A Death in China (8 page)

Stratton sat in the backseat trying to look important while McCarthy’s driver argued with a guard at the Foreign Languages Institute. After several minutes, the driver, Xiu, shuffled to the car with a furrowed brow.

“It is not possible, Mr. Stratton.”

“Why not?”

“He says it is a study hour. The students are in their dormitories and cannot be disturbed.”

Stratton sighed. “Tell him I am a friend of the family. I have come to offer my condolences at the death of her uncle. I will be most insulted if I am not permitted just a few minutes.”

Xiu nodded somberly and tracked once more toward the gatehouse. He came back smiling. “A few minutes, Mr. Stratton. Can you wait?”

Soon, a young woman appeared. The guard motioned toward the car and spoke rapidly. Then he waved stiffly at Stratton.

David Wang had not embellished his journal; his niece, Kangmei, was indeed a beautiful woman. Her jet-black hair, daringly long by Peking standards, fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were bright, and her features were elegant, almost regal.

“I was a good friend of your uncle,” he began.

“Yes. Stratton,” she said. Her eyes worked on him.

“David was a good man, a great scholar,” Stratton said. “I felt I needed to—”

The guard shifted his feet and peered up into Stratton’s face.

“You wish to talk?” Kangmei asked.

“If it’s possible.”

“It is.”

“At my hotel?”

“Not a good choice, Mr. Stratton.” Her English was excellent and self-assured. “Meet me in an hour at the Tiananmen Gate. Don’t tell anyone. Have the driver take you back to the hotel, then walk.”

Stratton eyed the guard anxiously.

Kangmei almost smiled. “Don’t worry, they don’t speak a word of English.” Then she was off, her hair bouncing lightly. It was a Western walk. A wonderful walk.

Stratton was ten minutes early. Kangmei arrived precisely on time, the trait of a good Chinese. She parked her bicycle in a guarded sidewalk lot and locked it.

“Just like Boston,” Stratton said.

“Excuse me?”

“Thieves, I mean.”

Kangmei shrugged. “Bicycles are expensive. Come with me, Mr. Stratton. We are going on a tour of the Forbidden City.”

“But I had hoped to talk—”

Again her eyes stopped him. “Please,” she said, “we will talk.”

At an imperial red kiosk, Stratton paid for his ticket with ten fen. Kangmei spoke to the cashier in Chinese and was allowed to enter without paying.

“I told her I’m your guide,” she explained, escorting Stratton through the broad entrance tunnel. “I saw my Uncle David two days before he left for Xian. We had a very nice talk. He was very thoughtful.”

“He mentioned you in his journal,” Stratton said as they walked. “He was very impressed.”

“Oh.” She paused as a crowd of Chinese tourists passed them, chattering. When it was quiet, she asked, “Was he important in the United States?”

“Yes, in his field. And popular. He had many friends.”

They approached a group of Americans, Kodaks clicking. They were led by a Chinese guide with her hair pulled back in a prim bun.

Kangmei said, in a louder voice, “This is the Meridian Gate, the entrance to the grounds of the Inner Palaces. It is the biggest gate in all the Forbidden City, built in the year 1420 and restored again in the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries. Every year, the reigning emperor would ascend to the top of this structure and announce a new calendar for the people of China … “

Stratton applauded. Kangmei blushed. “Please don’t make fun,” she whispered. “You must behave like a tourist and I like a guide. For me to be with you under any circumstances would be very serious.”

The competing tour group moved away. Kangmei walked Stratton across a paved courtyard to a marble bridge over a clear, slow-moving stream.

“The Je Shui He,” she trilled.

“Did you and your uncle talk about politics?” Stratton asked.

“A little. He seemed to understand that China cannot be analyzed in a week, or understood. I don’t think that’s why he came, Mr. Stratton. Some of his questions could never be answered. They are not relevant anymore. Not to my generation.” A family of alabaster ducks splashed noisily in the stream.

“They were good questions, just the same,” Stratton said.

“Yes,” Kangmei said softly. “Very good. It was odd, seeing my uncle. He looked very much like my father; there is an alertness about both of them. Uncle David was more direct, of course. My father cannot afford to be so candid. Not with all the rumors of a new political campaign. We live with that concern, and it makes people like my father more cunning than David. No one can be sure what the future holds, so we must constantly be watchful. This, Mr. Stratton, is the Hall of Supreme Harmony.”

