“We require your expertise with writing instruments,” Bing-fa said, “to verify that the Mandarin Yellow you recover is our national treasure, not some substitute.” He tapped his foot rapidly under his silk gown. “Now that I also am aware of your Mandarin language skills, you also will be useful in verifying the authenticity of the stolen documents when you have recovered them.”
Socrates shook his head. Time to bite the bullet before this goes too far, tell him my decision.
“This isn’t realistic,” Socrates said. “I’m not a detective. You’re asking me to do something totally outside my experience. I wouldn’t know where to begin, let alone how to proceed.” He shook his head again. “You’ll have to find someone else to do your bidding.”
Socrates stood up from his chair and walked to the other side of the store. He briefly faced the wall, his back deliberately to Bing-fa. Then he slowly turned around and, from the safety of his distance, folded his arms across his chest and waited.
Bing-fa rose from his seat and locked eyes with Socrates from across the room.
“People who assist me when I ask never regret it,” Bing-fa said.
And, Socrates thought, I’ll bet people who don’t assist you when asked, always regret it.
SOCRATES DID NOT react well to threats. Not to those that were explicit and obvious, and not to those that were subtle and implicit. When confronted with a threat, Socrates typically shut down and emotionally circled the wagons. But not this time. He and Jade had too much at stake. Socrates did not have the luxury now of pulling his head deep into the solid protection of his shell and waiting in the dark until the source of the threat left him.
Socrates faced Bing-fa from across the room, cleared his throat, and said, “You don’t need me for the investigation. Have someone else find the Mandarin Yellow, then bring it to me to examine.”
Without warning, Bing-fa crossed the room. He stopped less than one foot from Socrates, facing him. When Bing-fa spoke now, he spoke so softly that Socrates felt threatened by the simulated gentleness of Bing-fa’s modulated tone.
“The country of your father and ancestors calls on you in its time of need, Socrates Cheng.” He looked hard at Socrates. “We expect more from you than you have given. I warn you, do not make a decision you will later regret.”
Socrates tensed. Anger slowly wormed its way into his spine. Beads of perspiration formed on his neck.
“You have a responsibility to your heritage,” Bing-fa said. He kept his eyes fixed on Socrates’ eyes.
Socrates shook his head. “China’s not my heritage,” he said. “I told you before, I’m American, and as much Greek as Chinese.”
The irony of Bing-fa’s position wasn’t lost on Socrates. He was imploring Socrates to search for the Mandarin Yellow as his obligatory service to his Chinese heritage, the implication being that for this purpose, Bing-fa viewed Socrates as Chinese. Socrates decided not to point out Bing-fa’s self-serving contradiction.
Socrates walked back to the Queen Anne chair, and lowered himself into it. He waited until Bing-fa had done the same and again faced him.
Socrates slowly shook his head. “The more I think about it,” he said, “the more I realize I shouldn’t become involved at all, not even as a consultant after the Mandarin Yellow is found.”
Bing-fa sat impassively, his fingers interlaced on his lap. He stared silently at Socrates as if there was no more to be said.
It seemed to Socrates that Bing-fa now was mocking him with his silence, amusing himself by letting Socrates prattle on, making Socrates feel he was arguing more with himself than with Bing-fa. Bidding against himself.
“Now you listen to me, Bing-fa.” Socrates, too, now spoke softly as he carefully formulated his statement. “Even if you ignore all the other reasons I’ve given you, I still have to run my store. I can’t just shut it down. I have bills to pay.”
“My eldest son, Bing-wu, will attend to this business while you are absent.”
“Oh, really?” Socrates said, allowing his sarcastic tone to hang in the air. “What’s he know about vintage fountain pens?”
“You seem to have no customers,” Bing-fa said. He turned his head and glanced around the store, then turned back to face Socrates. “Bing-wu’s lack of knowledge concerning writing instruments should not matter over several weeks.”
