Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  This time she knew when they reached the Thai border, because three men were waiting for them with elephants, to carry out the jade stones.

  One of the men, with a soft face and eyes that fluttered said to her, "You know American Sam?"

  She nodded.

  "Come," he said, leading her to an elephant. The young mahout signaled the elephant to kneel, and put out his hand to help her climb on. The man handed her a small package. "This for Sam, you give it him."

  As weary as she was, she could feel the fury rising in her. "No," she said, looking hard into his moving eyes.

  "Yes," he answered, his hand increasing the pressure on her arm.

  "No," she came back, her eyes beginning to smart at the pain. "No," she repeated through her teeth.

  He jerked her aside, crashing into a thicket. He tore open her shirt and saw the moneybelt. His eyes fluttered even faster. She tried to cover her breasts with her hands, but he slapped them aside. He was not interested in her breasts, he was interested in the money belt. When he began to rip at it, she held her hands up and said, "Wait, I'll give it to you."

  He waited as she unbuckled the belt; her fingers were stiff and swollen, she could hardly manage, but his fierce tugs pushed her on. His back to the others who were busy now loading the elephants, he flipped through the bills she had left. She knew there should be about $1,500.

  He removed all of it, replaced it with the package she did not want and pulled the buckles so tight she could scarcely breathe. She said nothing, wanting only to get away from him, wanting only to get onto the elephant and out of Thailand as fast as she could, wanting was using her as his personal drug runner. She was finished with Sam forever.

  It took all the strength she had left not to slide off the elephant at the same time that she struggled to get the belt off. Her fingers were too swollen, too bruised. A knife, if she could get a knife and cut it off.

  The sound came shrieking out of the forest, one sharp loud wail of warning, and then they were surrounded. On all sides, small hard men with menacing faces holding automatic weapons on them.

  In Bangkok she was taken to the jail on Mahachai Street. There she was given a shower and a set of cotton pajamas. Her watch was taken from her on the day she was to have met Hayes in Hong Kong, if Hayes had gone to Hong Kong. Probably he had not, probably he was with Marie-Claire in France right now. Even if the telegram had reached him, even if the boy in the hotel had sent it. She sat on the floor in the corner of the room where it was dry, opposite the hole that was the toilet, and stared at the things that had drowned in the damp corner: great flat black bugs, clots of hair, dirty strips of rag. She lifted her eyes to the barred window near the ceiling. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that filtered down, and mixed with the sounds that drifted in, people talking, laughing, calling to each other. The sour smell of rotting vegetables rose from outside. She could hear the splash of water and guessed that the jail was next to one of the city's old klongs.

  "In Thailand, only fifteen years for drug smuggling," one of the young police guards had told her, adding, "Very good for you, other places give you death."

  She had asked them, each time they brought her in to be questioned, to call the American Embassy. "American?" they would say skeptically, and she would explain again that her passport was in a safe deposit box at the Oriental Hotel, that the key was in the money belt they had taken off her. They had not answered, had looked at her with blank expressions and asked her questions she could not answer about where she had been and whom she had been with.

  She did not give them Sam's name, she didn't know why. She told them there was a man named Phorn she had met at the night bazaar in Chiang Mai, but they did not ask the name of his shop, and she did not offer it. Then they put her in the room with the wet floor, and brought her good food which she would eat and then throw up, and she would spend the night curled in a knot on the floor, her stomach churning.

  On the morning of the third day she was led down two flights of stairs and into a room with a table, two chairs and on the wall a picture of the King and Queen. She was sitting, staring at the royal couple, when the American walked in. He was young and brisk, and wore a starched light blue shirt, and striped tie, a tan Panama suit, and well-polished shoes. "Miss Wing, is it?" he began in distinct American accents, the annoyance seeping out in nasal tones. "Looks like you've got yourself into some trouble, miss."

