The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map

by Donna Carrick

  One of the women, Caroline, called out and the others drew in closer. “Over here,” she said, waving at Fa-ling. “It’s our guide.”

  The thirteen travellers, five couples, two young children and Fa-ling, all gathered around.

  “My name is Cynthia,” the Chinese guide said in English. “Please follow me. We don’t have much time to check in for our flight to Nanning.”

  The couples hurried to gather their luggage. Caroline and Harold Kitchener each lifted a child. Fa-ling had only her backpack, which she passed off as a purse, and one additional carry-on bag. She would buy whatever she needed.

  While the others struggled with their bags, Fa-ling took one last look around the terminal. She was about to follow the group when she spied her new friend Randy Chan standing near a magazine rack. She started to wave, but her smile died when a frenzied young Chinese woman emerged from the crowd and grabbed Randy’s hand. Fa-ling could not make out what the woman was saying, but Randy’s face dissolved into an expression of horror.

  The woman pointed in Fa-ling’s direction. Randy’s eyes followed her finger, but he did not seem to see Fa-ling. Instead he looked past her into the crowds beyond. Then both he and the woman turned and ran in the other direction, holding hands and finally disappearing from sight into the crowds.

  Fa-ling shrugged her shoulders and started to follow her group. She would love to chase Randy and ask what the problem was, but she couldn’t afford to get lost. The guide had a bus waiting to take the couples to Shanghai’s old domestic airport.

  Once in Nanning the five adopting couples would finally meet their new daughters!

  EIGHT

  “Randy, we must hurry,” Shopei said. “There is a flight for Los Angeles in half an hour. You need to get on it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll go underground. The movement will protect me.”

  “You won’t be safe. You’ll end up in a re-education unit, or worse, in prison.”

  “One is not worse than the other. They are both prisons.” Shopei shook her head. “I have no choice. I can’t go back to father’s farm. His cousin has been running it since we left. He had no love for my parents, and even less for me.”

  “What about my aunt’s family?”

  “They owe me nothing,” Shopei said. “The only person my mother stayed in touch with was your mother. When your parents fled to Hong Kong after you were born, Mother was left with no close family in China.”

  “My mother was pregnant with my younger brother,” Randy said. “They left to avoid paying the second child penalty.”

  “They made the right decision. You look as though you have fared well in America.”

  “We made out all right.” Randy knew better than to boast about money, especially to his cousin. In fact, his family was well off. His mother taught high school and his father was a top engineer for a large aerospace firm. “My brother and I have a good life. I don’t think Rolland would have done so well in China.”

  “Life is not easy in Shanghai for the disabled,” Shopei agreed.

  “Nor for the ‘abled’,” Randy said. He immediately regretted his flippancy when Shopei lowered her head.

  “Come,” she said. “We must hurry if you are going to get tickets for the flight.”

  “I’m not going home,” Randy said. “Dahui and Auntie Sui are dead. I have to finish what your father started.”

  “It will get you killed.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll just play the dumb American. No one will bother me.”

  “The killers took Dahui’s computer,” Shopei said. “They will know from his photos what you look like.”

  “They probably already do. The government has been monitoring email communications for years.”

  “In that case,” Shopei said, “my life is worthless. If we make it out of this airport alive, I will take you where you need to go. But we must hurry. If we don’t finish in Shanghai and get you to Beijing in time, it will all be for nothing.”

  **

  Jiu Kaiyu watched Yi and Ng-zhi shouldering their way through the busy airport. The situation was unacceptable. All of the intercepted communications indicated that Tan Dahui was supposed to meet his cousin, Randy Chan from America. It should have been an easy matter to find the foreigner Chan waiting for Dahui and approach him with a cover story about a work emergency. The plan was for Jiu to pretend to be a friend of Dahui’s family. Of the three men, Jiu was the only one who was able to speak English.

