The thought was sweet. It made the tiny hairs on his neck prickle with an unexpectedly sharp anticipation. To stand over his corpse and spit into his vacant face—that, indeed, would be heaven. He watched the ship come down, anxious for a moment in case An Hsi had sent another to say he could not come, yet when the craft had settled and the hatch hissed open, it was An Hsi himself who stepped down, arms wide, to greet him.
Yin Chan went across, grinning fiercely.
“You came!” he whispered, holding An Hsi tight against him for a moment, relief and happiness making him laugh.
“You thought I wouldn’t?” An Hsi laughed, then held Yin Chan at arm’s
length. Yin Chan shivered, feeling the strength of the older man’s hands
against his arms. “We are like brothers, Chan. I would never let you
down.”
No, thought Yin Chan, staring into his once-lover’s face. Simply by coming here they had committed themselves—all five of them. There was no way back from this. No way out, except death. He smiled and, taking An Hsi’s shoulder, led him out down the path to the waiting boat. Five years ago he and his brother Sung had rowed Li Yuan across this lake to see their sister, who had fled here after a bitter row with her then-husband. The young T’ang had come here to be reconciled with her. Or so he’d claimed. For it was then that it had ended between Li Yuan and Yin Fei Yen; that day that he had set her aside—she and her unborn son—shaming Yin Chan’s family, making them a laughingstock before the others of the Twenty-Nine. He shuddered, the indignation fresh in him. As the servants rowed them across, he made small talk with An Hsi, yet the thought of what they were about to do distracted him, and as they climbed up onto the landing stage, beneath the ancient willow, he could remember nothing of what had been said.
An Hsi stood a moment, looking across at the elegant, two-story mansion with its gently sloped roof and broad, paneled windows, then turned to Yin Chan, smiling.
“It has been too long since I was last here, Cousin. You should have asked me long before this.”
The admonishment was gentle and the smile, the slightly teasing tone, reminded Chan of earlier days when he had first brought An Hsi here to his family home. He searched An Hsi’s eyes, looking to see what he meant, wondering if, after the meeting, he would perhaps stay. But An Hsi’s dark eyes revealed nothing.
“Come,” the older man said, taking Yin Chan’s arm. “Let us go and meet our cousins. We have much to talk about.”
eighth bell was sounding as Chen made his way through the crowds in front of the Golden Carp and up the broad steps that led to the reception. He was feeling awkward, out of place. Everyone here was young and fashionably dressed, while he, though not shabbily attired, felt old beyond his years, his simple ersilk one-piece like something a tradesman or a servant would wear.
The young woman behind the counter, her face painted gold, fake gills at her neck, stared at him as if he had made some kind of mistake, then narrowed her eyes. “Well? What do you want?” He cleared his throat, strangely nervous—he who had fought men hand to hand and to the death. Even so, he understood. There were different kinds of fear, and this was his—a fear of social places, of the bright glare and insincerity of it all; of being spotlighted and made to seem a simple clod, an uncultivated fool. General Rheinhardt himself had picked him up about it, reminding him that it was his duty as a Major to engage in social activities, but he had done little to remedy the fault. He was a soldier, not a courtier, and there was nothing he could do about it. If Rheinhardt didn’t like it, he could demote him and there was an end to it. Just now, however, something else drove him on—plain curiosity.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He smiled awkwardly, conscious that he was blushing like a girl. At a loss, he stared past the receptionist, trying to make out Hannah among the crowd within. The restaurant was on two levels, both of them packed. Tables filled the floors, young people sitting six or seven to a table with little room between for the fish-headed waiters to make their way through, stacked trays held effortlessly above their heads. He looked from table to table, trying to locate where she was, but it was no good. He would have to ask for her.
“I—I’m meeting someone.”
“Ah ...” The golden head looked down, studying the appointment book in front of her, then looked back up at him. Green eyes—lenses, he realized with a start—stared back at him from the painted Han face. “Are you Kao Chen?”
He laughed, part from relief, part from embarrassment, and nodded, his mouth dry, then watched as she summoned one of the waiters over. “Table seventeen. Upper floor. If you’d show the ch’un tzu . . .” She turned back to Chen, smiling—a tight, insincere smile—as she said this last, as if to imply he could never be “ch’un tzu”—a gentleman—were he to try a thousand years. But Chen was used to that. With a face like his he could fool no one that he had come from an ancient line of kings. No. His face said plainly peasant. And so it was, and mainly he was proud of it, but sometimes—as now—he would have done anything, paid any price, to have had the face of a gentler, more handsome fellow than he was. As the waiter turned away, he followed, mumbling apologies all the way across the lower floor, stumbling as he climbed the six low steps that led to the upper room. There the waiter left him, pointing across to a table in the comer where four people—three young men and a woman, her back to him—were seated, the remains of a meal on the table before them. For a moment Chen wasn’t sure. For a second or two he hesitated, prepared to turn back, to forget he’d ever come here, but then Hannah turned in her seat, as if sensing him, and met his eyes, her smile so bright. She was so clearly pleased to see him there, all thought of leaving fled him. He was smiling back at her and nodding, pleased, absurdly pleased, to see her there.
“Kao Chen!” she called above the noise, then stood, making her way between the tables. “Kao Chen . . .”
He stood there, a faint thrill of surprise passing through him as he watched her come across to him. In the tangle of his thoughts he had forgotten that she was Hung Mao. He had visualized her as Han, like himself. Shang Han-A. But that was understandable perhaps. Her tall, willowy build, her dark eyes, the single plait of her long, dark hair—these made her seem, at first glance, what she was not. And now that he saw her again, he remembered how old she was— sixteen—and shook his head. Why, his own son was barely two years younger. As she squeezed between the last two chairs and came face-to-face with him, he found his awkwardness returning. He felt the urge to embrace her, to greet her physically somehow, but knew it would be taken wrongly. Even so, it surprised him when she reached out and took both his hands in hers, then leaned close to kiss his cheek.
“Kao Chen,” she said more softly, the scent of her perfume giving the words a strangely romantic cast. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” “Nor I,” he confessed, and then laughed. He looked past her, conscious that his mouth was dry again, his pulse racing. “Your friends?” “Come. I’ll introduce you.” She hesitated, then leaned in close, speaking to his ear. “And please. Don’t react. Just listen, okay? We’ll talk afterward.”
He stared at her as she moved back, then shrugged. Okay, he mouthed, then let her lead him across to the table.