The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map (7 page)

Her left arm ached as it always did when she was fatigued. Fortunately, her right hand took most of the instrument’s weight, but the dull pain lingered. Fa-ling pressed the cold water bottle against her left forearm before opening it, allowing it to chill away her discomfort.

She then poured half the bottle of water down her throat and used a tissue to wipe the perspiration from her face. As she reached for her clarinet, a sound from the next room caught her ear. It seemed strangely foreign to her, until the five-note range told her it was a Chinese melody being played ever so softly, and that she, in fact, was now the foreigner. She put her ear nearer to the wall, trying to distinguish between the strings and the xylophone, the combination creating a falsely happy sound that was more profoundly sorrowful than a wail.

The effect reminded her of her clarinet. On those occasions when her instrument sang in the key of her own dark memories, she was able to wring from it similar mournful sounds.

In Fa-ling’s opinion, the cheerful dance of a Chinese melody within its restrictive scale made it by far the saddest music in the world. It suggested a mime with an exaggerated smile painted on his face, grinning maniacally as he struggled to break free of an invisible brick wall. Like the mime, the melody feigned happiness, but it fell short of communicating ‘joy’ each time it failed to climb over its five-note constraints and to reach for the elusive ‘sixth note’ that might lead it to the boundless octave which gave Western music its exuberance. In contrast, the repressive five-note scale of Chinese music was so filled with longing it could only be the tumescent result of three thousand years of wars, floods, pestilence and death.

What, though, was the third instrument Fa-ling heard coming through the wall? She finally made it out. It was a male voice chanting softly in time to the music, repeating words she could not understand.

Not wanting to disturb her neighbour, she considered putting away her instrument, but wasn’t yet satisfied with her practice session. She resumed, choosing only gentle melodies and controlling the volume of her clarinet at just above a musical whisper. She could no longer hear the music from next door, and she did not think her neighbour could hear her.

When Fa-líng was a child caught in the first throes of learning to play the clarinet, the music had been with her always, its rhythm and flying melodies occupying her mind without invitation. Back then she had not been able to control it. It was like another of her languages, cutting neuro-pathways into her brain. It was a compulsion she could neither summon nor deny. Every image, every thought and idea that entered her young mind was subject to the unrelenting ‘one-two-three-four’, the rise and fall of infinite sound.

Now, though, she could turn the internal music on and off with the ease of a master. The steady count, the climb and the descent no longer dominated her thoughts as they once had. She was able to set them aside, indulge in normal pastimes, and pick them up again whenever she was alone.

How could she explain this love of music and languages, this desire for a most intimate expression — she who kept so much to herself? The truth was she seldom shared it with the world. Daphne would sing and play her piano in front of anyone, revelling in her ability to entertain. Fa-ling, though, could only rarely be enticed to play her clarinet in public. The thing she loved most about her instrument, and the reason she had chosen it over the piano, was the fact that it was portable. This meant she could carry it away to her room, there to indulge in its beauty without the judgement of others.

Such was her approach to many things. She loved to learn, but had little patience for being taught. She preferred to mull a subject over in her mind, turn it around and study it from every angle, until she ‘got’ the method and owned the solution.

Finally the humid air in the hotel room began to cool, touching her skin. She laid the sheet music on the table and studied her reflection in the mirror. It had been awhile…

She opened Michael’s shirt and ran her fingers over a nipple, amazed at how quickly it responded. She slid her other hand into her underwear and felt the rush. Michael’s face flashed into her mind, but was soon replaced by Randy’s flirting smile. It would be nice to be touched by someone who was so happy and confident. She fantasised that Randy was never clumsy, that his hands would know exactly how to tease her body. It was easy to imagine the most attractive qualities being possessed by a stranger. After all, it is only when we come to know each other that our human frailties get in the way.

Fa-ling closed her eyes and bit her lip. Then without warning Randy’s image disappeared from her mind. She tried to recall his laughing eyes, but another, more familiar face rose to take its place, a pair of black eyes glinting with malice over teeth as crooked and foul as a jack-o’-lantern’s.

Hello, Xiao,
she thought.
Thanks loads for dropping in.
Fighting back a wave of frustration, she sighed, straightened herself and her music, and then reached once again for her clarinet. She played until she no longer felt the discontent in her soul.

Exhausted at last, Fa-líng dismantled her instrument, cleaning each piece before setting it into its place. She was surprised to notice the faint music and chanting continued next door. It sounded like the same melody she’d heard hours earlier. The man’s voice was still chanting along to the music.

The noise coming through the wall wasn’t loud, but it had been a long day. The repetitive sound set Fa-ling’s nerves on edge. She knew it would keep her awake and she needed the escape only dreams could offer. She longed for physical release, but couldn’t face another imaginary encounter with Xiao. Instead she fixed her IPod’s earphones in place and climbed into bed. With
Green Day
rocking softly in her head, she was dreaming in no time.

Tang carried only one small case into the hotel. In his thirty-five years, he had never been a guest in a place like the Golden Lion. The bell-boy gave him a scornful look when he tried to turn on the lights, at last condescending to show him how to slide the passkey into the slot to turn on the room’s electricity.

Tang didn’t really care about the lights or the air-conditioning. He would have been equally happy to sit in the heat and gathering darkness. It was a marvel, though, how the thing worked, and he tried it a few times, sliding the plastic card in and out of the slot and watching the lights turn on and off.

When he tired of that he removed his shoes, taking care to hang up his good shirt and pants before entering the room in his underwear. His cotton whites had seen better days, but his socks were new. He’d bought them especially for the trip, carefully doling out his Yuan on a few small necessities and hoarding a secret pleasure over each expenditure.

