The Fireman Read Online Free PDF Page B

way. Oh, I see what you’re getting at – why don’t I speak more of the language? Because it’s a bitch to learn, that’s why. It’s tonal, the meaning of the word changes with the tone you use, and it’s damn near impossible for a gweilo to learn.’
    ‘Gweilo?’
    ‘That’s what the Chinese call us Westerners. It means ghost man or white devil or something. It’s meant affectionately. Unless they call you “Say Gweilo”. That means dead gweilo and isn’t quite as friendly.’ He laughed. ‘It’s made harder by the fact that the written language is so different from the spoken. Look at the signs above the shops.’
    The pavements were thronged with a seething mass of humanity that ebbed and flowed from shop to shop like a living tide. I could see what Howard meant, the signs were in Chinese picture writing, strokes and lines that meant nothing to me, the only way I could find out what the shapes said was to look in the windows.
    ‘Suppose you were in a French supermarket and you picked up a can of beans. You’d be able to read the French for beans on the label, and you’ve learnt another word. That doesn’t apply here. The written and spoken languages are completely independent. In fact the written language is the same throughout China, no matter what they speak, be it Mandarin, Cantonese, Shanghainese, or whatever. They might not be able to understand what they say to each other but they can always communicate by writing. And the only way to learn to read and write is to commit several thousand characters to memory. It takes years.’ He pointed out of the window at a crocodile of small children in matching white uniforms, all carrying big rucksacks on their backs.
    ‘See those bags? They’re full of school books. The sheer volume of information that’s shoved into those brains is frightening. And that’s just to learn their own language. They learn English too, and with 1997 fast approaching most of them are studying Mandarin as well. Just to be on the safe side.’
    Despite several hours’ sleep on the plane, I felt dog tired, and the weariness compounded the feeling of unreality that made everything seem like a dream. Sally’s death still hadn’t sunk in, part of me was sure that she was still in my life, that I was on my way to see her and not to find out why she’d died.
    ‘Have you been to Hong Kong before?’ asked Howard.
    ‘No, first time, though I’ve passed through the airport a few times. It’s not the sort of place I’d come to on holiday and I’ve never been here on business.’
    The taxi slowed at a line of toll booths before we drove down through the cross-harbour tunnel, the perspiration clearly visible on my hands under the harsh fluorescent lights as Howard continued his thesis on the difficulties of Cantonese.
    ‘It’s the tones that make it really difficult,’ he said. ‘Each word can be said nine ways, in a high, low or medium tone, rising, falling or level. And each tone gives the word a different meaning. Take the word “cheung”, for instance. It can mean long, wall, window, rob, gun, or to change money. Gow can mean enough, dog, teach, nine or prick. In English it doesn’t matter how you say the word, dog is dog is dog. But in Cantonese you have to be able to simultaneously hear the word and the tone in which it is spoken. It’s almost impossible for a gweilo unless they spend months on an intensive training course like the cops do.’
    He was nervous and talking too much. That could have been because I represented the paper that paid him a big slice of his income, or it could have been that it wasn’t the most comfortable assignment he’d ever been given, shepherding a man whose sister had fallen to her death.
    ‘Twenty-three years is a hell of a long time.’ I said.
    ‘Aye, I came out here just after I turned thirty. I was working for a local radio station in Devon and getting nowhere fast. I took two weeks’ holiday, came out here and never went