by Don Winslow
For the first… what had it been, a week?… they hadn’t given him any solid food, just herbal tea and later some weak soup. And they had jammed needles into his unresisting body. Not hypodermics, but those acupuncture needles he’d always thought were purest bullshit until the dysentery started to get better. The cramps stopped, the horrendous diarrhea didn’t return, and pretty soon he was eating solid food again, including the more-or-less American breakfast that they went to such pains to cook him.
He sat up, propped himself against the heavy wooden headboard, and poured a cup of coffee. Jesus, he thought, the heady joy of simple pleasures, such as pouring yourself a damn cup of coffee. The first sip—and he sipped carefully, experience having taught him that they served their coffee hot—brought almost overwhelming pleasure. He swished the coffee around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Then he got up, tested his shaky legs on the floor, and wobbled to the bathroom. He was still weak, still thin, but he enjoyed the ten-foot trip enormously. It represented great progress in his self-sufficiency.
The bathroom was immaculate. Neal figured that even Joe Graham would approve of its shining porcelain and gleaming tiles. Neal used the john—no small joy after his months of shackles and buckets—then let the water run from the tap until it was steamy hot and scrubbed his hands.
Am I becoming a clean freak, he wondered, like Graham?
He likewise let the shower run while he sat on the closed toilet seat and drank coffee. When he saw steam rise over the shower curtain, he stripped off the silk pajamas and stepped in. He winced as the water stung the raw skin on his wrists, which had been bandaged until just the day before. He spent at least ten minutes scrubbing himself with the sandalwood soap and shampoo before carefully stepping out. He had to sit down for a few minutes before he was strong enough to dry himself off. Then he put his robe back on, carried his tray to the round table by the window, and sat down to eat.
Food seemed like a miracle to him. It all seemed like a miracle.
At first he thought she had come in a dream like all the other dreams. He knew that when he came to, he would still be lying in his cave, handcuffed in his own filth and misery. But this dream was different.
He became terrified when they blindfolded him, even though it was her hand leading him through the maze of the Walled City. He had settled down when he felt himself being eased into a car, and it seemed like a short trip before he was being led along what felt like a gently rocking dock and onto a boat. He realized vaguely that he was being taken below, and then she took the blindfold off.
It was Li Lan, of course. She had come for him, and he didn’t ask why—he didn’t care why. All he knew was that she was his Kuan Yin, his goddess of mercy, and she had taken him out of hell, and now she was giving him another bowl of opium.
He drifted in and out of sleep as the boat eased along the coast. They gave him another pipe before putting the blindfold on, and he had only the haziest memory of being carried onto land and lifted into the back of a truck. She took the blindfold off again when the truck was all closed up, and it seemed as if they drove for days, and it also seemed as if the pipes were smaller and fewer.
He remembered being taken out of the truck in the middle of the night, remembered seeing soldiers, remembered seeing her face, lined with concern, as he felt a sharp jab in his arm.
“I will see you again,” she said.
Then he remembered nothing until he woke up in the clean bed with the stiff, white sheets.
And she was gone again.
In her place were doctors and nurses, murmuring in the careful, professional tones that they affect everywhere. They murmured over him, made him sip tea, massaged his sore back, rubbed salve on his wrists and bandaged them, then made him into a human porcupine.
As the days went by, he needed less attention, until he was down to the daily ministrations of the waiter, a masseuse, and one visit from the doctor.
His curiosity rose with his strength. As he emerged from the fog of illness, malnutrition, fear, and opium, the large questions began to strike him: Where am I? Who’s in charge here? What happens next?
Nobody would tell him anything. In fact, so far he hadn’t met anyone who spoke English, expect for the waiter’s obviously rehearsed “Good morning. Breakfast.” From his ground-floor window he could see only a rectangular, gravel-surfaced parking lot cut off from the street by a tall gate. A ten-foot high fence, topped by strands of barbed wire and delicately screened by shrubs, stretched to the left into a copse of trees. To the right, it ran into another wing of the building.
Neal knew he was in a city because he could hear traffic noises, although it took him several days to recognize the late-afternoon cacophony as the jingling of thousands of bicycle bells. He heard few cars but more trucks, and occasionally the uniformed guard at the gate would swing it open for a delivery truck or an official-looking car.
So, as for where he was, he knew he was in a city somewhere in China.
Who was in charge? Who had him? He tried to put it together. If Li Lan was, as it seemed, a Chinese spy, then it must be the Chinese intelligence service. But why? Why dump him in the Walled City and then come back for him? Why all the TLC and the first-class treatment—silk pajamas, for Christ’s sake? Why did the door lock behind the waiter, the nurse, and the doctor? Why was he in this luxurious solitary confinement?
These musings led to the not-unrelated question of what would happen next. What the hell did they want from him? What did they want him to do? The pleasant thought that they were cleaning him up to send him home occurred to him, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Better to concentrate on getting well, and just see what happened. Besides, what choice did he have?
And there was still another question: Where was Li Lan?
