“Son of a bitch,” the voice said. “You work fast, Babe. Whatcha want?”
“I want the player bus for ten ack emma tomorrow.”
“You’re lucky, boy. We’re terminating that franchise. We’ll have a bus all warmed up. Listen, you any use in the right-hand seat?”
“Had about four hours.”
“Good. We’re short a man here. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve been ferrying where.”
“I don’t even want to hear about it.”
“Good thinking. Hey! You mean to say you got your home run?”
“You bet your sweet ass I got my home run. Seoul or Tokyo?”
“Seoul, buddy. Don’t worry about it. Once you get through the tubes it’s all Bridgeport. Nice goin’, old son.”
“Thanks,” Burnham said. “Over and out.”
“Over and out.”
Burnham hung up and waved in airy triumph. “I have just reserved a private aircraft.”
Teng said, “Americans! A people of miracles!”
“A people of gall,” Hao-lan said.
Burnham shooed them back into the kitchen. “It is for Seoul only, and the clerks there will wear out a brush or two before letting us go further. We shall tell them you are Chiang Kai-shek’s daughter.”
“A patriot,” Hao-lan said. “An officer and a gentleman. You lie to your superiors.”
“They are not my superiors,” Burnham said, “and they will be angry, but not at you. At me”—he knew a moment’s shame—“because I did not do my job.”
“That I understand,” Hao-lan said. “I too have a job, and cannot do it.”
Shen dismissed the question. “Listen to your heart. In time there will be doctors here aplenty, and nurses too, and dentists.”
Nurse An served another round of soup, steamed dough and tea. Smoke hung blue. Savors and odors mingled, and winter was forgotten. “I myself would go,” Nurse An said, “and not because of the distinguished visitor, whom I hardly know, though he is not unpleasing in appearance and speaks a proper local tongue, but because I have never left Peking, and the world is a carnival place. To see even Mukden or Shanghai!”
“It is not only leaving my own people,” Hao-lan objected. “It is living among Americans. More than once I was insulted in England. The assumption was made that a woman not English lacked morals.” Her eyes flashed suddenly at Burnham. “Did you make the same assumption? You grew up among us; was the easy little Chinese maiden always at your beck and call? Was it less a sin than with Miss Blue Eyes?”
This was not a question to evade, and Burnham did his best. “It was more a sin. Because heathen Chinese, they told us, were like untutored children, and were in our charge, and to take advantage of a Chinese girl would be heinous, like striking a servant. Oh, how I burned! And yet—yes, the Chinese were lesser. In America too you will be insulted. You will be asked if you are Japanese or Siamese or Eskimo. As here I am called a Russian sometimes by men of the northwest, and pointed reference is made to my nose.” She winced lovingly at the bad pun. “And some will offend you by good cheer and tolerance. They will speak clearly for your poor foreign ear. They will touch you—your hand, your forearm, a kiss on the cheek—to show that they accept Asian skin and fear no contamination. We have many black people, and there are still Americans who believe that the black rubs off, that white is clean, that yellow is cowardly. You are tan and in places ruddy like an apple, but to them you will be one of the yellow people.
“All of this will lessen,” Burnham said, “but in our lifetime fools will abound. All I can say for sure is that I will love you as long as I can—I think as long as I live, but tonight I am not reciting romance—and will keep harm from you. But the important reasons are not these.”
“Why then, tell me the important reasons.”
“Never, before others. You have no shame. Morals indeed!”
Shen and Teng laughed; Nurse An tktked. Feng seemed not to understand, quite, and sat diffident, silent, prepared to smile.
Hao-lan said, “The future here. It matters.”
“Yes, it matters. There will be more and better medicine and much to rejoice the social soul. That too is irrelevant.”
“Well, I am impatient to hear what is relevant. You are all smoke and no fire.”
“A bold and forward woman,” Burnham grumbled. “Very well, then, before the world: I love only you. How this happened remains a mystery. Without you I will be only what I was: a foolish boy. And without me, you—you—ah, it is not for me to say, but together we can be the only one that is more than two,” and he slipped into English, saying softly, “a very singular plural,” and she translated, so that Nurse An and Teng and Shen said, “Ah, pretty, pretty,” and Hao-lan herself, though she tried to look too wise for elegant flattery, only glowed.
