A Certain Smile Page 10

  Miranda's eyes widened. "And I remind you of her."

  "Well, that is getting ahead of my story, but, yes, in some important ways you remind me of her. Do you want to hear about her?"

  "Yes."

  "Her name was Fu Wei. She was young, about seventeen, she thought, but she was not sure. They did not record women's births in those days; sons were all that mattered. She had never been outside Mianning. She was small and very thin—there was never enough to eat, and during the time I was there the crops failed and no help came from outside—and I thought she was frail, one of those whom poverty quickly destroys. But she was quite tough in her optimism and resilience, and she smiled and laughed more than I thought anyone could, in such a place at such a time."

  He removed the lid from his cup, then sat staring into space. "Wei could not read or write and knew nothing of my world, but she had fresh thoughts about people, and she longed for learning and adventures. She did not know that: only in our conversations did she realize how much she yearned to see more of life, though even then she said she could not ever leave home because she did not know how to behave anywhere else. She had a quick, curious mind, and much instinctive understanding, but she believed that she had no intelligence, no cleverness, and of course, no beauty."

  Abruptly, Miranda stood and walked across the small room, then back again. She stopped at a scroll painting and pretended to examine it. "You're accusing me of being as ignorant as that peasant girl."

  "I never mentioned ignorance and I made no accusations. And I said that you reminded me of her, not that you are like her."

  "But you think I am. Frail and delicate; that seems to attract you."

  "Fragility does not attract me; I do not admire or like it. When I first saw you in the airport you had a look in your eyes that reminded me of Wei: alert, wary, fearful, but trying to think of a way to deal with strangeness. I did admire that and it drew me to you."

  Miranda turned from the painting. "What happened to her?"

  "We were together for a year. We were all sick and on the edge of starvation, people were collapsing in the brickworks and in the fields, but Wei and I were very close. We were together as much as p>ossible, and in all the rain and mud, and the terrible winds, and the ft-eezing cold and crushing heat, with nothing but rags to wear, somehow we were happy." He looked at his hands, opening and closing them. "I was teaching her to read. She was so excited about that. And then she died."

  "Oh. ... How?"

  "She was injured in an accident in the brickworks and she got an infection. There were no medicines. I got word to a friend in Chong-king, asking him to help us leave so I could take her to a hospital. He tried to get an order to have us transferred, but everything took so long; weeks went by while papers were shuffled and sent on to one desk after another. And so Wei died. I held her for a day and a night. She was burning with fever, but she knew I was with her, and she was crying—the tears dried so quickly on her hot face—and saying that now she would never learn to read, and I would never be able to show her the ocean, and we would never make love in warm and beautiful places ... and then she breathed a long sigh, of great sorrow, and died. Four months later, the order came through and I left that place. And since then I have been alone."

  Miranda went to him and, tentatively, touched his hair, then rested her hand on his shoulder. He covered her hand with his, and in a moment rose and took both her hands in his. "You are stronger than you believe. You have talent and intelligence and a will that you have not yet recognized. You are honest and open to change. And you have your own beauty, which no one else has. Like Wei."

  They looked at each other, their hands clasped. For the first time in many years, Miranda wanted to kiss and be kissed, to embrace and be embraced. But she knew it was not time; there was still too much she had to understand. She studied Li's almond-shaped eyes, the hard lines of his face, the prominent cheekbones and long, thin nose, the strong chin and heavy brows, the brown, unruly hair. It seemed she could not look at his face enough. And then a shadow crossed her thoughts: a young woman, barely visible. She frowned. "If you're trying somehow to recapture a lost love ..."

  "No." He smiled. "I do know the difference between fantasy and reality. You are very real, Miranda Graham, and very much your own person, and the more I know you the more distinctly you are different from Wei, and from everyone else. But the best that was in her is in you, and much more, waiting to be discovered. China is a good place for discoveries, and I believe we could have a wonderful time if you would allow me to share them with you."

