Kowloon Tong by Paul Theroux Read Free Book Online Page A

own. As for the bowling, though he was absent-minded and too easily distracted to be well coordinated, he could be
aggressive and intent on the bowling lawn and was regarded as one of the better players in the club.
    Entering the lounge—a dreamy smile on his face, he felt lucky, Mei-ping had made it so easy for him—he saw Monty standing at the bar with a Chinese man. Monty imagined that the smile was for him, and was confused when, calling out "Over here, squire," Bunt suddenly became serious, saying hello. For Bunt, the memory was sometimes better than the moment, and Monty had interrupted his reverie.
    "Neville, I want you to meet one of our new members." Monty's hand was on Bunt's neck. "Mr. Hung, Neville Milliard."
    "Pleased to meet you."
    "The pleasure is mine," the Chinese man said, a bit too explosively.
    Bunt said nothing more. He resented the intrusion of this man, for the image of Mei-ping kneeling in his office was quickly fading from his mind.
    "I'm buying," Monty said. "What's yours, squire?"
    "Pint of brain damage."
    "Right you are." Monty turned to the bartender.
    Mr. Hung said, "You are the owner of the Kowloon Tong Building."
    This was Chinese subtlety. Hello and then this big brick hitting the conversation with a thud.
    "Imperial Stitching," Bunt said. "We used to make all sorts of men's shirts. We do some garments but mostly it's labels. Badges. Name tapes. Fancy stitching. Badges are in demand now. We're reconfiguring them for the Hand-over." Mr. Hung
was leaning towards him. "How do you know I own the building?"
    "It is a matter of public record," Mr. Hung said.
    It irritated Bunt that Mr. Hung spoke English well. The fluent English speakers in Hong Kong were always the most slippery. They were the least trustworthy and never meant what they said. They were effusive, insincere, mocking, and their good English meant that they had been educated elsewhere, out of the colony, where they had become contemptuous and superior. The ones with American accents were the worst. Bunt liked the locals and their goofy speech—graduates of Hong Kong schools seldom spoke good English, and as a result it kept the class system intact.
    "I would like to discuss the purchase of your building," Mr. Hung said.
    Bunt laughed out loud at the silliness of it, the way he had just blurted it out. More Chinese finesse!
    Mr. Hung flinched at the loud laughter that had a tinge of anger in it—Bunt was still feeling cross at not being able to linger over his memory of Mei-ping. The Chinese man did not take his eyes off Bunt, as though trying to subdue him with his gaze.
    Then Monty was putting the drinks down and saying "Squire," and Bunt was smiling again.
    "It's not for sale," Bunt said. He could not resist saying it in a teasing tone. "I'll never sell it. Don't even think about it. You'll just make yourself miserable."

4
    W HEN HE WAS late and his mother stood waiting in the doorway, she always seemed to swell, filling the doorframe, to obstruct and delay him, so that she could bulk against his approaching face and scold him. She did it tonight. She had the pathetic aggression of a wife or a mother—to Bunt there was no difference. And sometimes, reading tabloid stories about men who committed horrific crimes, he realized that most of those homicidal psychopaths had his precise sort of domestic arrangement:
middle-aged, soft-spoken, regular in his habits, never married, no friends, sometimes seen leaving strip clubs, lived with his mother, to whom he was devoted.
He hated those stories.
    "It's gone eight!" she said. "I haven't been able to do a thing. Wherever have you been, Bunt?"
    Nor did she move from the doorway, and she repeated it. Bunt could not gain entry.
    The question merely bored him. It was not unusual for mother and son to yell at each other. What made him uneasy was the reminder that their lives were synchronized, that they ate and bathed and went to bed and got up at the same time. He liked