Gift of the Golden Mountain (52 page)

     "Here," she called to the driver in Cantonese, "Let me out here."

     He turned to give her a dark, angry look. "Peninsula Hotel not yet," he answered, lurching forward so she could not open the door. May reminded herself how she must look in the cheap gray pajamas and the long, peasant's braid down her back. She could feel lice crawling on her scalp, but she was too weary to scratch.
Would they allow her into the Peninsula?
She couldn't worry about that now, she had to get there first and she wasn't sure that her legs would carry her.

     She waved money in the cab driver's face and he pulled to a stop, causing an explosion of car horns to add to the noise and confusion. She stepped out into the street, almost losing her balance as she tried to walk against the tide of people surging in upon her.

     Steamy gusts of heat blew at her, rising from the pavement, making it hard to breathe. It began to seem as if she could not put her feet down in the right places, the sidewalk was moving up to meet them.
Faster
, she told herself
almost there.
The looming gray building came into sight and she heard herself make a small, whimpering sound.
Not far now, not far now, keep moving, don't stop.
It had been like this for so long, so long. Swimming upstream, struggling to get here, be here, and always something to hold her back. Suddenly at Middle Road the wave seemed to reverse itself and the crowd carried her across the street. She blinked to force back the darkness that was moving into her peripheral vision.

She entered by a side door, and for a moment simply stood leaning against a pillar, reveling in the cool English calm of this great colonial hulk of a hotel, breathing in the sweet, clean air. She moved carefully, one hand on the wall for support. Had people taken
notice, they might have thought she was blind. She reached the edge of the lobby, grasped the back of a Morris chair.
She could not make it across the great expanse of the lobby.
She was going to fall, her knees were giving way. She eased herself into the chair. Whatever else she knew at that moment, she knew for certain that she would not be able to get up without help.

     She leaned back in the great, soft chair and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw him. On the far side of the lobby, sitting at a small table reading a newspaper.
It can't be
, she told herself.
You are hallucinating.
But it could be, it was. Hayes. Here, waiting for her. He had been waiting for four days, he had not left. He was here, only this great, marble lobby of the Peninsula Hotel separated them. She tried to get up but could not. If he left now, there would be nothing she could do about it. She felt the sour taste of panic rising in her throat. Her mouth was too dry to call out. He was beyond her reach.

     He looked up, his eyes scanned the lobby, a man who had been waiting so long he had ceased to expect. He lifted the cup and took a sip, his eyes still moving mechanically about the room. He glanced past the place where she was sitting, as if she were invisible.

     A bellboy was walking toward her.
He is going to throw me out
, May thought, panicked. She clutched her purse to her chest and held on to it, hard. It was the only motion she could make, the only thing she could think to do to defend herself. She felt as if she were in a dream, trying to scream and no sound would come out.

     Hayes put his cup down slowly. He was staring. He stood, not certain . . . and then he started toward her, determined now, looking at her so steadily that he did not see the bellboy, did not see that they were about to collide. The boy went tumbling, but Hayes did not break stride. His eyes were on her and he had one hand out, as if he were coming downcourt in a basketball game, with only the goal in mind. He knew. He knew and he was coming and she could stop now, she had done it.

     She took the hands he held out to her and let him lift her, and then her arms were around him, her cheek pressed into his chest and they stood, holding hard together.

     "Can you walk if I help you?" he asked.

     They went slowly, Hayes holding her so tightly that her feet scarcely touched the floor. There were those in the lobby who watched, and perhaps wondered about the tall American and the slender Chinese woman who appeared to be ill, her face pressed into the man's shoulder and her eyes closed.

She lay in the bath and he washed her, carefully cleaning the bites that covered her body, unbraiding her hair and soaping it carefully with a strong, green liquid he had had to send out for. His shirt and khaki pants were splashed wet, but he seemed not to notice. May lay back in the warmth of the water and tried to get her thoughts in order, so she could say what she needed to say.

