Also by Judith Michael
Acts of Love A Tangled Web Pot of Gold Sleeping- Beauty A Ruling Passion Inheritance Private Affairs Possessions Deceptions
UDITh VllCHAEL
A
ertdin mile
Crown Publishers. Inc New Yo r k
In memory of Ddvid N. Schramm
Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me— The Carriage held but just Ourselves— And Immortality.
EMILY DICKINSON
Time arid Ete?'nity
Acknowledgments
¥e are grateful to Xiangdong Shi, Liang Feng, Xiaochun Luo, and Yaping Chen for their generosity in helping us with our research on contemporary China. Special thanks go to Diane Perushek, scholar and friend, who was unstinting in her help with everything from information on the Chinese State Security Bureau to renovated courtyard houses to cursing in Mandarin. To them goes credit for the accuracy of details in this book; any errors are our own.
Finally, we want to express our thanks to Janet McDonald for her superb copyediting.
A CERTAIN SMILE
Chapter
Miranda Graham and Yuan Li met in the Beijing airport when he appeared out of nowhere to rescue her from the shoving, elbowing crowds buffeting her on all sides. She was stuck in the taxi line just outside the terminal, pinned there while others thrust in front of her, indifferently pushing and knocking against her as she struggled to stay close to her suitcase. Assaulted by the high-pitched, incessant din, she shrank from the press of strange bodies, feeling helpless and suddenly afraid.
This can't be happening; I'm in one of the world's biggest airports; there's nothing to be afraid of; no one is going to hurt me.
But they don't like Americans and nobody smiles or gives me any space . . . they walk right into me, as if they want to knock me down . . .
She knew that was ridiculous, but she felt threatened and alone, and she had not moved an inch in ten minutes. I could be here all night, she thought, and never get to my hotel. I've got to do something; what do people do to get anywhere in this country?
And that was when Li appeared, standing out from the crowd, taller than those around him, coming close to put a hand on her shoulder. Alarmed, she jerked from his touch, but diere was no place to move, and so she shrank into herself, tucking her head away from him.
"Please, let me help you," he said, and she was so astonished to hear English, clear and perfect, that she straightened up, staring at him. He was smiling. "At this rate, you'll be here all night, and never get to your hotel." Her eyes widened in surprise, but he did not notice; he had hung her garment bag over his arm and was bending to pick up her suitcase. Then, holding her arm and using his body like a wedge, he plowed through the crowd. As it melted before him, he grinned at her,
like a small boy triumphant over obstructive adults. "You simply pretend they are not there. It is the only way to survive in China. And now," he said as they reached a taxi at the head of the line, "I will accompany you to the city, to make sure you reach your hotel."
"Oh, no. No." The thought of getting into a car with a foreigner was almost as terrifying as the crowds had been. "TTiank you for helping me, you've been very kind, but I can manage; I have the name of my hotel written in Chinese ... the driver can read it. . . I'll be just fine."
He nodded. "I will not push myself upon you if you insist, but I've found that it is always good to have help when you make a beginning in a strange place." The driver had stowed Miranda's suitcase and garment bag, and was gazing phlegmatically at the impatient customers waiting for the next taxi. "I am going into the city anyway," Li said. "It won't be off of my way to do this."
"Out of," she corrected automatically. "It won't be out of your way." Perhaps it was his small mistake in English that made her feel less intimidated, or perhaps the exhaustion of twenty-two hours of travel, but finally it just seemed simpler to give in and get in the taxi with him.
Sitting beside her, he took a tiny cellular phone from his pocket and spoke briefly into it in Chinese. Folding it with a sharp snap, he returned it to his pocket, and settled back beside Miranda.
Cringing again, she shrank into the comer of the back seat, pushing herself against the cracked leather, telling herself that she was a fool. She knew nothing about this man, not even his name. What if he and the taxi driver were a team? Maybe they did this all the time: kidnapped women traveling alone, and killed them if a ransom were not paid, or paid quickly enough. Probably he had just made arrangements on the telephone with some cohorts, lying in wait. Why hadn't she thought of that before?
