by Jinkang Wang
She whispered back, “Big Xue, I’m standing guard for Mommy Mei. Just now, Mei Xiaokai, Xue Yuanyuan, and a few of the others were trying to eavesdrop. I chased them away.”
“But why?” Xue Yu asked. “It’s normal to tease the newlyweds and eavesdrop on them. That’s part of our wedding night tradition.”
Xiaoxue replied awkwardly, “I thought because Mommy Mei’s age is . . . not small, if there’s too much mischief, she might feel embarrassed.”
Xue Yu dragged her away from her post and patted her on the head. “You complicated child, you should go back, it’s late, and no one else is going to turn up to eavesdrop. You love Mommy Mei best, don’t you?”
“Of course! She’s the best person in the world. I think she’s like Mother Teresa in India.”
Xue Yu laughed and shook his head. “Your Mommy Mei isn’t a nun. She might wear a crucifix, but she doesn’t believe in God.”
“So what? We might say grace at every meal, but none of us believe either. Let me tell you, even Mother Liu might not believe. The other day, I asked her if there really was a God in heaven. She said God was a good person that human beings had imagined, sitting high above us to make sure we didn’t do bad things. As long as people had this fear in their hearts, they wouldn’t dare do anything wicked. As for whether or not there actually was a God, she didn’t say.”
“Xiaoxue, have you ever done anything bad?”
“No.”
“Really, no? Not even once?”
“Truly.” Looking at Xue Yu, she said stoutly, “What’s so strange about that? Mommy Mei’s been alive forty-nine years, and I’m sure she hasn’t done anything bad either.”
Xue Yu paused, moved by Xiaoxue’s purity, and by her faith in Mommy Mei. He said it was getting late, and she should go to bed. Xiaoxue said good-night and skipped away.
Xue Yu watched as her little shadow disappeared, then shook his head and went back to his own room. For a very long time after that, this combined birthday and wedding celebration, and afterward his idle chat with Xiaoxue, remained carved in his memory. The mind plays tricks, though, and in the version he remembered, it was not moonlight or electric lamps that hung behind them, but golden-yellow candlelight, swirling gently through the air. Later, when the black wing of catastrophe dipped down to brush the orphanage, and tarred Xiaoxue’s beautiful, adorable soul; when he had to harden his heart and denounce his beloved Ms. Mei to the government; when Mei Xiaoxue vanished and he went in search of her throughout the wide world—this golden scenario still shone in his mind from time to time. By then, though, it was no longer a lingering moment of happiness, but had become an instrument of torture.
December 2016—Tokyo, Japan
The hostess slid open the door, her face wreathed with smiles, and bowed to Akiji Nakamura and Omar Nasri. “Honored guests, welcome, please come in.”
As the two men entered, she retreated, still on her knees, shutting the door behind her. The room was simply decorated, with an old-fashioned paper sliding door facing a bamboo woven screen, in front of which was a bonsai tree with gnarled branches, and an ancient Chinese ink painting on the wall. There was a mild, springlike warmth in the room, in contrast to the icy snow outside. Even so, the temperature wasn’t too high—it was kept low enough to prevent the geishas from perspiring. Due to the special nature of the nyotaimori service, sweat was absolutely out of the question.
The geisha serving them had been prepared: she was completely naked apart from flower petals covering her nipples and crotch, lying flat on the dining table—in fact, she was the dining table—with an unvarnished wooden boat-shaped structure beneath her. Her hair fanned out elegantly, with more petals elegantly strewn across it. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, a smile fixed on her face. This posture was a strict requirement in nyotaimori work, which is why her smile was a little stiff. It wasn’t unusual, in these kinds of banquets, for geishas to be used as props.
The two visitors, dressed in traditional bathrobes, sat cross-legged beside her. The sushi hadn’t yet been placed on her body, but the man named Omar was already wide-eyed. The elegant body before him was good enough to eat—you could even say she was the main course. Nyotaimori geishas need to keep their bodies in good shape, and as these were special guests, they’d chosen the very best. Her breasts and buttocks were full and firm, her waist slender, and her skin as smooth and soft as butter, almost transparent, so clear you could see the blood vessels beneath. And as for the parts half-concealed beneath three flower petals, enough was visible to inflame the male imagination.
