“I remember it now as clearly as if it happened yesterday. When I got the box out for him, he shouted at me with a heavy accent—possibly Henan, I don’t know—‘Careful, careful, terribly valuable.’
“They all think they’ve got this gold or that treasure, when in fact it’s not worth a dime. We get a lot of people like that coming through here. Do you know that our West Station is the largest in Asia? Sometimes there are three of us; sometimes, like today, just two. People don’t know what’s going on, they don’t understand or are too stupid, they are late and want their things. They curse and try to give us orders. We serve the people, but we are not servants.”
Her eyes glowed as she became more and more animated. “As I was saying, I got pretty angry. I put the box on the counter and asked him to sign the release. He went crazy, screaming, ‘Heavens, don’t slam it!’ I didn’t even put it down with a heavy hand. I’d had it up to here.” She lifted her right arm and hit her chin with the back of her hand. “So I told him to read the notice on the wall: DEPOSIT AT YOUR OWN RISK. THE WEST STATION IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY DAMAGES.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, nothing. The person who was with him told him they had to go. So they took the box and left.”
Mei looked up. “He had a friend with him? Was he someone quite muscular with a crew cut?”
“No.” The woman shook her head. “It was a young girl.”
“A young girl?” Mei had not expected this. “What kind of girl? How old was she?”
“Maybe eighteen. You know, the kind with permed hair and a lot of makeup; a slut.”
“Was she a Beijinger?”
“If she had an accent, I didn’t notice it.”
Mei breathed deeply. She’d heard all she wanted to hear. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” she said. “Keep what we’ve talked about to yourself, understand?”
“No sweat. It’s our duty to help comrades from the Bureau.” The woman got up and shook hands. Mei noticed that the woman’s hand was trembling with excitement.
After she left, Mr. Tang came back in. A cigarette was attached to his fingers like an additional limb. He studied Mei thoughtfully.
She said, “Thank you, Mr. Tang. I won’t trouble you any longer.” As she touched his bony yellow hand, Mei felt a chill in her spine.
SEVENTEEN
THOUGH THE GOVERNMENT REQUIRED everyone who planned to stay in Beijing for over three days to register with the police, plenty of people didn’t. Someone like Zhang Hong certainly wouldn’t have. Even if she used his identity card number, it was unlikely that Mei would be able to trace him through police records.
But the news that he was with a Beijing girl was promising. The fact that the girl had known Zhang Hong before he sold the antique suggested that she might be someone who worked in the area, perhaps a waitress or a chambermaid. He had probably boasted about the money he was going to get, and made her promises.
Mei watched her back as she walked into the unlit streets a couple of blocks away from the station. Here, the narrow alleyways and courtyard houses of old Beijing had been replaced by reinforced concrete erected in the fifties and sixties when the government steamrolled the New Five-Year Plans. Now these buildings stood laced with time’s decay. Soon they would be knocked down to make way for a new vision.
The night had become dangerous and cold. There were faint murmurs rustling behind old piles of furniture. Figures moved soundlessly in the shadows. A yellow lightbulb hung over the entrance to a small guesthouse, illuminating a sign saying NO VACANCIES.
The guesthouse was a two-story building with gray plastered walls. It was an extension of some kind, probably built in a hurry from poor materials. Mei could not tell from what it had extended or what other purpose it might have served. Somewhere to the right, on the first floor, a pale glow wavered behind a window.
An old woman was sitting at the reception desk knitting the sleeve of a very small sweater. Every now and then, she crossed the knitting needles and laid the sweater on her lap; then she measured the length of the sleeve using the distance between her thumb and middle finger.
“For your waisun—your daughter’s son?” Mei asked. The sight of the tiny woolly sweater and the woman’s face made Mei think of her mother.
“No, for my sunzi—my son’s son!” The woman spoke in soft southern accent, a sound like clear water running through green streams. Pride filled her wrinkles.
“How old is he?”
“Oh, no. He is not born yet.” The woman stroked the sweater as if it were a child. “But if he is anything like his father, he will be a big baby.”
