Mr Wong Goes West (16 page)

J Oscar Jackson wondered why anyone would be insane enough to open a sauna in Asia. Surely it contravened the whole supply-and-demand principle? The whole damn place was a sauna, wasn’t it? Asia was the world’s biggest, free of charge, open-all-hours, outdoor hothouse. The air was unbearably hot and humid from morning until night, so why would anyone assume that people would pay hard cash to enter a man-made indoor re-creation of the horrible climate outside? But apparently people did.

Perhaps they didn’t go in these places for the hot air. Perhaps it was a sex thing. Lord knows that sort of thing was reputed to happen often enoughin Asia. The scary thing was that this was apparently winter in Hong Kong. Which meant that the air was cooler and less humid than normal. Yet to him it was horribly uncomfortable. How could people live like this?

The man he was tailing had just entered a large building bearing the name ‘Diamond Lotus Sauna’ so he dutifully followed. He couldn’t wait outside. The sauna appeared to be part of a large collection of services sharing an ugly rectangular building the size of a city block, close to where Wan Chai blurs into Causeway Bay—there were clearly going to be myriad exits. It was almost time, anyway.

The tall African–American strode through frosted double-doors and found himself in a rather gloomy, under-lit reception area, manned by two women who would have been pretty, had they been wearing an eighth of the amount of make-up they had on their faces.

One of them immediately shot around the counter and raced to where Jackson was standing. She took hold of his arm. ‘Come this way, sir,’ she said.

‘Er, no, thanks, I’m just having a look,’ he stuttered.

‘Come, have a look-see, no problem. Sauna, massage, we have everything.’ She pulled him through a pair of double-doors into the main massage centre.

He saw a large room lined on one side with temporary curtains—hospital-style screens that had been wheeled into place around raised beds. On the other side were extra-heavy armchairs and footstools. Several men were sitting in these, having their feet massaged. At first glance, it seemed legit.

‘Your friend is getting changed. He will be on massage bench number six,’ she said, pointing to one of the curtained-off areas.

‘My friend?’

‘You came with Mr Wong? We will put you in number seven,’ she said. ‘Next to him.’

‘Er. I don’t think so. Look, thanks, but—’ Then Jackson made a snap decision that surprised even himself. He would go for it. Why not? ‘Okay. Just for a while. A quick massage. Short one only, okay?’

His feet were sore. His back ached. He was hungry and tired and overworked. He had had only scrambled egg with no toast for breakfast—a desperate bid to use the Atkins diet to curb his spreading midriff. What better way to keep an eye on the man he was tailing than to have a massage in the cubicle
next to him? The fact that the walls were thin, fabric screens gave him comfort. This meant (a) that this was real massage, no dodgy stuff (a man in his position could not afford to be seen entering a sex establishment); and (b) that if Mr Wong got up and left, he would know about it. He’d be able to thank the woman, get into his clothes at the same time as the man he was tailing, and resume his mission. It was kind of odd though that the women assumed he was ‘with’ Mr Wong. Had Wong noticed him following, and told them that someone would be coming into the sauna in a few seconds? Or had they just made the assumption, since he and Mr Wong had arrived within a minute or so of each other?

‘Come, get changed here,’ she said. ‘Leave your clothes there.’

He stepped into the screened area and stood in front of a full-length mirror, turning to look at himself in profile.

Suit by Barney’s.

Shirt by Van Heusen.

Watch by Seiko.

Underwear by Calvin Klein.

Waistline by Krispy Kremes.

‘Damn,’ he said. He slowly removed his clothes, folding them neatly and tucking them into a transparent plastic chest of drawers provided.

A minute later, he was in his too-tight Calvin Klein boxer shorts, feeling depressed. He had bought the pricey underwear because they were supposed to be flattering. Certainly they looked wonderful in the advertisements. But a grim truth about fashion was beginning to filter through to him. If you have the right physique, almost everything looks good on you. And if you look like Adonis, the most curious, misshapen garments just made you look even more striking. However, if you had the wrong physique, everything looked bad on you, and things
designed to be flattering were the worst of all. ‘Damn,’ he repeated, looking at his bulging belly. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ He’d had a waist, once. Where had it gone? He’d left it at a Taco Bell somewhere. He’d left it at a hundred Taco Bells.

