INCARNATION

by Daniel Easterman

  The sun struggled for a bit with a giant patch of cloud, then gave up the struggle and went to sleep for the rest of the day. From the window they could see sheep grazing, cloudlike, against the drab green of nearby fields.

  Tursun was tired and tense. He fretted, wanting his long interrogation to end. After all, he’d told them everything - well, almost everything - and they still weren’t willing to call it a day. Matthew had promised him and his parents a new life in England, and Tursun was eager to take it up. So far, all he’d seen of his promised haven had been an airport, a motorway, and these extraordinary green fields. He’d asked several times for a chance to go out walking, but the answer had always been the same: "Not today, not today".

  ‘Tursun, you really must try harder. I know it isn’t always easy remembering, but what Matthew Hyde told you is important, and we have to be sure we get everything.’

  Pauline Potter sounded exasperated. She too was beginning to wonder whether it might not be time to let the boy go. Except that it wasn’t that easy. She’d filled in a huge form for Requisitions, setting out the case for

  Tursun and his parents to be granted a modest house and an annual stipend in return for important services on behalf of Britain.

  Since then, there’d been five new forms, and any amount of letters from Treasury officials, all taking the line that Britain owed the family nothing (no written agreement, no evidence of contact with the late Mr Hyde; the document supposedly penned by Hyde could have been stolen, and did not, in any case, commit the Treasury to payment of any kind) and that Immigration officials were eager to look into the case, since it appeared that the subject, his father, and his mother had entered the country without official authorization, and that current regulations required their repatriation to China.

  ‘He isn’t listening, Pauline. This whole thing’s gone on too long. He’s only a child, for God’s sake.’ Chris Donaldson leaned back in his chair and lit up yet another strong cigarette.

  ‘He’s more intelligent than a lot of adults I know. He doesn’t smoke, for one thing.’

  ‘Intelligence doesn’t equal maturity.’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter. He knows things only an adult could know. God, I wish you’d stop blowing that smoke in my face.’

  On the table, a tape recorder turned slowly, picking up everything. It could not be switched off without the fact being noted, together with a record of how long it had been switched off for. There were just two of them with Tursun today. Most departments had got what they wanted from him, but Potter and Donaldson hung On in the hope of bringing to light some tiny nuggets squirrelled away in the boy’s memory.

  ‘I’ll finish it off outside,’ said Donaldson. ‘That should keep you happy.’

  Strictly speaking, there were always meant to be at least two individuals in charge of the debriefing. But Tursun wasn’t exactly a double agent on the run. Pauline nodded, and Donaldson went out.

  Tursun looked at her, as though seeing her for the first time. She had a kind face, though he knew she could badger him as hard as anyone in an effort to extract more answers. How old was she? Fifty or so, he guessed. But he’d heard that women here aged better than they did in Sinkiang, where the hot sun and heavy work laid years on them before they’d even grown up.

  ‘Tell me more about your school,’ she said, ‘the special school where you were trained in English.’

  He began to talk about the different compounds, the English enclosure that had everything down to Andrex toilet paper and Bovril. While he talked, he reached for a pad of paper and began writing. She watched his hand move. His gestures and facial expressions fascinated her, made her wish she’d had a child of her own. Instead, she had a nephew up in Yorkshire called Brian. Brian did not fascinate her. He was dull and surly, and his infrequent visits left her cold.

  Tursun tore the sheet off the pad and pushed it across the table. He went on talking all the time.

  ‘We used to watch English television programmes. Some were on satellite. The others had been recorded. I used to like Fawlty Towers.’

  She picked up the paper. Seven words, that was all. She read them in an instant, but it took several seconds more for their significance to sink in, and when it did she felt sick. "There is a traitor within China Desk", the note read. That was all.

  She looked at Tursun, and he looked at her, very serious now, not a little boy any longer. She wantedto take him out of here, and hold him in her arms, and comfort him. What had he been through, what was he going through now?