For some moments then, as if they were all overcome, they focused on food and drink. Shen muttered, “A disgrace that we have no wine.”
With a trace of misery in her voice but no real conviction, Hao-lan said, “I must think. It is all so final. I would no longer be Hao-lan. I would be Helen. Helen, they called me in England”—her laughter dissipated much of her anguish—“and in Chinese that is hei-lin, which can mean black bladder trouble. Imagine being called Black Clap.”
“Or Hei-lung,” Burnham smiled. “I did some fighting up in Heilungkiang.” It was a province of Manchuria and meant Black Dragon River. “You will be my Black Dragon, and breathe fire upon me.”
Her full lips parted slightly; she breathed fire upon him, and retreated almost blushing to her cabbage soup.
Feng astonished them all, evidently including himself, by speaking. “In Peking are people of all nations and degrees. There are Mohammedans and Cantonese and foreigners like the gentleman, some with yellow hair, and older foreign women, those with immense bosoms, and the foreign priests, and once I carried foreign sailors with buttons atop their hats like chrysanthemums. Surely it is so elsewhere. And surely a Pekinger in a foreign land would be superior. Pekingers are superior to Shanghainese and Nankingers, so it must follow.” He subsided in confusion, and slurped tea.
“There you have it,” Burnham said. “Must we take a vote?”
Hao-lan laughed again. “Nurse An?”
Nurse An nodded, her eyes gleaming; gently she touched Hao-lan’s arm.
“No, no, no!” Hao-lan cried. “It is all too beautiful, but I must think. And we two must speak alone.”
Burnham only gazed upon his girl and sighed.
21
Inspector Yen Chieh-kuo admired the English word “flatfoot.” He thought often that he would have made a good flatfoot in some progressive country with microscopes, fingerprint kits and electric chairs. He was a Peking man, born and bred in a quiet quarter near the Lama Temple up by Tung Chih Men; his father had been a supervisor of streets, roads and alleys for the municipal government, first under the Dowager Empress and then under various warlords and republics. Yen thought of himself as an oppressed civil servant, with immense tasks and no resources, hunting fiery dragons with a paper sword. He was married but childless, and not for lack of effort; it was a tragedy but no longer, in modern times, a shame. His wife was unlettered, and his house was a man’s house; when colleagues came to dinner, they left their wives home, and Yen’s woman ate alone. They kept one servant, a scolding old cook. Yen’s wife had little to do. Yen assumed that she had her interests and hobbies. He was wrong; hers was a wasted life, and that was all that could ever be said about her. No one bothered to say it.
When he left Burnham, Yen went home. He was not expected; neither was he unexpected. This was his house; when he arrived, a meal was started. He ate pork dumplings, drank tea, and finished with steaming pig’s-ear soup. He brooded. He needed a department, at least a squad. He had rank; his pay was acceptable; bribes and confiscations eked out a comfortable domestic treasury. But he was a flatfoot. He liked his work and felt that he should be doing more of it. Normally it was cut and dried. A malefactor
was found, apprehended and punished. But this chase for Kanamori depressed him. His files had told him more than he had told Burnham: for example, that the price on Sung Yun’s head had been set by Kanamori himself. Or that Sung Yun’s enemies, foreign and domestic, had a way of stumbling over trouble. One simply did not tell everything to foreigners.
Burnham had lied to him only tonight. The nature of the lie eluded Yen, but he had been a policeman for more than twenty years and the music of a lie was flat to his ear; he knew. That Burnham was leaving he did not doubt. Still, he would enjoy setting hounds on Burnham’s trail this one night. Unfortunately, he lacked hounds. He knew—he had known before he asked—that Burnham had seen Sung Yun. Had he actually spoken to the beggars? What was it he had said? “Cold trails and empty warrens.”
Yen shrugged. A frosty night, and a flatfoot was better off at home. Still, if Burnham was leaving, there remained Sung Yun, who could not have been idle.
