The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map (37 page)

She watched the families wind their way up the hill. The breeze was pleasant, but it could not quite blow away the overwhelming heat of the sun. She spied a long bench that had one remaining seat available in the shade. She parked herself on the bench, grateful for a break from the sun’s glare.

She used her hand to fan herself, looking around at the milling crowd of tourists. Many, like her group, were here to adopt China’s orphaned daughters. At the hotel, there had been groups from the US, Spain and Denmark. There was even another Canadian group from Montreal.

A middle aged Chinese man stood baking in the sun, fanning his face with his hat and mopping his brow. He looked at the bench, but seeing there was not much room left in the shade, he opted to take a seat several feet from her in the sunlight. Fa-ling considered offering to slide down the bench and make room for him, but at the moment he was enjoying a non-verbal communication with a white woman who was pushing a stroller that held a Chinese toddler.

The woman was around forty years old, slightly overweight and having the time of her life. She bent to adjust her daughter’s hat, smiling at the Chinese man who returned her good cheer genially.

Fa-ling would have trouble describing the beauty of this place to her friends at home. They would not understand — how could blue sky, white clouds, green trees and an endless sea of flowers be anything but beautiful? There was a quality, though, to her surroundings that went beyond the surface beauty of colour and composition. This was truly a golden experience, and a golden country.

How could she explain the
feel
of this place, which was as if she had landed on another planet? The unfamiliar languages, the fragrance of fresh-cut grass that was unlike the smell of grass at home, the relentless scorch of a strange sun…

…
and the signs! They were everywhere, auspiciously designed with a heightened eye for aesthetics, gilded and elegant and displayed in both Chinese and English, in preparation for the flood of tourists that would soon flock to Beijing for the 2008 Olympics!

Fa-ling had read reports in the Toronto newspapers, stylishly critical stories that poked gentle fun at those ‘Chinglish’ signs, as they were being called. The questionable English translations offered a wealth of necessary instructions, such as “Persons to enjoy the royal grass and not to spit on the natural majesty” and “All people should know that to anticipate the loveliness in single order is preferred”.

Fa-ling could only guess the messages were meant to be: “No spitting allowed” and “Please wait your turn”, a reminder to the notoriously ill-mannered Beijing residents to be on their best behaviour when the world came to visit.

She smiled, for once feeling at peace with herself and her surroundings. Even her
T’Ai Chi
discipline usually failed to give her the sense of ‘oneness’ she deeply longed for. For whatever reason, this indescribable day at the Summer Palace allowed her troubled spirit to rest.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again the white woman was waving goodbye to the Chinese man. Once she was gone, Fa-ling leaned over and tapped him on the elbow, greeting him in Mandarin.

He answered her in Cantonese and she surprised him by addressing him again in her native tongue. He nodded gratefully when she made room for him.

“
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Fa-ling said, indicating the grounds with a sweep of her hand.

“
Yes, it is beautiful,” he agreed.

Before Fa-ling could think of anything else to say, she spotted her group approaching. They had finished their tour of the scenic gardens and were ready to make the trek down the Long Corridor to the Stone Boat, that great marble monument to ‘Chinese stability’ the Empress Dowager had squandered her entire naval budget to commission. Of course, given the current political reality, the Stone Boat was now believed to be more of a monument to the infinite frivolity of the royal class.

From there, they were led onto a dragon boat, which carried them across the lake to the Seventeen Arch Bridge. Cynthia was watchful of the group, and was not her usual informative self, neglecting to explain the significance of the seventeen arches. Fa-ling knew enough of her Chinese history to understand the bridge was built for optimal prestige, with its midpoint centring at that always preferred number ‘nine’, the most revered number in Chinese culture.

On their second day in Beijing, Cynthia booked the group for a tour of Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City, located in the heart of the Capital. The bus was not allowed to park near the square. Instead the driver found a place in a public lot nearly a block away. The group was forced to run the gauntlet through an underpass to the opposite street corner, where they were confronted by an army of vendors who chased them and cried out, desperate to sell their wares.

The frightened parents wrapped white knuckles around their stroller handles, stampeding like a herd of buffalo after Cynthia and away from the relentless vendors.

When they finally arrived at Tiananmen Square they were disappointed to find the site, which was normally open to the public, closed due to official Military business. The families hovered at the edge of the square watching the manoeuvres, each adult stirred by the global memory of the massacre that had taken place there on June 4, 1989.

Finally, not wanting to draw attention to the group, Cynthia insisted they move on to the main attraction: The Forbidden City.

Never had Fa-ling witnessed such a display of elegance and ornament. From the deep blue enamel of the exquisite cloisonné pieces, originally inspired, according to history, by visits from the French Royalty, to the polished sleeping quarters that once belonged to China’s last Emperor, it was easy to see how this testament to art and beauty had become little more than a grandiose prison to the boy.

Such slavish devotion to wealth and position could never be a good thing. Despite the throng of smiling tourists pushing her onward, Fa-ling was weighed down by a great remembered sadness that had settled on her heart.

It was a collective sorrow, one seldom admitted, but one experienced by many. Now, in the presence of so much history, Fa-ling had joined that unenviable number. She knew her understanding of the differences between East and West would never be the same.

At the end of the palatial tour, Cynthia led her exhausted group through a winding alley, where they were once again confronted by vendors. These sellers, though, were less intimidating. They nodded and smiled, even managing to utter a few words of English to encourage purchases. Cynthia slowed, allowing the group to patronise the vendors.

Eloise Golluck bought a set of golden piglets in honour of ‘the year of the pig’. They were suitable for hanging on a Christmas tree.

