倪匡's Blog, page 2

The Fishmonger

The Mongkok open market was shrouded in morning mist. An ideal image for a black and white photographic masterpiece.

Among the hawkers was a young fishmonger. It was a summer day’s. He was naked from the waist up, showing all his muscles.

In front of him was a big bamboo basket filled with eels, each the size of a long cucumber, and alive and moving vigorously.

Eels are considered a delicacy by the Chinese and they are supposed to improve sexual ability.

The fishmonger tied rubber bands on his thumb to prevent the eels from slipping. With one grip he caught one and nailed the head onto the cutting board. Then, with a sharp knife he skilfully sliced off the skin and the bone. The eels were ready to be cooked. I bought a few kilos from him and paid.

“You are a kind man,” he commented. “Customers usually pay after I prepare the eels.”

“It’s all the same,” I said.

“No. If you pay first, I might run away when the police come, then you will lose your money.”

“You mean to say you operate without a licence?”

“Nobody here has any licence,” he chuckled. “Do the police come every day?”

“Every day, nine o’clock sharp, on the dot. We are all prepared to leave before they come and only return when they go away.”

I laughed, “It’s very British. In the Malay War against the communists, their Air Force dropped bombs on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

The communists hid and came out on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.”

The fishmonger asked, “What happened on Sunday?”

“On Sunday, both sides rested.”

We laughed together.

At this moment a woman appeared.

“May I choose some eels?”

“By all means,” the young man replied.

The woman was in her thirties and was wearing a tight Chinese dress showing her feminine body. She picked the eels one by one, touching and fondling, and her breath became heavy. The sun shone behind the youth, casting a silhouette of his muscles and sweat.

Without a word the young man dropped everything and gave all the eels to the neighbouring fishmonger. For a moment I thought the police had arrived early.

Then I saw the young man and the woman disappear in the crowd.

The Regurgitator

I grew up in an amusement park.

My father was the manager and we lived behind it. In the fifties, the amusement park was a huge open space with movie theatre, cabaret, opera stage and many shops. It only came alive at night when it was filled with people. During the day it was fairly empty.

I loved to roam around after school to watch fat wrestlers making false moves, magicians practising card tricks, Kung Fu apprentices fighting each other. I also enjoyed the Fujian troupes performing and made friends with the child opera singer.

There was an open-air stage for vagabond artists to show their amazing tricks.

One day an old man came with his teenage daughter. I remember clearly that he had a crisscross scar on his left cheek and his fingers were deformed.

He drank one glass of water, then he formed a narrow hole with his lips and blew a jet of water back into the glass. One, two, three, he repeated the act and blew water back into three glasses. We were captivated. Next, he picked up a large fish tank and drank up the whole tank of water, including the goldfish in it. We held our breath, waiting to see what would happen next. The old man made a deep roar in his throat and suddenly he regurgitated all the water back into the tank, with the goldfish still swimming. We all clapped our hands.

The father and daughter settled down in the park and performed every night. After each act, the daughter would collect pennies from the audience. She had rosy cheeks and her skin was white as snow. It is a sight we rarely see, in a tropical country.

As time went by, less and less people came to see his act.

The old man had a few more tricks up his sleeve. His next act was performed with fleas.

His fleas could jump from one arm onto another at his command. He also made sophisticated mini carts, tanks and silver cannons on wheels for the fleas. They could pull things one hundred times their own weight. After the act ended the old man showed the audience his arms and how the fleas sucked his blood. He said, “I feed the fleas and the fleas feed me.” Everybody cheered.

I heard from my father’s colleague that the old man and his wife used to be the most famous flying trapeze duo in Shanghai. In one accident he fell, wounding his face and hands, and lost his wife. From then on, he had to wander around, forcing himself to do other acts.

I became good friends with the daughter Shia Shia. She used to come over to our place to borrow books. My dad was also a scholar and he collected a house full of books. Shia Shia always sang English songs and the one she liked most was ‘One Day When We Were Young’. I remember one hot afternoon, while listening to her singing, my eyelids got heavy and I fell asleep in her arms, did not have a proper bathroom THEIR DORMITORY, so sometimes Shia Shia would come over and ask if she could use our shower. Once I accidentally saw her plump breasts through the cracks in the door. I blushed with embarrassment. I felt so ashamed of myself that I had to run three rounds in the amusement park.

