DOING JAZ
As far as Nick could work out, Sheetal was part of a group of Indian financiers who flew between Dubai and Hong Kong, shuffling suitcases of money, bonds, and legal documents around, and salting some away into South African bank accounts for their retirement. So, it was his duty to make sure that some of that money was salted away with his bank.
At least that was the excuse he made for buying himself a suit to match Sheetal’s and join him and the guys in Hotel China’s “Red Bar” staring at the beautiful young models. A friend of Sheetal’s was launching a “Talent Agency” and had hired the Red Bar for an evening of glamour and banal speeches for the benefit of the press. Here were supposed film producers, guys who worked in television in some obscure capacity, and some of Hong Kong’s magazine editors desperate for free copy. Oblivious to the desperately low-level audience, the girls danced before them, writhing to the thudding beat.
Sheetal had opened up a whole new world for Nick, and he felt a sense of purpose beyond ogling girls jerking about beneath ultra-violet strobe lights. He was there to bond with a major client!
“They’ll be on their back in a room in Shenzhen within a week,” said Sheetal, gold cufflinks, Jasper Conran Shirt, a suit from Sam-The-Taylor. “On their back in Shenzhen,” was a reference to the habit of girls getting so-called assignments on the mainland only to find that they had their passports taken away by their “managers” for safe keeping, and then increasing amounts of pressure upon them to sleep with some prominent Chinese clients who supposedly had pull in the mainland’s burgeoning media.
Sheetal was a connoisseur of models. He had a string of model girlfriends; all of them thinking he would make them rich and famous. The most glamorous thing they did was adorn various “business meetings” while he claimed to arrange photographers and producers who would join their table and ogle them, supposedly auditioning them for parts in movies or advertisement shoots.
“You can do an awful lot of favours for people without getting anything in return in Hong Kong,” said Sheetal, “Everyone tells you; you have to give a little, build up trust, but don’t believe a word.”
Whatever Sheetal was, he had a lot of money in the investment funds that Nick ran and was a connoisseur of feminine exploitation. His world was a masculine one with the women firmly there for decoration and bedroom services. Nick quite enjoyed it all.
Since moving to Hong Kong Nick’s world was expanding but into areas that his wife, Karen, could not move in. He had not realised just how unisex the UK was, how he had met friends and their wives and that their wives could be your friend and even be the prime friend in the relationship. But here, he never went out with couples. The only guy he knew who now regularly went out as a couple was Colin and that was only to watch his wife being shagged by eighteen strangers. Apparently, Discovery Bay was notorious for its wife-swapping scene.
After a few more glasses of whisky, Nick was in full flight, complaining that sex in Hong Kong was all imagined and that everyone was ogling and no-one was touching. This thesis would have been accepted if Sheetal had not snapped his finger and sat a young girl on Nick’s lap.
“He needs female attention!”
And Jaz, as she was called, began sticking her tongue in Nick’s ear.
“But,” he remonstrated, “Will she give me a blow job?”
“Give him a blow job, Jaz.”
“Tell him to go fuck himself.”
“He probably will. But he’d rather you helped him.”
Jaz, whose perfume was a mix of soy sauce, vodka, coconut oil and Giorgio, and whose physique was tidily sheathed in a pleasantly clingy frock, stood up and yawned.
“You’re far too boring,” she said, and walked off.
“There you go,” said Nick. “My point.”
“She’ll e-mail you later,” said Sheetal, raising his eyebrows. “Trust me.”
Nick grinned, took another swig of whisky and found the thought very exciting. He imagined himself, one day in the not-too-distant future, clicking his fingers and commanding girls to sit on his lap. Through a haze of whisky, hot perfume, Thai chicken, and throaty Indian laughter, how he wished he had the easy charisma of a man like Sheetal, how he wished he could be Indian and so free with regards to pleasure. They made no apology for masculine delight in pretty girls and getting drunk and showing off. As it was, he could barely hail a taxi without thinking it an ostentatious demonstration of a lack of taste. He even had to leave Sheetal in the bar, for he had to work the next day, had to be back to stop Karen worrying, had to collapse exhausted into bed, and could barely keep awake any longer. Sheetal appeared to be as fresh as the moment he had arrived.
