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cloudbursts, something to be momentarily frowned at and forgotten in the next moment's thrall. She is more worried about her signif-cance, her duty to life and art. Is it possible she lives in a diminished age? She has heard older people speak of the good old days, the time of world wars, when life and people were meaning-ful. She despises even the suspicion that their talk is more than generational condescension. The first meeting: The air at the Hong Kong Jockey Club is smeared with perfume and cigarettes. A favor has been called in with a racetrack connection, and Gun Duk is mixing at an evening banquet, all agog at the jewelry, the tuxedos, the blinding dinner plates. An older woman - Japanese, he suspects, by the way she seems to be perpetually bowing even when she is completely still - is fending off the advances of a local boss. Bullethead, the locals call him.  | Dum-dum bullet is more like it, he muses, with that ever-widening body. Now Bullethead has one hand on her shoulder, and his long rubbery lips are homing in on her face. She is playing the embarrassment card, turning her head away, straining to break contact, and yet Bullethead edges closer for the unwanted kiss. So with the ease that comes from navigating claustrophobic dance clubs every night, he slides between them. How are you! he beams at the older woman. How long's it been? And with that he sweeps her away, and is startled to find that she moves in perfect time with him, not even a missed step or gasp of surprise. Do not worry, he says in Japanese. It's okay. She answers, in creditable Cantonese: Thank you. They both laugh at the exchange, and then trade names. Gun Duk. Miho. ***  | |