Inspector Yen came to a decision. He would sleep for some hours; he would then cast in small circles. If by tomorrow noon there were no fresh corpses, he would close the books and banish this Kanamori from his mind. There was an abundance of trouble without Japanese ghosts. The Red Bandits were everywhere. Fu Tso-yi’s Thirty-fifth Army had been destroyed, two of the best divisions in North China. Lin Piao—that turtle’s egg!—was sweeping down from the northeast with thirteen columns. To the south, the news was even worse: army after army wiped out on the central plains. Grudgingly Yen admired the enemy. Why were all the military geniuses on the other side? Chu Teh! Liu Po-ch’eng, the old one-eyed tiger! Chen Yi! Teng Hsiao-p’ing! And Lin Piao, worst of all because closest.
Perhaps I should have been a soldier: better to stand and die for Peking than to spy upon foreigners, or to bow and scrape before that gangster Ming.
Inspector Yen cursed them all, and then himself, and went to bed.
At four in the morning Peking was almost silent, and Inspector Yen was grateful: no armies in the distance, no roaring mobs or chattering gunfire in the streets he loved. His lemon, as if lulled by the city’s repose, responded amiably and chugged away from the curb with a minimum of resistance. Yen tried to complain—Why must I do everything alone? Where are my subordinates, my planners, my staff, my communications?—but admitted to an odd happiness, as if the city belonged solely to him for this hour, as if he alone ruled, guided destinies, maintained order.
He traversed the Imperial City north to south. At Ch’ien Men he was halted, recognized, saluted and waved on. Slowly he drove past the Willow Wine Shop: darkness and silence. He proceeded to the Beggars’ Hospital: silence, but within the walls a dim gleam. The streets were almost deserted; in one doorway, he glimpsed a solitary figure, and by the peripheral glow of his headlights saw that it was a policeman. Reassuring and comforting. Peiping, the old name: northern peace. Well, this city had known little peace in his lifetime.
He drove back to Ch’ien Men, the only gate open at this hour, and once more was passed through. He set his course for the East Four P’ai-lou, and swung off to inspect Sung Yun’s house. What was there to see? A wall. A gate, closed and surely locked.
Thereafter he drove aimlessly and marshaled thoughts. The simplest: Kanamori was alive, Burnham had found him, lied about it, and was taking him out. Entirely possible. As they both knew, Burnham’s promise to allow Yen an interview had been an empty promise.
One thing Yen knew for sure: the Americans wanted Kanamori for more than a simple hanging. And he knew the why of it. He wondered now, as he had before, whether Burnham did. In China, with his language and his delicacy, Burnham seemed canny, knowing, even powerful; perhaps to the Americans he really was only an errand boy, as he had said. Could Burnham believe that Kanamori was merely a thug? Kanamori’s public crimes had been committed by thousands of Japanese officers and men, and many of them had remained in China, settled, married, melted into cities and villages unmolested. Surely Burnham must know this.
But perhaps it was not a simple case of lost-and-found. Perhaps Burnham had truly burned the boats and bridges, given up in despair or disgust.
Or had found Kanamori, learned what he wanted to learn, and had no real interest in the man himself.
Or Sung Yun had found Kanamori—in which case Kanamori was already dead, and Inspector Yen was wasting yet another night. Yen knew Ming well; he knew many Mings. No heart, no scruple, a killer almost frolicsome in his vocation. Sung Yun and his minions! A platoon of hirelings. There was one feeble consolation in a Communist victory: farewell, Sung Yun!
The thought of such a victory depressed Inspector Yen. He saw himself in uniform, demoted, directing bicycle traffic or apprehending fornicators.
He was at the West Lower P’ai-lou now, and he was hungry. Soon the noodle shops would open. He realized abruptly why the city was empty. Curfew! He had forgotten entirely. Such peace! How beautiful Peking would be unpopulated!
An inexpressible melancholy swept over him. An aging cop prowling through the night, his talents, his mind, his very life, all wasted.
22
Ming’s knock was more respectful than his expression. The two Pekinese frisked at his feet, rousing his more murderous instincts.
Sung Yun’s response was quick. The women were dozing.
Ming said, “Kanamori lives.”
Before his eyes Sung Yun aged, then recovered. “Very well. Report.”
“The American alerted his compatriots at the airport. In a complex spoken code he announced the capture of Kanamori, and demanded transportation for ten in the morning.”
“Then Kanamori is at the Beggars’ Hospital?”
“That we cannot know. We do know that Burnham is there.”
