12

I

WHILE MALONE had been caught up in the five-ring circus, stock markets around the world had put on their own act; stocks melted in the sweaty hands of panicky investors. On exchange floors everywhere dealers shouted, gibbered and flung up their arms like drowning swimmers. Apes at Taronga Park zoo, watching the scenes on the TV sets in their cages, looked at each other and shrugged. “That’s evolution? You think we oughta send ‘em some bananas?” Tom listened to the gurus, all of whom had a different opinion; then he decided he would be an airline pilot, where going up and down was an everyday affair. Malone, a man of the long view, just hoped that the day he drew his superannuation, the market would be airborne.

Guo Yi was charged and remanded in custody. His trial somehow keep slipping back on court schedules; six months passed before he went to trial, was found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. He is now in a top security prison, keeping abreast of advances in engineering in the prison library and through magazine subscription; he is waiting stoically for his release in his early forties. On the wall of his cell the prison governor has allowed him to do a coloured chalk vista, pale as a Chinese scroll, of the Great Wall of China. In the distance, a visual anachronism, is the outline of a skyscraper that bears a resemblance to the Olympic Tower: a mockery or a dream? He doesn’t know, or has chosen to ignore, that fifteen to twenty in prison doesn’t qualify one for Australian citizenship.

General Wang-Te retired from the army and now makes regular trips to Sydney as a director of the Chinese company that is a partner in the Olympic Tower consortium. He always comes without his wife and is a regular visitor to the Quality Couch, a top brothel where they accept his American Express card and in the interests of international relations, give him frequent bonus points. He has discovered the pleasures of sin and other positions besides the missionary one.

Camilla Feng collected her father’s insurance payment and paid off his debts and was accepted as a minor shareholder in the Tower consortium. Ron Fadiman asked her out to dinner and she went, but the date came to nothing. She kissed him good night and goodbye. She has bigger fish to hook.

Madame Tzu still flies back and forth between Hong Kong and Sydney, bringing more and more money each time she arrives. She appears regularly in the Sunday social pages, cool and dignified amongst all the inane smiles, still seeing herself as an empress amongst barbarians.

Jack Aldwych and Leslie Chung, pillars of respectability, go their own quiet way. They have been invited to visit Beijing as guests of the Chinese government and will probably go. Jack Aldwych, retired gangster, only regrets that he has been too late to meet the Gang of Four. He could have taught them a lot.

II

“I hope it’s going to be quieter than last time,” said Claire.

“Don’t even mention it,” said Lisa.

“We never did get that French champagne,” said Maureen. “How about it, Dad?”

“I think I might try some,” said Tom.

Malone felt his credit card beginning to curl. Then looked up as Les Chung appeared beside their booth. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Malone. And, of course—” He bowed to the family. “I’m glad you decided to honour us again. Dinner is on us. I can recommend the Peking Duck.” He smiled at Claire; he had a Chinese memory: “The champagne is on its way.”

He went away and Malone looked after him. He paused by the back booth, which was empty, a red rope across it. Nice touch, Les, thought Malone. But you can’t put a rope round memory.

Lisa put her hand on his, said softly, “Forget it. It’s all over.”

Kirribilli, August 1996-August 1997

THE END