Read Online Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station by Dorothy Gilman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dorothy Gilman
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Canton airport, remember?” As the natives gathered to watch, she dug into her purse, brought out small wrinkled bills and then several coins and presented them to the man. He selected several
fen
, beamed at her, and issued them tickets.
“Now this,” said Joe Forbes as they entered, “has to be the real China.”
Mrs. Pollifax was inclined to believe him. There were paths to the right and to the left, but she was drawn instead toward a crowd straight ahead from which, even at a distance, she could hear roars of laughter. Joining it Mrs. Pollifax stood on tiptoe to peer over heads and found them gathered around a television set, a modest and perfectly normal television set plugged into some unseen outlet in the out-of-doors, with cartoons dancing across its screen. Amazing she thought, and looked instead into the faces of the people watching the cartoons, touched by their innocent excitement and joy.
The subtitles, however, were in Chinese, and presently—still smiling at the pleasure it was giving—she moved away to investigate a small growing crowd off to the left, and discovered Malcolm seated under a tree sketching. Not far away George Westrum was attempting sign language with a young woman, with Joe Forbes chuckling at his elbow. At once a young man spotted Mrs. Pollifax and hurried to her side. “You are American too,” he cried eagerly. “I may ask questions?”
“Oh yes,” she told him warmly. “
Ni hao!
Good evening!”
His boldness, his daring, immediately drew people from Malcolm’s circle into his, and Mrs. Pollifax found herself smiled at and approved as the audience waited with attention for their comrade to address this visitor from a country halfway across the world. Their pride in him was palpable, and Mrs. Pollifax waited too, her heart beating a trifle faster at the importance of this moment.
“In America,” he said slowly, his brows knitted together by the seriousness with which he, too, regarded this moment, “you grow cotton?”
Mrs. Pollifax, a little surprised, nodded her head. “Yes. Oh yes. In our southern states.”
“Suzzen states?”
“Warm places,” she explained. “Like Canton?”
“Canton?” He looked bewildered, and she saw that they had suddenly lost their way; the eagerness still hung between them, tangible but severely threatened.
“No,” she said, trying to retrieve direction, “in the United States, where I live. Where—” She was suddenly overwhelmed by the nouns, pronouns, verbs that separated them and with which she must frame a sentence, acutely aware too of the perplexities of
for
and
about
and
from
; the wall between them seemed opaque, the gulf immeasurable, and then with sudden inspiration she remembered the snapshots she had crammed into her purse at the last minute. She reached into her purse and drew them out: a photograph of her apartment house, with herself standing in front of it; several of her grandson opening packages at Christmas in her living room; one of Cyrus, and two of her geraniums. She offered them to this new friend. With great wonder her pictures were accepted, people crowded in to peer over his shoulder, they were then distributed by the young man, one by one, moving from hand to hand accompanied by murmurs of awe and surprise.
“Snow?”
asked her friend, pointing to the picture of her standing in front of her apartment house.
“Yes,” she said, nodding happily. “Yes, snow. Too cold there for
cotton
.”
“Ah—I see, I see,” he cried in relief, understanding, and addressed his friends rapidly and with authority.
“Husband?” he asked, pointing to Cyrus.
She smiled. “A
very
dear friend.”
“Aha,” he cried joyously, and again addressed the crowd, but it was the photographs of her grandson that drew the most appreciative murmurs, and she was given glances of deep respect.
A picture
, she thought,
was certainly worth a thousand words; hadn’t it been the Chinese who first said this?
Her friend was
fen
, beamed at her, and issued them tickets.
“Now this,” said Joe Forbes as they entered, “has to be the real China.”
Mrs. Pollifax was inclined to believe him. There were paths to the right and to the left, but she was drawn instead toward a crowd straight ahead from which, even at a distance, she could hear roars of laughter. Joining it Mrs. Pollifax stood on tiptoe to peer over heads and found them gathered around a television set, a modest and perfectly normal television set plugged into some unseen outlet in the out-of-doors, with cartoons dancing across its screen. Amazing she thought, and looked instead into the faces of the people watching the cartoons, touched by their innocent excitement and joy.
The subtitles, however, were in Chinese, and presently—still smiling at the pleasure it was giving—she moved away to investigate a small growing crowd off to the left, and discovered Malcolm seated under a tree sketching. Not far away George Westrum was attempting sign language with a young woman, with Joe Forbes chuckling at his elbow. At once a young man spotted Mrs. Pollifax and hurried to her side. “You are American too,” he cried eagerly. “I may ask questions?”
“Oh yes,” she told him warmly. “
Ni hao!
Good evening!”
His boldness, his daring, immediately drew people from Malcolm’s circle into his, and Mrs. Pollifax found herself smiled at and approved as the audience waited with attention for their comrade to address this visitor from a country halfway across the world. Their pride in him was palpable, and Mrs. Pollifax waited too, her heart beating a trifle faster at the importance of this moment.
“In America,” he said slowly, his brows knitted together by the seriousness with which he, too, regarded this moment, “you grow cotton?”
Mrs. Pollifax, a little surprised, nodded her head. “Yes. Oh yes. In our southern states.”
“Suzzen states?”
“Warm places,” she explained. “Like Canton?”
“Canton?” He looked bewildered, and she saw that they had suddenly lost their way; the eagerness still hung between them, tangible but severely threatened.
“No,” she said, trying to retrieve direction, “in the United States, where I live. Where—” She was suddenly overwhelmed by the nouns, pronouns, verbs that separated them and with which she must frame a sentence, acutely aware too of the perplexities of
for
and
about
and
from
; the wall between them seemed opaque, the gulf immeasurable, and then with sudden inspiration she remembered the snapshots she had crammed into her purse at the last minute. She reached into her purse and drew them out: a photograph of her apartment house, with herself standing in front of it; several of her grandson opening packages at Christmas in her living room; one of Cyrus, and two of her geraniums. She offered them to this new friend. With great wonder her pictures were accepted, people crowded in to peer over his shoulder, they were then distributed by the young man, one by one, moving from hand to hand accompanied by murmurs of awe and surprise.
“Snow?”
asked her friend, pointing to the picture of her standing in front of her apartment house.
“Yes,” she said, nodding happily. “Yes, snow. Too cold there for
cotton
.”
“Ah—I see, I see,” he cried in relief, understanding, and addressed his friends rapidly and with authority.
“Husband?” he asked, pointing to Cyrus.
She smiled. “A
very
dear friend.”
“Aha,” he cried joyously, and again addressed the crowd, but it was the photographs of her grandson that drew the most appreciative murmurs, and she was given glances of deep respect.
A picture
, she thought,
was certainly worth a thousand words; hadn’t it been the Chinese who first said this?
Her friend was
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