The Firemaker (4 page)

Margaret sighed theatrically. ‘So what
should
I have said?’

‘You should have said how grateful you were for the university’s offer of accommodation, but that unfortunately you had already booked a room at the Friendship Hotel.’ Bob stopped her at the top of the stairs. ‘I told you, they do things differently here. And if you want to get anything done, you’re going to have to start getting yourself a little
guanxi
in the bank.’

‘What the hell’s “gwanshee”?’

‘It’s what makes this whole society work. A kind of old boys’ network – you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I do you a favour, you do me one in return. And you’re not doing anyone any favours by making them lose face.’

Margaret’s head dropped, and to Bob she suddenly looked very small and very frail. He immediately regretted his impatience with her.

‘Hey, listen … I’m sorry. You’ve had a long day …’

‘
Two
days,’ she corrected him, a hint of petulance in her tone.

‘And I guess this is all pretty bizarre stuff.’

‘Yeah.’ Now she was fighting an unaccountable urge to burst into tears, and became aware of her foot tapping manically on the top step. Bob was aware of it, too. His voice became soothing.

‘Look, Lily’ll take you to the Friendship. Have a shower, get changed, maybe even grab an hour’s shut-eye, and just let the banquet tonight wash over you. Enjoy it. The food’s great. And as for the other stuff … I’ll keep you right, okay?’

She flicked him a look that verged on the grateful, and a wry smile turned up the corners of her mouth. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

But her reassurance lasted only as long as it took to reach the car and the scowling face of Lily Ping, and Margaret’s heart sank again.

IV

The young security guard nodded to Li as he passed through the staff gate at the rear of the Jingtan joint venture hotel on Jianguomennei Avenue. Li slipped in the back door to the ground-floor kitchen and looked around for Yongli. But there was no sign of him. Sous-chefs were chopping vegetables and preparing marinades, jointing chickens and basting duck for roasting.

Li stopped one of the waitresses. ‘Where’s Ma Yongli?’

She nodded towards the door. ‘Out front.’

Li crossed to the door, opening it a crack, and peeked out. Yongli stood by a hot plate and gas ring behind an ornate counter with a Chinese canopy. His white smock seemed to emphasise his height and his bulk, his round face solemn below his tall white chef’s hat. He gazed out at the early eaters in the twenty-four-hour Café China, his mind somewhere else altogether. He was on front-of-house duty tonight, cooking dishes from the day’s Special Menu in view of the customers who ordered them. But the serious diners were not yet in and, for the moment at least, he was idle, his mind free to wander. Li watched him affectionately for a moment, then issued a short, sharp whistle from between his front teeth. Yongli’s head snapped round and his face lit up when he saw Li. He glanced about quickly to see if any of the managers were watching, then hurried over to the door, pushing Li back into the kitchen with an irresistible force. ‘Well? Well? Come on, tell me. What happened?’

The smiled drained from Li’s face and he lowered his head and shrugged. ‘The Commissioner said it was Party policy to “discourage nepotism in all its insidious forms”.’

All the animation left Yongli’s expression. ‘Aw, come on, you’re shitting me, right?’

Li retained his grave demeanour. ‘It’s what he said.’ He paused, and then a big grin split his face. ‘But it didn’t stop me getting the job.’

‘You bastard!’ Yongli grabbed at him, but Li backed off, grinning stupidly.

‘Hey!’ Yongli shouted out to the kitchen. And heads lifted. ‘Big Li got his promotion!’ And he grabbed a couple of stainless-steel ladles and started working his way up a line of hanging pots and pans, beating out a tattoo on them as he went. A cheer went up from the staff, and there was a spontaneous round of applause. Li flushed and shook his head with embarrassment, still grinning like an idiot. Yongli reached the end of the row. ‘So the next time you get lifted by the cops,’ he shouted, ‘you can just say, hey, don’t you know who I am? I’m a pal of Big Li Yan. And they’ll let you go faster than hot coals.’ He turned a huge, sparkling-eyed, maniacal grin on his friend and stalked down the aisle towards him, taking Li’s face in two giant hands and planting a big wet kiss on his forehead. ‘Congratulations, pal.’ And the two embraced, to further applause from the kitchen staff.

They had been best friends since meeting on their first day at the University of Public Security nearly fifteen years before. Two kindred spirits, each instantly recognising the other. Big daft boys, then and now. It had broken Li’s heart when Yongli had dropped out in their final year. His results had been deteriorating in almost precise correlation to his pursuit of women and karaoke bars and a lifestyle he could not afford. It was the essential difference between them. Li took his career more seriously than his pleasures. But to Yongli the pursuit of pleasure was all. And he had jumped at the chance to train as a chef with a Sino-American joint venture.

