"Oh, I imagine it would take three or four gusts, at least."
She shot him a look. "I wasn't making fun of it. Can we get out for a minute?"
"Of course." They stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the building, and Miranda laid her hand along the scaffolding. "It's just that I'm so used to steel—"
"Father!" Li turned and saw his son striding toward him. "You told me you wouldn't be here until later."
"We just stopped by for a minute," Li said in Chinese, then, in English, he introduced him to Miranda, "My son. Yuan Sheng. Miranda Graham." The two of them shook hands, Miranda smiling tentatively, Sheng stone-faced, and Li knew that Sheng was waiting for an explanation. "Excuse me," he said to Miranda, then spoke in Chinese to Sheng. "We're on our way to the market; would you care to join us?"
"No. Who is she?"
"A designer from New York." That was not exactly true, but it was simpler than trying to explain Boulder Colorado. "She's working with some garment manufacturers and I'm showing her Beijing; it's her first visit here. Why don't you join us?"
"I have too much work to do to loll about markets in the middle of the day. Is she the reason you're being followed?"
Li stared at him. "What?"
"Yes, I thought you hadn't noticed. Usually you can spot them as well as any of us; why haven't you seen it?" He looked challengingly at Li, as if accusing him of getting soft ... or, perhaps, too absorbed in a woman to see what was happening to him. But why should I be alert?
Li wondered. I have not been followed in years. Why would I be now? Unless, Miranda is the one who— No, there is nothing in her that would interest the government.
"How do you know she's really a designer?" Sheng demanded. "What do you know about her?"
"Enough to believe she is a designer. I don't believe anyone is following either one of us. You're probably mistaken."
"I know what I saw."
"Then it's someone else's mistake," Li said impatiently. "I'll find out. Probably some minor bureaucrat got me mixed up with someone else."
"How will you find out?"
"I'll find out; I know some people—" He stopped. "Why don't you find out? Your friend Pan Chao works at the State Security Bureau; why don't you ask him?"
"I never ask him about his work. Where is she staying?"
"At the Palace. Why?"
"I just wondered. Stay away from her, father; no one was following you before she came along." He turned to Miranda. "Enjoy your visit," he said curtly, in English, and strode oif.
Li gave a small shrug, annoyed by his son's shortness. But he was more shaken than he had revealed to Sheng. Why would he be under surveillance? If he really was. ... He scanned the opposite side of the street but saw no one unusual. That meant nothing; skillful operatives blended in with any crowd; they could blend into an empty room, if they really were good.
But, Sheng could be wrong. Moody, unpredictable, prone to tantrums even as a grown man, he exaggerated dangers, partly because he liked the thrill of living with them. Li knew his son was involved in illegal businesses and he knew what some of them were. If Sheng thought his father was being followed, perhaps he was imagining it from the fear that someone might be watching Li to find out more about Sheng. Convoluted, Li thought, but in China, we live with such complicated thinking.
But I'm sure it's his imagination. It is not a particularly odd fantasy, in China, where such things go on all the time.
But still, I'll keep an eye out
"I apologize for my son's rudeness," he said to Miranda, "and for my own, in leaving you out of the conversation. He had something to say to me—"
"It's all right," Miranda said. "He's in his own country; he can speak his own language."
Li watched her consider questions about Sheng, then put them aside. She has better manners than my son, he thought. But then Sheng's voice echoed in his memory. How do you know she's really a designer? No one was following you before she came along.
And how much do I really know about her? Li thought. She talked about her children, her husband, a little bit about her work. Not so much, really. If even that much was true.
In the car, he said, "I don't think you told me the name of the company you work for."
She was surprised at the change in subject, but once again she was too polite—or too clever?—to say anything. "Talia," she said. "It's a small house, but we're growing very fast. Talia Greenhouse is the owner, and her husband is the treasurer. If you watch fashion shows on CNN, you'd know Talia. Of course we've only been part of group shows of small companies, but—"
"I do know it. The suit you're wearing is a Talia."
"Was that a lucky guess?"
"It was the cut of the jacket."
Miranda contemplated him. "Do you always notice details like that?"
"Construction engineers always notice details," he said, making light of it. "And you've worked for Talia... how long?"
"Almost ten years."
"But not as a designer the whole time?"
"No. Didn't I tell you this? I was a secretary first, and then they sent me to school for a year." She looked at him closely. "Is something wrong?"
"No." He said it swiftly. Because nothing was. Why would he doubt her? She was open and honest; there was nothing devious in her face or her voice. He was beginning to think like Sheng and it made him ashamed. "My son asked about you," he said, "and I realized I didn't know your company."
She let it go even though Li could see that she was still puzzled. 'Tell me about your son."
"Sheng and I are not close, but we work together and I hope someday he will run the company himself."
"Doesn't he want to?"
"Very much, but it will take time for him to learn everything, especially how to behave with clients and foreign investors. He's not ready for the responsibihty that goes with someone being—^how do you say it?—groomed for the job. Right now, he and two friends—or perhaps accomplices—^have their fingers in too many pots for him to give our
del
company his full attention. The three of them own two nightclubs, and some other businesses. So I have no idea if he ever will settle down in my company, but right now he does his work adequately and it keeps us close—in proximity, that is—and that should help us if he decides he would like to be my friend."
