“Your name is Frazier.”
“Okay.”
Wu brightened considerably when he saw the heavily laden tray on the table.
“We are having lunch!”
“Please sit down.”
“Thank you!” He bowed slightly and took a chair.
“May I examine the food?” he asked.
“Please.”
Wu lifted the covers off the four dishes and issued
oohs
and
aahs
and other sighs of satisfaction. Neal decided that this guy didn’t get too many business lunches, if indeed that was what this was.
Wu remembered the protocol.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Very comfortable.”
“Thank you!”
Oh, you’re very welcome, Xiao Wu.
“Would you like to eat lunch?”
I live for lunch these days, Xiao Wu.
“You bet.”
Wu looked puzzled. “Was that a colloquialism?”
Neal nodded.
“Slang?” Xiao smiled broadly.
“Slang.”
“I am very interested in American language … as distinct from English language,” Wu said quietly.
“You and me both.”
“Especially American abusive language.”
“You’ve come to the right place, Xiao Wu.”
“You will teach me some?”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu giggled with unabashed enthusiasm, and repeated “Fuck yes” several times as if to memorize it. Then he uncovered a platter of hot noodles and filled Neal’s plate before he filled his own. He didn’t wait for Neal to start, however, but started right in on the noodles with his chopsticks, shoveling them down in a few smooth motions.
“I am also very interested,” he said when he was done, “in Mark Twain. Do you know Mark Twain?
Huckleberry Finn?
It is no longer banned, we are allowed to read it in school now.”
Swell. We’re not.
“He’s a wonderful writer.”
“Aaah. Fish.”
“Xiao Wu, who are you and what are you doing here?”
Wu’s supply of blushes held up. Direct questions are considered quite rude in China.
“I am to be your translator.”
“What for?”
“Would you like some fish?”
Okay, I’ll play.
“Sure, why not?”
“No reasons.”
“That was slang.”
“‘Sure, why not’? That means you would like to eat fish?”
“Fuck yes.”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu used his chopsticks to place some bits of flesh on Neal’s plate, and then spooned bean sauce on top. He then helped himself and concentrated on eating. Then he asked, “You would be ready to accept an important guest this afternoon?”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu started to laugh and then stopped himself and frowned. “You must not say that, though, in front of important guest.”
“Say what?”
“Fuck.”
“Okay.”
“It is very funny, though.”
“Who’s the important guest?”
“Vegetables?”
“You bet your ass.”
Wu looked startled, looked at Neal sideways, and said, “More slang.”
Neal nodded and Wu dished out the steamed vegetables—broccoli, pea pods, bamboo shoots, and water chestnuts. He ate with the dedication of a true artist.
“Wu, where are we?”
“I am authorized to tell you that.”
“Shoot.”
Wu chuckled again. “You are in Chengdu,” Wu said proudly.
Chengdu … Chengdu … Chengdu …
“Not to offend you, but where is Chengdu?”
Wu’s face clouded slightly. “Chengdu is the capital city of Sichuan Province, which is in southwest China.”
Southwest China? My, my my …
“What day is it?”
Wu quickly checked his mental list of what he was authorized to say. “June the twenty-sixth.”
Jesus H. Christ! June twenty-sixth?
“How long have I been here?”
“Two weeks,” Wu answered, then added proudly, “and change.”
Neal did some mental arithmetic. God, he thought, that means I was in that Hong Kong hellhole for over two months. Two and a half.
“And what am I doing here?”
“Soup?”
“You’re not authorized to tell me that.”
“I am not,” Wu said sadly. “And I don’t know.”
“But the important guest does?”
“This is why he is important.”
“May I have some soup, please?”
“I am honored.”
The soup was a delicate chicken broth with some vegetables. Wu pretended not to notice that Neal’s hand trembled and that he had a hard time getting the soup into his mouth.
“No fortune cookie?” Neal asked when they were finished with the meal.
“You must not make jokes in front of—”
“Important guest. Don’t worry, I won’t. It’s just that I’m enjoying speaking English. Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Wu said. He added shyly, “And I am honored. Perhaps we can later discuss Mark Twain?”
