John Davis - The Year of Dangerous Loving

‘Yes. The KGB taught me at my training school, so I could dance with all the foreign diplomats and steal their silly secrets. Even Scottish reels I can do, with swords on the floor. And American square-dancing, and the can-can, even belly-dancing. Next time I will show you, I will bring some music and my belly-dancing stuff. Even the ruby for my navel.’

Oh yes, he would love to see her do all that. And he was impressed by her accomplishments. She said: ‘Are you a good dancer, darling?’

The foxtrot and the waltz were about Hargreave’s speed. ‘Liz did try to teach me the tango. But she gave up.’

‘I will teach you to tango, darling, it is my favourite dance – so dramatic. I have all the music, on my cassettes, I will bring them next time. Would you like to go dancing tonight, I’ll start teaching you?’

Hargreave wanted to do whatever she wanted. ‘Only trouble is I don’t want to get out of this bed. And I don’t want you to put clothes on.’

‘But I better get dressed for dinner, darling, in case we meet somebody you know!’

That Saturday night they did meet somebody Hargreave knew. They were sitting at the bar off the reception hall, having a drink before dinner, when Jake McAdam and Max Popodopolous came in with Judge Peterson. The judge slapped him on the back in passing.

‘Hullo, Dave!’ Hargreave said. ‘Hullo, Jake, Max!’

They waved and went on their way. They all glanced at Olga appreciatively. They sat down at a corner table overlooking the terrace.

‘Does it matter?’ Olga asked.

‘No.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, you’re a professional singer, remember?’

‘But will they guess what I really am?’

They might guess but he didn’t give a damn: how were they to know she wasn’t a legitimate night-club singer? He almost believed it himself now. It was possible one of them had been to the Tranquillity and remembered her – she wasn’t easily forgettable – but what the hell, they were all his friends.

‘No, they won’t guess.’

‘The fattish, Portuguese-looking one, I’ve seen him at the Tranquillity.’

Yes, Max was a bit of a bon vivant who let his hair down occasionally in questionable night-clubs. Hargreave said: ‘He’s one of my closest friends, in fact he’s my personal lawyer, he won’t talk – or care. I’d like you to meet him, and Jake McAdam, too, the tall one.’ In fact he’d like her to meet all his friends; he wanted to say, ‘This is my girl Olga Romalova, she’s a night-club singer, maybe she used to be on the game but not any more, take her or leave her but she’s my girl.’ He said: ‘Jake, he’s got a tragic story. He fell in love with a smashing American girl about ten years ago, a newspaper reporter from New York who came out here to write a story about Hong Kong corruption. She was killed in a typhoon.’

‘ Oh . What a sad story.’

And there was an even sadder story that he couldn’t tell her because of the Official Secrets Act. Long before the American girl, Jake had fallen in love with a Chinese Communist schoolmistress, and that had also ended in tragedy because Jake had been a senior policeman in Special Branch.

Olga said: ‘And now, is he married?’

‘Used to be. Twice, to the same woman. But it ended in divorce both times.’ He nodded over his shoulder. ‘And the other one, Dave, he’s a judge, also divorced. We stick together, us bachelors. Go to the races together.’

‘And Jake, what work does he do?’

‘He’s a businessman. Builds boats. And he’s got an import–export business. Does quite a lot of business with Russia, everything from pins to diesel engines, I gather. And now he’s gone into politics. He’s one of those idealistic diehards who think that Britain should never have agreed to surrender Hong Kong to China in 1997. He thinks we should only give them back the New Territories when the lease expires and hold them back at Boundary Street. He says we can survive like Gibraltar does. Of course, it’s too late now, because the handover has been negotiated, but he thinks the British Government shouldn’t have mentioned the subject, that Maggie Thatcher made a mistake. But having started negotiations, we should have stuck to our guns at Boundary Street.’

She nodded pensively, stirring her pina colada. ‘And what do you think?’

Hargreave shook his head. ‘China wouldn’t have backed down like Spain did because it’s a matter of “face”. Hong Kong is the holy soil of China stolen from the Celestial Kingdom during the wicked Opium War, et cetera. Do you know about that?’

Olga sucked the pina colada off the end of her straw. ‘Sure. 1841. I’ve read some books about China. It’s true – Britain did steal Hong Kong to force China to accept the opium trade. It is a shameful story, to force people to buy drugs like that.’

‘Well, it was a long time ago, and people thought differently then.’ But Hargreave was impressed. This was your ordinary prostitute? No, a thousand times no. How many books had he read on Russia? None. ‘Anyway, now Jake is a vociferous democrat – he’s campaigning for a seat in the Legislative Council elections and his platform is we must have complete entrenched democracy to withstand the Chinese Government after 1997 and that Britain must support us with a garrison stationed here.’ He added, ‘Jake’s one of the few non-Chinese standing in the selection. As an independent.’

‘Do you think he will win?’

‘He’s very highly thought of. But it won’t do him much good – when China takes over he’s likely to be one of the first to be thrown in jail as a subversive.’

‘What kind of trouble will he make?’

Hargreave sighed. ‘China has already announced that she’ll throw out our Legislative Council the day she takes over Hong Kong. Jake and others like him will refuse to accept that because it will be contrary to the Basic Law and the Joint Declaration. That’ll land him in jail.’

‘Oh dear,’ Olga said. ‘Such a brave man. Oh dear. And you, darling – what are you going to do in 1997?’

Hargreave did not want to think about it. Ten years ago when the Joint Declaration was signed he’d had hope that English law would survive in Hong Kong, that there would be democracy, but the massacre in Tiananmen Square in 1989 had proved that was a pipe-dream and he had decided to quit in 1997, go somewhere like Spain where he could live modestly on his pension. Three years ago when things started going badly between him and Liz and there was talk of divorce, he felt like doing that even sooner. But now her lawyer’s letter had arrived, the reality of divorce under Californian law of Community of Property was upon him and his investments would be very modest when cut in half. So he would have to get a job somewhere. The only alternative was to continue to work under the new government and hope that China didn’t throw him in jail for refusing to bend the Rule of Law when they demanded. That was the bleak prospect he had faced last weekend when the lawyer’s letter arrived and he had jumped on the hydrofoil to Macao.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I want to leave, but divorce is an expensive business.’

She said sympathetically, ‘Could you get a job as a lawyer in England?’

‘I could, but I’m a colonial boy now, used to the sun. Cold, grey, rainy England? And the dreadful cost of booze?’

‘I understand. I love Russia, but it will be grey for a long time, and I am very tired of grey, I am a sun girl. But you know what I think I would do if I was a businessman? I would invest in Russia.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Russia needs everything . Communism was so bad that Russia has nothing, not even enough food to eat. You can sell anything in Russia.’