The Red Queen

by Margaret Drabble

  Her jewellery is not made of real gold. She would not travel with articles of real gold, even if she had any. The pieces that she wears are what shops used to call ‘costume jewellery’, and now call ‘travel jewellery’. The pieces are made of what the police call ‘yellow metal’. But the metal shines brightly. It glitters. She glitters.

  Her guardian sylphs and spirits watch benignly. They approve of her appearance. They frequently urge her to pay more attention to her toilette. They deplore her intermittent moods of negligence and indifference. She may be an academic, but she is also a woman, as they often attempt to remind her, in their old-fashioned way. This anonymous and well-lit hotel room has been conducive to neatness and good grooming. At one point they had thought of urging her to book an appointment with the hotel hairdresser, but they had relented. In a few years, as they will be sure to advise her, she will be obliged to alter her hairstyle to one of greater gravitas. But, for the moment, this informal, beribboned mode will suffice. They circle round her, checking her from all angles, inspecting her hemline and her shoulder pads and her neckline, and they decide that she will do. She is ready to descend. They usher her out, towards the lift, and gaze after her as she goes to join the throng. Mong Joon, they know, will take over the task of surveillance on the floors below.

  The banqueting hall is laid with many tables. At one end of the room there is a platform. There will be speeches and photographs. Dr Halliwell launches herself bravely upon the social sea, and floats from shoal to shoal. She chatters and laughs and utters compliments; she peers at labels and congratulates herself on the fact that during these five days she has correctly registered and recalled the names of a fair proportion of her colleagues. Most of them, modestly, are still wearing their labels. Most of these people are polite and unassuming. She is still wearing her own label, pinned high at a jaunty angle on her left shoulder.

  Dr Barbara Halliwell does her tour of the stateroom floor, closely watched by the supervisory gaze of Mong Joon, who, towards the end of her perambulation, approaches her, ostensibly to steer her towards her table, but also to utter what she takes to be a remonstrance. It will be his last chance to control her: his official supervision of her ends with this banquet, for tomorrow she moves, for her last day, to the protection of the pharmaceutical company. But she somehow knows he will pop up again at the airport, just to make sure she leaves the country on time and as arranged.

  ‘You have been very busy during your visit,’ says Mong Joon. ‘I hear that you went two days ago to Suwon with two gentlemen?’ He does not quite wag his finger at her, but his intonation implies that he might well have done so.

  ‘Yes, indeed I did,’ she says, primly. ‘It was a very interesting outing.’

  She can see that a smile is hovering somewhere behind his smoothly dimpled, diplomatic features. She hopes to God he has not heard about the fiasco with the royal bidet and the emergency alarum. If so, she blames that pretty Buddhist in her blue jeans and lemon-yellow top. She is probably Mong Joon’s sister or his cousin or his aunt.

  ‘This is your table,’ he says, and he firmly pulls out her chair. There, indeed, is her place, and her name card. She sits herself down, obediently.

  As the meal and the speeches proceed, she manages to locate her brand-new three-day lover. He is sitting two tables away from her, between the president of the foundation and a handsome Korean woman wearing a stylish emerald-green, gold-trimmed, short-cut satin jacket and a tight long skirt. Maybe she is the president’s wife? Jan seems to be paying her a great deal of attention. He is inclining his head towards her, and listening to her with an attitude of studied concentration. Jan is too far away from Babs for Babs to be able to read his features. She is amused to find that she experiences a mixture of jealousy and possessiveness, as she watches him from afar. She knows that she has no right to either of these emotions. And they do not go very deep, which is why she is able to find them so pleasurable. For she is certain that he cannot be talking to the president’s wife about Chinese babies. Well, almost certain. Surely the Chinese babies are a bedtime secret that he shares with her alone?