“You know for sure it’s going to be a boy?”
“It’s a boy, all right. My daughter-in-law is carrying her tummy pointing forward. It’s definitely a boy.” The woman nodded with reinforced confidence. “Everyone says so.”
“Big Mother is very lucky,” Mei said, glad to see a happy face.
“What can I do for you, my child?” asked the smiling woman.
“Where can one get a bite to eat around here?”
“There are some night cafés two blocks up. But not all of them are clean, know what I mean? Go to my daughter-in-law’s place, called Lai Chun—Coming of Spring.” The woman put her knitting in a basket and got up from her chair. She was small, and she moved with quick hands and light feet. This was a woman who liked to work, and work had kept her looking youthful.
“My son is at the restaurant helping out. Could you take a word to him for me? His name is Lao Da. Tell him that I’m getting tired. He should come back and close down the reception desk for the night.”
“Is this your son’s hotel?”
“Goodness, no. We don’t have that kind of money. It belongs to my cousin—my son’s second uncle. My son is just looking after it, helping to manage the place, so to speak. It’s a good deal. We get to come to Beijing, and we have a room here for free. Lai Chun is theirs, a nice little business. My daughter-in-law is a very good cook. They call her Wonton Queen. She used to help my son here, doing the cleaning. Now she runs the restaurant. She’s an able woman, that daughter-in-law of mine. When it’s not busy here, my son goes over to help her. They’re trying to pay back their debts as quickly as they can and eventually buy out his second uncle.”
The woman stood under the single yellow light and pointed the way. Mei thanked her and stepped again into the darkness.
Farther down the street, Mei found herself on the corner of a dirty alley, just as the old woman had described. It was like another world. The alley smelled of both urine and food. On the right it was dark, walled in by small huts with tar roofs. At the base of the wall were piles of dirt, loose bricks, trash, and scrap metal from old woks or bicycles. Similar huts lined the left side of the alley, but these were front-facing, brightly lit, and noisy. They were the night cafés where most hotel guests came to spend their evenings.
Mei walked through the yellow glow that leaked from the windows. Her shadow on the wall was long and bent. Most of the windows were steamed up, obscuring the figures moving inside.
One of the doors opened. A young man carried out a basin of dirty water and dumped it by the wall. He stared at Mei long enough to make her uncomfortable.
Lai Chun was near the bottom of the alley. It was a small but airy place, with white plastic tables and plastic chairs. There were about a dozen customers eating noisily from large soup bowls. A young man with fast feet shuttled between the tables and the kitchen, which was concealed behind a floral curtain. He had the same happy expression as the old woman at the guesthouse.
“Boss, soy sauce!” one of the customers called out.
Almost running, the young man delivered the sauce bottle, leaving it on the table and turning to Mei. “Sorry, we haven’t a free table, five minutes, please wait, I will get you a table in five minutes.” He talked fast, too.
“I’m all right. Your mother wanted me to give you a word,” Mei said.
“
My mother?” He stopped buzzing.
“She said she’s tired and that you can go back and close down the reception desk. Nothing is happening.”
My mother? questioned his eyes. They were bright and cheerful.
“Yes, your mother. Aren’t you Lao Da? I’ve just come from the guesthouse.”
He laughed as if something had just clicked. “Yes,” he said. “My mother wants me to close down the reception desk. Thanks.” He hurried back to the kitchen, sweeping up empty bowls and dirty chopsticks as he went.
After he had left, the curtain to the kitchen parted and a heavily pregnant woman came out, drying her hands on the apron. She greeted the regulars with “Old Huang” or “Uncle Ma.”
“Wonton Queen, take a break,” they told her.
She gleamed. “I’m fine. Eat slowly.” She bowed at her customers as she passed them.
She brought over a chair for Mei. “Thanks, Big Sister, for the message. Lao Da usually drops back to check on Ma, but we have been busy tonight. The rush is finished now, though. These are the people who just got in on the night train, no more. Do you mind sitting here? Let me make you some of my special wonton.”
