It was a beautiful sight, but I was very much laboring under the weight of Burton’s death, and felt that it required some kind of appropriate recognition. I could not think what that might be, but I knew I wasn’t going to rest until I’d done it. It was then I had the idea that I should go to the Baxian Gong, the Taoist temple, to light some incense for him in the hall of Sun Simiao, the physician and alchemist. If ever there was someone who would look after Burton in the afterlife, it was Sun Simiao. He might even have understood, as I could not, why Burton drank silver.
I took the same route I’d taken the previous time I’d gone there, through the eastern gate at the end of Dong Dajie, and thence along the narrow park that ran along the city walls. It was dusk now with the remains of one of those brilliant orange skies that seem to exist only in winter. The tai chi practitioners, the practicing musicians, the men with their birds were all gone. There were only a few young couples wandering along in a languid way, holding hands.
Waiting to cross at the light where a smaller road led into the area around the Baxian Gong, I caught sight of a familiar form, at least I thought I did. I decided it was Mr. Knockoff, this time with a bicycle with a wicker carrier basket that contained something wrapped in brown paper. To my mind that package was exactly the right size. I tried edging my way through the throng of cyclists and pedestrians, but he saw me before I could get to him. In what looked to be a suicidal gesture, he’d pedaled straight into traffic, jumping the median in the busy street running parallel to the eastern city wall, and heading into the old area behind the apartment towers.
I hailed a pedicab at the corner, and tried to tell him to follow the man on the bicycle. He had no clue what I was say-mg. Consequently I told him I wanted to go to the Baxian Gong, which he did understand, given that was roughly in the direction that Mr. Knockoff was going. I hoped I would see him on the way.
I didn’t, but when I got to the temple, there was a bicycle that I was almost certain was his parked in the entrance courtyard. The wicker basket was now empty. Either the package was deemed sufficiently valuable that it couldn’t be left at the entrance to a temple, which seemed to say a lot about its contents, or the man was doing something with it in the temple. I paid the driver and followed, but by the time I’d purchased my ticket, there was no sign of the young man.
I was reasonably sure there was only one way in and out, but then when I thought about it, I remembered—at least I thought I did—a back gate. The question was, would he leave his bicycle? When there was no sign of him for several minutes, I entered, crossing a lovely arched stone bridge in the first courtyard, before systematically checking every hall that was open and crossing the next courtyard to another hall. The place was absolutely silent. I seemed to be the only person who did not belong there. There were the faithful few lighting incense sticks and kneeling in prayer, and from time to time a priest in black hat and tunic, short black pants, and white socks hove into view before disappearing again. There was no sign of my prey.
It was in the hall devoted to Sun Simiao, the physician and alchemist, that I found him. He was kneeling, hands clasped around burning incense sticks, bowing and murmuring as he rocked back and forth, and I still couldn’t see his face well enough to positively identify him. The package was at his side. On the inside of the wooden railing that separated the worshippers from the worshipped, a priest was sitting on a low chair, chopsticks in hand, slurping a bowl of noodles. I suppose that, given we were in a Taoist temple in Xi’an, it was all perfectly normal, but I found it disconcerting, the idea of interrupting a man at prayer. I hung back, uncertain what to do, just long enough for him to see me. He leapt up, dropping his incense sticks as he picked up the package and, roughly pushing past me, made for the entrance and his bicycle. I followed as quickly as I could.
The bicycle wasn’t there. Before I could even begin to fathom what that meant, the young man gave a cry and bolted into the street. I went after him, just trying to keep him in sight as he moved deeper and deeper into the old neighborhood that I had thought appealing before, and now found menacing. It kept getting darker and darker, twilight coming upon us very quickly. I couldn’t both follow him and keep track of where I was, so the longer this went on, the more lost I became. I couldn’t read any signs, and everything was starting to look the same. I, however, was standing out in this crowd more and more. By this time, a lot of people were staring me. They would not forget me.
Just then the man turned into what looked to be an alley. Gasping for breath, I followed. At the entrance to the alley, I stopped, taking a second or two to get accustomed to the light, or rather the lack thereof, and to come to grips with what was playing out before me. I thought at first it was a dead end, that there was nowhere else for the pursued man to go, that perhaps I might somehow convince him to talk to me. At the far end of this laneway stood the man, whose face I still couldn’t see in the dim light, his back to the wall and package firmly held against his chest with both arms. He kept looking first in my direction and then at something else around the corner to his right, his head swiveling first one way, then the other. He looked as if he was trying to choose between the lesser of two evils and didn’t know which way to go. Suddenly, decision apparently made, he turned my way, and starting running straight for me.
It was all over in seconds. First I heard the roar of a motorcycle engine, and then saw two riders take the corner from what had been the man’s right. The first rider had his right arm straight out at shoulder height, and slowed slightly as he passed the young man with the package, now pressed against the wall to the right of the rider. There was a brief scream, a screeching of brakes, and the young man fell. The package flew out of his arms. The second rider came straight at me. Able to move at last, I ducked into the first doorway I came to, and the bike and rider swept by.
I heard the motorcycles turn for another run at me. This time they were going to stop, and I knew what they would do. The young man lay face down, almost certainly dead. Judging by the splash of blood against the wall and the widening pool under him, his throat had been slit. I staggered back from the sight, leaning hard against the door where I was standing. I almost fell through it into a little courtyard when it opened behind me. There were no lights in the buildings on the three sides of the courtyard, and no sign anyone was there. I pushed the door closed and locked it as the motorcycles swept by.
I was holding my breath when I heard the motorcycles stop, and then the crunch of footsteps coming right to the door behind which I stood. Someone tried the door. A few seconds later, something or someone slammed against the door with some force; the door bulged slightly but the lock held. I didn’t think it would hold for very long. As I looked about for somewhere else to hide, I heard a man shout, then many voices coming into the alley. Whoever was out there trying to break down the door stopped, as someone started to scream. In an instant I heard the motorcycles race off in the direction from which they had first come.