‘The money’s fantastic,’ he had told Li. And, compared to the subsistence existence of a Chinese student, it was. Even after his promotion, Li would earn substantially less than his friend. Yongli’s training had also included lessons in English, six months at a hotel in Switzerland learning how to cook and present European food, and three months in the States finding out how Americans liked to eat their steaks. There he had learned how to fully indulge his hedonistic inclinations, returning with a great appetite for all things American and a three-inch addition to his waistline. In many ways Li and Yongli had grown apart, their paths in life taking very different courses, and their friendship now was sustained more by its history than by its present. But the warmth between them was still strong.

‘So.’ Yongli pulled off his hat and threw it to one of the other chefs, who caught it deftly. ‘Tonight you and I are going to celebrate.’

‘But you’re working.’

Yongli twinkled. ‘I made contingency arrangements – just in case the news was good. The boys await my call, and a table is booked at the Quanjude.’

‘The boys?’

‘The old gang. Just like it used to be.’ A thought clouded his smile briefly. ‘And no Lotus. I know you don’t approve.’

Li protested. ‘Hey, listen, Yongli, it’s not that I disapprove–’

Yongli cut him off. ‘Not tonight, pal. Okay?’

The moment of friction between them was past in an instant. An onlooker might barely have been aware of it. Yongli grinned again, warmly. ‘We’re gonna get you drunk.’

V

To Margaret’s surprise, the bar was deserted, except for a balding middle-aged man in the far corner nursing a large Scotch and flipping desultorily through the pages of the
International Herald Tribune
. She felt better for having showered and changed and soaked up a little of the unexpected luxury of the Friendship Hotel. Built in the fifties to house Russian ‘experts’, this vast granite edifice was a throwback to the days of uneasy co-operation between China and Stalin’s Russia, all polished brass and white marble dragons beneath curling green-tiled eaves supported on rust-red pillars. She had changed into a cool cotton summer dress, and blow-dried her hair. It fell now in natural golden curls across her shoulders. Before leaving the room she had examined her face in the mirror – pale skin dotted with freckles – as she applied a little make-up, and had noticed the beginnings of lines around her eyes and the deep shadows beneath them. And she remembered with a painful stab the events of the last eighteen months and the devastating effect they had had on her life. In all her fatigue, and in all the strangeness and disorientation of China, they had actually slipped from her conscious mind for the first time. Now they came back like the pungent taste of something not quite right eaten some hours earlier. A drink was required.

A barmaid lounged on the customer side of the bar and two young men hovered behind it. Whatever conversation they’d been having ended abruptly when Margaret entered, and as she eased herself into one of the tall bar stools the barmaid thrust a drinks menu into her hand. Margaret handed it back, unopened. ‘Vodka tonic, with ice and lemon.’

The man in the corner looked up, interested for the first time by the sound of her voice. He folded his paper, drained his glass, and headed for the bar. He was short, only a little taller than Margaret, and stockily built. Margaret turned as he approached and saw a man whose face was collapsing, jowls deforming a weak jawline, deep creases running down fleshy cheeks from puffy eyes that were watery and bloodshot. His remaining hair, wiry and unruly, was almost entirely grey and plastered to his head with some kind of scented oil that assaulted Margaret’s olfactory senses. He smiled unpleasantly, and even above the scent of his hair oil, Margaret could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘Put that on my bill,’ he said in an unmistakably Californian drawl.

‘That’s quite all right,’ Margaret said coolly.

‘No, I insist.’ He tossed a glance at one of the barmen. ‘And gimme another Scotch.’ Then he refocused on Margaret. ‘Makes a change to hear a voice from the old country.’

‘Really? I thought this was where the international set hung out.’ It was what she’d read, and one of the reasons she had chosen to stay there. After relations between Russia and China had become less than warm and the Russian ‘experts’ had departed, the Friendship Hotel had become a haven for ‘experts’ of all nationalities, and more recently a gathering place for expats who preferred English to Chinese.