People got tired of the flea act as well. The old man had to pull the last act out of his bag.

On the stage was a rectangular wooden box. The old man took out sixteen sharp swords and ordered his daughter, who was wearing a bikini, to go into the box. Then he pushed the swords into the box one by one. With each sword the audience yelled out loud, they were in awe. After all sixteen swords were inserted, the old man said the audience could pay a penny to see how the trick was done. Of course, I was the first one to rush up and see what had happened. There I saw Shia Shia in a twisted position, avoiding the swords by the inch. A penny, just for a penny, you could see my Shia Shia’s body!

“No! No!” I cried.

I saw in Shia Shia’s eyes that she was crying too. She knew I was deeply hurt but she was helpless. I was so humiliated that I ran away, tears streaming from my eyes. I avoided seeing the old man and his daughter for days and then I had a fever and fell sick. By the time I recovered they were gone. Apparently, the audience did not find the act interesting. I never saw Shia Shia again.

Years later when I was living in Japan, I was walking down the street and heard someone calling my nickname.

I turned and saw the old man. I was so thrilled that I was speechless. I pulled him into a fancy restaurant and ordered all the food I could think of.

“How is Shia Shia?” I eagerly asked.

“Oh, she left me and ran off with some circus people,” he answered.

I did not know how to comfort him.

Looking at the dishes he said, “I am so hungry.”

“Eat up,” I said.

“I can’t”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I am a rat in the laboratory.”

“What do you mean you are a rat in the laboratory?”

The old man explained as we left.

“A professor from a pharmaceutical company somehow saw my act of swallowing goldfish. He hired me to do experiments on how food is digested. Every morning I have to swallow two eggs, depending on the data they are collecting, I have to throw up and spit them out in one hour, two or three whatever. I just know that my stomach has to be empty all day. That’s why I am so hungry.”

“Fuck the Japanese!” I yelled. “The Japanese feed me and I have to feed the Japanese,” the old man mumbled as he disappeared into the crowd.

The Vampire Contessa

What a good time we had in Barcelona in the seventies! Jamon iberico, angulas, and goose barnacles were all relatively unknown in the gourmet world then and the price was reasonable. We bought them by the kilo in the Mercat de la Boqueria after we visited the museums. We rented apartments next to the Sagrada Familia so we could study Gaudi whenever we were free.

Down to business. We were there shooting ‘Meals on Wheels’. The script required a big castle for the final scene. After exploring numerous locations, we decided on one, but the owner of the castle, a Contessa, refused to lend it to us.

After endless negotiations, the Contessa finally agreed to see me.

“What kind of person is she?” I asked our Spanish location manager.

“Oh, she looks exactly like a vampire. You will know what I mean when you see her,” he answered.

That night I was invited to the castle to have dinner with her. I arrived at the gates full of anticipation. They swung open automatically and an eerie voice on the intercom commanded,

“Come down to the end of the corridor!”

The walk towards the dining room seemed endless and I imagined two holes has been punched in my neck and blood was spurting out. I opened the heavy door to see a skinny old lady who looked exactly as the location manager described her. She extended her bony hand and I kissed it like a gentleman from the movies. She smiled. In my mind’s eye I could see the fangs!

An arrangement of cold platters was already laid out on the table.

“You must wonder why the castle is empty,” she said, “I try to avoid people now that the age of elegance has ended.”

A bottle of red wine was opened.

“Ow!” I cried, “Vintage Sierra Cantabria, Teso La Monja Toro!”

“Drink up,” she said, “I have hundreds of bottles in the cellar but no time to finish them.”

I sensed a sad undertone and said, “We all have to go sometime. All that matters is that we have lived a full life.” She nodded. After dinner she brought out an album of photos. I saw her when she was young, playing tennis in Wimbledon, posing at the pyramids, visiting the Great Wall of China and the canals of Venice.