Tang had packed little. On his sister’s instructions he carried almost no money, just enough to cover the night’s stay. Dinner in the elegant hotel restaurant was out of the question.

There were things at stake that were far more important than food. Besides, Tang knew how to minimize the pain of hunger.

He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Knowing government agents had the ability to track cell phone usage, he had not used his phone in months, but he turned it on before arriving at the hotel. His sister might need to reach him. He checked the battery strength and noticed he had missed an incoming call. Although he did not have voice-mail, Tang knew the call was from his sister. He dialled her number from memory, confirmed his arrival in a few hurried words and put the phone back inside his bag.

He then unpacked three things and laid them carefully on the wood veneer of the coffee table: a fat yellow pillar candle that was already half used up; a battery operated tape player with a cassette inside; and a small brass bell.

Tang went back to the closet where his pants were hanging and found the half-used book of matches in his pocket. One corner of the matchbook cover had already been folded back and torn off. He tore the other corner from the book and used the tiny cardboard wedge to pry a bit of food from between his teeth.

After dropping the makeshift cardboard toothpick into the trashcan, Tang removed his passkey from the slot to turn off the lamps, used a match to light the yellow candle and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the battery operated tape deck.

When the music started to play, he closed his eyes and began his chant, occasionally shaking the little bell to announce his spirit to the cosmos. In no time, he was absorbed in meditation, his
chi
lost in the joy of limitless freedom.

He continued for several hours, so deep within himself he did not hear the door to his room open — did not hear the earthbound intruder enter until it was too late.

**

It was past ten o’clock by the time the adoptive parents finished filling out the forms required by the Chinese government. Initially they had made good time, completing the documents within thirty minutes. When they were finished, though, Cynthia realised she had neglected to advise them properly. As it turned out, all forms completed for use by the government needed to be filled in black ink rather than in blue.

On top of that, Cynthia had not thought to bring extra forms or extra black pens. Only one couple, Ting-lo and Adrian, had foreseen this administrative requirement, so after they completed their forms they had to wait while the other four couples took turns using Adrian’s pen to painstakingly trace over each word in black ink.

It was unclear why black ink was necessary, but Cynthia assured them it was the required method. Finally the last couple, Paula and Guy Kader, returned the black pen to Adrian. Grumbling, the group turned in their forms and everyone left the room.

“
That was fun,” Guy joked when he and Paula were back in their room.

“
Spare me,” Paula said. Her words were sarcastic, but Guy was relieved to see she was smiling for the first time since they’d left Toronto.

“
Tomorrow’s likely to be another long day. We should try to get some sleep.”

“
You go ahead,” she said. “I slept on the plane. I’m going to answer a few emails.” She pulled her ultra-thin laptop from her carry-on bag.

“
Do you have to do that tonight?”

“
Don’t worry, I won’t keep you awake. The bathroom is huge. I’ll drag a chair in there and set the computer up on the counter-top.”

“
You don’t have to do that.” Guy couldn’t help wondering whether her offer to work in the bathroom had more to do with her desire for privacy than for any consideration towards him. “The lights won’t bother me.”

“
Really,” she said, “I’ll be ok in the bathroom.”

The mattress was comfortable, but Guy couldn’t sleep. He imagined he could hear Paula’s fingers pounding the keyboard. She was up to her old tricks, he was sure of it, despite her protests to the contrary.

Lately there was something different in the air between them. At first he put it down to nerves. As they got closer to the adoption date, they both felt the strain. There were so many forms to fill out, so many steps to follow to the letter. One mistake could throw a wrench into their plans of parenthood.

Paula’s mood swings were understandable — to a degree ― but something else was going on. Guy sensed the emergence of a familiar pattern. Paula withdrew. When he tried to talk to her about it, she compensated by being overly considerate.

She complained that her days at home were long and boring. When he suggested she find another kind of job, her mood spiralled. Trading was her life. No mere ‘job’ could equal the thrill of playing with other people’s money.

The adoption was supposed to give Paula a sense of purpose. When they first initiated the process it had seemed like a great idea. They were both swept away with the notion of becoming parents and taking responsibility for a whole other life. Their joint enthusiasm carried them easily through the intensity of the home study. They were approved without reservation.

Now, though, after two years of red tape and bureaucracy, Paula’s excitement seemed to have fizzled. More often than not, when he called her during the day she wouldn’t bother to pick up the phone. In the evening, she seemed distracted and aloof, occasionally trying to cover up her mood by being abnormally sweet, only to drift even further away from him in no time.

Then there was her behaviour at the airport restaurant. The other wives were brimming with excitement as they anticipated becoming mothers. By contrast, Paula’s attitude exuded only boredom. She barely spoke to the group over lunch. In Vancouver she swallowed a handful of pills and slept through the entire flight.

Guy had studied the other couples on the plane with envy. They read, watched movies, spoke to each other in hushed excitement, quietly sharing with each other the joy of a life-altering journey. Meanwhile he stared out the window for hour after endless hour, alone with his growing doubts.

What could he do? When Paula got like this Guy became a helpless observer, waiting for the inevitable train wreck. Despite his growing sense of desperation, he still loved her.

In the end, it was his love for his wife that would determine his actions. He would have to hope once the baby was in their lives, Paula would come to understand what was really important.

At around midnight he got up to use the toilet. Paula jumped when he opened the bathroom door, quickly minimising the window on her computer screen. Her action told him he was right – she was up to no good.