“Bad, bad,” Sung Yun groaned. “I do not want this American killed.”
Ming shrugged.
“Pour wine.”
Ming stepped to an inlaid cabinet, and returned with two cups of kao-liang wine. “It is cold, but it is wine.”
“We will not dry these cups,” Sung Yun said. “We will sip like philosophers, and savor and think.”
The dogs leaped to Sung Yun and licked at his hands; absently he scratched their heads.
Ming waited. This old man was a riddle. His mane was gray but his face was shiny and unlined, his body limber and loose-jointed. A riddle, with his Miss Ai and Miss Mei, his transactions, his hearty commercial friends, his Sino-American Amity Association. Ming himself was only twenty-five, and impatient.
“I think I must have my horoscope cast,” Sung Yun said. “I sense emanations. Quiverings.”
“This American—”
“Ah, the American!” Sung Yun flapped a dismissive hand. “Invaluable. The brain of an egg, but he did our work for us: he charged into the tiger’s lair in the name of justice. A true hero. But you know them so much better than I.”
“The language only. A few customs. My acquaintance was with soldiers, rude and vigorous, and not with the lords and princes.”
“Lords and princes! So many sides of beef! A strange tribe, Ming, lacking all delicacy and sensuality. They have no history. They swarm like demented nomads; they cross all borders, and when they see a peacock they take up a gun and slay it, and eat it raw. But,” he conceded, “they accomplish great tasks, and they ignore the laughter of their critics. Invaluable, as I said.”
“Is he to die?”
Sung Yun shrugged. “I think not. An unnecessary risk. Also I am now cautious about premature killing. When I believed that Kanamori was dead, and his secret with him—”
Ming said, “The American is a loose end alive.”
“But dead he could be an embarrassment. These are delicate matters in delicate times. Hsü! Not to know who knows what: that is the true ignorance.”
Ming inclined his head. “As you say.”
“I shall miss these tables,” Sung Yun said, suddenly glum. “In rosewood I find a special gleam and warmth. Also walnut.” He tossed off his wine. “Kanamori is of course the business of the
moment, but I am concentrating poorly. To leave Peking! Think, Ming, how sad! There will be rosewood in other cities, and lovely ladies too, but all stability is of the past and a dream. I shall be an exile. Once, my dear Ming, men of talent made this city a corner of heaven. Men of my stamp were archers and musicians, horsemen and lords. Have you heard of Fu Hsi?”
“No.”
“In the time of the Six Dynasties. An ordinary man but a son of Han, a Chinese! He invented the revolving bookcase. I told this once to an American, and he laughed. Gunpowder, he said. You Chinese invented gunpowder, and that was more important. No, I said, no; the compass, perhaps, but not gunpowder. After gunpowder the archer faded.”
Ming listened respectfully. Sung Yun must be humored, and the Japanese could wait; the hospital was under close watch. Fu Hsi indeed! This old man was shrewd and elegant but also full of bowl. Ming smiled slightly. For years he had said “full of bowl” until an American had corrected him: “Bull! Bull!”
“Now then,” Sung Yun said. “Fill my cup, will you?” Ming rose and complied. “Enough culture. I think now we must act, and act boldly. You will take the car and find Liao. Yes.” Sung Yun chuckled, clapped hands, nodded happily as he continued. Liao would rule the rear seat and do the heavy work. Kanamori was not to be incapacitated. Speed was essential. Perhaps Ming should mask himself. A few of them would play the pedestrian and slow traffic—perhaps Huang the Tinker would maneuver his cart strategically. The moment must be perfectly chosen. Had Ming any questions?
Ming had no questions.
Sung Yun seemed pleased. He clutched the dogs to him and kissed them in turn. “We must discuss these canine friends. I cannot take them with me.”
“I shall care for them as my own,” Ming said. Dogs!
“I think not.” Sung Yun was sleek and cheerful now, almost merry. “You will destroy them painlessly.”
Limb from limb, Ming thought.
“I do not wish to think of them harried and starving in the new Peking,” Sung Yun went on, “or dropped alive into some savage’s cooking pot. Well, there is yet time. But if we succeed, I shall leave soon. Kanamori! I wonder if he can stand torture.”
The Last Mandarin Page 19