  She took a deep enough breath to marshal all of her strength, she stood to face him, and when she spoke it was with all the authority she could command: "My name is Wing, yes. Dr. Wing Mei-jin. What is yours?" She scarcely gave him time to answer. "All right Mr. Stanson, here is what you need to do. First you tell your ambassador that he is to contact Mrs. Katherine McCord at her San Francisco headquarters at once. If you don't know who she is, he will. He is to tell her my situation here, and that the drugs found on me were put there against my will—only minutes before the police arrested me. I had no intention of passing them on to anybody, I intended to throw them away as soon as I possibly could. Most important," she looked him hard in the eyes so he could see the determination, "I need to be out of here, I need to be in Hong Kong today."

  He stepped back and stared, not knowing what to make of her.

  She stepped toward him, bearing down. "I promise you, if you don't get onto this, and now, the State Department is going to be very unhappy with you. All you have to do is get word to Kit . . . Mrs. McCord."

  "I know the name," he answered, defensively.

  "Good," May said, using the brisk tone he had abandoned, "then you know my aunt—and guardian—knows how to make things happen."

  He looked at the floor, and ran his hands through his hair. When he looked up again, his expression was one of sweet wonder. "I'll get right on it," he said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  SHE SAT IN the back of the taxi, the thick Asian heat pressing in on her, the food she had tried to eat on the plane churning angrily in her stomach. The driver swerved and pitched, darting into every opening, wasting energy. The traffic was too dense to move more than a few feet at a time.

  I could get there faster on foot, she thought, it can't be more than a few blocks. She looked at the perpetual movement of the crowds that surged along Nathan Road. For a moment it seemed hopeless, she could not survive out there, she would not be able to walk, her legs would not move. A sharp pain shot through her stomach, as if to warn her. She put her hands over the thin, gray fabric of the pajamas they had issued her that morning when they released her from prison. She clutched the purse the man from the embassy had given her; it held her passport, three thousand Hong Kong dollars, and a new American Express card. Kit had arranged that. Kit had also arranged a hotel for her in Bangkok and a later flight to Hong Kong, but she had not wanted to wait. She had made so many mistakes, she could not make another, and she had caught the first flight out. She was so close, so very close now. The taxi passed Peking Road.

  "Here," she called to the driver in Cantonese, "Let me out here."

  He turned to give her a dark, angry look. "Peninsula Hotel not yet," he answered, lurching forward so she could not open the door. May reminded herself how she must look in the cheap gray pajamas and the long, peasant's braid down her back. She could feel lice crawling on her scalp, but she was too weary to scratch. Would they allow her into the Peninsula? She couldn't worry about that now, she had to get there first and she wasn't sure that her legs would carry her.

  She waved money in the cab driver's face and he pulled to a stop, causing an explosion of car horns to add to the noise and confusion. She stepped out into the street, almost losing her balance as she tried to walk against the tide of people surging in upon her.

  Steamy gusts of heat blew at her, rising from the pavement, making it hard to breathe. It began to seem as if she could not put her feet down in the right places, the sidewalk was moving up to meet them. Faster, she told herself almost there. The looming gray building came into sight and she heard
herself make a small, whimpering sound. Not far now, not far now, keep moving, don't stop. It had been like this for so long, so long. Swimming upstream, struggling to get here, be here, and always something to hold her back. Suddenly at Middle Road the wave seemed to reverse itself and the crowd carried her across the street. She blinked to force back the darkness that was moving into her peripheral vision.

  She entered by a side door, and for a moment simply stood leaning against a pillar, reveling in the cool English calm of this great colonial hulk of a hotel, breathing in the sweet, clean air. She moved carefully, one hand on the wall for support. Had people taken notice, they might have thought she was blind. She reached the edge of the lobby, grasped the back of a Morris chair. She could not make it across the great expanse of the lobby. She was going to fall, her knees were giving way. She eased herself into the chair. Whatever else she knew at that moment, she knew for certain that she would not be able to get up without help.