  She takes her cue from Jan van Jost, and applies herself to the entertainment of the neighbour sitting on her left, who proves to be the chair of a committee on medical ethics in Kyoto. He asks her if she has been to Japan, and she says no. She asks him if he has been to London, and he says that he has. As they engage in shallow tourist talk, her mind wanders round the room, overhearing words from other people’s conversations as they mingle in the common air. Has the conference been a success, she wonders? Has it achieved anything? Will it have improved the quality or provision or distribution of useful medication? Will it have enabled exciting exchanges of ideas to take place? Will it have enhanced the careers of any of its delegates, or brought more trade or higher status to its pharmaceutical sponsors? Will the new frontiers of health have been shifted to any perceptible or useful degree by the formal presentation of academic papers, by the generous press coverage, by the informal international gatherings in the hotel bar, by the eccentric group outing to the Expo, or by this grand assembly of sober-suited gentlemen and gaily clad ladies? Or has the whole thing simply been an elaborate corporate tax break?

  There is a lot of soft money floating around in the ethically dubious sea of medical and pharmaceutical research, and some of it has drifted in the direction of the clever and well-connected Dr Barbara Halliwell. She has had a lucky year. Next year, she will have to work harder, and teach longer hours. Dr Barbara Halliwell thinks, briefly, of Dr Oo and his underfunded stroke patients. She wonders if he got her message about meeting for breakfast in the coffee shop.

  For the first hour or so of the banquet, she savours the agreeable suspense and anticipation of waiting for her amorous assignation in Suite 1712. But eventually she begins to grow restless, and she is relieved when the formal proceedings seem to be drawing to an end. Thanks are given; toasts are drunk; applause is rendered. It is during one of the bouts of applause that she notes that Jan van Jost is rising to his feet and making his farewells. He has had enough. He is off to his bed. Is he abandoning her? What shall she do? She is wondering whether he intends that she should follow him, and, if so, how soon she may discreetly do so, when she sees that he is not leaving the room directly, but making his way towards her table. Is he about to cancel their last night together? Is he ill, or exhausted, or disaffected? It will break her heart if he cancels. She half rises, in anticipation of some rebuff. But no, a rebuff is not his intention. He has come not to reject her, but to claim her. He bends towards her, whispers, ‘Please, let us go now.’ He offers his arm, to help her to her feet. She rises, smiles her excuses vaguely round and about her table, and follows him, as he makes for the exit.

  Do many spies turn to watch them as they leave the Grand Saloon together? Is their departure noted? They do not look back to see, but walk onwards, through the high portals, and into the wide and richly carpeted foyer of the mezzanine floor. They make their way towards the lift, and Jan van Jost presses the button to ascend. In the lift, he presses the button for Executive Floor 17. He looks at her now, and she can see that his world-weary face is suffused with a strange glitter. His eyes have a bright and visionary look, as though he has seen something strange. She almost asks him if he is feeling all right, but, as she hesitates, he speaks first.

  ‘I had to get out of there,’ he says. ‘Suddenly, I could not breathe in there. I am sorry. To make you leave like this.’

  Is he speaking literally or figuratively about his breathing problem? She cannot tell. Quickly, she assures him that she, too, had had quite enough of the banquet, and she watches, a little anxiously, as he fumbles with his electronic key. Has he been drinking? She thinks not. Unlike Peter Halliwell and Robert Treborough and others she has known, he is not, she thinks, a hard-drinking man. The green eye blinks, and they enter Suite 1712, which welcomes them as though it had been expecting them. Babs sinks on to the settee, in a casually premedit
ated manner, and kicks off her high party heels, to show that she is at home. He sits by her, and takes her hand in his, and compels her to turn her head towards him, to meet his gaze. They look at one another, and, once more, he removes her glasses, and kisses her. It is an attentive but not an impassioned kiss. Then he says:

  ‘Last night, you left a pair of your glasses here. I have kept them safely for you. They are on the bedside table, where you left them. You must remember to take them, this time, because tomorrow morning I go home with all my problems to my wife in Barcelona. You must take all your possessions with you, tonight.’

  She promises him that she will check carefully before she leaves. She will leave no incriminating evidence.