  ‘Some of the other children liked the music programmes, but I thought they were rubbish.’

  ‘Did you ever watch any soap operas? Coronation Street? EastEnders?

  ‘When I could, yes, I ...’

  The door opened, and Donaldson came back in. Pauline crumpled the sheet of paper in one hand and slid the ball into her jacket pocket.

  ‘Tursun’s been telling me about his school,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s get back to Operation Hong Cha, if you don’t mind,’ said Donaldson. He sat down and smiled at Tursun.

  There was a booming sound as a jet fighter rushed past overhead, followed by a second and a third. They were much lower than usual.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Urumchi, Sinkiang Province

  At two o’clock, David delivered his paper to a soporific audience, most of whom had drunk copious amounts of alcohol over lunch. When his ordeal was over, there was another short break, during which he politely walked away from anyone who showed more than a passing interest in the paper and its arcane contents. He thought himself very lucky when one of the participants chose the next session to have a heart attack. Considering that the room was full of doctors, it was astonishing just how much panic ensued when the man keeled over. David took the opportunity to slip outside unnoticed.

  He was still at the entrance, making up his mind where to go next, when Nabila appeared out of nowhere. She’d been in the room, smiling appreciatively throughout his paper, clapping loudly at the end.

  ‘How do you think it went?’ he asked, offering her a cigarette. It was the last in a packet of Benson & Hedges. There wouldn’t be any more unless a miracle happened.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said, shaking her head. He slipped the packet back into his pocket.

  ‘The paper was dreadful,’ she said. ‘You mispronounced “hepatosplenomegaly”. And you forgot to point out that shu-hsin-mu and hsiao la-liu are just synonyms for a plant called nu-chen.’

  ‘Waxy privet.’

  She smiled broadly.

  ‘So, you do know something.’

  ‘A little. That wasn’t my fault anyway. Dr Khan didn’t bother to put it in his paper. Did I tell you he’s actually a fraud?’

  ‘Really? That explains quite a few things about what he wrote.’

  ‘I’m sure I improved on it. My Chinese must be better than his.’

  She looked round. A soldier on a motorcycle went past. In the sky above, a helicopter moved back and forwards slowly.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk?’ she asked.

  He looked at her, mildly surprised. It was hardly considered proper for a Uighur Muslim woman to issue casual invitations to strange men. Sinkiang wasn’t Iran or Afghanistan, but the fundamentalists were gaining ground in the south, and veils had started to appear even here in Urumchi.

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’d like to get away from the conference for a while.’

  They set off together, walking down to the market streets that ran east off the city’s main drag. The Uighur traders were concentrated in and around a street called Jiefang Nan Lu. David remembered it vividly from previous visits. Something about it had changed, he wasn’t sure what. The markets were as animated as ever, the traders’ cries as sharp; but something in their manner or their eyes was different.

  ‘How did you come to learn Chinese?’ she asked. They were looking over a little stall selling Pakistani cloth. ‘I mean, I can understand your knowing Uighur if yo
ur mother came from Sinkiang. But very few Uighurs your age speak Mandarin. I bet your mother didn’t.’

  ‘Let’s just say ...’

  ‘Let’s just say you’re a spy and be done with it.’

  ‘I’d say you’re very quick to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘You have to be because ...’ Her voice changed suddenly. She picked up a length of fabric. ‘Have you seen this? The pattern’s originally from Persia. It travelled here from Central Asia along the Silk Road. Now they make it in Lahore for the Sinkiang market.’

  ‘It’s very pretty,’ he said, thinking it over-coloured and vulgar. He wondered why she’d changed the subject so abruptly. Then he caught sight of the plain-clothes policeman sauntering towards them. He didn’t smile or otherwise show any sign of recognition, but David was sure he was one of the two men who’d watched Nabila and himself enter the hotel the night before. Despite the heat, he wore the regulation trenchcoat and a pair of sunglasses. David was convinced that China’s secret police had kitted themselves out with props from a bad gangster movie.