“I would enjoy that very much.”
“You must rest now.”
“That’s all I do.”
“Your guest will be here in”—he made a show of looking at his watch—“one and one half an hour.”
“An hour and a half.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Wu stood up and stuck his hand out again. They shook hands and Wu left the room. Neal heard the lock click.
Okay, he thought, I am the mysterious Mr. Frazier. It’s possible. Maybe they know something I don’t, such as my father’s name; maybe it
is
Frazier. You’re getting giddy. Settle down. Half an hour of conversation and you’re losing your head. Mark Twain. Fuck yes.
Okay, so you know a little more than you did this morning. You’re in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, southwestern China. You’re way up Nathan Road now. So? So they probably wouldn’t bring you all this way if they were just going to clean you up and turn you back. And if you’ve been taken by the intelligence service, why aren’t you in Beijing? I mean, does the CIA take defectors to Arizona? I don’t know, maybe they do. And they’ve assigned you a translator, which means they want you to talk to somebody. Or they want somebody to talk to you.
Okay, but what do you have to tell them? They already know more about Li Lan than you do, ditto with Pendleton by now….
Simms.
You can tell them about Simms.
Which brings up an interesting moral dilemma.
The important guest was right on time, almost as if he had been standing in the hallway looking at the second hand on his watch. Neal heard the same timid knock, then the door opened and Wu’s head popped in. He looked nervous.
“May we come in?”
“Of course.”
Wu held the door open for the important visitor. The important visitor was short, somewhere in his late forties, and was a few noodles shy of being chubby. The fat was really starting to show in heavy circles under his eyes. His hair was greased and combed straight back on his head. He wore a gray business suit, white shirt, red tie, and black shoes. He carried an expensive-looking attaché case. His whole affect screamed “bureaucrat.”
“This is Mr. Peng,” Wu said. “Mr. Peng, this is Mr. Frazier.”
Is this where we toss a coin and I choose to receive?
“Please sit down,” Neal said.
Peng sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Neal to take the other. Wu stood behind Peng.
So much for the classless society, Neal thought.
Peng took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Neal. Neal shook his head and Peng lit his cigarette, then looked over his shoulder at Wu and said,
“Cha.”
Wu hustled out into the hallway. Neal heard him talking to somebody, and a minute later he returned with a waiter who carried a tray with tea, coffee, and cups.
“Mr. Peng understands that you prefer coffee to tea,” Wu said.
“Mr. Peng’s understanding is correct.”
“Mr. Peng suggests that we be informal and ‘help ourselves.’”
“Absolutely.”
Wu poured cups of tea for Peng and himself as Neal took a cup of coffee. Wu tentatively sat down on the corner of the bed and seemed visibly relieved when Peng didn’t object. Peng nodded to him, and Wu launched into their prepared opening.
“Mr. Peng is the assistant to Provincial Party Secretary Xao Xiyang.”
Neal saw Peng smile with self-satisfaction and wished that he knew a little more about Chinese politics.
“I am honored by his visit,” Neal said. “The coffee, by the way, is very, very good.”
Wu translated the remarks. Peng smiled again and responded.
“The coffee is from Yunnan,” Wu translated, “and he is very happy that you like it.”
Neal decided to get things going.
“Please express to Assistant Provincial Party Secretary Peng my gratitude for rescuing me from my dire situation and for taking such wonderful care in bringing me back to health.”
Wu translated, listened to the response, and returned Peng’s answer. “Mr. Peng says that he is not Assistant Provincial Party Secretary but assistant
to
the Provincial Party Secretary and says that he is merely a humble representative of greater powers, who, he is sure, are honored to be of service to you and would thank you for your gratitude.”
Wu let out a sigh of relief at getting the entire answer.
Neal smiled and nodded at Peng.
“Now tell him I want to leave.”
Wu thought for a moment, and then said in Chinese,
“He says that
his sense of decorum does not allow him to accept any more hospitality from the People’s Republic, and he does not wish to be of any more trouble.”
Peng took a drag on his cigarette.
“Bu shr.”
No.