A group of Chinese schoolchildren swarmed around them. A plump teacher in a blue Mao tunic recited a history lesson and the children listened attentively.

“The statues on the terrace are made of bronze,” Kangmei said in her drone-guide voice. “On one side are storks and, on the other, giant tortoises. A sundial on the eastern side of the terrace represents righteousness and truth; on the west side is a grain measure, which symbolizes justice … “

“Did you memorize all this stuff?” Stratton said under his breath.

“We learn English at the Institute,” Kangmei explained when the school tour was gone. “Those who perform well may someday become translators. The very best will receive diplomatic assignments. And travel.” She ran a girlish hand through her hair, and Stratton noticed for the first time the glint of red nail polish, expertly applied. “So the answer is yes, I memorized this ‘stuff,’ ” she said acidly.

They climbed the stairs and entered the hall. The columns were extravagantly carved with gilded dragons. In the middle stood the emperor’s throne, surrounded by incense burners.

“How did David feel about seeing your father?” Stratton asked.

“The first time we spoke, he was very excited.”

Stratton took her elbow. “The first time? You saw David more than once?”

“Yes,” Kangmei replied. “Once before Xian, and the night of his return.”

“The night of his heart attack?”

“The night he died, yes,” she said.

“And how did he seem?” Stratton pressed.

“Upset. I guess the reunion was a disappointment. He and my father argued. There were bitter words. The tour of Xian was cut short by a day and the two of them returned to Peking.”

“What did they argue about?”

“I’m not certain.” They were alone in the Hall. It was too dark for pictures so the Americans had moved on, a fidgeting, pink-faced horde.

Kangmei said, “Do you listen to music at home?”

“A little,” Stratton answered, off balance again.

“The Rolling Stones. Do you listen to the Rolling Stones? A friend of mine, another student at the Languages Institute, got an album smuggled to her from Hong Kong. It’s a Rolling Stones album; during xiu-xi, our daily nap breaks, we sometimes sneak down to the music room and play it on the phonograph. The name of the album is ‘Goat’s Head Soup.’ Does that have special meaning in America?”

Stratton laughed. “No, not at all. Do you like the music?”

“Very much. It’s good dancing music. My friend and I dance together when we play the record. We have to .be careful, though. We could be expelled over something like that.” Kangmei’s voice dropped. “I would love to have more records.”

They walked down marble steps and faced another pavilion. “As an art expert, you will appreciate the exhibit in this hall,” Kangmei said. “Bronze chariots and their warriors, taken from the Han tombs.”

“No, thank you,” Stratton said. “It’s time for me to go.”

They retraced their steps toward Tiananmen. Kangmei kept her eyes on the pavement.

“Mr. Stratton, David and my father argued about the artifacts at Xian,” she said. “David did not go into detail. But he said that my father was doing something wrong. Immoral was the word my uncle used. He was horrified his brother would attempt such a thing.”

“He told you this—”

“After dinner last Tuesday night. He had left a message for me at the dormitory. I rode to the hotel after my father and his group had left. I met Uncle David in the lobby.”

“He seemed in good health?” Stratton asked.

“Fine. Just angry. As we walked down Changan Avenue, he stopped to curse at the cadres who were following us. My father’s little watchdogs. Uncle David walked right up to them and called them something nasty in Chinese,” she said, blushing. “I admired his courage. The cadres said nothing. They just disappeared into the crowd.”

“Some pages were missing from David’s journal. And his passport is gone,” Stratton said.

“Oh,” Kangemi said.

“Something’s wrong with all this. Do you believe your uncle died of a heart attack?”

“I have not thought about the how, Mr. Stratton. His life is over, and I’m sad. I wish I had known him better and longer. I’m very sorry that he and my father quarreled.”

After they left the steps of the Forbidden City, Kangmei walked briskly to the lot where her bicycle was parked.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Stratton said.

Kangmei nodded as she lithely swung onto the bike. “I’m glad that you are going with Uncle David’s body. It’s a long trip back to America and it is only right that he should be with someone who cares.”

I cannot bury my friend so easily, Stratton thought, and not under a cloud of riddles.

“I’m sorry, Kangmei, but I won’t be going after all,” he said. “My tour group leaves for Xian tomorrow, and I’ve decided to join them.”

Her expression never changed. It didn’t have to.

“Tourists always take the early train,” she said, and rode away.