  She leaned back in the great, soft chair and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw him. On the far side of the lobby, sitting at a small table reading a newspaper. It can't be, she told herself. You are hallucinating. But it could be, it was. Hayes. Here, waiting for her. He had been waiting for four days, he had not left. He was here, only this great, marble lobby of the Peninsula Hotel separated them. She tried to get up but could not. If he left now, there would be nothing she could do about it. She felt the sour taste of panic rising in her throat. Her mouth was too dry to call out. He was beyond her reach.

  He looked up, his eyes scanned the lobby, a man who had been waiting so long he had ceased to expect. He lifted the cup and took a sip, his eyes still moving mechanically about the room. He glanced past the place where she was sitting, as if she were invisible.

  A bellboy was walking toward her. He is going to throw me out, May thought, panicked. She clutched her purse to her chest and held on to it, hard. It was the only motion she could make, the only thing she could think to do to defend herself. She felt as if she were in a dream, trying to scream and no sound would come out.

  Hayes put his cup down slowly. He was staring. He stood, not certain . . . and then he started toward her, determined now, looking at her so steadily that he did not see the bellboy, did not see that they were about to collide. The boy went tumbling, but Hayes did not break stride. His eyes were on her and he had one hand out, as if he were coming downcourt in a basketball game, with only the goal in mind. He knew. He knew and he was coming and she could stop now, she had done it.

  She took the hands he held out to her and let him lift her, and then her arms were around him, her cheek pressed into his chest and they stood, holding hard together.

  "Can you walk if I help you?" he asked.

  They went slowly, Hayes holding her so tightly that her feet scarcely touched the floor. There were those in the lobby who watched, and perhaps wondered about the tall American and the slender Chinese woman who appeared to be ill, her face pressed into the man's shoulder and her eyes closed.

  She lay in the bath and he washed her, carefully cleaning the bites that covered her body, unbraiding her hair and soaping it carefully with a strong, green liquid he had had to send out for. His shirt and khaki pants were splashed wet, but he seemed not to notice. May lay back in the warmth of the water and tried to get her thoughts in order, so she could say what she needed to say.

  "I didn't think you would be here," she tried, "I thought I'd never find you."

  "Shh," he told her, "no talk, not yet. We'll get you washed up and medicated—looks like half the insect population of Thailand took a bite out of you—then you will sleep, and then we'll talk. You'll tell me everything . . . I won't leave, I promise."

  "You promise?" she repeated wearily, her eyes half closed in the warm comfort of the bath, of his hands holding her.

  "I promise," he said, caressing her cheek.

  "I do have to admit," he went on, "I had a small problem recognizing you in your little gray pajama ensemble . . . which, by the way, has been donated to the incinerator. Too many tiny little crawling animals managed to hitch a ride on this trimmed-down body of yours . . ."

  "I look awful," she moaned.

  "Not possible," he answered, lifting her gently and rubbing her dry, his hands caressing her through the towel.

  She leaned into him as he wrapped her in an oversized terry bathrobe.

  "This is your complete wardrobe for the moment," he said, lifting her and carrying her into the room. Instead of putting her in the bed he had turned down, he sat on the sofa, May cradled in his arms. She lifted her face solemnly and he touched his lips to hers, carefully.

  "You need to sleep," he said, and she could feel his breath against her skin. "I need to get some medicine for those bites, and some clothes for your body. So . . . I'm going to tuck you in, and you are going to sleep, and when you wake you will eat and then we will talk."

  Still he did not get up, but sat holding her. Long, wet strands of her hair brushed against his face and he did not try to remove them. Not until he heard the soft patterns of her sleep breathing did he carry her to the bed.

  When he was smoothing the covers she opened her eyes and said, "Come in with me."

  "Not now," he told her, and with his forefinger traced her lips.

  When she awakened the first time, it was twilight. He helped her to the bathroom, then back to bed where she went instantly to sleep again. The next time she opened her eyes it was dark with only the streetlights filtering into the room. All was quiet, but she knew he was there, and then she made him out, sitting in a chair, watching her.

  "Welcome to the world of the living," he said, turning a light on low. "You've had a solid twelve hours of sleep. Now for some food, and you may survive."