“Cute,” Socrates said, but he didn’t smile. “Consider this then. I’m not licensed as a private investigator. That means I can’t be paid for my efforts, and I’m not about to give up my time at the store for free.”
Socrates mentally rested his case on that legal and practical note, and stopped speaking. He’d said all he could think of for now. He had almost convinced himself.
After a long thirty seconds of silence, Bing-fa said, “I understand your concern. If you assist me, I am prepared to arrange for a gift to you sufficient to justify your time away from your business.”
Socrates frowned, bothered that Bing-fa obviously wasn’t listening to him. “I just told you, I’m not licensed. I can’t accept compensation, no matter what name you give it.”
“We would structure our arrangement to conform with your concerns,” Bing-fa said. “You will perform your services for me, free of charge, as a concerned citizen who wants to foster goodwill between the people of the United States and the citizens of the People’s Republic of China. Afterward, a grateful People’s Republic government will give you a gift to show its appreciation for your efforts. Surely, a gift from the country of your heritage would be acceptable, would it not?”
Socrates had had enough. He was frustrated by Bing-fa’s intransigence. He held up both palms and said, “Hold it. That’s enough. You’re moving too fast and not listening to me.”
Socrates abruptly stood up, then immediately sat again. He took a deep breath, held it briefly, then exhaled. He realized he’d lost all control of the discussion.
“Here’s the deal, Bing-fa,” Socrates said. “I need time to think about this. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow. That’s all I’ll do right now. Take it or leave it.”
Bing-fa, obviously unhappy with the added day’s delay, frowned, then recovered his composure and stood up from his chair. He bowed slightly from his waist and said as he straightened up, “Do not delay beyond tomorrow, Socrates Cheng. Too much time has already been lost while you avoid your duty.”
Socrates said no more. He wanted Bing-fa gone from his store.
Bing-fa started for the door, then abruptly stopped and turned back to face Socrates.
“I suggest you consult with Bing-jade,” he said. “She will guide you correctly.”
Then he left the store without any explanation.
BING-FA’S PARTING REMARK shocked Socrates.
What could he have been thinking? Socrates wondered. Consult with Jade? The daughter whose very existence Bing-fa denied? The daughter he had banished from her family because she insisted on dating Socrates?
Socrates dialed Jade’s cell number and let it ring five times before he ended the call. He wanted to talk to her, but it would have to wait since she wasn’t picking up her calls. In the meantime, he had something else to attend to. His parents were arriving in town for a week’s visit. He had to leave to pick them up at the airport.
Thirty minutes later, Socrates stood by the open trunk of his rental car and watched his mother and father maneuver their aging bodies into the front and back passenger seats, his mother in the front, as usual, and his father in the back.
Socrates smiled and turned his attention to their luggage. He lowered himself into a weightlifter’s squat and wrapped his arms around their only suitcase. He closed his eyes and visualized himself as a four hundred pound Japanese Sumo wrestler, naked except for a loincloth. He took a deep breath, held it briefly, and, with a prodigious grunt, wrestled the suitcase up from the macadam and dropped it into the trunk, rocking the car from side-to-side.
Socrates climbed into the driver’s seat of the rental, keyed the
ignition, and checked to see that his parents were belted in before he drove off. Satisfied, he started the twenty-five minutes drive from Ronald Reagan National Airport in Arlington, Virginia to his parents’ hotel, the Westin Grand, on M Street in the District, not far from his Dupont Circle condominium apartment.
“So,” his mother said, “when did you buy this tiny car? And what’s with the writing on the side? I liked your other car. It seemed fine to me.”
“It’s a rental, Mom, called a ZIPCAR. I rented it for a few hours so I could pick up you and dad. I sold my car a while ago. I didn’t use it often enough, living in the city, to justify the cost and trouble of owning it.”
His mother shook her head and made a tsk, tsk, tsk sound. “You should’ve stayed a lawyer, Socrates, so you could afford to keep your other car,” she said, “even if you didn’t use it much. It was better for grownups than this little thing.”