The wine was sweet, and we laughed at each other’s stories.

“We don’t look so horrible when we get to know each other, don’t you agree?”

I nodded and bid her farewell. Permission to film was granted.

One morning while we were shooting, I met a beautiful young lady dressed in a tennis outfit at the castle. I could have sworn I had seen her somewhere before. She came towards me and said, I have come to keep you company. Granny told me you are an interesting character.”

The Smiling Pinky

Pinky always smiled. If she were not so beautiful people would have said that she was simple. She was called Pinky because of her dewy skin and rosy red cheeks.

Like many old stories her mother gave birth to nine children and Pinky, who was the eldest, had to work to support the family. At seventeen, when asked, “What do you want to be?” She raised her hand and said, “I want to drink and dance.” And so she did.

‘Singapore Dance Hall’ was the best cabaret in Taipei in the seventies. The manager there immediately saw the potential in Pinky. Not only was Pinky an excellent dancer, she could literally drink like a fish. Big glasses of neat brandy went bottoms up one after another, her cheeks were already pink anyway! The thing about her that amazed everybody was that she never got drunk.

“Drink up!” customers ordered.

Large glasses of brandy were poured and Pinky never said no. Drink after drink, the customers would be lying plastered under the table while Pinky just kept smiling. This made her the most profitable asset in the cabaret and her reputation travelled fast. All the rich boys in town crowded into the dance hall to marvel at this treasure. Each swore he could make Pinky drunk, but no one ever succeeded.

Among the suitors were two guys who came every night. One was the son of a famous artist, the other the son of a rich merchant. The former was thin and tall with a melancholy look. Pinky noticed that he had the long fingers of a pianist. The latter was fat and ate like a pig. He always came with business associates and made them pay for the bill. Well, you can guess which one Pinky preferred.

One night, tragedy occurred. A fight broke out between the two men, but the manager was able to deal with it and stopped the brawl. However, when the artist’s son came out of the cabaret, he was ambushed by the merchant’s son and his gang who set upon him with samurai swords.

The artist’s son tried to defend himself and three fingers were cut off. The police arrived and the gang ran away. The artist’s son was rushed to the hospital. The fingers were sewn back on but there was no chance he could play the piano ever again.

Pinky quit her job and married him. They moved to live in Tokyo where the husband worked for a big company. They had two babies, and the kids grew up in no time.

The husband came home less and less, yet Pinky never complained.

One day Pinky declared, “I am going to work as a Mamasan.” A Mamasan is the head hostess of a bar.

“You must think of my reputation!” the husband yelled at her.

Pinky did not argue, she smiled and did as she pleased anyway.

The bar she worked in was in Ginza. Only rich businessmen could afford to visit this place. Although Pinky was now thirty-four, her waistline was still twenty-four and she still drank like a fish. The husband eventually accepted the situation. “The Mamasan never sleeps with the customers anyway,” he thought to himself.

One evening a Taiwanese man walked in.

The bar girls told him that they had a Mamasan who never got drunk. He got curious and he called for her.

“Drink up.” He ordered.

The girls were surprised to see the Mamasan got tipsy on only one drink, and they were even more surprised that she agreed to go to his hotel.

In the hotel room they ordered drink after drink until the businessman collapsed unconscious. Pinky put down the bottle, pulled the man up, placing his right arm in between two chairs. She climbed onto the side table and then jumped onto his arm. The man cried loudly but he was too drunk to move. She placed his arm at a different angle and did the same again to make sure the bone was completely shattered.

Then she left smiling. You can guess who the man was.

My Calligraphy Classmate

While Walasse Ting’s life was full of brilliant colour, Master Fung Kong Hou’s world was only black and white.

When I was forty years old, I saw my life drifting away and I knew I must do something about it.

The obvious solution was to pick up art as a hobby. When I was a kid my father would use a brush and do all kinds of calligraphy to amuse me. I had always wanted to be like him, but my work in movies kept me busy and I had forgotten all about it. But my father had planted a seed and it was time to let it flower.