Playing the host, Akiji Nakamura explained that in Japan, nyotaimori geishas faced stringent requirements, and had to be virgins with excellent posture. The process of cleaning their bodies before service was very strict. First, they had to get rid of any hair on their legs, armpits, and crotch, then ladle warm water over their entire bodies, after which they’d rub unscented soap over a sponge and wipe themselves with it. Next, they’d rub every inch of skin with a little hemp sack full of wheat bran, to get rid of dead skin. Then they’d soak in hot water, scrubbing with a loofah. And finally, a cold shower, to prevent sweating. Perfume was forbidden, as it would affect the taste of the sushi.
“What do you think?” chuckled Nakamura. “This is the finest embodiment of Japan, as well as an exquisite art form.”
“Not bad.” Omar smiled. “But why must those petals be there?”
Nakamura laughed. “I admire your directness! But these three petals are the reason we can call it art. If we got rid of them, only naked lust and sex would remain.”
“I admire the Japanese, by which I mean Japanese men. They have such imagination. To treat women’s bodies like this, turning them into an immortal artwork. I take my hat off to them.”
The two men then went on to discuss this particular body, debating whether the breasts, buttocks, or crotch were most beautiful, picking out small imperfections. The fixed smile remained on the geisha’s face, as if they were talking about someone else altogether. Then a server came in kneeling, and with practiced movements deposited a tray of sushi on her body. Nakamura said, “Please eat. Sushi tastes best when it’s fresh.”
Omar imitated him, picking up his chopsticks. He was clumsy at first, but got used to it after a while. Tasting the delicious sushi, sampling some Japanese sake, admiring the beautiful naked woman before him, Omar couldn’t help thinking how different this was to his miserable existence ten years ago, suffering in that awful place on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. He was much better off here.
On this occasion, he’d come to Japan as a sort of advance party on behalf of his superiors. He always enjoyed being a secret emissary: no need to put on a big show of diplomacy, no need to deal with reporters, and often a little something on the side for him too. At the very least he got to see a bit of the world, satisfying his bodily desires. On the whole, these secret duties fell to discreet individuals, not like those holding public office who only knew how to play a role and behave professionally. This time, for instance, he’d been the one to suggest sampling nyotaimori, prompting his host Mr. Nakamura to joke, “But doesn’t that go against your religion?”
Then he’d happily arranged the meal, and of course Omar didn’t have to reach for his wallet.
Ten years ago, Mohammad, as Omar was then known, had undertaken a difficult mission—delivering a final gift for an old friend of al-Qaeda. During that journey, he’d had a gut instinct that his leader was right to decide they would be “traitors.” They’d enjoyed too good a life, and couldn’t now go back to a hardscrabble existence, especially Omar himself, who from a young age had enjoyed a Western lifestyle, and was definitely incapable of living like Hamza: sleeping in a cave, living off basic rations, never having any female company. Here in Tokyo, with a nyotaimori feast before him, he felt in every one of his senses (his gut, his eyes, his nose, his skin . . .) the wisdom of the leader.
The meal lasted five or six hours, and now it was midnight. The geisha had b
een well trained, and remained motionless throughout, in the same posture from start to finish. The server brought fresh sushi from time to time, including marlin, tuna, cuttlefish, scallop, swordfish, and eel. The sake wasn’t very strong, but Omar still found himself quite tipsy, and soon he’d whisked away the three concealing petals, and was staring lustfully at the forbidden zones, his conversation increasingly erratic, his hands roving. Nakamura was quite drunk himself, and chose not to see the offending behavior, though there was alertness deep in his eyes. Glancing at his watch, he suddenly said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, an old friend said he’d come find you here.”
“An old friend? Who?”
Without waiting for permission, Nakamura had stood to slide the door open, and a white man entered, also wearing a Japanese bathrobe, though he was tall enough that it only reached his thighs. Next to the slight Mr. Nakamura, he looked like Tarzan. Strolling over, he sat cross-legged opposite Omar, looking calmly at him.
