Fortune Cookie

My several reasons for taking the Singapore position were complex. I'd been promised a one-man show at the Rudy Komon Gallery in Jersey Road, Woollahra, for which I would need at least sixteen paintings. After a year later I'd completed six, and except for one or maybe two, they were nothing to write home about. I was in a bit of a painting rut and couldn't see myself emerging from it in the near future. Too many cigarette packs too soon, I guess. So, that was certainly one reason. Three years in Asia and I told myself I might see things differently or, at least, be reinvigorated.

Another reason was the chance to prove myself. I had resisted entering the family business, but I hadn't shown any real aptitude on my own. I'd huffed and I'd puffed and while I may have loosened one or two roof tiles I hadn't blown the house down. Sure, I could draw and paint a bit and had all the makings of a pretty good advertising man. I earned sufficient to run the Vee Dub, buy my own gear and generally pay my own way. But then of course, I didn't pay rent. I'd mumble some excuse to myself about needing a studio for my painting, but of course that was bullshit. At twenty-nine, I hadn't climbed to any dizzy heights or, for that matter, scaled the foothills of some personal achievement that might make my family sit up and take notice. I was simply a paid employee and my executive supremo was an irascible semi-cripple with a rapidly advancing lung condition and thoroughly unpleasant manner.

It was high time I got away from everything I knew. I was kidding myself if I thought I was free and independent, or that I was unaffected by my family's major areas of business. When you grow up and just about every conversation in the home has something, directly or indirectly, to do with death, it gets under your skin like an itch. You find yourself watching a passing funeral procession to see if the hearse is being driven by one of your dimmer cousins, or if the deceased is being sent to their eternal rest in a Gold Chisel casket. I recall an incident as a six-year-old when one of the kids in class announced that his grandma had died.

'Well that's very sad,' Miss Bachelor replied, 'but, isn't it nice to know she's in heaven with all the angels?'

My hand shot up. 'No she isn't, Miss. She's in one of my daddy's coffins!'

My family has made a zillion dollars waiting at the end of the line to bathe and dress your ordinary bloke or sheila for the very last time, arranging the hair, applying pancake and filler to hide wrinkles, liver spots or burst capillaries, surgically collapsing beer guts so corpses fit into caskets, adding lippy, mascara and a little eye shadow. You'd think being in the funeral business we'd be in the thick of things! But the hoi polloi were still a mystery to me. I was in truth several steps removed from the lives of most of the people who went to their final rest under my family's expert ministrations.

Ordinary people (I hated myself for thinking this) were almost a different species. The living, breathing, spitting, fighting, lonely desperate housewife or her jobless, alcohol-fuelled, frustrated husband; the suicidal teenagers; the abused kids out there on the streets; the ordinary Mr and Mrs Average with their 2.5 children in the 'burbs – all were strangers to me. The closest I ever got to any of them was listening to some pumped-up, sassy-arsed, horn-rimmed behavioural-psychology graduate turned researcher talking about the subliminal effects of three cigarettes sticking out of a hard pack or the phallic pleasure young women derived from all-white filter tips in a tactile soft pack.

I don't mean I was superior. God knows my family's social journey over four generations was as common as they come. I've honestly never seen myself as better or smarter, and in the looks department I'm way behind almost everyone. But, for instance, I couldn't imagine my mother having a crap, or even having the need for one. People in the street, yeah, that was easy, even the bunnies in the agency . . . but surely not my elegant mother? I simply could not envision her – feet in those Charles Jourdan high-heeled courts nestling within her lacy knickers, the skirt of her navy Chanel suit rucked up around her waist – reaching for the gold-plated crap-paper holder with manicured fingers that carried a hundred grand's worth of gold and ice. See what I mean? It really was high time I jumped off the deep end and swam out into the real world.

