When the colonel left for his residence in the Mid-Levels, Tanaka spoke to Cheung in affectionate language, calling him “Big Brother.” “You’ll put me on the Japanese team, please, Ah Cheung Goh. And Horace too. We don’t want him to get sent to Stanley.” He glanced in the direction of the Supreme Court. “Or worse.”

Cheung nodded. Anyone whom he put on the British team could be doomed to death by water torture or beaten lifeless with a lead pipe. He began to polish glasses.

Those two had been sitting at the end of the bar every night since Christmas 1941, when it had first become acceptable, thanks to Noma, for non-whites to sit at the end of the bar in a white man’s club. Though he knew Tanaka as Tak-Wing and Emily’s friend, it was hard right now for Cheung to know how much he could trust him. He trusted Tanaka’s heart, but the man’s political interests were now different from his own. He didn’t know what Tanaka might do when the going got rough. Perhaps Tanaka himself didn’t know. Better to just keep quiet. Play it safe and bide his time.

“Your labour is like one of Psyche’s,” Horace said. “In order to be reunited with her true love, she has to do a superhuman task—separate a bushel of mixed grains into individual types before the night is out. You have to separate Japanese from British. But there are no Japanese or British in your bushel, unless you count Tanaka here, who is as Chinese and British as he is Japanese. And of course, Noma will kill you if you do it wrong! It’s a task that no human can possibly do. Only the superhuman are worthy of love. And life. Ha ha, what a laugh!” He rumbled out a soft baritone chuckle. Then caught himself. “Oh, I’m sorry, Cheung. It’s not funny at all. But please put me on the Japanese team, Brother.”

Cheung arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, but didn’t look up from his work.

“I saw you empty that bottle of rum,” Horace said. Do you have any more?”

What is this Japan-loving coloured man getting at? Cheung wondered. Did he really believe the slogan “Asia for Asians” would be of any use to oppressed Negroes in America? Or was he spying for Noma out of some unknown self-interest and trying to get rid of Cheung? Did he want to tend the bar in Cheung’s place? Cheung decided he’d better not reveal anything.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he said. “You want another rum and Coke?”