The Macau Golf and Country Club was an exclusive, members-only sanctuary located on the southern tip of Coloane island.
The car slowed at the gate. Black iron. A guard in a white polo checked the plate, then waved us through. The driveway was paved stone. It crunched under the tires.
I sat in a leather armchair on the terrace of the clubhouse, overlooking the immaculate eighteenth hole. The grass was cut low. It smelled green and fresh, like it had just been watered. Sprinklers made a soft _tss tss_ sound in the distance.
I wore a tailored linen suit. Light. The fabric breathed in the ocean air. A pair of expensive aviator sunglasses rested on the table next to a glass of iced tea. Condensation ran down the glass and pooled on the stone tabletop.
The air was cool. The breeze came off the South China Sea. It smelled like salt and cut grass and sunscreen.
