White Tiger

‘I feel a sudden bout of the flu coming on,’ I said, then rose and went out without looking back.

My friend, April, was sitting at the computer outside Miss Kwok’s office, with her fiancé, Andy, hovering behind her. April was a lovely Australian-born Chinese who worked as a systems programmer in a bank, but occasionally came in to help with the computers at the kindergarten. She had a soft, kind face framed by shoulder-length hair dyed a rich russet brown.

‘Hi, April, bye, April. Gotta run, I’m late for Mr Chen,’ I said as I hurried past.

‘We going for Thai Saturday?’ April called after me.

I stopped. ‘Yeah. Wan Chai.’

Andy, a slim, well-dressed Chinese guy, glanced unsmiling over the top of April’s head at me. ‘I can’t come,’ he said. ‘I have to be in China. Don’t stay out too late.’

I didn’t like the way Andy looked at me. ‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ I said, trying to sound disappointed.

‘Saturday, then,’ April said, and turned back to the screen. ‘We should do another backup.’

‘As long as we don’t lose any of the data. It’s very important,’ Andy said.

I leaned against the divider in the MTR carriage and mused. Done it again. But I was thoroughly sick of being bullied by Miss Kwok; no amount of money she paid me would compensate.

I shook my head as the carriage swayed through the darkness of the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. I couldn’t believe her nerve, asking me to tell her about Mr Chen’s activities. I knew she had more business interests than just the chain of kindergartens; she was one of the wealthiest women in Hong Kong. People called her the Merry Widow, the Social Godmother. But asking me to spy on my private clients was way over the line.

I sighed. I had a tidy nest egg saved: the combination of Miss Kwok’s excellent salary with the fat cheques I’d received from private clients over the last four years. It’d keep me going for a while. I wasn’t ready to return to Australia and a mundane life in suburbia. At only twenty-eight I felt no great rush to settle into anything boring.

I tried to tidy my hair – as usual my short brown ponytail had come out everywhere. Nobody took any notice of me; I was just an uninteresting Westerner, the only one on the train. Medium height, about five six; slightly overweight. Plain clothes, plain face, plain brown shoulder-length hair. Nothing special at all. But my skills as an English teacher were highly sought after in Hong Kong. I wouldn’t have any trouble finding something new.

Or maybe Singapore. Gifted English teachers were always welcome in Singapore, and the correspondence course I was halfway through could be taken from anywhere in the world.

The train stopped at Admiralty station and I joined the rush onto the platform. I rode the escalator up to ground level and the terminal where I could take a bus to Mr Chen’s apartment on the Peak. The traffic noise and polluted air hit me like a physical force as I walked out of the station. Chinese New Year had just finished – the Year of the Horse in 2002 had begun. The late February weather was cool, but there was a hint of humidity in the breeze that suggested the presence of the stifling summer just around the corner.

Maybe Singapore.

• • •

‘And then the Dark King kissed the Dark Queen and the baby Princess goodbye,’ four-year-old Simone said, moving the Lego figures around on the cream carpet.

‘Why is he the Dark King?’ I said.

‘Because he is, silly Emma.’ Simone leaned forward as she moved the Lego, and her tawny hair fell over her shoulders. Her mother had been European, giving her flawless porcelain skin and light brown eyes. ‘The bad people came, and scared the Dark Queen, and she ran away.’

She made the Queen figure run, until another block – obviously the bad people – smacked into her and she fell. She picked up a white block and flew it over the figures. ‘The White Tiger came to help, but the Dark Queen was already gone. The Dark King came back…’ She returned the Dark King figure. ‘But the Dark Queen was gone, and the King and Princess cried together, and hugged, and promised to look after each other forever and ever.’

‘That’s a really sad story, Simone,’ I said. ‘Let’s bring the Queen back, maybe?’

She shrugged, and appeared to be about to say something, then froze. Her face went blank, then she lit up. ‘Daddy’s home!’

The complicated gears on the metal gate outside the front door clashed, then the lock on the door rattled. Simone leapt to her feet and dashed through the living room. ‘Daddy!’

Mr Chen came in. Simone’s father was in his mid-forties, and tall for a Chinese, at more than six feet. He wore an old-fashioned Chinese cotton jacket and pants, all in black, and moved with restrained power that hinted at hard muscle. He had very long hair, well past his waist, and as usual it had come out from its tie and fallen over his shoulder. He ignored it as he kicked off his shoes.

When he saw Simone, he bent and held a hand out to her. She raced to him with her arms up and he hoisted her easily with one hand, and with the other snapped the sword he’d been carrying into its clips on the wall.

Simone threw her little arms around his neck and kissed him loudly on the cheek. He smiled at her, his dark eyes sparkling, then saw me over her shoulder and nodded, more serious. ‘Miss Donahoe.’

I rose and nodded back to him; I was always careful to treat Chinese employers with respect. Employer. He was the only one left now.

‘And what have you been doing?’ he asked Simone.

‘Ngoh tong Emma–’ Simone began.

‘English, Simone,’ he said with mock ire.

Simone giggled and started again. ‘Me and Emma are playing Lego. We’re having fun.’

‘Good.’ He lowered her carefully. ‘Go and play with Miss Donahoe.’ He turned to the door in the hallway behind him. ‘Monica!’

Monica, the Filipina domestic helper, opened the kitchen door part-way and poked her head out. She saw Mr Chen, threw the door open, and came into the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel. She was short, round and middle-aged, with a kind face. ‘Sorry, sir, didn’t know you were home.’ She saw the Lego strewn on the living room carpet. ‘Sorry about the mess, sir, I’ll clean it up.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘Make me some noodles while I take a shower. Ho fan, soup, choy sum. Not too much, I may go out again later.’ He stopped and a look of concentration passed across his face. ‘Why is Leo downstairs?’

‘He’s washing the car,’ Monica said. ‘It was very dirty, sir.’

‘Call him on his mobile and tell him to come back up right now,’ Mr Chen said.

Monica disappeared into the kitchen.

Mr Chen turned back to me. ‘How long do you think you can stay, Miss Donahoe?’

‘As long as you like, Mr Chen,’ I said. ‘I resigned from the kindergarten this afternoon, so I don’t need to be in early tomorrow.’

‘You’ve found a new job? You’ll be leaving us?’ he said, concerned.

‘Don’t go, Emma!’ Simone cried.

‘I won’t go, I was just tired of working for Kitty Kwok. I’ll find something else, but don’t worry, I won’t leave you.’

‘Good,’ Simone said, and returned to the Lego.

‘So how long will you need me?’ I said.

He smiled gently. ‘About fifteen years. How about coming here full-time?’ He raised his hand. ‘Wait, don’t answer, let me shower and change first, and then we can talk about it.’ He strode down the hall towards his room.

‘You can stay forever?’ Simone said, wide-eyed with delight.

‘I don’t know, Simone,’ I said. ‘I’ll need to think about it.’

Her little face screwed up with hope. ‘Please say yes.’

The gate and the front door opened and Leo, Mr Chen’s driver, came in. He was a black American, nearly six and a half feet tall and a wall of muscle. He had a spectacularly ugly face, the centrepiece of which was an artistically broken nose, but he had a kind smile and adored Simone.