“That’d be good. I’m famished.” Mei smiled.
“Good.” She slapped her hands together. Her cheeks were blotched with brown pregnancy spots, yet Mei found it hard to imagine a face more pleasing.
The wonton was divine. The wrappings were made from paper-thin egg sheets and hand-rolled over fillings of fresh meat and seafood. They melted in Mei’s mouth. The soup base was so flavorful, she thought, it must have come from bones that had been boiled patiently for days over a slow fire.
Lao Da returned and went into the kitchen. Wonton Queen came to sit by Mei, asking her how she liked the dish. In the background, the regulars were drinking rice wine and chatting.
“Delicious, the best I’ve had,” said Mei.
That seemed to please Wonton Queen. “Fine,” she said. “Come often. I will put a bit more in your bowl.” She moved her chair closer, leaning over Mei like a big sister chatting in a fruit market. “I know it’s not my business, but we don’t have many young women come in here, especially not on their own. Sometimes, yes, but you don’t look the type.”
“No, I haven’t run away from home, and no, I am not married.” Mei shook her head. “But you’re right; I’ve come here for a reason. I’m looking for a man called Zhang Hong, a tough-looking man with a lot of muscle and a scar over his left eye. You see, his wife is a distant relative. They live in Luoyang. She is worried because he hasn’t come home. He was in Beijing to sell an antique and was then supposed to take the money back.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Over two weeks.”
“Maybe his business is not done yet?”
“It’s finished. He’s got the money.”
“I see. Well, I’m in the kitchen a lot. But if this Zhang Hong was around, my regulars would know. Wait here.” She put one hand on the table and the other on the chair and pushed herself up. She wobbled over to see her regular customers. Soon she waved Mei across.
“You may want to look in Luck Come Together. Those who have money go there, don’t they?” The person speaking was called Uncle Ma. He was an alert, beady-eyed little man in his later years.
Old Huang, oily-faced, interrupted. “Luck Come Together is expensive but always packed in the evening, though I honestly don’t know why. Well, I suppose I know why. It’s the only nighttime entertainment center around here. There is the karaoke machine and, of course, those hostesses. You’d think the poor bastards from the provinces couldn’t afford to go there. But every night they fill up the place like it’s the last night of their lives.”
“Some local folks go there, too,” Uncle Ma added, glancing at his friend across the table. “You know the type, perverts and thugs.”
Old Huang shrugged. “Drinks are expensive there, but a lonely traveler could get some action, get close to a woman’s flesh. And, if he has money, play a round of poker. He may get lucky, too. Gambling is wrong and illegal. This is the Party’s policy and, I say, a correct one. But a little bit now and then doesn’t hurt anyone. Old Ma and I sometimes go to Luck Come Together to play a round of mah-jongg—thirty, forty yuan, just for fun. Sometimes we win a small hand. But we are not addicted. If you are addicted, then gambling is a killer. Mah-jongg is different. It’s a sophisticated game, not so dependent on luck.”
“Would you mind taking me to Luck Come Together?” asked Mei, smiling. She flickered her long eyelashes. “You see, Zhang Hong has been seen going around with a young woman friend. His wife wants him home before the money is all gone.”
“Well, if he is the gambling type, nothing’s going to stop that,” Old Huang said with a cunning look. He seemed pleased to be needed by a pretty young lady. He turned to his friend. “Do you want to go? If your wife finds out…”
“Yes,” said Uncle Ma quickly, his head lowered and his little eyes casting an embarrassed glance at the table where his hands rested and where the tea had gone cold in its cup. “I’ll come, too.”
EIGHTEEN
THE THREE OF THEM set off for Luck Come Together.