  She looked and looked at him. It occurred to her that this could be the real beginning of her journey, even more than the flight from Denver to Beijing. But, this time, what was her destination?

  She shrank from the thought. If she did not know where she was going, she should not start the journey. But the neat categories that until now had so precisely organized her life, providing an abundance

  of "shoulds" and "oughts," and "can'ts," suddenly seemed fuzzy. What was far more clear was that she knew Li was right: they could have a wonderful time if she would allow it.

  "So you will come with me to Xi'an?" he asked, as naturally as if he were talking of a stroll around the comer.

  Still she hesitated. And then, at last, she thought. Well, why not? Xi'an and ... whatever else we can do. It's only for six more days. Not enough to do any damage, but enough to learn something new about the world and about myself. So, why not?

  She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. As if she were standing across the room observing the two of them, she saw herself rest her hand along Li's face. "I'm glad to be compared to Wei. And I think the best discoveries are the ones that are shared."

  Chapter 4

  Yuan Sheng sat at a comer table with a good view of the room and the jazz band on a raised platform beside a small dance floor. "They're very good," Wu Yi said, and he nodded, preoccupied with checking the crowd, peering through dense swirls of cigarette smoke to make sure every chair at every table was filled. Of course he knew they were—he had made a swift survey as he and Wu Yi arrived—but he always made a more thorough one when he was seated, drink in hand, beginning to relax enough to think about his investment in this club without a tight clutching of fear at his stomach.

  He had put too much money into it; his father had told him at the beginning that he should look for a fourth partner. But whenever Li gave him advice, especially good advice, Sheng's mind shut down in that direction, and went its own way. So, with only two partners, he had opened the Du Fu Club just six months earlier, their second club in a year, and even though his partners' connections with government kept them from being taxed too highly, and prevented police raids, still, they had not yet begun to make a profit.

  "A good crowd," Wu Yi said, and again Sheng nodded. He knew she was trying to make him feel good, but he resented it because that meant he must look as if he needed stroking, which meant he must look vulnerable ... and she had no right to put him in that position. He was not vulnerable. He stayed close to the line, cut comers, took risks, backed and filled and lied and maneuvered, but that was what competition meant, and only those who were willing to play by the new mles could hope to triumph in today's China.

  His father, for example, would fail.

  "I'd like another martini," Wu Yi said. There was an edge to her

  voice and Sheng swiveled his attention to her. He ordered martinis, and dinner, then sat back and took her hand. "That's your new dress? I like it."

  "Not new; just one you haven't seen."

  "I gave you money for a new dress."

  "Yes, but this was what I wanted." She held out her arm, displaying a gold bracelet. "Thank you, Sheng; such a lovely gift."

  Their eyes met, hers challenging, a little mocking, and Sheng's face grew hot. He would have dropped her hand, but that would have given away his anger, and he knew that those who revealed nothing always had the advantage over others. "Enjoy it," he said amiab
ly. "It becomes you."

  He was rewarded with a smile, and then their martinis arrived, and a platter of lobster in black bean sauce, and the difficult moment was over. She could have her pick of men, and she often infuriated him, but his hunger for her gnawed day and night, and losing her was inconceivable. Besides, she did not want to marry, and that suited him perfectly, since he had no intention of divorcing his wife. That was his first condition: he needed women who could handle an affair without making impossible demands. He needed Wu Yi.

  He took a piece of lobster in his chopsticks, coral and white in a glistening sauce. Coral was the color of Wu Yi's silk dress, coral her lipstick against creamy skin, and coral the filigreed comb in her glossy black hair pulled tightly from the perfection of her face and twisted into an elaborate knot. She was a film actress becoming popular throughout China, and Sheng knew that her presence here attested as much as anything to his bright future. He watched her chew a piece of lobster. "Perfect," she said. "You did well in choosing your chef. And the martini is excellent. Very American."

