by Peter May
They crossed the concourse, and Li flashed his ID to the guard on duty who immediately saluted and lifted the chain to let them through. On the steps they were greeted by Commissioner Zhu and Deputy Cao, who were standing smoking in the cold night air, accompanied by their respective wives. Zhu glanced at his watch and said, ‘You’re late.’ He made no introductions and ignored Margaret. ‘They’re waiting for you.’ He took Li by the elbow and steered him away up the stairs.
Li called back to Margaret, ‘I’ll see you after the ceremony.’
She nodded, smiled politely at Cao and the two women. ‘Ni hau,’ she said, and made her way up through the pillars to the main entrance, conscious of their silence, and of their eyes on her back.
Inside, she had to put her purse through an airport-style x-ray security machine and walk through a frame that scanned her for … she had no idea what. Metal objects, she supposed. Guns or knives. As if she might be intent on attacking the father of her child. Through another doorway, and she was into the main lobby, a huge marbled hall, overlooked by a balcony that ran all the way around it. Stairs led up to it from either end. Tall wooden double doors along the entire length of the central hall, on both levels, led into the auditorium itself. There were already thousands of people thronging the floor, the echo of their voices thundering back at them from a ceiling you could hardly see, enormous chandeliers casting yellow light on a sea of black heads. Margaret felt at once conspicuous, anonymous and lost, aware of her fair hair and blue eyes drawing curious looks. Most of the guests would not have expected to have encountered a yangguizi on an occasion like this. She felt a tug on her arm, and turned to find a young Chinese girl grinning up at her.
‘Magret,’ Xinxin said. Li’s niece was nearly ten now and almost up to Margaret’s shoulder. Although her English was excellent, she still pronounced Margaret’s name the way she had when they had first met and the child had no English at all.
‘Xinxin!’ Margaret was both pleased and relieved to see her. She stooped to kiss her and give her a hug, and then looked around. ‘Where’s your mother? And your grandfather?’
By way of reply, Xinxin took her hand — which still felt very small in hers — and said, ‘You come with me, Magret. We are invited to reception for guest of honour.’ And she glowed with obvious pride and pleasure at the thought that her Uncle Yan was the guest of honour.
The child led the adult confidently through the crowds to the north end of the hall, and up a staircase at the far corner to the pillared balcony above. They hurried then across thick red carpet, past open doors leading to a huge overlit room with chairs set in a circle below a wall displaying a vast aerial photograph of the Forbidden City. ‘That Beijing Room,’ Xinxin said. ‘There is one room for every province in Great Hall. Even one for Taiwan, for when she come back to China.’ She grinned as if she understood the politics of it.
Margaret couldn’t resist a smile. ‘How do you know all this, little one?’
‘I come here on tour with school,’ she said. ‘All school visit Great Hall of People.’
Almost opposite the Beijing Hall, an enormous doorway led to the reception room, already crowded with dignitaries. There were high-ranking police officers and government ministers. Faces Margaret had only ever seen in newspapers or on television screens. She also saw some more familiar faces. Detectives from Li’s section. Qian and Wu and a few others whose names she could not recall. Glasses filled with champagne and orange juice were set out on a long table beneath a twenty-foot mural of a Chinese mountainscape illuminated by a rising sun. Most of the guests were drinking champagne.
Li’s sister, Xiao Ling, and his father, stood uncomfortably on the edge of the gathering, clutching glasses of orange juice. They did not belong here and they knew it. A retired teacher living in an old folks’ home in Sichuan, and a worker on the production line of the Beijing Jeep factory. Li’s father had made the trip specially to see his son. There had always been difficulties between them, but his father could not bring himself to miss such a moment. He was staying with his daughter and granddaughter during his visit.
Xiao Ling shook Margaret’s hand rather formally. She did not speak English, and she and Margaret had never really hit it off. Neither did Margaret get on with Li’s father, who regarded their relationship as ‘unfortunate’. He would have preferred that Li had found a Chinese girl to father his son. He, too, shook Margaret’s hand. ‘I will come tomorrow to see my grandson,’ he said. ‘With your permission.’ As if she might have refused it.
