The Moneylender and the Gambler

 

 

 

THE MONEYLENDER AND THE GAMBLER

 

 

I

 

            That morning – in March 1962 - I was trying to feel at home in my office in the Japanese Block of the University of Singapore. Conscience prompted me to concentrate on the examination scripts I had to mark. But as was to be expected, every candidate sought to demonstrate his knowledge of the entire subject and failed to deal with the hidden issues. Worse still, many examinees recapitulated some of the jokes I had cracked in my lectures. Was I as poor a raconteur as my students?

            I was about to give up and join two of my colleagues for a cup of coffee in the staff canteen, when the telephone rang. For just a moment I was tempted not to answer. I knew I was late with the results and dreaded the aggressive voice of our examinations clerk. Then, with a shrug, I picked the receiver up.

            “Can I please speak with Mr. Peter?” The voice appeared familiar but, for just a moment, I could not identify my caller. A colleague would have left out the ‘Mr’.  A student or an administrative clerk would have addressed me as ‘Dr. Berger’ or as ‘Sir’. Then the penny dropped. The one and only person who called me ‘Mr. Peter’ was the monumental Sikh porter of the Joyous Bar. But then, why was he calling?

            “Speaking, Pratap” I told him.

            “Can I come talk to you today?”

            “3 o’clock would be fine. But what is this all about? And do you know our campus?”

            “Oh yes, I know campus. And I tell all when I come.”

            Bewildered, I stared in front of me. Pratap Singh had introduced me to the girl I was dating at the time. He smiled conspiratorially when I arrived just before she completed her shift at the Joyous Bar. In all other regards, though, Pratap and I lived in worlds apart. As far as I knew, he had never visited the university. What, then, had prompted him to come over?

 

            Sharp on time, Pratap knocked on my door. Instead of his grand and colourful uniform, resembling the attire of an officer in the Mogul empire, he wore a pair of plain trousers, a neat shirt and, of course, his turban. His portly figure dominated my cramped and untidy office. The look in his eyes told me he was ill at ease.

            “Well, Pratap, what good spirit has blown you over to our campus?”

            “You know Willie Chan, Mr. Peter?” he asked after a short pause.

            “Of course. He is one of my best students.”

            “This why I come. You please see document.”

 

To my amazement, he produced a promissory note – a hand note – in which Willie Chan undertook to pay ‘Mr Pratap Singh or order’ S$18,500.00 ‘six months after the date hereof.’ It looked a tidy, properly worded, document. Had it been drafted by a legally trained person or simply copied from a set of standard forms?  I was, further, perplexed by its contents. Was Willie Chan in a position to undertake the payment of a sum equalling a lecturer’s pay for nearly two years? 

            I knew Willie well. He was a final year student, enrolled in two of my courses. He was more imaginative than most of his contemporaries and was further set apart from them by his neat and easy flowing writing style. He aspired for a First-Class Honours degree and was doing his best to impress me with his insights.

            Willie resided in a dormitory called Raffles Hall. At that time, I was a Resident Fellow, which meant that I had a small flat in a choice wing. In this role, I was expected to mix with the students. To this end, I attended parties given at the Hall and usually had at least one meal a day in the spacious dining room. Frequently, Willie and I had breakfast or dinner together. On those occasions, Willie tended to talk about himself. He told me his parents had died during the Japanese occupation; but I suspected he might have been an abandoned offspring.  Be this as it may, he had been brought up in a Roman Catholic orphanage.

            When Willie completed his secondary school, one of his teachers – a Miss Winifred Smith – offered to sponsor his university studies. She was a devout Roman catholic, who knew Willie well from his childhood at the orphanage. Having remained a spinster, she treated Willie like a son. On many a Sunday, he accompanied her to mass and, generally, pronounced his belief in her religion. He had taken his act of faith during his teens.

            I had not met Willie’s sponsor. Still, on one occasion I spotted him when he accompanied her to church. She was a gaunt, simply dressed woman. Her limp, accentuated by her attempt to walk quickly, indicated she feared they would be late for mass.

 

            The promissory note produced by Pratap Singh gave me a jolt. How could a youngster, brought up in an orphanage and supported by a secondary school teacher, enter into a transaction which involved substantial amounts of money? Further, where would Willie have met Pratap Singh? The promissory note suggested that they had some joint ventures. Had the two men some alter egos unknown to me?

            “You surprised, Mr Peter,” observed Pratap.

