Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station (14 page)

Malcolm, with a quizzical twist to his brows, murmured, “Do you suppose there’s a masters’ thesis involved here
somewhere?” Jenny’s lips thinned angrily while Peter simply dozed and missed it all.

It was during the visit to the carpet factory that Mrs. Pollifax found Peter alone at last. George was determined to buy a rug in China and have it shipped home, and he was not a man to be cheated. While the others stood around listening and yawning and sprawled across piles of rugs, Mrs. Pollifax slipped away, her interest in carpets depleted.

Wandering outside she found Peter restlessly pacing up and down the alley, pausing to run his eyes over a huge chalkboard on which words had been printed in pink and white chalk. “Mao’s thoughts for the day,” he said, turning to her. “Thanks for getting Turfan fixed up so quickly. I hear that originally it was to be last, so you’ve really saved the day.”

She waved this aside impatiently. “Where did you go last night?”

“Let’s sit on the steps,” he suggested. “I hiked. Walked and walked and walked. For one thing I found the Army barracks—bless Guo Musu for putting
that
on the map—and this gave me a bearing on where the labor camp has to be.”

She stared at him, appalled. “But you must have walked
miles!
”

“Yes of course—walked, jogged, ran. All of it in total darkness, naturally, but there was only the one road to follow and I managed to stay on it. It was a pretty close connection, though, I didn’t get back here until six this morning. But I also found a river, and it just
has
to be the one that flows past and around X’s labor camp—I plan to follow it tonight and see.”

She shivered. “If you find the camp will you try to make contact with X?”

“Good Lord no, just get the lay of the land,” he said
flatly. “I won’t try to reach X until I’ve officially disappeared.”

She glanced over their itinerary. “And when—when will the—uh—disappearance happen?” The words had stuck in her throat, she couldn’t think why; it seemed a simple enough question.

“At the grasslands, directly after we’ve visited Turfan. On Thursday.”

“Thursday,” she repeated, nodding. And this was Monday … three more days. Until he officially died, leaving no body behind. She said carefully, “Why has it been so important that we go to Turfan first?”

He waited as a workman passed, wheeling a cart filled with bricks. “To hide things there. A cache,” he explained. “If you look at your map you’ll find Turfan’s a desert oasis four hours by car south of Urumchi, and on the same route that X and I will take as we head for the mountains. We can collect food and blankets there on our way, since I can scarcely disappear with a suitcase.”

He sounded pleased; she glanced into his face and found no hint of tension or fear. “That’s very clever,” she told him, adding dryly, “I forgive you here and now that forgotten drinking glass.”

“Forgotten what?”

“Never mind … Peter, does it have to be the mountains, isn’t there any other way? You must have brought identification papers that would take you anywhere.”

“Forged identity papers,” he pointed out. “Nice authentic forged ones, yes. Four of them, actually, to cover a variety of people and intricacies of disguise and destinations.”

She said earnestly, “Then why can’t you and X leave the country an easier way? Those mountains, Peter—even if it is summer!”

“What easier way?” asked Peter. “Easier how? Think a
minute. We’re more than three thousand miles from Peking right now, and not much closer than that to Canton. To head for either would mean train, bus, plane, hiking, and remember X and I won’t be traveling as American tourists, we’ll be natives, subject to checkpoints and queries. No, there are too many variables,” he said with a shake of his head. “Too many bottlenecks, risks, and cliff-hangers, whereas the mountains are only six hundred miles away from where we are now. And besides,” he added mischievously, “we just might meet the ‘Mother-Queen of the West’ somewhere in the Kunluns.”

“ ‘Mother-Queen of the West?’ ”

He nodded. “There are surviving records of an adventurous emperor back in 600
B
.
C
. who liked to go exploring. His name was Wa Tei and he went off traveling in the west with his retinue—a large one, I gather—and he’s said to have penetrated as far as the Kunlun mountains that divide Tibet and Khotan. That’s where he met the Mother-Queen of the West—a kind of Queen of Sheba person—who ruled this strange top-of-the-world land. He was lavishly entertained and brought back stories that have turned into myths and legends, rather like Homer’s tales. Except,” he added, with a smile, “a good many of Homer’s stories were assumed to have been myths and turned out to be real. Who knows, it could happen to me!”

