But all that didn’t matter now because he was quickly growing cold. If she’d known any Shakespeare, she might have quoted Measure for Measure: “This sensible warm motion” was quickly becoming “a kneaded clod.”
But she didn’t know any Shakespeare. Why should she?
Then again, those lines wouldn’t fit a man – not dead – but put into a kind of suspended animation. Something new. Another way to cheat time. And all, of course, done without the knowledge of either Inspector Wang Jun or his doting nurse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Well before the Jeep reached Xian, Fong sensed the approach of the desert. A dry stillness seemed to suck at the air. Something from before time. Then the first structures of the ancient Qin capital, China’s very first, materialized on the horizon. Shortly after, the wind picked up and fine grains of desert sand began to pelt their vehicle – grains of sand all the way from the mythologized Silk Road – the first conduit between East and West. Xian in its day had been the Middle Kingdom’s port of entry. Camels crossing the torturous Silk Road brought the West to China 2,500 years ago.
Soon the Jeep entered the crumbling outer ring of the Old City. This was not the tourist Xian; this was the Chinese Xian. The Muslim quarter with its souk tents and dusted colours came first. It was bigger than Fong had expected. A small Tibetan sector abutted the Muslim quarter. The people there seemed sullen and angry. As the Jeep made its way toward the centre of the old place, it passed through many different communities. The faces in this city were composites. Clues. Hints of Mongol, Manchu, Turk, Afghan, Tibetan in the faces, but all Chinese now. Oh yes, they were all Chinese now. The great ocean China salts every river.
The desert dust was blowing hard as Chen parked the Jeep outside the Xian central police station. Fong helped the coroner out of the car as Lily approached them. The wind-blown sand got into the old man’s lungs and he let out a hacking cough that ended with him doubled over in pain. Lily was clearly shocked by his appearance. He looked awful.
The ride, like most such endeavours in the Middle Kingdom, was much more exhausting than expected. Twice they had to stop and let the old man out. Both times Fong walked at his side as Grandpa moved slowly along the road’s edge, like an old dog looking for the scent he needed to defecate. At the end of the second stop the coroner hooked his arm through Fong’s and allowed himself to be led back to the car. The man’s touch had startled Fong.
“I’ve got our meetings set up, Fong. The news guys are expecting us later this afternoon. The vice cops are ready for us now,” said Lily.
“Good,” said Fong.
As they entered the police station he whispered, “Have you found anything more on that DNA patent?”
“Not yet. It’s hard to get any exact information. But I’m still trying.”
The vice cops were cordial enough and offered to pick up Sun Li Cha, the Mistress of Cervical Arts, for them. Fong declined the offer. “Just tell us where we can find her.”
The possibility of seeing Sun Li Cha seemed to cheer up the coroner. “An unexpected benefit,” Fong thought.
The police began listing places to check.
Fong cut them off, “Does she have a home address?”
“Yeah,” said the youngest vice cop, “but we’ve never found her there.”
“Where does her mother live?” asked Lily.
Fong saw a flash of anger cross the officer’s face. Perhaps the man didn’t like being questioned by a woman or maybe he found it offensive to bring the mother into this. Xian was getting to be a big city; he’d have to learn that mothers are often the best way to daughters. Change is hard on us all.
Pockets of new wealth were in evidence throughout Xian. Although not pristine, the city was clearly maintained in such a way that Western tourists would find it acceptable.
Shanghai too Western? Chungking too crowded? Beijing too political? Don’t worry, there’s always Xian, real old Chinese. Foreigners certainly bought the pitch. They jammed the narrow streets. They were everywhere.
Sitting in the Jeep and waiting for Chen to return from his errand, Fong found himself put off. An old reaction. For years Chinese citizens had been fed a steady diet of hatred for the Westerners who had bled their country dry. It is hard to get over one’s racial training. “We’re all raised as racists,” he said aloud.
“Even from you, Fong, that has to qualify as an unusual statement,” croaked the coroner from the back seat of the car.
“Think about it,” Fong replied. “You’re born into a family. I sure was.” He noticed Lily cock her head in interest at that. He pressed on: “The first training you get is that your family is better than the one next door. Then you get that your street is better than the one behind you. Then your village is better than the village to the north.”
The coroner folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the door and closed his eyes. Fong continued, “Naturally enough, if all those things are true, your country has to be better than all other countries . . . and your race better than any other.”
The coroner began to snore.
Lily spoke softly, “So, Fong, does that make us all bad?”
Fong heard the concern in her voice buried beneath the veneer of a casual question. “No. Having racist feelings and behaving as a racist are two completely different things. It takes an effort to overcome the training of your youth. Often the initial biases are overturned, but sometimes they linger despite our best efforts to erase them.”
Fong looked in the rear-view mirror. The coroner had a gentle smile on his grizzled face. He began snoring louder.
In the other side of the mirror, Lily looked pensive.
“Lily?”
“Fong, we were all trained to hate Caucasians. There are still times when I can’t believe how ugly they are.” She stopped as if she were entering territory that was too complicated – perhaps too dangerous.
“You have a question, Lily?”
“I do.”
“Ask.”
“The white woman.” Fong instantly knew that she was talking about Amanda Pitman, the wife of the New Orleans police officer who had been found chopped into small pieces in an alley off Julu Lu almost five years earlier. He’d spent four days – and nights – with her.
“What about her, Lily?”
Lily allowed her tongue to trace the front of her teeth. Despite the new thinking in China and Lily’s almost constant exposure to Western media, she didn’t know how to broach issues of male sexuality. Especially with Fong.
“What about her, Lily?” Fong repeated. His voice carried a definite edge.
She let out a deep breath then said in English, “No gain without a penny for a pound, right Fong?”
Fong had no idea what she was trying to say but decided to nod.
“You won’t hate me in the morning?” she asked in English.
Fong was quite lost. Which morning? What had she done to be hated? He looked at her. She looked so earnest that he shook his head.
“You’re sure?”
He shrugged.
“Okay. Good. Okay.” She took a deep breath and switched back to Mandarin. “Did you sleep with the big white woman?”
Fong was shocked.
“Don’t look at me like that, Fong. You told me it was all right for me to ask. So I asked.”
Fong took his eyes from the mirror and looked out the front window. Chen was returning to the Jeep with a bag of steamed buns and about a dozen cheap Triad medallions dangling from his wrist. The timing of the gods was merciful for once. But as Chen approached the car, Lily hissed, “Was she good? Do you like big tits? What did she smell like?”