The Year of Dangerous Loving. John Davis Gordon
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this is a wonderful triumph of human endeavour, a splendid tribute to Chinese industriousness, to sheer guts and sangfroid. This tiny colony on the China coast was a magnificent monument to British law – he was proud of it, although he hated the social nonsense, the one-upmanship. For all he was sick and tired of the law, he was proud of the high standard of justice, proud to be one of the standard-bearers, and he hated all that being trampled underfoot when China took over in 1997 …
He cleared the fairway, then swung between the mass of anchored freighters, into the international lane. There was no wind; the sea was flat, a haze hanging over the islands. He steamed past the end of big Lantau Island, measured off the compass course to Macao on his chart, turned the helm and pushed the automatic-pilot button. He went below to the saloon, down the alleyway to his aft master-cabin, stripped off his suit, and pulled on a pair of shorts. He went back to the galley, switched on the refrigerator, put a dozen beers in and opened one. He took it up to the cockpit. The sea ahead was empty but for the string of China islands: oh, this is what he would like to do with the rest of his life, with Olga – throw away the calendar and sail the world!
It was sunset when he reached the cloudy waters of Macao. He chugged past the ferry terminal, under the high Taipa Bridge, between the junks and sampans, and edged into the Club Nautico. He tied up, hurried ashore and checked in with the Portuguese authorities. Then telephoned Olga.
‘Hullo, darling!’ she cried.
He was grinning with anticipation as he waited for her. When he saw her running down the jetty, laughing, it seemed he had been away a long time.
She was enthralled by the yacht: by the mellow teak, the brass lamps, the spacious saloon, the galley with the little bar, the cosy sleeping cabins. ‘Such luxury! And that nice big bunk in our cabin, oh boy, so sexy! And two bathrooms!’ She was very impressed by the galley: ‘A deepfreeze and a refrigerator! Wow – in Russia we are lucky if we have one small fridge, very old! And such a stove! I can show you what a good cook I am, darling, then you will think I am wonderful!’
‘I think you’re pretty wonderful now.’ He was delighted with her pleasure.
She was fascinated by the wheelhouse: the radar, the satellite navigation system, the sextant, the charts, the radio, the automatic pilot. ‘Air-conditioning … You told me you had a boat, not a palace!’ She went scouting around the upper deck, examining winches and cleats and ropes and halyards, demanding the function of each item. ‘Two steering wheels, two compasses …’ She held a finger up at his nose: ‘But only one Olga, sir! No girls with big tits on my boat!’ Hargreave laughed with her. ‘With this boat can we sail around the world?’
‘Of course, she’s built for it.’
‘Oh, let’s do it! Would it cost a lot of money?’
‘The wind is free.’
‘And love is free! And catching fish is free. And then money is unimportant! Oh darling –’ she hugged him tight – ‘can we please do it, I have some money saved! Around the world …’
That night they anchored off Coloane Island, not far from the Westin Resort Hotel. They lounged in the spacious cockpit in the moonlight, drinking wine. They could hear distant dance music coming from the hotel.
‘Would you like to go ashore in the dinghy for dinner?’
‘When we have our own palace for free? This is so exciting for me!’
She cooked up a storm of prawns followed by sweet arid sour pork. They ate in the teak-panelled saloon by candlelight. Later, lying in the big double bunk in the aft cabin, spent, the moon beaming through the porthole, she stroked his eyebrow and said:
‘I am so happy. You mustn’t worry about Vladimir, darling.’
He wasn’t worried; he’d cross the bridges as he came to them – for the time being he could afford this happiness. ‘What did he say, exactly?’
‘Oh, he thinks he’s such a tough guy. He tried to make me bring the credit-card machine but I refused. Imagine such bad manners, going on your boat with the machine! I said we would pay for this weekend but no more, next week is my vacation. He protested so I wrote in my pay-book, “Olga is making her holidays from Monday to Sunday” and I walked out. The girls all agreed with me, even the Chinese manager who likes me to sing said it was okay. And for this weekend I am giving you back my share, I have cash in my bag.’
Hargreave loved her for that. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to keep it, but he stopped himself – he didn’t want to establish any precedents he might later regret. Moreover, whilst he was paying her he had control of the situation, the relationship. All he wanted was her, but it was early days yet for a commitment. ‘He knows you’ll be with me all next week?’
‘No, only this weekend. He suspects, of course, but I said I was resting and going shopping and going to the beach. If he looks for you in the hotels he will not find you, will he? He does not know about this lovely boat! So I’ve tricked that pig.’
Hargreave doubted her trick would work, but he was glad she’d tried it. ‘Is he so bad?’
‘Such a pig, all the girls say so. And always trying to fuck us.’
He wanted her out of that life. ‘And have you?’
‘Me? Vladimir? I would rather die!’
Thank God for that. ‘Does he pester you?’
‘Now he’s stopped, he knows what I think of him.’
‘Does he dislike you too?’
‘Pigs like him don’t have feelings, they’re just greedy.’
‘Does he know who I am?’
‘No. I haven’t told anybody, not even Yolanda, she thinks you’re a businessman.’ She put her arm around him and squeezed. ‘I wouldn’t betray you, darling, please don’t worry; I am very proud of you, I would like to tell everybody, but I know this life.’ She hugged him. ‘And now shall we stop worrying about Mr Vladimir and think about the lovely time we are going to have? Can I catch a fish tomorrow?’
The next morning they woke up late because they were making love much of the night. There was hardly a breeze but Olga wanted to sail: Hargreave would rather have stayed in bed with her but he wanted to please her. There are few places to sail around Macao because it is ringed by China’s islands and mainland, so he headed back to the Club Nautico, went to the Marine Department to complete port-clearance formalities, then headed back into the international lane. He unfurled the genoa. The breeze had improved, the big sail filled and wrenched, and he cut the engine.
The yacht creamed along at a graceful four knots in the silence, slightly heeled. Olga was enthralled. ‘It is so thrilling …!’ She examined the sheets and halyards carefully, asking the function of each. ‘So to make the sail smaller you wind it up with this rope?’
‘On that electric winch.’ He pointed.
‘Electric! And to make it bigger you give out more rope?’
‘Right. And to trim the sail, to tighten it, you heave in with this rope, on this winch.’
‘Right. Very good. Now how do we work the big sail?’
He operated the electric winch and the mainsail came sliding out of the mast. It filled and the boat heeled a little more.
‘Oh, wonderful. Now explain how you did that, captain.’
She climbed around the boat studying the system, pointing out parts to herself and figuring out their function. Hargreave watched her from the cockpit, charmed by her enthusiasm: he looked at her clambering around in her bikini, at her golden curves and he felt he was the luckiest man in the world. And she didn’t get seasick. He had been concerned about that possibility. The hydrofoil overtook them and she waved energetically and laughed with glee when its wash sent the yacht pitching. Macao was dropping over the horizon