The Interior (27 page)

Again, this kind of runaround was common in China, but it wasn’t common to David. Not only was he used to appointments being met—certainly as an assistant U.S. attorney he was accustomed to being treated with respect—but he was feeling very much at the mercy of circumstances. So, he did the one thing he shouldn’t have. He lost his temper.

He stood, leaned over the assistant secretary’s desk, and said gruffly, “Tell your boss I’ll see him later. Tell him it won’t be so easy for him to avoid me. Tell him…” David looked down at Assistant Secretary Gao. She looked frightened, and he wondered just how far he could or should go. He wanted the urgency of his message relayed, and he wanted to guarantee a prompt response. The only way to do that was to shade the truth. “Tell him I understand what he was doing. Tell him I have other documents that will be of great concern to him.”

David didn’t wait for a response, sensing that the impact of his words would be greater if he walked out. Once he had left, however, he felt anxiety bubbling up in him again. Miss Gao was young and, for all he knew, inexperienced. What if she didn’t understand the seriousness of his words? What if she dismissed him as just another rude American? As David stepped back into the sweltering heat, he knew he’d done the best he could given the circumstances. But after the revelations of last night, he’d hoped to grab the loose ends, examine them, make sense of them. Instead it was quarter to eleven, he was sweating like a pig in a government courtyard, and all that he’d accomplished was a conversation that by Chinese standards could only be considered ill-mannered and lacking finesse.

16

B
Y THE TIME DAVID AND INVESTIGATOR LO REACHED THE
compound, the festivities were in full swing. A podium, dais, dance floor, and seating for two hundred had been set up under a canopy. Balloons swayed in the hot air. Streamers billowed from poles, and posters of Sam & His Friends stood on easels in a semicircle next to the dais where Henry and Doug Knight sat with Governor Sun Gan and Randall Craig. Music played from loudspeakers, and on the dance floor a group of about twenty girls dressed in colorful costumes came to the end of an acrobatic routine. The audience, which seemed to be made up almost entirely of Chinese women, politely applauded.

Sandy Newheart saw David and waved him over to the front row. As David sat down, Sandy whispered, “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” David said. “It couldn’t be helped.”

The performers gathered into a little group. One of the girls stepped forward and in a loud but melodious voice announced that they would now sing a few American songs, all favorites of President Jiang Zemin. An instrumental introduction blared through the loudspeaker, and a moment later the girls were singing “Row Your Boat” in ever more complex rounds.

Sandy inclined his head toward David and said under his breath, “Practically every goddamn meeting has to have this rigmarole. Hero music. Firecrackers. Out-of-tune marching bands. Twenty-seven thousand verses of ‘Jingle Bells.’ Then an exchange of gifts. Then speeches. Meanwhile everyone here is roasting to death.”

“Then why do it?”

“Custom.”

“For Knight?”

“Hell no. It’s a Chinese custom.”

“Knight is an American company.”

“So? This is how it’s done over here. At least that’s what that grease-ball Sun says. And whatever he says, old man Knight’ll do it. He’s into this shit.”

The last strains of the tune faded, and the girls broke into a spirited rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

Sandy looked over at David and raised his eyebrows. “I told you. It’s a hundred and fifty degrees in the shade, and they’re singing about snow.”

“Are they employees?”

Sandy shook his head. “They’re a local performing troupe. I’ve probably seen them five times in the three years I’ve been here.”

David jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “And them? Are those all of your employees?”

“You kidding? No, they’re just the women from the Administration Building.”

“Why aren’t the others here?”

“Henry wants a show, not a convention.”

This was the first time David had been alone with Sandy. With Henry Knight he played the sycophant, but alone he seemed not only disillusioned but like he wanted to complain.

“Sandy, what are you going to do after the acquisition?”

“When the old man asked me to come out here, I thought it would be a big adventure. But look at this place. It’s a hellhole in more ways than one. As soon as I got here, I called Henry and said I wanted to go home. But Henry was sick, so what could I do? He said he needed me to make Sam & His Friends a reality. The deal with the studio had been cemented and the prototypes were ready. Henry practically begged me to stay on until we’d gotten the first line out. Toys are a crazy product. You do a hundred lines and if you’re lucky—really lucky—one hits. Well, Sam hit. I’ve been with Knight for fifteen years, and we’ve never had anything like this craze. I’ve tried to look at it as my big opportunity.”

The girls had now broken into four groups and were skipping in little circles, imitating horses drawing sleighs. Sandy wiped the sweat off his face and neck with a handkerchief, and said, “I’ve given the company fifteen years, and now they’re selling. For all I know, I’ll be out of a job by the end of the month. The only good news is that I’ll be able to leave this godforsaken place.”

