The Chemical Reaction

by Fiona Erskine

  She swam in long straight strokes, surfacing every few yards to breathe, resisting the temptation to look back.

  BOOM!

  Fragments of the Frankium pelted the surface of the water all around. A splinter of fibreglass grazed her cheek. Plip, plop, splash. The most welcome heavenly shower imaginable. As it abated, she swam back, through a cloud of smoke and ash. There wasn’t much left of the boat, but where was Giovanni?

  She dived again, hands outstretched, searching frantically. He’d been wearing a life jacket. She was sure of it. She surfaced at the same time as the yellow jacket bobbed up on the other side of the life raft. Oh, Gio, please be alive, please, Gio, don’t leave me now.

  She swam to him and brought an ear to his cold mouth. He was breathing. Graças a Deus. She checked him for injury. An obviously broken right arm – just as well he was unconscious – but no other sign of surface injury. How to get him out of the water and into the life raft? She was shaking too much to even try right now. Instead she tied his life jacket to the life raft, gathered provisions and placed them where she could reach them. She returned to the water and wrapped her arms and legs around his cold body to share warmth and closed her eyes.

  ‘Jaq?’

  ‘Gio? Ragazzo, am I glad to hear your voice!’ She grabbed the water bottle and pressed it to his lips. ‘Here, drink this.’

  He gulped and coughed. Securing it with his left hand, he gulped again.

  She unwrapped an energy bar. ‘Now, eat.’

  He tore through one, and then another.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘The storm. Reefing the sails on the boat . . .’ He looked around. ‘Dove cazzo è la barca?’

  ‘You don’t remember it breaking up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or how I got you out?’

  ‘The last thing I remember is pulling in the sails. Then waking up in the sea, tied to this poxy life raft.’

  ‘Do you think you can get in?’ she asked.

  ‘With your help.’

  It wasn’t easy. The water had numbed the pain of his broken limb, but as he tried to manoeuvre himself over the side with one good arm, he passed out, half in, half out. Now all she had to do was pull him in.

  Did she have the strength? Strength is overrated. Power has never been about muscles. The powerful of the ancient world used slaves to do physical work. Modern humans use tools. And gears. The average adult man can lift 30 kilograms easily. The average adult woman about two-thirds of that. So, all you need for complete equality is a two-thirds geared pulley. Giovanni would weigh about 75 kilograms. And Jaq had the handy-billy, a block and tackle with a double pulley and ratchet. Easy-peasy.

  She clipped one end to the webbing straps on the far side of the life raft, clipped the other end to his life jacket and hauled him in.

  Giovanni regained consciousness, yelping with pain as he hit the rubber deck. She tried to make him comfortable, fed him analgesics from the first aid kit, paracetamol and ibuprofen, cursing at the lack of morphine.

  Dawn was coming, and with it the welcome sound of a boat. Jaq stood up and waved at the Bulgarian coastguard. When she looked back, Giovanni’s face had lost all colour.

  ‘Not long now, Gio. Rescue’s here. Hang on in there.’

  He was drifting off again. She needed to keep him awake.

  ‘Who is Lucia?’

  A little colour returned to his face. ‘Lucia?’

  ‘When you were trapped. You said her name.’

  He looked away. ‘A girl.’ He corrected himself. ‘A woman back home. I should have told you.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ He screwed up his face. ‘I’ve been a bastard.’

  ‘To Lucia perhaps, but not to me. I’ve got someone back home as well.’ Not quite a lie. There was someone she loved completely and unreservedly, though it was wholly unrequited.

  ‘You forgive me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Although Lucia might not. Would he tell her? Up to him. None of her business.

  ‘Thank you, Jaq.’

  ‘Hey, we just had a bit of fun, right?’

  No reply.

  He was unconscious when the rescue boat pulled alongside.

  PART II

  SEPTEMBER

  Beijing, China

  A hush fell over the room as the door opened. Yun kept her eyes down, following the points of her jet-black shoes, modulating the click-clack of stiletto heels on polished floor tiles to maintain an even rhythm. Careful not to falter as she stepped onto silk carpet, moving from a geometric grid of burnt umber to swirling almond and aquamarine curves, her footfall softened to a swish, swish until she reached her seat and stopped.

