“Oh, very beautiful! Legs long, feet small!” The Chinese tittered. “You do not like Sheng have. Sheng understand.”
Only when it was back in his pocket was he willing to admit that he had feared he would never get it back at all.
“Soon Sheng show. First tea.” A white smoke-dragon from the pipe mingled with and fought a savage steam-dragon from the teakettle. Seething water rained into a teapot, followed by a mummified snow of fragrant leaves.
“Soon,” Sheng said. “Very soon. Like pot? Very good, very cheap. Nankeen yellow, hundred year make. Have more.”
He nodded. “How did you come to this country, Mr. Sheng?”
The Chinese smiled. “Build railroad. Young man, think far away, all better.” A thin hand pulled reflectively at the long mustache. “Go home, rich.” The Chinese sighed.
“Do you still want to go home?” He found himself suddenly fascinated by this lean, brown, middle-aged man’s history. It was as if he were seeing his own future in some strange Eastern glass. “You agreed that your basement was paradise.”
“Paradise of young man. So he dream. Work railroad. Tear shirt.” The Chinese paused reflectively. “No needle. Ask men, have needle? Piece thread? No have …”
“Yes?”
“Go to town. Saturday. Buy thread. Ask needle, store man no sell. Sell paper, twenty needle. Sheng buy. Say, you want needle? Cost dime. So Sheng here.” The hand fluttered tapered fingers at the little shop, then swooped to pick up the teapot. Perfumed liquid splashed into the cups. “Sheng paradise.”
“I see.”
“Now dream new paradise, many children, many sons, pray for poor Sheng. Young Sheng dream so, this Sheng not. Law Heaven—one paradise each man.”
He nodded, sipping the scalding tea and wondering just how his search for Lara could have gone so far astray as quickly as it had.
Without rising, the Chinese stretched a long arm to one of the shelves and took down a lacquer box. “Now Sheng show. You want much touch, okay touch. Sheng like better you no touch.”
He nodded, setting down his cup. The lid of the box slid in grooves in the sides. Vaguely, he recalled seeing a box of marbles that had opened like that in Antiques. Inside the box was a doll, elaborately dressed, no longer than his hand.
“This Heng-O,” the Chinese explained. “Also same yours.”
He bent nearer to look. It was indeed the same face, as though an Oriental had sculpted Lara, unconsciously adding the racial features such an artist would feel normal and attractive. Her robe was real silk, a costume that might have been worn by a minute empress, aswim with embroidered birds and strange beasts.
“She’s very beautiful,” he told the Chinese. “Very, very beautiful.”
“It so.” Silently the lid slid shut again. “Moon full, she stand here. Joss burn. Only can do that. Sheng funeral rice steam on Sheng grave, she see me, smile, say, ‘You burn joss for me.’ Happy forever.”
He nodded again and drained the last of his tea, grateful for its warmth and cheer. For a moment their eyes met, and he knew that the Chinese was his brother, despite the differences of half a world—and that the Chinese had known it even in the alley.
“I’ve imposed upon your hospitality for too long already, Mr. Sheng,” he said. “I should be going.” He rose.
“No, no!” The Chinese lifted both hands, palms out. “No go before Sheng show stock!”
“If you really want—”
The impassive face split in a broad grin. “You see many things. Tell friends. They come, buy Sheng, sure Mike!”
He tried to recall his friends. There was no one. “I’m afraid you’re the only real friend I’ve got, Mr. Sheng.”
“Then live too much by self. You look!” It was a deck of cards. “Magic charm, bring friend! Learn poker, bridge, rummy. Go ‘round, ‘I want play, no one play.’ Soon many friend!”
He shook his head. “It’s a good idea, but I’m too shy.”
The Chinese sighed. “No charm for shy. No liquor license. Like get mail?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Good! Mail good shy man. Magic charm!” The Chinese held up a shriveled, flattened root.
“Will that really bring mail?”
“Yes! Mail root,” the Chinese said. (Or perhaps, “Male root.”)
It seemed crisp and thin between his fingers. In the dim light, he could have sworn he held an envelope. “I’d like to buy it,” he said. He owed Sheng something anyway for rescuing him from the police.
“No buy. Free! Next time, buy.” A slender thread of red silk held the dried root. “Put ’round neck. Wear below shirt. Plenty mail.”
He did as he was told. A rhythmic booming, muted yet deep, sounded outside. He wanted to ask what it was, but the Chinese spoke first.
“Look see!” A tight roll of paper unwound to reveal the sketched figure of a man, half life-size. “For burn on grave. Then got good servant next place.” The Chinese grinned again. “You die real soon?”
“I hope not.”
“Then no need. Later, maybe. How ’bout horse?” It was a stocky, tough-looking animal sketched in bold strokes.
“I’ve never ridden one,” he confessed.
“Next place learn. Plenty time.”
His eyes caught a thick sheaf of fifty-dollar bills banded with brown paper. “You shouldn’t leave these lying around, Mr. Sheng.”
The Chinese laughed. “Toy money! On grave burn, next place plenty rich! You like?”
He carried them to a dusty little window. They were real bills, nearly new. When he slid back the paper band, Grant’s face was sharp and bright.
“You like?”
The band read PUROLATOR SECURITY. Beside the words was a Chinese character in black ink, and the figure 10 cents.
“Yes,” he said. “I like this very much. But you have to let me pay for it.” He produced a dime, feeling very much like a thief. The Chinese accepted the coin without looking at it, and he put the sheaf of bills into the topcoat pocket opposite the map.
The street outside was not the one from which he had fled down the alley; but though it was smaller and narrower, lined with parked cars and sooty brick buildings, there was a parade. Drum majorettes strutted and twirled, bare legs shaded blue by the winter wind. Soldiers in brilliant green jackets shouldered and unshouldered short rifles; politicians grinned and waved, presenting one another with candy and cigars. Trumpets brayed. Towering floats crept forward like so many colorful juggernauts, clearly unstable, swaying like jonquils while lovely girls in flowers, feathers, and sequined gowns danced alone or with each other.
A bass drum thudded in rhythm with his heart.
A little crowd of men and boys, with a few women, followed the final float, possibly a division of the parade in their own minds. It struck him that if the police were still looking for him—though it seemed unlikely they were—this straggling group offered the best means of evading them. He joined it, pressing toward the middle and front until he was walking so close to the float that no one on either sidewalk could have had a clear look at him.
A skater in a pink tutu twirled almost at the edge. When she saw him, she stopped and smiled, pointing toward three iron steps that descended the back of the float.
He thought she was inviting him to join her and called, “I don’t have skates!”
She nodded, still smiling, and indicated a door wreathed with roses.
For a moment he hesitated. If he climbed up the steps, he would be exposed until he had passed through the doorway. Once inside the float, however, he would be completely screened from view.
The skater smiled again and beckoned. She was blond and blue-eyed, apple-cheeked in the cutting wind.
As he mounted the steps, the crowd he had left behind him whistled, clapped, and cheered. The watchers on the sidewalks cheered as well, and one of the dancers ignited the fuse of a firework. It erupted in a glory of golden sparks just as the skater opened the rose-wreathed door for him.