Socrates decided to ignore this hot-button topic his mother had skillfully cast at him — his past foray into law practice. He changed the subject.
“I’d really feel better if you and pop would stay with me,” he said. “It’s silly for you to go to a hotel. You know I have plenty of room for you at my condo.”
“It’s better this way,” his mother said. “You have your privacy and we have ours.” She turned toward the back seat, looked at her husband, and raised one eyebrow.
His father shrugged and chuckled. When he caught Socrates watching him in the rear view mirror, he stopped laughing, turned his head and looked out the window.
I wonder what that’s all about? Socrates thought.
“Anyway,” his mother said, “you really need your privacy now that you’re back seeing your cute Chinese girlfriend from college. Tell me her name again?”
“Jade, Mom, Li Bing-jade.” Why do I always feel guilty when they insist on staying at a hotel? It’s obviously what they prefer. “She wanted to come with me to pick you up, but she had a class to teach.”
“I’m more comfortable at a hotel, Sonny,” his father said. “I can walk around in my underwear if I want and not scare your neighbors if they see me through your window.”
“Your father’s more comfortable, all right,” Socrates’ mother said, “because he doesn’t want anybody hearing him snore like a train coming through a tunnel. Anybody but me, he doesn’t.”
She turned her head and briefly looked back at her husband. She punctuated her statement with a single, sharp nod directed at him.
“You’d think he’d do something about it, his snoring, with me begging for relief all these years. But, no, your father doesn’t think he has a snoring problem.”
“I don’t have no snoring problem, Sophia. You have the snoring problem because you say it keeps you awake. I don’t hear me. I don’t even know if I really snore. I only know you tell me I do. Me, I sleep like a baby.” He grinned, his Chinese eyes narrowing even more than usual.
No one said anything for the next five minutes. They drove north from Virginia along the George Washington Parkway, heading toward downtown Washington. The trees lining the parkway were beginning to sprout light green buds, infusing the late April afternoon with the soft ambiance of a French Impressionist landscape painting.
“You’re both awfully quiet,” Socrates said. “Is there something wrong? Something you want to tell me?” The anomalous silence unsettled him. His parents rarely were quiet when they had a captive audience. Especially when he was that audience.
“Everything’s fine,” his mother said. “We’re tired from our trip, that’s all.”
Socrates glanced in the rear view mirror at his father, saw him look at his wife, shrug his shoulders, and quickly shake his head No.
“Is there something I should know?” Socrates asked again.
“No, not yet,” his mother said. “We’ll talk later. You and your father will.”
They continued their journey, shrouded in silence until they were a few blocks from the hotel. Then Socrates’ mother said, “So, Socrates, tell me, your pencil and pen store, it’s better for you than being a lawyer? You don’t mind not having your car anymore or dressing up for work or being important?”
Oh, boy, here we go, Socrates thought. I came so close to dropping them off and making my escape without rehashing this.
“Not pencils, Mom, and not ballpoint pens either. I sell collectible vintage fountain pens. Valuable pens. Expensive fountain pens. But you already know that.”
“So I forgot, Socrates. So sue me, Mr. Big Shot Lawyer. Oh, excuse me. I mean, so sue me, Mr. Big Shot ex-Lawyer.”
Socrates sighed. “The store’s fine, Mom. Getting better every day. I’m happier doing this than I ever was practicing law. How many people do you know lucky enough to turn their hobby into their business?”
“I didn’t like the way those lawyers treated you,” his mother said, “but at least you made good money. It bothered your father, too, right, Phillip?” she said, as she turned toward the back of the car.
Socrates let the comment pass, but he could feel his sleeping anger toward his former law partners creeping back at the mention of his previous work life.
“So, Sonny,” his father, always the Confucian conciliator, said, “your mother and me, we liked that Jade girl when we met her at your college.” He paused as if collecting his thoughts. “You going out with her again after all those years apart, is that a good thing for you? Does she make you happy?”