‘Of course,’ Margaret said.
‘In the afternoon,’ he added.
‘Magret, Magret,’ Xinxin clamoured for her attention. ‘You want drink?’
‘Champagne,’ Margaret said quickly. She needed a drink.
Xinxin came back with champagne for Margaret and an orange juice for herself. Margaret took a couple of quick swallows, and felt the bubbles carry the alcohol almost immediately into her bloodstream. She could do with a few of these, she thought.
‘Perhaps I might be allowed a glass. It is not often that I have had the chance to drink champagne.’ The voice at Margaret’s side startled her, and she turned to find Lao Dai standing by her shoulder. He was wearing a thick blue jacket over a knitted jumper, baggy trousers and scuffed leather shoes. A navy blue baseball cap was pulled down over his bald head. She had met him for the first time only after Yifu’s death, and they had struck up an immediate rapport. He took her hand warmly in both of his and held it for a moment. ‘How are you, Margaret?’ His English was almost perfect.
‘I am well, Mister Dai,’ she said. And she turned to Xinxin. ‘Xinxin, could you get a glass of champagne for Mister Dai?’ Xinxin skipped off, happy to have an errand to run, and Margaret turned back to the old man. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, as always,’ he said. He shook hands, then, with Xiao Ling and Li’s father, and they had a brief exchange in Chinese which, to Margaret’s surprise, brought uncharacteristic laughter to their lips.
‘What’s so funny?’ Margaret asked.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Dai said. ‘I told them I shouldn’t drink too much champagne or Li Yan would have to arrest me for being drunk in charge of a bicycle.’ His eyes twinkled mischievously. Xinxin returned with his champagne and he raised his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and took a long draught of it, putting the back of his hand to his lips as he then broke wind. One or two faces turned and scowled in their direction. But Lao Dai just lifted his glass and grinned, displaying broken and discoloured teeth, and they turned quickly away again. ‘Stuffed shirts,’ the old man whispered conspiratorially to Margaret. ‘In my day you succeeded on merit. Nowadays it’s down to brown-nosing and politics.’ He took another quaff of his champagne. ‘Li Yan is jade among stones.’
A sprinkling of applause drew their attention, and Margaret craned to see Li Yan being led up a broad staircase to the reception room by the Minister of Public Security, flanked by his deputy and the Commissioner of Police. Trailing behind were Deputy Cao and all the wives. Margaret should have been there amongst them. But she and Li Yan were not married, and she was not Chinese. She would be bad for the image of the poster boy.
The crowd parted, like the Red Sea, to let Li and the entourage through to the champagne. The Minister raised his glass and proposed what Margaret took to be a toast. She heard Li Yan’s name, and along with the others she raised her glass and repeated it. The Minister then made a short speech to which everyone listened attentively.
‘What’s he saying?’ Margaret whispered to Dai.
‘Oh, he’s just talking the usual shit,’ said the old man.
Applause marked the end of the speech, and the leading entourage and guests of honour started to make their way through to the auditorium. Lao Dai took Margaret’s arm to steady himself, and Xinxin held her hand, and they followed the crowd downstairs and into the first level of the auditorium where nearly four thousand people were already seated. There were another three thousand on the second floor,
and more than two thousand on the top.
The stage was vast, each side draped with long red flags. Margaret, Dai and Li’s family took seats reserved for honoured guests near the front and found themselves almost on a level with the stage. The lights dimmed and there was a fanfare of martial-sounding music, and a visual presentation began, projected on to a large screen disclosed by a rising curtain. There was a voice-over commentary, images of police officers at work: in offices and cars, catching criminals, giving evidence in court. Some flickering archive footage showed early police officers in green army uniform performing military-style drill outside a police station. The film cut to a modern police station with a well-equipped gymnasium and basketball court, and showed smartly dressed officers in their new black uniforms standing cheering a police football team. Then there was news footage of Li Yan leading a man in handcuffs out of an impressive-looking building. Margaret recognised the man as the former deputy mayor of Beijing whom Li had arrested for fraud and corruption. It had been one of the most high profile cases of the last few years. The deputy mayor had been found guilty and sentenced to death, which would mean a bullet in the back of the head. He was currently awaiting the outcome of an appeal that would reduce his sentence to life imprisonment if successful.