“An old friend? You are . . .” Omar searched hard through his intoxicated brain.
“You don’t know me. But we have a friend in common, and he asked me to say hello.”
He pushed over a photograph of a slightly older man, one-eyed, with a full white beard, dressed in a prison uniform, looking downcast. Omar wasn’t sober enough to immediately recognize him. It was only when he saw the two metal hooks protruding from the sleeves that he realized, and the alcohol in his body instantly evaporated in a cold sweat.
“Know who that is?” said the white man mockingly. “From your expression, I’d say you did.”
Omar glared at him, then shot a look at Nakamura, who smiled back, the picture of innocence. Looking down, he tried a flat denial. “Who is that? Captain Hook? I’ve never seen him before.”
“You don’t know this al-Qaeda chief named Abu Faraj Hamza?”
“Of course not. I haven’t had the honor.”
“And you didn’t make a special trip ten years ago to the Pakistan-Afghanistan border to give him Satan’s present?”
“That’s right, I didn’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps,” he said sarcastically, “you’re planning to kidnap me and bring me to the States for a lie detector test? Or to Guantánamo for a spell of incarceration and torture? That’s right, ‘torture’ is too coarse a word, I know American government documents prefer a more diplomatic turn of phrase, like ‘interrogation by other means’ or ‘bodily persuasion.’ Mr. Nakamura, will you be helping him ‘persuade’ me?”
Nakamura had taken on the otherworldly expression of an old monk, a smile fixed on his face, his eyelids barely raised. The white man’s face turned serious, and his eyes now held the sharpness of a razor.
“Here are some facts and figures, Mr. Mohammad Ahmed Segum, alias Mr. Omar Nasri. Three months ago, between the sixth and the twelfth of September, a terrorist named Zia Baj cleverly orchestrated the biological attack on Idaho. A total of 100,481 people were infected with smallpox, with 34,545 receiving a confirmed diagnosis—over thirty thousand! Fortunately America has a strong vaccine program, and the attack took place in a rural area, so the epidemic was quickly dealt with, and didn’t spread to the rest of the country or beyond. Only China subsequently suffered an outbreak. Even so, a hundred and forty-three people died in America, and more than ten thousand were permanently disfigured, their faces pockmarked for the rest of their lives. We haven’t yet finished calculating the total damage to the economy from this disaster, but it’s estimated to be more than fifty billion dollars. Having heard these numbers, in your view, would we treat the perpetrators of this outrage with kindness? Or do you think you’re out of America’s reach?”
Omar felt cold sweat pouring down his back. This man wasn’t making empty threats. If he was here to carry out a black op, Omar’s diplomatic status wouldn’t do him any good, and the friendly Mr. Nakamura wouldn’t even furrow his brow while handing him over. He didn’t dare say a word, and the man continued. “You might already know that Hamza was captured at the end of August, and he hasn’t exactly kept his mouth shut, but unfortunately his confession came too late, so we weren’t able to prevent this attack.”
Omar worked to calm himself. He’d been very careful throughout this whole affair, and definitely hadn’t left any physical evidence. If all they had was Hamza’s testimony, the United States wouldn’t be able to put a whole country in the defendant’s chair—ten years ago, the false reports about Iraq had more or less destroyed America’s reputation. Besides, if that really was their intention, this meeting wouldn’t be taking place in such a clandestine setting. Thinking of this, he relaxed and smiled, then pressed the bell to summon the hostess. “Please bring some chopsticks for this gentleman,” he said politely. “We’ll keep talking as we eat, if that’s all right? Please, help yourself. Your accusation is very interesting. Do go on.”
The man batted a hand in refusal, and waited for the hostess to leave before smiling coldly. “No need to worry, we have no wish to create a big fuss. After all, your leader has been set up by the West as a model example of a reformed character, the only one we have, so it’s still useful for us to leave him on display. We wouldn’t want to force his hand.”
Omar relaxed even more, and pricked up his ears.
