One Man’s Bible

“The good thing about Hong Kong is that you can somehow get by. I suddenly got rich and now no one knows my past. I changed my name a long time ago and people only know me as Zhou such-and-such, the chairman of the board of the company.” A hint of arrogance plays at the corners of his mouth and eyes and once again he has the look of a rich man.

You know this is not directed at you. You’re a total stranger and he hasn’t hesitated to tell you all about his background. This arrogance has developed because of his present status.

“I liked your play but I don’t think it can really be understood by Hong Kong people,” he says.

“When they do understand, it will be too late.” After a pause, you say, “One needs to have had a particular sort of experience.”

“It’s like that,” he confirmed.

“Do you like plays?” you ask.

“I don’t usually see plays,” he says. “I go to the ballet and concerts, and I book tickets for famous singers, operas, and symphony groups from the West. I’m starting to enjoy some artistic things now, but I’ve never seen a play like yours before.”

“I understand.” You give a laugh, then ask, “Then why did you think to come and see this play?”

“A friend phoned and recommended it,” he says.

“Does that mean that there are some Hong Kong people who do understand the play?”

“It was someone from the Mainland.”

You say that you wrote the play when you were in China but that it can only be performed outside China. The things you’re writing nowadays don’t have much to do with China.

He says it’s much the same for him. His wife and son were both born in Hong Kong and are genuine Hong Kong people, and he’s been here for thirty years and also counts as a Hong Kong resident. His only dealings with the Mainland have been in business, and that was getting more and more difficult. However, for better or worse, he has managed to extract a big amount of capital from the place.

“Where are you thinking of investing?” you can’t help asking.

“Australia,” he says. “Seeing your play made me even more certain.”

You say that your play doesn’t really have a China background, it’s about ordinary relationships between people.

He says he knows that. Anyway, he needs somewhere to go, just in case.

“But won’t Australia have an aversion for Chinese if masses of Hong Kong people flood there?” you say.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“I don’t know how it is in Australia, I live in Paris,” you say.

“Then how is it in France?” he asks, looking right at you.

“There’s racism everywhere, and naturally it occurs also in France,” you say.

“It’s hard for Chinese in the West. …” He picks up his half glass of orange juice, then puts it down again.

You feel some sympathy for him. He says he has a small family, born and bred in Hong Kong, and his business would be able to keep operating. Of course, there’s no harm preparing for a way out.

He says he is honored that you agreed to have this very ordinary meal with him, and that, like you as a person, your writing is very frank.

You say, it is he who is frank. All Chinese live behind masks and it’s quite hard to take off the masks.

“It’s probably when there’s no profit or loss for either party that people can become friends.”

He says this incisively; he has clearly been through many ups and downs in his dealings with people.

A journalist is to interview you at three o’clock, and you have arranged to meet at a coffee shop in Wanchai. He says he can take you, but you say he is a busy man and there is no need for him to do this. He says should you come back to Hong Kong to feel free to look him up. You thank him for his kindness, say this is probably the last time you will put on a play in Hong Kong, but that in future you are sure to meet again, though, hopefully, not until he is in Australia. He quickly says no, no, if he goes to Paris he will certainly look you up. You leave him your address and telephone number, and he immediately writes his mobile phone number on his business card and gives it to you. He says to give a call if you need any help and that he hopes there will be an opportunity to meet again.

The journalist is a young woman wearing glasses. She gets up from a seat by the window overlooking the water as soon as you enter and waves to you. She takes off her glasses and says, “I normally don’t wear glasses, but I’ve only seen your photographs in the papers and was afraid I wouldn’t recognize you.”

She puts her glasses into her handbag, takes out a tape recorder and asks, “Is it all right to use a tape recorder?”

You say that it doesn’t bother you.

“When I interview, I insist on the accuracy of what I quote,” she says. “Many journalists in Hong Kong will write anything. Sometimes Mainland writers get so angry that they demand corrections. Of course, I understand their situation. Anyway, I know that you’re different, even if you do come from the Mainland.”

“I don’t have any superiors,” you say with a smile.