Governor Isogai watched intently and the Japanese soldiers in the stands cheered Horace on. Horace was not sure how to feel. These past nine months he’d been hanging out at Cheung’s polished wood bar in the Hong Kong Cricket Club. He knew what went on in the basement of the Supreme Court Building. He was not excited to be part of this strange cricket match. At home in St. John’s, in the tiny Water Street headquarters of the Baccalieu Company, he thought Brother Du Bois was right about “Asia for Asians.” And maybe he was back in Sun Yat-Sen’s day, but it had clearly become something else now. Horace felt sick. Noma and Isogai would know if Horace didn’t play his best. But if he helped the Japanese win, he would be at least symbolically complicit in the murder of innocents. He didn’t care that much about symbols, but he was fully aware that the British, Japanese, and Chinese all did. If he didn’t help the Japanese win, they would know that his heart was no longer with them, and he would be in danger of getting marched off to the basement of the Supreme Court. If he did help the Japanese win, his friend Cheung would feel betrayed, though Cheung must also understand that the Japanese were in charge and one must do what had to in order to survive. But what he really wanted was the help of Cheung and his friend, Captain Lee, to get out of this carnival city turned upside down and back to front. Left to right could only follow. If Horace helped the Japanese win, Cheung might be ill disposed to help him get to the Sai Kung hills, where his cousin Isadore Davis Wong had wisely gone before the invasion. He’d received letters he was pretty sure were from Izzy, but he couldn’t decipher them. Perhaps someone at the club today would know where he could find “Ga-Chan,” if only he knew who to ask.