The teahouse itself was constructed of unfinished wood, aged to a nice gray. It looked rickety but evidently wasn’t. It was narrow and tall, two stories high with a proud winglike roof. One entered through a low narrow door, built by and for the chronically undernourished. The interior had the ambience of a rustic cabin on a lake. Judge Fang had been here before, in mufti, but today he had thrown a robe over his charcoal-gray pinstripe suit– a reasonably subtle brocade, funereal by comparison with what people used to wear in China. He also wore a black cap embroidered with a unicorn, which in most company would probably be lumped in with rainbows and elves but here would be understood for what it was, an ancient symbol of acuity. Dr. X could be relied upon to get the message.
The teahouse staff had had plenty of time to realize he was coming as he negotiated the endless turns in the causeway. A manager of sorts and a couple of waitresses were arrayed before the door, bowing deeply as he approached.
Judge Fang had been raised on Cheerios, burgers, and jumbo burritos bulging with beans and meat. He was just a bit less than two meters in height. His beard was unusually thick, and he had been letting it grow out for a couple of years now, and his hair fell down past the tips of his shoulder blades. These elements, plus the hat and robe, and in combination with the power reposed in him by the state, gave him a certain presence of which he was well aware.
He tried not to be overly satisfied with himself, as this would have gone against all Confucian precepts. On the other hand, Confucianism was all about hierarchy, and those who were in high positions were supposed to comport themselves with a certain dignity. Judge Fang could turn it on when he needed to. He used it now to get himself situated at the best table on the first floor, off in the corner with a nice view out the tiny old windows into the neighboring Ming-era garden. He was still in the Coastal Republic, in the middle of the Twenty-first century. But he could have been in the Middle Kingdom of yore, and for all intents and purposes, he was.
Chang and Miss Pao separated themselves from their master and requested a table on the second floor, up a narrow and alarming stairway, leaving Judge Fang in peace whilst also making their presence forcibly known to Dr. X, who happened to be up there right now, as he always was at this time in the morning, sipping tea and chatting with his venerable homeboys.
When Dr. X made his way down half an hour later, he was nonetheless delighted and surprised to see the moderately famous and widely respected Judge Fang sitting all by his lonesome staring out at the pond, its schools of fish flickering lambently. When he approached the table to tender his respects, Judge Fang invited him to take a seat, and after several minutes of sensitive negotiations over whether this would or would not be an unforgivable intrusion on the magistrate’s privacy, Dr. X finally, gratefully, reluctantly, respectfully took a seat.
There was lengthy discourse between the two men on which of them was more honored to be in the company of the other, followed by exhaustive discussion of the relative merits of the different teas offered by the proprietors, whether the leaves were best picked in early or late April, whether the brewing water should be violently boiling as the pathetic gwailos always did it, or limited to eighty degrees Celsius.
Eventually, Dr. X got around to complimenting Judge Fang on his cap, especially on the embroidery work. This meant that he had noticed the unicorn and understood its message, which was that Judge Fang had seen through all of his efforts at bribery. Not long afterward, Miss Pao came down and regretfully informed the Judge that his presence was urgently required at a crime scene in the Leased Territories. To spare Judge Fang the embarrassment of having to cut short the conversation, Dr. X was approached, moments later, by one of his staff, who whispered something into his ear. The Doctor apologized for having to take his leave, and the two men then got into a very genteel argument over which one of them was being more inexcusably rude, and then over which would precede the other across the bridge. Judge Fang ended up going first, because his duties were deemed more pressing, and thus ended the first meeting between the Judge and Dr. X. The Judge was quite happy; it had all gone just as planned.
Hackworth receives an unexpected visit from Inspector Chang.
Mrs. Hull had to shake the flour out of her apron to answer the door. Hackworth, working in his study, assumed it was a mere delivery until she appeared in his doorway, harrumphing lightly, holding a salver with a single card centered on it: Lieutenant Chang. His organization was called, in traditional Chinese general-to-specific order, China Coastal Republic Shanghai New Chusan Leased Territories District Magistrate Office.
