all agreed with me, even the Chinese manager who likes me to sing said it was okay. And for this weekend I am giving you back my share, I have cash in my bag.’
Hargreave loved her for that. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to keep it, but he stopped himself – he didn’t want to establish any precedents he might later regret. Moreover, whilst he was paying her he had control of the situation, the relationship. All he wanted was her, but it was early days yet for a commitment. ‘He knows you’ll be with me all next week?’
‘No, only this weekend. He suspects, of course, but I said I was resting and going shopping and going to the beach. If he looks for you in the hotels he will not find you, will he? He does not know about this lovely boat! So I’ve tricked that pig.’
Hargreave doubted her trick would work, but he was glad she’d tried it. ‘Is he so bad?’
‘Such a pig, all the girls say so. And always trying to fuck us.’
He wanted her out of that life. ‘And have you?’
‘Me? Vladimir? I would rather die!’
Thank God for that. ‘Does he pester you?’
‘Now he’s stopped, he knows what I think of him.’
‘Does he dislike you too?’
‘Pigs like him don’t have feelings, they’re just greedy.’
‘Does he know who I am?’
‘No. I haven’t told anybody, not even Yolanda, she thinks you’re a businessman.’ She put her arm around him and squeezed. ‘I wouldn’t betray you, darling, please don’t worry; I am very proud of you, I would like to tell everybody, but I know this life.’ She hugged him. ‘And now shall we stop worrying about Mr Vladimir and think about the lovely time we are going to have? Can I catch a fish tomorrow?’
The next morning they woke up late because they were making love much of the night. There was hardly a breeze but Olga wanted to sail: Hargreave would rather have stayed in bed with her but he wanted to please her. There are few places to sail around Macao because it is ringed by China’s islands and mainland, so he headed back to the Club Nautico, went to the Marine Department to complete port-clearance formalities, then headed back into the international lane. He unfurled the genoa. The breeze had improved, the big sail filled and wrenched, and he cut the engine.
The yacht creamed along at a graceful four knots in the silence, slightly heeled. Olga was enthralled. ‘It is so thrilling …!’ She examined the sheets and halyards carefully, asking the function of each. ‘So to make the sail smaller you wind it up with this rope?’
‘On that electric winch.’ He pointed.
‘Electric! And to make it bigger you give out more rope?’
‘Right. And to trim the sail, to tighten it, you heave in with this rope, on this winch.’
‘Right. Very good. Now how do we work the big sail?’
He operated the electric winch and the mainsail came sliding out of the mast. It filled and the boat heeled a little more.
‘Oh, wonderful. Now explain how you did that, captain.’
She climbed around the boat studying the system, pointing out parts to herself and figuring out their function. Hargreave watched her from the cockpit, charmed by her enthusiasm: he looked at her clambering around in her bikini, at her golden curves and he felt he was the luckiest man in the world. And she didn’t get seasick. He had been concerned about that possibility. The hydrofoil overtook them and she waved energetically and laughed with glee when its wash sent the yacht pitching. Macao was dropping over the horizon astern when she came back to the cockpit, declaring herself conversant with all the gear. ‘It is so understandable if you use your head.’
She wanted to understand the navigational equipment. He took her into the wheelhouse and showed her the chart. ‘Here’s Macao, here’s Hong Kong, forty miles apart, and here’s the international shipping lane connecting them. Outside of this lane is China’s waters and we can’t go there. All those islands over there –’ he pointed – ‘are China’s, and over the horizon is the mainland. If we enter their waters we’ll be arrested.’
He explained the satellite navigation system, read off the latest fix and drew in their position on the chart with his parallel rulers. Olga was fascinated. ‘So we can never get lost?’
‘Of course, between Macao and Hong Kong I only need the compass. But on the high seas I wouldn’t get lost, provided the sat-nav keeps working. If it breaks down I would use this.’ He produced the sextant from its box. ‘Elementary geometry.’
‘Oh, you are so clever!’ She meant it.
‘A junior schoolboy could do it, after he’d read this book.’ He produced Mary Bluett’s Celestial Navigation for Yachtsmen, forty pages long, including the big diagrams.
‘Then I must study it.’ She reverted to the chart: ‘And where are we going to sleep tonight?’
‘Well, it’s getting late, the Marine Department headquarters will be closed. So we’ll anchor off one of the islands and check in tomorrow. Means we can’t go ashore tonight.’
In the middle of the afternoon they cleared the end of Lantau Island and the magnificent colony opened up before them. He furled the sails and they cruised slowly through the anchored ships and into the fairway. Olga was enthralled. She sat on top of the wheelhouse, binoculars to her eyes, elbows on her knees, swivelling around, studying one side of the harbour, then the other. ‘So much business …’
Hargreave was seeing the wonders of Hong Kong afresh through her excited eyes. ‘That’s the Ocean Terminal,’ he pointed, ‘and that’s the Star Ferry terminal, and behind it is Statue Square with the old Supreme Court building. And see that big glass skyscraper to the left – that’s the Bank of China.’