Singapore was real, and I assured myself that I'd only be gone for three years – a change of scene, renewed inspiration for my painting, proof that I wasn't entirely worthless, and the chance to build the best advertising creative department in Asia. Moreover, I'd be rid of the

W.D. & H.O. Wills account forever, and a lengthy plane flight away from the pervasive influence of my family and the death business. By this, I mainly meant Forceful Phyllis, aka Chairman Meow or Mother, who had never ceased to pry into my life, overseeing all I did even now. Much as I truly loved her, it was time to shake the dust of home from my feet. The only downside to Singapore was my mum's dreaded Chinese family. No doubt she would work her network of relatives as effectively as any spymaster, but I assured myself that if I showed sufficient reserve and was no more than politely dutiful, they'd be manageable.

Yeah, and there was one more reason for going to Singapore: I longed for anonymity, to simply walk down a street and be just another face in the crowd. It isn't the fact that I have a Chinese face – there are lots of those in Sydney – but it seems mine is hard to ignore. People glance at me for a little longer than they might look at any other person they'd pass in the street. They do the same to people in wheelchairs. While I'm not a freak and have no physical deformities, my face is round and flat, with a button nose and fairly large mouth that turns up slightly at the corners. My mother would say, 'Simon was born with a smile on his face.' I recall at art school when we were studying human features, using each other as models, a smart-arse student named Ken Done painted a portrait of me as a pale yellow dinner plate with two long black olives for my eyes, a tiny potato for my nose and a small slightly bent cucumber for my mouth and called it Koocumber Salad. Somehow it bore an uncanny resemblance to the original, and everyone recognised me immediately and had a good laugh, including myself, until the bastard got a high distinction for it. But despite my face, to stick to the food analogy, I feel about as Chinese as Yorkshire pudding.

I dialled Graceless Gertie when I arrived at the agency at 8.45 a.m. on Wednesday only to be sharply ticked off and told that she didn't expect to be called before 9 a.m. when the agency officially opened for business and, furthermore, that the chairman arrived in his office around 11 a.m. and she'd call me when he felt disposed to see me.

Oops, off on the wrong foot yet again! Naturally I knew the time he arrived, but it had seemed advisable to be on the record as having called first thing. In fact I'd hoped she might not have arrived, so I could casually mention later that I'd called previously and gather a few much-needed Brownie points.

I was aware that I'd been somewhat forward during our initial encounter, where Brickman, with a little help from his dragon lady, had been able to ruffle my feathers. So I decided that this time I would keep my cool no matter how irascible he, or they, proved to be. If he referred to Chinese pussy I would attempt a conspiratorial grin. I would offer to carry the chair in with me in an attempt to make a good impression on both of them, having guessed that they worked as a team, a hunch Odette had confirmed at our lunch yesterday.

Despite the asinine little lecture from Her Grace (my future name for her), I remained upbeat. Besides, if I agreed to go to Singapore, surely they'd be pleased. My confidence was slightly shaken when, at ten minutes past nine, Her Grace called and said in a clipped voice, 'Mr Koo, under no circumstances are you to leave your office until the chairman calls you,' pause, 'whenever that might be.' For a moment I considered our relative rank in the agency and thought I probably didn't have to take her crap, but decided to let it pass. 'Kindly do not be late this time, Mr Koo.' Her sharp tongue was plainly the result of years of practising the art of being bloody difficult. I've noticed that in some people – they take every opportunity to exercise their skill at getting under one's skin.' Not me, not today, no way Jose. Today I'm bullet proof.

I called Odette on the switch and asked her to give me a bell the moment the chairman arrived. She had previously told me he called her as soon as he removed his suit jacket. 'It's always the same routine, never so much as a good morning, just straight down to business. Always the same bark down the phone. He tells me who he doesn't want to speak to each day, who to keep waiting to the point of rudeness and who I am to put through immediately.' She giggled. 'Bob Menzies is mentioned as the number one no-speak every morning, even though he hasn't called since they quarrelled after the election in 1949!' After a pause she looked at me directly and said, 'By the way, be warned Cookie, Charles Brickman never forgets and never forgives.'

Of course, with Bob Menzies at the top of the list, I didn't for a moment think that small fry like me would qualify for even the lowest spot on the chairman's hate list. On the other hand, by ignoring her call to place the chair elsewhere, I may well have made it onto Her Grace's list.