  They found Randy Chan waiting for his cousin exactly where they expected. Jiu recognised Chan immediately from the photos he had emailed to Tan Dahui. Before Jiu could approach him, though, a young woman pushed her way through the throng. Jiu watched as the woman grabbed Chan’s hand and spoke in a rush before disappearing with him into the crowd.

  Who was she, and how did she know enough to intercept Chan? Jiu did not like mysteries. None of the emails between Dahui and his cousin Randy Chan had referred to a girl, and her sudden appearance was an unexpected element. She had come from nowhere, warning Randy Chan and pointing at Jiu and his men as if she recognised them.

  How was that possible? The security on this operation was top level. There was a distinct chain of command on all information surrounding the elimination of the Tan family. Jiu had confidence in Ng-zhi’s discretion. He was an old pro, a bear with no agenda other than protecting the State from its enemies.

  Yi, though, was another story. Jiu barely knew the little bastard, and what he knew he didn’t like. Ever since Yi had wiggled his way into the division, Jiu had been looking over his shoulder, anticipating criticism at every turn. Yi’s uncle, the old political tiger Ho Lon-shi, had manoeuvred his nephew onto Jiu’s team, announcing the move in a meeting of the top brass as a done deal. There had been no discussion of the matter.

  Jiu found Yi to be seriously wanting in the key elements required for the job: intelligence, intelligence and intelligence. As well as being stupid, Yi was indiscreet, dropping the names of his uncle’s cronies whenever it looked as though Jiu might be about to assign some unwanted task to him. Worse, Jiu suspected him of drug or alcohol abuse, or maybe he just had an uncontrollable urge to play mahjong late into the night.

  For whatever reason, the young man seemed to have trouble keeping normal working hours. He strolled into the office whenever the mood moved him, to the annoyance of Jiu’s loyal staff, and to the amusement of his detractors.

  Jiu would have little trouble believing Yi had somehow caused this latest problem. Maybe he had lost control of his mouth yet again. They had known about the plan since noon the day before, plenty of time for Yi to find a willing ear to brag to.

  Senior Agent Jiu Kaiyu wanted answers. He knew if they returned to the office without Chan, he might as well start working on a new skill-set. Ever since that baboon Ho had planted his nephew in the division, Jiu had suffered the sharp barb of Ho’s growing disapproval. Allowing a Western journalist who happened to be a relative of Tan Lim to disappear into the Peoples’ Republic carrying with him secrets of an extremely damaging nature would surely incur the old man’s wrath. Jiu could not afford a screw-up of this magnitude.

  When it was clear Chan had escaped and was no longer in the airport, Jiu motioned for Ng-zhi and Yi to give up the search. He did not allow his disappointment to show on his face. He would not give Yi the satisfaction of reading his thoughts.

  Jiu had only one hope of keeping his job — to find the Chan boy and his unknown companion before it became necessary for his superior to allocate blame.

  NINE

  As her evening flight from Shanghai approached Nanning, Fa-líng was surprised at the absence of light on the ground below. It appeared as though the region was in the midst of a major power shutdown. Then she remembered that much of China relied on coal as its main source of energy. Naturally, using such an irreplaceable fuel the Chinese would not squander electricity by stringing lights all over the countryside.

  The outskir
ts of Nanning lay in a state of darkness as the bus made its way from the airport toward the city proper. Fa-líng propped her journal on her knee and scribbled furiously, trying to capture the essence of this journey into the past. She knew once she got into the light she would have trouble reading her own handwriting.

  There were not many vehicles on the roads. Even bicycles were few and far between after sunset. As they neared the city core, Fa-líng noticed an increasing number of families out walking, enjoying the relative coolness of the night.

  Suddenly she felt uncomfortably warm. She was not accustomed to the tropical climate of Guangxi Zhuang, with its palm trees and close proximity to Vietnam. Nanning is at a latitudinal parallel with Cancun, Mexico, a fact that was underlined by the intensity of the heat. Fa-ling tried to open the bus window, but it was stuck.