So I went to the best calligrapher in Hong Kong, Master Fung, and asked him to teach me.

On the day of my first lesson his beloved son had died of pneumonia. I was wondering if I should wait for another day, but decided to knock on his door.

“Come in, come in,” he said, “it’s useless to mourn. I’d rather use my strength to teach you.”

He took out a piece of paper and told me to write something, anything.

“But I don’t know how to begin,” I protested.

“Whatever comes to your mind.”

I finally wrote, “Thank you for accepting me as your student.”

“From your writing I know which old master’s style is closest to yours. This master left many manuscripts. You can learn from him. I also learned from him when I was young. When we both learn from the same teacher, we are classmates.”

With tears in my eyes I held his hand. From then on, I practised calligraphy day and night with a frenzy.

Jesse’s Dog

Walasse Ting had an American Jewish wife. After she died, their teenage son Jesse was so grief-stricken that he lost his will to live.

Walasse thought a trip to the Thai island of Koh Samui would ease his pain, but Jesse just sat watching the swimming pool all the time.

One day Jesse heard a strange moaning and went to look for the source. He found the ugliest of dogs, a real mongrel. Its body was covered in wounds and it was so thin you could see its bones. Jesse took pity on it and threw the dog the left-over bread from his breakfast. The dog swallowed it in one gulp. Jesse threw a tomato and the dog ate it too. In fact, it was so hungry that it ate anything.

From then on, the dog followed Jesse everywhere.

The whole of Koh Samui island was filled with coconut trees and forests. The dog just walked behind Jesse silently.

When he was thirsty the dog would lick the morning dew from the leaves. It was forever searching for something to eat. Sometimes it would flip over a stone and eat the ants like a pangolin. Jesse found the dog had such a strong will to survive that it put him to shame.

One day the dog went missing and Jesse went searching for it everywhere.

The waiter from the hotel asked, “What are you looking for, young master?”

“Have you seen a dog anywhere?”

“The island is full of stray dogs. We use a net to catch them. I heard from my colleagues that we caught one just now.”

“Where is the dog now?” Jesse asked anxiously.

“Usually they are brought to the police station to be put down by M16.”

“It’s all my fault,” Jesse thought, “if I hadn’t fed the dog, it wouldn’t have got caught.”

Rushing out of the hotel Jesse took a taxi to the police station.

“Ta, Ta, Ta, Ta!” a roar of bullets was heard. Too late! Too late! Jesse never felt so guilty in his life. He found many dogs in a pool of blood but none so ugly as the dog he loved.

He went back to the hotel and was sitting staring at the swimming pool when the dog reappeared by his side. Jesse hugged it immediately.

The hotel staff told Jesse later that someone saw the dog escape from the police van.

From then on, Jesse and his dog became inseparable.

“Papa, can I keep him?” Walasse saw the begging eyes of his son and the dog. He finally nodded.

It is a big hustle to bring an animal from Thailand to Holland. First, you must buy it an air ticket that costs more than a passenger. Then, you must obtain a health certificate from the vet, plus a bribe to predate it. For Jesse’s dog, a special cage had to be made because the local airline had never had this experience before. Bribery of the customs official was again a must. Walasse and his son returned to the vet, as according to Thai law, a strong sedative had to be given.

“You know there is a risk that the dog might not make it,” the vet said. The decision was made, and the dog seemed to accept it too. When the vet gave the injection, the dog did not resist.

Their troubles seemed endless. There was no direct flight to Amsterdam, and they had to change planes in Frankfurt.

When they landed there, the airline people could not find the dog.

“Maybe it has frozen to death in the high altitude,” they said.

After a long search they found the dog had broken the cage and run off to the catering section where it had munched its way through the first-class meals and was now sleeping peacefully.

At this point Jesse refused to let go of the dog again. They got off at Frankfurt and hired a car driving them straight back to Amsterdam.

Jesse moved to a country house with high walls to prevent the dog from going out. He nursed the dog back to full health and it grew a lovely long coat of hair for winter. In fact, the dog was so well fed that it had to be put on a diet!