Ting-lo was not interested in the goods. She kept both hands on Anna’s stroller. Adrian stood close to his family, creating a barrier between them and the pushing crowd.

The Kitcheners had their hands full with three children as they waited for the group to finish shopping. Guy Kader held onto Mei Mei while Paula inspected a tray of local needlecrafts.

Yvanna studied a hand-quilted silk blanket. Daniel squirmed in his stroller, obviously hot and uncomfortable. Feeling sorry for him, Chris unbuckled his belt and lifted him onto the ground. He held the boy’s hand to stop him from toddling off into the crowd.

Yvanna turned to ask Chris whether their housekeeper would like the quilt. Her words came out as a gasp, though, when she saw a woman running toward Daniel. Before either Yvanna or Chris could react, the woman had grabbed their son and was already lost in the crowd. Chris ran shouting after her, but by the time he had pushed his way through the exit she was no where in sight.

Stunned, he could only stare down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of his son. When Yvanna clutched his arm, he knew the situation was hopeless.

Gege lay on the hotel bed with Daniel sitting on his chest. The boy had kept up a deafening howl for most of the way. Once they got into their rental car, though, Gege was able to calm him down. He bounced on the bed, enjoying the child’s laughter.

“
Leave him alone,” Miao said, snatching the baby from Gege. “We are not making friends with him.” She dropped him onto the other bed and tossed a yellow rubber toy at him.

“
He’s only a baby,” Gege said.

“
There is no point getting attached to him. Once we have the million dollars, we will have to dispose of him. Returning him to the Canadians is too risky.”

“
Once we have the million dollars, we can do what we want. We can start over in Hong Kong. No one knows us there. If we want, we can adopt him.”

“
Gege,” Miao said, her voice becoming soft, “we have to stick with the plan. People always get caught when they deviate from the plan.”

Gege turned away from her. He knew better than to argue. His cousin was far more intelligent than he was. He wished, though, she had a warmer heart.

When it came down to it, Gege knew it would be up to Miao to do what needed to be done. He did not have the backbone for it.

Miao used the Blackberry Paula Kader had given her to log onto the African account. It was Paula’s loan shark who had used his mob connections to put her in touch with Miao and Gege. Miao’s family was loosely tied to a Chinese crime syndicate. Despising the stigma of his criminal background, her father turned his back on all of that, becoming an honest craftsman who made and painted delicate pieces of pottery for sale to tourists.

Miao was tired of living within her family’s means. One of China’s current generation of ‘Bad Girls’, she ran with a fast crowd for whom money was not an issue. As soon as the deal was struck with Paula, Miao came up with a deal of her own, one that would allow her and her hopelessly romantic cousin to escape from their dreary Nanning existence.

When Paula gave her the number of the offshore African account where the ransom was to be transferred, Miao immediately used part of the ‘deposit’ to set up her own offshore account. The ransom demand would be written in Chinese, via a note delivered to the woman who called herself Cynthia, a name that was no doubt easy for the Westerners to pronounce.

There was no time to waste. She notified the teenaged son of a relative to go ahead as planned. The teenager would carry a sealed envelope addressed to Cynthia to a local bicycle courier, who would unwittingly deliver it to the hotel where the adoption group was staying.

The letter said:
One million US dollars for child. Transfer by three o’clock this afternoon and wait for instructions.
Below that message was the necessary banking information to make the transfer. The entire communication was in Chinese characters.

It was glowingly simple. According to Paula’s plan, the money would be deposited directly into an account owned by the loan shark. The amount would be sufficient to cover her entire debt, make a handsome payment to her Chinese accomplices and still leave her with some pocket money. Not that Paula needed extra money — she had no intention of ever gambling again — but on the other hand, there were some hot investment properties coming up on the market…

Miao’s plan added only one twist. Instead of depositing the money into the loan shark’s account, she would have it deposited into an account of her own. The arrogant Canadian had not seen the double cross coming. To her, Miao and Gege looked like a couple of hicks, tools she could use to her advantage. It had not occurred to her they might have their own agenda.

Paula insisted from the start the boy be returned to his family. Miao suspected her of paying lip service to the boy’s safety in order to minimise her own guilt in the matter. Miao felt no such obligation toward the child. In a country whose population was measured in excess of a billion, Buddhism had taught the common people to accept death easily, both their own demise and the deaths of others. After all, death was merely the end of one experience and the beginning of another, higher, existence.

Miao sent the email and then carefully erased the Blackberry’s history. Her education in computer programming was serving her well. Then she stretched out on the bed and stroked Gege’s back.

“
We need to stick with the plan,” she said.

**

Cheng’s surprise at seeing Shopei outside of the hospital was matched by Yong-qi’s. The girl had watched the brown car pull out of the parking lot, standing at the cafeteria window unsure what to do next. She had the locator in her pocket, but didn’t know how to use it. It was with relief that she spotted Detective Wang running out of the building after the killers.

Shopei approached the two men and placed the electronic device onto the table.

“
How does this work?” she said.

**

Paula Kader was nervous. After more than a week in China, her “Cool Hand” attitude had lost its edge. She had one motto when faced with any challenge:
stick with the plan.
In situations involving enormous risk, the winners were invariably those people who were capable of staring danger in the eye, following their decisions through to the bitter end, and never flinching, even in the face of certain disaster.

She knew she should stay in her room. The police had been called — yet another team of tin-pot bureaucrats who pretended to know much more than they really did, carrying their authority in front of them like a weapon. This batch, though, was more professional looking than the young Nanning cops had been. At the very least, she thought, they were older.