Carl Hiaasen & William D. Montalbano

by A Death in China

  And there logic exploded. Stratton had examined David Wang’s effects with care. The only medication he had found was an unopened bottle of Excedrin.

  Chapter 7

  GRASS, LIKE NEARLY EVERYTHING else in China, is subject to political interpretation. Historically, the Chinese have taken a dim view of grass. In Peking’s parks, the dirt is swept daily, since cleanliness is prized, but gardeners relentlessly uproot any tuft of grass. Grass breeds disease, generations of Chinese have been taught. Additionally, Communist doctrine teaches that grass is decadent, since it is usually associated with leisured classes and generates exploitation—one man hiring another to cut it.

  In the pragmatic years, though, when the town fathers of Peking were allowed to gaze at their city without ideological blinders, they recoiled at what they saw. Peking, capital and presumed showcase of the most populous nation on earth, was a mess—overcrowded, disorganized, dreadfully polluted.

  An emerging generation of Chinese environmentalists has sought to repair the wreckage by planting trees and, yes, grass. But history does not die without a fight. So it is that on some weeks students at Chinese elementary schools can hear a lecture one day from an earnest ecologist on the virtues of grass and another from a functionary of public health on the merits of its destruction.

  Tom Stratton, amused by the ongoing struggle between tradition and modernization, had early on spotted a fresh plot of grass on the shoulder of a new highway overpass near his hotel.

  It was on this hard-won and possibly temporary bit of green that he sat cross-legged in the heat of a summer’s afternoon to read David Wang’s journal.

  AUGUST 10.

  Peking overwhelms me, and it is only my second day. Walking the streets, I realized how cluttered and musty my memories have become. As a child, I visited this city a dozen times, and for all these years, I have carried visions of its history and art, visions of brilliant colors and vibrant people.

  Yet that is not what I have found so far. What has struck me, instead, has been the crush of masses of people—all seemingly in a hurry and all almost faceless amid the brownness of the city. Each block seems to have at least one noisy factory. Brick chimneys spew so much filthy smoke that hundreds of Chinese customarily wear surgical masks, called koujiao, to protect their throats and lungs from infection. For a city with so few automobiles and trucks, I have never seen, or breathed, such foul air.

  I suppose that this is one of the prices that the government has chosen to pay for industrialization, and I must admit that I have seen several great technological accomplishments. This morning, for example, I made a trip to the Grand Canal, which stretches eleven hundred miles to Hangchow. It is the longest man-made waterway in the world and many Chinese believe that it is more of a masterpiece than even the Great Wall.

  During my childhood, however, the Grand Canal never was fully utilized because it had become blocked with silt and impossible to navigate at many key ports. My father told me it had been that way all during his life; my grandfather, too, could not remember the Grand Canal in its prime.

  Yet, I learned, under the Communists the canal has been redredged during the last twenty years and is now thriving from Peking to its terminus. The economic benefits of this must be incalculable for cargo transport, as well as agriculture. Yet I fear that the human costs of the intense restoration program also were incalculable; in that area, my guide provided no information.

  Tomorrow, I meet my niece for the first time. Of course I am nervous, but I am also nervous about seeing my brother again. With so much on my mind, it has been difficult to absorb and appreciate the changes in this ancient place.

  AUGUST 11.

  The most disturbing thing just happened. When I returned to my room, I discovered that someone had searched my belongings. Nothing was missing, but several things are out of order. My passport, which I had left under a pile of undershirts, had obviously been examined and replaced. I found it in another drawer. I complained to the room attendant, but he seemed uninterested. In all, it has been a stressful day.

  This morning, at the former Democracy Wall, I struck up a conversation with a young man whose father had once been prominent in the Communist Party. Perhaps because the man could see by my clothing that I was an overseas Chinese, a huh chiao, he spoke with surprising candor.