The girls finished their song with a loud “Hey!” They bowed to the audience and to the men on the dais, then walked in a straight line off the dance floor. Henry Knight, beaming and clapping, stood and walked to the podium.

“Thank you, Number Seventeen Shanxi Province Acrobatic Company! You have, as always, done a beautiful job. Let’s all give them another hand!” He stepped aside and continued to clap, while Madame Leung translated his words into Mandarin. Behind David the women increased their applause. Henry resumed his position. “Today we have with us Randall Craig from Tartan International. Very soon I will turn the company over to him. But don’t worry. My son will be here, and things will continue on as smoothly as they have since we opened.”

As Madame Leung translated, David glanced over at Sandy. He could read nothing from Sandy’s expression, except perhaps boredom.

Henry continued, thanking Governor Sun Gan for years of help. Sun stood, bowed, accepted a loud round of applause, then sat down again. Then Henry launched into an introduction of Tartan, but it was so hot even under the canopy that David doubted anyone was listening. Finally Randall Craig stood and joined Henry at the podium. They shook hands, then motioned for Sun to join them. Just as Sandy predicted, there was a three-way exchange of plaques. At twelve sharp the ceremony ended. Military marching music came blaring out of the speakers, and the women in the audience quickly left their seats and hustled back to the Administration Building. The sweating Knight contingent was introduced to the equally sweating and wilting Tartan contingent; then Henry announced loudly, “Everyone please follow me. It’s time for lunch and something cold to drink.”

The group entered the Administration Building and went to the conference room, where, as Henry had promised, lunch was laid out. There were soft drinks with ice (made from sterilized water, or so Henry said), potato chips, and a platter of sandwiches. Looking around, David saw Governor Sun deep in conversation with one of the Tartan people. Henry, Doug, and Randall grabbed plates and took spots at the table. This lunch would be immediately followed by a tour of the compound—a sanitized tour, David was sure of it. As much as he wanted to ask these men questions, he was simply going to have to wait for a more private opportunity.

At one o’clock the bell rang in the factory. Before the machines had fully wound down, the women began filing out of the room. Hulan, Peanut, Siang, and hundreds of other women emerged out into the sunshine and headed back toward the dormitory. The festival was over and so completely cleared away that, except for a few eddies of spent firecrackers that had yet to be swept up, the courtyard seemed back to normal. Hulan had expected an air of release, but the women just seemed tired after their week’s work. Once inside, Siang ducked into her room, while Hulan and Peanut continued on to theirs. Hulan pulled out the bag she’d brought with her on Thursday and slung it over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Peanut asked. “I thought you weren’t from here.”

“I’m not, but you know I have a friend in the village. I can stay with her.”

“I wish I had somewhere to go,” Peanut said as she stripped off her pink smock, threw it on the floor, and climbed up to her bunk.

“At least you can come to the village,” Hulan said. “Get a bowl of noodles, walk around.”

“I’ve seen that village. What’s there? Nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times before in my own village. No, I’d rather stay here and save my money.” Peanut sighed and rolled over to face the wall. “See you later.”

Hulan stared at Peanut’s back, knowing that she probably wouldn’t be returning. “Okay,” she said, then added, “take care of yourself.”

Without turning, Peanut held up an arm and waved as if to push Hulan out the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Back in the courtyard, the men who worked in the warehouse waited for the gate to open, while about fifty women and girls boarded the bus, their attitude very different from those left behind. Going back to their families, if even for a day and a half, gave them a buoyancy, a sense of expectation. Hulan took the seat next to Siang, and the bus drove out of the compound. Neither spoke and Hulan chose not to push it.

Just outside Da Shui Village several barefoot children waited for their mothers. After a flurry of hugs, they set off toward their homes, perhaps stopping at the meat shop to pick up a few slivers of pork with their hard-earned salaries. Siang said good-bye and turned down one of the alleyways. Hulan adjusted her bag on her shoulder, then hurried back onto the road.

A half hour later, she cut down into a cornfield. She called out that she was there, and Suchee called back so that Hulan might come toward her voice. A minute later they were face to face. Suchee’s shirt was wet with sweat, and her face was streaked with the red earth that had dusted up as she’d hoed a furrow.

“I go back to Beijing today to follow the story,” Hulan plunged in. “Before I leave, I want to see Miaoshan’s belongings from the factory and ask you a few more questions.”

Suchee set down her hoe and led the way along the furrow back to the house. From under Miaoshan’s
kang
Suchee pulled out a small, unopened cardboard box. “The factory sent a message to me through the men in the village that I should go and pick this up,” Suchee said, holding the box on her lap. “I haven’t opened it.” Her lips trembled, then she brusquely set the box down and went outside.

