A Classical Reckoning

It was a masterpiece really. The ultimate coup de maitre, as the Frogs so aptly phrase such feats. And bloody well deserved, in the opinion of many literary devotees: myself included.

I would surely have recorded this tale at the time of its origins, but my only information then was gleaned from third-hand sources. Pub talk and the abortive attempt of a law suit reported in the morning dailies. None of them truly accurate. But Alastair wasn't available for comment.

Yes, Alastair Brett, the man who gave Hong Kong journalism it's best belly-laugh in decades. The man who put the L in literature: and isolated the RAT for all to see. Alastair, he of the perennial bow-tie and tweed jacket. The bachelor supreme. Alastair the Scholar. The spiritual disciple of Herodotus and Virgil, Homer and Milton. Brett the novelist, the historian, the poet - hmmm, especially the poet.

When the British government decided to honour the lease treaty on the issue of Victoria Island, Kowloon, the New Territories et al, and cede them back to Peking's austere control in 1997, Alastair concluded it was time to go. Go before he was too old to go: too set in his ways. So he sold his bungalow at Clearwater Bay for a premium price, and bought a cottage in England, on the coast of Cornwall.

I drove him to Chek Lap Kok to catch his flight for London, and while we sat at the department lounge bar awaiting the boarding announcement, he related the story. The truth, the whole tale. The why's and wherefore of six years previously.

Alastair Brett joined the All-Asia Review in 1969, and gave a good twenty years of devoted service under the publishing helm of Sir Michael Fitzgerald. At the time of Sir Michael's death, Alastair was literary editor for the monthly. When Hugh Fitzgerald took over his father's chairmanship, the wind of change was definitely in the air. The new broom sweeping clean, with accumulated cobwebs to be exorcised and back-room cormorants evicted. The old ways didn't pay. The future lay in current affairs features, in economic features, in ‘Advertising’.

Hugh was an educational product of those fine asset-strippers: the American business schools. "Oxford's loss - Harvard's gain," said some, while others held their contradictory views and opinions in astute abeyance.

During his first six months as chairman, Hugh cancelled the Woman's Page, the Prize Crossword, the 'Asia of a Century Ago' feature, and the Asian Arts double-page features.

'The stupid prick's trying to run a monthly like a bloody daily,' commented Hector Fraser one evening in the saloon bar of the King's Head on Harcourt Road. Hector was the Review's economic editor at that time, and not renown for his eloquent dialogue. 'He'll have us bloody bankrupt yet, just wait and see if he doesn't.'

Heads, up and down the bar, nodded with certain assent.

Then came the day Alastair was summoned to the Eagle's Nest: the chairman's office.
'Alastair old chap, sit down, take a pew,' Hugh Fitzgerald greeted him across his huge, carved hardwood desk. 'Like a spot of something to drink? Sherry be okay?'

'Sherry will be fine, Hugh,' Alastair replied. 'Dry, please, if you have.'

Hugh rose and poured two glasses of medium dry at the built-in bar. Returning to his seat, he placed one before Alastair, and sipped his own.

'Cheers Alastair, your good health.'

'Yes, cheers Hugh.'

They drank slowly, and contemplated each other across the desk's expanse.

'What do you intend when you retire Alastair? Back to the U.K., or carry on out of Clearwater Bay?' Hugh inquired.

Alastair smiled. 'Not thought about retirement really Hugh. Too early yet, I'm only fifty-two. I always imagined myself being found slumped across my desk: the final copy gripped in my rigid fingers, so to speak.'

'Yes, good way to go, I suppose. But you've given us twenty years now, Alastair. Don't you feel it's time for a breather: take a well-earned rest?'

'What are you telling me Hugh? That you have a new literary editor in mind? Fresh blood?'

'No, not quite, Alastair. I've no new literary editor in mind. In fact, I've no literary editor in mind at all.'

'You aren't intending to cut the literary section from the Review, surely? Good God, Hugh, my section has a great following all over Asia.'