At first I disregarded her instruction to stay put until Odette called me to say the chairman had arrived just after 11 a.m., then I thought I'd better stay put, which meant being stuck in my office for the remainder of the morning and through my lunch hour. By 2.30 I was feeling the effects of the four cups of coffee I'd consumed earlier and was busting for a slash. Of course, you guessed it, the chairman's call via Her Grace came while I was pointing at the porcelain. I returned to find the red light on my phone throbbing as if in pain, which meant call the switch.

'She's not happy, Cookie. Better skedaddle upstairs. Chairman's waiting,' Odette informed me.

I'd borrowed a blue and white polka-dot tie from my dad to replace Mickey Mouse playing the banjo on a bright pink background – the tie I'd worn to our previous meeting. As I recall I'd even dabbed Brylcreem on my coarse, longish hair. Greasy Hippy – not a good look. 'Good afternoon, Miss Grace.' Her mouth was pulled into the characteristic duck's arsehole. 'Shall I take the chair in with me?'

'I see you make a habit of being late, Mr Koo.' She'd nodded towards the chair in the corner.

'Sorry, I was in the men's.' I kept my voice cheery as I retrieved the chair.

'You may go in,' she said with a terse nod.

Brickman sat at his desk positively yelling down the phone at someone I took, after listening for a few moments, to be the gardener. 'Bring the Victoria Brickman camellias out of the bottom nursery! The ones you bagged and tied last week. I want them put down the driveway! Four foot apart. Use a tape measure. Take the Queen Elizabeth standards out and burn them. Should have done the same to the Ex. I told the stupid woman roses weren't right for that location, nothing but mildew and black spot! Besides, they're pink. I fucking hate pink!'

Good thing I didn't wear the pink Mickey Mouse tie. I realised that the conversation might be going on for a while so I placed the chair carefully on the Aubusson and sat down to wait while the chairman continued his tirade.

'Josef, now you be bloody careful with those camellias! Check the pH of the soil first. I want the prize for new varietals at next year's show. If I don't get it, I'll have your miserable wop guts for garters.' He'd paused. 'Josef, I mean it. There's been a lot of work gone into creating that camellia. You should bloody know that! Oh, and tell Mrs Josef I'd like her spaghetti meatballs for dinner tonight. Righto then.' He slammed down the phone. 'Bloody nurserymen, they think they know everything!' he muttered.

'Yes, well what's it to be Koo?' His voice was only half a decibel or two below the tone used for the hapless Josef but he retained the impatience.

'I've decided to accept the job in Singapore, sir . . . thank you,' I added hastily.

'Pussy eh?' It was difficult to think of a bloke like him being obsessed with a new camellia and then suddenly switching to the subject of sex. Or perhaps not, when you think of stamens, cross-pollination and the like.

I attempted a determined grin. 'No, sir . . . I'd like the opportunity to build my own creative department.'

'Umph!' But then he seemed to focus and in a fairly jovial voice said, 'Well that's good, Koo. Three years, that's the contract. Don't let us down, son. Show 'em we Australians mean business.'

'Show who, sir . . . the Ling brothers?'

'Nah, they're bloody lucky to get you. I mean the Yanks . . . Feather in our cap sending someone like you who looks the part. You are Australian aren't you, Koo? Oh yes, I remember. Fourth generation. Throwback.' He reached over and took a cigarette from an open silver box that hadn't been on his desk the last time I'd been in his office. I later learned from Odette that in a fit of pique he'd thrown it against the wall and it had only recently been returned from the jeweller. The top of the lid was facing me and I read the inscription:

To Charles Brickman In appreciation Bob Menzies PM The New Liberal Party 1946

He tapped one end of the fag on the surface of the Georgian desk a couple of times, then absently lit up, inhaled, exhaled and fanned the smoke away from his face. 'Bloody gaspers,' he said, placing the Ronson desk lighter back beside the box. 'Any questions?' Both remarks were made in the same flat voice, without a pause. He wasn't coughing as much this time, though each sentence was still punctuated with a small gasp and his voice was gravel shifting over tin.