"Is he married?"
"Yes, and he has a son. His wife is the daughter of a government official and she and her father are part-owners of a company that makes copies of Benetton clothing. I do not think Sheng is involved in that."
"That's illegal. A company's line of clothing is copyrighted. And China has signed the International Copyright Agreement."
"But as it happens, illegality is a loose term in China."
"I don't understand. If your government signed the agreement, either it's illegal or it isn't."
He shrugged. "It is illegal except when it makes money. Benetton is only one of hundreds. Tearing off is a thriving business in China."
"Ripping off. Why doesn't the government stop it?"
"Because the government is involved in it; because people in the government, like others outside the government, make money at it. Those of us who don't like it look the other way."
"That's crazy. The government owns businesses that are illegal?"
"Not exactly the government. People in it. Mostly the sons and daughters of high government officials. That will change someday; already they are stopping the military from owning factories and smuggling goods." He saw her look and sighed. "It is a long story."
There was a pause. "You said you had two children. A son and daughter."
"Yes, I have a daughter, Shuiying. Her life is not like mine, but still, we are better friends than Sheng and I. Sheng has much growing up to do. We would have to work at becoming friends and it is not clear that he wants that."
"Perhaps he doesn't know how."
"And you think I can teach him?"
"I think we never stop te
aching our children; we just teach them different things in different ways as they grow up, try to make suggestions without their realizing we're doing it. My friends talk about how much easier life will be when their children leave home, but from what I can tell children never leave home. I mean, they're always inside us and I can't imagine ever not worrying about Adam and Lisa being well and happy and not in danger, or thinking they need my advice."
There was a silence. "Yes, you are very wise," Li murmured. "How-
ever much we would like to peel them off from us, we cannot do it. Well, now let us pay attention to where we are. You should be seeing the city and I should be telling you about it."
Together they watched Beijing unfold as they drove down wide avenues and narrow alleys, turning comers from conmiercial streets to residential ones, then to chaotic jumbles of both. Twice Li looked through the rear window of the car, but he could not pick out anyone in the dense traffic who might be following them. No one, he thought. There's no one. Sheng was imagining it. I already decided that.
He saw Miranda looking to right and left and knew that what caught her attention was something he took for granted these days: everywhere, up and down the streets and alleys, dozens of yellow construction cranes stood out against the sky, swinging about like prehistoric monsters shining through the haze of polluted air. "As if a whole new city is going up," Miranda said wonderingly. "But what was there before the skyscrapers? They must be tearing down whole blocks of... what?"
''Hutongs. Streets—more like alleys, really—lined with small shops and huts where the poor lived for centuries. Now there is no place for them."
"The hutongs or the poor?"
"Both. The hutongs are demolished and the poor are pushed back, to the edges of the city. Exactly as it is in America." He saw Miranda begin to say something, then stop. "What?" he asked.
She gave a small laugh. "I was about to defend America. But the poor aren't welcome anywhere, I guess; we'd rather make them invisible and go on believing that we're prosperous and successful."
"But you are, you and your family: prosperous and successful."
"Oh, no, we've never been prosperous."
"No? What have you been, then?"
"Oh, sort of on the edge of being poor. Not starving, but always having to watch every penny."
"And you call that being poor."
"Compared to—" She stopped. "Why are you smihng?"
"Because only a spoiled child defines poor as something compared to something else. People who are truly poor know that it is an absolute. You are starving, and you have no pennies to watch."
''Spoiled childr
"No, no, I did not mean that you are one. America is the spoiled child. Too much money, too much wealth, too many things. Americans have no idea what true poverty is." He waited, but she said nothing. "It has nothing to do with you. I did not mean to insult you."
"There's no superiority in being poor," she said coldly. "You're not better than we are, less spoiled, more grown up, just because you've known worse poverty. We may define it differently, but that doesn't mean we don't have problems, too."
"You're right. I apologize. Tell me what it means to you to be on the edge of being poor." She was silent. "Please. I want to understand."
"It means you don't have any savings," she said flatly, "and you worry about what would happ)en if you got sick and couldn't work. It means you can buy necessities, but all around you, on television and in stores, are gadgets and art and jewelry and designer clothes and expensive cars, and they could all be on the moon as far as you're concerned. We have one car with about eighty thousand miles on it and our house is small and needs a new roof—why do you keep looking out the back window?"
He swung around. "I'm sorry. I was looking for something, but it is not there. Please forgive me. Will you tell me about your house?"
"It's really very ordinary. It's made of cedar siding that's weathered to gray, and everything is on one floor: one big living and dining room, three small bedrooms, a family room, a sunroom that Jeff and my father built, a two-car garage with a workshop at the back and Adam's basketball net—"
"Your son."
"Yes."
"Thirteen years old."