"My name is Yuan Li," he said, and smiled, a warm, open smile that Miranda would swear had no ulterior motive. He held out his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you."
"Miranda Graham." She gave him a quick glance as her hand came up to meet his. He had a nice face, and his handshake was firm and brief. "Thank you again for rescuing me."
"I was pleased that I could help."
Involuntarily, her glance went to his pocket, where his cellular phone lay hidden.
"I called my driver," he said briefly, "to tell him to take my car home."
She nodded, embarrassed that she was so transparent, embarrassed that she felt so relieved, embarrassed at being so inexperienced.
But she was not a traveler. Until now, except for brief trips concentrating only on business, she had never turned a gaze of curiosity and adventure outward from her home: the leafy college town of Boulder, tucked into the Colorado foothills, where everything was familiar. Now, unbelievably, she was on the other side of the world, in a city where she knew no one, where she could not understand a word the people were saying. "Impossible," she murmured as the taxi passed an incomprehensible highway sign. "I won't be able to make sense of billboards or street names, stores, menus—"
"But in many places you can," Li said. "Hotel restaurants have menus in English. Street signs are spelled out in your alphabet, so you can find your way around with a map. And in areas popular with tourists, you will find store clerks and waiters who speak English, often quite well."
She flushed with shame. She was an American cidzen on a business trip; she should never let anyone know that she felt helpless. "I'll be all right," she said coolly.
"I'm sure you will." His smile seemed tolerant of her inexperience, and in an instant she disliked him. He had seemed pleasant, but everyone knew that foreigners, especially Asians, were usually untrustworthy. I don't need him, she thought, or anybody else in China. I don't have time for friends, anyway; I only have eight days here. I'll be busy every minute, and then I'll be gone. She watched lighted windows flash past in block after block of identical five-story concrete apartment buildings. Soon, the windows became larger, giving fleeting glimpses into apartments in newer buildings, until they gave way to skyscrapers, to a strange amalgam of modem office buildings towering over squat, darkened structures that looked liked relics of another time. And then, suddenly, in a narrow, crowded street, they stopped at her hotel.
It was named the Palace, hinting at fairytale romances and heroes and heroines, but in fact it was sleek, modem and anonymous, with a spacious lobby displaying the Wall Street Journal and the International Herald Tribune on tables and newspaper racks, a tuxedoed staif speaking impeccable English, a swimming pool and health club, two nightclubs and a restaurant. I could almost be in America, Miranda thought, and immediately felt better.
And better still when Li said goodbye in front of the hotel, and drove off in the taxi they had shared. He had been so casual that she had felt a moment of pique, but then she remembered that she was glad to be rid of him, and a moment later, deaUng with the bellhop, and registering, and making sure her luggage got upstairs, she forgot him completely.
<
br /> In her suite, she turned slowly in place, awed at its elegance. The draperies were of heavy silk doubly and triply embroidered in many-colored threads; the chairs and sofa in the sitting room were rosewood with silk cushions; a rosewood breakfront filled one wall, its shelves arranged with translucent porcelain vases and a celadon tea set. The wide bed was covered with a silk spread appliqued with lotus flowers, and on the lower shelves of the rosewood nightstands were slippers with padded soles and a strip of beautiful woven paper across the instep. Porcelain table lamps cast soft light on the patterned carpet, and the bed had been turned down for the night. Miranda took it all in, then, lightheaded from fatigue and new sensations, she pulled her nightgown from her suitcase and slipped into bed. It was eleven o'clock on a late September night in Beijing, China, and in five minutes she was asleep.