'Alastair, you don't understand the strategy of the overall grand plan I'm dealing with here. I have to cut out features and sections of the magazine that my father established for a readership of two decades ago. Today's reading public aren't interested in the arts anymore. They want to know what's happening now. Current affairs. Economics. Will China be benign or barbarian after 1997? These are the issues the Review's readership wish to see in print.'

'We need more space for advertising too. This must provide a goodly portion of our publishing income during these coming years, Alastair. Thus I consider the cutting of the literary section a necessary, albeit somewhat sad undertaking. Sentiment has no place in business, as well you know, Alastair. This magazine isn't a shrine to my father's memory, but a journal whose invested interests have to show profit.'

'But Hugh, I'm not ready for retirement,' Alastair started anxiously. 'Do you plan to move me to another spot? I'm a formidable China-watcher, and can provide excellent analytical insight for the Review.'

Hugh shook his head very slowly, and gave a sad half-smile. 'I’m sorry Alastair, but I feel retirement is the best option I can offer you. Your redundancy cheque will amount to quite a sum, you know. Then you have your pension too. Please, let's part on good terms: as friends. Can we?'

Alastair stared at him. 'And when is my redundancy, my retirement, to take effect from Hugh?'

'Oh no, not until the end of the month. Carry on with your section as usual, until the end of May. Once the June issue is running print then you can call it a day. The accounts people will have everything ready for you by then. Final cheques and all that. I've great plans for our July edition, I hope you'll subscribe, Alastair.'
'Well, if that's the way it is to be, then there is little I can say or do to change your mind. But I thank you for the month of grace, Hugh. I will certainly try to give you a first-class presentation for our final literary section in the Review.'

'Good man, Alastair. Knew you'd understand and take it in your stride. I'm sure it'll be for the best - to our mutual benefits, you might say.'

As Alastair rode the elevator down to his own office's floor, he whispered to the confessional confidentiality of the chrome doors: sharing his true thoughts and feelings with them.
'Hugh, you damn imbecile. I'm glad Sir Michael isn't alive to view your supposed revitalizing of the Review. The magazine will soon have its literary content surpassed by the Trader's Weekly Journal.'

Word of the literary section's demise soon circulated the various departments, and Alastair was given condolences aplenty during the evening masses he and Hector Fraser jointly resided over in the King's Head saloon bar.

'Sorry to hear the bad news, Alastair.' 'The Review's going to miss your section, Mr. Brett.' 'Fuck 'em Alastair, take the redundancy and enjoy an early retirement.'
But the point was, Alastair didn't want to retire. Nor did he desire to plod the streets seeking a similar position: starting on another journal as "new boy" at his age.

He sat at home over the following week-end. Sat there in the lounge with a Glenlivet bottle for company. Sat there and brooded. On the Sunday morning he moved out of the house and sat on the terrace overlooking Clearwater Bay, the whiskey bottle by his side: untouched that day. Sat there and pondered: deeply pondered. By the time he commenced his drive to the Review's impersonal concrete and glass headquarters on the Monday morning, his mind was made up. Take the redundancy, claim your full pension, and give the All-Asia Review a memorable farewell.

Alastair shuffled his previously planned format around considerably during the following week. Yet his usual, his final, double-page literary section was completed and submitted on schedule.

The end of May drew close, and he collected his due salary and redundancy cheques from accounting: making arrangements with them to have his pension cheques paid into his Kowloon bank account each month. When a call came down to his office from Hugh Fitzgerald, he dutifully presented himself at the chairman's door.

Hugh was seated behind the carved oak monstrosity that served as his desk when Alastair was ushered into the office by a shapely Chinese secretary.

'Sit down, Alastair. Sherry for you?' Hugh began.

Alastair declined the offer of a drink and relaxed in the deep leather armchair, crossing his legs under the desk.

'Well, I've read your copy for our June issue. It all looks very good, as always, Alastair. I had a chat with Monty Sinclair, from the Times, the other day. He's interested to talk with you. Perhaps a nook for you in his organization. Worth a try, eh?'

Alastair sat and smiled, pyramiding his fingers together. Hugh is obviously nervous, he thought. Uncomfortable in his task. A twinge of conscience? Maybe.