  A man cleared his throat. Hhggaarrkh. The phlegmy rasp echoed around the cavernous room, punctuated by the ping of spit hitting a copper bowl.

  She mastered her disgust, placing her cerise handbag on the tan surface in front of her, adjusting the long edge to line up with the short side of the wooden table, sat down and bowed her head.

  ‘Madam Yun, thank you for coming.’ The tone was terse, anything but welcoming. ‘I think you know everyone.’

  She raised her eyes slowly, neck muscles straining to lift a head leaden with anxiety, facing her accusers at last. The performance committee, twelve men and one woman, sat at tables set out in a horseshoe around her. The chairman, a civil servant, wore a charcoal-grey business suit. The politician to his left was dressed in a blue tunic and loose trousers, and the woman to his right wore a summer dress patterned with bright flowers of magenta and cinnabar and leaves of viridian green. The other ten wore, like her, police uniform. Only one surprise among the depressingly familiar faces of her superiors: Yan Bing. What was her former deputy doing at her disciplinary hearing? Telling lies again? This could be even worse than she feared.

  Her hands began to tremble; she clasped them together.

  ‘Madam Yun, please state your job role for the record.’

  ‘I am Chief of the Ancient Art Section of the Anti-Smuggling Division of the Ministry of State Security.’

  ‘And your remit?’

  ‘My team are entrusted with preserving the ancient heritage of China for the benefit of the Chinese people.’

  The chair turned to his secretary. ‘Head of the Art Squad.’ Painted fingernails clacked on a keyboard.

  ‘And have you been effective in that role?’

  ‘We have had many successes.’ She began to reel them off. The backpackers caught at the border, their rucksacks stuffed with Neolithic clay pots; the sea containers prevented from leaving with bags of plastic granules insulating Ming dynasty porcelain; the Hong Kong gang caught red-handed in a fishing boat.

  The chair interrupted. ‘Indeed, the committee would like to applaud you for your work.’

  Say one thing, mean the opposite. The eyes of the committee looked away, one after another. Only Yan Bing met her gaze, dark eyes glittering, wrinkling at the corners as his mouth twisted in a smirk.

  ‘Which is why we would like your . . . ahem . . . advice on this matter.’

  The chairman tapped a pistachio-hued file that lay open in front of him and removed a newspaper cutting. Sepia-tinted paper. English characters.

  The Qianlong wedding cup. She hung her head.

  Had it been a mistake to go public? Her vigorous attempts, on behalf of the Chinese government, to have the sale stopped had created headline news and significantly raised the profile of the auction. It had certainly brought it to the attention of her superiors.

  ‘What do you know about the auction of ancient Chinese jade in London last month?’

  All her efforts. Too little, too late. ‘My department used all legal means . . .’

  Yan Bing muttered to his neighbour, loud enough for all to hear, ‘When our treasures have been stolen, what use are legal means?’

  The chair glared at him and held up a hand before contin
uing, his voice low and steely. ‘Tell me the history.’

  ‘The Henan Museum jade collection was originally assembled by the Emperor Qianlong around 1775, although some pieces are much older. It was last seen in Kaifeng in 1937 before Museum Director Wang Jun packed the collection away for safekeeping.’

  She didn’t have to spell out the threat. The Japanese invasion.

  ‘And Wang?’

  ‘He perished soon after, along with the last of his family.’ A tragic tale. His wife and sons died in the war, his daughter during the Great Leap Forward. Wang Jun and his only surviving relative, a granddaughter, drowned in the floods at the end of the Cultural Revolution.

  ‘And yet . . .’ He flicked through the file. ‘It seems that the pieces appeared in the West only very recently.’

  ‘Yes.’ Careful now. ‘At the Drottningholm Palace museum in Sweden, the University Museum in Durham and Museu de Arte Antiga in Lisbon. All acquired pieces from the Qianlong jade collection in the last decade.’