Steve Powell offered hot tea all around. Linda Greer shook her head politely. The station chief said yes to a small cup. The Marine who served them closed the door carefully as he left.

“What do you make of it?” Powell said.

Linda scanned the note once more, then passed it across the table to the station chief. It was the handwriting of a man who was trying hard to be neat, but obviously would have been more comfortable with an academic’s scribble:

“Dear Mr. Powell,

“Please Inform Deputy Minister Wang Bin that I have changed my plans and, therefore, will not be able to accompany David’s body back to the United States. I regret the inconvenience this might cause, but such a journey would be too emotional for me at this time. When I return to the United States, I will pay the proper respects to my dear friend at his gravesite in Ohio. In the meantime, I’ve decided to join my tour group on the trip to Xian this morning. David Wang would understand and I would hope his brother does, too.

“Sincerely, Thomas Stratton.”

The station chief tossed the note on the table and shrugged. “Linda?”

“He’s bummed out. Just doesn’t want to make the long flight with his buddy’s corpse,” she said. “Can you blame him?”

“That’s the way I read it, too,” Powell said. His tone suggested that the meeting should be over. The station chief didn’t budge.

“Shit, if it’s such a big deal, we can send a Marine back with the body, can’t we?” Powell asked.

“Finding an escort is not the problem,” the station chief said impatiently. “The problem is Stratton. He’s not the kind of guy we want running all over China without a tether. He’ll get in trouble. He’ll get us in trouble.”

“He’ll be all right,” Linda said. She glanced at Powell, who was obviously in some distress.

“I can call him now,” the consul offered. “Lay on the guilt. Tell him it will be an international insult if he doesn’t go home with the professor’s body. He’ll understand. He knows the system; I saw his file. He used to be a pro.”

“He used to be a killer,” the station chief muttered. “Now I wish you hadn’t hit on him about Wang Bin.”

“It was your goddamn idea,” Linda Greer snapped. “I told you he wouldn’t go for it. All it did was get his antennae up.”

The station chief, a gray-skinned man with baggy eyes and thin dark hair, nodded tiredly. “It was a risk,” he conceded. “And I take the responsibility.”

Powell was getting frantic. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not important now,” the station chief said. “What is important is that Wang Bin is going to be pissed off at a time when we don’t want him pissed. He’s going to suggest that Mr. Stratton has offended the People’s Republic and is not so welcome here anymore. He’s going to want to know more about Mr. Stratton and we cannot afford to let him find out anything. Is that clear, Powell?”

“Man-ling was a long time ago,” the consul remarked.

“To the Chinese, it might as well have happened last night,” the station chief said sharply. He leaned back, waiting for another remark from the consul.

“Steve, it’s a matter of lousy timing, that’s all,” Linda Greer intervened. “Stratton could have helped us with Wang Bin, but he didn’t want to. Now he’s headed off to the countryside, upset about his friend’s death, suspicious when there’s no reason to be—”

“It was a goddamn heart attack!” Powell said in exasperation. “I told him, death by duck.”

“I know,” Linda said.

The station chief stood up. “Powell, see if you can smooth Wang Bin’s feathers. Apologize on behalf of the embassy. Tell him Stratton meant no offense. Offer a fucking dress guard of Marine escorts if you have to. And remember, we want the old guy to like us. Just in case.

“Linda, you think your dinner friend will really stick with that tour group?”

“I think so,” she answered coldly, trying not to blush. The Company kept track of everything, didn’t it?

“Any other reason he’d go to Xian?” the station chief asked.

“History,” Linda Greer replied. “That’s all.”

The Americans piled their luggage on the steps of the Minzu Hotel. Stratton offered polite good-mornings to Alice Dempsey, Walter Thomas, and the other art historians who milled and paced and tested their cameras on passing Chinese. Naturally the gaggle of brightly dressed foreigners attracted a crowd outside the hotel, and Stratton was mildly embarrassed. He melted back into the lobby to wait for the bus.

“Are you coming to Xian?” It was Miss Sun, the pert, ceaselessly cheerful tour guide.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Stratton replied.

“Yesterday you missed beautiful White Pagoda,” Miss Sun said. It was not a reprimand, but there was concern in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” Stratton said. “I had a personal matter.”

Miss Sun seemed embarrassed. “I did not mean to intrude in your business, Professor Stratton.”