The music soared and swooped, switching from martial to classical and back again. It ended as suddenly as it began and everyone dutifully clapped. A curtain fell, and an officer in uniform walked out to a microphone in centre stage and made a short speech. ‘More shit,’ Dai whispered to Margaret, and then the Minister of Public Security walked out to thunderous applause. As the applause died away, he took out a sheaf of notes from an inside pocket and embarked on a speech which lasted nearly fifteen minutes. The Chinese were fond of making speeches. Margaret looked at Dai, but he just shook his head. ‘You don’t even want to know,’ he said.
Margaret looked about her and saw TV cameras strategically placed around the hall, recording the entire ceremony. It was probably going out live on one of the China Central TV stations. A phalanx of press and official photographers was clustered around the front of the stage, cameras flashing. Most of the invited guests would be police officers and their families, she thought, or people employed directly or indirectly by the Ministry — a strange brotherhood to which police everywhere seemed to belong.
The Minister finished his speech, to more applause. An elaborate table draped in red silk had appeared from somewhere — Margaret had not seen it brought on — displaying a wooden shield bearing the red, blue and gold crest of the Ministry of Public Security. The police badge. Beijing Police Commissioner Zhu walked on to shake the Minister’s hand and take up a position in front of the microphone. His rimless glasses caught and reflected the light, and you could not see his eyes. It made him appear oddly sinister, tall and thin and sightless. He waved a hand towards the shield and began speaking.
Dai whispered, ‘He’s talking about Li, now.’ He listened for a bit and then said, ‘He does not much like our young friend.’
‘You mean, Li?’
Dai nodded. ‘He is full of praise. Noisy praise, like a drum with nothing inside it. He says only good things of Li Yan. His tone is honeyed, but there is vinegar on his tongue.’
Margaret glanced around. If Commissioner Zhu’s words were having that effect on other members of the audience there was nothing in their faces to show it. The Minister beamed happily at the Commissioner’s side, and Margaret wondered if perhaps Lao Dai was reading more into the speech than was intended. And yet she knew that he was a clever man, experienced and perceptive. It gave her cause for disquiet.
Dai said, ‘I knew him when he was a rookie cop and I was Section Chief. I didn’t trust him then. Look at his face. There is the weasel in it.’ And there was, indeed, something weasely about his face, Margaret thought. He was not the usual pan-faced Chinese. He had a weak, receding jaw, and a forehead that sloped steeply back from his brow. ‘He is like a bellows. Empty when at rest, and full of air when set in motion.’ Dai chuckled. ‘In his case, hot air.’
Zhu finished his speech, and with a flourish stood aside, extending his arm towards the wings to welcome Li on stage. As Li walked briskly to the table to accept his award, he received a standing ovation, almost as if the guests had been briefed. As she herself stood, Margaret wondered if it had been stipulated on their invitation cards. Li took the shield from the Minister, shaking hands with both men. So many cameras flashed the stage was transformed into something like a scene from an old black and white movie, too few frames making the picture flicker and jerk and run too fast. The papers would be full of it tomorrow, and there would be plenty of images to choose from for the hoardings around the city.
Li cleared his throat as he approached the microphone, but spoke in a strong, clear voice.
‘Do you want to know what he is saying?’ Dai whispered.
Margaret shook her head. She had schooled him in his speech, persuaded him to reduce it from more than ten minutes to a little over three. She knew it by heart. His acceptance of the award not for himself, but on behalf of all his fellow officers. The need for the police in China to move forward, embracing new ideas and new technology to fight the rising wave of crime that was coming with increased prosperity.
His speech was met with yet another standing ovation, and Li walked off with the others as the curtain came down to a loud reprise of the martial music which had kicked off the whole proceeding.
‘Well, thank God that’s over,’ Margaret said. ‘Where’s the food?’
Old Dai grinned. ‘In the Sichuan Room,’ he said.