Grateful his father had changed the subject, Socrates said, “Yes, Pop, dating Jade again is good for me. She makes me very happy.”
“You should think about marrying her then, settle down,” his mother said, “give us grandbabies to spoil.”
Socrates raised an eyebrow. So that’s it. They must have been talking during their flight about marrying me off and couldn’t wait to raise the subject with me. Socrates didn’t take the bait. He said nothing.
“Just think about it,” his mother said, “that’s all we ask. It’s your life. You can do what you want, but it won’t kill you to think about it, will it?”
Socrates did just that. He briefly thought about it, then quickly dismissed the thought as impractical and premature, and wisely said nothing. When enough dead air time had passed to make it clear he would not take his mother’s bait and defend himself, Socrates’ father broke the silence and said, “You know, Sonny, your mother liked that Jade girl even though she’s not Greek.” He paused and smiled. “Can you imagine that, your mother liking a girl for you who’s not . . . .”
He interrupted himself to laugh and didn’t finish his statement. He reached over the front seat and affectionately patted his wife’s shoulder. She turned partly around to face him. “You can tease me all you want, Mr. Phillip Cheng, but being Greek’s a great blessing. You should only be so blessed.”
“Unless you’re Chinese, born of the illustrious Middle Kingdom,” Socrates’ father responded, a wide grin on his face. “That’s a greater blessing.”
Socrates’ mother turned in her seat again to face her husband. “Phillip Cheng,” she said, casting a faux Evil Eye at him, “if you keep cracking wise, this Pythian daughter, this descendent of the Oracle at Delphi, predicts there will be unpleasant things in store for you when we return home.”
When his father feigned fright and raised his palms to shield himself and ward off his wife’s Delphic warning, first Socrates’ mother, then his father, and, finally, Socrates, too, broke into large smiles, followed by much shared laughter.
Socrates dropped his parents at the Westin Grand and stayed with them while they registered and settled themselves in their room. Then he returned the rental car. He was walking back from the ZIPCAR agency at Dupont Circle, heading to Georgetown to his store when his cell phone rang. He looked at the digital readout to identify the caller.
“Hi, Mom. Longtime no see.” He paused to let his mother tell him why she was calling him so soon after they’d just parted, but she said nothing.
“Did you f
orget something in the car?” Socrates asked. “I can walk back to the rental agency and . . . .”
“Socrates, did you notice anything unusual about your father?”
Socrates stopped walking. “What do you mean unusual? He seemed the same to me, basically quiet and reserved, like always. Why?”
“Your father’s taking a shower right now so I don’t have much time to talk. It’s his memory. He’s forgetting things and getting confused doing things he used to do easy.”
“I didn’t notice it when we were riding, Mom.” Socrates could feel his stomach roil. He didn’t like where this might be going.
“He seemed just the same to me,” Socrates said. “How bad is it? Should I be worried?”
“It’s bad. A little worse each week,” his mother said. “And I feel awful because your father gets so hurt when I remind him we just talked about something he’s already forgotten. Like I was making it up to pick on him . . . . I don’t know what to do.”
THREE HOURS AFTER she weathered her regular morning dressing down by Director Hua, Linda Fong stood alone in front of her desk with her back to the alcove’s entrance. She held a telephone handset against her right ear and quietly spoke into the mouthpiece. With her left hand, she tapped an impatient, rapid drum roll against her desktop blotter using the point of a No. 2 wooden pencil. Fong did not hear Director Hua enter the alcove behind her and quietly sit down at her desk to watch and listen to the assistant director.
“I’m saying it is possible, that is all,” Linda Fong said, speaking in Mandarin, “but we must make our own opportunities. Yes, I know. I will be patient, but only for so long. That, too, will one day come to an end. Yes, I know. Thank you for reminding me.”
Fong placed the handset back in its cradle on her desk, ending the call. She turned around, saw Director Hua frowning at her, and stiffened and blushed. She realized the director had likely heard the ending of the conversation, if not more.
Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries) Page 3
