Read Online A Death in China by Carl Hiaasen, William D Montalbano - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carl Hiaasen, William D Montalbano
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the hotel. A Red Flag, no less, one of those dying-breed hand-tooled lustrous black limousines that are such a conspicuous status symbol in China that they have their own relaxed set of traffic regulations. The driver wore white gloves and had no English. He deposited Stratton at the apex of a circular driveway at the entrance to the museum. A young man with bottle-bottom glasses sprang for the door.
“Welcome, Professor Stratton. My name is Mr. Zhou. Comrade Wang is waiting for you. Follow me, please.”
They passed quickly through a marbled lobby bristling with watchers, turned left immediately, and left again at the first doorway.
The formal reception room was just as Linda had sketched it: long and narrow, filled by two lines of parallel overstuffed chairs and sofas in gray-brown wrapping. Between them ran a set of low coffee tables. Before each seat was a flowered tea mug, an ashtray and an ornate wooden box of tea leaves. On the wall was a large mural of the traditional dwarfed-by-nature theme.
Inside the doorway stood Wang Bin, a gently rounded ghost of his brother. From a few steps away, the resemblance to David was startling; nonplussed, Stratton faltered at the door. Wang Bin motioned him in kindly.
As they shook hands, Stratton saw the differences. Wang Bin’s face seemed leaner and older than David’s; the hair was shorter of course, but also thinner, and more liberally dashed with gray at the temples. The deputy minister’s bearing, in a crisp gray Mao suit with a black mourner’s band on one arm, was rock-hard military. But the greatest difference welled in the eyes. To look at David Wang’s almost-almond eyes was to have seen wisdom, humor, compassion. In Wang Bin’s eyes Stratton saw intelligence, strength—and something else. A certain intrepid determination that had no doubt stood him in good stead all these years.
Stratton and Wang sat at right angles in adjoining chairs and the interpreter took up a priest-at-confession pose to one side. Stratton’s last private meeting with a Chinese official had been with a snarling, saucer-faced man who’d punctuated shouting questions with blows from a rubber truncheon. When the time had come to leave, Stratton had shot him, twice.
Wang Bin was speaking. Stratton leaned forward attentively, letting the sibilant Mandarin wash over him in uncomprehended waves. A girl in pigtails and a white jacket materialized. Gently, she eased the top off Stratton’s tea cup and added boiling water from a thermos. She soundlessly recovered the cup. Tea leaves had already been placed in the cup.
” … to meet a distinguished scholar such as yourself and hopes you are enjoying your stay in China,” the interpreter hissed.
“Please tell Comrade Wang that I am pleased and excited to be in China. It is a fascinating country and my trip has been very educational.”
A pause for translation. Wang’s response. Then the translation floating back toward Stratton. An agonizing way to communicate, he reflected, about as lively as geriatric shuffleboard.
“Comrade Wang asks if this is your first trip to China.”
“Tell Comrade Wang that, yes, this is my first trip. I have always wanted to come before, but it was too expensive.” Stratton had told that same lie dozens of times. He would die proclaiming it. And why not? The first time he had come without a passport.
“Comrade Wang asks, What cities besides Peking have you visited?”
The conversation meandered like the Yangtze for nearly fifteen minutes; three offers of cigarettes, two cups of tea and banalities uncounted. Stratton let it wander. It was Wang Bin’s ball park, and if he was in no hurry, neither was Stratton. The art historians had voted unanimously to spend their last morning in Peking—a rare, unprogrammed three hours—on a return visit to the Friendship Store.
“Comrade Wang says his brother spoke well of you to him. He said you were a treasured former student and a distinguished professor.
“Welcome, Professor Stratton. My name is Mr. Zhou. Comrade Wang is waiting for you. Follow me, please.”
They passed quickly through a marbled lobby bristling with watchers, turned left immediately, and left again at the first doorway.
The formal reception room was just as Linda had sketched it: long and narrow, filled by two lines of parallel overstuffed chairs and sofas in gray-brown wrapping. Between them ran a set of low coffee tables. Before each seat was a flowered tea mug, an ashtray and an ornate wooden box of tea leaves. On the wall was a large mural of the traditional dwarfed-by-nature theme.
Inside the doorway stood Wang Bin, a gently rounded ghost of his brother. From a few steps away, the resemblance to David was startling; nonplussed, Stratton faltered at the door. Wang Bin motioned him in kindly.
As they shook hands, Stratton saw the differences. Wang Bin’s face seemed leaner and older than David’s; the hair was shorter of course, but also thinner, and more liberally dashed with gray at the temples. The deputy minister’s bearing, in a crisp gray Mao suit with a black mourner’s band on one arm, was rock-hard military. But the greatest difference welled in the eyes. To look at David Wang’s almost-almond eyes was to have seen wisdom, humor, compassion. In Wang Bin’s eyes Stratton saw intelligence, strength—and something else. A certain intrepid determination that had no doubt stood him in good stead all these years.
Stratton and Wang sat at right angles in adjoining chairs and the interpreter took up a priest-at-confession pose to one side. Stratton’s last private meeting with a Chinese official had been with a snarling, saucer-faced man who’d punctuated shouting questions with blows from a rubber truncheon. When the time had come to leave, Stratton had shot him, twice.
Wang Bin was speaking. Stratton leaned forward attentively, letting the sibilant Mandarin wash over him in uncomprehended waves. A girl in pigtails and a white jacket materialized. Gently, she eased the top off Stratton’s tea cup and added boiling water from a thermos. She soundlessly recovered the cup. Tea leaves had already been placed in the cup.
” … to meet a distinguished scholar such as yourself and hopes you are enjoying your stay in China,” the interpreter hissed.
“Please tell Comrade Wang that I am pleased and excited to be in China. It is a fascinating country and my trip has been very educational.”
A pause for translation. Wang’s response. Then the translation floating back toward Stratton. An agonizing way to communicate, he reflected, about as lively as geriatric shuffleboard.
“Comrade Wang asks if this is your first trip to China.”
“Tell Comrade Wang that, yes, this is my first trip. I have always wanted to come before, but it was too expensive.” Stratton had told that same lie dozens of times. He would die proclaiming it. And why not? The first time he had come without a passport.
“Comrade Wang asks, What cities besides Peking have you visited?”
The conversation meandered like the Yangtze for nearly fifteen minutes; three offers of cigarettes, two cups of tea and banalities uncounted. Stratton let it wander. It was Wang Bin’s ball park, and if he was in no hurry, neither was Stratton. The art historians had voted unanimously to spend their last morning in Peking—a rare, unprogrammed three hours—on a return visit to the Friendship Store.
“Comrade Wang says his brother spoke well of you to him. He said you were a treasured former student and a distinguished professor.
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