* * *
The Sichuan room was at the bottom of a flight of stairs, beyond the empty and forlorn-looking Taiwan Room. It was clad entirely in white marble, pillars, walls and floor, beyond a huge tapestry of a Sichuan forest scene. Tables for a banquet were set out on a pale Chinese carpet. Ten tables, ten to a table. Only special invitees were to be fed in the company of the principal guest of honour. A four-man troupe of Sichuan folk musicians played discreetly at the far end of the room.
Li Yan’s family and Lao Dai were escorted to a table near the door. To her surprise, Margaret found herself being seated at the same table as Li, along with the Minister and his deputy, the Commissioner and his deputy, and their wives. She leaned towards him and said in a stage whisper. ‘How did you manage this?’
The Minister said in impeccable English, ‘He told us that if he couldn’t have you at our table, he would take you for a McDonald’s instead.’ There was no trace of a smile as he spoke, but something in his eyes told Margaret he was not as po-faced as he appeared.
There was a ripple of uneasy laughter around the table.
‘Personally, I prefer Tony Roma’s,’ Margaret said. ‘Or the Hard Rock Café — they do good burgers. But I guess I’ll just have to make do with this instead.’
No one seemed certain whether she was being funny, or just rude, and her response was met with an uneasy silence. Li looked embarrassed.
‘It’s a joke,’ Margaret said. ‘I love Sichuan food.’ And she waved a hand in front of her mouth and blew. ‘Hot!’
‘You like spicy food, then?’ Deputy Cao said languidly.
‘Sure.’
‘Personally, I think Sichuan cuisine lack something in subtlety and sophistication. All that chilli only there to disguise poor quality of meat.’
‘What is your taste, then, Deputy Cao?’ the Minister asked him.
‘He likes hotpot,’ his wife said. She was a small, wiry woman, with short, bobbed hair the colour of steel. She looked uncomfortable in a black evening gown.
‘Ah, yes,’ Margaret said. ‘Invented by the Mongols, wasn’t it? Water boiled up in their helmets over an open fire to cook chunks of mutton hacked off the sheep.’
‘So?’ Deputy Cao said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
The Minister laughed. ‘I think Ms Campbell is implying that hotpot is not quite the height of sophisticated eating either.’
Cao shrugged dismissively. ‘Well, that is rich coming from American. Not a country exactly famous for its cuisine.’ He lit a cigarette.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Margaret said breezily. ‘There are a hell of a lot more McDonalds’ around the world than there are hotpot restaurants.’
Even Commissioner Zhu, silent until now, cracked a smile. ‘She might have a point there, Cao.’ Margaret looked at him carefully, and saw more clearly the weasel in him that Lao Dai had pointed out.
‘Only the young in China eat burger,’ Cao said. ‘With age come wisdom. People eat hotpot for thousands of year. In a hundred year they will still be eating hotpot. I wonder how many McDonald’s restaurants there will be.’
‘So you don’t approve of American culture, then?’ Margaret said.
‘It is short-lived and worthless,’ replied Cao.
‘Is that why you smoke American cigarettes?’ Margaret nodded towards his pack of Phillip Morris lying on the table. ‘So your life will be equally short-lived and worthless.’
There was a moment’s dangerous silence, before the Minister guffawed. ‘I think you’ve finally met your match, Cao,’ he said.
Margaret caught Li’s eye, and felt pierced by the cold steel of his silent disapproval. She turned her most charming smile on the Deputy Commissioner and said, ‘Actually, I’m only joking, Deputy Cao. I love hotpot, too.’ And she turned the same smile back on Li, as if to say, You see, you can take me places without getting a red face.
Through all the hubbub of voices in the Sichuan Room, above the sound of crockery as waiters brought food to tables, came the unmistakable warble of a cellphone. Deputy Minister Wei Peng tutted his disapproval. ‘Some people have no sense of propriety,’ he said. But within half a minute, the individual lacking that sense of propriety revealed himself to be Deputy Section Chief Qian. He was clearly embarrassed to interrupt proceedings at Li’s table, but determined nonetheless. His face was drained of colour.