Nick staggered onto the streets and tipped Chow, the Concierge one hundred dollars, for ordering him a taxi. A sure sign that he was drunk. The lights of the city rushed past the window of his taxi home; unblinking signs hung above the street, and the traffic weaving in and out of itself, without a horn heard despite the taxi driver’s complaints of the mainland arrivals and their primitive reliance upon the horn.
“They hit their horn instead their brake!” said the driver.
Nick smiled the fixed smile of those not quite willing to engage in deep conversation but unwilling to be rude enough to cut it off. And the driver prattled on about the mainlanders and their idiocy and the end of Hong Kong and how the Beijing bandits were raping the place and handing over the whole thing to big business men who pillaged and raped like the Japanese, who were as bad as the Communists.
“We’re all communist now,” muttered Nick, still overawed by the flashiness of the city with its towering blocks of light poking holes in the black hazy sky.
Nick felt fragile and wondered if instead of trying to live this high life, he should start a family. Perhaps their vow to start a family in Hong Kong was not the right idea. Here he would be a bachelor. This was the place for bachelors. Everyone was a bachelor, even the married ones. And yet, here was the conundrum, the family ruled! It was a business, the family... His mind could not cope with the complexities of these thoughts so he simplified and tried to think of what he needed to do in order to re-establish the relationship he once had with Karen.
Though he felt he had a pretty good one, he just did not see her anymore. If he was not working late, he was drinking late. He should give up drink. He should give up Jim, Colin, the whole programme, and Sheetal, especially Sheetal because he wanted to be like him. He wanted to be that big personality, that big enigma, that big wealthy, booming, snapper of fingers, knower of people, schmoozer, life loving, iron livered character. But for the life of him, he could not recall anything about the man other than he was Indian and liked to flash a roll of five-hundred-dollar bills when paying. How can anyone pay cash in this day and age? This is the age of credit! Rich people do not need to pay anything! And yet Sheetal dealt only in cash, which made Nick a little suspicious of him.
As he sobered up, the image of the roll of five-hundred-dollar bills became ridiculous in his mind. Sheetal was not that cool! He sat back in the taxi, eyes closed, and contemplated yet another self-hating tirade. His life in Hong Kong was one of endless pointless conversations with himself and with others. And then there was the air-conditioning and the restaurants; and the taxis and the lifts. Monotonous and different and not what he had hoped for, and yet there was all this potential, this dream of flesh, but it was all part of another world that was not quite what he imagined life should be. Now, after such high hopes, he was full of loathing and misery. The boom and bust of alcohol always left him saying never again, until the next opportunity.
When he arrived home, he was annoyed to find Karen in bed. It was not that late. Why did she have to go to bed early when it was him that had to get up early? He tried to talk to her, bursting loudly into the bedroom saying, “Oh I didn’t think you would be home yet. Weren’t you er, out doing something with er, Amanda and all those?”
Karen roused herself. She had been dreaming. It was three in the morning. Who was this man?
“I’m the Stalker,” whispered Nick, as he slipped his hand under the duvet they had taken to using in conjunction with the air conditioner. Their maid found it all very strange that Karen insisted on the duvet when in this heat a single sheet should suffice but with the air conditioner on it was far too cold. And with it off, far too hot no matter whether one had a sheet or a duvet. And then Nick was hotter than her and so slept outside the duvet with the air conditioner at full blast.
“You stink,” muttered Karen.
“Well thank you,” said Nick.
“What have you been drinking?”
“Whisky. I’ve been with Indians. Mainlanders and Japanese for Brandy. Beer for Westerners. Orange juice for Hong Kongers and Whisky for Indians.”
“You’ve got the whole of Hong Kong society worked out, haven’t you?”
“Completely.”
Nick quickly pulled off his clothes, brushed his teeth and slipped into the bed. He had been considering either entertaining a long heart to heart with Karen about life, their relationship, a new direction, either that or fuck her silly. He might even have attempted anal, since it was everywhere on the Internet nowadays, and he still had the sensation of Jaz’s tongue in his ear urging him to perform, but somehow the whole situation plummeted into darkness and Karen, on hearing the sudden snoring, returned to her fitful dreams of Temples, Monks, and criminals stealing everything from her, stripping her naked in the process. Later on in the night she woke thinking she was being ravaged by a monkey but no such luck.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to THE BOGGLED MIND to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.