'No Hugh, I've decided to accept your sound advice. Enjoy an early retirement, and perhaps write novels again. Take up my dusty quill once more, shake the cobwebs from the yellowing parchment, and lay ink to scroll. I'm all settled with accounts now, so I intend to take a short holiday over in Macao this coming week before commencing my retirement projects. Plenty of time on my hands at fifty-two, wouldn't you say?'

'Oh, certainly. Only hope I get the chance of an early retirement myself, Alastair, come the day.'

'Any changes in the final format of my section this month, Hugh? All to your liking?'

'A fine lay-out, Alastair: no complaints whatsoever. Your customary and excellent best.

“Personally, I enjoyed your piece on the new Mao biography, brilliant criticism of the Gang of Four and the Cultural Revolution’s Luddite antics. The author hadn't done his homework, had he? No deceiving an old China hand like yourself. The poem was a bit deep for me, but your poetry always is, I'm afraid. Not got your literary background. But I did get the gist of it. Really.'

'Ah yes, the poem. A little longer than my usual compositions perhaps, but it serves to record the passing of the literary section: for the few devoted readers I still have.'

Hugh reacted defensively. 'Look, I'm damn sorry Alastair, but this is the way of progress. I never singled you out, you know. John Patterson and old Wainwright had their sections cut long before yours. There is still a spot of trimming to do before the Review is a viable financial proposition again.'

'Odd,' reflected Alastair, 'I was under the clear impression the Review showed a good profit last year.'

'Well yes . . . . . yes, it did show a marginal profit. But nothing to what the potential profits can be, Alastair. I have great plans for the Review. Perhaps even go public this coming year.'

'I must take my leave of you now, Hugh.' said Alastair, rising from the armchair. 'Please, don't bother to get up.'

But Hugh was out of his chair and round the desk, shaking Alastair by the hand. Wishing him an enjoyable retirement, as he led him to the sanctum’s door.

'Bye Alastair, keep in touch, won't you?' Hugh called as his ex-literary editor walked towards the elevator.

Most of the Review's staff packed the bars of the King's Head that evening, and the representatives of many other Hong Kong newspapers and journals too. All were gathered to wish Alastair Brett a hearty farewell on his path into retirement. His associates, his friends, his contemporaries.

The next morning, Alastair packed his battered leather suitcase and boarded the jet-foil for Macao. A few quiet days away from the Colony, he wisely thought.

Hugh Fitzgerald was happy: exceptionally happy indeed. The June issue of the All-Asia Review had sold out. A second printing was rolling off the presses as he sat for lunch in the elegant Salisbury Steak House. Good, he thought, my changes are paying visible dividends already. A complete sell-out, the whole issue, by the second of the month. He ordered a glass of lager as he perused the menu.

'Hello Hugh, eating alone?' It was Monty Sinclair: editor-in-chief of the Times.

'Hello Monty, take a seat and join me. My treat.'

'Celebrating, are you Hugh?' Sinclair asked, smiling.

'Too damn right, old man. Full sell-out of our June issue in two days. Running off fresh copies now. Got to keep up with demand and increased circulation,' he announced smugly.

The Times had been striving to regain lost readership those past months, and Hugh always enjoyed rubbing the fact in whenever he and Monty Sinclair were in the same company. 'Aye, I imagine you're right Hugh. Chances are this issue will become a collector's item.' Sinclair beckoned a waiter and ordered a Bloody Mary.

Hugh looked perplexed. 'What do you mean, a collector's item Monty?'

'The poem Alastair Brett wrote as a grand finale: for the passing of the Review’s literary section. You have read it, I take it?'

'Yes, of course. Though I didn't consider it a literary masterpiece, by any means.'

'Oh, I considered the work to be quite an inspirational piece. Have you ever read the stuff he wrote at Cambridge? Why Alastair ever got into journalism I'll never understand. His vocation surely lay in the realms of private authorship: the archetype litterateur.'