He pushed that thought from his head and dug into his eggs. They really weren’t bad at all, almost as if the cook were used to making Western breakfasts, although they had been fried in some kind of oil he couldn’t identify. And he had grown quite fond of the mantou, the fist-sized steamed bun they served in place of toast. He was chewing on it when the first nonmaterial need he had felt since he could remember hit him: a newspaper.
God, how he suddenly yearned to have a newspaper. Hell, it was a natural. Newsprint went with breakfast like bacon with eggs, and he longed—longed—to find out what was happening in the world, and maybe read a little sports news. Sports. Was it still baseball season? Or football? Or that fantastic time of the American calendar when both were in full swing, so to speak?
I must be getting healthy, he thought.
The opium jones had been tough, but not that tough, he considered. Maybe it was because he didn’t do enough for long enough to get really addicted, or maybe it was because the Chinese know how to treat it, but he hadn’t felt the agonies of withdrawal he had observed in others, including his own sainted mother. Every once in a while, particularly as he recovered enough to feel actual boredom, a pang of need—no, it was more like want—struck him, and he would muse on how nice it would be to drift off on an opium cloud. But he was enjoying the real pleasures of real food and real comfort too much to become seriously obsessed with the smoke and mirrors of a dope high. He’d take a good cup of coffee any day, thank you. Now if he could just get a newspaper.
Of course, a newspaper couldn’t answer some of the other small questions that niggled at him during his wealth of spare time. Why did everyone call him Mr. Frazier? Why was the closet full of clothes for Mr. Frazier? Why did these clothes have labels from Montreal, Toronto, and New York? Why did they all fit him perfectly? Who was this Mr. Frazier, who had the same size shirts, the same size shoes, the same inseam as his? Neal was strictly an off-the-rack guy, but Mr. Frazier obviously had a close relationship with a pretty good tailor. Neal had never dressed so well in his life.
All dressed up and nowhere to go, Neal thought.
Silk pajamas.
He tried to work up a little indignation about the
whole thing, but he was just too tired. He took another sip of coffee, pushed back his chair, and slipped back to bed. He needed more sleep, his head was getting fuzzy, and somewhere in the back of a still-muddled brain, he knew he would need more rest to handle … what? He let himself drop into sleep. The waiter would wake him with lunch.
It was a setting for two, and it came early.
Neal knew a hint when he saw one, and changed from his robe into some of the clothes made for the mysterious Mr. Frazier: tan slacks, a light blue sports shirt, and cordovans. He shaved carefully, his shaky hand nicking him only once, and brushed his hair. He had just finished when he heard a timid knock.
A young man stuck his head in the door.
“May I come in?” he asked. His English had only a slight accent.
“Yes. Please.”
He was in his early twenties, about five-seven, maybe 120 pounds if he had a lot of change in his pockets. He wore gray trousers that looked like polyester, a stiff white shirt, and a dark brown jacket. He had thick glasses with heavy brown frames. His black hair was thick, parted at the side, and just touched the tops of his ears. His smile looked nervous but warm, and he blushed with shyness.
“My name is Xiao Wu,” he said. He stuck his hand out, a gesture that looked as if it had been learned in a class.
Neal shook his hand. “Neal Carey.”
Wu’s blush turned to scarlet and he dropped his eyes to the floor.
“Frazier,” he mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“Your name is Frazier.”
“Okay.”
Wu brightened considerably when he saw the heavily laden tray on the table.
“We are having lunch!”
“Please sit down.”
“Thank you!” He bowed slightly and took a chair.
“May I examine the food?” he asked.
“Please.”
Wu lifted the covers off the four dishes and issued oohs and aahs and other sighs of satisfaction. Neal decided that this guy didn’t get too many business lunches, if indeed that was what this was.
Wu remembered the protocol.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Very comfortable.”
“Thank you!”
Oh, you’re very welcome, Xiao Wu.
“Would you like to eat lunch?”
I live for lunch these days, Xiao Wu.
“You bet.”
Wu looked puzzled. “Was that a colloquialism?”
Neal nodded.
“Slang?” Xiao smiled broadly.
“Slang.”
“I am very interested in American language … as distinct from English language,” Wu said quietly.
“You and me both.”
“Especially American abusive language.”
“You’ve come to the right place, Xiao Wu.”
“You will teach me some?”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu giggled with unabashed enthusiasm, and repeated “Fuck yes” several times as if to memorize it. Then he uncovered a platter of hot noodles and filled Neal’s plate before he filled his own. He didn’t wait for Neal to start, however, but started right in on the noodles with his chopsticks, shoveling them down in a few smooth motions.
“I am also very interested,” he said when he was done, “in Mark Twain. Do you know Mark Twain? Huckleberry Finn? It is no longer banned, we are allowed to read it in school now.”
Swell. We’re not.
“He’s a wonderful writer.”
“Aaah. Fish.”
“Xiao Wu, who are you and what are you doing here?”
Wu’s supply of blushes held up. Direct questions are considered quite rude in China.
“I am to be your translator.”
“What for?”
“Would you like some fish?”
Okay, I’ll play.
“Sure, why not?”
“No reasons.”
“That was slang.”