“A Shangri-la,” breathed Mrs. Pollifax, her eyes shining. “How absolutely wonderful!”

“Of course,” he added, “it may have been a scruffy little mountain village full of dirt and lice—”

“Don’t,” she begged. “I demand a Shangri-la.”

“Mrs. Pollifax, you’re a romantic.”

“I know,” she told him happily. “I am, I insist on it—but so are you, I think?”

“Guilty,” he acknowledged with a boyish grin. “But legends aside, it’s true that it may be more rugged skirting
the Tarim Basin and the desert but we can travel by night on donkeys, avoid people almost entirely, and go at our own speed. And there
is
a British weather expedition somewhere in those mountains if we can find it.”

“As well as the ghost of the Mother-Queen of the West.” She nodded. “Of course as soon as you mentioned
that
I knew there wasn’t a shred of hope that you’d change your mind. A British weather expedition sounds rather persuasive, too.”

“If it can be found,” he said politely.

“If it can be found,” she agreed politely, and thought how unreal it was to be sitting here looking out on a dusty alley lined with sheds, tools, and carts and discussing with Peter a mere six-hundred-mile stroll toward mountain ranges that peaked at 28,000 feet.
I wish Cyrus were here
, she thought suddenly, and wondered if he was back in Connecticut yet; it was so very difficult to know, given those time changes crossing the Pacific; her logic in this area had never been trustworthy, and speaking of logic she wondered why she felt like crying whenever she remembered that Peter was going to die in three days …

Iris wandered out of the building looking distracted. “Oh dear,” she said, sitting down beside them and pushing back her hair.

“Oh dear what?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“I don’t know. I hope the free market comes next, I like the sound of it, I must be feeling very confined. What is it, by the way—have we been told?”

Peter said briskly, “Flirtation with capitalism. People in the communes are being allowed small parcels of land of their own now. Instead of selling their produce or pig to the government, they can sell it in the free market and keep the profit for themselves.”

Iris’ eyes opened wide. “But that
is
capitalism!”

Peter grinned. “It would be tactful not to use that word,
I think. Call it motivation instead. Actually
they
call it—” He abruptly stopped, looking stricken.

He had nearly used a Chinese word, and Mrs. Pollifax glanced quickly at Iris to see if she had noticed; she found her staring into space without expression. A moment later the others came out of the building and they climbed into the minibus, and Peter gave Mrs. Pollifax a rueful apologetic smile.

As he smiled at her Peter was thinking
My God that was a close one, this is growing really difficult, I’ve begun to think in Chinese and I almost spoke in Chinese in front of Iris
. As he passed Mrs. Pollifax, already seated, she glanced up; their eyes met and she winked at him.

He grinned, at once feeling better.
She’s really something
, he thought, taking a window seat two rows behind her in the bus, and to his surprise he found himself wishing that she could go with him tonight, when he planned to follow the river to the labor camp.
She’s getting to me
, he realized.
Me, the hard-line loner
. He wondered what it was about her that drew him, and for want of any cleverer insight decided that it was a kind of capable innocence, but that didn’t fit either. There had begun to be a sense of kinship between them; he felt at ease with her, which astonished him.

At dinner Peter made a point of yawning a great deal, which proved tiring in itself for there were twelve courses through which to yawn. Because of their busy day there were no plans for the evening, which was merciful, for an early start mattered very much to him tonight. Jenny suggested a get-together in the small lounge for some singing, a suggestion aimed at him, he realized, but he only yawned and said he was going to catch up on his sleep.

Once in his room he quickly changed into the cheap plastic sandals and gray cotton pants he’d purchased in
Xian, added a white undershirt and then—leaning over his canvas dufflebag—he divested it of the thin mountain-climbing rope with which he’d laced the bag. This he wound around his waist and chest before adding the khaki Mao jacket over the bulk to conceal it. Into pockets he thrust his jogging shoes and ID papers, and then brought out the very clever invention that tilted his eyes by ingeniously concealed tapes. Peering into the mirror at the effect, he grinned: he looked very much like the workers he’d seen all during the day. When he’d undergone his wilderness survival class they’d gone to great lengths to prevent him acquiring a tan; now he understood the thinking behind it because he’d seen very few dark Chinese. Both Mr. Li and Mr. Kan had complexions like bisque china, the skin very white and opaque. His own pallor, his heavy brows and slanted eyes certainly removed all resemblance to Peter Fox: he was Szu Chou now, as his papers proved.