  ‘So where was the collection? Between 1937 and 2000?’

  ‘It’s not clear. But we are working with the museum authorities to return the pieces to China.’

  ‘What about the prize piece, the wedding cup?’

  She dropped her eyes. ‘Unfortunately, that was a private sale. We have not yet identified either the seller or the buyer in order to begin negotiations for recovery. But we are confident—’

  ‘At the start of your tenure,’ the politician sitting to the right of the chair interrupted, ‘we estimated that 1.64 million Chinese antiquities resided in 200 museums in 47 foreign countries. And now?’

  ‘The new figures are disputed . . .’

  ‘How many treasures have you brought back?’

  ‘We are making great progress in Norway, and . . .’ She began to list the countries with treaties under negotiation.

  The politician raised his palms to the ceiling as she tailed off into silence. He turned to the chair. ‘None,’ he barked, and pointed at the secretary. ‘Record that.’ The secretary tapped a single character into the computer.

  A uniformed officer piped up. ‘In fact, the situation has worsened, has it not?’ His thin, reedy voice grated and rasped like a corncrake. ‘For every single treasure you try to recover, thousands more are smuggled out under your nose. Foreigners continue to rape and pillage our heritage. And what do you do? Go to international conferences.’

  A few members of the committee muttered their disapproval.

  She sat forward, hands on the desk in front of her. ‘The bilateral exchange of art treasures requires delicate diplomacy.’

  The ripple running around the room told her she’d made a tactical error. What had Mico told her? Watch your language. Dress it up.

  ‘Delicate diplomacy, bilateral exchange. Hmmm. That is your style, is it not? Perhaps, Madam Yun, it’s time for a different approach. Less careful, gentle and consensual. More vigorous, aggressive and muscular.’

  Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed with anger as she processed the subtext. You have failed because you are a woman. Too soft. Not hard enough. It didn’t matter that she’d made more progress than any of her male predecessors, didn’t matter that they were on the verge of a breakthrough in Europe. No; one bloody public auction in London and everything was her fault.

  She jumped at the snap of paper. ‘Madam Yun.’ The chair closed the file. ‘I believe my comrade is right. It is time to try new ideas and new methods. Perhaps we need new blood.’ His eyes rested on Yan Bing, who gave the briefest of nods.

  Please, no. Anyone but him. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are an artist, are you not?’

  ‘My degree was in fine art, yes.’

  ‘Very impressive.’ His tone said everything but. ‘The Women’s Federation are rolling out a new programme. They have contacted us, asked if you could be released to develop the schools’ ancient art curriculum . . .’

  Her mouth opened in an involuntary Oh!

  ‘In Chongqing.’

  Exile. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘What shall I tell them?’

  ‘Sir, I would be honoured to be considered for such a post.’ Say the opposite of what you mean. ‘However, there are serious internal issues to investigate.’ She looked directly at Yan Bing. ‘And I believe I am the best person to resolve them.’

  The chair waved a hand dismissively. ‘Madam Yun, it’s time for a change. A new approach.’

  That meant Yan Bing. Two could play at his game. What had Mico said? Be bold. It was now or never.

  ‘I know how to get the complete collection back.’

  ‘The Qianlong jade? All of it? Guaranteed?’

  She straightened her back. ‘I guarantee it, sir.’

  ‘How much time?’

  She made a quick calculation. ‘One year.’

  ‘Too long.’ He sighed and waved a hand at the secretary. ‘Write to the All-China Women’s Federation. Inform them that we will give our answer after the Spring Festival.’

  The Spring Festival, only four months away. Impossible. Unless . . .

  ‘Madam Yun, you will focus on this task and this alone. Yan Bing will take over operational duties on a temporary basis.’ Temporary if you succeed. On a permanent basis if you fail.

  She raised her chin and made eye contact. ‘The collection will be back in China before the Lantern Festival.’ The fifteenth day of the Spring Festival.

  And this time she meant exactly what she said.

  For, if she failed, it wasn’t just her life that was over.