  "I hope better than that." He smiled so that she would not think he was correcting her, even though he was. "Americans are heavy-handed with their drinks, as with everything else; it will not be long before we surpass them everywhere, as we did long ago in the beauty of our women."

  She laughed, and Sheng felt a rising satisfaction. It was going to be a successful evening.

  Everything was successful these days. Sheng prided himself on being the modem Chinese man. He wore designer suits, drank Louis XIII Remy Martin Cognac which, someone had told him, cost the equivalent of a thousand American dollars a bottle, and he subscribed to Trends Gentleman, the blindingly glossy magazine filled with valuable tips on clothes, food and drink, home buying, real estate invest-

  ment, skiing and snorkeling, buying cars, finding the right gift for a woman. The magazine's credo had become Sheng's: consumption is good, as long as one consumes wisely. Since that was directly opposite to communist doctrine, Sheng was profoundly pleased that he had become a businessman at this time in his country's history. Politics bored him, and so did people who were interested in it, but he was aware of what was going on, and he knew that the Chinese government, whatever it still called itself, had traveled a long way from communism.

  Instead, they had something called market socialism. No one knew what it meant, but they all swore by it, because it had turned China into a gold mine, at least for Sheng's generation. Opportunities for getting rich were around every comer, and no one stood in their way. The police in China, understaffed and underpaid, were always grateful for extra money, so Sheng's generation formed partnerships with policemen and police chiefs to buy and run hotels, restaurants, karaoke bars, saunas, nightclubs, and dance halls. They also owned brothels in partnership with the vice squads in a number of cities. There were always plenty of girls for the dance halls and brothels, plucked from the hundreds of thousands of teenagers wandering the country in search of a better life.

  But it wasn't easy, climbing to the top. Sheng knew that he could not do it without his friendships with the sons and daughters of government officials and military officers: the powerful, protected, ruthlessly ambitious young men and women who were the key to the future. Two of them. Pan Chao and Meng Enli, were his partners in the nightclubs and, because of them, Sheng would soon be a shining star in the firmament of China's new elite.

  Once his father had asked him about his increasingly lavish life style, and Sheng had replied with vague talk of profits from his nightclubs. His father had not asked again; it was as if he did not want to be lied to. Their conversations now were mostly about All-China Construction, the company his father had begun that would someday be Sheng's.

  Many times, Sheng would have liked to talk to Li: odd times when he found himself about to ask his father for advice, or for help in understanding something, but then he would catch himself His father could never understand his life. Yuan Li was mired in outdated ideas of loyalty and responsibility and working for a better life for everyone, even those who didn't have the brains or the willpower to scramble up from the bottom. The Americans had a good saying for that: the poor should pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Well, why shouldn't

  they? Sheng had done it. The opportunities were there: if others did not grab them, they had no one to blame but themselves. Sheng thought about them only when he climbed over them on his journey to the top.

  Dahu —big money bugs—that was what people called him and those of his generation who were getting rich. But what did he care? He paid attention only to each day, and how smoothly and profitably it could be made to slide into the next day, and the one after that. That was all he cared about.

  Except for women. Especially, except for Wu Yi. And this night, at his club, his successful evening with her unrolled through the hours as they ate and talked and danced; as Wu Yi took her time drinking her French cognac; as she leaned forward for Sheng to light her cigarette, putting off, dehberately, it seemed, the moment when they would go to her apartment, to her bed. Sheng, weak with wanting her, grunted with the effort of sitting still. "In time," Wu Yi said smoothly, letting him know that no one hurried her or ruled her schedule. And it was at that moment that the manager came to their table with a portable telephone and told Sheng that he was wanted.

  He could not ignore it; only a few people knew where to find him, and they would call only in an emergency. He excused himself to Wu Yi and leaned back in his chair. "Well?"

  Meng Enh's voice was abrupt. "We need you. Now. At the office."