            “I am. Willie is a believer. Where did you meet him?”

            “Sometime he work in Joyous Bar.”

            “I didn’t know this. What sort of job?”

            “If barman sick, we call Willie. Also, if cook not come.”

            “So, he needs money. But this note is for a very large amount.”

            “It is. But, Mr Peter, how well you know Willie?”

 

In the ensuing conversation, Pratap Singh told me he had lent money to Willie from to time. Willie lost a great deal of it at the races and in gambling joints. He was not a highflyer, who wasted money on expensive meals and fast women. As far as Pratap knew, Willie’s only weakness was gambling. He looked unhappy as he told me about it.

            “I think you like our Willie, Pratap. I can see it.”

            “I like. He excellent chef. Sometime, we invite him, and he cook hot curry. Better than my wife curry! He go market buy fresh spices: watches when grind. My wife buy curry powder from  grocer.”

            “He invited me to partake in some lovely curries he made, Pratap. And you know, he loves to throw curry parties. And his chicken liver curry is delicious. Even for my Angmoh palate, it’s not too hot. It’s excellent, especially when I take it with Yoghurt. But, look here Pratap, you like him. So how come you have his note for such an amount. You are a careful chap.”

Initially, the emerging story appeared unbelievable. As far as I knew, Willie Chan was a sincere man of faith. Then I recalled some notable episodes. One took place when I discovered that our Hall had a ‘cafeteria’ with Mah-Jong tables.  On quite a few occasions I joined the ranks in the hope of enjoying a game of skill with local undergraduates.

Mah-Jong is not a mere a game of chance. Usually, four players take part. The tiles, used instead of cards, are shuffled and then arranged as four two-tier rows, one facing each player. Each player takes thirteen tiles. In the ensuing game, each player picks up a tile and discards another. The object is to gather thirteen or fourteen tiles arranged in one of a number of given sequences, for instance, three sets of identical tiles plus a set of two. A player wins when the last tile he picks up enables him to produce one of these acceptable sequences.

The victorious hand is assessed on its merit. If, for instance, all the winner’s tiles are in but one of the available suits, the hand has a ‘high scoring’. A mere termination of a game, with sets from different suits, is a poor win.

I had played Mah-Jong with my classmates of our secondary school in Tel Aviv, using a set presented to us by a Jewish tourist from Shanghai. It took us some time to master the complex rules. Once we did, we rose to the challenge. Each of our four players did his best to bring a game to its end by producing a good hand, akin to a royal flush in poker.

We appreciated that a player could terminate a session by arranging all his tiles in one of the acceptable sequences regardless of whether his hand was high scoring or weak. In technical language, he could ‘Pong Mah-Jong’ as soon as his ‘hand’ qualified. But a termination with a weak hand was frowned upon.

The players in Singapore had a different philosophy. Their object was to ‘Pong Mah- Jong’ as quickly as possible. In the long run a player made money – or came out as a winner – if he ‘Pong Mah-Jonged’ often enough. It soon dawned on me that the object of the players in Singapore was to make a profit. The games in Tel Aviv had involved scoring (or ‘merit points’) but, usually, no money.

The players in Singapore were highly skilled. Further, they had a knack for giving misleading signals. Some, for instance, discarded tiles with the object of confusing their opponents. On other occasions, a player held onto a specific tile to prevent an opponent from ending with a high score. From his point of view, it was preferable to lose out to a weak rather than to a high scoring hand.

When the nature of the local game became clear to me, I considered quitting. I knew I was unable to win, especially as my opponents enjoyed ganging-up on me. They were teaching their Angmoh Fellow their own mores.

Fortunately, Willie stepped into the gambling room during a disastrous session, just before I resolved to leave. Having taken in the scene, he said something in Mandarin and then joined our table. In no time, the game regained the respectable ambience of Tel Aviv. In the event, each session took longer than prior to Willie’s entrance. But the scores of the hands produced by the players were on the high side.

By the end of the evening, I made a marginal profit. All the same, I left with a nagging concern. Had the skilful players of our Hall humoured me? A short chat with Willie, when we breakfasted together next morning, settled any doubts. Politely but firmly, he told me that my way of playing the game was alien to our students. My emphasis was on dexterity; theirs was on profit-taking.

“Should I quit, Willie?”

“I think so, Sir. They will play your way when you join them. But they don’t like this. Wilson Wong tells me there is a fine Mah-Jong room in the Tanglin Club. They also have a bridge room and chess room. You may find them suitable.”

