most westerners prefer to call me Uncle Sui,” he said slowly, in perfect English with a slight American twang. “Please join us for lunch, Finn. The Man Wah serves a fine Peking duck, which I believe you will enjoy. Isn’t that right Gerry?” The aside question was addressed to the curly headed man who hasn’t been introduced, or spoken a single word.
I just want to crawl into bed and sleep. Even so, I know enough about Asian customs to know that first impressions matter to elderly Chinese.
“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” I mumbled.
“Excellent! But before we go upstairs…I am an old man, I need the restroom so often these days,” announced Uncle Sui, rising from his seat with the assistance of the ever-attentive Limp-wristed Eddie.
As soon as they were out of range, Gerry shot out his hand in greeting. He gave me a firm grip, which I sense could’ve been a good deal stronger if he wanted it to be.
“I think Uncle Sui’s just displayed an unusual diplomatic gesture…giving the two gweilos , that’s you and me, the chance to get acquainted. Don’t expect to see that kinda tact on a regular basis, that ain’t his style. Him and me, we’ve got what you might call a working relationship . I do the work and he keeps the money. It ain’t as bad as it sounds. Me and my pal Nico, you’ll get to meet him later, we do good under Uncle’s wing. Here they are, coming back. I’ll fill you in on the fairy later. OK Finn?”
These Oriental shenanigans are too much for my poor addled head. I can’t string a sensible sentence together, and it’s all I can manage just to stay awake. My three days’ partying with the Kurdish fighters I’d befriended are taking their toll. My eyelids are taking on a life of their own…they just want to shut up shop and sleep. Of course, I’m not sure whether this is due to seventy-two hours’ partying Kurdish-warrior-style, jet lag, the astonishment at my accommodation, delight at being eight thousand kilometres away from the police that are chasing me, or my present company. Whatever it is, I can’t rehearse what I’m about to say in my head before opening my mouth – like I normally do. So I just nodded, grinned and said nothing.
I got a closer look at Mister Sui Wong-Li, aka Uncle Sui, in the lift on the way up to the restaurant on the twenty-fourth floor. He’s about five feet eight inches tall with black, expressionless eyes and a military haircut; he’s so thin that his skin stretches tightly over his high cheekbones. He’s wearing a black silk suit with a matching tie and a brilliant white shirt. When he raised his hand to gesture me out of the lift I noticed the nail on his pinkie finger is long, sharp and varnished.
We were met in the lobby by the restaurant manager, and he escorted us inside. Our table is laid with gold and silver lacquered plates and ivory chopsticks tipped with gold; the starched linen napkins are folded into storks.
The head chef entered the dining room dressed in freshly laundered whites. He approached our table and gave Uncle Sui something between a long nod and a short bow, and he pretty much ignored the rest of us. Before he returned to the kitchen his eyes may’ve hovered for a moment over Eddie, but I couldn’t swear to it.
For a minute or so we sat staring at each other around the table, and not a word was spoken. Feck this for a game of auld soldiers , I thought. At the risk of offending my host, I reached across the table and stuck out my hand to Gerry.
“Finn Flynn, Irishman,” I said, like we’ve not spoken before.
Gerry followed suit and stuck out his hand. “Hi. Gerry Gant, American.”
I glanced over at Uncle Sui just in time to catch a perceptive grin cross his face. Our charade hasn’t fooled him for a moment. I’m pretty sure he knows the affable Gerry wouldn’t have been able to resist saying hi when he feigned needing to piss back in the bar. Still, if they want to play inscrutable pan-Pacific head games,
I just want to crawl into bed and sleep. Even so, I know enough about Asian customs to know that first impressions matter to elderly Chinese.
“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” I mumbled.
“Excellent! But before we go upstairs…I am an old man, I need the restroom so often these days,” announced Uncle Sui, rising from his seat with the assistance of the ever-attentive Limp-wristed Eddie.
As soon as they were out of range, Gerry shot out his hand in greeting. He gave me a firm grip, which I sense could’ve been a good deal stronger if he wanted it to be.
“I think Uncle Sui’s just displayed an unusual diplomatic gesture…giving the two gweilos , that’s you and me, the chance to get acquainted. Don’t expect to see that kinda tact on a regular basis, that ain’t his style. Him and me, we’ve got what you might call a working relationship . I do the work and he keeps the money. It ain’t as bad as it sounds. Me and my pal Nico, you’ll get to meet him later, we do good under Uncle’s wing. Here they are, coming back. I’ll fill you in on the fairy later. OK Finn?”
These Oriental shenanigans are too much for my poor addled head. I can’t string a sensible sentence together, and it’s all I can manage just to stay awake. My three days’ partying with the Kurdish fighters I’d befriended are taking their toll. My eyelids are taking on a life of their own…they just want to shut up shop and sleep. Of course, I’m not sure whether this is due to seventy-two hours’ partying Kurdish-warrior-style, jet lag, the astonishment at my accommodation, delight at being eight thousand kilometres away from the police that are chasing me, or my present company. Whatever it is, I can’t rehearse what I’m about to say in my head before opening my mouth – like I normally do. So I just nodded, grinned and said nothing.
I got a closer look at Mister Sui Wong-Li, aka Uncle Sui, in the lift on the way up to the restaurant on the twenty-fourth floor. He’s about five feet eight inches tall with black, expressionless eyes and a military haircut; he’s so thin that his skin stretches tightly over his high cheekbones. He’s wearing a black silk suit with a matching tie and a brilliant white shirt. When he raised his hand to gesture me out of the lift I noticed the nail on his pinkie finger is long, sharp and varnished.
We were met in the lobby by the restaurant manager, and he escorted us inside. Our table is laid with gold and silver lacquered plates and ivory chopsticks tipped with gold; the starched linen napkins are folded into storks.
The head chef entered the dining room dressed in freshly laundered whites. He approached our table and gave Uncle Sui something between a long nod and a short bow, and he pretty much ignored the rest of us. Before he returned to the kitchen his eyes may’ve hovered for a moment over Eddie, but I couldn’t swear to it.
For a minute or so we sat staring at each other around the table, and not a word was spoken. Feck this for a game of auld soldiers , I thought. At the risk of offending my host, I reached across the table and stuck out my hand to Gerry.
“Finn Flynn, Irishman,” I said, like we’ve not spoken before.
Gerry followed suit and stuck out his hand. “Hi. Gerry Gant, American.”
I glanced over at Uncle Sui just in time to catch a perceptive grin cross his face. Our charade hasn’t fooled him for a moment. I’m pretty sure he knows the affable Gerry wouldn’t have been able to resist saying hi when he feigned needing to piss back in the bar. Still, if they want to play inscrutable pan-Pacific head games,
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