by Bryan Murphy
there has been a Buddhist temple on the site in one form or another ever since that time. The current Pagoda is only some 400 year old, and other parts of the temple compound were destroyed during the Cultural Revolution and rebuilt in the 1990s. The grounds include miniature gardens and a traditional-style tea house set among quince and pear trees.
As they ascend the main tower, Linehan feels a thirst for Nescola, which, as a beer-dinking man, he has always regarded as akin to piss. Strange thing, jet-lag, he thinks.
Despite it, Linehan feels elated as he climbs the flights of wooden stairs leading up to each of the twelve storeys. The height of new buildings in the old town, whose eastern approaches it oversees, is restricted: they cannot be taller than the Pagoda. Even today, it towers above its surroundings, and affords Linehan and Daniel a fine view, plus a breeze with a hint of the sea. They can enjoy it without the milling tour groups, who have yet to arrive and shatter the peace with their leaders’ competing megaphones.
On the way down, Linehan remarks on the graffiti that disfigure many of the walls. Daniel explains that it is an ancient tradition which the city’s modern inhabitants feel obliged to carry on, in spite of the damage it does. He says that several of the messages etched into the old walls wish the perpetrator a long life in good health. Linehan suggests that instead of making the walls even uglier with placards begging people not to deface them, the authorities simply spread a rumour that defacers will suffer illness and early death.
As they leave, he asks Daniel the meaning of the words scrolling across the electronic board at the entrance.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Just some government propaganda. But don’t watch it.”
“I tried to grasp the gist when we came in, but frankly I couldn’t understand a thing. What’s it about?”
“Actually, I don’t know. We never bother with that stuff these days. And you’d better not, either.”
“Hey, come on. Nobody can brainwash me!”
“It’s not the political message that’s the problem. It’s the subliminal commercial messages. They’re full of them. The government earns billions that way.”
From the Pagoda, Linehan and Daniel stroll through what was left of the old town, admiring the women among the crowds in its narrow lanes. Linehan’s careful investigation ascertains that when they flash from opaque to transparent, it is the women in burkans who reveal more of their bodies. He also notes that Daniel pays more attention to their shoes than to their dresses. In fact, he sees that most of the men in the streets who are at all intrigued by the show are fixing their eyes on the flashing of ankles, insteps and toes.
Linehan tries to call up a vision of Veronica’s feet, but fails. Anyway, he knows her size. He has Daniel take him to the finest local shoe shop, Pieduchy’s, where he buys a pair of the smartest thought-controllable flashing footwear, and has it wrapped.
He is carrying this when they arrive at the Ministry. Linehan leaves the package at the Reception, to avoid being required to offer it to the big-shot as a present for one of his mistresses. Linehan has renounced both giving and receiving such things.
Fei is a tall, thin man dressed in a white suit. His jacket has an ever-orchid in the buttonhole. Fei’s eyes are steely grey. He receives Linehan and Daniel with considered courtesy, and pours the tea himself.
Without mentioning China’s candidature to host the 2030 World Cup, he calls in the plans and models of the ‘Soccer City’ about to be built there in Yingmeng, and lays them in front of Linehan.
“Two years,” he says, “from drawing board to full community and international use.”
Linehan believes him, and is impressed.
“I signed my approval last week. The Asian Under-17 Nations Cup will kick-off there in 20 months’ time. We dearly hope Dr. Splatta will grace us with his presence on that occasion.”
Linehan takes the cue and brings out the photo of the President of the World Football Authority, to which he has added an exact copy of the signature that he has seen so many times. He proffers it to Fei with both hands.
“Dr. Splatta asked me to give you this as a token of his personal esteem.” Fei’s eyes gleam as he takes it, again with both hands.
Can’t hurt anyone, Linehan thinks.
“He also has a personal message for you. Dr. Splatta hopes it will not be necessary for China to mark the First United Nations Day of the Sports International by shooting all those corrupt players and officials in public.”
In other words, there was room for manoeuvre on the day, the victims and the witnesses. Even the method.
Fei sighs. “You urged us to get serious about dealing with corruption in sport. Now that we have got serious, you still complain. That we find hard to understand.”