It was a rascal! Over the years Jesse’s dog killed countless chickens and ducks from neighbouring households, plus two young goats.

From time to time the dog would face the east where its distant homeland was, and howl and howl and howl.

A Touch of Colour

Walasse Ting’s paintings always fill me with happiness. The vibrant colours and joyful images, what’s not to like? If I had just one touch of his colour, I would be happy.

I longed to make his acquaintance and one day when he held his exhibition in Hong Kong, Jimmy Lai the newspaper tycoon introduced us to each other. Walasse was tall and heavily built. Although he was in his sixties, he looked younger. He was surprised by my knowledge of his work and said he liked reading my articles and that we could become friends. I refused. I begged to become his student.

“I could never teach you how to paint,” he said, “because I was never taught painting myself.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Look at my work. All the lines are like a child’s scrawl. It’s the colours that captivate people.”

“Then teach me how to use colour.”

“Is it your ambition to become a famous painter? Because if it is, you’re too late. It takes a whole lifetime just to have the chance to become an ordinary artist, let alone a good one. At your age you can only capture a glimpse.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“Ok, then we can become friends.”

“Friends then,” I said finally.

From then on, I took every chance to meet up with him when he travelled to China or other parts of the Far East.

Once in Shanghai we went to a famous restaurant. Walasse ordered nearly every dish on the menu. “It’s not every day that I can get good Chinese food in Amsterdam,” he said.

The waiter came over and saw the whole table of food, “Only the two of you? Who did you invite that didn’t show up?”

“Oh” Walasse said, “we invited Li Po, Picasso, Einstein and many others.”

I made a point of going to Amsterdam where Walasse lived, whenever I could. I arrived early in the morning.

Jesse, Walasse’s son met me in the airport. Since then I have become a friend of the family too. Walasse had a son and a daughter Mia who lived in New York.

I booked the same room in the Hilton where Lennon and Yoko took those famous photos.

Walasse’s house used to be an old secondary school. The wooden door was quite small, and he painted it with wildflowers. Jesse said the door had been stolen twice. When I entered, I found the largest studio any artist could ever dream of. It was a converted indoor basketball hall. The ceiling was three storeys high and lined with five hundred tubes of fluorescent lights so that Walasse could turn any gloomy weather into a summer holiday.

A strong scent of onions hit you. It was from hundreds of bulbs of Amaryllis. They seemed to be blooming all at the same time.

“Let’s drink!” Walasse took out the vintage Cristal.

“Are we supposed to drink champagne in the morning?” I asked.

“Are we supposed to drink champagne at night?” he replied.

After finishing the first bottle he opened the second one.

“So,” I said, “how do I begin to use brilliant colours like you do?”

“Don’t learn from me. Learn from nature. Anything that is colourful is your teacher. Look at the kingfisher that just flew into the garden. Look closely. Can you see the colours of its feathers? Remember it, study it, recreate it.”

“What material should I use?”

“I find acrylic is brighter. The best is a French product called Flashe. You can dissolve it like water colour or use it just like in oil painting.”

He drew a woman’s figure in black and white and said, “Go ahead, paint it in colour.”

Recalling his many paintings, I splashed patches of colour onto it. He nodded. Bottles of champagne were consumed. Then the lessons went on and on until midnight. At that stage I was so drunk that I collapsed onto his couch and fell asleep.

The next day we went to the Albert Cuyp Market and bought tons of food. The most enjoyable one was the raw herring which we ate like the locals, head back and chew it. We returned to the studio to cook and paint and drink. They were the most memorable moments of my life.

“What material should I paint on?” I asked.

“Any,” he answered, “paper, cloth, refrigerators. Anything that is monotonous and dull. Colour them. Bring them to life. Bring joy to them and yourself.”

Which I did. I even painted my suitcases. When I passed through customs people would recognise them. “Walasse Ting?” they asked with a smile.

Later I bought a thousand white neckties and painted them too. I don’t mind if people called me a copycat. If I could inherit a touch of colour from Walasse Ting, it would make me happy for the rest of my life.