  She has no idea what will happen, on this last evening. His mood and his manner are strange. She does not know him well enough to guess what they might signify. What does he want of her? Had he been serious in his request for her advice? For her ‘wise and beautiful’ advice? Or does he want a third night in bed with her? Or both? She finds that she does not mind much what he wants. It is enough that he wants to be with her, for whatever reason. She finds his company extraordinarily delightful, and she would like to be with him for ever, during this last night.

  He nurses her hand for a few moments, then kisses it before he relinquishes it.

  ‘I have a gift for you,’ he says. ‘It is a small gift, but I did purchase it for you myself. I would not like you to think that it was given to me in China, and that I am passing it on to you in a second-hand manner. I purchased it expressly for you here this afternoon. It is a proper gift for a scholar to give a scholar. I will give it to you now, and you must put it in a safe place so that you do not forget it.’

  The gift is standing on top of the fax machine on the executive desk by the curtained window. He goes to get it for her, and he presents it to her. It is about eight inches high, and it is square, and it is elaborately wrapped in many layers. Does he want her to open it now? He does. She has always hated opening presents in front of their donors, but he is so calm and confident about his gift that she embarks upon its unveiling with an almost equal confidence. She detaches the envelope containing a card with her name upon it, lays it to one side, unties the first bow of string, removes the outer bag of stiff brown paper, then makes her way through various differently and subtly coloured and textured layers of what he assures her is handmade mulberry paper. Finally, she comes to the object itself. It is a little lacquered cabinet, with many tiny drawers. Its every surface is covered with a different pattern in different colours. It is exquisitely made. Is it a priceless antique? She hopes and fears that it is. ‘Open the drawers,’ he urges her, and she opens them, one after the other. The drawers are also lined with coloured paper, each in a different and intricate pattern, and they are full of tiny scholarly implements – coloured pencils, brushes, charcoals, miniature scrolls of paper tied with ribbon, a magnifying eyeglass, a paper knife, a little ruler, a bookmark made of embroidered silk. It is a diminutive treasure house. She is delighted with it.

  ‘It is the most beautiful present I have ever received in my entire life!’ she says, sincerely. She knows that she has said this before, to others, on several occasions, but this time, each time, she has been sincere.

  He is pleased with her pleasure. But he tells her that she must also admire the card that he bought to go with it.

  She opens the large dark red envelope, which she had discarded in the excitement of opening the many wrappings. Her name is written upon it in large letters and in golden ink. Inside is a card showing a reproduction of an eighteenth-century Korean paper screen, with a still life displaying just such a little box of drawers as she now possesses. The box is accompanied by other boxes, by a vase of peonies and an inkwell and a bowl of fruit and a peacock feather. But what charms them both the most is the depiction of a pair of tortoiseshell-framed glasses which lies open, in the middle of the composition, upon an open book of han’gŭl script. ‘You see?’ says Jan. Babs sees. She puts her own glasses back on again to inspect them more closely.

  ‘How can I thank you?’ she says.

  ‘I am so glad you like it,’ he says. ‘The name of this kind of composition in this painting is called chae’kori. It means ‘screens-with-books’. It is a characteristic motif of the Chosŏn period. You see, I, too, have learned something about this country. Not as much as you, but a little. The gift box is my casket of lacquer. As you know, I am fond of the casket theme. This casket does not have many secrets in it, but what it holds, it is all for you. You may look more carefully, when you are home in England.’

  In the card, he has written: ‘For Athena the wise and beautiful, in gratitude.’ She finds this an acceptable message, though she is not quite sure in what way he considers that she has deserved or is about to deserve his gratitude. As she studies it, she senses that he is about to initiate a new phase of the encounter. And she is right. His homage duly paid and his tribute accepted, he now wishes to return to the subject of his crazy wife.

  He has not bought his wife a doll’s study, or a paper screen, or a jade duck, or an amethyst pendant, but he has, as he now tells Babs, put a deposit on a Chinese baby. This has caused him, as he now reveals, a deep disquiet. He cannot believe that he has committed such a gross, such a reckless, such an inappropriate act. How can he have become a trader in human flesh? What shall he do? Shall he forfeit his deposit, or cancel his transaction? ‘I have entered into the territory of dangerous exchanges,’ he says, ‘on which so much has been written. Both by your friends, and by mine. I have offered money for what money cannot and should not buy. This is not a hypothesis in a book. I have done it in the real world. I do not know what to do. I do not know what I have done.’