Hulan found a knife and slit open the tape that held the box closed. On the top was folded a black miniskirt and a little lace blouse. The label said
THE LIMITED
, and Hulan had a vague memory of that chain of mall stores in California. She set these aside and pulled out a pair of Lucky Brand jeans and a T-shirt with a Wal-Mart tag. She’d seen these T-shirts before, since they were manufactured in China and often pirated out of factories by employees or the seconds were sold off in free markets, but the jeans brand was new to her and she wondered where they’d come from. Unzipping a toiletry bag, Hulan found a toothbrush and toothpaste, a hairbrush, gel, and hairspray, Maybelline mascara and eye shadow, and a bottle of White Shoulders perfume. Then she flipped through several glossy magazines filled with colorful photographs, looking for hidden papers or notes but encountering none. Some underwear littered the bottom of the box. Tucked into the sea of cotton was something wrapped in tissue and tied with silk ribbon. Hulan opened the package and found a bra and panty set of pink silk edged with black lace. Things like this could certainly be found in China, but not in Da Shui Village or even Taiyuan. Hulan looked for the label and read
NEIMAN MARCUS
.

Hulan repacked the box and slid it back under the
kang
. She went outside, stopping at the shed to pick up a hoe, and waded into the field to find Suchee. Once she reached her friend, she eased into the space next to her and began working the soil around the base of the corn. She hadn’t done this in more than twenty years, but the movement came back to her as though it had been yesterday—the chop into the soil, the quick jerk to lift it up, and then going back into the mound to aerate. Occasionally she bent down to pull out a weed. Soon sweat ran down her face, and the hand that had been punctured throbbed. Her shoulders, already sore from the factory, burned from a combination of her exertions and the sun’s rays coming through her cotton shirt. She knew her discomfort was compounded by her pregnancy, but at the same time realized that peasant women never stopped working for such an insignificant reason. At the end of the furrow, the two women crossed over to the next row and bent once again to their labors. Hulan’s mind was filled with questions she wanted to ask, but she was reticent, not knowing how to bring up Miaoshan’s sexual activities. But soon enough Hulan lost awareness of proper conduct, time, and even of the heat as she glided into the ancient rhythm of human and soil.

Two hours later, as they reached the end of yet another row, Suchee stepped out of the field to where she’d left a basket. She set down her hoe, squatted down on her haunches, and motioned for Hulan to join her. Suchee reached into the basket and pulled out a thermos. She poured hot tea into the tin cup that served as the thermos top and handed it to Hulan. The bitter green liquid cut through the dust that coated her throat. She gave the cup back to Suchee, who noisily sipped the last of the liquid, then refilled the cup.

Hulan looked at her hands. On Thursday morning her hands had been those of a Red Princess and an investigator at the Ministry of Public Security—smooth, pale, with tapered fingernails. After three days in the countryside her hands were scratched, her nails cracked and ragged, and her palms a mass of broken and unbroken blisters. The bandage that covered the deep gouge was caked with dirt but still protected the wound, which hadn’t stopped throbbing. Hulan longed for the cool shower she knew awaited her at the hotel, at the same time realizing that Suchee would never waste water on such a frivolous luxury. Hulan remembered back years ago to the Red Soil Farm and how in the morning people would wash their faces and brush their teeth in the communal water trough, then return at night to wash their hands, faces, feet, and teeth in the same water, which was changed only every three or four days.

“You have questions about Miaoshan,” Suchee said at last, “but your manners keep you from asking them. You should know that the customs regarding visitors and etiquette no longer matter to me now that my daughter is dead.”

“I’ve heard things about Miaoshan that trouble me,” Hulan said. “You say she was to be married, and yet I hear of other men.”

“There were no other men. Miaoshan loved Tsai Bing.”

No mother wanted to hear what Hulan was going to say, but she relied on the fact that Suchee had insisted that she wanted the truth at whatever the cost. “I have met a man, Guy Lin, who says he is the father of Miaoshan’s baby. I believe him. Did she ever mention him to you?”

Suchee turned her head away to face into the green of the field as though she had not heard.

“There is also a girl at the factory who says that Miaoshan was meeting with a foreigner.” Hulan had used a euphemism, but the meaning was clear. “I believe this girl, especially when I add it to what I found among Miaoshan’s belongings. You said that Miaoshan dressed like a foreigner. I hadn’t thought this that important. So many of our young women—no, so many women in all of China—now dress to copy Westerners. But I was thinking of the clothes that we make here to look like clothes from the West, not the real thing. Even in Beijing I would have trouble finding the type of
nu zai ku
—’cow boy pants’—that Miaoshan had.”