“Mr. Peng says he is afraid that you are not ready to undertake a long journey at this time.”
“I know I am in Chengdu, but what is the building, and why am I being held?”
The translation ensued, and Wu said, “You are in the Jinjiang Guest House. It is a hotel.”
A hotel? A hotel?!
“Why is the door locked?”
A thin film of sweat started to appear on Wu’s forehead as he translated.
Peng smiled and uttered a one-word answer.
“Security,” Wu said.
“It is locked from the outside.”
Neal wasn’t sure, but he saw a flicker of annoyance pass over Peng’s face and wondered if he understood the question. Maybe it’s just a natural sequence, or the tone.
Wu was quite pleased with the answer. “We are very thorough in the People’s Republic of China, especially in regard to the safety of foreign guests.”
So that’s what I am—a foreign guest.
“I was under the impression,” Neal said, “that crime is virtually nonexistent in the People’s Republic.”
Wu gave him a dirty look and then translated, “Mr. Peng understands that crime is virtually omnipresent in the United States.”
“Once again, Mr. Peng’s understanding is correct.”
Peng smiled broadly at the answer, inhaled some smoke, and then drank some tea. Neal picked up his coffee, sipped at it, and stared over the cup at Peng. Peng stared back. Wu sweated.
“Ask him,” Neal said, “if we can cut the shit and get to the point.”
He saw Peng flinch slightly at “shit.”
“Mr. Frazier suggests that we dispense with polite introductory conversation and commence substantive discussions.”
“‘Shit’? He said ‘shit’?”
“Yes.”
Peng made no effort to mask his frown. He puffed on his cigarette and barked a brusque answer.
“Mr. Peng understands that your fatigue and ill health prevent you from exercising proper courtesy.”
“He called me an asshole, right?”
“Close.”
“Please tell him that I am eager to listen to his wise counsel, and hope that I can learn from his comments.”
Neal stared at Peng as Wu translated.
You know you’re being bullshitted, Neal thought, and you don’t care. All you want is the outward appearance of compliance, not to be shown up.
Peng started to speak in measured bursts, giving Wu time to translate as he went along.
“Mr. Peng’s superiors understand that your life has been in some danger, danger from which—as you acknowledge—the People’s Republic has rescued you. They further understand that this danger is, to a large degree, of your own making, due to your unfortunate interference in matters that do not concern you.”
On the contrary, Mr. Peng. They concern me greatly.
“They also understand that you do not represent the intelligence agencies of your country. If it was felt that you did, the situation would be quite different.”
Here it comes, Neal thought. He’s about to hit me with Simms.
Peng paused for a drink of tea, then continued.
“The People’s Republic wishes to return you to your home as quickly as possible.”
As possible.
“This, however, requires certain security procedures.”
About which you are very thorough, especially in regard to the safety of foreign guests.
“Such as cleansing your identity.”
Cleansing my identity? What the hell does that mean? Does my identity need to make a sincere act of contrition and do fifty-eight Hail Marys?
“Why?” Neal asked.
“Mr. Peng would prefer that you do not interrupt.”
“Why?”
Peng sighed and passed the happy word on to Wu, who passed it along to Neal. It was like a game at a dull party.
“Mr. Neal Carey has caused an uproar,” Wu explained hesitantly, “and we cannot allow that uproar to be traced in or out of the People’s Republic. It would be inconvenient for us and dangerous for you, as certain enemies you have made would find it easier to track you down and do you harm. However, Mr. William Frazier has caused no such uproar.”
He’s a convenient guy, that Mr. Frazier.
“Okay … so?”
“Perhaps, then, it is better to allow people to believe that Mr. Carey died in the treacherous slums of capitalist Hong Kong. Therefore, you will assume the identity of Mr. Frazier. Mr. Frazier is a Canadian in the travel business who is doing research for his company about the many potentials for tourism in Sichuan.”
Yeah, right.
“Then what?”
“After completing your research, you will go home.”
“Where is ‘home’?”
“We have purchased an air ticket to Vancouver. After that, it is up to you.”
This is the most chickenshit story I have heard yet in this chickenshit job. The pick of the litter, the best of show …