       simonnapierbell.com |
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SERIOUS PEOPLE
From You Don't Have To Say You Love Me published by Ebury Press
One day I met a man in the bar of the Inter-Continental in Paris. When he learnt my name and the business I was in he told me he had a friend in Hong Kong who'd like to meet me. I said, 'OK. Maybe. Some time.' But the very next morning he came to my room with a return first-class ticket and a reservation at the Peninsular Hotel.
I couldn't resist it, and the next thing I knew I was gazing down at Hong Kong from an airplane window, staring down at apartment blocks that looked like shanty-town hovels piled high on top of each other. Fifty, forty, thirty feet below us as we came in to land. Right in the middle of the world's biggest, busiest, most thriving urban mess.
I cleared Customs and the limousine sped out of the airport into a glaring maze of neon-lit night-time streets, even busier and more chaotic than during the day. We crawled through the traffic to the waterfront, where the two halves of the city face each other across the harbour like a pair of competing New Yorks.
At the hotel the reception clerk looked up my reservation and asked if the room was being paid for by New World Travel Ltd. I hadn't a clue, but I told him it sounded like a good idea. He seemed happy with that and took me to a suite on the third floor overlooking the harbour. It was unnecessarily big and there was a flamboyant bouquet of flowers on the table with a note welcoming me to Hong Kong signed by a Mr Sammy Cheong.
Outside the window, the harbour chugged by busily in all directions. It was like the opening scene of a vast Cinemascope epic, when you know that somewhere amongst all that long-shot action you're meant to spot the impending drama that the camera is about to zoom in on. But, before I'd decided which corner of the screen to focus on, the phone rang. It was Sammy Cheong. He sounded American and he repeated his flowery welcome and said there'd be a limousine outside the hotel whenever I was ready to come and see him. I said now would do as well as any other time and thirty minutes later the car was on the Hong Kong side of the harbour, winding its way over the top of a hill and down the other side into a sort of Oriental Eastbourne. I hadn't a clue what this was all about and I was more than just puzzled. I was really rather nervous.
Sammy Cheong's house was a large villa, typical of anywhere tropical in the world, with a well-cultivated garden and a bright blue pool. A Chinese houseboy showed me into a sitting-room and I waited apprehensively, expecting at any minute to be confronted by a sinister character stolen from a James Bond movie. But when Sammy Cheong came in the room he was a complete surprise. He was totally American, slim but muscular, fortyish, good?looking, with just a touch of Chinese round the eyes and coarse black hair. He could have been a Mexican filmstar.
'Hi, I'm Sammy.'
We shook hands and he settled me on to a settee with an offer of a drink. He was the epitome of casual Californian good manners, without a trace of a Chinese accent and dressed in a la mode Beverly Hills leisure wear.
'I'm hoping my partner Adrian Lee will join us in a minute; he's on the phone just now.'
Sammy Cheong was still fixing my drink when another man came in and introduced himself with a half-bow and a handshake. He was just as un-Oriental as the first man, but this time he was totally English.
'Hullo, I'm Adrian, you're Simon Napier-Bell, aren't you? Jolly pleased to meet you. Damned hot, isn't it?'
It was extraordinary. His face was totally Chinese, but his voice and manner were a caricature of Harrow and Eton without the slightest hint of the Orient.
Then Sammy came back with my drink. The hundred per cent American good-guy.
They settled themselves down in chairs next to me and made with a little normal small-talk, about the weather and my flight. They were complete cultural opposites, one with the clipped confident superiority of upper-class England and the other with the cool brash jargon of wealthy America. ‘Jeez, this heat's gonna burn my ass right out of my pants,' commented Sammy, and Adrian said, 'My golly yes, it really is frightfully warm today, isn't it?' Very English and rather out of date.
They were well aware of their different cultural back?grounds and Sammy was slightly hurt by the easy way I dealt with Adrian's ultra-Englishness. But the music business is totally transatlantic and Adrian Lee got the same left-out feeling when I talked to his partner about things American. Then suddenly they launched into Cantonese together and they were different people. Gone were the politeness and the formality, and gone too was the deference they'd shown to each other in their English and American roles. They were like a couple of giggling waiters in a Chinese restaurant, making private jokes and laughing at the customers. In this case I was the customer and I felt uncomfortable, but then . . . snap! They reverted to English and became totally different again. It was most unnerving. Like having a conversation with four people rather than two.
Sammy Cheong came to the point.'We represent the largest and wealthiest of all the organisations in the world dedicated to spreading their own social and political beliefs.'