“It’s quite all right. Your English is coming along very well, Miss Sun. You’ve been practicing,” he said warmly.

The tour guide smiled gratefully.

“Tom’s going to be a good boy, aren’t you, Professor?” Alice Dempsey had a way of inserting herself into conversations that made Stratton want to punch her. “I promised Miss Sun I’d keep an eye on you at Xian, Tom. If you’d read the tour book, you’d know about the travel restrictions outside of Peking. Can’t just go roaming the hills, digging for pottery and chatting with the townsfolk. You’ll get us all in hot water.”

Stratton scowled. “Don’t worry, Alice.”

“Mr. Stratton?” A thin man with thick glasses and a fresh-bought Mao cap called out across the lobby. It was a man Stratton knew only as Weatherby, an art history teacher from a small college in San Francisco. Weatherby was delicate, anemic-looking; he approached in tiny, diffident steps.

“Tom Stratton?”

“Yes.”

“There are two men out front who say they’ve come to pick you up,” Weatherby reported.

“Here we go again,” Alice Dempsey muttered.

“I do not understand,” Miss Sun said, her voice rising.

“Me neither,” Stratton said. “There must be a mistake.”

“They’ve got a car,” Weatherby said dramatically.

Stratton walked out of the lobby and down the steps. A jet-black Red Flag limousine was parked in front of the hotel. Two cadres in starched blue uniforms stood near the front bumper, talking in whispers. At the sight of Stratton, they turned and bowed slightly, from the neck, in unison. When the cadres looked up, they wore official smiles.

“Where is your luggage, Professor?”

“On its way to Xian.”

“Oh. Very bad.” The taller of the two wore thick eyeglasses set in heavy black frames. His teeth were crooked and yellow.

The other cadre, a plump young man with fat rubbery lips, said, “Mr. Stratton, we came to take you to airport.”

“But I’m going to Xian by train. With my group.”

The cadres conferred, brisk Mandarin whispers.

“We take you to airport,” repeated Crooked Teeth, unsmiling. “Plane leaves for America.”

In Chinese, Miss Sun asked, “Where are you?”—the equivalent of an American, “Who do you work for?”

“Ministry of Culture,” Fat Lips replied curtly, and then again in English for Tom Stratton’s benefit. “Deputy Minister Wang Bin sent us.” And then more, to the tour guide, in Mandarin.

“He says you are scheduled to fly back to America with the body of your friend,” Miss Sun said to Stratton. “I very sorry, Professor. I did not know of this tragedy. I did not know that the deputy minister had made this request of you.”

“Miss Sun—” Stratton began.

“Comrade says your plane leaves soon,” she said. “I’ll get your suitcase from the bus—”

“No!” Stratton said. “Miss Sun, please tell the comrades that I sent a message to Deputy Minister Wang this morning, informing him of my change in plans. The U.S. Embassy was notified at the same time. Everything is fine. I don’t wish to leave China today. I wish to stay with the group.”

Miss Sun translated. Fat Lips frowned and traded glances with his partner. They replied breathlessly, together: This is a most urgent matter. The deputy minister is anxious. Mr. Stratton is expected at the airport soon; we know nothing of any messages to the embassy. Our task is to take the professor to the plane. There is no other choice.

Miss Sun understood. “Wei,” she said neutrally, and walked away.

Stratton saw that the other Americans were filing into the Toyota bus for the ride to the train station. From a window seat in the first row, Alice Dempsey glowered out at him.

“We take you to airport,” Crooked Teeth announced with cheerfulnesss. “Come now.”

“No,” Tom Stratton insisted. The cadres were well trained in the Chinese art of stubbornness. The next stratagem, he knew, would be guilt. Americans were suckers when it came to guilt.

“We must go,” Fat Lips said worriedly. “It would be bad not to go, Professor.”

“Arrangements are ready for you,” the other cadre added. “The deputy minister—”

“It’s impossible, comrades. Thanks just the same, but my bus is about to leave.” Stratton turned away and hurried along the sidewalk. The green minibus was idling. The driver tapped on the horn three times.

“Coming!” Stratton shouted, breaking into a trot.

Then he felt an arm on his sleeve. Angrily, he whirled to face Crooked Teeth. The other cadre jogged a few steps behind, puffing.

“Come now,” Crooked Teeth said. This time is was a command, and there was nothing polite about it.

“What is this?” Stratton demanded.