Put Your Head On My Shoulder

When I was in secondary school, I was part of a gang of naughty boys who were always running away from class to see movies.

One of the boys was from a small town in Malaysia. His relative had bought a house in Singapore and let him take care of it. During holidays the bunch of us would have parties at the house and invite the girls we knew to dance all night.

Among them was a young lady with long, long hair. She was already working while we were still studying. At that age we all loved more mature girls and we kept on dancing with her. The music changed from Rock ‘n Roll to slow tempo songs. ‘Put your head on my shoulder’ by Paul Anka was the most popular song. We hugged.

Later my friend married this beautiful, longhaired woman. I was the best man and the driver. We drove to his small town. There was a lorry waiting. Inside it sat the local band. They played the theme music from ‘Bridge over the River Kwai’ to welcome us. By the way, they played the same thing in funerals too!

It was the local tradition for the bride and groom to circle three times around town to announce they were married and so we did.

The wedding party was held at the school hall. Everybody was invited. The headmaster was asked to give a speech. It was not every day that he got a chance like this so he made sure it lasted an hour, and everyone fell asleep. I was drunk at the dinner party. The next morning, we parted.

It was not until ten years later that we saw each other again. I returned from abroad to see my friend. He now ran a petrol station along the highway. He told me that after they married his wife opened a beauty parlour. Business was good. After all she was from the big city and knew all the latest hair styles. But tragedy struck. She got polio and was paralysed from the waist down.

“Hurry up! Bring me to see her!” I felt choked.

They lived in a dimly lit old Chinese house. It hurt so much to see her hair messy and face very pale. The three of us held each other tight and cried. Calming down, she asked, “Do you remember how we made punch by mixing orange juice, lemon juice and a whole bottle of gin?”

“Do you remember you were so shy that I had to pull you up to dance with me?”

“Do you remember after we got drunk, we squeezed together under a big blanket naked?”

“Yes, Yes.” I held back my tears.

The moon shone on the top of the coconut trees. My friend carried her on his back. The three of us walked down a small road in the village. We went there to see a bomoh, the equivalent of a sorcerer in Malay. She heard that he could perform miracles and insisted on giving it a try. I obliged.

We went into a bamboo hut. There were dozens of people sitting on the floor. All of them had brought gifts of fruits, silverware, clothes, chickens and eggs. The bomoh received them all without saying thanks.

An assistant lit some spiced wood. The room was filled with smoke. This made the atmosphere more eerie.

The bomoh started to perform his magic. With a wave of his hand, a small explosion occurred. When he pulled back the mat on the floor, green gems and rubies appeared. Everybody was amazed.

All the people who had come for help gathered closer. The bomoh touched the head of a sick child. He was cured immediately. A man’s swollen stomach flattened.

It was our turn. The bomoh took out an egg and rubbed it on the girl’s leg. And then he cracked the egg in a bowl. Little red worms spilled out from the egg, swelling and writhing in the bowl. They were alive!

My friend and his wife bowed deeply and offered presents.

I knew those tricks when making movies. The people surrounding the bomoh were obviously his gang. The little worms were compressed red paper hidden in his fingers. When the paper came into contact with the liquid, it expanded to look like worms wriggling.

I did not have the heart to tell them the truth. How could I?

They were happy. They sang ‘Put your Head on my Shoulder’ all the way back home. I never saw them again.

Gyujiro, Another Monk

I have another Japanese friend who was also a monk.

Gyujiro means ‘The Second Son of an Ox’ and that was his pen name. I do not remember what his real name was. Besides running a temple in Oshima, a small island in Japan, he wrote stories for Japanese Manga and they were all best sellers.

I wanted to make a movie out of the stories he wrote, so I arranged to meet him at the Imperial Hotel in Ginza where I stayed. He arrived in his antique Mercedes Benz.

‘The tempura restaurant in this hotel is quite good. Let’s have some,” he said.

“Aren’t monks supposed to be vegetarian?”

I asked.

“Not the good ones,” he said jokingly. “They can marry too.”

Gyujiro was skinny and was wearing a pair of round rim glasses. His hair was cut short and his teeth were stained with smoking.

