Let me explain. On hearing that I had been invited to the Soongs’ famous house, I decided that I should atone for the shabbiness of my appearance on my first visit, that unfortunate afternoon when I had limped, snakebitten and distinctly brutta figura, into their sitting room. I wanted to make up for my slurred speech and lack of conversation, so I resolved to dress as smartly as I could. When Johnny told me that this was one of the most important festivals after the Chinese New Year, and that he would be wearing his finest clothes, I instantly thought that it would be appropriate for me to wear something more extravagant than I might normally. After all, it was not a mere tropical fête champêtre that I was attending, but a rather more sumptuous affair altogether; I therefore thought that something spectacular was called for to mark this event. Johnny would be there, and so too would Snow. I had further understood from Johnny that this was very much a Chinese event, and I should expect to be the only Westerner present. This distinction in mind, I eventually settled upon my déguisement for the evening: a salmon-pink cape worn over a dinner jacket, with a cigarette holder I had found in the general store in Kampar. My “cape” was not a proper one, but simply a length of satin Johnny had given me for this purpose. I thought it would suffice — after all, who in this part of the world, at a Chinese gathering, would be in a position to quibble over sartorial detail? My dismay at discovering not one but three other English people was, you can imagine, considerable.
I stood on the verandah puffing at the noxious cigarette. The drone of men’s voices hung heavily in the air, punctuated by the staccato clinking of glasses and china. Someone was playing the piano — a pleasant, if somewhat heavy-handed, rendition of a Chopin nocturne. Its rich melody competed awkwardly with the song from the gramophone; I recognised the hard-edged voice and atrocious French accent as that of Josephine Baker, shrilly declaiming “Si J’étais Blanche.” All around the house, paper lanterns in the shape of fantastic animals hung from hooks, lit by candles inside their hollow bellies. There were dragons in various shapes — some chased after paper pearls, others stared wide-eyed at me as I passed, their concertina bodies quivering in the gentle nighttime breeze. There were rabbits and dogs and butterflies, all painted a riot of colours, all bizarre and deformed. Outside, beyond the pale sphere of light, men stood chatting in the shadows. Escaped from their wives, they muttered conspiratorially about things I could not discern; I merely watched the firefly glow of their cigarettes in the dark. Johnny approached me as I was undoing my tie. “Black tie,” I said, holding it before him like a dead animal. “You can have it.”
“Why are you taking it off?” he said. “Everyone is impressed by your attire. Everyone here is thrilled by the way you look.”
“No, Johnny—you are thrilled by my attire. No one else cares, no one has even noticed, for goodness’ sake. Even Snow hasn’t mentioned anything.” It was true. All evening, not a single person had complimented or even passed comment on my meticulously assembled costume. It was wasted on this lot. Perhaps satin capes and dinner jackets were commonplace in Chinese culture. In any event, I made a mental note never to rely on the good citizens of the Valley as barometers of taste.
“But you are the — what’s the word you used earlier?”
“Epitome.”
“Yes, the epitome of an Englishman.”
“No — Frederick Honey’s the type of Englishman you’re after. He’s your epitome.”
Johnny looked puzzled. He shook his head, frowning. “Frederick Honey is nothing.” He was not going to be convinced otherwise.
We went back inside, walking on the wide verandah that ran along all four sides of the house. I made for the piano, where a slender young woman was brusquely bashing out a rendition of the “Rondo alla Turca.”
“Shall we try something for four hands?” I said, easing myself onto the edge of the stool. She flashed a coquette’s smile at me and moved aside, swatting absently at the folds of my cape as if it were an insect that had landed too close to her. We found some sheet music for Schubert’s famous Fantasy and managed to blunder our way through the opening lines. “You’re too fast for me,” she complained, even though I thought I had slowed down.
“I’m sorry,” I said, frightened that I had committed another faux pas by offending a fellow guest. A small crowd had gathered to listen now, including, I noticed, my host and hostess themselves.
