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The man scowled. “Then why are you here?”
“For lunch.”
“Women don’t come in here for lunch,” the man said, his voice filled with innuendo. The other men laughed.
Hulan chose to disregard the insinuation. “I’m not from here,” she said. “I don’t know your village customs.”
Ignoring everything Hulan had said, the man asked, “Do you have proper work papers?”
Faced with his persistence and the curious stares of his table companions, Hulan decided to see where this would lead. “Of course,” she answered. She did indeed have work and residency permits for Beijing, but not for any other village or city in China, so she added, “But not for Da Shui.”
The man waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. It is a small problem easily fixed.” The man pushed his chair away from the table, the legs scraping against the floor. With the other men watching, he stood, crossed to Hulan, and handed her some papers. “You can read, I hope.”
Hulan nodded.
“That is good but not essential,” the man continued. “We”—he gestured to his companions—” we see women like you every day. Some come from close by, some come from as far away as Qinghai Province. These days so many country people go to Beijing or Shanghai for work, but we say there’s no need for that. Come here. We’ll make sure you get work.”
“For a fee? I have no money,” Hulan said, playing along for now.
The man smiled broadly, pleased at how cleverly he’d gotten his fish to take the hook. “No cost to you. The company pays us a small token.”
“What company? What’s the work? I don’t want to work in the fields anymore. That’s why I left my village.”
“It’s a factory. American. They give you food. They give you a room. And the salary is very good.”
“How good?”
“Five hundred yuan each month.”
Hulan calculated that would be about $60 each month or about $720 U.S. a year. By American standards the pay was indecently low. By Beijing standards, where there were now all kinds of jobs with American companies, it was still quite low. In the countryside, where a peasant might hope to earn only about 300 yuan a month or just over a dollar a day—the official poverty level—it was fantastic, especially if this income was considered a second or third or even a fourth to be added to the family pot.
“When can you start?” the man asked.
Hulan studied the contract. It appeared straightforward.
As if reading her thoughts
, the man said, “Take it. Read it. Come back tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. We’ll be here.” Then the man went back to his table.
Hulan finished her meal, paid her bill, and left the café. As she walked out of town, she felt the oppression not only of the heat but also of Da Shui itself. Yesterday’s visit with Tsai Bing and Siang had been disconcerting. The people at the Public Security Bureau had been rude. The villagers and the Silk Thread’s proprietress had been closed-mouthed. But none of them had been as disturbing as the men in the café. On this day, as Hulan followed her investigative custom of stepping back and back again from the scene of a crime, she found no answers, only more questions. The main question that now played in her mind was the role of the Knight factory. Miaoshan had worked there. The men of the town made no pretense of hiding the fact that they were earning some sort of kickback from Knight by placing women—with or without proper papers—at that factory.
Just as Hulan had a method for looking at a crime scene, she also had routines for getting questions answered. One was direct, the other circuitous. To ease her mind, she would have to follow both. This afternoon she would make an “official” visit to the Knight factory. Tomorrow she would go back to the café, sign her contract, and see what happened. The idea that either of these plans might be dangerous to her or her baby did not enter her mind.
An hour later, wearing a simple linen dress and a light jacket, Hulan took the bus back to Taiyuan. From the bus stop she hailed a taxi and rode to the Shanxi Grand Hotel, where she arranged for a car and driver for the day. An hour after that she was back on the expressway.
Eventually the driver turned off the main road and followed signs decorated with cartoon figures of what Hulan assumed were Sam & His Friends. The car made one last turn, and the Knight factory rose up stark and white against the sky. In the traditional Chinese manner, a high wall protected the entire compound. The driver stopped at the guardhouse. Hulan introduced herself and opened her MPS credentials. The guard paled, stepped back inside his shelter, and made a call. A moment later the gate lifted, and the car pulled into the compound.
The driver steered down the center road of the complex. On either side were buildings—some immense, others little more than single rooms—each with their own sign designating what they were: DORMITORY, ASSEMBLY, CAFETERIA, ADMINISTRATION, SHIPPING, WAREHOUSE, COMPANY STORE. Next to each of these words was a different cartoon character. Since this was still a new complex, the trees were not yet tall enough or broad enough to provide shade. A few shrubs withered against the white walls of the buildings.
The car stopped before the building marked ADMINISTRATION. A man with light blond hair and pale skin opened Hulan’s door and said, “Good morning and welcome to Knight International. I’m Sandy Newheart. I’m the project director here.”
Hulan introduced herself and showed her Ministry of Public Security identification. That Sandy Newheart didn’t demonstrate the fear that the guard had shown didn’t surprise her. It was conceivable that Sandy had never heard of the MPS, or if he had, he didn’t realize its power.
“I wish you’d told us you were coming,” Sandy said. “I would have prepared a proper welcome, perhaps even a banquet.”
“That wouldn’t have been necessary,” Hulan said.
Sandy’s forehead crinkled as if he hadn’t understood what she’d said. Then his features smoothed. “Well then, what can I do for you?”