  Sheng's struggle was brief. Every nerve within him quivered to be in Wu Yi's bed, but a call at this time of night meant there was a crisis that took precedence over everything. Business, Sheng thought, the true center of his life. He began calculating the best way to end this part of the evening. Planning, complex and devious, was what he loved best.

  "I am deeply unhappy," he said to Wu Yi, "but I must see to a crisis in my business." Her face hardened, but Sheng, perched on the edge of his chair, was barely aware of it; already she had dimmed in importance. "Nothing else would take me away; you know what you mean to me. Dear Wu Yi, so much is changing around us, none of us can shut our eyes for a minute or we could lose everything. BeUeve me, I have no choice but to go. Tomorrow will be better; we will have all the time we wish. Tomorrow night?"

  He had not meant to ask; he had meant to state it with absolute certainty. But, on its own, his voice slid into a question and he saw Wu Yi recognize his weakness and harden further. "Not tomorrow night, certainly not, I need time to myself. I'll let you know how soon you may call again."

  "The next night," Sheng said, adopting the boldness he had failed to find the first time. 'T'U call you then."

  "I may not be at home."

  "That would be very sad." He was so anxious to be gone that he was behaving almost carelessly, and he saw Wu Yi's eyes widen. With admiration? With annoyance? He could not take the time to find out. He stood up. "I'll take you home."

  She walked ahead of him, ignoring him. She ignored him in his car and ignored him when she went into her apartment building. At any other time, Sheng would have been in despair. But by now he was tight with apprehension, and he had stopped thinking of Wu Yi even before he turned the comer and headed toward the northeast. He was recalling Enli's voice, hard with anger.

  The office he shared with Chao and Enli was in a nondescript building near the airport: three rooms at the rear of the first floor, with no name on the door, and no secretary. When Sheng parked and got out of the car, he saw Enli waiting at the door.

  "They panicked," he said, his words cold and measured. "Your crew—the one you hired last month—you said they knew what they were doing."

  "Crew? You mean something happened to the sugar shipment?"

  "Get in the office."

  Sheng followed Enli inside, his heart pounding. They panicked. How? When he hired the pirates they had told him they knew all about this b
usiness; that they would have no trouble boarding the Vietnamese ship and sailing it to Beihai where it would be unloaded and the sugar transported by truck to customers in two cities. Not even complicated enough to work up a sweat. "What happened?" Sheng asked.

  Enli shut the door. "They beat the crew, pistol-whipped and beat them—"

  "They couldn't! They said—"

  "Shut up and listen. They pistol-whipped and beat the crew, ded them up and threw them overboard. Twelve men dead."

  "No! They said it wasn't complicated ... they said ... wait a minute." Sheng bent his head and breathed in and out to slow down his heart. He had given strict orders: no one was to be killed. Their business was piracy, not murder; a simple business of transferring cargo from one place to another and selling it for a good profit. Piracy was lucrative and relatively easy; it harmed no one except a few wealthy manufacturers and shippers in other countries, and why should Chinese entrepreneurs care about them? Piracy was an enterprise with guaranteed results, as long as the rules were followed.

  Someone had ignored that. Had ignored Sheng. After all he had done to gain the confidence of Enli and Chao, to be considered a full

  partner in their businesses, if not yet a friend, someone had ignored him and now his life was far more difficult than it had seemed just an hour ago.

  Enli's voice rolled over his bent head. "Of course it could not be kept secret; everyone in Beihai knows about it."

  Sheng forced himself upright: he was a man, not a child to be scolded. He would find his way out of this setback and not only would he survive, he would triumph. That much, at least, his father had taught him: that it was possible to rise again, and again and again, even after terrible times.

  "But the murders are not the problem," Enli said. "It is a nuisance that they happened—"

  "Twelve men are dead!" Sheng exclaimed before he could stop himself.

  "A nuisance," Enli said as if Sheng had not spoken, "but not serious. What is serious is that the police were at the harbor not ten minutes after the boat came in, and they are holding the ship."