“What does he want?”
“To give you your hat back.”
“Send him in,” Hackworth said, startled.
Mrs. Hull dawdled significantly. Hackworth glanced into a mirror and saw himself reaching for his throat, checking the knot on his necktie. His smoking jacket was hanging loose, and he wrapped it tight and retied the sash. Then he went to the parlor.
Mrs. Hull led Lieutenant Chang into the parlor. He was a burly, ungainly fellow with a short buzz cut. Hackworth’s top hat, looking rather illused, could be seen indistinctly through a large plastic bag clenched in his hand. “Lieutenant Chang,” Mrs. Hull announced, and Chang bowed at Hackworth, smiling a bit more than seemed warranted.
Hackworth bowed back. “Lieutenant Chang.”
“I will not disturb you for long, I promise,” Chang said in clear but unrefined English. “During an investigation– details not relevant here– we got this from a suspect. It is marked your property. Much the worse for wear– please accept it.”
“Well done, Lieutenant,” said Hackworth, receiving the bag and holding it up to the light. “I did not expect to see it again, even in such a battered condition.”
“Well, these boys do not have respect for a good hat, I am afraid,” said Lieutenant Chang.
Hackworth paused, not knowing what one was supposed to say at this point. Chang just stood there, seeming more at ease in Hackworth’s parlor than Hackworth was. The first exchange had been simple, but now the East/West curtain fell between them like a rusty cleaver.
Was this part of some official procedure? Was it a solicitation for a tip? Or just Mr. Chang being a nice guy?
When in doubt, end the visit sooner rather than later. “Well,” said Hackworth, “I don’t know and don’t care what you arrested him for, but I commend you for having done so.”
Lieutenant Chang did not get the hint and realize it was time to leave. On the contrary, he seemed just a bit perplexed now, where before everything had been so simple. “I cannot help being curious,” Chang said, “what gave you the idea that anyone had been arrested?”
Hackworth felt a spear pass through his heart. “You’re a police lieutenant holding what appears to be an evidence bag,” he said. “The implication is clear.”
Lieutenant Chang looked at the bag, laboriously perplexed. “Evidence? It is just a shopping bag– to protect your hat from the rain. And I am not here in my official capacity.”
Another spear, at right angles to the first one. “Though,” Chang continued, “if some criminal activity has taken place of which I was not made aware, perhaps I should recharacterize this visit.
Spear number three; now Hackworth’s pounding heart sat at the origin of a bloody coordinate system plotted by Lieutenant Chang, conveniently pinned and exposed for thorough examination. Chang’s English was getting better all the time, and Hackworth was beginning to think that he was one of those Shanghainese who had spent much of his life in Vancouver, New York, or London. “I had assumed that the gentleman’s hat had simply been misplaced or perhaps blown off by a gust of wind. Now you say criminals were involved!” Chang looked as though he had never, to this day, suspected the existence of criminals in the Leased Territories. Then shock was transcended by wonder as he segued, none too subtly, into the next phase of the trap.
“It was not important,” Hackworth said, trying to derail Chang’s relentless train of thought,
sensing that he and his family were tied to the tracks. Chang ignored him, as if so exhilarated by the workings of his mind that he could not be distracted.
“Mr.’ Hackworth, you have given me an idea. I have been trying to solve a difficult case– a mugging that took place a few days ago. The victim was an unidentified Atlantan gentleman.”
“Don’t you have tag mites for that kind of thing?”
“Oh,” Lieutenant Chang said, sounding rather downhearted, “tag mites are not very reliable. The perpetrators took certain precautions to prevent the mites from attaching. Of course, several mites attached themselves to the victim. But before we could track him, he made his way to New Atlantis Clave, where your superb immune system destroyed those mites. So his identity has remained a mystery.” Chang reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Mr. Hackworth, please tell me whether you recognize any of the figures in this clip.”