  As dusk approached, visibility worsened. Under the Beijing street lights, the smog sent out sulphurous tendrils, ancient orpiment, the King’s yellow, making her eyes water. Darkness fell early in Beijing.

  Yun coughed, dislodging the sharp needles in her nose and throat, and dabbed at her watering eyes.

  ‘You’re late tonight,’ the driver said.

  A tinge of complaint? His job was to drive her wherever she wished. Whenever she wished. A perk of office, one of the few. Her hours were long and unpredictable.

  ‘Busy day?’

  Fishing for information? Perhaps the driver was one of Yan Bing’s cronies. Yan Bing could always count on a loyal following in the force. Notorious for rescuing waifs and strays from juvenile detention, he bypassed normal admission processes to give them police jobs, or placed them undercover as informers and enforcers. One of the many reasons she had removed him from her department. She gripped the armrest as the car swung out of a side road into the Beijing traffic and considered the return of her former deputy. Her nails dug into the soft leather, knuckles whitening as she berated herself. She should have prosecuted him, not offered him a transfer. And now he was back for revenge. Were they right, the performance committee? Had she been too soft in the past? Well, all that was over now.

  As the car nosed into a snarling jam, twenty million people on the move, she ignored the driver and composed herself, softening her work face, slipping into her role as Mimi’s mother.

  Mimi had her whole life ahead of her.

  Or did she? What if her daughter fell into the clutches of the All-China Women’s Federation and their flagship New Era Sunny Women Program, designed to teach women how to dress to please, how to use make-up to entice, how to sit, walk, bow, pour tea, limiting aspiration to homemaking and caring for parents, children and, crucially, husbands?

  The cunning bastards. As personalised torture went, the punishment assignment had a particularly sharp edge. Yun had never made a secret of her feminism; Mao had brought China kicking and screaming into twentieth-century equality and she had made it her personal mission to protect and defend the progress. But now, in the twenty-first century, it was slipping away. Women were being encouraged to take a back seat, to reconnect with older Confucian traditions of beauty and passivity.

  The faint strains of a Shostakovich study filled the stairwell as Yun opened the street door. She listened to Mimi’s cello as s
he waited for the lift. Inside the flat, two paper cartons of noodles sat on the kitchen table, one empty, the other still in its takeaway bag, the throwaway chopsticks facing her in pointed rebuke. The hunger pangs had morphed into something different. She tipped everything into the bin, moving quietly so as not to disturb her daughter’s practice, before tiptoeing to the bedroom. She removed her police uniform, hanging it up in the closet before turning on the shower.

  When she emerged from the steam, wrapped in towels, Mimi was already sitting on her bed.

  ‘What happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘Hi, darling, how was school?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mimi stood to face her; they were almost the same height now. ‘Have you really been sacked?’

  Yun turned away to towel her hair. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You mustn’t let that happen.’ Mimi stamped her foot. ‘I won’t get into the conservatoire.’

  If Yun lost her government job, and her Beijing residency, Mimi would lose her place at the special music school. What sort of a life was there for them in Chongqing? A landlocked industrial megalopolis. Mimi would have to start from scratch.

  ‘Who’s been talking?’

  ‘Jaja and Feng.’ Mimi scowled. ‘I don’t like them any more.’

  ‘It’s just idle gossip. Ignore it. Everything’s fine.’ She smoothed back her damp hair and held out her arms. Mimi stepped into the embrace, reluctant at first, the slight adolescent body crumpling against her mother, dissolving into sobs. Great theatrical sobs.

  ‘All the practice. All for nothing. I can’t bear it.’

  Oh, child, if only you knew. If only you understood. So many worse things in the world to bear.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ The half-truths came easily, a silken river from a newly forked tongue.

  Yun pulled away and held Mimi at arm’s length. Fifteen years old. A child of new China. A girl who had only ever known food on the table, a roof over her head, a soft bed to sleep in, hot water for washing, four grandparents and an extended family to adore her, clothes and shoes whenever she needed them, toys whenever she wanted them, a TV, tablet and smartphone, music lessons, a car to take her to school. Were they spoilt, this new generation? Or was this normality returning, after so many turbulent years?