“Do any of our chaps play bridge or chess?”

“I do. But I don’t go to European clubs often. You see, expatriates don’t play for money.”

Willie’s idea of directing my feet to games of skill made sense. I was a proficient bridge player. In due course, I became a regular attendant at the Tanglin Club’s bridge room. Still, from time to time I dropped into the Hall’s Mah-Jong room to kibitz. On many occasions, Willie was one of the players. More often than not he came out as the winner.

“Willie plays Mah-Jong,” I told Pratap.

“I know,” said Pratap.

“He is a champion, I think.”

“Maybe,” replied Pratap dryly.

Pratap’s laconic assent reminded me of another episode. One sunny Sunday morning I went in the company of some friends to the turf club. We betted on some races. Within two hours I lost the amount I was prepared to risk. So did all my colleagues except one, who invited us to a fine dinner to enjoy the spoils.

Although some secondary events were still in progress, most spectators departed. The aficionados alone remained behind, hoping to make money from betting on the remaining races. As we left, I spotted Willie. He was queuing up in front of the betting counter, with a pre-filled form in his hand. At that time, I considered it a lapse. Still, I was surprised Willie had not chaperoned his sponsor to their church. However, Singapore was enjoying its school holidays at that time. I assumed that Willie’s sponsor had flown to Edinburgh to visit her mother.

“I wonder if Willie likes to bet on horses,” I told Pratap.

“Slow horses. He also buy Lottos and Tottos,” muttered Pratap, referring to the few legitimate balloting events. After some hesitation, he added: “And he go some illegal betting places.”

“Is he a gambler?” I sought clarification.

“Yes.”

“But you like him, Pratap.”

“Of course, Mr Peter. And wife tell me ask over. He always bring something for house. But, yes, he gambler.”

It dawned on me that, all in all, Willie could be a hard-core gambler. Indeed, some other scenes from my acquaintance with him supported Pratap’s indictment. For instance, he placed bets on the outcome of the weekly tugs-of-war of our Hall. I had closed my eyes to the self-evident facts.

Further, I recalled that on some occasions Willie had been singularly generous. On others he appeared short of cash and subdued. The cause was now obvious. One point, though, remained unclear. How had Pratap become familiar with our winding and spread-out campus? In my early days in Singapore I had, occasionally, lost my way in it.

“I look after Willie when fell ill last year. One day I take to clinic. On way, he showed me Japanese Block and say your office there.”

“You looked after him when he was ill?”

“Of course. Willie is friend.”

“But then, Pratap, why this hand note? Why do you need such a document from a friend.”

“But, Mr. Peter, friendship is friendship; business is business.”

“I don’t understand,” I prevaricated.

“If Willie no food, I invite or take out. But loan is business. So he must pay back.”

“How much did you lend him?”

“Is not so simple. You see, first time I lend $2,000 and he promise  pay $4,000 at  end of month. When he not pay, he ask me ‘roll it over’. So I tell him:  pay $8,000 after another two months. Then  borrow more. So I think better get hand-note.”

I looked at him with amazement. In terms of real annual interest, the rate was phenomenal. Was Pratap a usurious moneylender? Did he hold a licence? Moreover, why had he turned to me? He knew I was unaware of Willie’s nefarious activities.

“It’s not a nice story, Pratap. But what can I do about it?”

“Willie respect you.”

“So?”

“Please ask him pay. He win; so I can get money back. And, Mr Peter, I cannot let go. You see, other borrowers can then also say ‘no’. I cannot be hard on some and soft on others.”

“You are not going to use the piranha tank, surely?” My reference to the carnivorous fish, who gnawed off a hand forced into their tank, did not baffle Pratap.

“No need,” he observed solemnly. “My men beat him up. And I not want this. I like him.”

“Why on earth did you demand such a high rate?”

“You think Willie get money from bank?”

“Of course not. A gambler is a bad risk.”

“So you see, Mr. Peter, I take risk.”

“So if you lose out, why not forget about it?”

“You know what happens if other debtors find out. I told you.”

For a few minutes I reflected. Then I gave way: “Alright, I’ll talk to him.”

 

A few days later, I spotted Willie in the Mah-Jong room. His smirk and radiant expression convinced me that he was going through a winning streak. When the game was over, he invited me to join him for dinner. As often before, we proceeded to the China Town market, where the food was reasonably priced and excellent.