“I’m actually rather busy– ” Hackworth said, but Chang unfolded the paper in front of him and gave it a command in Shanghainese. Initially the page was covered with static Chinese characters. Then a large panel in the middle opened up and began to play back a cine feed.
Watching himself getting mugged was one of the most astonishing things Hackworth had ever seen. He could not stop watching it. The feed went to slow motion, and then out came the book. Tears came to Hackworth’s eyes, and he made an effort not to blink lest he dislodge them. Not that it really mattered, since Lieutenant Chang was standing rather close to him and could no doubt see everything.
Chang was shaking his head in wonderment. “So it was you, Mr. Hackworth. I had not made the connection. So many nice things, and such a vicious beating. You have been the victim of a very serious crime!”
Hackworth could not speak and had nothing to say anyway. “It is striking to me,” Chang continued, “that you did not bother to report this serious crime to the magistrate! For some time now we have been reviewing this tape, wondering why the victim– a respectable gentleman– did not step forward to assist us with our inquiries. So much effort wasted,” Chang fretted. Then he brightened up. “But it’s all water under the bridge, I suppose. We have one or two of the gang in custody, on an unrelated crime, and now I can charge them with your mugging as well. Of course, we will require your testimony.”
“Of course.”
“The items that were taken from you?”
“You saw it.”
“Yes. A watch chain with various items, a fountain pen, and-”
“That’s it.”
Chang seemed just a bit nonplussed, but more than that he seemed deeply satisfied, suffused by a newly generous spirit. “The book does not even bear mentioning?”
“Not really.”
“It looked like an antique of some sort. Quite valuable, no?”
“A fake. That sort of thing is popular with us. A way to build an impressive-seeming library without going broke.”
“Ah, that explains it,” said Mr. Chang, growing more satisfied by the minute. If Hackworth provided him any more reassurance on the matter of the book, he would no doubt curl up on the sofa and fall asleep. “Still, I should mention the book in my official report– which will be shared with New Atlantis authorities, as the victim in this case belonged to that phyle.”
“Don’t,” said Hackworth, finally turning to look Chang in the eye for the first time. “Don’t mention it.”
“Ah, I cannot imagine your motive for saying this,” Chang said, “but I have little leeway in the matter. We are closely monitored by our supervisors.”
“Perhaps you could simply explain my feelings to your supervisor.”
Lieutenant Chang received this suggestion with a look of wild surmise. “Mr. Hackworth, you are a very clever fellow– as I already gathered from your demanding and very responsible position– but I am ashamed to tell you that your excellently devious plan may not work. My supervisor is a cruel taskmaster with no regard for human feelings. To be quite frank– and I tell you this in all confidence– he is not entirely without ethical blemishes.”
“Ah,” Hackworth said, “so if I am following you-”
“Oh, no, Mr. Hackworth, it is I who am following you.”
“-the appeal to sympathy won’t work, and we will have to sway him using another strategy, perhaps related to this ethical blind spot.”
“That is an approach that had not occurred to me.”
“Perhaps you should do some thinking, or even some research, as to what level and type of inducement might be required,” Hackworth said, suddenly walking toward the exit. Lieutenant Chang followed him. Hackworth hauled his front door open and allowed Chang to retrieve his own hat and umbrella from the rack. “Then simply get back to me and spell it out as plainly and simply as you can manage. Good night, Lieutenant Chang.”
As he rode his bicycle toward the gate on his way back to the Leased Territories, Chang was exultant over the success of tonight’s research. Of course, neither he nor Judge Fang was interested in extracting bribes from this Hackworth; but Hackworth’s willingness to pay served as proof that the book did, in fact, embody stolen intellectual property. But then he bridled his emotions, remembering the words of the philosopher Tsang to Yang Fu upon the latter’s appointment to chief criminal judge: “The rulers have failed in their duties, and the people consequently have been disorganized for a long time. When you have found out the truth of any accusation, be grieved for and pity them, and do not feel joy at your own ability.”
