by Gene Wolfe
“I want to make sure it’s what I’m looking for first.” He unfolded part of the map, which was thick and folded with great complexity.
“There’s the Overwood area.” She pointed. “Crystal Gorge, the Metal Forest, and so forth.”
He nodded, bending over the map.
“That’s twenty-nine ninety-eight, plus tax.”
There were no paths, no roads, no buildings that showed on the map. He got out his wallet, a twenty, a ten, and a five.
The clerk glanced at them and shook her head. “That isn’t real money. Not here, anyway. Where are you from?”
He said, “What do you mean? I just bought a doll down the street.” Then he recalled that he had written a check for the doll.
The clerk walked hurriedly to her cash register and pressed a button. “Mrs. Peters, I think you’d better get in here.”
He began to refold the map. In a moment he would have lost it forever.
“Wait a minute!” the clerk shrieked at him. “Hey!”
He was out the door and sprinting down the street. He had not thought she would chase him, but she did, knees pumping, one black high-heeled shoe in each hand, flying along with her skirt at her thighs. “Stop him!”
A woman tried to trip him with her umbrella; he staggered but ran on. A big, rough-looking man shouted, “Go it, Neddy!” Horns blew as a mounted policeman spurred his skittish horse through traffic.
An alley gapped ahead; on TV, fleeing criminals always ran down alleys; he was well down this one before it occurred to him that they were probably pretty familiar already with the alleys they chose to run down.
This one became narrower and stranger with each stride he took, turning and turning again, as though it would never reach another street.
The clatter of hooves behind him sounded like a cavalry charge in a movie. He heard their rhythm break as the horse jumped the same overturned garbage can he himself had leaped only a moment before, then the animal’s awful scream, and a sickening thud as its steel shoes slipped on the icy bricks.
He ran on, the map flapping in one hand, the doll thumping his heaving chest with each gasp for breath. A witch’s black cat hissed him from the summit of a ramshackle board fence, and a Chinese lounging upon an old divan and smoking what appeared to be an opium pipe smiled benignly.
He turned a corner and confronted a dead end.
“You want leave?” the Chinese asked.
He looked over his shoulder. “Yes. I—got—get—out—ahere.”
The Chinese rose, smoothing a drooping mustache. “Okay! You come.”
A slanting door opened into a cellar. When the Chinese had shut it behind them, it was pitch dark save for the tiny crimson glow from the bowl of the pipe.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Now noplace,” the Chinese told him. “In dark, who say?”
The sweet smoke of the pipe battled the mildewed air. He could imagine it curling around him like a white snake, a pale Chinese dragon. He tried to refold the map, conscious that he was doing it wrong; after a moment he shoved the clumsy packet into a side pocket.
“Paradise maybe. Hell maybe. Who say?”
He said, “I could, if I had a match.”
The Chinese chuckled like the rattling of nine ivory balls in the mouths of nine ivory lions, and he felt a hard square box pushed into his hand. “There match. Strike. You say.”
He had shaken his head before he realized the Chinese could not see him. “I might start a fire.”
“Then Hell. Strike match.”
“No,” he said.
“I strike,” the Chinese told him. There was a dry rasp and a flare of light. They were standing near a pile of mattresses. Barrels, bins, bags, boxes, and tall stacks of books crammed the cellar. There were floor joists an inch or less above his head. “Paradise? Hell?” the Chinese asked. “Now you say.”
“Paradise.”
“Ah! You wise! Come upstair, drink tea. Police man look outside, no find.”
He followed the Chinese up a flight of steep steps, through a hatch in the floor above, and into a cluttered shop. Scarlet paper lanterns daubed with black Chinese characters dangled from the ceiling, and long scrolls hung on nails in the walls showed tigers as sinuous as serpents.
“You want sell? Sheng buy. You want buy, Sheng sell,” the Chinese told him. “Not tea. Tea for nothing, make friend.”
Again a match flared, and gas blossomed violet above an iron ring in a tiny room behind a bead curtain.