“That was a sumptuous meal, Willie. Thanks.”

“You love our local dishes, Sir.”

“I do, if they are not too spicy. But now, Willie, I’ve got to talk to you about a different matter.”

 “So, you came to our den to see me?”

“I did, rather. You see, Willie, I had a visit from a mutual friend of ours.”

“Wilson Wong, by any chance? He stopped coming over to the Hall when the new term started. He moved in with his auntie.”

“No, Willie. It wasn’t Wilson Wong. I, too, haven’t seen him for weeks.”

“So, who was it?” asked Willie awkwardly.

“Pratap Singh, Willie. I know him from the Joyous Bar. He showed me that hand note of yours. You owe him a lot of money. Is it really your note?”

“It is, Sir.”

“How could you? $16,500 is what I earn in two years.”

“I understand, Sir. But, you see, I cannot help myself.”

“Why?”

“I always try to give the table a miss. Sometimes I escape to the church. But many times I can’t control my urge. Have you never placed a bet, Sir?”

“Only from my own money, Willie. I never borrow.”

“Then you don’t have a gambling streak. You are lucky.”

I was aware of the nature of uncontrollable drives. One of my friends in Israel had been a compulsive gambler. He solved his problem by taking his life. A girl I knew well was a compulsive drinker. She had serious liver problems before she reached forty. Drugs and sex too could be compulsive.

The few who managed to kick their habit usually relied on their own internal resources. Others did so by making an act of faith and turning to Providence. Most addicts, though, were beyond help.  I suspected that Willie fell into this group. Still, I tried my best to solve his immediate problem. His next words indicated there was a remote chance.

“If Pratap came over to see you, he is still a friend, Sir.”

“He is. But he draws a distinction between friendship and business. We need to mollify him.  How much did he lend you?”

“There were a few roll-overs, Sir.”

“He told me. Still, how much cash did he give you?”

“About $5,500, I think. The balance is interest. It’s his usual rate.”

“How much can you pay him?”

“I have eight thousand dollars. But I can’t give him all my capital. I must try to win some money back.”

“Do you owe money to others?”

“Not much,” he told me frankly.

 

I saw no point in getting further information. In any event, I found the episode distasteful. Both Willie and Pratap were good acquaintances. I liked them. At the same time, I had no wish to get embroiled in their affairs. Once I sorted out the current problem, I would be entitled to avoid any further entanglements.

            In more than one way, I was treading on thin ice. Under the law of Singapore, Pratap’s lending transactions could not be enforced by a legal action. Once it was established that he lent money to a number of people so as to make a gain, he would be deemed an unregistered moneylender. He could be prosecuted and fined. In addition, his job as a Jaga [porter] in the Joyous Bar was in jeopardy. No hotel in Singapore would employ a ‘criminal’.

Willie, too, was in a cul-de-sac. If his gambling activities became public knowledge – for instance, by a reference in the Press – he might not be allowed to practise law. Regardless of any success in his studies, the law society might decline an application for his admission. He could also incur the displeasure of his sponsor. She was making a financial sacrifice to see him through. Would she forgive the squander of funds in gambling?

My own standing, too, was on the line. The University’s authorities were bound to take exception to staff members involved directly or indirectly in gambling or illicit moneylending. The renewal of my contract of employment would be in jeopardy. I could, of course, protect my back by telling both Willie and Pratap that their affairs were none of my business. But I was loath to take such a stand.

“There is only one way out,” I told Willie. “You must have a chat with Pratap. He may agree to settle on friendly terms.”

“Can I meet him at your office, Sir? He will listen to you.”

 

To my relief, the protagonists faced each other cordially. I was certain they wanted to clear the air. Both feared the limelight and the ensuing notoriety involved in publicity. In addition, they liked one another.

Initially, Pratap Singh was adamant. His transactions with Willie were made in good faith; and he had done Willie a favour.

“But then, Pratap, why did you ask Willie to execute the hand note?”

“I want things be clear,” he replied after a pause.

“I thought it was?” I let my surprise show.

“Amounts and dates can confuse,” explained the huge Jaga. Then, after another pause, he added: “Sometime man confuse friendship and business. When have document all clear.”

“I can see Pratap’s point,” volunteered Willie with a tinge of bitterness. “But Pratap knew where I was going to spend the money.”

“But if you win, you share profit with me?” asked Pratap.

“Of course not. I repay your money with interest.”

“You see,” summed up Pratap.