  He told me that his father had once enjoyed a promising career, that he had risen in the bureaucracy from a street cadre to being a Party officer of some standing. One night, while dining with several comrades at a restaurant here in Peking, the Party man recited a poem that he had written to celebrate the Cultural Revolution. It was an amateurish but lively verse that extolled Mao and glorified the progress of the Party. The last lines of his father’s poem, the young man told me, said:

  And in the radiant future, all China’s children

  Will sing in freedom and dance in universal happiness.

  Several weeks passed, the young man recounted, and then his father was suddenly arrested by the army. He was stripped of his Party membership and charged with counterrevolutionary behavior. At his trial, the prosecutors charged that the man’s poetry encouraged laziness and immorality. Why? Because good, strong Party workers would never have the time, or desire, for song and dance. Such frivolous things, the prosecutors said, belong only in the theater.

  The man, whose name was Cheng Hua, was never given a chance to speak in his own defense. He was not even permitted to introduce the complete poem into evidence to demonstrate his loyalty and love for the government.

  Cheng was sentenced to eight years in a prison camp. His son told me he is not allowed any visitors, but letters are delivered once every two months. One of his father’s closest friends is the man who turned him in, the young man told me. This story made me profoundly depressed.

  At lunchtime I met my niece, Kangmei. She is a beautiful girl of twenty-three, slender, with a luminous smile and a very quick mind. Unlike most Chinese women, she likes jeans and silky shirts—from Hong Kong, she told me. She was fascinated by my descriptions of the United States, so much so that I could scarcely get her to tell me anything about life in China. Of her father—my brother—she said little. “He is a man of power and achievement,” Kangmei said—but, of course, this I already know.

  She described her studies at the Foreign Languages Institute and impressed me with her flawless English. In a few months, she will graduate and assume a prestigious job as a government translator. Kangmei said she is looking forward greatly to the travel opportunities, and to meeting more European and American visitors.

  Finally, near the end of our lunch, I asked my niece about the young man whom I had met at Democracy Wall. I told her his sad story.

  “Such events were not uncommon,” she remarked. “The boy’s father was very unwise to reveal his poem, even to friends. Within the Party, many cadres rise and prosper by informing on fellow workers. Everyone should be cautious.”

  “But it seems so wrong,” I replied.

  “Your outlook is different,” Kangmei said. “We who live here understand. There is freedom only for the old men who exploit the Chinese people.”

  As we talked more, I learned that my niece is a woman of firm opinions. She possesses a keen, questioning intellect—and I am heartened by it. We promised to meet again after I had seen Wang Bin.

  AUGUST 12.

  Today I walked down the Avenue of Eternal Tranquillity, toward the western wall of the Forbidden City. I had a notion to visit the palaces, but first I stopped to buy a knitted hat from a vendor named Hong.

  I noticed that one of his legs had been removed at the hip. Because of his youthfulness—he appeared about thirty—such a handicap seemed unusual. I asked him if he had been in a bicycle accident, which is common in the city.

  Hong smiled and said no, he had lost the leg as a teenager. The year was 1966. His father was a prominent scientist. One of his colleagues, a Party member, was very jealous. He accused Hong’s father of secretly passing sc
ientific papers to pro-Western publications in Taiwan.

  The Red Guards came to the scientist’s apartment. Hong, who was seventeen and full of fire, took a punch at one of the intruders. The youth was quickly knocked to the floor, and beaten so badly with the butt of a rifle that his leg bones were shattered. His father was put in detention for eighteen months, and was freed only after his accuser was arrested—for lying about the loyalty of another fellow worker.

  Hong told me that he bears no ill will toward the Red Guards. I find that difficult to believe.

  Later this afternoon, I had a marvelous surprise by the lake at the Summer Palace. I ran into an old friend, Thomas Stratton. He once was a student of mine at St. Edward’s, and now teaches art history at a college in New England. Tom is visiting China with a group of art historians and he is understandably eager to break away from the entourage as soon as possible.

  I promised him a personal tour of Peking, as soon as I return from Xian. There’s some wonderful Qing hung porcelain on display in a state gallery near the Heping. I think we’ll stop there first.