'Who are they?' I asked, but that upset them.
Adrian said, 'Really, old boy, we'll never get through this if you keep interrupting.' And we all sipped our drinks and re-composed ourselves.
Sammy went on, 'I can't tell you who the people are that we represent except that they require, and of course get, access to all forms of media throughout the world in order to spread their desired information.''You mean propaganda,' I interrupted, but quickly put a hand over my mouth and raised the other in an apology which they seemed to accept.
'You understand the sort of organisation we're referring to, don't you?' he went on. 'It could be the Communist Party, the Catholic Church, the US government or the Kremlin. But there's no need for you to know. Many people who work for us do so for their beliefs, but many others are employed on a more practical basis.'
'You mean money?' I butted in.
Adrian said, 'Money, yes. And other forms of reward.' But Sammy interrupted him quickly.
'You see Simon, our clients are rather serious people and to cut a long story short they want control of something that allows them to exert total influence over young people throughout the world. They've done experiments with various underground propaganda and they've finally decided that what they need is complete control of one of the world's biggest rock groups.'
It was ridiculous and I laughed out loud. 'Complete control of a rock group? Even managers don't get that. That's a real fantasy.'
Sammy Cheong ignored my cynicism. 'Look, my clients understand everything there is to be understood about this field, they've researched it all thoroughly, and it's because they're researched it so well that they've decided on this particular outlet for their message.'
I protested. 'But what attracts kids to a rock group is the feeling that it has its own personality, that it has integrity.'
'Exactly,' Sammy said confidently. 'And because of that a rock group will be trusted by young people who don't normally trust, and listened to by young people who don't normally listen.'
I disagreed. 'It's been tried a thousand times. With advertising, for instance, and it's never really worked. No matter how much respect or adulation a rock group gets, as soon as it endorses anything outside its basic lifestyle it loses all credibility. You can't have rock stars going on television and saying, "Hey kids, what d'you know, those guys in the Kremlin are a great bunch of fellas," or, "Let's give up all this drugs and fucking and send our money to the Pope."'
English Adrian seemed hurt. 'My dear fellow, you're insulting our clients. They're very scientific, you know; awfully modern.'
Sammy said, 'Let me explain ... Our clients want to find a new rock group and promote it to the top position in the world.'
'That's what a thousand hopeful managers are trying to do,' I warned him, but he ignored me and went on.
'To do this, our clients are prepared to give you unlimited finance. And all the profits from the group's success will be yours, no repayment will be necessary. They only require that the group is contractually tied to accepting your decision on all its recorded material, and of course you'll have the same obligation to our clients. But they won't interfere in any way. All they want is to have access to the group's influence. It will be a little something injected into the records, into the actual music or lyrics. I'm afraid I find it all beyond my understanding, but I'm told it's been worked out by psychiatrists using computers.'
It was all too glib and over-confident. I had to try and make him understand. 'It's not that easy. It may not be feasible at all. Every large record company spends millions trying to do just that. And so do independent managers and investors. And anyway, money doesn't always help, particularly in England. The popular music press in England is very influential with teenagers and they're rather left?wing. They don't much like groups who are well-financed.'
Sammy told me, 'Simon, we don't care if you don't spend our clients' money. We're just saying that if it takes a million of their money for you to make a million of your own then that's OK with them.'
I made one last try to dissuade him. 'Look, you don't seem to understand. There's always an element of sheer luck in all this. The groups that are going to succeed are not always easily identifiable. They're a special sort of phenomenon. Their success can't simply be bought with money; they have to have some sort of unique quality.'
Cheong and Lee were listening intently. I thought I was convincing them, so I went on.
'Kids start picking on one group, identifying with them, copying their lifestyle. It's not predictable. Sometimes you can invest a fortune and lose the lot. Other times a group comes from nowhere and the kids suddenly take to it, give it a massive vote of confidence and wham, you have a number one act. But it's not really the music, it's the lifestyle, the aura that surrounds them. It's like some sort of rock politics. Like electing a president or a leader.'
They seemed pleased with all that. Adrian Lee said, 'Well now, it sounds as if you're beginning to understand what we're after. When are you going to start?'
'I'm not sure I want to. I've done it all once. Why should I want to do it again?'
Adrian shook his head slowly. 'My dear boy, don't you understand? You can't fail.'
'But I could, you see. It's not that simple.'
Sammy Cheong said, 'I'm afraid you don't quite follow. What Adrian means is we're not giving you a choice. Our clients don't like failure. They're very serious people, and once you start there's no turning back.'