“Are you really a monk?” I asked directly.

“Japanese monks are passed down from one generation to another. I was born into a family of them.”

“Thanks for coming to see me in Tokyo,” l said.

“Not at all, I have an office here.”

“Office?”

“It’s not really an office, more like a study where I write. It’s also convenient for me to meet my girlfriends,” he laughed.

That night we ate and talked until the restaurant closed. We had so many interests in common.

“Come and see me in my temple someday.” He bid me farewell.

I made a point of that.

Sometime later, I took a boat from Atami and arrived at his island.

Gyujiro’s temple was situated on the top of a hill and was much bigger than I thought. Facing the sea, the scenery was beautiful.

Behind the temple was his residence. He led me straight to his wine cabinet and there were countless vintage bottles of alcohol. We started drinking to our heart’s content.

“Running a temple is a dying business,” he said, “that’s why I have to write.”

“You’re very successful in whatever you do.”

“Not enough for the way I live my life.”

“I heard that people spend a lot of money on the ceremony for the dead.”

Gyujiro sighed, “Not anymore. They would rather spend money on the living these days. And besides, the Japanese live longer and longer. There’s little money to be made for a temple.”

I didn’t know how to console him.

“But,” he cheered up, “I have invented a new business!”

He brought me to the back of his garden. There I saw a very big incinerator. He patted it like his new toy.

“This is for burning the bodies of cats and dogs.”

“So?”

Gyujiro spouted eloquently, “As you know, Atami with its hot springs is an ideal place for retired couples. Their sons and daughters seldom visit them. So they keep pets for company and become very attached to them. Animals have a shorter lifespan and when they die their owners want to do everything possible for them. That is when the idea of an incinerator hit me! The dead animal can be cremated here. The cost is 200,000 yen. If the owner wants me to say a prayer, it’s another 200,000 yen.

If you bury them in the temple and set up a tombstone, it’s 1,000,000 yen. It has become a very profitable service and people have to line up for it. When the old folks spend, they spend more generously than their sons and daughters would have spent on them!”

I understood completely. One thing still puzzled me though.

“Cats and dogs are small. Why did you build such a big incinerator?”

He answered with a twinkle in his eye. “Sometimes my wife nags too much.”

Kato, The Monk

Whenever I pass a monastery, I would think of him.

Kato was one of my best friends when I was studying in Japan.

There was a cafe we frequented in Shinjuku called Fugetsudo where many artists gathered. One night an American hippie gave him half a joint. As he walked out, he was caught by the police, but he was subsequently released on bail.

Before the trial, he called on all his friends to donate money to him to hire a good lawyer. Not to defend him, but so he could to leave a proposition that marijuana was not as harmful as alcohol. He was prepared to go to jail. Now that medical marijuana has been legalised in many countries, this story seems ironic.

After I left Japan, my former secretary once wrote to me and said Kato had become a monk, and that one day he would come to visit me in Hong Kong. On one visit to Japan, I found out he was no longer living there but roaming the world.

Years later he appeared at the Golden Harvest studio wearing a yellow robe. I was so happy to see him again.

“Come on, let’s go and have some vegetarian food.” I said.

“No, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you took me home and cooked me some dumplings. I miss them so much.”

In our student days we were so poor that we didn’t have meat for months. When I had some money, I would buy some cheap ground pork and make dumplings for friends.

‘There is meat in dumplings,” I reminded him.

“It’s ok. I am not eating meat. I am eating memories,” he replied.

After the meal, I showed him around Hong Kong and brought him to the premiere of my new movie.

There were many reporters from the entertainment media. Everyone was curious to know what on earth a monk was doing there.

Kato enjoyed taking photographs with the actresses and got very used to the flashing of the camera.

“It is called illusions and shadows in Buddhism,” he laughed.

The next day he bid me goodbye.

“What will you be doing from now on?” I asked.

“I am going back to a temple in Massachusetts. I will try to build a pagoda there.”

I never saw Kato again, but each New Year I receive goodwill Sutras from him. He had indeed built a magnificent pagoda in Massachusetts.