Chapter Five

On the occasion of my third birthday, I received notification from our mother that being two was no longer a possibility. I took it badly, Two having been my identity for as long as I could recall. All I’d had to do was pronounce its name to be heartily congratulated by whomever was present. I was no taller than a footstool, and I had the world dicked. All you had to do was say two. Then one day all of that is gone and there’s nothing to be done about it.

Three, I found, had an entirely different sound, energy, and color. Two had been a solid, grounded navy blue. Three I found to be a floaty canary yellow. Three was expansive and ephemeral and just generally unacceptable as a representation of myself. And the audience response was nothing like before. Actually I remained a secret Two for quite some time. I did eventually discover the important information hub that Three constitutes, but by then I was thirty-three years old.

Point three three three.

There’s no escaping Kenny J’s dimly expectant saxophone anywhere on this southbound train, but tree mammals were never intended to possess sound-amplifying devices, say nothing of saxophones. This particular track I’d describe as a slightly perplexed line of self-aggrandizing male emotio-logic extended to the high B breaking point that sutures the bridge to the remaining six or seven grumpy minutes of failed rationalization—as you finish the oversweet Chinese ice-cream cone you wish you’d never begun. Which is to say, I got out of Beijing just in time. I was starting to have acid spit.

You never know what’s going to stir your dusts. It can be as simple as a corner turned or a tunnel of trees taken by moonlight, or a train ticket purchased because someone spoke the word Yunnan and it lodged inside you.

A bit stupidly, I watch as the window of this first-class cabin frames a brilliant cloudless sunset, then a sunrise followed by another sunset and sunrise, as the steel tracks undulate, rising and falling to hug this mute mountainside, that delicate dale. “The curved line belongs to God,” said Gaudi but it was borrowed freely by the French who laid these rails a century ago, keeping to the mountainsides, high above the fields and their muds and floods as did the Taoists with their immortality highways, always a tasteful distance from the torpid valleys where the misery of history wends and no one’s the wiser.

My non-English speaking cabin-mate wakes himself by snoring and responds by sitting upright, yawning loudly, belching a couple of times, and lighting a cigarette, as, along the narrow corridor, a blue-uniformed woman pushes an overloaded fruit cart. I decide to dart in front of her before the cart blocks the forward corridor. A sorely needed visit to the loo—I shudder at the thought—then I’ll return to the cabin to wash my hands the requisite three times, dry them on a shirt from my bag, and settle into the dining car for an early dinner and the day’s final view to the east.

Past the advancing fruit cart and around a sheet-metal corner are three other people awaiting the same mournful toilet, a same-sex squatter with a metal floor floating in pee. No toilet paper. No soap. No running water. No towel. “No Occupying While Stabling.” That’s what the sign above the door says, meaning when the train stops, so do you. There’s no holding tank.

Earlier today, I found myself corridor-waiting behind another Westerner, a most fetching one who smelled deliciously of bed. She seemed to have just awakened, the whole tousled tresses thing, lots of brunette hair, her body radiating heat, her breath not yet entirely regular, and I asked myself what conversation one makes while awaiting the same toilet on a southbound Chinese train. “Do you think you’ll be long?” Or maybe, “Ever occupied while stabling?” Quite certainly, “May God be with you.”

Now, after taking my turn then purging my hands to the elbows, I seat myself at the only available table in the crowded dining car, which is oak-handsome with little white curtains and white tablecloths. I order a bottle of Zinfandel with tonight’s seafood one-course, and why not? There’s a subtly reassuring back-and-forth sway to the dining car, my number-two German-made pencil is deliciously sharp, and the background music is a cheerful trombone deformation of “Auld Lang Syne,” perfect for a mid-August evening. If this were prime Hitchcock, Eva Marie Saint would walk into the dining car exactly now, a pensive expression on her face, and I’d have a perfect line on the tip of my tongue.

No sooner does the thought occur than the door opens, and in walks our lady of the tousled tresses, the fetching Westerner I’d encountered this morning in the corridor. Even more amazing, the only available chair is at my table, making it all too easy for me to rise and say, “Would you like to join me? I’ve ordered a bottle of wine, and I’d hate to drink it alone.”

Damn, that was a good line.

