-- Don’t do that again!
-- I’m bored. And you always start to tell me things and I never hear the end.
-- Yeah, okay. You mean what I wanted to talk to you about last time. You should know about multiple uni
And just like that Yifan was back in her bed and getting really frustrated that whenever something big was to be given her it was always interrupted.
*
At the start of the long summer holiday Ji Ye and John noticed that Yifan had become a little withdrawn; a little sullen, even. They tried to entice her with food, particularly ice-cream, and with trips to the beach. And they questioned one another to find out which one had made Yifan feel unhappy. But of course, neither of them had done anything.
Yifan was unhappy because some time in the future she would sign away her right to be a Princess. She and Ji Ye would no longer be able to become Queen of China. And after all she had gone through! Being shot at! Being in hospital! Of course, these things had not happened to her yet, but she knew that they would happen, and so they hurt her very much, before the event.
And there was the mystery of Vicky’s last words – “You should know about Multiple Uni.” Yifan had tried subtly to get some sense out of John while they were all soaking up the sun on a hotel terrace in Broadstairs.
“What’s Multiple Uni?” she enquired, as John, holding a fresh glass of beer, was relaxing into a flimsy plastic chair that looked as if it was about to complain about his weight.
“What?” said John, who was getting a little bit deaf.
Yifan repeated her words and John thought for a second or two.
“Don’t know. Well, it could be… What’s the context? Where did you hear the words?”
Of course, Yifan couldn’t tell the truth. She mumbled that she had heard someone say it at school.
“Probably it’s someone who has had offers from several Universities,” mused John. He shifted, and the chair creaked. Yifan moved away slightly, in case it broke. “Or it could be – was that the whole of the phrase? Or was there more?”
Yifan averred that there could have been more words, but that she had only heard Multiple Uni. So John wiggled a little, making the chair moan loudly, and launched into a long exposition about a thing called Multiple Universe Theory, which apparently he didn’t believe in, but found interesting.
It was not interesting to Yifan. It was not interesting to Ji Ye, who leaned over from her sunbed to listen for a second, then made a face and returned to sunbathing and playing with her phone.
So John’s wise words became merely sighs in the breeze, and Yifan continued to think that her future would consist of competing offers from several Universities, probably accompanied by presents.
She would go for the one that gave her a horse.
*
In the days that followed their abdication Ji Ye and Vicky watched themselves on television and read about themselves in newspapers. The street outside Ji Ye’s house had for a while sprouted a few knots of photographers, who had disappeared during a rainstorm and not bothered to come back. They had been invited onto a breakfast-time chat show, but neither wanted to get out of bed so early, and then onto an evening chat show, which Ji Ye declined and Vicky accepted.
The experience of being in a television studio was novel. The cameras were aerodrones the size of dinner-plates manipulated by cameramen using ringpads, which nowadays were the normal method for controlling everything from mobile phones to computers and heavy machinery. Everyone had the finger-rings and wearable computers that allowed them to type and stab at the air like musicians who had failed to notice that they had lost their instruments, but it was very bad manners to use them while you were talking to a (rather handsome) interviewer in front of millions of people.
Vicky was now thirty years old, and her childhood would normally have been far back in her memory if it had not been for the occasional appearance of Yifan in her mind. She owned her own horse, and her own apartment, and worked for the Archaeology department of Cambridge University. She was confident and spoke well in the interview, describing how she had found the small pot when she was a teenager, and the thrill of finding out all about it from the British Museum; and then the big China exhibition in which it featured, and how then the mystery of who owned it had dragged on for years, until the pot had been sent on loan to the National Cultural Museum in China together with the genealogy and their connection had been discovered.
And then the political fracas, the attempts at persuasion from China and Taiwan and various groups of several degrees of insanity; the assassination attempts; and then finally the accommodation a few days before, at which Yifan had been a bored spectator (although Vicky did not mention this).
The interview contained a few funny jokes. It was good-humoured and did not sensationalise things too much. All in all Vicky was happy with it and left the studios in a good mood, nodding to the security guard as she drove out of the car park. And as she drove home, she thought about Yifan.
Yifan was obviously not from Vicky’s childhood. Most of what she knew from Yifan’s conversations matched with her own memories, but there were some things which Vicky very definitely knew had not happened in the same way, or even at all. And besides, Vicky had no memory of ever having been inside her own head in the way that Yifan was inside hers.
So who was Yifan?
Vicky thought that she knew the answer. She had tried to tell Yifan the last time they had been together, but the connection had broken at a crucial point. Perhaps Yifan would get it, or perhaps she would ask John (and get a long lecture which could put her off), or maybe look it up online. Whatever, it was Yifan’s problem, not Vicky’s.
Then her phone rang, and she had an enjoyable conversation with Ji Ye as she drove through the darkened lanes to Cambridge, the car sensing her mood and stretching out the seat so that Vicky could recline and chat in comfort. There was no need to steer; the Roads Agency’s anti-virus was very strong, and no-one had been able to hack traffic for two or three years. So the silent car swept safely through the night at eighty miles an hour and Vicky listened to her mother’s account of the television appearance.
