They turned off and walked past a new tower block and a car dealership where shiny new vehicles were for sale. They came to a forecourt where electric scooters were arranged in lines according to colour. Mr Lin had always wanted a scooter. He ran his hand over the handlebars and seat of one in his favourite colour – aquamarine.
As they walked on, Mrs Lin said, ‘Look at the old bicycles.’
Inside a mesh fence topped with security lights were hundreds of them.
They laughed together, and Mrs Lin said, ‘Who would even think about stealing old bicycles?’
They turned a corner and were on their old street. The rubble had still not been cleared.
They passed the place where they had lived for nineteen years, where Ho had played safely in the traffic-free alleys. Only five of the original houses were still inhabited. One of them belonged to the moneylender, Mr Qu. There were rumours that Mr Qu had contacts within the Beijing Tourist Board, and that he had bribed the bulldozer driver to stop at his house. Mr Qu was afraid of the professional moneylenders who were muscling in on his trade.
Mr Lin called softly at the open door. ‘Are you there, Mr Qu? It is Mr Lin, your old neighbour.’
Mr Qu came to the door and greeted them. ‘Ha!’ he said. ‘How do you like living in the sky, with the birds?’
The Lins were proud people.
‘It is good,’ said Mrs Lin, ‘better than living on the ground, with the dogs.’
Mr Qu laughed politely.
Mr Lin had never liked the moneylender. He believed that the interest Mr Qu extracted from his customers was outrageous. But he had visited many banks and had been refused a loan at each of them. He had protested that he would get a second job, and work through the night, helping to build the new Beijing. But he was so frail, and the flesh around his head was so shrunken that he looked as though, at any moment, he would be called to join his ancestors. No bank employee expected him to live long enough to pay off his debt.
Mr Qu asked, ‘How is Ho in England?’
Mrs Lin said, ‘He is very well. Ahead in his studies and top marks in his exams.’
‘Is this a social or a business call?’ said Mr Qu.
‘Business,’ said Mr Lin.
Mr Qu ushered them into the little house and invited them to sit down. He gestured to Mr Lin to carry on speaking.
Mr Lin said, ‘We have an unexpected expense. Family. A flood in the countryside.’
‘Most unfortunate,’ murmured Mr Qu. ‘Exactly how much are these expenses?’
Mrs Lin said, ‘To replace a floor, mattresses, a cooking stove, clothing for eight people, a television. There is more…’
Mr Lin said, ‘Better make it fifteen thousand US dollars.’
Mr Qu laughed merrily and said, ‘A significant sum! And do you have collateral?’
Mr Lin was prepared. ‘Ho himself. He will be a qualified doctor in six more years. From an English university. He will pay you back.’
Mr Qu nodded. ‘But for now, he is only a first-year medical student… so many drop out, disgrace their parents.’
Mrs Lin said, fiercely, ‘Not Ho. He knows the sacrifices we have made.’
Mr Qu said, ‘To reflect the length of time before I make a return… an interest rate of thirty per cent.’
Mr Lin said, ‘You can have a share in Ho’s salary for ten years. It will be taken from his bank account, and deposited into yours.’ He hoped to appeal to Mr Qu’s gambling instinct.
Mr Qu shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. What is the most valuable thing you have in your life, Mr Lin?’
Mr Lin looked to the side and said, ‘My wife, she is precious to me.’
When they were walking back, Mrs Lin sat down halfway home on what used to be her doorstep.
Her face was flushed, and she said to her husband, ‘The shame, the shame of it.’
Mr Lin pulled the international money order from his pocket and said, ‘It was only a business transaction.’
She said, ‘But he has humiliated us.’
‘How?’
‘He did not ask us to take tea with him.’
59
Eva’s sycamore was in full leaf and provided a fluttering lime-green canopy between the window and the gathering of people on the pavement opposite. Eva could not see Sandy Lake, but she could hear her shouting her disturbing messages throughout the day and night. There was an injunction in place, which was meant to keep Sandy 500 metres away from 15 Bowling Green Road. But she regularly breached the order and, emboldened by the late response of the police, would try to get through the front door and provoke Alexander into losing his temper.
She would push and shove him, shouting, ‘Get out of my way, Sambo! I need to speak to senior angel Eva!’
When, at Eva’s insistence, Alexander finally made a formal complaint to PC Hawk, the policeman minimised Sandy’s ‘nuisance value’.
He said, ‘Yeah, she is a bit overenthusiastic, but personally I quite like that in a woman. I’ve been on dates where, after the first few minutes, they’ve said almost nothing at all.’
Alexander replied, emphatically, ‘Ask her out for a pizza then, and I’ll guarantee that you wouldn’t last beyond a second helping at the salad bar. She’s seriously mentally ill. And you should know how inflammatory “Sambo” is to a black person. It doesn’t bother me any more, but add a couple of bored black youths to the mix and you, PC Hawk, have got a riot on your hands.’
PC Hawk said, ‘No, I’d take the heat out of the situation immediately. I’ve been on a racial awareness course. Mr Tate, why not try a bit of banter with her? The next time she calls you “Sambo”, why not call her “fatty”? When she gets to know you better, she’ll realise that you’re a human being, just like her. Tell her you’ve both got red blood in your veins.’
Alexander looked down at PC Hawk’s innocent and ignorant face, and understood that nothing he could say would make any impression on this policeman. He had closed his mind at adolescence and cemented it shut at police training college. He would not be opening it again.
Eva was lying on top of the bed facing the door. It was a hot summer’s day and she was irritated by the heat and the buzzing of flies as they hurtled round the ceiling. She was longing for somebody to come in with a tray of food and drink.
Hunger made her panic. She had been left alone several times lately when Alexander had other paid work he had to do.
What would she do if nobody came in for a week? Would she get out of bed and walk downstairs to the kitchen, or would she lie there and allow herself to starve – waiting for her organs to close down, one by one, until the heart sighed and gave up, the brain dis connected its pathways after giving a few exploratory signals, and the tunnel appeared with the bright light beyond?
Eva thought about the inside of her body, the trillions of cells, smaller than the width of a human hair. About the body’s immune system which, if threatened by disease, will summon all the good defensive cells to a crisis meeting. About how the cells select a leader who will make the decision to welcome disease or repel it. Like democracy in Ancient Athens, when the citizens met to decide how the city was to be run.
She wondered if we carry our own universe within us, if we are the gods.
Alexander knocked and came in. He was holding a piece of A4 paper. He said, seeing how hot and tired she looked, ‘Are you up for this today?’
‘I don’t know. Who’s out there?’
‘There’s the usual swizzle heads. The new ones are on the list.’ He looked down at the paper and tried to decipher his own handwriting. ‘An agricultural seed merchant who says nobody has ever loved him.’
‘Yes, I’ll see him,’ said Eva.
‘Then there’s a vegetarian who works in an abattoir. The only work he could find. Should he leave his job? I’ll check him for knives.’