  They walked on to a stand selling Yengisar knives. The bright blades shivered in the light. David took a single backward glance. The plain-clothes man was standing still now, watching them. The stalls near him had grown silent. No one bought or sold.

  I’m sorry,’ Nabila said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  'The policeman. It’s not you he’s interested in, it’s me.’

  ‘You? How can you know that?’

  ‘I’m used to being followed. It hasn’t been too bad recently, but ...’ Her lips tightened into a grimace. 'They know about my paper for the conference. My office has been broken into three times since I registered. They’ve never found anything, because I’ve kept my draft somewhere else. I submitted a different paper to the regional Security Bureau, but that’s not what I’ll be reading tomorrow. I think they’re expecting me to smuggle in a few extra pages.’

  ‘I don’t understand this. What possible interest would a medical paper have for the security apparatus? Are you planning to give away state secrets?’

  She led him away from the stalls, away from the market, strolling east towards Nanmen Square and the Shaanshi Mosque.

  ‘I’m not sure. My paper deals with the deaths I mentioned. I discuss various treatments I’ve tried with patients showing that range of symptoms. It’s disastrous, really, because not one patient has ever survived. I think the cause of the condition may be man-made. Emissions from a factory, perhaps. That would get the authorities interested in what I had to say, especially if the factory had paid a lot of money to the local authorities.’

  She looked at him sadly, half-expecting him to rebuff her. When he still said nothing, she tackled him directly.

  ‘You said you might be able to help. Was that true? Or were you just saying it so I’d still take you to Kashgar?’

  The mosque appeared ahead of them, its Chinese roof of green tiles topped by a high crescent. Out of nowhere, a cloud came wandering across the sky, utterly lost, utterly pointless.

  ‘Nabila, I honestly don’t know whether I can help you or not. Maybe. I hope so. But it all depends. I have an idea your deaths could be linked to my reason for being in Sinkiang, but ...'

  ‘Then you are a spy.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I think that’s something better left alone. For both our sakes. One thing I can promise you. Back in England, I have access to the best laboratories. I can have your findings examined by people who can help you, whatever the problem. That’s a promise.’

  She looked at him, still uncertain whether she could trust him or not. But what did it matter? She’d learned that you didn’t get very far by worrying whether somebody was going to keep their promises.

  ‘Do you really speak much Chinese?’ she asked.

  ‘Tian bu pa,’ he said, ‘di bu pa, jiu pa yangguizi shuo Zhongguoh ua.’

  She burst out laughing and clapped noisily, drawing the attention of several passers-by. He’d quoted an old proverb, "I’m not afraid of heaven, I’m not afraid of earth: the only thing I am afraid of is foreign devils speaking Chinese."

  ‘Ni zhen shi didao de Zhongguotong! You’re a real China hand,’ she exclaimed. ‘But you still haven’t told me where all this erudition came from.’

  He laughed and told her about his father. There seemed to be more people than usual milling about the mosque, but it wasn’t even one of the five times for prayer. The stallholders outside, selling Korans, tafsirs, and books on religious law were doing a roaring trade. One old man sat a little apart selling piddling-tubes, little pipes that mothers used to let their infants pee down their trouser leg. David had always considered them a wonderful invention. He sneezed twice and decided to take another tablet.

  They made for a small cafe nearby, and sat down to have cold drinks. There was no beer available this close to the mosque. David ordered a glass of bingshui, Nabila asked for a drink of ice, yoghurt, and honey.

  As they sat and talked, a mood came stealing over the city, quietly, as if a curtain was falling all around. David looked into the street from time to time, and he sensed a tension in the air, like the tension before thunder. He felt that others were aware of it as well. One old man kept glancing into the street, another, his eyes hidden behind large quartz glasses, would lift his head occasionally and stare ahead of him. Their glances were not casual, but intent, as though they expected something.

  David ordered chrysanthemum tea, and Nabila dark tea from a pressed brick. The kutkuchi brought little cakes on a patterned plate. David bit into one and felt it tremble in his mouth as it crumbled and dissolved. It tasted sweet, then there was nothing.