‘So much money?’
‘It owns most of the best real estate in Hong Kong. That tall building beside it is the Citicorp Bank, one of the biggest in America. And over to the right, that big grey monstrosity is the Hongkong & Shanghai Bank, one of the richest in the world, where I keep my money. And behind it is Government House.’
‘Is that where you live, darling?’
‘When I’m in town. And see that ugly tall building to the left? – that’s the new Supreme Court, where I earn my money.’
She peered through the binoculars. ‘Wow … So that’s where you’re the boss?’
‘Well, the Chief Justice, the Attorney General and I kind of share the joint. And ahead is the famous Wanchai where all the girlie-bars are.’
‘The World of Suzie Wong, I read the story! So nice! I feel she is my friend! Except I am luckier than Suzie, huh?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Absolutely, poor Suzie, no director, no yacht. Oh darling –’ she flung her arms wide – ‘I’m so happy!’
Hargreave grinned. ‘And so am I.’
She smiled at him, eyes suddenly moist, then raised the binoculars again: ‘I’m a tourist!’
Hargreave pointed. ‘And see all those junks over there – in there is the yacht club where my boat lives, and over there is our famous Kai Tak Airport, one of the most dangerous in the world. The aircraft have to fly straight towards those Kowloon mountains, then do a hairpin turn and skim over the rooftops to that narrow runway jutting out into all those boats.’
She studied it through the binoculars. ‘Those pilots are almost as clever as you, darling.’ She swung back to the Peak. ‘Can we see where you live?’
‘Not from here. All right, it’s getting late, let’s go’n find a nice anchorage.’ He swung the wheel and turned around.
The sun was getting low when they returned to Lantau Island. They were on their third bottle of wine. He dropped anchor a hundred yards offshore in a deserted bay. There was a small crescent of beach between two rocky points, and a new middle-class housing development up the coast, a few miles away. To the north Hong Kong island loomed. ‘Can we swim even though we haven’t been through immigration control yet?’
‘Provided you don’t set your pretty foot ashore.’
But first they lounged in the cockpit in the sultry sunset, watching the lights of distant Hong Kong come on, drinking another bottle of wine. Olga was captivated all over again by the beauty of the place. The moon was coming up, and Hargreave was on his second whisky when she took it into her head that it was time to go for that swim. She pulled off her bikini and leaped up on to the wheelhouse top, silvery-golden in the moonlight. She dived into the moonlit sea, in a flash of streamlined femaleness. She broke surface, gasping, her hair swirling about her shoulders. ‘Come on! It feels so sexy naked.’
Hargreave did not greatly enjoy swimming – in and out just to get cool was about his speed. And he didn’t like swimming in the dark – he imagined sinister marine creatures bent on discommoding him. But in all his forty-six years Alistair Hargreave had never swum naked with a woman, and it was that erotic notion that galvanized him into action – plus, no doubt, all the booze sloshing around inside him. He put down his glass, unzipped his shorts, clambered up on to the wheelhouse and dived in to join his glorious girl down there. Olga gave a squeal and began to thrash away into deeper water, away from the island she’d been forbidden to set foot upon. Hargreave thrashed after her, to get that silvery loveliness in his arms. Olga swam away from him, legs and arms flashing in the moonlight: they were about thirty yards from the yacht when she let him catch up with her. And oh, the glorious slippery feel of her in his arms, writhing against him as she trod water and thrust her laughing mouth against his: then the stomach cramps hit him.
One moment Al Hargreave was laughing in a sensuous embrace, the next agony struck, a spasm that doubled him over, clutching his guts, holding him in a vice, wrenching his head underwater – all he knew through the agony was the terror of gasping in bitter salt water, the terrifying panic of strangulation. He thrashed back to the surface and gasped in another mouthful of choking water; he gagged and coughed, trying to spit it out. Another spasm wrenched him down, and Olga pulled him back to the surface. She grabbed him by the hair and hauled his head up, shouting, ‘Don’t panic!’ She pulled him over on to his back and thrust her hand under his chin to hold his face uppermost – ‘Don’t panic – don’t struggle – take deep breaths!’ She trod water desperately as Hargreave gasped, trying to tread water through the agony of the cramp, choking and gasping again, his heart pounding. ‘Kick your feet while I pull you …’ She started swimming with one arm, the other supporting his chin. She looked over her shoulder for the boat, and was horrified to see how far it was – and then she felt the current.
The tide was going out, sweeping around the tip of the island; the boat was fifty yards off, and within a minute Olga knew she could not swim with Hargreave against the flow. She looked desperately at the other side of the bay – the rocky point was two hundred yards away. That was the only way she was going to get him out of this crisis, by using the current. Olga turned and started swimming desperately towards that point, on her back, frog-legging, one arm back-stroking, gasping; ‘Kick – kick like a frog!’ Hargreave tried to kick, the agony shooting through his guts, his arms desperately working, his chin clasped above water by Olga’s hand, gasping, coughing, retching.