Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (74 page)

"What is
it, Chian-ye? Is someone ill?"

But he knew,
every as he said it, that it was not that. Fu Hen would have come
with such news, not Chian-ye. Unless ... He felt himself go cold. "It
isn't Fu Hen, is it?"

Heng Chian-ye
raised his head the tiniest bit. "No, honored Uncle. No one is
ill. I ..."

Heng Yu sighed
with relief, then leaned closer. "Have you been drinking,
Chian-ye?" *

"I—"
Then, astonishingly, Chian-ye burst into tears. Chian-ye, who had
never so much as expressed one word of remorse over his own wasteful
lifestyle, in tears! Heng Yu looked down at where Chian-ye's hand
gripped the hem of his
pau
and shook his head. His voice was
suddenly forceful, the voice of a Minister commanding an underling.

"Heng
Chian-ye! Remember who you are! Why, look at you! Crying like a
four-year-old! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Forgive
me, Uncle! I cannot help it! I have disgraced our noble family. I
have lost a million
yuan!"

Heng Yu fell
silent. Then he gave a small laugh of disbelief.

"Surely I
heard you wrong, Chian-ye? A million
yuan
⁷
."

But a tiny nod
of Chian-ye's bowed head confirmed it. A million
yuan
had been
lost. Probably at the gaming table.

Heng Yu looked
about him at the cold formality of the anteroom, at its mock pillars
and the tiny bronze statues of gods that rested in the alcoves on
either side, the unreality of it all striking him forcibly. Then he
shook his head. "It isn't possible, Chian-ye. Even
you
cannot
have lost that much, surely?"

But he knew that
it was. Nothing less would have brought Chian-ye here. Nothing less
would have reduced him to such a state.

Heng Yu sighed,
his irritation mixed with a sudden despair. Was he never to be free
of his uncle's failings? First that business with Lwo Kang, and now
this. As if the father were reborn in his wastrel son to blight the
family's fortunes with his carelessness and selfishness.

For now he would
have to borrow to carry out his schemes. Would have to take that
high-interest loan
Shih
Saxton had offered him. A million
yuan!
He cursed silently, then drew away, irritably freeing
his
pau
from his cousin's grasp.

"Come into
the study, Chian-ye, and tell me what has happened."

He sat behind
his great ministerial desk, his face stern, listening to Chian-ye's
story. When his cousin finished, he sat there silently, considering.
Finally he looked back at Chian-ye, shaking his head.

"You have
been a foolish young man, Chian-ye. First you overstretched yourself.
That was bad enough. But then . . . well, to promise something that
was not yours to promise, that was. . . insufferable."

He saw how
Chian-ye blushed and hung his head at that. So
there is some sense
of Tightness in you,
he thought.
Some sense of shame.

"However,"
he continued, heartened by the clear sign of his cousin's shame, "you
are family, Chian-ye. You are
Heng.
" He pronounced the
word with a pride that made his cousin look up and meet his eyes,
surprised.

"Yes. Heng.
And the word of a Heng must be honored, whether given mistakenly or
otherwise."

"You
mean—?"

Heng Yu's voice
hardened. "I mean, Cousin, that you will be silent and listen to
me!"

Heng Chian-ye
lowered his head again, chastened; his whole manner subservient now.

"As I was
saying. The word of a Heng must be honored. So, yes, Chian-ye, I
shall meet
Shih
Novacek's conditions. He shall have the
Ko
Ming
bronze in settlement for your debt. As for the information
he wanted, you can do that for yourself, right now. The terminal is
over there, in the corner. However, there are two things you will do
for me."

Chian-ye raised
his head slightly, suddenly attentive.

"First you
will sign over half of your annual income, to be placed in a trust
that will mature only when you are thirty."

Chian-ye
hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.

"Good. And
second, you will resign your membership to the Jade Peony."

Heng Chian-ye
looked up, astonished. "But, Uncle . . . ?" Then, seeing
the angry determination in Heng Yu's face, he lowered his eyes. "As
you say, Uncle Yu."

"Good,"
Heng Yu said, more kindly now that it was settled. "Then go to
the terminal. You know how to operate it. The codes are marked to the
right. But ask me if you must. I shall be here a few hours yet,
finishing my reports."