“When you talked about the people who shot at you in New Mexico, I nearly died!” said Ji Ye. “You never told me about that. Fancy me having to hear about it on TV.”
“It honestly slipped my mind,” Vicky lied smoothly. “I was on that trip for ages after that, and I just… well… forgot.”
“A likely story. Anyway, it was good of you to stay with us these few days. You’re going back home now?”
“Nearly there.” And indeed the car was slowing and turning into her parking space. The conversation continued all the way into her apartment. “What about John?”
“He watched with me. He laughed all the time. He said you were very funny.”
“Cheek! Anyway, he’s never funny, so he’s no judge.” She pulled milk and cheese from the fridge and asked the bread bin for a crusty buttered roll. In two minutes she was lounging on the sofa with supper by her side, watching herself on TV while she and her mum chatted about things which concerned only themselves.
*
The end of the school year had brought showers, as everybody knew it would. It was during one of those that news of the Chinese Exhibition at the British Museum had been announced. This would not have been noticed by Yifan, but John listened to a very talky radio station which was full of announcements like that. And on that same evening Mister Ji rang Ji Ye and told her that he had given Professor Steller permission to display the pot.
“She assured me our names would not be revealed,” he explained, “and I think it really needs to be shown. It’s something rare from our history, and I can’t see that it would do any harm.”
Ji Ye nodded down the phone, and agreed with him that it could do no harm to them. When she told John he made a note to call the Museum and check what exactly was going to be shown – the list of names could lead investigators right to Miste
r Ji’s family.
In the event, the Professor was very reassuring. The list had to be shown, but only the earliest part of it would be able to be seen. The pot would be labelled as having been loaned to the exhibition by an anonymous owner. No-one in the Museum other than Professor Steller and Doctor Parfew knew their names and addresses, and those details were not recorded on the Museum’s computer systems.
“We know there are political ramifications surrounding this object,” said the Professor over the phone. “If there are any enquiries about the owner, we’ll contact Mister Ji and ask him what he would like to do. Then it’s up to him if he wants to contact the enquirer.”
This was satisfactory. Even more satisfactory were the free tickets to the Preview Day that arrived on the doormat a few days later. Mister Ji confirmed that he had received some too, and it was resolved that he and Mrs Ji would come over and stay a few days, and they would all go to the exhibition together when it opened at the beginning of July.
Surprisingly, this seemed to Yifan to be quite boring. She had been to the British Museum before, and she had handled the pot, and she knew from Vicky what was going to happen. She felt cheated out of her Princess-ship, and really didn’t want to go and look at the stupid thing again.
John suggested that they should not show any greater interest in the pot than any other people there, in case they were being watched. But in the event, the pot was by far the most interesting exhibit – they could not get near the case for the press of people all wanting to see it, half of it glowing golden in the spotlights, the other half still dull with its clay disguise. Behind it was the scroll, its later names hidden as it curled around a cunningly-designed Perspex stand. The family were all very impressed; even Yifan was fascinated, and found it hard to tear her eyes away from it. I found it, she thought. Of all the people here, I’m the one who brought it out of the darkness for all of us to see.
It made her feel very proud, and very important. She even at that point felt that she wanted to become an archaeologist, and change her name to Vicky.
They saw Professor Steller in the press of visitors, talking animatedly with two Chinese men. One obviously was wearing his best suit, which still looked shabby; the other was wearing an expensive Armani. Ji Ye whispered that one was probably an archaeologist and the other a politician – could Yifan guess which?
Yifan could guess, and immediately changed her mind and decided to become a politician.
Professor Steller looked around the crowd and saw them – and Yifan felt a moment of pain as John’s hand tightened on hers. But the Professor’s eyes did not rest on them at all, and she gave no sign to her guests. Well done Professor, thought Yifan.
They sauntered around the exhibition, pointing at beautiful things from ancient China, listening to John explain the purpose of some strange object or other, and then Ji Ye would tell the party what it really was. But the cabinet with Princess Aster’s lamp kept drawing them back. The lustre of pure gold, the precision of the incised Chinese glyphs that named a girl gone so many centuries, made Yifan think back to that time, to imagine being that Princess. Would Princess Aster have been entombed alive in the mysterious hill-tomb in Xi’an when her father had died? Had she escaped that fate? How? Did she flee from her brothers, did she run to the mountains, did she live the rest of her life with her husband and children in peace, or in fear? Yifan loved to watch the romantic Chinese television programmes about the Princesses of old, their hardships and their triumphs, their loves and their families. To be female in the court of an Emperor was to be all but ignored by the men, unless they fell in love with you, or you held a political key – usually a child. The threat of death, disgrace or exile was not far away from a woman of rank, in ancient China.
They did not eat lunch until they were far from the Museum, in case some Chinese official should overhear them. And it was an Italian restaurant, which pleased Yifan. Spaghetti was like noodles, and with a simple tomato sauce and a generous sprinkling of grated cheese was her favourite dish.
Ji Ye had seafood pasta, and John had a Carbonara, which he said was not as good as the ones from his favourite Ristorante Senza Nome… But then he ate it all, which only proved that he just liked to moan.