Hugh was obviously growing frustrated as Monty Sinclair continued with his exultation of Alastair Brett's literary prowess.

'Damn it Monty, what did you mean by the June issue becoming a collector's item? I saw nothing in Alastair's poem to warrant such enthusiasm on the parts of our readers.'

'But did you read it all Hugh? Grasp each nuance? The cryptic substance?'

'What the hell are you talking about, Monty? Hugh was truly bewildered.

'I don't suppose you've got a copy with you, eh Hugh?' Sinclair asked.

'No, my desk copy is back at the office,' he replied.

'Hang on, I think I might have one in here,' and began to search through his attaché case, producing a copy of the June edition from the jumble of papers. Opening the magazine at the literary section, Monty handed it to his mystified associate with a flourish of his hand. 'There, now read it again.'

Hugh retrieve a pair of half-lens reading glasses from his jacket pocket and commenced reading Alastair’s poem with an irritated intent.

VALEDICTION

God provides well for Mans’ Love of Art,
Orchestral angels, their harps inspire the Muse,
Orpheus, come forth and take some part,
Desist thy labours so thee might choose
Between the sonnet and chinking mail.
Yet what is war without Love's lamentations?
Earth's dawn sun rises, a yellow pale,
How by noon it shines on darkened nations
Ushering in that due Renaissance fine;
Gone from our eyes the Gothic lair,
Hid deep beneath the timeless brine
Forever, ne'er again to hold Man's stare,
Unless Pandora shall, for curiosity sake,
Creep unseen to draw that infernal latch;
Know all of thee, the Dragon might yet awake,
Then who amongst thee shalt be His match?
Here, beyond the realm of senses, lives
Each Man's immortal grail, his sacred soul,
Remember well the power this knowledge gives:
Eat of the flesh, yet prepare to pay the toll.
Victory is rarely won by they of lofty might,
Ignore damnation's calls of 'why and when';
Every dog shalt have his day, and night:
Write well, thy weapon is the enigmatic pen!

Sinclair sat drinking his Bloody Mary, and watched with interest Hugh Fitzgerald's face as he studied the Alastair Brett poem. Hugh was definitely at a loss. A column of figures was more in his line. Accounts and ledgers. Financial statements. He raised his head from the page, and looked again at his luncheon guest.

'Still not got it, Hugh?' Sinclair asked. 'Here,' he said, leaning over the table and indicating the column of capital letters beginning each line of the poem. 'Read down, not across.'

Hugh fixed his eyes on the page once more, and read. Suddenly, he looked up, startled: then read again. His face turned from pink to a pale white, then to a deep crimson, contorting with anger as he grasped the acrostic message. 'The bastard, I'll sue him for every dollar he has. He's not going to get away with this.' Hugh rose from the cloistered table and stormed out of the restaurant. The waiter looked enquiringly at Monty Sinclair.

'No problem, son. Mr. Fitzgerald just received some bad news. I'll settle his bill with mine. Oh, give me another Bloody Mary, will you.' Sinclair smiled: a smile emanating from both his mouth and his eyes, creasing the whole of his tanned countenance. 'Old Alastair sure got one over on you, boyo,' he said quietly to himself.

Hugh Fitzgerald's fury stretched as far as to halt payment of Alastair's pension: a matter the Brett solicitors soon resolved in their client's favour. The intended law suit was a shambles also. As Alastair remarked to the judge in chambers, 'It simply never occurred to my conscious thoughts. Doesn't God move in mysterious ways?'

Hugh Fitzgerald became the laughing stock of the whole Colony. The July sales of the Review were pitiful. By the end of that year, they bordered on the pathetic. Hugh hung on until the close of the financial year: in the following March. Then he sold out to an American publishing group. One of the immutable conditions of purchase was that Hugh Fitzgerald relinquished his chairmanship, and disassociated himself from the magazine.

The All-Asia Review is again today much the same journal as it was in Alastair Brett's time. But Alastair is retired now, writing Oriental histories and popular novels at his cottage in Cornwall. Although I believe he is still taken by the Muse in inspirational moments, and composes an occasional poem.