At eight o'clock the next morning. Yuan Li called. Miranda had been up since six-thirty; she had found the hotel swimming pool by using sign language to ask directions of maids, had found her way back to her room after a swim, and had showered and dressed. By the time the telephone rang she was feeling fairly triumphant. Still, there was a shock of pleasure and relief at hearing a familiar voice. "I thought there might be some way I could help you on your first day in Beijing," he said.
His voice was warm and easygoing, and she forgot her fears of the night before. It was odd to have him take an interest in her when so few men did, but in a place where everything was new she had no time to wonder about each strange thing that happened. "I was just going to find some breakfast," she said.
"I'll meet you downstairs."
He was waiting across the lobby when she stepped from the elevator, and for a moment she stayed out of sight, studying him. He was tall and very lean, his face dark, thin, somber, with sharp cheekbones, a thin nose, and heavy straight brows above narrow, almond-shaped eyes with the upper lids folded in. He wore a brown leather jacket over a white, open-necked shirt and dark corduroy pants, and his light brown hair was thick and unruly. That isn't Chinese hair, Miranda thought, comparing him to other men in the lobby, with their smooth, black hair, thin eyebrows, and smaller, almost snub, noses. And he's taller than they are. And more handsome.
He turned, and saw her, and smiled.
"You look rested," he said as they shook hands. "And less anxious."
"I swam this morning. That always helps. And the pool was empty. I like it when I'm alone."
They walked toward a restaurant off the lobby. "Do you swim every morning?"
"As often as I can."
"You said it always helps. What is it that it helps?"
"If I'm unhappy about something, or worried—" She bit her lip. He's a stranger, for heaven's sake. She looked through the double doors before them. "Is this an American restaurant?"
"Vaguely. And vaguely European."
Inside, Miranda gazed at the buffet that stretched the length of the room. "So much food."
"We're just learning how to feed westerners. When one is not sure what to do, one does everything. Here is our waitress. Would you like coffee or tea?"
"Coffee, please. Black."
At the buffet she ignored the section with Chinese dishes, slowing to stroll past pancakes, waffles, omelets, oatmeal, a pyramid of cereal boxes, smoked salmon, platters of cheeses and cold meats, croissants, muffins and coffee cakes, and served herself fruit and a blueberry muffin. The large room, with tall windows looking onto a busy street, was filled with western and Chinese businessmen, almost all of them speaking English, none of them paying the slightest attention to her or looking surprised because she was having breakfast with a Chinese man. Her self-consciousness faded, and with it some of her stiffness.
'To the success of your trip," Li said, raising his cup of tea in a toast. "I hope you enjoy Beijing and make many excellent friendships."
How formal he was! One moment he was casual, the next he spoke like a guide or a politician. Miranda contemplated him. "Your hair isn't Chinese," she blurted, then put her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right; I'm used to hearing about it You could call it American hair, fix)m my father."
"Your father was American? You were bom in America?"
"No, in China, in Chungdan. My father was an American soldier. There were thousands of them here, helping us build mihtary bases when the Japanese invaded. When my father returned to America, he said he would send for my mother as soon as he finished his military service and got a job, but—" His hand lifted and fell.
"He left his wife and son—?"
"I was not bom yet; my mother did not even know she v/as pregnant until a month after he left, and she had no address to write to him. It's an old story; there are probably thousands like it. I'm sure you've heard such things."
"Only in an opera. Madama Butterfly.'"
He shook his head. ".Japanese, not Chinese. And a tale of weakness: she kills herself in the end. My mother was stronger. She endured."
"V/hat did she do?"
"Moved in with her parents on a farm near Wuxi. She told everyone that my father had been killed fighting the Japanese. She worked on the farm and I grev/ up with her and my grandparents."
"And brothers and sisters? Your mother must have remairied."
"No. She already had a husband."
"But he was gone."
"Would that have been enough for you?"
"I have no idea," she said coldly.
"Weil, it was not enough for my mother," he said quickly, as if apologizing for being too personal. "She never remanied."
"Where is she now?"
