Read Online A Death in China by Carl Hiaasen, William D Montalbano - Free Book Online Page B

Comrade Wang says he is pleased.”
    Stratton smiled.
    “Tell Comrade Wang that David had many spiritual children like me and that some of them are truly distinguished. I am not, but I mourn David as I would my own father.”
    When the translation ended, Wang said something to the interpreter that brought him to his feet. Stratton, too, started to rise, thinking the colorless encounter ended. Wang stopped him with a gesture of his mourning-banded arm. When the door closed behind the young interpreter, Wang lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling.
    “I would like to speak of my brother, Professor Stratton. I believe we can dispense with protocol,” he said in nearly accentless English. Stratton did not comment on the language shift. Wang had never allowed the interpreter to complete a translation of anything Stratton had said.
    “You will be returning with my brother to the United States, the land he made his nation. Many people will ask about his death. I will tell you, so you may tell them.”
    “I would like to know.”
    “Let me start with life, Professor Stratton. That is where all death begins, does it not? In life? Once we had been close, my brother and I, close in that special way that only brothers know. I can still see the cobblestone courtyard in Shanghai where we would play.
    “We took our piano lessons and studied our math and our English and when no one was looking we would sneak away to play by the river. We loved the river. So much life, excitement. Once we saw a knife fight between two sailors. Then came the day for my brother to leave. Back to the river, but this time in rickshas with trunks and my brother in a Western suit. We tried not to cry, but we cried and my father was angry. At first my brother wrote every week. After my parents had done with them, I would take those letters and read them until they entered my memory. But already the Revolution was beginning, Professor Stratton, and the letters became more infrequent. Soon I left with my mother to join the people’s struggle. I heard no more from my American brother for many, many years. Some good years, and a few that were very bad. For several years my job was to collect night soil in a big barrel that I pushed on a cart. Do you know what night soil is?”
    “Human excrement, collected for fertilizer.”
    “Yes, I am glad to see that you have done your lessons, Professor. Human excrement, to be collected by leaders in punishment when the Revolution is betrayed by fools. I know you have read of the Cultural Revolution, Professor, but it was worse than anything that is written about it. Much worse. Then came some good years, and now … who knows?” Wang Bin slipped some tea and lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old. “My brother … one may lose touch with a brother, but one never forgets him. Brothers are part of you, like parents. I have heard that when parents go to visit their grown children in America, they are asked to pay for their meals, Professor Stratton. Is that true?”
    “Certainly not.”
    “I thought not. It is a lie then, published in our newspapers to make people less envious of America. Revolutions require many lies, you know.” Wang Bin smiled without mirth.
    “One day, I decided to write my brother. I cannot tell you why, exactly, except that he was my brother and we are—were—old men. That must have been three years ago; a friend in our embassy in Washington got me the address. At first, the letters were respectful, distant, like the opening moves in a game of chess. But, eventually, they became letters between two brothers. I invited David to come for a visit. Hundreds of thousands of overseas Chinese have returned for visits to their families in the past few years, from America, Canada, Europe, everywhere. Did you know that?”
    “It must have been very emotional, your reunion with David.”
    “Oh, yes, it was. A wonderful experience, happy and sad. Last week, when I saw my brother for the