Mister Ji had a steak, and Mrs Ji had a vegetable dish that smelled wonderful, and which Yifan stole from. Then she could not finish her own dish, and had to suffer an exasperated lecture from John about wasting food. But she still got dessert.
And when the creamy zabaglione was plonked down in front of her, she found herself snatched away.
-- Awwwwwww, said Yifan.
The light was bright, and there were people in front of her, and a camera, and desert behind. Then something hit her hard on the foot.
-- Ow!
-- Oh, for heaven’s sake!
“Are you OK, luv?” asked a dark woman in flowery shorts and an olive-green skinny top.
“I’m fine, sorry, just forgot my lines for a moment,” said Vicky, bending down to pick up the skull which Yifan had caused to drop on her toes.
-- Sorry, Yifan whispered.
-- You don’t have to whisper, they can’t hear you, said Vicky, dusting the skull with a handful of paper tissues.
-- Urgh! A skull!
The skull dropped again, and Vicky said a very rude word, out loud. The man behind the camera sniggered, and the woman in the flowery shorts let out a howl of a laugh and bent over double with her arms across her stomach, as if she needed to keep from splitting.
“One more time, darlin’, and you’ll be on the telly all right – but it won’t be THIS programme!”
-- Stop faffing about, said Vicky, yet again picking up the (-- skull, thought Yifan, it’s somebody’s old head…) skull, dusting it, presenting it to the camera…
“Everybody settle down,” said the woman in flowery shorts, who was the Director. She made a visible effort to straighten her face. “You okay, Doctor Shen? Then... Action.”
Vicky held out the skull in one hand, gazed down at it, looked back at the camera and said,
“This skull is over thirteen thousand years old…”
“It’s not new, then,” came the clear voice of the cameraman. “That’s all right.”
And the whole party exploded in laughter.
Yifan settled down in Vicky’s head and watched the laborious process of making a piece to camera. Everyone seemed very jolly and casual, and no-one seemed to mind if Vicky got it wrong. It was almost as if they were making a comedy.
Vicky was droning on about the skull, and Yifan sulked a little about her dessert. It would still be there when she got back – but what if more than a fraction of a second went by? She would be asleep, and her head would slump forward, and she would end up with her face in zabaglione, and she would drown…
“Cut. That’s a wrap. Well done, luv” said the Director, picking up a bottle of water. The cameraman powered down his equipment and sat in a folding chair underneath a large parasol, and Vicky joined him in another after she had – carefully – put down the skull.
“Very good,” said the cameraman. “I especially enjoyed your display of footballing skills with Geoff.”
-- Geoff?
-- The skull.
-- Yuck… Why Geoff?
-- Why not? He must have had a name some time.
Yifan gave up and fretted about having her head in a creamy pudding.
When the Director joined them, having reviewed the recording, it became apparent that she and the cameraman were partners. They had been contracted by a production company to film the location portions of this programme on archaeology, and it was increasingly obvious that Vicky was the star of the show.
-- I got an offer after I appeared on a chat show, explained Vicky.
-- It’s hot, Yifan replied.
And it was. Vicky got up and walked around the site, allowing Yifan to see the extent of the excavation, the surface details of low, eroded ramparts that baked in the desert heat. Not so far away
was a town, shimmering in the rising air, and closer a string of camels was being led past a dusty petrol station by a young boy in a white robe.
In the other direction the Land Rovers were parked up off the road, with two robed drivers leaning against them on the shady side. One of them was smoking an electronic cigarette which glowed blue every time he took a puff, and the other was intent on his mobile phone.
-- You’re a TV star, then.
-- Yes. Well, I will be, when it goes out. Maybe.
-- You keep trying to tell me something, but I always go away before you can.
-- Ah! Glad you reminded me. You should know that this is not necessarily your future.
-- Then what is it? Cos it looks like it to me. And I found the lamp, and now I’m a Princess, and everything! So what do you mean?
-- There are many possible futures, in a sense. Or you may say that there are many possible worlds. You aren’t travelling in time, but you are travelling between different realities.
-- Now you sound like John, grumped Yifan. She found Science boring, and this definitely was Science.
-- He would understand it. He does understand it, here, in my world. What you told me about yourself doesn’t match what I remember about my childhood and what happened about the lamp. So it’s obvious that you aren’t from my past; and I can’t really say anything about your future. You may not become an archaeologist, for example.
-- That’s good!
-- Charming.
-- No no, I mean, you’re good at it, but I would probably just be average at it. I mean, digging and skulls…
Yifan had thought a lot about being an archaeologist, recently, and although she liked the treasure, she did not particularly like the skulls. And she really did not like the idea of digging.
-- Well, if you’re quite sure. Anyway; whatever happens in your life, just remember that it isn’t going to be the same as you see now.
-- Okay.
Yifan felt a vague sense of disappointment. On the one hand she was happy that she could now choose what her life would be like in the future, but on the other she liked Vicky’s life, she could imagine living it, having some cute boyfriend, being a TV star, owning a horse…
Princess Yifan Page 5