Prologue
“Pineapple,” Jon thought, “fetid pineapple.”
He was drinking an infusion of red deer antler that his host had insisted he take for xìngyù, to enhance his feelings of lust. It was Easter, typically a time of rebirth and vitality, but he was in Guangzhou and the air quality hadn’t made him feeling particularly lustful, or even energetic. His host, Zau, an importer and exporter of fruits, vegetables and sundries, had taken him out on his ancient junk, and they were now becalmed. They were sitting under a shelter on the larboard side due to the rainstorm that had swept in, enjoying the coolness and cleanness of the air compared to the city’s soupy mix.
Zau had laid out plans for the evening, including a feast at Panxi restaurant, then a visit to a social club. Now Jon was starting to believe that the social club was something other than a Chinese variant on a British, men only, drinking, smoking and gaming establishment.
He and Zau were partners in larceny as much as anything else. He’d approached Zau with an offer of a steady supply of premium Idaho potatoes, russet in colour and provenance impeccable, a luxury good in a country that loved food and all the hues of red that existed. The potatoes were not from Idaho, of course, and both he and Zau were completely transparent with another on that point although not with Zau’s customers. Jon and Zau had done the rounds over the past week, Jon putting on his best midwestern accent, diligently learned long after he left the boarding schools of Britain for the free-for-all arena of market forces in the USA. The combination of Zau’s channels, Jon’s act and the apparently premium potatoes made the week a very successful one, and now it was time to relax.
The storm lifted, and Zau barked orders to his small crew who started up the diesel engines and motored for port. Despite the aftertaste of fetid pineapple, Jon had to admit he was feeling much more vigorous than he had before the interlude on the water.
Jon tapped his middle finger on the table as Zau refilled his tiny porcelain cup. He’d learned in Vancouver that this was the polite way of saying thank you, coming from a story of an emperor who went disguised among his people who saw through the disguise but could neither kau tau — showing that they had seen through his disguise and causing him to lose face — nor not kau tau — showing disrespect to their emperor. An astute woman solved the dilemma by tapping her middle finger on the table when the emperor poured her tea, both bowing and not bowing, finding a middle way which preserved face.
The meal at Panxi had been a delight of the senses. First the setting was wondrous, a tea room in a houseboat floating in a pond in a former imperial garden, the walls lined with ancient artifacts. And then the food as well: steamed whole white gourd soup, quail eggs with shrimp roe, and chicken with garden herbs. Each dish perfect in and of itself and perfectly complementing the rest of the food. The dishes had come out in the Cantonese manner, as they were finished in the kitchen and at the peak of freshness. The western concept of simultaneously serving multiple patrons different orders, reducing the sensuality of the food for the sake of orderliness of presentation, had never gained foothold in China, or in any country with dominantly Chinese populations.
But now, Zau proclaimed, it was time for the rest of the evening. Jon, earlier protests of ill health long forgotten, slid into the rear Executive seat of Zau’s Chinese edition Tesla and Zau’s driver, and most likely bodyguard as well, steered them silently away through the bustling streets of Guangzhou. He had little idea of where they were heading, but Zau promised him that he would be both surprised and delighted.
And surprised he was as they approached the Pearl River Tower, a neo-futuristic clean technology masterpiece. He’d seen the building from across the river early in his visit and looked it up. Embedded wind turbines, solar panels and a garden setting made it stand out, and he’d admired Skidmore-designed and constructed buildings in New York and Dubai. But it was not where he expected to end up tonight; the skim he’d done had indicated that it was office space and only partially occupied office space at that.
The Tesla slid silently into the underground parking, a sleek panel gliding out of the way as they neared it. The lot was more of an upscale fantasy of parking, with what Jon estimated was tens of millions of dollars of automobiles displayed carefully. They stopped and valets opened the doors and ushered them into a satin-lined elevator that rushed them upwards without any sense of strain or mechanical action.
The elevator doors opened, and Jon was transported to another time and place. Acacia trees sheltered cloistered tables, set low to the ground with cushions strewn around them. Slender and graceful men and women, sleekly attired in changshans and cheongsams served men and women arrayed on the cushions. This was set against a futuristic upward curving wall of glass and crossing structural members, behind which the night skyline of Guangzhou glittered.
Zau was greeted warmly by the host, and they were led to a corner more sheltered than the rest, a private nook with a still spectacular view. A foursome were already at the table, a mixture of Eurasian, Chinese and Caucasian, and ages ranging from mid-twenties to mid-forties, but all stunningly attractive. The two women were holding hands, a portrait of exotic decadence in a future world. Jon was beginning to think his senses were deranged, that he was suffering from a fever dream, having been transported in a single day from an ancient junk to an imperial garden and now to this scene from some space fantasy by Joss Whedon.
But Zau leaned over, kissed one of the men deeply and lay down near him then introduced the others, a polyglot of cultures, ethnicities and religions implied by their names — Xiaotao, Marcel, Michele, Renton — , a quick sketch of modern China implied by their areas of interest — finance, electronics, clean technology and fashion.
The women gestured for Jon to join them, and feeling more comfortable than he had any right to given that his cultural background was one of repression not public licentiousness, he did. They established a rapport quickly, talking of Vancouver and London. One of the women had worked on the building design itself with SOW, and talked about the interesting challenges of ensuring that the Savonius turbines received sufficient wind by exploiting the Venturi effect, and admitting ruefully that early projections had not been borne out by results, that the turbines were more greenwashing than not. The other spoke of the Guangzhou’s early history, when it was still known as Panyu and its assimilation by the Han Dynasty that had united China, speaking with a deep familiarity of what it had been like then. They had a common love of Vancouver, and talked of their favourite restaurants, lamenting that West and C had both closed leaving that magical city’s dining scene poorer for it.
All was right with Jon’s world. He was surrounded by history and the future, by beauty both human and technological and he was expecting to be much wealthier as a result of his business this week.
The two women slid their hands down his arms, and then gripped his lower arms firmly. The man not reclining with Zau leaned over and took his ankles. Jon’s reverie faltered.
Zau leaned forward. “My apologies, Jon, but I’m afraid I have to cut you out of our business ventures. I’ve arranged to directly import the potatoes you assisted me to find buyers for, and I’m grateful for that. There is still another way you can be of value to my friends and I however.”
And then their fangs came out as changshan-clad staff slid another partition into place, isolating them more fully from the main space.