  Tomorrow is the biggest day of my trip. In the morning, I fly to Xian where I am to meet my brother at eleven sharp. After lunch, we will tour the archaeological site of the tomb of the Emperor Qin.

  I’m thrilled about visiting this historical dig, but I’m even more excited about seeing Wang Bin again. He is only a year younger, but history and political fortunes have cast us centuries apart. Even without knowing him, I fear that we will be the inverse of each other. Perhaps not. Perhaps the journey backward to our Chinese childhood is not so great. It is easy to remember little Bin’s face as a boy. But it has been fifty years since we were together in my father’s home. And, in that time, I have not seen so much as a photograph. His invitation was so unexpected that I didn’t know how to respond.

  I think it will be a powerful reunion.

  Tom Stratton closed his friend’s journal and walked thoughtfully back to his hotel.

  The words faithfully belonged to David, and reading them freshened Stratton’s grief. It was so typical of his old friend, he thought, to be moved more by the people of Peking than its art or scenery. David Wang had not returned for the temples and tombs of China, but for the people like Cheng and Hong. Each day had brought new faces, new chances to learn: What is it really like? What have I missed? Should I have come back sooner?

  But David Wang was a circumspect man; not all of what he saw and heard would be recorded in his notebook—of this Stratton was sure. The professor had probably altered the names of the Chinese to protect them from reprisals. He had also carefully refrained from political commentary that could backfire against his brother, the deputy minister.

  But the journal ended too abruptly.

  It contained no mention of David Wang’s trip to Xian, or of his reunion with his brother. Stratton was baffled, for the professor unfailingly wrote in the notebook each night before going to bed. Why—full of such emotion, and dazzled by exotic sights—would David have forsaken this habit while on this most important trip?

  Opening the journal again in his room, Stratton flipped to the last written pages. Something caught his eye. He retrieved a metal fingernail file from his luggage and slipped it between the pages, pressing toward the spine of the notebook. The binding easily gave way, and the pages separated in loose stacks.

  Stratton ran a finger across the inside borders of the paper. It felt sticky. He held one page to his nose. The glue was pungent, and new. Someone had pried Wang’s journal apart, and then glued it back together so it would appear undisturbed. No ragged stubs revealed where the missing pages had been.

  It was a professional job, Tom Stratton thought. Almost perfect.

  “EVERY TIME I see you, you’re riding solo,” Jim McCarthy said with a cannon laugh. “Your tour group really must be wall-to-wall losers, huh?”

  Stratton accepted McCarthy’s offer of a bottle of Peking-brewed Coca-Cola.

  “Almost like home,” the newsman said. “Now where did you want me to take you?”

  Stratton said, “The Foreign Languages Institute.”

  “And what,” McCarthy said, “do you plan to do there? Stare at the walls? Pose for pictures with a few soldiers outside the gate? It’s a restricted area, baby. No Yanks allowed. It’s definitely not on the tour, yours or anybody else’s.”

  Stratton told McCarthy about David Wang.

  “Death by duck, right? That’s what Powell said, I bet.”

  “Yes,” Stratton replied. “How did you know?”

  “Because the bastard ripped the lead off one of my stories to steal that phrase. Fucking cretins at State, no imagination. Suppose I should be flattered.”

  “So there really is such a thing?”

  “Sure.” McCarthy pried open the Coke on a desk drawer handle and guzzled half. “Just your basic tourist burnout, really. The Peking roast duck dinner gives it a nice twist, though. I wrote the story two years ago and the stats have held up. Quite a few elderly Americans die every year in the great China adventure, but it’s not a trend that gets much publicity. I remember one old geezer who arrived lugging a heavy suitcase and went home inside it.”

  “Huh?”

  “His wife had him cremated and continued the tour—said he would have wanted it that way.”

  Stratton blanched.

  “Hey, Stratton, I don’t mean to sound like a total prick about it. I’m sorry about your friend, really I am. But what’s it got to do with the Foreign Languages school?”

  “David’s niece is a student there.”

  McCarthy whistled. “It’s a tough school to get into.”