“‘Sure, why not’? That means you would like to eat fish?”
“Fuck yes.”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu used his chopsticks to place some bits of flesh on Neal’s plate, and then spooned bean sauce on top. He then helped himself and concentrated on eating. Then he asked, “You would be ready to accept an important guest this afternoon?”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu started to laugh and then stopped himself and frowned. “You must not say that, though, in front of important guest.”
“Say what?”
“Fuck.”
“Okay.”
“It is very funny, though.”
“Who’s the important guest?”
“Vegetables?”
“You bet your ass.”
Wu looked startled, looked at Neal sideways, and said, “More slang.”
Neal nodded and Wu dished out the steamed vegetables—broccoli, pea pods, bamboo shoots, and water chestnuts. He ate with the dedication of a true artist.
“Wu, where are we?”
“I am authorized to tell you that.”
“Shoot.”
Wu chuckled again. “You are in Chengdu,” Wu said proudly.
Chengdu … Chengdu … Chengdu …
“Not to offend you, but where is Chengdu?”
Wu’s face clouded slightly. “Chengdu is the capital city of Sichuan Province, which is in southwest China.”
Southwest China? My, my my …
“What day is it?”
Wu quickly checked his mental list of what he was authorized to say. “June the twenty-sixth.”
Jesus H. Christ! June twenty-sixth?
“How long have I been here?”
“Two weeks,” Wu answered, then added proudly, “and change.”
Neal did some mental arithmetic. God, he thought, that means I was in that Hong Kong hellhole for over two months. Two and a half.
“And what am I doing here?”
“Soup?”
“You’re not authorized to tell me that.”
“I am not,” Wu said sadly. “And I don’t know.”
“But the important guest does?”
“This is why he is important.”
“May I have some soup, please?”
“I am honored.”
The soup was a delicate chicken broth with some vegetables. Wu pretended not to notice that Neal’s hand trembled and that he had a hard time getting the soup into his mouth.
“No fortune cookie?” Neal asked when they were finished with the meal.
“You must not make jokes in front of—”
“Important guest. Don’t worry, I won’t. It’s just that I’m enjoying speaking English. Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Wu said. He added shyly, “And I am honored. Perhaps we can later discuss Mark Twain?”
“I would enjoy that very much.”
“You must rest now.”
“That’s all I do.”
“Your guest will be here in”—he made a show of looking at his watch—“one and one half an hour.”
“An hour and a half.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Wu stood up and stuck his hand out again. They shook hands and Wu left the room. Neal heard the lock click.
Okay, he thought, I am the mysterious Mr. Frazier. It’s possible. Maybe they know something I don’t, such as my father’s name; maybe it is Frazier. You’re getting giddy. Settle down. Half an hour of conversation and you’re losing your head. Mark Twain. Fuck yes.
Okay, so you know a little more than you did this morning. You’re in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, southwestern China. You’re way up Nathan Road now. So? So they probably wouldn’t bring you all this way if they were just going to clean you up and turn you back. And if you’ve been taken by the intelligence service, why aren’t you in Beijing? I mean, does the CIA take defectors to Arizona? I don’t know, maybe they do. And they’ve assigned you a translator, which means they want you to talk to somebody. Or they want
somebody to talk to you.
Okay, but what do you have to tell them? They already know more about Li Lan than you do, ditto with Pendleton by now….
Simms.
You can tell them about Simms.
Which brings up an interesting moral dilemma.
The important guest was right on time, almost as if he had been standing in the hallway looking at the second hand on his watch. Neal heard the same timid knock, then the door opened and Wu’s head popped in. He looked nervous.
“May we come in?”
“Of course.”
Wu held the door open for the important visitor. The important visitor was short, somewhere in his late forties, and was a few noodles shy of being chubby. The fat was really starting to show in heavy circles under his eyes. His hair was greased and combed straight back on his head. He wore a gray business suit, white shirt, red tie, and black shoes. He carried an expensive-looking attaché case. His whole affect screamed “bureaucrat.”
“This is Mr. Peng,” Wu said. “Mr. Peng, this is Mr. Frazier.”
Is this where we toss a coin and I choose to receive?
“Please sit down,” Neal said.
Peng sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Neal to take the other. Wu stood behind Peng.
So much for the classless society, Neal thought.
Peng took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Neal. Neal shook his head and Peng lit his cigarette, then looked over his shoulder at Wu and said, “Cha.”
Wu hustled out into the hallway. Neal heard him talking to somebody, and a minute later he returned with a waiter who carried a tray with tea, coffee, and cups.
“Mr. Peng understands that you prefer coffee to tea,” Wu said.
“Mr. Peng’s understanding is correct.”
“Mr. Peng suggests that we be informal and ‘help ourselves.’”
“Absolutely.”
Wu poured cups of tea for Peng and himself as Neal took a cup of coffee. Wu tentatively sat down on the corner of the bed and seemed visibly relieved when Peng didn’t object. Peng nodded to him, and Wu launched into their prepared opening.
“Mr. Peng is the assistant to Provincial Party Secretary Xao Xiyang.”