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“Follow me,” Beth said.
He hitched up his suitcase in one hand and his briefcase in the other and stepped into the throbbing crowd. He felt the crush of warm bodies against him but pressed on. “Taxi?” “Driver, cheap.” “I take you to hotel.” David finally broke through and into the open.
The air was thick with coal smoke, exhaust, and the freezing fog’s lingering dampness. Along the curb, pristine luxury cars were sandwiched between dented heaps that looked like oversized tin toys. Reunited families gathered here and boisterously crammed belongings and relatives into the cramped confines of the Chinese-made cars. A couple of generals—dressed austerely in long olive-green coats—silently stepped into their Mercedeses, while a bevy of American tourists fretted over a mountain of suitcases being passed into the underbelly of a tour bus.
“Here’s my car,” Beth said, pointing to a Cadillac Town Car. “I’ll be at the Sheraton Great Wall if you want to get together for dinner or anything.”
“I’m staying there too.”
She eyed him again in her hungry way. “Sure you don’t want to come with me now?”
“No, I’d better wait here.”
As Beth slid into the backseat, David started as a voice asked, “Mr. Stark?” He turned to see a Chinese man in his twenties dressed in a gray suit with a knit vest. His hair hung lankly over his collar and his eyes shone a deep black. The man took David’s silence as affirmation.
“I am Peter Sun, an investigator for the ministry and your driver,” the man said in lightly accented English. “Please follow me.”
David tried to take a seat in front, but Peter shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right for a guest to sit up here. Please sit in the back. You’ve had a long journey. Rest and enjoy the ride.”
Peter announced that he would take David on the scenic old road instead of the new toll road. The ol
d road was lined with poplars. Their bare trunks created bony silhouettes against the gray sky. Beyond the trees, bare fields melted into fog banks.
Speeding along the road, they passed peasants bringing their wares into town. David saw a bicycle loaded down with a pig carcass—one half strapped to each side of the bike. Seemingly oblivious to her bloody cargo, a young girl pedaled with quiet dignity. A half mile later, they passed a load of used tires that bounced and swayed precariously on the back of a flatbed bicycle truck pulled by a man with a deeply lined face. Sitting on the handlebars in front of him was a small child bundled in a hot-pink padded jacket. Peter honked at this slow-moving obstacle, swerved wide around it, and aimed a few angry words out the window. Neither the little girl nor her father acknowledged the epithet.
By the time they got into the city, darkness had fallen. Still, the streets were choked with people, bicycles, and cars. As Peter jerked the Saab through the crowds, yelling when people didn’t move out of his way fast enough, David was amazed to see just how Western things seemed. Neon lights advertised Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and Waffle King. Garish signs proclaimed FRENCH BREAD COOKED ON PREMISES and BEIJING IS WAITING FOR YOU. Below a second-story window a draped banner advertised the HEAVENLY BODIES STUDIO. Inside, a group of women bounced to music David could not hear. When he commented on how busy things seemed, Peter said, “We’re still far from the center of Beijing. Tomorrow, when we go to MPS headquarters, you’ll see the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square.”
Peter pulled into the porte cochere of the Sheraton Great Wall Hotel, opened the car door for David, announced he would return at twelve the next morning, then sped off into the night. A bellman took David’s bag, and together they pushed through the revolving doors and into the hotel. The lobby—an atrium rising six stories—bustled with activity. Walking to the check-in desk, David heard English, German, Spanish, Japanese, and, of course, Chinese. He saw signs pointing the way to separate restaurants that served food from four different Chinese provinces.
In the elevator, the bellman rattled off the hotel’s amenities—tennis courts, gym, indoor swimming pool, coffee shop, and cocktail lounge with nightly entertainment. At the end of his monologue, the bellman asked, “What kind of business are you in?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“You need help? Do you want to xiahai, plunge into the sea?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I have good guanxi, good connections. I can get you anything you want.”
David thought the bellman was trying to set him up with a prostitute. “I don’t need anything like that.”
The bellman looked at him quizzically. “I know people. You want find good building for factory, my uncle can help you. You want help getting contracts, I have cousin who can help you. If I help you, you help me. We can be partners. We can plunge into the sea together.”
“No, no, nothing,” David said as the elevator slowed to a stop.
“Umbrellas.” The bellman jabbered on as they walked down the corridor. “What do you think about umbrellas? It rains all over the world. We can have a business. Something like Imperial Umbrellas of China or Royal China Umbrellas.”
David pressed some bills into the budding capitalist’s hand and shut the door after him. The room was stultifyingly hot. David turned off the heat and tried unsuccessfully to crack open the window. He flipped on the air-conditioning and stripped down to his underwear.
It was still early, but David stretched out on the bed. He was bone tired but wide awake. Jet lag. David thought about calling Beth’s room but immediately dismissed the idea. He wasn’t hungry, he didn’t want a drink, and he definitely wasn’t up to considering the alternatives. His mind raced. The events of the last week had certainly gotten him out of his regular life.
And yet he had tried so hard to hang on to that life. He had kept the house he’d lived in with Jean, when all it did was remind him of how alone he was. He had refused to be set up on dates, thinking that he wasn’t ready to handle them. Instead, he had immersed himself in work, knowing that even as it kept him from thinking of his ex-wife, it was the one thing that had driven her from him. Mostly he had held on to an idea of Jean that had little to do with who she was or even who he was.
Just before he’d left for China—God, when was that? Two days ago now?—he had called her. Jean had sighed when she heard his voice, then her resignation quickly turned to impatience. “We’re divorced, David, I don’t know why you feel you need to let me know everything you’re doing.”
“I thought…”
“David, you think too much and you work too hard. Why don’t you try living for a change?”