‘Used to be,’ he said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘But you know how it is. One place is popular this year, another the next. And the beautiful people move on.’ Margaret was aware of an increasing rancour in his tone now. ‘Still, I can’t say I miss them. The aesthetic can become somewhat tedious, don’t you think?’ But he wasn’t really interested in what she thought. He went on without pausing, ‘A steady supply of whisky’s all a man really needs. And from a quiet corner in here the solitary drinker can always watch the ridiculous spectacle of the Chinese
nouveaux riches
in search of status. My name’s McCord, by the way. J. D. McCord.’ He held out his hand, and she felt compelled to shake it. She had expected it to be limp and damp. Instead, it held her a little too firmly, and there was something almost reptilian in its cold, dry touch. ‘And you are?’

‘Margaret Campbell.’ She felt trapped by his politeness. And the arrival of her vodka tonic, on his bill, slammed the door on immediate escape.

‘Well, Margaret Campbell, what brings you to Beijing?’

There was nothing else for it. She took a long sip of her vodka and almost immediately felt its effect. ‘I’m lecturing for six weeks at the People’s University of Public Security.’

‘Are you indeed?’ McCord seemed impressed. ‘And what’s your subject?’

‘Forensic pathology.’

‘Jeez! You mean you cut people open for a living?’

‘Only when they’re dead.’

He grinned. ‘I’m safe for a while, then.’ And for one malicious, wishful moment, she visualised taking a circular saw round the top of his skull and watching his addled, alcoholic brain plop out into a shiny stainless-steel dish. His Scotch arrived and he took a long slug. ‘So … you just got here?’ She nodded and sucked in more vodka. ‘You’ll be needing someone to show you the ropes, then.’

‘Someone like you?’

‘Sure. I’ve been here nearly six years. Know all the wrinkles.’

‘You’ve stayed
here
for six years?’ She was astonished at the thought of anyone staying in a hotel for that long.

‘Hell, no, I don’t stay at the Friendship. I only drink here. My company’s got me staying at the Jingtan on the other side of town. Goddamn place is full of Japs. Can’t stomach ’em. But that’s only the last two years. Before that I was in the south.’ He shook his head, remembering personal horrors. ‘Coming here was like dying and going to heaven.’ He put his hand out quickly. ‘But don’t go reaching for that scalpel just yet. I ain’t really dead. That was just a metaphor.’

‘Simile,’ she corrected him.

‘Whatever.’ He drained his glass. ‘So. Can I buy you dinner?’

‘Afraid not.’

He grinned, unabashed. ‘Hey, I don’t mind a woman playing hard to get. I enjoy the chase.’

Margaret finsihed her vodka, its heady warmth making her bold. ‘I’m not playing hard to get. I’m just not available.’

‘Is that tonight? Or ever?’

‘Both.’

He chewed that over for a moment, then pushed his empty glass towards the barman. ‘Fill her up. You want another?’ She shook her head. ‘So, where are you eating tonight – if I may be so bold?’

‘She go eat banquet.’ Lily had entered unnoticed. ‘And we late,’ she said to Margaret. For once Margaret was almost relieved to see her.

‘Banquet, huh? Quanjude Beijing Duck, by any chance?’

Margaret was taken aback. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Because everyone from the President of the United States to even a humble forensic pathologist gets the Beijing Duck treatment. Enjoy.’ He raised his glass then took a long pull at it as Lily steered Margaret down the hall.

‘You know him? ‘she asked disapprovingly.

‘No, I don’t know him. I just met him. Who is he?’

‘McCord. Everyone in Beijing know McCord. He work for Chinese government, got
guanxi
, big connection. And he like pay Chinese girl for …’ She broke off. Suddenly, uncharacteristically, self-conscious. ‘For … something no one else want give him.’

‘Prostitutes? He goes with prostitutes?’ Margaret was disgusted.

Lily pursed her lips. ‘And we no can touch him.’

VI

The Quanjude Beijing Duck restaurant stood on Qianmen Dajie just south of Tiananmen Square. This was a busy commericial centre, bustling with all manner of shops still open for business. The streets were thick with early evening shoppers, and workers nipping in on their way home for sit-in or carry-out meals in the dozens of Western and Chinese fast-food joints. Off the main street ran a jumble of
hutongs
, choking with market stands and food stalls hanging with red lanterns, neon-lit Chinese characters projecting from every shopfront. Their BMW edged its way through the traffic, past the fast-food section of the Quanjude – duck-burgers a speciality – and turned into a tunnel lined by glass-framed poster-sized photographs of world leaders stuffing their faces with roast duck. In the carpark, Bob stood anxiously underneath the lanterns at the door, glancing at his watch. He took Margaret’s arm as she emerged from the back of the BMW and guided her hastily in through the revolving door.