A young woman, who was a little less pretty, a little more businesslike than the receptionist, entered the room. She gestured to him to get on the bed, face down.

He climbed up on the structure with some difficulty. It wasn’t just that it was higher than a normal bed. It was his general lack of energy. Today was his eighth day without carbohydrates. This morning, he’d risen early and skipped breakfast, having only that unadorned portion of scrambled egg. According to the book, the diet was supposed to get easier, but that did not seem to be happening. He felt tired and listless all day, every day.

The bed creaked alarmingly as he climbed on top of it, and only stopped swinging when he was in position. He guessed that it was designed for small Asian men with their flat stomachs and no hips. He noticed there was a gap in the padding at the top, and guessed that that was where he was supposed to place his face. That way he could lie straight and continue to breathe while whatever was going to happen happened.

‘You are having forty minutes or one hour or two hours?’ he heard the voice of the woman behind him ask.

‘Same as Mr Wong, next door.’

‘Okay. You have four-sprinkle service, one hour.’

He lifted his head from the hole in which it was held and looked around at her. ‘Four sprinkles? What’s that?’

She pointed upwards with her index finger.

That’s when he noticed for the first time that there was a pulley system affixed to the ceiling containing several suspended bowls. What was in them?

‘First sprinkle,’ she said, and pulled a tiny string at the side of the first bowl. It tilted and a dollop of something warm, yellow and perfumed fell on his back. She started rubbing it into his skin. It smelled beautiful—
ylang-ylang
or something equally heavenly.

Her hands glided around his back, expertly kneading his tense shoulder muscles and teasing the spaces around his vertebrae. She used her knuckles to get deep into the knotted flesh and her fingertips to smooth and soothe. Within seconds, Jackson was so relaxed that he was almost asleep. Man! Now
this
was living. This was what earning your bread and butter should be all about. He was technically working, and doing a very demanding job, yet at the same time he was enjoying the most wonderful massage of his life. Until this minute, he had not realised just what a miracle a good masseur could achieve. He could feel the stress dissolving from his tired bones, as if tiredness was a thick, oily liquid clogging his engines, and this woman had pulled out the sump plug and let it flow away.

This part of the massage session went on for a good fifteen or twenty minutes; it was hard to tell, since he was drifting in and out of sleep for the entire period. He hadn’t realised he had dropped off until he heard a voice cutting into a dream he was having of being at home with his children and ex-wife: happier days.

‘Now turn over on your back,’ the masseuse said.

He languidly shuffled his heavy body over. He noticed that while he had been sleeping, she had gently removed his shorts, leaving his nether regions covered only by a soft white towel. All his personal bits were covered, so there was nothing improper about it—yet it was kinda exciting to be more or less naked with this stranger.

Lying on his back, he could stare above him, at the suspended row of bowls, each of which seemed to contain some form of aromatic oil or cream. The masseuse then gave a brief bow and left the room. He craned his head to look out through the crack in the screens. Next to him, in screened area number six, he saw a scrawny ankle—Wong, who was having the same treatment.

A minute later, another woman appeared and gently tapped the next bowl, which tilted, slopping a dollop of some other delicious-smelling substance on his body. The first one had been yellow, warm and silky. The second was cold, orange and sweet. It smelt of jasmine, ginger flowers and lavender.

The second massage was, if anything, even more enjoyable than the first. Instead of relaxing him, it invigorated his skin. This time, the woman used her fingertips, knuckles and elbows to dig firmly but gently into his flesh. It was as close as possible to being tickled, but without actually making him laugh or jerk around. The experience lasted for a delicious ten minutes or so, before this masseuse also bowed and left the room.

The ‘sprinkle service’ was great—and there were two more rounds to go. J Oscar Jackson Junior closed his eyes and gave a short, snort of a laugh. He did not know how much this was costing, but it would be worth it.
And
he was going to charge it to his expense account. He must find an Asian massage service near his office in London. Get into the habit of doing this once a month, or once a week or something.

After a minute, a third staff member appeared and gestured for him to roll over. She immediately reached up to tip a third bowl, which slopped a purplish substance on his back. The third was scratchy, full of gritty bits. After an unsure beginning, Jackson decided the feeling it gave him was a positive one; one which should be classified under the heading ‘hurts so
good’. The scratchy stuff was slightly painful, but undeniably satisfying. After doing his back and thighs, she worked carefully on his wrists and arms.

