The Fault of the Black Sage

I remember him to be a man of relative musculature, obviously vain, self-righteous and unfashionably uninspiring. I believe it must have been around the time of the Lunar New Year in 1948. A Caucasian man who finds himself in the company of Chinese immigrants along the streets of Chow Kit Road just after World War II is surely looking for one of three things. He walked into my store during a time of an economic boom and requested I pour him some tea before requisitioning my help.

I was right. Of the three things I had suspected a man of his stature to seek — money, health or wisdom — he spoke of wisdom, which at first I believed to be sincere and of steadfast character.

A tall tale of unrequited love began to spill from his twisted tongue, uttered by the man with the scar over his left brow, I filled his cup with more tea as he began to speak of a waitress working in a local Chinese restaurant.

“Before I ask of what pleases you and of what do you seek? Please tell me your name kind, sir,” I said as I graciously poured tea from my very modest but otherwise valuable teapot, brought with me by boat from Hong Kong Harbor.

“Thank you for affording me an audience,” said he in the utmost caution and humility. “My name is David and I seek the power to yield that which I hold most dear.”

“You speak of love as if it were at toy,” I said.

“It is by this subjectivity that I am afforded so much to say, and though I only want more, I cannot help but feel my reproach to be genuine. Can You help me?”

There was desperation in his voice as he began to paint me a picture of May Ling, a lowly commoner working in a Chinese Restaurant from just round the corner of my antique store. He fashioned a proposal to someone I might assume to be, in his opinion, of lesser standing and social status. He was an expat no less… but ignorant to be sure.