 

His last words cleared the air. The deal involved moneylending. Pratap did not enter into a joint venture. He was not a partner to Willie’s gambling activities. He was too cautious, too worldly, to throw his money onto the roulette table.

            All the same, his words provided an opening for negotiations. As was to be expected, Pratap conceded that his rates were high. Still, ordinary financial institutions, or even licensed moneylenders, would not advance funds for gambling purposes. After some probing on my part, he accepted that he had lent Willie less than half the amount of the note. Initially, he insisted that all this – including the high rate – had been clear from the start and resisted any attempt to accept less than the amount of the note. Willie, in turn, pointed out that he simply did not have that much. If he paid back all he had, he would have no chance to win money back.  In the end, I persuaded both that we ought to re-open the set of loans.

            “You see, Pratap, you took the risk of loosing out, didn’t you,” I reasoned with him.

            “Of course. This my risk. But you see, Mr Peter, I know Willie has money. He win a lot last week.”

            “How do you know?” asked Willie.

            “My men watch you.”

            “You never trust anybody. Did you think I would run away?”

            “I want be sure. I trust friend but not gambler.”

 

Both were getting acrimonious. I sensed that before long they would reach the point of no return. It seemed best to step in.

            “I can see the points of both of you. Let’s leave the morals out. You, Pratap, lent money at a very high rate. And you, Willie, went ahead and borrowed. Now you have money. Let’s see how much you can pay back.”

            To my relief, Willie produced his roll. He offered to pay Pratap $7,000.00 out of his $8,000.00 ‘stake’. He needed the remaining $1,000.00 for the next race. Pratap took the money but then changed his mind.

            “Six thousand five hundred dollars enough. Good luck next race,” he told his bewildered friend. He then produced the hand note and tore it into shreds. The matter was over.   

 

II

 

            A few months later I married. Later still, a university in New Zealand offered me a professorship. Both Pratap Singh and Willie Chan were far away from our new abode. Still, I remembered both with affection. I intended to look them up when I became eligible for a few months of sabbatical leave. As my wife’s family resided in Singapore, we were bound to spend a few days over there.

 

            Shortly after our arrival I went over to the Joyous Bar. The new porter told me Pratap had retired. At my request, he went to their office and brought me a slip with Pratap’s address.

I got the news about Willie when I called on one of his classmates, who had been elevated to the local Bench. His Honour looked displeased when I asked about Willie and then produced a cutting from a newspaper. It showed a blurred photograph of Willie and included a report about his sad case. He had misappropriated clients’ money and been convicted of criminal breach of trust. Having pleaded guilty to the charges, he was sentenced to six years in prison.

            “I didn’t expect this!” I let my disappointment show.

            “Didn’t you know he was a gambler, Prof?”

            “I knew but thought he would get over it.”

            “They never do – don’t you know?” 

            “But why did he have to steal the money? Why didn’t he borrow?”

            “Who would have lent him? Everybody had a glimpse long ago.”

            “But didn’t he know he was bound to get caught?”

            “He hoped to win it back – they always do.”

            “Hopefully, prison is not too rough on him. I’ll visit him,” I muttered.

            “I don’t think he’ll see you. Quite a few of his mates called on him. He said he wasn’t well enough to cope. I suppose he’s too embarrassed. But, you know, he sees some church people. They say he is repenting.”

           

            Initially, Willie agreed to see me. But when I arrived at Changi – using my brother-in-law’s car – the officer in charge told me the prisoner was ill. As I left the complex, my eye caught sight of a woman, well past her prime, wearing a shabby old-fashioned skirt and holding a worn out handbag. She was limping in the direction the bus stop. As I recognised her, it also dawned on me she might have just visited the very man I had been hoping to see.

            “Miss Winifred Smith?” I asked with hesitation.

            “Well?” she looked startled.

            “Have you, per chance, visited Willie Chan?”

            “Why do you want to know?”

            “I was his teacher. I’m just passing through Singapore on my way to Frankfurt. He told me a lot about you when I was a warden in Raffles Hall. Can I give you a lift?”

As I steered the car through the traffic, I told her all about Willie’s days at the hall. I had hoped he would get over his gambling drive, especially as he topped his form and got his First-Class degree. He was bound to get a good job.

            “What drove him back to the gambling tables?” I wanted to know.

            “I have no idea. He was, I think, alright in school. It started when he enrolled in the university. We talked about it often. He always promised to mend his ways. For a while I insisted on taking him to church every Sunday. But it was no good.”