  At the Golden Lion Hotel, the couples were instructed to settle themselves quickly in their rooms and then meet Cynthia, their guide, in the lobby. From there they would be whisked into one of the hotel’s boardrooms, where they would spend the next hour filling out adoption forms.

  This left Fa-líng free to do her own thing: wander around the hotel, grab a light dinner, or maybe go for a swim. She could hardly wait to say goodnight to her companions.

  Once in her room she immediately stripped and treated herself to a shower. The air was hot. In order to conserve energy, the hotels had devised a system of limited power consumption. The lights and air conditioning were activated by the guest’s passkey, which had to be inserted into a slot on the wall near the door when the guest was in the room.

  When the guest removed the magnetic passkey from the opening and left the room, all of the amenities would immediately shut down.

  Fa-líng stood under the water for a long time, knowing it would be awhile before the air-conditioning kicked in. When she finally emerged she was reluctant to get dressed.

  She ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a heavy ponytail. Then she rummaged in her bag for a clean pair of underwear. She found the only thing she had kept of Michael’s, a white cotton oxford shirt which she used as a nightshirt. She put it on, rolling the sleeves above her wrists. She did not button the front, hoping the air would cool down enough to soothe her tired body.

  With the twelve-hour difference, it would be morning in Toronto. She picked up the room phone and dialled Canada.

  Her mother answered immediately.

  “Hi. It’s me,” Fa-ling said.

  “You made it! How was the trip?”

  “It was OK. Long.”

  “Have you gotten to know anyone in the group?”

  “Yeah. We had a stopover in Vancouver, so we met for a bite. They seem like nice people.”

  “Have the babies arrived yet?” her mother asked.

  “No. Our guide said it’s too late today. They are going to bring them tomorrow afternoon by bus.”

  “That’s exciting.”

  “I guess so,” Fa-líng said. She had trouble imagining what the couples must be thinking, what must be going through their minds as they waited for their new daughters to arrive.

  “Where are the others now?” her mother asked.

  “They’re filling out forms.”

  “So you’ve got the evening to yourself. What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  “The parents have to stick around until the baby girls get here,” Fa-ling said. “I’m going to line up a private guide for the morning and try to get back to the hotel before dinner. I want to be here when the babies arrive.”

  “Be careful travelling on your own. Your group’s guide can probably recommend someone trustworthy.”

  “I’ll ask Cynthia.”

  “We missed you at dinner last night,” her mother said. “Your father sends his love, and Daphne says to call her when you wake up tomorrow.”

  “What’s up with her?”

  “’Your father and I would like to know. She’s been sulking around here ever since you left. When you talk to her, tell her to smarten up.”

  “OK, I’ll call her first thing,” Fa-ling said.

  “Good. You must be tired now after your trip. Try to get some rest. Jet lag can really come back to bite you. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mom. Tell Dad I’ll email him some pictures before we leave Nanning.”

  Fa-líng set the receiver down, her desire to remain connected to her mother’s voice competing with the joy of being young and free. Her duty done, she reached for her backpack and pulled out her clarinet case.

  She set her music up on the dressing table and closed her mouth over the reed to moisten it while she assembled her instrument. The heat had swollen the cork, so she touched each joint with grease to make the pieces fit more easily. It was somewhat disconcerting facing herself in the large wall mirror, the crisp white of Michael’s shirt falling open over her skin. Once she started to play, though, she was carried away by the easy syncopation of a jazz piece and soon forgot to notice her own half-dressed image in the glass, only partially hidden by the standing sheet music.

  She hit her stride with A Little Night ‘Mozart’, but the sweat started to trickle down her nose. She took a break to rummage in the tiny refrigerator, settling at last on a bottle of domestically purified water. Of course the room was equipped with a hot water dispenser to provide usable water for drinking, making coffee or tea, or brushing teeth. Growing up in Canada, Fa-líng had become accustomed to the refreshing feeling of knocking back ice cold water, and she no longer had a taste for the Chinese custom of sipping it hot.