“You’ve made a friend already,” he said.
“What you want, come Sheng. Good! You want, Sheng got. No got, Sheng get. Sit down?”
He sat in a flimsy bamboo chair that appeared to have been intended for a child. Though it had been cold outside, he found that he was perspiring.
“Tea, grocery, firework, medicine. Many, many things, very cheap.”
He nodded, wondering how old the Chinese was. He had never met a Chinese before who had not spoken idiomatic American. If anyone had asked (though no one ever had) he would have answered readily that there were hundreds of millions who did not, who in fact knew no language but their own; now he learned that knowing and understanding are vastly different things.
The Chinese knocked out his pipe, refilled it, and lit it again on the violet gas tongues. After a token puff or two, he set a dented copper teakettle on the gas ring. “Sheng say Paradise, Hell? You say Paradise. Why you—what wrong?”
The doll had moved.
The Parade
Gingerly, he took the doll from his pocket. Its legs, he felt certain, had been straight before. Now one was slightly bent at the knee. Its face had been calm and serious—perhaps he would have said blank if he had not loved that face so much. Now the lips were slightly curved.
“Ah, you admirer of goddess!”
Half unconsciously, he nodded.
“That good! I see?”
The Chinese held out his hand, and somewhat unwillingly he passed the doll over.
“Oh, very beautiful! Legs long, feet small!” The Chinese tittered. “You do not like Sheng have. Sheng understand.”
Only when it was back in his pocket was he willing to admit that he had feared he would never get it back at all.
“Soon Sheng show. First tea.” A white smoke-dragon from the pipe mingled with and fought a savage steam-dragon from the teakettle. Seething water rained into a teapot, followed by a mummified snow of fragrant leaves.
“Soon,” Sheng said. “Very soon. Like pot? Very good, very cheap. Nankeen yellow, hundred year make. Have more.”
He nodded. “How did you come to this country, Mr. Sheng?”
The Chinese smiled. “Build railroad. Young man, think far away, all better.” A thin hand pulled reflectively at the long mustache. “Go home, rich.” The Chinese sighed.
“Do you still want to go home?” He found himself suddenly fascinated by this lean, brown, middle-aged man’s history. It was as if he were seeing his own future in some strange Eastern glass. “You agreed that your basement was paradise.”
“Paradise of young man. So he dream. Work railroad. Tear shirt.” The Chinese paused reflectively. “No needle. Ask men, have needle? Piece thread? No have …”
“Yes?”
“Go to town. Saturday. Buy thread. Ask needle, store man no sell. Sell paper, twenty needle. Sheng buy. Say, you want needle? Cost dime. So Sheng here.” The hand fluttered tapered fingers at the little shop, then swooped to pick up the teapot. Perfumed liquid splashed into the cups. “Sheng paradise.”
“I see.”
“Now dream new paradise, many children, many sons, pray for poor Sheng. Young Sheng dream so, this Sheng not. Law Heaven—one paradise each man.”
He nodded, sipping the scalding tea and wondering just how his search for Lara could have gone so far astray as quickly as it had.
Without rising, the Chinese stretched a long arm to one of the shelves and took down a lacquer box. “Now Sheng show. You want m
uch touch, okay touch. Sheng like better you no touch.”
He nodded, setting down his cup. The lid of the box slid in grooves in the sides. Vaguely, he recalled seeing a box of marbles that had opened like that in Antiques. Inside the box was a doll, elaborately dressed, no longer than his hand.
“This Heng-O,” the Chinese explained. “Also same yours.”
He bent nearer to look. It was indeed the same face, as though an Oriental had sculpted Lara, unconsciously adding the racial features such an artist would feel normal and attractive. Her robe was real silk, a costume that might have been worn by a minute empress, aswim with embroidered birds and strange beasts.
“She’s very beautiful,” he told the Chinese. “Very, very beautiful.”
