Saving Fish From Drowning (20 page)

what about the vegetables in Ruili? Were they sweet? Didn’t blood taste sickly-sweet?

HEIDI HAD SEEN pooled blood from a dead man, one of her housemates. That was ten years back, when she was a freshman at UC

Berkeley. The six of them lived in a ramshackle house in Oakland.

The newest was a guy who had answered one of the “Roommate

Wanted” signs pinned on the bulletin board at the Co-op grocery store and Cody’s Books. He was a twenty-two-year-old guy from Akron, Ohio, nicknamed “Zoomer.” She had enjoyed a few philosophical discussions with him late at night. One night, the housemates went to a Pearl Jam concert, all except Zoomer. When the concert was over, some wanted to go to a bar. She elected to go home. She found the door unlocked when she got there, and this made her angry, because somebody or another was always careless about that. And when she walked farther into the living room, she was overcome by a terrible odor. It was not blood, but sweat, the essence of animal pain and fear. She did not remember seeing the body, calling the police, or their arrival, the investigation, the removal of the body. The next day, she saw only the pool of blood, the yellow tape at the front door, and she smelled him. How bizarre that his smell hung in the air after he had died. It was like a lingering message, as if he were still begging for his life. She saw in her mind’s eye his last moments, the intruder’s gun pointed at his face.

Heidi had known him for only a few months, so no one thought she could be too affected by his death. It was ghastly, everyone agreed, her finding the body like that. And she had every right to be freaked out for a while. But she seemed very calm when she told people what had happened. “I could tell he was already dead.” She did not go into detail, and people dared not ask, although they were curious to know. Roxanne cried when Heidi told her what had hap1 3 1

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pened. Because of their age difference, Roxanne had treated Heidi more like a distant niece. But this was the turning point that made them close as half sisters—as
sisters
. Roxanne had imagined that Heidi was nearly murdered as well. She urged her to confide in her, to let her know if she needed to get counseling or move to another house. She could even stay with her and Dwight, the younger guy she was about to marry. But Heidi said she was fine. She had been clear-eyed and matter-of-fact, surprising even herself. Heidi had always been sensitive, openly bursting into tears when teased or injured.

After the murder, she became secretive. She felt the murdered man had given her a sign that she would die soon, too. She forgot what the sign might have been. Nonetheless, she felt the dread. She was waiting for terror to manifest itself. She tried hard to control it. And in so doing, she began to prepare for all the terrible ways death might happen. She knew her precautions were useless. Death would come of its own accord, and she could not prevent it. Yet she still could not stop herself from trying, and she hated how she had become, conscious more of dying than of living.

Taking this trip to China was part of her effort to overcome her problems. She was determined to throw herself into many unknowns, face situations she’d ordinarily avoid. She believed she would be able to handle them, in part because she would be in a completely different country. The unknowns would prove to be nothing, and having survived them, she would be stronger and could return home practiced at pushing aside her phobia. China would be good for her, really, really good, she told herself.

THE MEAL HAD TURNED COLD. When the ever-popular American dessert of green-tea ice cream was brought out, the manager of the restaurant cued his wife and son, and they burst into singing

“Merry Christmas,” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.”

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On the way to the hotel, my friends hummed this new holiday

concoction. Christmas was only days away, and who knew what the Chinese Santa would bring. Should they buy gifts for one another?

The bus drove past the same pink-light girls waiting for customers, the storefronts were still manned by hopeful sellers, the pregnant Pekingese was still sleeping on the green plastic chair. If they did not get a border permit soon, these would be the sights they would see the next night, perhaps the next, and then for who knows how long after that.

Back at the hotel, Harry suggested to Marlena that they “take an evening stroll under the fair moonlight.” There was no moonlight, but she agreed. She assumed Esmé was already asleep with her puppy. And so she and Harry headed down the dark street. Something was about to happen, she knew this, and was nervous in a pleasant way. As they walked, he offered his arm so she might steady herself. “The sidewalks have all sorts of
dangers
in the dark,” he said. The way he said “dangers” made her shiver. She wanted to be swept away, drowned by incaution. And yet, before she went under, she wanted to grab on to a safety bar and pull herself up and out, before it was too late, before she fell and was beyond being saved.