“We came looking for you for two reasons. I’ll get them over with, then I’ll go. Firstly, could you confirm whether you saw the virologist Zia Baj in the presence of Hamza?”
He pushed over another photograph. This man was quite a bit younger than Hamza, with a thin face and dark skin, a cold expression and sharp eyes. Omar studied the picture awhile, then said nothing (he didn’t know whether he was being secretly recorded), but nodded gently.
“Very good, thank you for your cooperation. Secondly, America has suffered a great loss during this catastrophe, and your leader has in the past shown himself very happy to do good works. Perhaps he’d be able, under whatever name, to donate five billion to the victims? This would be a drop in the bucket in terms of paying for your sins, but it’s better than nothing. When you get back, please pass on this message to your leader. He’s a clever man, he’ll know what to do. I don’t think he’d trouble me to press him further.”
The man stood to leave, then paused and pointed at the geisha. “I imagine this young lady has trouble with her ears.”
Nakamura nodded. “Don’t worry, she won’t have heard a thing.”
After the man left, the smile automatically came back to Nakamura’s face, and he said sincerely, “I apologize for arranging this meeting without your permission. As you know, such things are impossible to prevent. Now that you’ve both talked through this matter, I’m sure the situation’s better for you.”
Omar couldn’t be bothered to bawl out Nakamura, and besides, he had a point. His face darkening, he wondered how he’d report this to the leader when he got back. He’d been following orders in carrying out this mission, so there was nothing to fear on that score, and he wouldn’t be on the hook for any of the $5 billion. It was just . . . so humiliating. If he’d known this might happen, he’d never have come to Japan. Now Nakamura asked politely if he was done, or if they should order more food. Omar snapped a refusal, then started screaming, “Idiot! You hog-ignorant bastard!” This was directed at Zia Baj. “You only killed one hundred and forty-three people! That’s less than if you’d put a bomb on a plane. You wasted my gift!”
Nakamura looked affronted, but Omar didn’t feel like explaining himself. He’d finished his official business, and the next day would leave for home.
A few days later, Akiji Nakamura received a diplomatic message, saying the leader needed to cancel a planned official visit for “health reasons.” The same day the message arrived, the TV news reported that a middle-aged man had barged into an American embassy, and the normally strict sentries seemed to put up only token resistance before letting him in. A security guard came forward to stop and question him, but without a word, the intruder pulled out a handgun and fired cleanly into
his own mouth. The dead man hadn’t been identified, nor was his motive for breaking into the embassy in order to commit suicide known.
Seeing Omar’s blood-spattered face on his TV screen, Nakamura gave a bitter laugh. The American government naturally knew this person’s identity and motive. They’d know that better than anyone else, but could only play dumb. Nakamura sincerely respected Omar’s leader, and thought the United States might be no match for him when it came to dirty tricks. Without question, Omar’s suicide was a forced one, and one possible scenario Nakamura considered was that Omar had gotten back to his country but didn’t dare to tell his leader about the five-billion-dollar extortion, and with no other option, had killed himself. A gunshot to the mouth was a silent protest—he’d sealed his own mouth. And as the leader therefore never heard of this demand, there was of course no need to pay it. As for the American government, they’d have no way to take this matter up with him directly.
After this, Nakamura paid attention to any large sums transferred from the leader’s country to America. A year later, there was a donation to an Indian reservation in Idaho, to fund research into Native American history, a sum of $14.3 million (Nakamura’s mind immediately sprang to the 143 people killed by the epidemic). Apart from this, there were no other major movements of money, though Nakamura had no way of knowing whether there’d been any further covert engagement between the two countries.
CHAPTER THREE
THE PLAGUE SOURCE
Fall 2016—Nanyang, Henan-Hubei provincial border, China
After the joint birthday and wedding celebration, Xue Yu stayed another day in Nanyang. The following afternoon, Ms. Mei invited him to the facility, to see the lab he hadn’t entered on his previous visit. Opening the door with her keycard, she said, “Please go in. This is the lab General Manager Sun built for me. You could say it’s for my sole personal use.”
Xue Yu smiled. “You have the keycard for this door? Last time you told County Chief Jin . . .”