  He is on his feet now, and is pacing up and down, in a manner that reminds her of her father, who was given to pacing the drawing room overlooking the orchard in Orpington when contemplating hard choices or sick patients. Maybe she loves Jan because he resembles her father. Her father is a scrupulous and well-mannered medical man, a family doctor of the old school.

  She tells Jan that, if he is uneasy, he need do nothing. He has made no commitment, surely? Surely it takes many months to arrange for such an adoption? Surely there are many legal obstacles to be raised, in both countries? If he does nothing, the arrangement will surely lapse? He’ll have lost a thousand dollars, but that won’t matter much, will it?

  ‘There is already paperwork,’ he says. ‘And maybe not so much time.’

  ‘May I see the paperwork?’ she asks, ignoring for the moment the second half of his statement. She knows that he wants her to see the paperwork. He had introduced her, two nights ago, to the photographs, and now he wants her to see the paperwork.

  He repeats the formula of their first evening.

  ‘If you do not mind,’ he says, ‘I think we could talk about this better in bed. It would be easier to talk in bed. Also, I am very tired. I have had a long and tiring day, and tomorrow I have an early start and a long flight. Would you mind lying beside me in bed, just this once more? It is already too late to have an early night, but we could lie comfortably together.’

  Of course she does not mind. Perhaps he is telling her that he is proposing bed rest, rather than sexual intercourse? If so, she does not mind that either. She does not mind what he suggests, provided that it does not exclude her. Maybe a night without sexual intercourse suggests a greater intimacy than the sexual act itself could offer?

  So, once more, she finds herself sitting by his side, under the crisp king-sized sheets, in her Pagoda Hotel bathrobe, propped up against a heap of pillows, with a dossier of papers spread upon her knees, and a tumbler of J&B by her side. He is drinking a glass of water, but he has urged her to accept the hospitality of his whisky. ‘I am a tired old man,’ he says, ‘but you are young, and I can tell that you have an excellent constitution. It would please me if you would drink on my behalf a glass of hotel whisky.’

  Some of the papers are in
English, and some are in Chinese. It is true that he appears to have paid a deposit on a baby, for here is a receipt for a registration fee of $1,000. Clipped to the corner of one of the documents is a small passport-sized photograph of a little girl with large eyes and black hair. Babs Halliwell stares at her.

  ‘Is this the child?’ she asks. It is now all a little too real for comfort. ‘Did you actually see her? Is this an actual child?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Jan. ‘I saw her. And that is her name. Her name is Chen Jianyi. She is about eighteen months old. Her date of birth is notional, but they tell me she will soon be two years old. She was discovered in a bus station. She had been brought from the countryside, they tell me. She had been abandoned, at the bus station. In a plastic bag.’

  ‘I think you feel committed to this child,’ says Babs, in her role as wise woman. ‘But you know that there is no real commitment. There are so many other things to consider. As you know. Such an adoption is not to be undertaken lightly.’

  He sighs, very heavily.

  ‘There is a commitment,’ he says, after a long pause. ‘There is a commitment to my wife. And now there is also a commitment to this child.’

  ‘But you do not know this child,’ says Babs. ‘You saw her once, at a distance, in an orphanage. She was one of many. That is not a commitment.’

  ‘The child looked at me,’ says Jan van Jost.

  This is an extraordinary thing for a man to say. It silences Babs. She does not want to say anything foolish. It is very important not to be foolish now.

  ‘She looked at me,’ repeats Jan van Jost. ‘She looked at me, and she held my gaze. Look at me, Barbara.’

  Her ridiculous and unfashionable name rolls strangely and solemnly from his lips. She looks at him. Their eyes interlock. He looks into her brain. He takes her head in his hands, and gazes into her. She is the first to break contact and to look away.

  ‘You see,’ he says. ‘It is not easy.’