  ‘Are you married?’ Nabila asked.

  He followed her gaze and realized he’d kept his wedding ring on.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Technically, yes. The divorce proceedings have already started.’

  ‘Does that take long in England?’

  ‘Not very.’

  He twisted the ring idly for a few moments, then pulled at it. It would not pass over his knuckle at first, but a few more gentle tugs and it was free. He hesitated for a second, then put it down on the table in front of her.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s yours. It means nothing to me any more. I’m sure you can have it made into something decent.’

  She shook her head violently. Her cheeks had reddened, and she seemed upset.

  ‘No,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘I can’t take such a thing. I don’t want a present that means nothing to you.’

  She pushed the little ring back across the table, and he picked it up, embarrassed, and put it in his pocket.

  There was a palpable stillness over everything, as though every door and roof and wall had been painted with it. Glancing out again, David noticed that the street was no longer filled with bustling crowds. Behind a window on the other side, he saw a Chinese face peering out nervously.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  1 don’t know. But you’re right, there is something. I’ve been aware of it myself. What day is it?’

  He glanced up at a calendar behind the counter.

  ‘Seventh of July,’ he said.

  ‘It can’t be that. Unless. What’s the Muslim date?’

  ‘Let me see. Eleventh of Rabiyul Awwal.’

  She nodded and stared out into the street.

  ‘I’ve been so busy getting ready for the conference, I’ve been doing everything in Chinese dates. I’d completely forgotten that tomorrow’s the birthday of the Prophet. I think there may be trouble.’

  He knew what she was referring to by "trouble". The Muslims of Sinkiang had been struggling for a long time to put an end to Chinese rule, and to create a Republic of East Turkestan. In the past few years, there had been small rebellions, and any number of riots in the towns, all of them put down violently.

  For over a year now, Muslim resistance had been hardening. One of David’s colleagues had monitored five heavy-arms
shipments in the past six months, three via Pakistan, over the tightly guarded Khunjerab Pass. two from Tajikistan. The weapons had been bought in Afghanistan with Iranian money.

  ‘Nice little weapons, David,’ his friend had said, drooling over the computer printout. ‘Assault rifles, night-sights, grenade launchers, sniper’s rifles. State of the art, straight from Belgium and France, a doddle to use if you’ve got the skill, and who hasn’t these days?’

  Now, he wondered how many had turned up in Urumchi.

  ‘I think we should head back to the conference,’ he said.

  She hesitated, reluctant to leave what seemed to be a safe haven. But as yet there was no sound of angry crowds, no vibration from heavy engines, and she thought his suggestion might be a good one.

  They paid and hurried out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The street outside was almost deserted now. David decided that the best thing to do was head for the main Chinese thoroughfare, which would take them away from the Uighur district and back up towards the Holiday Inn.

  A loudspeaker was droning a few streets away. David could make out very little. The language was Uighur, the voice a man’s. It was not a young voice. As they turned a corner, the sound suddenly clarified, and David realized there must be more than one speaker.

  ‘It’s coming from the mosque,’ said Nabila. ‘I think it’s just some sort of event in preparation for tomorrow’s festival.’

  They turned another corner and saw the Shaanshi Mosque ahead of them at one end of a broad square. All the Koran-vendors and sellers of piddling-tubes had vanished. The square was empty, but for pigeons strutting back and forwards in search of bread. David sensed that the mosque itself must be filled to overflowing.

  The loudspeakers were perfectly audible here. The voice was that of the ahun, rising and falling in the lilting manner peculiar to his profession.

  ‘They do not pray, they do not fast, they do not give alms. Their only pilgrimage is to the village of Mao Tse-tung. Their only marriage is with prostitutes and lewd women. They call themselves Communists and atheists, and mock their Creator. They bring their vices with them from Peking and Shanghai to the land of Islam. Gambling, alcohol, prostitution, contraception.