“We understand your position. Personally, I … wonder about the choice of date.”
“Yes, I do see your point. Actually, the government lost its appetite for public executions years ago, but we have to listen to what the people want.”
Linehan can hardly believe his ears. He was expecting to be met with a stone wall, to have to make empty threats in order to wring marginal concessions from the Minister. Maybe he won’t.
The Minister continues. “We would gladly rescind those sentences, but the public would be unhappy. And the government would look weak.”
So that was the heart of the matter. “I think the world would see an act of clemency as a manifestation of great strength,” Linehan suggests.
“Hmmm. There is a way we might square the circle.”
“Tell me.”
“Go home, Mr. Linehan. I mean back to Zurich. Tell Dr. Splatta and the world that your mission failed. We would not be moved. If you do that, then, within the month, we shall announce China’s intention to mark the First United Nations Day of the Sports International by commuting the sentences of all concerned. Drastically. Teasharer and Avlanjy can go and serve theirs in Brazil. I believe they have some good prison teams there, and some decent open prisons. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and meet the media before laying the foundation stone at Soccer City. Let me know your answer tomorrow.”
Linehan stops at the Reception to collect his package. The receptionist gives him two packages. One holds the shoe-box. The other is smaller.
“What’s this?”
“A small token from the Minister.”
Linehan has an extensive collection of small tokens at home. Since his trip to Padania, he has been passing them on to friends, or selling them and giving the proceeds to good causes.
He pockets it. “The Minister is exceptionally kind.”
Linehan gets Daniel to help him book a flight back to Zurich via London, leaving the next afternoon. While they wait, Linehan unwraps the Minister’s gift. It is a scroll. It looks ancient.
“Genuine,” pronounces Daniel. “You can bet your life on that, from the Minister.”
Linehan has a collector’s heart. It skips a beat. Then another.
“However, no-one is allowed to take antiquities out of China.”
I’m not bloody giving it to you, Linehan thinks, then quickly suppresses the thought. He cannot deny the object’s beauty.
“You are not safe walking in the street with that in your hand. Better let me carry it for you. Or put it inside your shirt.”
Linehan rolls it up and slips it inside his shirt. He feels it cool against his skin, and hopes he will not sweat from nerves or heat.
Daniel wants to take Linehan back to the hotel by taxi, to protect the scroll, but Linehan is keen to see the inside of a Chinese public bus.
Daniel produces a bus pass for Linehan, as well as his own. The bus is crowded but not jam-packed; the passengers are good-natured and vociferous. Nobody gives Linehan a second glance.
Linehan treats Daniel to a beer in the small hotel bar, then bids him good-night. He does not say anything to the two familiar men behind the counter as he passes.
No cards litter the floor of his room. Indeed, the whole room has been thorou
ghly cleaned, including the drawers. His clothes and other personal effects have rarely been in such tidy order. He checks: nothing has been taken.
Linehan strips, showers and goes to bed, but he cannot sleep. Every time he is close to dropping off, the horns of his dilemma prod him awake. Should he accept the Minister’s ultimatum and parade himself as a failure, or should he play hardball, just go back to Zurich and wait for the Minister to back down for the sake of certainty over hosting the 2030 World Cup? The old Linehan would never have risked his own reputation, never mind his job, but the nascent Linehan allows that other people’s lives might be more important than his own image and livelihood.
Veronica has still not been able to call or send him a message. What the hell is going on in Europe? And what, Holy Madonna, to do with the scroll?
The alarm interrupts the little sleep he finally manages to capture. All the same, Linehan feels refreshed and determined. As soon as he has washed and dressed, he phones the Minister. There is no answer. He calls Mo, tells him his decision and asks Mo to convene a press conference, at lunchtime, at which he can announce it. With that taken care of, he starts to pack his things. He has a feeling he has missed something important.
Linehan does not want to make small talk with his interpreter. Instead, he phones the Reception and tells them to send some brunch up to his room. He knows their English is fluent, so he makes no effort to attenuate his North London accent. He never gives a press conference on an