I followed the inscrutable Director of the Hang Seng Bank today, as he left his tryst-nyst sans Inna and headed across town with a mysteriously leaden plastic bag. He took the serpentine route, through the backstreets and market alleys, past the endless stalls and kiosks selling animal parts and blackmarket DVDs and discontinued Thomas The Tank Engine toys, his gait steady, never looking back. The black bag swung from his hand like a talisman. Whatever it contained was too small to be a soccer player's head, if that's what you're thinking, and I was, but we shouldn't be surprised if he'd shrunk it.
My feet ached. I think the knock-off Asics I bought yesterday have cardboard soles. And It ended finally on the gangway stairs of the SS Indefatigable, flying a Turkmanistani flag, seen here in the dazzling nether hours of the harbor.
I was not allowed onboard.
And the next morning, Indefatigable was gone in the fog.