Not that Chang’s abilities had even been tested this evening; nothing could be easier than getting the New Atlantans to believe that Chinese police were corrupt.
Miranda takes an interest in an anonymous client.
Miranda scanned her balance sheet at the end of one month and discovered that her leading source of income was no longer Silk Road or Taming of the Shrew — it was that storybook about Princess Nell. In a way that was surprising, because kid stuff usually didn’t pay well, but in another way it wasn’t– because she had been spending an incredible amount of time in that ractive lately.
It had started small: a story, just a few minutes long, involving a dark castle, a wicked stepmother, and a gate with twelve locks. It would have been forgettable, except for two things: It paid much better than most kid work, because they were specifically looking for highly rated actresses, and it was rather dark and weird by the standards of contemporary children’s literature. Not many people were into that whole Grimm Brothers scene anymore.
She collected a few ucus for her trouble and forgot about it. But the next day, the same contract number came up on her mediatron again. She accepted the job and found herself reading the same story, except that it was longer and more involved, and it kept backtracking and focusing in on tiny little bits of itself, which then expanded into stories in their own right.
Because of the way that the ractive was hooked up, she didn’t get direct feedback from her counterpart on the other end. She assumed it was a little girl. But she couldn’t hear the girl’s voice. Miranda was presented with screens of text to be read, and she read them. But she could tell that this process of probing and focusing was being directed by the girl. She had seen this during her governess days. She knew that on the other end of this connection was a little girl insatiably asking why. So she put a little gush of enthusiasm into her voice at the beginning of each line, as if she were delighted that the question had been asked.
When the session was over, the usual screen came up telling her how much she’d made, the contract number, and so on. Before she signed off on it, she checked the little box labelled MARK HERE IF YOU WOULD LIKE A CONTINUING RELATIONSHIP WITH THIS CONTRACT. The relationship box, they called it, and it only came up with higher quality ractives, where continuity was important. The disping process worked so well that any ractor, male or female, bass or soprano, would sound the same to the end user. But discriminating customers could of course tell ractors apart anyway because of subtle d
ifferences in style, and once they had a relationship with one performer, they liked to keep it. Once Miranda checked the box and signed off, she’d get first crack at any more Princess Nell jobs.
Within a week she was teaching this girl how to read. They’d work on letters for a while and then wander off into more stories about Princess Nell, stop in the middle for a quick practical demonstration of basic math, return to the story, and then get sidetracked with an endless chain of “why this?” and “why that?” Miranda had spent a lot of time with kiddie ractives, both as a child and as a governess, and the superiority of this thing was palpable– like hefting an antique silver fork when you’d been eating with plastic utensils for twenty years, or slithering into a tailor-made evening gown when you were used to jeans.
These and other associations came into Miranda’s mind on any of the rare moments when she came into contact with something of Quality, and if she didn’t make a conscious effort to stop the process, she would end up remembering just about everything that had happened to her during the first years of her life– the Mercedes taking her to private school, the crystal chandelier that would ring like fairy bells when she climbed up on the huge mahogany dinner table to tickle it, her paneled bedroom with the four-poster bed with the silk-and-goosedown duvet. For reasons still unspecified, Mother had moved them far away from all of that, into what passed for poverty these days. Miranda only remembered that, when she had been physically close to Father, Mother had watched them with more vigilance than seemed warranted.
A month or two into the relationship, Miranda groggily signed off from a long Princess Nell session and was astounded to notice that she’d been going for eight hours without a break. Her throat was raw, and she hadn’t been to the loo in hours. She had made a lot of money. And the time in New York was something like six in the morning, which made it seem unlikely that the little girl lived there.
Diamond Age or a Young Lady's Illustrated Primer Page 15