“It so.” Silently the lid slid shut again. “Moon full, she stand here. Joss burn. Only can do that. Sheng funeral rice steam on Sheng grave, she see me, smile, say, ‘You burn joss for me.’ Happy forever.”
He nodded again and drained the last of his tea, grateful for its warmth and cheer. For a moment their eyes met, and he knew that the Chinese was his brother, despite the differences of half a world—and that the Chinese had known it even in the alley.
“I’ve imposed upon your hospitality for too long already, Mr. Sheng,” he said. “I should be going.” He rose.
“No, no!” The Chinese lifted both hands, palms out. “No go before Sheng show stock!”
“If you really want—”
The impassive face split in a broad grin. “You see many things. Tell friends. They come, buy Sheng, sure Mike!”
He tried to recall his friends. There was no one. “I’m afraid you’re the only real friend I’ve got, Mr. Sheng.”
“Then live too much by self. You look!” It was a deck of cards. “Magic charm, bring friend! Learn poker, bridge, rummy. Go ‘round, ‘I want play, no one play.’ Soon many friend!”
He shook his head. “It’s a good idea, but I’m too shy.”
The Chinese sighed. “No charm for shy. No liquor license. Like get mail?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Good! Mail good shy man. Magic charm!” The Chinese held up a shriveled, flattened root.
“Will that really bring mail?”
“Yes! Mail root,” the Chinese said. (Or perhaps, “Male root.”)
It seemed crisp and thin between his fingers. In the dim light, he could have sworn he held an envelope. “I’d like to buy it,” he said. He owed Sheng something anyway for rescuing him from the police.
“No buy. Free! Next time, buy.” A slender thread of red silk held the dried root. “Put ’round neck. Wear below shirt. Plenty mail.”
He did as he was told. A rhythmic booming, muted yet deep, sounded outside. He wanted to ask what it was, but the Chinese spoke first.
“Look see!” A tight roll of paper unwound to reveal the sketched figure of a man, half life-size. “For burn on grave. Then got good servant next place.” The Chinese grinned again. “You die real soon?”
“I hope not.”
“Then no need. Later, maybe. How ’bout horse?” It was a stocky, tough-looking animal sketched in bold strokes.
“I’ve never ridden one,” he confessed.
“Next place learn. Plenty time.”
His eyes caught a thick sheaf of fifty-dollar bills banded with brown paper. “You shouldn’t leave these lying around, Mr. Sheng.”
The Chinese laughed. “Toy money! On grave burn, next place plenty rich! You like?”
He carried them to a dusty little window. They were real bills, nearly new. When he slid back the paper band, Grant’s face was sharp and bright.
“You like?”
The band read PUROLATOR SECURITY. Beside the words was a Chinese character in black ink, and the figure 10 cents.
“Yes,” he said. “I like this very much. But you have to let me pay for it.” He produced a dime, feeling very much like a thief. The Chinese accepted the coin without looking at it, and he put the sheaf of bills into the topcoat pocket opposite the map.
The street outside was not the one from which he had fled down the alley; but though it was smaller and narrower, lined with parked cars and sooty brick buildings, there was a parade. Drum majorettes strutted and twirled, bare legs shaded blue by the winter wind. Soldiers in brilliant green jackets shouldered and unshouldered short rifles; politicians grinned and waved, presenting one another with candy and cigars. Trumpets brayed. Towering floats crept forward like so many colorful juggernauts, clearly unstable, swaying like jonquils while lovely girls in flowers, feathers, and sequined gowns danced alone or with each other.
A bass drum thudded in rhythm with his heart.
A little crowd of men and boys, with a few women, followed the final float, possibly a division of the parade in their own minds. It struck him that if the police were still looking for him—though it seemed unlikely they were—this straggling group offered the best means of evading them. He joined it, pressing toward the middle and front until he was walking so close to the float that no one on either sidewalk could have had a clear look at him.
A skater in a pink tutu twirled almost at the edge. When she saw him, she stopped and smiled, pointing toward three iron steps that descended the back of the float.
