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usual way, as a triumph of legislation, planning, and socialistic policy – I speak as the onlybona fide socialist within about five thousand kilometres of here, isn’t that right, Ronnie?’
    ‘Whatever you say, Mr B.’
    We were now in the queue to pay for entry to the cross-harbour tunnel. Above the entrance, over the water, I could see Hong Kong Island, a jam-packed cityscape with a hill or mountain rising straight up behind it. Usually when you arrive at an airport you come through some emptyish country or at least a stretch of motorway through suburbs, before you arrive in the built-up big city you’re headed for. There was none of that here. It was super-urban all the way.
    ‘Don’t be deceived by the appearance of the buildings, by the way – they look like blocks of flats but a lot of them will also house factories, tiny restaurants, brothels, gambling dens, you name it. Also sweatshops. Especially sweatshops.’
    We started crawling through the tunnel.
    ‘Have you learned Chinese yet?’ I asked.
    ‘Certainly not. For all practical purposes it’s impossible to learn Cantonese – which, by the way, is the language spoken here. On the mainland the official language is what used to be called Mandarin and is now known as Putonghua, because that’s what the Chinese government says it should be called. The Hong Kong Chinese speak Cantonese, which is the dialect of the province of Guangdong. It’s easy to tell the difference because Mandarin sounds like someone chewing a brandy glass full of wasps and Cantonese sounds like people having an argument. The written language of both dialects incidentally is the same. You’ll manage just fine.’
    We had emerged from the tunnel on the Hong Kong side and were moving along a raised highway, past skyscrapers and office blocks, some very new-looking, others still being built. Berkowitz pointed across to a plot of newly reclaimed land jutting out into the harbour.
    ‘That’s the site of the new convention centre, where the handover to the soi-disant Communists will happen in 1997. The building straight across the harbour with the blank wall facing it is the new cultural centre, opened by the Prince and Princess of Wales. You’ll notice that despite facing one of the ten great vistas of the world it has no windows. Some of us like to think that’s a jokeabout the state of culture in the territory. Territory, by the way, is the mandatory euphemism – never “colony”. The C-word is completely verboten . Calling it a territory doesn’t affect the fact that our beloved Governor Patten, “Fat Pang”, as the locals call him, is a legally self-sufficient entity who can do whatever the hell he likes, but it offends the Chinese less and has the supreme virtue of not meaning anything.’
    We swept round a corner and began travelling uphill.
    ‘That’s the Bank of China on the right, I. M. Pei’s masterpiece. He’s the chap who put that pyramid over the Louvre. It’s not very popular with the locals because the feng shui is said to be very aggressive. One of its corners points towards Government House, which you’ll be amazed to hear is where the Governor lives. It’s got a hideous little tower on top that the Japanese put there when they owned the colony. Nobody knows what they’ll do to it after 1997. The smart money is on a Museum of Colonial Atrocities. We’re just going past the Peak Tram, which is a tram that goes up the peak. And now we’re heading round towards Robinson Road, which is where you fit in.’
    My new home was a block of a couple of dozen flats called Harbour Vista with a tiny, poky, unreassuring lift. But the flat itself was lovely, with a double bedroom, a single study or spare room, and a sitting room with a dining table set up at one end. Behind the table was a large display case of blue-and-white china; at the other end was a small bookcase of art books and paperback blockbusters, a hi-fi, a TV, and two sofas. The flooring was parquet ,