"She died some years ago."
"Oh. I'm Sony."
"Yes, it was very sad. She was still young, only in her sixties, but she was tired after so many years of turmoil. There were few people I admired as much, or liked as much. She was one of my closest friends."
"But you had friends in school."
"A few. We had many secrets, and a clubhouse with a password, and even codes to talk in and write notes at school. We thought we were more clever than everyone, more ... how do you say it? Cold?"
She smiled. "Cool."
"Yes, isn't that odd? To be cool is to be very good. So why would you not say that to be cold is to be the best? English is a curious language. Well, we built a clubhouse, and I discovered that I was good with my hands, and happiest building and repairing things. Perhaps I needed to build up, after so much around us had come crashing down: the Japanese invasion, my vanished father, the civil war . . ."
The civil war. Yes, she had read about that. Now here was someone who had lived through it, and through all the history she knew only from books. Miranda leaned forward, her chin on her hand. How different he was from the people she knew! How different his whole life was! How far she was from home! "Where were you during the civil war?"
"On the farm. I was a child when the communists took power, and we had to stay there. My mother knew that we would not be allowed to leave China, nor would my father be able to come to us. And so I never met him and have nothing of him except for my hair and eyebrows."
"And your height."
"Well, yes, but there are other tall Chinese. We're not all tiny."
She flushed. "I didn't mean—"
"I know; I'm sorry. How could you know all about us when you have never been here? Won't you take some more food? You've eaten very little."
"You had less. Only tea."
"I ate at home."
"What did you eat?"
"Rice and stir-fried greens. Dragon Well tea. And some bean paste dumplings left over from dinner."
Rice and fried vegetables for breakfast, Miranda thought. And bean paste dumplings, whatever those were. And Dragon Well tea, whatever that was. She felt like Alice in Wonderland: nothing was entirely strange, but nothing was really normal, either. She wanted to ask questions about everything, but instead she said, "Your wife must be a good cook."
"My wife is dead. I am the good cook."
"Fo
r you and your children?"
"For me alone. My son and daughter are grown and in their own homes."
"Oh. You don't look ... How old are you?"
"Fifty-five. And now you must tell me about yourself. Why you are in China."
"Oh." Startled, she looked at her watch. "I'm here to work. I don't know how I could have forgotten—" She shoved back her chair. "I have to go; I have an appointment. Oh, now I'll be late; how could I have done this?"
"What time is your appointment?"
"Ten. But I have to get to the Haidian district and I don't know how long that will take."
"It's a large district. What is the address?"
Miranda took a letter from her purse. "The name at the top."
He read it aloud. "The Beijing Higher Fashion Garments Factory. I know that factory; it will take about forty minutes to get there. Traffic is always bad, and worst at this time of day. But that still leaves a little time for more coffee."
"No, I want to be early. I hate being late; people get upset. Do you
del
think this address is enough? Or should I tell the taxi driver something else?"
"It should be enough, but I'll write the cross street, and the name of the company, as well." Next to the English, he swiftly wrote a string of Chinese characters. "Where will you go after your meeting?"
"I have another meeting at three, but in between I'd like to see some shops. My guidebook says there are good ones in ... Wangfujing?"
"It's pronounced Wong-fu-jing," he said. "Yes, there are many areas for shopping, but that is a good place to start, and it is right here; the Palace Hotel is in the center of it. But you should look at Xidan, too; slightly lower prices and larger stores." He wrote it in English and Chinese. "She-don. Whenever you see an X, that's how you pronounce it."
"How peculiar. Why not just write it that way?"
"Why don't you write 'thought' and 'rough' the way they sound?"
Startled, Miranda said, "I don't know. I never think about it."
"Well, we didn't invent this spelling; an Englishman did. And why he did it this way, perhaps the devil knows, but no one else, and we're stuck with it, or, rather, foreigners are. Come; let us find you a taxi."
A Certain Smile Page 1
