The penultimate draft of The Hidden Rooms was completed when I was in my sixties. In 2010 I self-published it as part of The Scales of Fortuna. Nowadays, when I am in my nineties, I have revised it with a view to uploading in my blog.
Much has happened in the decades that had elapsed. Following my return to Singapore, I maintained a regular correspondence with Brian Davies. Before long, he made his exit from the City and, as planned, opened an art dealership with his daughter’s friend. All seemed clear on his horizon. His business was thriving. Then, one sad day, I received the death notice of his wife, Ruth. She had passed away peacefully from a heart attack. Initially, Brian remained in London but – after a few months – joined his daughter, who had migrated to New Zealand. Recently one of his granddaughters wrote that he had passed away. To my satisfaction, she described him as Grampa.
Yuan Ming kept shuttling between Singapore and Los Angeles. Apart from her work as an artist, she continued to handle complex – often shady – deals involving new finds in China. During Yuan Ming’s absences from Singapore, I continued to looked after her flat in Katong. For years the custodianship was a pleasure. But as time progressed the lengthy and regular drives to Katong and back to my home turned into a burden. Yuan Ming, who was aware of the situation, thereupon arranged the sale our collection – comprising all the Chinese pieces collected by Tay, by Yuan Ming and myself – as well as the flat.
When the documents respecting the sale of the flat had been executed, Yuan Ming had to fly to Shanghai to conclude a fresh deal. I had intended to accompany her and, once the deal was completed, we proposed to fly together to X’ian to view the finds of a fresh excavation. All plans had been made but, fortunately or unfortunately, I came down with an attack of bronchitis. As I was unable to fly to Shanghai, Yuan Ming proceeded on her own. I intended to join her in X’ian. To my horror, her plane crashed shortly before it landed in X’ian.
Notwithstanding my deteriorating condition, I flew over to attend the mass funeral of the deceased passengers. I cannot bear to write about the experience. My only relic is the Dancing Harlequin. Yuan Ming had asked me to keep him for her and it continues to grace my European porcelain cabinet.
Yuan Ming’s memory dominates my heart and mind. Occasionally, I talk to her. All the same, I have come to realise that throughout her lifetime I viewed her work with the eye of a loving uncle, failing to wear the glasses of an art critic. I have no doubt that Yuan Ming had the talent and ability to reach the top. But, with the exception of a few works such as the ‘Dawn’ cycle and those executed during our European trip, her work did not meet the final test. Her failure, I believe, is not a consequence of her untimely demise. Her role as an art dealer marred her development. In a sense, that commercialised alter ego, stood in her way.
Sir Arthur Smithies’ memory, too, is fresh in my mind. I continue to admire him. He had been head above shoulders of all modern bankers I know. All the same, I do not feel inclined to talk to him. He had been too remote.
As I am taking stock of the situation it appears to me that two forces define an individual’s life: luck and the hidden alter ego. That duplicity is often concealed behind the projected façade. But even in the case of a man ruled by conventional wisdom – like Roger Bates – that alter may take over if Fortuna displays her hidden hand during developments such as war or financial collapse. In some other cases, as in Arthur Smithies’, she steps in and tears of the mask off at an early, often undisclosed moment. In still other cases, as in Yuan Ming’s, she leads a third party, like myself, so as to invoke her alter ego, even if in the end it is not victorious.
I, too, have such an alter ago. Did it manifest itself due to the after effects of World War II or did Fortuna release him when she directed me to Tay’s shop in China Town? The answer alludes me. But does this matter?