            “Do you know anything about his parents? Who were they?”

            “The orphanage doesn’t ask, and if they know, they don’t tell. But why does this matter? Surely, gambling is not hereditary. I’m sure Willie does not know his parents.”

            “I suspect they abandoned him. How could they do this?”

            “You assume they were married. Suppose his mother made a mistake?”

            “Even so. How could she? And – come to think of it – where was the father?”

            “He might have escaped as soon as he realised the girl was in trouble. Some men are like that.” She did not display any annoyance. She was doing her best to remain objective.

            “Did you sponsor him because you felt sympathy?”

            “Not really. You see, he was such a bright spark: articulate, charming when he chose to be, and I thought he had a good core.”

            “Would you have done it even if you had suspected he had a gambling streak?” I asked tactlessly.

            “I think so. I would have tried to influence him. And, you know, he was – still is – a decent fellow. He married a really nice girl and she told me he was a model husband and a good father.”

            “I thought she divorced him?” I told her, startled.

            “Her parents’ decision. She wanted to stick it out with him; but they refused to support her unless she dropped him.  Perhaps they were right. And she reverted to her maiden name.”

            “I am pretty sure he wanted to see me. How come he changed his mind? The warder told me he has taken ill. But, surely, he saw you.”

            “He is ashamed of his past. He sees only Father William, who preaches solace in faith, and me. Some of his classmates had the same experience as you. He was keen to see them but then couldn’t.”

            I had no further questions to ask. Willie’s willingness to talk to a priest did not surprise me. Many a rake sees the light when the right opportunity comes up. In most cases this inner light extinguishes itself when he has the chance to revert to his misdeeds.

            “You don’t think much of his future?” asked Winifred Smith, who had been watching me keenly.

            “I suspect I don’t. But you see, I still like Willie. He is a nice chap. I remember how he treated me to some fine meals: his curries were excellent. I never wondered how he got his cash. I was too fond of him and – frankly – of the treats. I still can’t understand why he was unable to stop himself. And I hate to see him down. Candidly, I do wish he had a fresh start. But I am pessimistic.”

            “Let’s hope Father William succeeds where others have failed,” she said resignedly.

            I dropped her outside a run-down apartment block in the vicinity of the orphanage. She proceeded to the staircase without turning back.

 

III

 

            When I arrived back at my room in my brother-in-law’s house, I found the slip of paper with Pratap Singh’s address. I must have dropped it when I changed my trousers but the conscientious ahma put it back on my bedside table.

            Pratap was not surprised when I called on him. He knew I had gone down to Changi to see Willie. One of the warders – an old buddy – had told Pratap about it.

            In more than one way, Pratap’s appearance gave me a jolt. He was wearing neither the uniform I had come to know so well nor the simple Western clothes he had put on when he had come to see me in the university. Instead, he was wearing a sarong and a Batik shirt. He was not wearing his turban. I also noticed he had aged and had put on weight. But his glance told me he had retained his vigour and zest for life.

After the common pleasantries, I went straight to the point.

            “Have you seen Willie after his scandal?”

            “Only one time, Mr Peter, before they give him six year.  He told me bad luck. He wanted one break. If he win one race, he say he pay all of it back. After that – he told me – he  quit. They always say this.”

            “Did you lend him any money after he finished law school?”

            “He never ask.”

            “But would you have given him some if he had asked?”

            “No, Mr. Peter. I know he never stop.”

            “And you never saw him in Changi?”    

“No. I sure he not want  see old friends. And what for? He serve out sentence. But I ask friends be kind to him. They treat well and is model prisoner.”

“So you have friends in the prison?”

“Two warders.”

            “It is good of you to help him. But what will happen when Willie comes out?”

            “He leave Singapore. But have friends in Kuala Lumpur. They find  job where  cannot take money.”

            “What is he doing in the prison?”

            “He work in kitchen. He good chef.”

            I sensed that Pratap did not want to tell me any more about Willie. He had not abandoned him. Further, the idea of getting Willie employment as a chef made sense. He would thrive on  any job that would keep him out of trouble.

            “And what are you yourself  doing these days, Pratap?”

            “Same old business, Mr Peter. I make good money and, you know, I very careful.”

            “But how do you know if a fellow will pay you back?”

            “I try judge him. Like I knew Willie pay me back if has money. I take risk when  borrower cannot pay.”

            “Do you ask your men to take care of him?”

