The Jade Figurine

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La Croix had not changed much in the three years since I had last seen him. He still resembled a young and slightly anemic Charles Boyer; his clothes-white linen suit, white Hong Kong-tailored shirt, brown-and-white wing-tip shoes-still looked as if he had slept in them for perhaps a week; his smile was still ingratiating and just a little unctuous; and he still smelled almost whorishly of red gardenia-scented cologne.

But there were some differences: deep pockets of shadow lay beneath his guileless brown eyes, as if purplish actor’s make-up had been heavily applied there. His pale face was gaunt-cheeked-and even though he was making an effort to veil it behind the smile, he had a harried, hunted look about him.

He stood in the doorway of my flat in Punyang Street, in Singapore’s Chinatown, and pumped my hand vigorously. His palms were slick with perspiration. It was just a little past eight of a midweek morning, and despite the fact that the tropical sun already lay outside my bamboo-shaded window like a burning hole in the bright eastern sky, I didn’t think it was the heat that was causing him to sweat.

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