Pablo poured more bourbon. Broom drank up, basking in luxury and triumph. He was elated to be out of China.
"Harold," the Texan said, "I've gotta be sure. This is the only one?"
"Absolutely," Broom lied. If the Texan only knew.
"The price is-"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand now. Another two fifty on delivery. And don't worry. I'll be delivering it myself."
"You damn well better," the Texan growled, reaching for his checkbook. "For the kind of commission you're getting, Broom, you damn well ought to show up pulling a ricksha."
The xiu xi is China's most revered institution. Indeed, a worker's right to rest is enshrined in China's constitution. Nowhere does it say that all China shall sleep between noon and 2 p.m., but that is how it seems. If the Russians ever come, it will be at 1 p.m., when only the rawest Chinese recruits will be awake to oppose them. In Peking, office workers sleep on their desks. In the countryside, peasants sleep in the fields. If airplane crews find themselves on the ground at noon, they will not fly again until after lunch and a xiu xi. The more senior a cadre, the better-appointed and more private the place of his xiu xi, and the longer he sleeps.
The Disciplinary Commission had cited Wang Bin for 1 p.m. It was a calculated insult, and he knew it. At noon, Wang Bin lunched with senior aides in a private room of the staff restaurant at the Peking museum that was his headquarters.
Conversation was furtive. One or two of the men who had been with him the longest mentioned things that had occurred in the Deputy Minister's absence in the south: The Qin exhibition had been dispatched to the United States on schedule. From Xinjiang in China's desert west, the museum was to receive the mummified corpses of two soldiers perfectly preserved in the dry air these six hundred years; they would require a special room with stringent humidity controls.
Mostly, though, the aides avoided meeting Wang Bin's eyes. Their discomfort amused him. They knew. Deliberations of the Party are secrets closely held. But when the ax is about to fall, everybody knows. Peking becomes a village in those times. When the arrival of soup signaled the last course, Wang Bin pointedly looked around the table, studying his aides individually, making no secret of it. He was rewarded with the sight of six heads, bent uniformly, like acolytes, slurping their soup, seeing only the bowl. He wondered which of them had informed against him, and which would give testimony-if it came to that. The answer was obvious, and it saddened him: all of them. Poor China.
Rising, Wang Bin raised a tiny crystal glass of tnao tai.
"To long life and happiness," he proposed. "Ganbei."
"Ganbei," the aides responded, and each drained the fiery liquor in one swallow.
"Xiu xi," said Wang Bin. He found savage delight in the uncertainty that caused.
One of the aides even looked at his watch. It was precisely one o'clock. So they even knew the time. Spineless sons of a turtle.
Wang Bin slept deeply on a daybed next to his office for more than an hour. The train from the south had been crowded and slow, arriving in Peking just after dawn, and he had rested little. Again and again, he had replayed the climactic acts of the drama he had forged. It would work, as long as he could keep time on his side. He had not expected the Party's summons so soon. Another day or two might have made all the difference. Wang Bin sighed with finality and prepared to meet his inquisitors.
Precisely at 3 p.m., Wang Bin presented himself at a side entrance of the Great Hall of the People. To those who knew it existed, it was the most dreaded doorway in Peking.
"You are late," said a severe young receptionist without preamble.
"I was detained on the people's business. Please tell the comrades that I have arrived."
"You will wait," the young man instructed. "The comrade will show you where."
He gestured to an orderly who led Wang Bin to a high-ceilinged reception room big enough for fifty people. It was empty, except for one straight-backed wooden chair in the precise center of a beige carpet. Wang Bin nearly laughed aloud. It was so transparent.
"Bring tea," he snarled to the orderly.
No tea came, nor any summons for nearly two hours. By the time Wang Bin was led into a red plush room usually reserved for Central Committee meetings, the two-wheeled afternoon rush hour gripped Peking.
Once more, intimidation. Another crude chair facing a long, highly polished table where three men sat: two wizened Party cadres and a PLA general, to lend authority. The army, after all, belonged not to the nation but to the Party, by decree of the same constitution that had enshrined the xiu xi.
Wang Bin knew all three men. The two Party ancients were willows, professional survivors who had devoted an empty lifetime to swaying back and forth with changing political winds. The general was something else again. Wang Bin had soldiered with him once, when they had both-like their cause-been young and strong.
The three old men comprised the Disciplinary Commission. To their right sat a younger man in his forties. His black hair leapt impulsively from his skull. His eyes burned with the unmistakable fire of a zealot. The prosecutor. At a desk of their own sat two sexless women stenographers.
"You may sit," said the elder of the two Party hacks. That made him the president of what was technically a commission of inquiry, but only by euphemism. It was as close to a trial as Wang Bin would see, if he was smart.
Everybody in the room knew it. Everybody also knew that Wang Bin had already been found guilty of whatever it was they were about to charge him with. All that remained was the sentence.
"I prefer to stand, Comrade," said Wang Bin.
"You will sit," snapped the prosecutor.
"Oh, let him stand if he wants to. What difference does it make?" The general sighed from a mouth half-hidden by a hand that supported his face.
"Proceed," said the president.
"This is an inquiry by the Disciplinary Commission of the Communist Party of the People's Republic of China against Wang Bin, Party member since 1937, expelled in 1966 and rehabilitated blameless in 1976."
The prosecutor read like an automaton in a high, singsong voice.
"Based on information received, and from direct observation, the Party accuses Wang Bin of conduct inimical to the best interests of the Party and the state."
Wang Bin tensed. How much did they know? Everything hinged on the innate stupidity of the bureaucracy. They would list the charges chronologically, with the most recent first, Wang Bin knew, to shake the confidence of the accused by showing how vigilant and up-to-date the watchers could be.
"One. You are accused of meeting secretly, privately and without authorization with a foreigner for purposes inconsistent with the best interests of the Party: namely, Harold Broom, an American citizen; five counts.
"Two. The same accusation applies to another American, one Thomas Stratton, with whom you met secretly in your office in Peking in violation of the Party code of correct conduct.
"Three. You are accused of misuse of Party property, namely one Red Flag limousine, damaged severely while assigned to you.
"Four. You are accused of the misuse of Party funds in paying for a decadent art exhibition attended by foreigners in state property, namely a museum, under your custody.
"Five. You are accused of conspiring against the best interests of the state and the Party in personally securing an entry visa for an American citizen, namely David Wang, without authorization, and of abandoning your post to travel and to meet secretly with David Wang.
"Six. You are accused of receiving unauthorized gifts from a foreigner, namely propaganda materials from the Embassy of France… "
Wang Bin stared at a streak of grease on a chunky window behind the commission table. He tried to remain detached. He tried to keep from laughing. The "propaganda materials" had been a set of art books for the museum library.