  Her left arm ached as it always did when she was fatigued. Fortunately, her right hand took most of the instrument’s weight, but the dull pain lingered. Fa-ling pressed the cold water bottle against her left forearm before opening it, allowing it to chill away her discomfort.

  She then poured half the bottle of water down her throat and used a tissue to wipe the perspiration from her face. As she reached for her clarinet, a sound from the next room caught her ear. It seemed strangely foreign to her, until the five-note range told her it was a Chinese melody being played ever so softly, and that she, in fact, was now the foreigner. She put her ear nearer to the wall, trying to distinguish between the strings and the xylophone, the combination creating a falsely happy sound that was more profoundly sorrowful than a wail.

  The effect reminded her of her clarinet. On those occasions when her instrument sang in the key of her own dark memories, she was able to wring from it similar mournful sounds.

  In Fa-ling’s opinion, the cheerful dance of a Chinese melody within its restrictive scale made it by far the saddest music in the world. It suggested a mime with an exaggerated smile painted on his face, grinning maniacally as he struggled to break free of an invisible brick wall. Like the mime, the melody feigned happiness, but it fell short of communicating ‘joy’ each time it failed to climb over its five-note constraints and to reach for the elusive ‘sixth note’ that might lead it to the boundless octave which gave Western music its exuberance. In contrast, the repressive five-note scale of Chinese music was so filled with longing it could only be the tumescent result of three thousand years of wars, floods, pestilence and death.

  What, though, was the third instrument Fa-ling heard coming through the wall? She finally made it out. It was a male voice chanting softly in time to the music, repeating words she could not understand.

  Not wanting to disturb her neighbour, she considered putting away her instrument, but wasn’t yet satisfied with her practice session. She resumed, choosing only gentle melodies and controlling the volume of her clarinet at just above a musical whisper. She could no longer hear the music from next door, and she did not think her neighbour could hear her.

  When Fa-líng was a child caught in the first throes of learning to play the clarinet, the music had been with her always, its rhythm and flying melodies occupying her mind without invitation. Back then she had not been able to control it. It was like another of her languages, cutting neuro-p
athways into her brain. It was a compulsion she could neither summon nor deny. Every image, every thought and idea that entered her young mind was subject to the unrelenting ‘one-two-three-four’, the rise and fall of infinite sound.

  Now, though, she could turn the internal music on and off with the ease of a master. The steady count, the climb and the descent no longer dominated her thoughts as they once had. She was able to set them aside, indulge in normal pastimes, and pick them up again whenever she was alone.

  How could she explain this love of music and languages, this desire for a most intimate expression — she who kept so much to herself? The truth was she seldom shared it with the world. Daphne would sing and play her piano in front of anyone, revelling in her ability to entertain. Fa-ling, though, could only rarely be enticed to play her clarinet in public. The thing she loved most about her instrument, and the reason she had chosen it over the piano, was the fact that it was portable. This meant she could carry it away to her room, there to indulge in its beauty without the judgement of others.

  Such was her approach to many things. She loved to learn, but had little patience for being taught. She preferred to mull a subject over in her mind, turn it around and study it from every angle, until she ‘got’ the method and owned the solution.

  Finally the humid air in the hotel room began to cool, touching her skin. She laid the sheet music on the table and studied her reflection in the mirror. It had been awhile…

  She opened Michael’s shirt and ran her fingers over a nipple, amazed at how quickly it responded. She slid her other hand into her underwear and felt the rush. Michael’s face flashed into her mind, but was soon replaced by Randy’s flirting smile. It would be nice to be touched by someone who was so happy and confident. She fantasised that Randy was never clumsy, that his hands would know exactly how to tease her body. It was easy to imagine the most attractive qualities being possessed by a stranger. After all, it is only when we come to know each other that our human frailties get in the way.