            “Depends,” he prevaricated.

            “And why did you leave the Joyous Bar?”

            “Tough job; stand hours in hot sun. And  pay poor. Now my boy and girl good jobs. I  take things easy.”

            “Your boy and girl?”

            “Daughter take your course in Wellington. She tell you tough teacher.”

            “And your boy?”

            “He doctor; work in General Hospital.”

            “They live with you?”

            “Both  married.  Wife and I have big house empty.”

            Pratap invited me to have supper with them. I accepted gratefully. Pratap’s wife was a pleasant woman. The conversation flowed but steered clear of Willie. Pratap had told me what he thought I should know.

 

IV

 

            A few days later Pat and I flew onward to Europe. We travelled to Singapore frequently during our years in New Zealand and in Australia but normally proceeded to Europe or Canada. The visits were short and so I had little time to enquire about Willie’s whereabouts. And I did not call on Pratap Singh. Eventually, though, we spent a year in Singapore when I got tired of the administrative functions associated with my post in Australia.

 

            Some two months after we resettled in a university flat, I went to visit Pratap Singh. This time he was surprised to see me. I, too, was perplexed. Pratap had shaved off his beard. He was bald and looked smaller. Had he shrunk with age?

            “I saw you in street, Mr. Peter. You not recognise me.”

            “You look different Pratap. Why did you shave off your beard?

            “Is nuisance. Very itchy.”

           

            As before, Pratap invited me to have dinner in his spacious bungalow. To my surprise, the food was served by an amah.

            “Wife died two years ago. Heart attack.”

            “I am sorry, Pratap,” was all I could say.

            “She good wife. And so sudden.”

            “Better than suffering before you go, Pratap.”

            “I know. But house empty. I want sell and buy  small flat in  condo.”

            The amah brought in the dishes. The curries had a lovely smell. But they were bound to be hot. Pratap grinned when he saw my expression.

            “These two – near you – not so hot,” he assured me. “But you try this one.  Is hot but take  with yoghurt.”

            “It’s excellent,” I conceded. “Where did you get these spices?”

            “From Willie. You see, Mr. Peter, son and daughter not come see me. Perhaps they  ashamed. But Willie come over every time he fly down.”

            “What became of him?”

            “He chef of curry restaurant in K.L.  – very posh.”

            “Who lent him the money. He is a bad risk, isn’t he?”

            “So I refuse lend him. But, you know, I little to do now. So we become partners. I fly up every two week. And he cannot take money from account without my signature.”

            “And if the business fails, Pratap? You used to say that lending is a better business than a partnership!”

            “But Mr. Peter – I really not mind. So boy and girl get less when I go. But business not fail. Willie excellent chef and customers love restaurant. So, don’t you worry.”

            “And how about your old business?”

            “Boy and girl say moneylending not respectable. So, Mr. Peter, I retire.”

            “You were always a smart fellow,” I told him. “But can you afford to lose your investment.”

            “Sure can. Have some houses. But, you know, I like help Willie. He good fellow and  friend.”

            “Has he stopped gambling?”

            “I not know for sure, Mr. Peter. I not ask. But he cannot take money from restaurant. And you see, my lawyer tell me register it as  private company.”

            “So you are not liable for debts,” I grinned.

            “True. Make profit; but no loss!”

 

            Just as I was getting ready to leave, the telephone rang. Initially, I wondered whether the caller was either Pratap’s son or his daughter. Then I heard Pratap’s reply.

            “Good hear from you, Willie. And you know who here? … No, Willie, no! Ranjan and Mali  busy. They always is. Your old teacher: Mr. Peter. He like your curry.”

            For a few minutes they conversed. Then  Pratap told me Willie would like to speak to me.

            “Long time no see, Sir. I hope you are fit and well.”

            “Oh, I’m OK, Willie. But last time I came to see you, you were ill.”

            “I have put all this behind me, Sir. Please get my address from Pratap and come and have a meal here. I’ll make the chicken liver curry you liked so much – with Yoghurt.”

            “You have a good memory, Willie.”

            “Always had, Sir. I remember how you pushed me to my First.”

            “You could have been a courtroom virtuoso, Willie.”

            “Perhaps. But I enjoy life here. It’s just the right job for me. I love it when patrons savour my dishes and come back. It feels great.”

            “So Fortuna smiled on you again, Willie.”

            “Fortuna?”

            “You call her Karma. But she is the same lady.”