“A glass of wine would be perfect,” replies tousled lady, extending her hand. “I’m Ana Manguella.”

She uses the Spanish soft-a pronunciation of her first name. The surname comes out mahn-gay-yuh, also quite Spanish, though the accent is crisply British.

Ana Manguella takes a seat, and I find myself gazing into eyes of astonishing blue-green. When I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out because, my God, this woman’s eyes are not blue-green. One is blue. One is green. In their setting of bone-white skin, the eyes blaze like two cold jewels.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sure you hear compliments about your eyes all the time. They are very beautiful. I’m Julian Mancer.”

“So nice to meet you, Julian.”

Ana is in her thirties, I’d say, and unmarried if rings still mean anything. The treasonable brunette hair is now gathered into a rough ponytail. At her throat is a silk scarf, azure in color, which brings forward the left eye. She’s wearing at least one tinted contact, I decide.

“Please help me place the accent,” I say. “I want to say Edinburgh, but I’m wrong a lot.”

“Glastonbury,” says Ana. “And you would be an American? From the South?”

“Yes and yes. What do you think of our background music?”

Ana cants her head to listen, and I notice her small porcelain hands. Yet the fingertips are blunt and strong. Close-cropped nails. I can easily see Ana Manguella pulling a pack of Gauloises from her bag.

“Oh, Robert Burns,” she says. “Don’t often get to hear that one in summer, do we?”

I say, “The Chinese love Burns. Any man who can father seven sons and drink himself to death before turning forty clearly has something going for him.”

“Really? Seven sons?”

“And three daughters,” I add, hoping I’m somewhere near right.

The Zinfandel arrives, and I request a second glass before asking Ana’s destination.

“Hong Kong,” she replies. “And you?”

“I fly from Hong Kong to Kunming in the morning.”

Ana tells me she’s taken a post with a Hong Kong consulting firm. “Boring stuff,” she says.

“Then what do you find interesting?”

After an appraising glance, she answers, “Actually I enjoy the study of mythology very much. And you?”

“Some say that myth is the most direct way to describe reality,” I reply, playing my most promising card. “Or, conversely, that reality is a clumsy way of describing myth. Either way, we do enjoy telling ourselves stories, don’t we?”

“Indeed we do. And what do you do, Julian?”

“Write them. Stories, that is. I also play pointless math games. Do you wear a tinted contact?”

Ana blinks before replying, “What kind of pointless math games?”

“Very pointless ones. Actually, math may be the purest form of myth, and vice versa—once the cultural coloration is stripped away. It all reduces to a handful of corroborating equations, doesn’t it? Sorry about that last question, by the way, but the next will likely be far worse. I’ve no manners at all. “

Our waiter appears with a second wine glass and deftly fills it.

“So, you’re a philosopher then?” asks Ana.

“I hope not. Philosophers are still working on the same four or five questions that came to mind two thousand years ago. I’d rather devote myself to something with a bit more promise, such as rehabilitating career criminals. Meanwhile, let’s hope we can endure this Zinfandel. The Chinese are very able counterfeiters, but a good dinner wine is something they’re still working on.”

We each sip the Zinfandel. The taste changes after a moment, only to change once more. Not for the better, I’d say.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I’ve had worse in Spain. You?”

“Woody,” I say, squinting, “with just a touch of pomegranate and all-weather motor oil. Do you know the median lifetime for members of the animal kingdom?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“It’s not very long,” I say. “Fifteen point two days. Some insects cycle in a single day, as you probably know.”

“And you bring this up because—?”

“Exactly. Because. But enough about me. Why the interest in myth, Ana Manguella?”

“Passion,” she replies. “Unpredictability. There’s no telling what the gods will do on a given day, but it’s certain to be interesting.”

“And naughty,” I add.

“Oh, of course naughty. Why be a god if you’re just going to behave?”

I let Ana Manguella’s question glisten for a moment, as do each of her eyes. The yellowing light is hitting the green one just right to reveal that it harbors no contact lens, tinted or otherwise. I really do have no manners. I once asked a woman on a plane whether her hinder parts included a tattoo of a gull in flight. A simple enough question, I’d thought, and it might have been, had the answer been no.