  "Twelve hours," she groaned, and then, "I'm ravenous," pulling herself up in the bed so that the robe fell open.

  "And naked," he added, "but I'm about to remedy both those conditions."

  He called room service, then poured her a stiff scotch which she sipped, slowly, while he showed her the clothes he had bought while she slept.

  "The woman in the Chanel boutique assured me this size fits all," he said, holding up a pink silk dress that was all soft folds.

  She could not take her eyes from his face. "I cannot believe I'm here," she finally said, "I cannot believe you are here with me."

  He touched his glass to hers: "Here's to Hong Kong," he said.

  She wanted to add, "And to us," but she did not dare.

  He watched her eat, sipping his scotch as she drank hot soup and then worked her way through a plate of Chinese noodles. When she had finished and had washed her face with a hot towel, she said, "All right."

  "All right?" he asked.

  "Time to talk. The Moment of Truth. Q and A. Everything you always wanted to know about the jails in Thailand and were afraid to ask." She hesitated, her voice suddenly wavering, "And what I need to know about Marie-Claire."

  He was sitting on the bed across from her, his hands clasped between his legs, a look on his face she could not decipher. She did not know what he was thinking, and suddenly she felt afraid. She needed to stand, to make certain she could move on her own. She pulled herself up, swayed, he rose to catch her, his hands slipping under the robe. He pulled her hard to him.

  She could feel the air around them expand, enclose, hold. It broke over them, in great gulps, their mouths moving and searching and their bodies straining for each other.

  "Want me," she could not keep herself from crying, "please, please want me."

  "I have never wanted anyone more than I want you, right now," he said in short angry bursts, as he touched a place she had not known existed, and cried out for the joy of it; it was as if he could not help himself, as if he were committing to her body a confession he could no longer contain.

  For three days they lived in their own rhythms. They rose at first light, and walked. The first day a fine mist hung over Hong Kong harbor, a singl
e ferry moved across the bay, leaving a sharply defined wake. They walked, and watched the city come to life along with the practitioners of tai chi in the small green parkways along the waterfront, their ritual movements scarcely stirring the warm morning air. They sat watching the freighters and container ships and cruise liners and, skittering in between, the sampans and walla-wallas that filled Hong Kong harbor. They walked to the Star Ferry terminal and climbed aboard one of the little green and white ferries and crossed over to Hong Kong Island and back again, on the second-class deck of the Meridian Star, the Celestial Star, the Night Star. They walked the narrow back streets of the old part of the city, pausing at shops that sold rhinoceros horn and hundred-year-old eggs and birds in cages. That day large, dark clouds hovered over the city, and the promise of rain was strong but still they walked. When it came lashing down on them, they dashed for cover into a temple called Man Mo and had their fortunes told as they breathed in the thick incense. The priest gave them a piece of yellow paper filled with Chinese characters. May translated: "It is a time to plant new trees, which will put down new roots, and bear fruit."

  The rain stopped and the steam of the afternoon heat sent them back to the cool of the hotel, where they made love and slept, and made love again, and talked.

  He told her about his search for the Vietnamese woman Le Tien An, and her child—Andy's child, who would be almost two years old by now. How he had gone to Saigon, and had been turned away by her family, but had learned that the child had been born. A son, he said, Andy has a son.

  She told him how it had been, when the Thai troops had surrounded them at the border. She explained how they had found the heroin on her, how Sam had used her. How he had promised to be in Bangkok when she returned—she realized, now, to pick up the heroin. He must have planned it all along, must have known she wouldn't be able to get into China . . . "I was so stupid," she said, "I wanted to believe, and Sam seemed so sure of himself. I thought it was my last chance, that if I didn't see her and get it settled . . . you, we . . . would never . . ." She caught herself, took a deep breath. "From the beginning I knew there was a chance that I might fail to get into China through Burma, the terrain is difficult and there are all sorts of unknowns—but I felt certain Sam would never betray me . . ."