"Yes, what a good memory you have. His basketball net is over the garage door. We have a front porch with a swing that needs painting and wicker chairs and tables, and they need painting, too. The front yard is all wild grasses and flowers and huge old trees, with a stream running through it and an old bridge that you cross to get from the street to the brick front walk that goes up to the house. We have a real yard in back, where Lisa and I—"
"Your daughter."
"Yes, fourteen years old. Lisa and I grow flowers and vegetables along the fence, and their friends come over for croquet and badminton and lemonade. And there's a small kiln in the garage for Lisa's ceramics; she's very good; she's won national prizes for two of her pieces."
"And where do you work?"
"In the sunroom. I put my computer in one comer, and a copier and a couch and my files, and a—"
"What is in the files?"
"Sketches, yam and fabric samples, buttons, trimmings, magazine
clippings, photos from designers' shows. I put cork squares on the wall so I can pin up the sketches I'm working on."
"And a drawing table?"
"No, I like to curl up on the couch when I'm sketching. I scan the sketches into my computer to finish them. And I have a sewing table; I make a lot of our clothes."
"It sounds like a very nice house," Li said, after a moment. "Not what I would call ordinary."
"Oh, it is. There are millions like it, all over America." There was a pause. "It's hardly a mansion," she flung at him. There was another pause, and then their eyes met and they laughed, and Li felt a rush of affection because her laugh showed that she understood that, to most people in the world, her house would be a mansion, and not ordinary at all, although, until now, she probably had never thought of it that way.
"Where do you live?" Miranda asked.
"In an old courtyard house from the last century. I will show you; we can go there—" Her face changed, as it had before, surprise verging on suspicion, and, as before, Li backed off. "We're almost at the market; just a few minutes."
"Can we walk?" she asked. "I can see more that way."
"A good idea." He spoke to the driver, and when he and Miranda stood on the sidewalk, he bent to tie his shoe, making a quick survey of the street as he did so. Half a block away, a car stopped and a man got out and turned in their direction. Li noted his dark suit and blue shirt with a red and blue tie, then stood up and turned to Miranda. "I told the driver to pick us up in an hour and a half, which should get you to your meeting in good time. Is that all right?"
"Yes. Thank you." She looked in the direction he had looked, and in a moment turned back, to observe the street before them. They were on a narrow, crumbling sidewalk running along a solid wall of identical five-story apartment buildings that stretched block after block into the distant haze, each apartment with an open balcony piled high with green vegetables. On their other side was a busy four-lane street. In the curbside lane, old men and women pulling loaded handcarts looked up to observe Miranda, their gaze lingering as they moved past. Li saw her face tense, then relax as she recognized that there was no animosity in their eyes, only curiosity, and soon she was returning their looks steadily, even smiling, and once, when she said a clear "M hao" — "Good day"—she was given a smile in return.
"It's a few blocks this way," he said, and they began to walk.
In spite of the worry he could not banish, he was happy, feeling like an explorer in his own city. But soon he became uncomfortable, aware
of the filthy, littered sidewalks, the choking exhaust fumes and strident din of traffic, the dingy buildings, the shabbiness of the old people and their dragging steps.
He wanted Miranda not to see all of that; he wanted her to feel the vitality of Beijin
g, the surging energy evidenced by construction cranes and young people in jeans and Nike running shoes; professionals in sleek Italian business suits carrying cellular phones and shiny leather briefcases filled with the commerce of the world; sophisticated department stores and international boutiques. Instead she was eyeing the garbage along the curbing. He tightened inside. "This is an old part of town. You've seen how different things are in the modem neighbor—"
"Oh, look," Miranda said. They had come to a tiny clearing between apartment buildings. In the hard-packed dirt, old men in baggy trousers and faded jackets were hanging covered birdcages on wire hooks dangling from the branches of scrawny trees. When the men pulled off the covers, the birds, tiny canaries and parakeets, began to sing. They sang and sang, joyful with the freedom of sunlight, hopping from perch to floor to swinging perch while the old men sat on worn tree smmps, gossiping.
Li smiled. "They do this every day. Their apartments are cramped and dark, and they bring their birds here for fresh air. Sometimes they swing the cages in wide circles; they call that exercising the birds. But the main thing is to be in the fresh air."
"How lovely. They all get to escape."
"Not the birds," Li said, amused.
"Oh, but they do; they escape the bigger cages, the ones the men live in. Look at them, how happy they are, the men and the birds, all sharing their freedom. Don't you think so? I mean, we all have more than one cage, don't we, and if we can escape from one ..." Her voice faltered beneath his intense gaze. "Of course I don't know anything about it, not in China, anyway."
"What are your cages?" Li asked.
"Oh, it was just an idea, very foolish, I'm afraid. These are the first pets I've seen; where are the dogs and cats?"
"The cats remain inside, and there are no dogs. Or very few. The fee for a license is too high for most people."
"Why? What's wrong with dogs?"
"They're messy; people don't clean up after them, they take needed resources.... The city is really better off without them."
She stared at him. "Your government decides it doesn't like dogs
messing up the sidewalk, so it makes it impossible for people to own them?"
"Yes. Is this an important issue?"
A Certain Smile Page 5