It was a place of shadows; the only illumination came from the red lights over the tables. There was a smell of boiled rice wine. At a table to Mei’s left, four men were taking bets on how much they could drink. Saltwater peanuts and empty beer bottles littered the table. To the right, two men were throwing their fists around, singing drinking songs and laughing. They wanted their lady companions to join in, but the women merely giggled and shook their heads like rattles. Behind the bar, two waitresses were whispering and exchanging meaningful glances with each other. They seemed to be talking about the man drinking alone in the corner.
At the large table in the middle of the room, there was a group of local youths. They all smoked and drank and shared the same tough expressions. One of them was a girl. She was either the leader’s girlfriend or the leader herself. With the exception of one handsome boy, they all acted carefully around her, showing plenty of respect.
The manager greeted Old Huang and Uncle Ma warmly. He inquired about Mrs. Ma, their happiness, and the weather for the next day. He indicated an empty table in the corner. Old Huang whispered something in his ear, to which the manager nodded and said, “Of course, go straight in.”
They walked past the kitchen. Two cooks were sitting in front of plates of chopped white chicken and stir-fried greens, having a late dinner. They barely blinked when Mei and her escorts went by. Empty woks covered in months’ worth of cooking grease lay idly on cold stoves. Opened cardboard boxes and half-drained sauce bottles were strewn around. A headless chicken lay on a wooden chopping board next to a massive steel knife.
Beyond the kitchen lay a gambling room. Halogen tubes burned above the smoke, and the air was pungent with the sour smell of beer. The ceiling was low and the floor cold, yet no one seemed troubled. There was an atmosphere of calm, as in an opium den where the customers were on their third pipes.
Gambling was these people’s opium. By day they could have any number of occupations—they could be schoolteachers or well-off government employees. Or you might find a sweet grandmother with false teeth or a father who never allowed his children a thread of freedom. Some probably told lies, saying they were visiting neighbors, getting together with friends. Some had not been able to escape the reproaches of hysterical wives or enraged husbands and sat at their tables full of shame and despair. But more likely, they wore expressions of liberation and relief. These were the travelers who had come thousands of miles from home. In this big anonymous city, they were out of reach of anyone they knew and could really let loose.
“Hey, neighbors, another try at mah-jongg?” A short man in his mid-fifties greeted them in a way that didn’t pretend to be pleasant. He glanced at Mei suspiciously. His belly looked like a spare tire.
“That’s Lao Xia,” whispered Uncle Ma. “He looks after the ga
ming tables.”
Old Huang took out a half-empty pack of Marlboros and jerked it open so that the cigarettes lined up neatly with their butts sticking out. Lao Xia pulled one from the pack. Old Huang lit it. “No worries, she’s a friend of Wonton Queen,” he said, putting the pack back in his pocket. Mei remembered that Old Huang had been smoking a cheaper local brand in the café.
“Big stakes?” Old Huang pointed at the poker tables with his chin.
Old Xia puffed his Marlboro but made no reply. He glanced at the tables and the people around them, his serious expression seeming to suggest something important was going on.
There were three tables, each with four people clustered around it. At one of the tables, two uniformed policemen were being well looked after by a big-breasted hostess. Zhang Hong was not among the players.
At one of the mah-jongg tables, a woman suddenly exclaimed, “Hu La,” pushing over her wall of tiles. She stood up, glowing with excitement, grabbing the sheets of money she had won. She was about forty-five, a meaty woman with a tiny frame. Her lips were thin, the upper thinner and wider than the lower. A pair of fat eyelids had crushed her eyes into fine lines, which made her look like she was squinting all the time. Her tight top hugged a pair of large melon breasts.
Uncle Ma leaned over. “Madam Xia wins again.”
Madam Xia’s partners seemed discouraged. They got up to leave, looking as gloomy as though they had just lost their livelihoods.
“Old Huang, Old Ma!” Madam Xia called out, waving her hands.
The three of them went over to the square mah-jongg table. Old Huang and Uncle Ma each took a seat. Madam Xia looked at Mei and the empty chair next to her. “You play?” she asked.
“No,” said Mei slowly. It was not entirely true. She had played before, in the Ministry. But she had always hated the game. “Not enough to play for money,” she added.
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