As they walked in silence, Harry gathered himself, mustering the right balance of confidence and caring. It was so damn easy when he was in front of the camera. He didn’t want to come across too forceful, too six-o’clock-news-ish. At last, he spoke in what he decided was just the right tone, one that was vaguely reminiscent of Cary Grant in those movies where he was baffled to find himself in love:

“Marlena, dear?”

“Mmmm.”

“I believe I’m becoming quite fond of you.”

Marlena steadied her emotional equilibrium. Fond? What did he mean by “fond”? You can be fond of flowers, of fettuccine, of certain fashions. What did he mean by “fond”?

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“It would be lovely to kiss you,” he added. The debonair touch was becoming second nature to him now.

Marlena wondered to herself: Lovely? A sunset is lovely. A sunrise—and before she could equivocate with her emotions any further, he leapt at her mouth, and they both felt, despite the initial nervousness, that the experience was quite agreeable, wonderful, as a matter of fact, so natural, so much longing instantly fulfilled.

Although soon, another kind of longing grew. Fondness turned into fondling, then more fondness, followed by more fondling, escalating minute by fervid minute, and all this took place on a featureless street in Ruili. Alas, they could not make love here, they both concluded.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Harry said.

“A hotel, how convenient,” Marlena answered, and giggled. As they started to walk back, she had a sobering thought. “I should probably check on Esmé.” Another minute passed. “Oh God, what will I tell her?”

“Why tell her anything?” Harry said, nibbling her neck.

“I wouldn’t want her to worry if she doesn’t see me there in the middle of the night.”

“Then tell her you are going downstairs to have a drink.”

Marlena was slightly annoyed by that suggestion. “She knows I don’t drink. I’m hardly the type who goes to bars to pick up men.”

She had noticed that Harry sometimes drank an awful lot. She hoped he was not an alcoholic.

“You’re not going to pick up men,” Harry teased. “You’ve already picked
me
.”

Marlena did not find this a romantic response. Did he think she was that easy? Was he suggesting this was merely casual sex, a one-night stand? “Listen, maybe we shouldn’t do this. Not tonight.”

“Oh, but we should. We already are, or could be. . . .” They reached the hotel. “See, here we are.”

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“No, really, Harry. It’s late, and I need more time to prepare Esmé, you know, for the idea that you and I are more than just friends.”

Idea? Harry sensed that their buoyant mood had rapidly deflated, as had certain body parts. He was disappointed, yes, but also irritated with himself for being overly eager, and yes, even a bit annoyed that Marlena so easily flip-flopped on having fun. It
was
late, and now that he was no longer charged with anticipation, he was tired.

“All right. I’ll leave you here. And
I
shall go to the bar to have that drink.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Good night, my midnight pumpkin.” He turned and did not watch as she walked toward the elevator.

He had just received his scotch and water when Marlena raced into the bar, her eyes wide with fright. “She’s not there! She’s gone!

The puppy, too.” Her voice was weak and tight. “I told her not to leave, I warned her not to open the door. Oh, God. What are we going to do?”

“I would hope nothing,” Harry replied. And before Marlena could lash into him for such a callous remark, he aimed his finger toward the other side of the lobby. There was Esmé, showing off the puppy to the room service staff, two of whom had come by her room earlier to deliver a thermos of hot water. As Marlena made her way over, Esmé saw her and came bounding toward her.

“Hey, Mom. Hi, Harry. Look what they made for Pup-pup. Rice

and chicken! Just like Harry said she needed. And it’s in this darling little teacup. Aren’t they the greatest? They
love
her, Mom. We’ve been having the best time.”

FROM DEEP SLEEP, Bennie picked up the phone.

“Miss Chen, please,” the man’s voice said.

“She’s not here.” Bennie looked at his watch. Shit. It was six in the morning. What idiot was calling at this hour?