‘Now for final sprinkle, number four,’ she said and bowed. As she left, she gestured to someone just out of his range of vision.

He craned his head to note that a man entered the room: a thin man wearing dark round glasses. It must be one of those blind masseurs, he decided. The lights were very low, so it was hard to focus on him, but the old man looked a bit like Wong.

‘What’s the next bit?’ he said. ‘I don’t want to take too long.’

By this time, a good forty or forty-five minutes must have passed. It would be bad news if the man he was tailing finished before him and made good his escape. Jackson angled his head in the other direction and saw a pair of thin, bony ankles between the cracks of the curtains: the feng shui master appeared to be still in place.

‘Okay, let’s get the fourth sprinkle done, and then we’d better stop,’ Jackson said, turning himself over. ‘This better be my last one.’

The old masseur stepped forward. He flicked a bowl very gently with a fingertip, and a tiny splash of red liquid flew out of the bowl and descended to Jackson’s flesh. It landed on his stomach—and immediately began to burn.

‘Ow, ow, owww!’ he squealed. ‘That hurts. I think I’ll skip this one.’

He tried to sit upright, to move his body out of the way of the bowl, to try to wipe the burning liquid off his stomach, but he found himself trapped. His wrists and ankles had been tied down with some sort of light, silky material.

‘What?’ He tugged hard at the material, but couldn’t move. It was a strong fabric, some sort of reinforced cloth.

‘Hey? What’s going on? Untie me. Now.’

‘Relax,’ said the man, wiping the drop of red stuff from his stomach. ‘This won’t hurt. Maybe.’

He took off his glasses. It was CF Wong.

With one movement, the feng shui master whipped Jackson’s towel upwards, leaving his genitalia exposed. Then he yanked at the pulley apparatus holding the essential oils. The whole system moved backwards, so that the bowl of red fiery stuff was now positioned right over Jackson’s private parts.

‘Hey man, what are you doing? Get that stuff away from my, my, bits. Gimme my towel back. Look, I don’t want that stuff on me. And I want to be untied, right now, right this minute.’

‘Why you follow me?’ Wong barked.

‘Me, I’m nobody, I just wandered in here. I don’t know you from Adam.’

The feng shui master lifted up his long bony finger and stroked the bowl.

‘No, no, don’t drop that stuff on me, no, please.’

‘Why you follow me?’

‘I don’t even know who you are, I—’

Wong tipped the bowl and a tiny drop of red liquid flew out.

‘No-no-no-no,’ screamed Jackson, trying to move his hips out of the way.

The geomancer flicked the towel he was holding and intercepted the drop.

Jackson let out a gasp of relief. ‘What is that stuff, anyway?’

‘Finest Hainanese chilli sauce,’ Wong said, putting a drop of it from his fingertip into his mouth. ‘Very tasty. Very strong. Very burning. Why you follow me? Who are you?’

‘My name’s Jackson. I’m an envoy for—for—for someone.’

Wong let his index finger drift back up towards the bowl.

‘For a powerful man. A rich man. A man who can pay you. Pay you lots and lots of money! Please. Really.’

Wong’s finger continued its journey towards the bowl of chilli sauce. ‘Name?’

‘I can’t.’

His finger touched the edge of the bowl, which started to tilt.

‘No, no, I’ll tell you, it’s a member of the royal family of Britain.’

The feng shui master’s puzzlement showed on his face.

‘What do you mean? Already I am working for royal family. Mr Manks.’

Jackson squirmed on the table. ‘Why don’t you untie me? I can talk much better at a table over a nice cup of coffee.’

Wong shook his head. ‘I think you talk better under a nice bowl of chilli sauce.’ He reached for it again.

‘No, no, don’t tip it. I’ll talk. I’ll tell you anything you want.’

‘Who are you working for? The Queen? Like Mr Manks?’

Jackson shook his head. ‘No. I’m working as a private envoy. There are many groups that work for members of the royal family. I work for Prince Charles, in an entirely private capacity. I know Manks—he’s a public relations man, he’s official, he’s listed, he’s an employee of a subcontracted company. I work for a charitable foundation and report directly to my boss, but I am on a rather more discreet mission at the moment.’