He looked around, noting how many of the customers sat alone, or silent and subdued in groups of two or three. Maybe it was the place. Maybe it attracted transients like himself. Or maybe it was just the hour. Whatever, it seemed quite dead after the bustling brightness of the Golden Carp. Up there there’d been great shrieks of laughter, a constant buzz of noise, while here . . .
He turned back, facing his reflection in the curving mirror, noting how the image of his face was stretched, as if someone were pulling at his cheeks.
Okay ... So what am I to do?
A more ruthless man might have had his wife committed; would have married again and put it all behind him. But he wasn’t that kind of man. Besides, for all that she was a stranger to him now, he still loved Wang Ti, or at least the memory of what she had been. He could not let that go, however much it hurt him to go on this way. No, nor would his children have forgiven him if he had.
He drained the bulb and called for another. Full circle, he thought, watching the waiter’s back as he bent down and took another bulb from the back of the refrigerated cupboard. 1 have come full circle. Wang Pen, he’d been—rootless and unconnected, his parents unknown, his origins forgotten. Lacking options he had become a hireling, a man whose death would have gone unmourned, unnoticed: a machine of flesh and bone and muscle, used by bigger men for ends he could not guess at. So he might have spent his meager life, so wasted it. But then he had met Wang Ti—Wang Ti, his wife and lover—and his life had been transformed. Children they’d had, and a future. The sun had shone on them. But now? Chen shuddered, the bitterness flooding back. The pain he felt, the sheer disappointment and regret, the anger and frustration, all of it ate at him—impurely mixed into one sour, unhealthy cocktail of bile; a cocktail he was forced to drink each morning when he woke, each evening when he laid his head down on his pillow. Bitterness. Unending bitterness. “Eat bitter,” so the saying went. Endure. Yes, but was there ever an end to such endurance? Was there never a moment’s ease, a moment’s sweetness, to be had?
He turned, suddenly conscious of someone at his shoulder, of the faint, sweet scent of perfume in the air.
“I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean to disturb you.” For a moment he stared into her eyes, then, recollecting himself, he lowered his head. “Forgive me, I...”
“You looked sad,” she said, smiling at him. “I was watching you just now, in the mirror.” She hesitated. “Look, if I’m not wanted . . .” He shook his head, looked back at her again. She seemed young, in her mid-twenties, possibly. Her dark hair was tied back, her shoulders bare in the tight-fitting dark blue dress she wore. Strangely he found himself staring at her shoulders, fascinated by their strength, their roundedness. They glistened in the half light, like something carved from ivory.
She smiled. “You like what you see?”
Chen looked down, blushing furiously. “I—I didn’t mean ...” Her hand covered his where it lay on the surface of the bar. It was a strong hand, the nails a glossy red. The warmth of it pressed down upon his own. Warm, like her voice.
“It’s all right. I like to be looked at.”
He looked at her again and nodded. “You’re very nice.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was open, friendly. There were no conditions to it. It was a simple smile of pleasure, like a child’s. Seeing it Chen found himself warming to her.
“So? What were you thinking about?”
Chen shrugged. “Was I thinking?”
She reached up, tracing the frown lines in his forehead. “These.” He laughed. “I was thinking . . . well, I was thinking about men . . . and women.”
“Ah . . . women. The eternal problem, neh?”
“Not for you.”
“No.”
They both laughed.
“Look,” Chen began, feeling suddenly awkward, “Will you ... sit with me?
Have a drink, perhaps?”
Her smile broadened. “I wondered when you’d ask. My name is Hsin Kao Hsing.”
“Tong Chou,” he said, with a tiny formal bow, conscious that she was still holding his hand, that at no moment had she released him from that simple, warm contact.
“Well, Shih Tong. And what brings you to these parts?”
What did he say? How did he answer that?
“My wife . . .” He fell silent, realizing that he didn’t want to talk about that.
“Ah.” She nodded, as if she understood; as if there were no further need to explain. “I had a husband once. A little man he was.” She put her hand out, as if measuring where the top of his head would come to. Chen smiled. “He must have been very small.”
“Yes, but very strong . . . and big . . . you know, where it matters.”
He narrowed his eyes, then understood. “Ah ...”
“That drink?” she coaxed.
“Ah, right. . .” He turned, summoning the bartender across, then turned back to her. “What will you have?”
She nodded to the bulb beside him. “I’ll have whatever you’re drinking, if that’s all right.”
He nodded, then ordered two more beers.
“Do you live around here?” he asked, an unfamiliar dryness in his mouth. “Down-level,” she answered, leaning toward him, her face only a hand’s width from his own now she was seated facing him. “I’ve my own place. I keep it neat.”
He nodded.
“And you?”
Chen took a breath. “Just passing through,” he answered, not wanting to say too much. “I was ...”
He stopped: suddenly the idea of going all the way to Munich Hsien had
lost its attraction. Why, he might as well stay here—have a few more
beers.
“You were what?” she asked, her smile curious. “Nothing,” he answered, taking one of the bulbs the bartender had set down and handing it to her. Then, taking his own, he snapped the seal and raised it, toasting her.
“Kan pei!”
“Kan pei!” she answered, her eyes sparkling. He sat back slightly, taking a long, deep breath. Her perfume was stronger than Hannah’s. Cheaper too, he thought. But what did that matter? They were alike, he and she, he could see that at a glance— made of the same common flesh: peasant stock, and no frills. He found himself smiling at the thought.
“Well. . .” she said, returning his smile strongly, “here we are.” Then, putting her bulb down on the bar, she leaned in toward him, resting her hands gently on his knees. “So, Tong Chou, why don’t you tell me about yourself. ...”
prince an hsi leaned forward in his chair, looking around at his fellow princes, seated all about him. The door was locked, the servants excluded. For the last hour they had done nothing but talk. “Well, Cousins,” he said, smiling broadly, “I think we are agreed. Our first task is to recruit others of like mind.” There was a murmur of agreement. An Hsi grinned. “Good. But let us be clear on this. We must go about this task with the greatest sensitivity. Like gardeners we must cultivate with patience and extreme care. On no occasion must the first word be ours. No, we must learn to be good at listening and encouraging others to talk. Wine”—he indicated the great spread on the table before them—“and good company . . . these things will serve to loosen many a tongue. Yet beware of those that gabble their thoughts carelessly. We want only those in whom anger is balanced with discretion, only those who—like ourselves—understand the true seriousness of this venture.”
He paused, his voice heavy with significance. “To depose the Seven . . . that is no small thing. And no matter how much Heaven might smile on us, until it is done we are in great peril. Though our anger is hot, our minds must be cool. A ruthless necessity must shape each word, each action, from henceforward.” Again he paused, looking from face to face, his eyes finally alighting on the face of Yin Chan. “One mistake—one tiny error—might undo the great good we seek to achieve.” Yin Chan nodded, his eyes sparkling with a strange fervor. “Well,” An Hsi added, the intensity slowly draining from him, “I think we are done. I, for one, must go. There is much to do, and I would be at it early.”