     "I didn't think you would be here," she tried, "I thought I'd never find you."

     "Shh," he told her, "no talk, not yet. We'll get you washed up and medicated—looks like half the insect population of Thailand took a bite out of you—then you will sleep, and then we'll talk. You'll tell me everything . . . I won't leave, I promise."

     "You promise?" she repeated wearily, her eyes half closed in the warm comfort of the bath, of his hands holding her.

     "I promise," he said, caressing her cheek.

     "I do have to admit," he went on, "I had a small problem recognizing you in your little gray pajama ensemble . . . which, by the way, has been donated to the incinerator. Too many tiny little crawling animals managed to hitch a ride on this trimmed-down body of yours . . ."

     "I look awful," she moaned.

     "Not possible," he answered, lifting her gently and rubbing her
dry, his hands caressing her through the towel.

     She leaned into him as he wrapped her in an oversized terry bathrobe.

     "This is your complete wardrobe for the moment," he said, lifting her and carrying her into the room. Instead of putting her in the bed he had turned down, he sat on the sofa, May cradled in his arms. She lifted her face solemnly and he touched his lips to hers, carefully.

     "You need to sleep," he said, and she could feel his breath against her skin. "I need to get some medicine for those bites, and some clothes for your body. So . . . I'm going to tuck you in, and you are going to sleep, and when you wake you will eat and then we will talk."

     Still he did not get up, but sat holding her. Long, wet strands of her hair brushed against his face and he did not try to remove them. Not until he heard the soft patterns of her sleep breathing did he carry her to the bed.

     When he was smoothing the covers she opened her eyes and said, "Come in with me."

     "Not now," he told her, and with his forefinger traced her lips.

When she awakened the first time, it was twilight. He helped her to the bathroom, then back to bed where she went instantly to sleep again. The next time she opened her eyes it was dark with only the streetlights filtering into the room. All was quiet, but she knew he was there, and then she made him out, sitting in a chair, watching her.

     "Welcome to the world of the living," he said, turning a light on low. "You've had a solid twelve hours of sleep. Now for some food, and you may survive."

     "Twelve hours," she groaned, and then, "I'm ravenous," pulling herself up in the bed so that the robe fell open.

     "And naked," he added, "but I'm about to remedy both those conditions."

     He called room service, then poured her a stiff scotch which she sipped, slowly, while he showed her the clothes he had bought while she slept.

     "The woman in the Chanel boutique assured me this size fits all," he said, holding up a pink silk dress that was all soft folds.

     She could not take her eyes from his face. "I cannot believe I'm here," she finally said, "I cannot believe you are here with me."

     He touched his glass to hers: "Here's to Hong Kong," he said.

     She wanted to add, "And to us," but she did not dare.

He watched her eat, sipping his scotch as she drank hot soup and then worked her way through a plate of Chinese noodles. When she had finished and had washed her face with a hot towel, she said, "All right."

     "All right?" he asked.

     "Time to talk. The Moment of Truth. Q and A. Everything you always wanted to know about the jails in Thailand and were afraid to ask." She hesitated, her voice suddenly wavering, "And what I need to know about Marie-Claire."

     He was sitting on the bed across from her, his hands clasped between his legs, a look on his face she could not decipher. She did not know what he was thinking, and suddenly she felt afraid. She needed to stand, to make certain she could move on her own. She pulled herself up, swayed, he rose to catch her, his hands slipping under the robe. He pulled her hard to him.

     She could feel the air around them expand, enclose, hold. It broke over them, in great gulps, their mouths moving and searching and their bodies straining for each other.

     "Want me," she could not keep herself from crying, "please, please want me."

     "I have never wanted anyone more than I want you, right now," he said in short angry bursts, as he touched a place she had not known existed, and cried out for the joy of it; it was as if he could not help himself, as if he were committing to her body a confession he could no longer contain.