Linger Awhile

4 Chauncey Lim

3 January 2004. Justine Trimble. There is that about her which moves me deeply and stirs profoundly the essential Chauncey, the inner Lim. Istvan Fallok, that creep. Every now and then he comes round and buys a Virginia Mayo pen and expects me to do anything he requires of me. Insufferable cheek. The white man patronising the yellow brother. Why then do I do that which he asks me to do? Do I need his goodwill? No, I piss on his goodwill.

Justine Trimble. The very thought of her makes my heart sing. Fallok is all wrong for her and I intend to make her mine. This is the first time I’ve put it into words but there it is. Where is he or where are they now? He said he would let me know what’s happening but I’ve heard nothing. Which means that something is happening. Otherwise he’d have come round to buy another pen.

I went to Elijah’s Lucky Dragon, Rosalie Chun’s restaurant in Golders Green. Rosalie’s maiden name was Cohen but she married into North Chinese cuisine, wears iridescent cheongsams although she’s fourteen stone, and has mingled Golders Green with North China to the point where she is now to cholesterol what Charlton Heston is to rifles. I had latkes Xingjiang with sour cream. While I was doing quality belching and drinking jasmine tea Rosalie came over to my table. ‘Hi Chaunce,’ she said. ‘How’re they hanging?’

‘Uncertainly,’ I said. ‘Yourself?’

‘A day older than yesterday but not much wiser. You look troubled.’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘Profoundly.’

‘Woman?’

‘Yes, but it’s probably an impossible love.’

‘The best kind,’ she said. ‘Don’t move — I’ll bring you chicken soup Lucky Dragon with industrial-strength matzoh balls. This will put roses in your cheeks and yang in your schlong, guaranteed.’

‘Matzoh balls?’ I said.

‘With Yongzheng ingredients,’ she said. ‘Very secret, don’t ask.’

I partook of the soup and I felt that my probably impossible love might be negotiable. I said to Rosalie, ‘I am now spiritually refreshed and ready for whatever comes next. Thank you.’

‘What are friends for?’ she said. ‘And remember, in the immortal words of Rabbi Whatshisname from Kotzk, “If you can’t get over it, get under it.”’

‘I’ll remember that,’ I said. What I did next was go down to Istvan Fallok’s place for a butcher’s at the mad genius. I didn’t go in but through the glass I could see him sitting with his head in his hands. There were various contraptions on his work table but no sign of Justine Trimble. So apparently no result yet.