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“Have you any idea when she might return?” The voice sounded faintly British, though it definitely was not Harry Bailley.

“I don’t know,” Bennie mumbled. He did not have his wits about him. “Who’s calling?” he finally thought to ask.

“This is Walter from Mandalay, Golden Land Tour . . .”

Bennie sat bolt upright. Mandalay!

“. . . I have an appointment to meet Miss Bibi and her group this morning at the border crossing. I’m afraid the hotel is confused as to which room she has been assigned to. They directed me to your room. I apologize if there is a mistake, but are you Mr. Chen?”

Bennie was now wide-eyed, thinking in ten directions. Who was this guy? He grabbed his notes, the letter from the travel agency.

Maung Wa Sao—that was their tour guide, not Walter. Walter must be an expediter, a contact. Did he play by the rules, or if not, could he be bribed? “Walter, I’m Bennie Trueba y Cela, the new tour leader. You must not have received the message in time. And evidently I did not receive a message from your end. I’m sorry. But yes!

We’re ready to meet you at the border. What time would you like us there?”

The line remained silent.

“Hello? Are you still there? Is this about our border permits?”

Finally Walter spoke. “I don’t understand. Where is Miss Chen?”

“She was unable to come.”

“Did she take ill last night?”

Bennie contemplated his choices, then decided honesty was the best route. “Actually, she died suddenly.”

“Oh dear! She died yesterday?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I know. We were completely shocked ourselves. She was a dear friend.”

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“What I mean is, that’s not possible because I spoke to her just yesterday.”

It was now Bennie’s turn to be thoroughly confused. “You spoke—”

“On the phone. She called and asked that I should change the date of your entry into Myanmar and meet her here today.”

“She called about the border permits?”

“Yes. She gave specific instructions. Everything is approved. But we need to make sure your papers match. Oh, and now I will have to make a slight change and remove her name. For that, I’ll need to make a phone call. . . .”

Bennie’s confusion transformed into unquestioned joy. Obviously this Walter fellow had spoken to Lulu, or possibly someone in San Francisco. Bennie had sent a fax to the travel agent. Since everything had been referred to as the Bibi Chen group, Walter must have believed he was talking to the original tour leader. Well, it didn’t matter now, did it? They had the permits! This was fantastic. Whoever did this was a genius! (I was pleased to hear such flattery.)

“Do you need anything else so you can add my name?” Bennie

asked.

“No, it’s all settled. We added your name when we received the fax. I had assumed you were an addition and not a substitution. So everything there is quite all right.” Walter stopped and sighed. When he began again, he sounded quite distressed. “Mr. Bennie, I apologize for asking, this is most inappropriate, but did Miss Chen give you the Christmas present she brought for me?”

Flummoxed. Bennie thought fast. This was obviously some kind of under-the-table payment. How much money did the man want?

He hoped the man didn’t require it to be in Chinese money. “Miss Chen did mention the present,” he ventured, trying to be tactful.

“But tell me again specifically what she said she would give you. Was it in dollars?”

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The man laughed slightly. “Oh no, not dollars. CD.”

Certificate of deposit?
Bennie was surprised at how sophisticated the bribes had to be in this wayward part of Asia. Don’t panic, he told himself. You’ll figure it out. He could call his broker back home.

Then again, maybe this Walter guy would take more money instead of certificates. “And how much in CDs was it again?” Bennie squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for hearing the answer.

“Oh, this is most embarrassing to even mention,” Walter said.

“It’s just that Miss Chen told me yesterday she would be bringing me a CD, and I was quite excited to hear that it would be the musical
Phantom of the Opera
.”

Bennie nearly wept.
Compact disc
.

“And I have brought her one with Burmese dance music, which

I hope she will like, that is, that she would have liked, if indeed she has died.”

“Ten CDs,” Bennie suggested. “How does that sound?”

“Oh no, no! Really, that is far too many.
The Phantom
is quite enough, I think. That is what Miss Chen said she was bringing. Ten is, well, it is awfully considerate of you to even suggest it. Western music is terribly hard to come by.”