Inside the tour bus, the Americans watched the confrontation with shock. Stratton towered over the cadres, shouting down into their impassive faces.

“Fuck off!” is what he said.

“My God,” sighed Alice Dempsey.

“He’s nothing but a troublemaker,” mumbled Walter Thomas. “He’s going to spoil this for all of us.”

“He’s a little upset, that’s all,” Weatherby said. “He’s just upset about his friend.”

The other Americans craned for a glimpse of their colleague haggling with the government cadres. Miss Sun quickly moved to the front of the bus and whispered to the driver: “Go now.”

As the tour departed for the railway station, Alice Dempsey saw Stratton being guided down the sidewalk toward the limousine, a resolute Chinese at each elbow.

“I missed the fucking bus,” Stratton was growling. “Get your hands off me, comrades.”

“All is arranged,” Crooked Teeth said as they walked.

Stratton sneaked a backward glance over his right shoulder as the minibus turned down Dongdan Street and disappeared. Fat Lips slipped away from Stratton’s side long enough to open the door to the cavernous Red Flag.

“Okay,” said Fat Lips, with a shove.

“No okay,” said Stratton, uncorking a nasty left jab that snapped flush in the cadre’s face. Fat Lips fell backward like a domino. His head cracked on the rear fender.

Instantly, Stratton stumbled forward, gasping. His right side cramped from a kidney punch; he caught himself with both hands on the Red Flag and spun around. Crooked Teeth coiled in a crouch, snarling. His cap was on the pavement. Other Chinese pressed in a growing circle, yammering excitedly. The fight did not last long.

Crooked Teeth feinted a punch, then spun forward on one leg, aiming a powerful kick at Stratton’s neck. It was a prosaic maneuver, and Stratton deflected it from memory. Deftly, he seized the cadre’s ankle in midair, and seemed to hold him there—flustered and grunting—before delivering a decisive punch to the poor man’s testicles. Crooked Teeth fell in a blue heap, bug-eyed, semiconscious.

Instinct warned Stratton to run, but he could hardly move. The bystanders formed a wall—hundreds of them, packed shoulder to shoulder in front of the hotel. Soon the police would arrive.

Sideways, Stratton edged through the heaving crowd with deliberate slowness. Stratton resolved to keep calm, to stop the fear from reaching his eyes, where people could see it. Obviously, the Chinese in the street were confused; some hastily moved out of the tall American’s path, while others stood firm, scolding. The worst thing would be to run, Stratton knew, so he held himself to a purposeful walk; a man with someplace to go.

After three blocks, Stratton appropriated an unlocked bicycle and aimed himself on a wobbly course toward Tienanmen Square. He had no map and very little time. The Square was the heart of Peking, a central magnet, lousy with tourists. Somebody there surely would be able to tell him the quickest way to the trains.

Inexorably, Stratton was drawn into a broad, slow-moving stream of bicycles. He had hoped that the clanging blue mass would swallow him and offer concealment—but his stature and blond hair betrayed him. Among the Chinese he shone like a beacon.

From somewhere a car honked, and the cycling throng parted grudgingly. Stratton dutifully guided the bike to the right side of the blacktop road. He heard the automobile approach and he slowed, expecting it to pass. Instead it lingered, coasting behind the two-wheeled caravan.

Puzzled, Stratton turned to look. It was the Red Flag limousine, so close he could feel the ripple of heat from its engine. Crooked Teeth was at the wheel, fingers taut on the rim; his battered eyeglasses were propped comically on his nose. He looked like Jerry Lewis.

Next to him sat Fat Lips, gingerly daubing a scarf to a gash on his forehead. Neither of the cadres showed any anger, only eyes hardened in determination.

Stratton pedaled like a madman. He weaved and darted from street to sidewalk, stiff-arming cyclists who dawdled and elbowing himself a narrow, navigable track through the horde. The tin bells on a hundred sets of handlebars chirped furiously in protest as Stratton plowed through a lush pile of fresh cabbages. In a racer’s crouch, he doubled his speed, his chin to the bar. He gained precious yardage while the Red Flag braked and swerved, dodging Chinese pedestrians who had raced into the street to retrieve mangled vegetables.

Finally, Stratton broke free of the mob and barreled into the cobbled vastness of Tienanmen Square. Behind him the limousine came to a jerky stop on the perimeter road. The cadres got out and stood together, smaller and smaller as Stratton pedaled on.