He thought she was inviting him to join her and called, “I don’t have skates!”
She nodded, still smiling, and indicated a door wreathed with roses.
For a moment he hesitated. If he climbed up the steps, he would be exposed until he had passed through the doorway. Once inside the float, however, he would be completely screened from view.
The skater smiled again and beckoned. She was blond and blue-eyed, apple-cheeked in the cutting wind.
As he mounted the steps, the crowd he had left behind him whistled, clapped, and cheered. The watchers on the sidewalks cheered as well, and one of the dancers ignited the fuse of a firework. It erupted in a glory of golden sparks just as the skater opened the rose-wreathed door for him.
“In a second,” she said. “I have to take my skates off.”
He found himself in the back of a camper. There were two wide bunks, one above the other, swiveling seats, a small sink, and a bureau with a washbasin set into its top. The driver, a middle-aged woman, did not turn her head to look at him; but he saw her eyes in the rearview mirror—eyes that watched him, so it seemed to him, far longer than was safe.
The ceiling was uncomfortably close to his head. He sat down and tried to look around him, but the sides of the float darkened all the windows. He could still hear the cheering of the crowd outside and the booming of the fireworks.
The door opened. The skater came in softly on stockinged feet. Her fingers brushed his face, lingering upon a cheekbone. “I’m not one of those people who put a gun to your head,” she said. “If you should change your mind …”
He said, “I like it here.”
“Good. So do I.” She wore a blue silk pullover trimmed with white fur at the cuffs and collar; it slid over her head with one smooth motion, revealing a narrow bra of peach lace. “Would you like me to undress you? I know that some of them—whatever you want. Whatever you’ve been thinking of all these years.”
As he rose from his seat, he listened to his own voice as he might have heard someone else speak. “I’ve been thinking about Lara.”
She paused, hands at the buttons of his topcoat. “Lara?”
“I love her,” he said; and then, “But you’re not her, and I really didn’t know it was going to be like this.” He took a step backward.
Her mouth fell open. For a moment her face was a tormented mask of disbelief and disappointment. Hate burned them away as fire scours a forest; her blue eyes blazed and flashed.
“I’d better go,” he said.
A drawer under the sink rattled; she lunged at him with a kitchen knife. He stumbled to one side, and it stuck in the flimsy inner wall. Without thinking, he hit her wrist with one hand and pushed her away with the other.
His legs flew from under him, then the end of the float itself. For an absurd instant he felt he was falling off the world, flying out into space. The black pavement struck him like a fist.
United
As from a great height, he looked down upon an endless plain of snow. It was nearly featureless, yet lit by a slanting sun so that such features as it possessed cast long shadows to eastward, their shadows more distinct and more visible than they. Night came quickly from the north, devouring the shadows, transforming the plain into a featureless darkness lit only by the memory of light.
“He’s closing his eyes, Dr. Pille.” (A woman’s voice.) “As I see.” (An androgynous voice, followed by footsteps that were merely padded and neither loud nor soft.) Day came again, and quickly.
“Are you awake?”
He said, “I think so.”
A middle-aged woman in a white cap bent over him; the plain of snow receded, shrunk to a ceiling.
“That was a nasty bump you got there.”
“What happened?” There was a dull throb at the back of his head.
“You fell down in the street.”
“And I had the wildest dream,” he told her. “Lara was just a little doll, and I showed her to an old Chinese. Can you give me something for this headache?”
She nodded and pulled a cork from a brown bottle. “Here. Smell this.”
It had the odor of spring, when new green growth duels with melting snow in the rain-washed air. The throbbing sank, almost vanished.
“What’s that?” he asked her.
“Just aspenin. Your nose may not work right for a while.” She rose. “Everything okay now?”
He nodded, bringing back the ghost of the throb. “When can I get out of here?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Dr. Pille will see you again, and he may have you released. He may want to keep you for a few more days. Press the call button if you need me.”