  “Her father is Wang Bin, a deputy minister. David’s younger brother.”

  “Right, I remember now.”

  “The girl saw David shortly before he left for Xian to meet Bin. I want to talk to her, just to make sure everything was all right.” Stratton decided not to mention the journal or the passport.

  McCarthy said, “I’m not exactly a low-profile character in this town. More like the Jolly Red Giant. With me at your side, you don’t stand a fucking prayer of getting in.

  “But I tell you what. Go with my driver. He’ll take you to the gate and haggle on your behalf. He speaks some English and he’s worked miracles for me, but don’t get your hopes up. You might have to settle for leaving a note—and then it could be another four weeks before you get an answer. I’m not kidding. Watching this government in action is like watching a bad ballet performed in molasses.”

  STRATTON SAT in the backseat trying to look important while McCarthy’s driver argued with a guard at the Foreign Languages Institute. After several minutes, the driver, Xiu, shuffled to the car with a furrowed brow.

  “It is not possible, Mr. Stratton.”

  “Why not?”

  “He says it is a study hour. The students are in their dormitories and cannot be disturbed.”

  Stratton sighed. “Tell him I am a friend of the family. I have come to offer my condolences at the death of her uncle. I will be most insulted if I am not permitted just a few minutes.”

  Xiu nodded somberly and tracked once more toward the gatehouse. He came back smiling. “A few minutes, Mr. Stratton. Can you wait?”

  Soon, a young woman appeared. The guard motioned toward the car and spoke rapidly. Then he waved stiffly at Stratton.

  David Wang had not embellished his journal; his niece, Kangmei, was indeed a beautiful woman. Her jet-black hair, daringly long by Peking standards, fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were bright, and her features were elegant, almost regal.

  “I was a good friend of your uncle,” he began.

  “Yes. Stratton,” she said. Her eyes worked on him.

  “David was a good man, a great scholar,” Stratton said. “I felt I needed to—”

  The guard shifted his feet and peered up into Stratton’s face.

  “You wish to talk?” Kangmei asked.

  “If it’s possible.”

 
“It is.”

  “At my hotel?”

  “Not a good choice, Mr. Stratton.” Her English was excellent and self-assured. “Meet me in an hour at the Tiananmen Gate. Don’t tell anyone. Have the driver take you back to the hotel, then walk.”

  Stratton eyed the guard anxiously.

  Kangmei almost smiled. “Don’t worry, they don’t speak a word of English.” Then she was off, her hair bouncing lightly. It was a Western walk. A wonderful walk.

  STRATTON WAS ten minutes early. Kangmei arrived precisely on time, the trait of a good Chinese. She parked her bicycle in a guarded sidewalk lot and locked it.

  “Just like Boston,” Stratton said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thieves, I mean.”

  Kangmei shrugged. “Bicycles are expensive. Come with me, Mr. Stratton. We are going on a tour of the Forbidden City.”

  “But I had hoped to talk—”

  Again her eyes stopped him. “Please,” she said, “we will talk.”

  At an imperial red kiosk, Stratton paid for his ticket with ten fen. Kangmei spoke to the cashier in Chinese and was allowed to enter without paying.

  “I told her I’m your guide,” she explained, escorting Stratton through the broad entrance tunnel. “I saw my Uncle David two days before he left for Xian. We had a very nice talk. He was very thoughtful.”

  “He mentioned you in his journal,” Stratton said as they walked. “He was very impressed.”

  “Oh.” She paused as a crowd of Chinese tourists passed them, chattering. When it was quiet, she asked, “Was he important in the United States?”

  “Yes, in his field. And popular. He had many friends.”

  They approached a group of Americans, Kodaks clicking. They were led by a Chinese guide with her hair pulled back in a prim bun.

  Kangmei said, in a louder voice, “This is the Meridian Gate, the entrance to the grounds of the Inner Palaces. It is the biggest gate in all the Forbidden City, built in the year 1420 and restored again in the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries. Every year, the reigning emperor would ascend to the top of this structure and announce a new calendar for the people of China …”