He watched
Chian-ye go to the terminal, then sat back, smoothing at his beard
with his left hand, his right hand resting on the desk. A million
yuan!
That, truly, would have been disastrous. But this—this
deal. He smiled. Yes, it was a gods-given opportunity to put a bit
and brace on his reckless cousin, to school him to self-discipline.
And the price? One ugly bronze worth, at most, two-hundred thousand,
and a small snippet of information on a fellow student!

He nodded,
strangely pleased with the way things had turned out, then picked up
the report again. He was about to push it into the slot behind his
ear when Chian-ye turned, looking across at him.

"Uncle Yu?"

"Yes,
Chian-ye?"

"There
seems to be no file."

Heng Yu laughed,
then stood, coming round his desk. "Of course there's a file,
Chian-ye. There's a file on everyone in Chung Kuo. You must have
keyed the code incorrectly."

He stared at the
screen. INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE, it read.

"Here,"
he said, taking the scrap of paper from his cousin's hand. "Let
me see those details."

He stopped dead,
staring at the name that was written on the paper, then laughed
uncomfortably.

"Is
something wrong, Uncle Yu?"

"No . . .
nothing. I ..." He smiled reassuringly, then repeated what
Chian-ye had tried before, getting the same response. "Hmm,"
he said. "There must be something wrong with this terminal. I'll
call one of my men to come and see to it."

Heng Chian-ye
was watching him strangely. "Shall I wait, Uncle?"

For a moment he
didn't answer, his head filled with questions. Then he shook his head
absently. "No, Chian-ye." Then, remembering what day it
was, he turned, facing him.

"You
realize what day it is, Chian-ye?"

The young man
shook his head.

"You mean
you have been wasting your time gambling when your father's grave
remains unswept?"

Chian-ye
swallowed and looked down, abashed. "Sao Mu." he said
quietly.

"Yes, Sao
Mu. Or so it is for another .three-quarters of an hour. Now go,
Chian-ye, and do your duty. I'll have these details for you by the
morning, I promise you."

When Chian-ye
was gone he locked the door, then came back to the terminal.

Ben Shepherd.
Now what would
Shih
Novacek be doing wanting to know about the
Shepherd boy? One thing was certain—it wasn't a harmless
inquiry. For no one, Han or
Hung Mao,
threw a million
yuan
away on such a small thing. Unless it wasn't small.

He turned,
looking across at the tiny chip of the report where it lay on his
desk, then turned back, his decision made. The report could wait.
This was much more important. Whatever it was.

wOULD
YOU MIND if I sat with you?"

He looked up at
her, smiling, seeming to see her, to
create
her, for the very
first time. She felt unnerved by that gaze. Its intensity was
unexpected, unnatural. And yet he was smiling. "With me?"

She was suddenly
uncertain. There was only one chair at his table. The waiters had
removed the others, isolating him, so that no one would approach him.

She felt herself
coloring. Her neck and her cheeks felt hot, and after that first,
startling contact, her eyes avoided his.

"Well?"
he said, leaning back, his fingers resting lightly on the casing of
the comset on the table in front of him.

He seemed
unreachable, and yet he was smiling.

"I... I
wanted. . ." Her eyes reached out, making contact with his. So
un-fathomably deep they were. They held hers, drawing her out from
herself. ". . . to sit with you."

But she was
suddenly afraid, her body tensed against him. "Sit where?"
His hand lifted, the fingers opening in a gesture of emptiness. The
smile grew broader. Then he relented. "All right. Get a chair."
She brought a chair and put it down across from him.

"No.
Closer." He indicated the space beside him. "I can't talk
across tables." She nodded, setting the chair down where he
indicated. "Better."

He was still
watching her. His eyes had not left her face from the moment she had
first spoken to him.

Again she felt a
flash of fear, pure fear, pass through her. He was like no one she
had ever met. So— She shook her head, the merest suggestion of
movement, and felt a shiver run along her spine. No, she had never
felt like this before—so— helpless.

"What do
you do?"