'But I haven't started yet.'
Adrian disagreed. 'I don't think our clients would look at it like that. After all, old boy, you did accept their invitation to come to Hong Kong.'
He fixed me firmly with his eyes to make sure I got the point. A sudden involuntary twitch in my stomach told me that I had.
After that the car took me back to the Peninsular Hotel and I lay awake most of the night wondering what to do. It seemed like I'd only just got to sleep when I was woken again by the phone ringing.
I couldn't find it. I pushed my way through the tangled sheets, banged against the bedside table and the telephone fell on the floor and stopped jangling.
It was eight in the morning. I lay along the edge of the bed and leant over to pick up the receiver.
'Mr Napier-Bell?'
The voice was very Chinese and turned my name into Naple-Bow.
'Yeah, that's me.''Good morning. I hope you slept well. I want you to do something for me. I want you to go to window overlooking harbour. Please taking telephone with you at same time.'
I asked, 'Who is this?'
'Never minding, please. I am working with same organisation as you. Please going to window now.'
I could either tell him to bugger off or do as he said and in these situations curiosity always seems to win. So I got out of bed, went across to the window and swept back the curtains. I was hit by a blast of daylight and stood there blinking for a few seconds.
'Mr Naple-Bow?'
'OK. I'm at the window. What do I do?'
It suddenly occurred to me I was about to be shot at or something so I stepped back and sat on the bed. But the voice told me, 'So now, please looking across the harbour towards Hong Kong side. Please finding with eye old Chinese junk in middle of water.'
I stood up again and searched around till I saw a junk. It was about a hundred and fifty yards out in the channel, and other boats chugged all around it in the morning sun. Busy but peaceful.
'Yeah. I can see it. But what is all this? Where are you?' 'That is not important. Please listening to what I say. What I saying is most important.'
His 'r's and 'l's were going all over the place. I had to concentrate to catch everything he said. 'OK,' I told him. 'What's next?'
'At front of Chinese junk is two men. One man is old drug addict. He no good. He steal and commit murder for drugs. But very useful for showing you we serious people.'
I was getting a vague premonition of what was to come.
The Chinese voice said, 'OK, mister, you watching? Now you see old man falling into water. We do pushing.'
Halfway across the harbour the old man fell off the junk and I could just make him out as he splashed around in the water.
The telephone voice started again.
'Now you please looking twenty yards to left of old man. You see fast motor-boat coming real quick?'
Sure, I saw it, only ten yards away now, and then it ran over the struggling arms and there was no more splashing. All around the harbour everything looked as usual. Ferry?boats, pleasure-boats, rowing-boats, police-boats. No one had noticed anything. The junk bobbed gently onwards. The motor-boat was nowhere to be seen. I wasn't sure it had happened.
The telephone said, 'OK, mister, now I think you taking us serious. But please remember not hurting nice people. Old man was not nice people. Welcome to our organisation. Have a good day.'
After that it was pretty difficult to have any sort of a day. I was left in an indecisive trance. For a while I sat in the hotel room staring out at the harbour and trying to persuade myself that what I'd seen hadn't really happened. I wanted to run away but I was certain that leaving Hong Kong without talking first to Sammy Cheong was a dangerous move. He'd said he was going to call me at two in the afternoon so I decided to go out for a walk till then. But by now I was totally neurotic and I was sure I was being watched. I kept turning round suddenly and staring back along the street. Then I hurried round corners to dodge imaginary (or real) people who were following me.
At two I went back to the hotel and sat by the phone.
Sammy Cheong rang at ten to three. He asked if I'd slept well, commented on the weather being slightly cooler and then said, 'About our little talk yesterday. We've been in touch with our clients and I don't have very good news for you.'
My mouth went dry. After what I'd seen that morning bad news from these people could only be totally terrifying.
Sammy Cheong continued. 'After our clients told us to contact you they did more research, and now they've decided to try something with television instead. They're not interested in your project after all, so I'm afraid we've rather wasted your time. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed your stay in Hong Kong and if you want to, please stay on a couple of days at our expense. It will all be paid for.'
He hung up and I was at the airport half an hour later. I really didn't believe I was going to be allowed to get on a plane alive. But nothing happened.
It was four years before I ventured back to Hong Kong again, and even longer before I learnt to relax and enjoy it. But whichever hotel I stay at I always seem to be the only guest who doesn't make a fuss about wanting a harbour-view room.