Unhinging the screen at his open window he pushed it back, slipped outside, and became part of the night.

It was nearing midnight when he stumbled across the cave by accident. Only an hour earlier he had found the river, and in following it had left the road behind him, wading across at the only point where the stream narrowed. This brought him into difficult terrain where he had to use a flashlight. He disliked showing a light, but it appeared to be deserted countryside. Since leaving Urumchi only one truck had passed down the road—he had taken shelter in a hollow—and rather than stumble into trees and over rocks, wasting time he couldn’t afford, he had to assume this area was equally as untenanted.

Half a mile after he’d forded the river the sound of rushing water grew thunderous, the river curved abruptly, and he met with a waterfall. Deprived of any means of crossing the river again he trained his light on the fall,
judged it to be about thirty feet high, and stoically began climbing up the hill beside it, clinging to the roots of trees and to rocks and bushes. Once on the top he admitted—not without resistance—that a brief rest might be a good investment, a catnap would be even better, and he set his wristwatch’s tiny alarm for thirty minutes. Finding a mossy patch among the rocks he sank down, leaned back, and promptly fell over. His assumptions had been wrong: the rock against which he thought he leaned did not exist; there were rocks to the right and to the left of him but he’d fallen into what appeared to be a cavity in the hillside.

Turning on his flashlight he parted the underbrush to examine what lay behind it, and his light picked out a hollow roughly twelve feet by eight, its ceiling a little over five feet, laced tightly with roots from the forest. In astonishment he stood up and trained his light on the ground above to see what had caused such a miracle.
Roots
, he decided: years ago a massive tree must have been struck down, leaving a space over which the surrounding root systems had slowly woven a carpet as they groped toward the support of the rocks on either side. On top of this network Nature had gradually deposited soil and moss, leaving the hollow untouched, and had then charmingly screened its entrance with underbrush.

There was suddenly no need for sleep. Excited, Peter checked his compass, crawled inside the cave, and sat looking around him in amazement. It was dry and warm inside. Bringing out his map he spent a few minutes computing his location, marked it in pencil and grinned: if his estimate was correct this cave was only a mile from the labor camp, and a perfect place to hide two people next week while the security police searched for X. It was better than perfect, it existed only ten feet from a rushing stream of water, and water was the most precious commodity of all.

Already in his mind he was making the commitment; now he backed it by groping in his pocket for the dried apricots and apples he’d brought with him for a snack tonight. These he deposited in the center of the cave, like a promise, and then he remembered the slab of chocolate from his previous nights’ explorations, and added this to the fruit. With a glance at his watch he parted the underbrush and left, exhilarated by his discovery.

Continuing to follow the river upstream he arrived in a few minutes at a point where a second river joined with the first one to rush down toward the waterfall. From the pattern of it—the headwaters arranged like the crossbar of a T with the second stream dropping to waterfall and highway—he thought this had to be the river that led to the labor camp. Moments later he confirmed this when he shone his flashlight across the rushing water for a minute and its beam picked out piles of neatly stacked logs and cut trees waiting to be denuded of their branches. He had reached a logging area.

It was time now to find a way to cross the river and find the camp.

Peter began to reconnoiter, as yet paying no attention to the water racing past him but examining the trees on each bank, his flashlight twinkling on-off, on-off, like a firefly. Presently he found what he was looking for: a stout tree on his side of the river opposite several strong trees on the farther bank. Unwinding the rope from his waist he knotted it around the base of the tree next to him and knelt beside the river to study its currents.
Vicious
, he thought,
nasty and vicious
, exactly the sort of current that would sweep a man under before he had a chance to catch his breath. He sat down and removed his shoes and socks and hid them with his flashlight, compass, and papers under the tree. Then he tied the end of the rope around his waist and lowered himself into the water.