Not "Who
are you?." Nothing so formal as an introduction. Instead, this.
Direct and unabashed.
What do you
do.
⁷
Peeling away
all surfaces.

For the first
time she smiled at him. "I ... paint."

He nodded, his
lips pinched together momentarily. Then he reached out and took her
hands in his own, studying them, turning them over.

So firm and warm
and fine, those hands. Her own lay caged in his, her fingers thinner,
paler than those that held them.

"Good
hands," he said, but did not relinquish them. "Now, tell me
what you wanted to talk to me about."

About hands,
perhaps. Or a million other things. But the warmth, the simple warmth
of his hands curled about her own, had robbed her of her voice.

He looked down
again, following her eyes. "What is it, Catherine?"

She looked up
sharply, searching his face, wondering how he knew her name. He
watched her a moment longer, then gave a soft laugh.

"There's
little you don't pick up, sitting here. Voices carry."

"And you
hear it all? Remember it?"

"Yes."

His eyes were
less fierce now, less predatory in their gaze; yet it still seemed as
if he were staring at her, as if his wide-eyed look were
drug-induced. But it no longer frightened her, no longer picked her
up and held her there, suspended, soul-naked and vulnerable before
it.

Her fear of him
subsided. The warmth of his hands . . .

"What do
you paint?"

Until a moment
ago it had seemed important. All important. But now? She tilted her
head, looking past him, aware of the shape of his head, the way he
sat there, so easy, so comfortable in his body. Again, so unexpected.

He laughed.
Fine, open laughter. Enjoying the moment. She had not thought him
capable of such laughter.

"You're a
regular chatterbox, aren't you? So
eloquent. .
."

He lifted his
head as he uttered the last word, giving it a clipped, sophisticated
sound that was designed to make her laugh.

She laughed,
enjoying his gentle mockery.

"You had a
reason for approaching me, I'm sure. But now you merely sit there,
mute, glorious—and quite beautiful."

His voice had
softened. His eyes were half-lidded now, like dark, occluded suns.

He turned her
hands within his own and held them, his fingers lying upon her
wrists, tracing the blood's quickening pulse.

She looked up,
surprised, then looked down at his left hand again, feeling the ridge
there. A clear, defined line of skin, circling the wrist.

"Your hand
. . . ?"

"Is a
hand," he said, lifting it to her face so that she could see it
better. "An accident. When I was a child."

"Oh."
Her fingers traced the line of flesh, a shiver passing through her.
It was a fine, strong hand. She closed her hand on his, her fingers
laced into his fingers, and looked at him.

"Can I
paint you?"

His eyes
widened, seeming to search her own for meanings. Then he smiled at
her, the smile like a flower unfolding slowly to the sun. "Yes,"
he said. "I'd like that."

* *
*

IT WAS NOT THE
BEST she had ever done, but it was good, the composition sound, the
seated figure lifelike. She looked from the canvas to the reality,
sitting there on her bed, and smiled.

"I've
finished."

He looked up
distractedly. "Finished?"

She laughed.
"The portrait, Ben. I've finished it."

"Ah . . ."
He stood up, stretching, then looked across at her again. "That
was quick."

"Hardly
quick. You've been sitting for me the best part of three hours."

"Three
hours?" He laughed strangely. "I'm sorry. I was miles
away."

"Miles?"

He smiled. "It's
nothing. Just an old word, that's all."

She moved aside,
letting him stand before the canvas, anxious to know what he thought
of it. For a moment she looked at it anew, trying to see it for the
first time, as he was seeing it. Then she looked back at him.

He was frowning.

"What is
it?" she asked, feeling a pulse start in her throat.

He put one hand
out vaguely, indicating the canvas. "Where am I?"

She gave a small
laugh. "What do you mean?"

"This . .
." He lifted the picture from its mechanical easel and threw it
down. "It's shit, Catherine. Lifeless shit!"

She stood there
a moment, too shocked to say anything, unable to believe that he
could act so badly, so—
boorishly.
She glared at him,
furious at what he'd done, then bent down and picked up the painting.
Where he had thrown it down the frame had snapped, damaging the
bottom of the picture. It would be impossible to repair.