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“But that means going to California,” Hulan said.
“This is true, but you will be out of the way. I think you will both be safe there. Come,” he said, standing up. “We must talk to your father.”
David was surprised at who that turned out to be. But even now that the connection had been made, there still was no proper introduction or anything in the conversation—either in words or emotion—that would convey that Vice Minister Liu was Hulan’s father. Instead, as Hulan and Zai ran through the details of the case, the wiry man simply listened, puffed on his cigarette, and jotted down a few notes. When they finished, silence filled the room. Smoke from the vice minister’s Marlboro curled up around his face. He tapped his note pad with his pencil. Finally he said tersely, “You may go.”
“We ask the vice minister to please take this information under consideration,” Zai said, and for the first time David heard the supplication in the man’s manner.
“I am saying she may go. To America,” Liu amended. “I am relying on you, Section Chief Zai, to make the arrangements quickly. The sooner this case is over, the better for our two countries.”
That evening when Liu Hulan got back to the hutong, she immediately went to the home of Neighborhood Committee Director Zhang Junying. Hulan informed her old friend and observer that she would be gone for a few days, but Zhang Junying had already been made aware of this and offered to go back to the Liu compound to take away any perishables. “To waste food,” the old woman cackled later as Hulan handed her a bag of fruit and vegetables, “is to mock the blood and sweat of peasants.” As Hulan escorted Zhang Junying to the outer gate of the Liu compound, the old woman took her arm and squeezed it tightly. Madame Zhang’s eyes filled with tears. “We have always been close to your family. Things happened in the past—this I won’t deny—but I always had respect for the Liu clan.”
“Don’t worry,” Hulan said. “I will come back.”
“In time for Spring Festival?” Madame Zhang asked querulously.
“I promise.”
Hulan watched as the old woman, bundled in a padded pea-green Mao suit, hobbled down the alleyway and out of sight. Hulan went back inside. The early rituals of Spring Festival—the celebration of the lunar new year—were just days away. Hulan spent a few minutes putting together an altar to commemorate her ancestors. She arranged a few oranges on a plate, placed sticks of incense in a bronze pot filled with sand, then set out a few framed photographs and painted miniatures of long-dead relatives. This done, she made a pot of tea and began packing. For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to feel deep regret, sorrow even. If only there were a way to turn back time, t
o go back and repair the damage, to set events on a different trajectory.
These thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. She had been expecting it and opened the door without a second thought. Without waiting for an invitation, he entered in his usual way. He eased himself onto one of the stools that ringed the kitchen table. His hand felt the side of the teapot. It was hot. By the smell, he knew she had selected his favorite tea. She pulled out two ceramic cups. As he poured, she sat down opposite him. Here, under the bright overhead light, she saw the coldness in his eyes. His voice—so familiar to her—was harsh and unforgiving.
“Tomorrow you leave,” Section Chief Zai said. “Of course, you have been away in America before. You came back when you were asked. This time, we won’t ask you to come home. We expect you to return. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“It is my responsibility to caution you. Our country has come a long way since you first left us. Today we have eyes and ears in many places, not just China. We will know if you do or say anything to embarrass our country. We will know if you try to contact dissidents, reporters, or other groups that do not give China the proper respect. We will know if you try to defect. We most certainly will know if you try to give away any state secrets.”
“I would do nothing to harm China,” she said.
“Liu Hulan, you have many people that you love. Your mother, your father, this David Stark.” He held up a hand. “Do not try to deny it. This is your weakness. You know it. I know it.”
“I have never been able to argue with you,” she admitted.
Zai ignored her comment.
“You have been very lucky. You have had many opportunities. You have always had connections. You have had friends who looked out for your safety. But this is a different situation. A wrong move and you could lose your residency permit. You could have a note put in your personal file. You could be sent to the countryside. You could be lost to the world and spend the rest of your days as a peasant. You could die a stooped old woman at the age of fifty—without a husband, without children, without any family at all.”
Zai took a last sip of tea and stood. He put a hand on her shoulder. “As you travel, I hope you will remember this conversation. Good-bye, Hulan.”
11
FEBRUARY 2
Los Angeles
Four days after he arrived in China, David was back at Beijing International Airport. Four days, and David’s senses still had not adjusted to the strangeness that the terminal presented. The lighting remained portentously dim. The rooms—painted a dull green—were characteristically cold, and the smell of wet diapers and noodles filled the air. In the area for outgoing travelers, little kiosks offered magazines, candy, cigarettes, and last-minute curios—stuffed panda bears, cheap jade chopsticks, silk scarves. Everywhere he looked, as it seemed everywhere he’d looked throughout Beijing, he could see soldiers—some on leave, others serving as guards.
Typically, David was not allowed to explore the airport. He waited instead with his delegation in one of the lounges. The group was led by Section Chief Zai, who spoke about the duty of his comrades as they traveled to the United States. “Today we are proud of you, Investigator Sun, for accompanying Inspector Liu Hulan to a faraway land. We are confident that you will find triumph there. Your families anticipate your victorious return.” Then for two hours they waited—Zai and Peter chain-smoking Red Pagoda cigarettes—for the fog to clear.
On the plane, David and Hulan sat together. Peter sat across the aisle. He was exuberant, smiling, chattering happily to his seat companion.
MPS agents never went abroad alone, Hulan explained. They usually traveled in threes and fours. But since she had returned from the United States before, the MPS had assigned only Peter to watch her. So it seemed that once again David and Hulan were to have no privacy.
For the first five hours, as they flew to Tokyo, David and Hulan spoke in hushed voices of casual matters, always aware of Peter just across the aisle. In Tokyo, Peter wanted to go to the duty-free shop and left David and Hulan to watch the coats and carry-on bags. As soon as he disappeared into the crowd, David took Hulan’s hand. They sat with their eyes focused on the door to the duty-free shop.
During the second leg of the flight, David bought Peter a beer. The young investigator picked at his meal, then settled back to watch the first movie. By the time Peter dozed off, Hulan’s head had tipped onto David’s shoulder. He could smell her hair. He could feel the warmth of her arm and thigh radiating through her clothes, then his clothes, onto his skin. He felt the swell and release of her body against his as she breathed. It was exquisite, forbidden, and completely comfortable. He, too, closed his eyes and drifted off. In this way, they crossed the Pacific Ocean and the international date line.