The seafood one-course arrives. Ana is as hungry as I, and we willingly drop the conversation until the table has been cleared. Night seems to have fallen. Pushing away from the table, I say, “So, you’re leaving Glastonbury in your dust? Why?”

Sitting back, Ana says, “I hated going, but Hong Kong is such a rare opportunity. Have you been?”

“Is there a pack of Gauloises in your bag?” I ask.

Ana stares at me. “Would you like one?”

“Just wondering. I visited Hong Kong some years ago when it was still a proper British colony. I understand you can still get your hands on a blood pudding. What was with Hermaphroditus, by the way, since we’re discussing myth?”

Ana’s shoulders sag a little. “Julian, why don’t we just go for normal train conversation? It’s better for the digestion. You can tell me what you found enjoyable about Beijing, and I can tell you which tourist attractions to avoid in Glastonbury. And Hermaphroditus was every aspect of herself. Himself if you prefer.”

“Itself,” I suggest. “Beijing was horrid. I did find the Diligent Administration Hall somewhat appealing, though Mao’s three GE refrigerators are no longer on display. Did you visit the Temple of Heaven?”

She shakes her tresses.

“Pure numerology,” I say. “Nines, all of it.”

“Didn’t the emperor pray there once a year?” asks Ana. “To ensure good crops and the like?”

“Three times a year, after a night of fasting and praying in the Hall of Abstinence. Next morning he took a stroll to the Circular Mound Altar where bits of human sacrifice simmered in the—”

“Human sacrifice? Really?”

“No one you or I know personally. Actually I doubt whether the emperor himself knew what that temple complex was designed to accomplish. Not that I do, mind you, but I did come away with the impression that I’d encountered an engine of some kind, one powered by a very intentional mathematics. Math is all well and good, if you’re asking me, so long as it remains theoretical. More wine?”

“Half, please.”

“There’s an example for you—half. Hugely theoretical. According to this notion, no matter what you have, it can continue to be divided into identical halves forever. Poppycock. Still, a harmless enough notion in itself—until someone decided to halve an atom. Applied mathematics. Not recommended. Here’s your half-glass of wine just the same.”

“Thanks.”

“Take this Temple of Heaven,” I continue. “All those dovetailed nines in one place. To me, that has to constitute some kind of probability antenna, some means of separating out a specific outcome, though who’s to say what.”

“Could I ask you something personal?” asks Ana.

“Would you?”

“What exactly is your interest in flowers?”

I gaze into the flawless white face. “I’ve an interest in flowers?”

“Or they in you,” says Ana. “You’re practically wrapped head-to-toe in a floral display of some kind. I read auras. Hope you don’t mind.”

My eyes tip down to her blouse for an instant. “I’m more of a fauna man, actually. But lately I have developed a mild curiosity concerning hydrangeas.”

Ana blinks, consulting her memory. “Sun. Lots of moisture. Sandy soil. You’re not to over-prune them.”

“Really? Surprising. You could hack at the Hydra all day and never get its attention.”

“The Hydra?” says Ana. “I’d never thought to connect the hydrangea to the Hydra. I should have. The Twelve Labors of Heracles is one of my favorite stories.”

“Do you mean Hercules?”

“Oh, the Romans gave him that name,” says Ana. “To the Greeks, he’d been Heracles for quite some time. Before that, he was Osiris. He has also been known as Horus and Krishna and Jesus. Amazing, really, how many civilizations have been shaped by this single story of a man who couldn’t handle his own power. A man with a god for a father and a mortal for a mother.”

“Dangerous mix.”

“Evidently,” says Ana. “Heracles awoke from a stupor one morning to find that he’d murdered his whole family. His only chance for redemption was to accomplish a number of tasks, as you know, the last of which was subduing the Hydra.”

“And the Hydra would represent… ?”

“Symbolically? Well, with all the new heads sprouting and so forth, I’d have to say the Hydra represents endless and pointless propagation. Horror, really. Look at modern corporations, which cannot die because they do not live, yet they’re everywhere, propagating endlessly, consuming everything in sight. A bit like cancer, really. Or a virus. You know, a virus is not a living thing in the classical sense, but more like a self-replicating code. But I’d rather hear what you think.”

“All things being equal,” I say, lifting the nearly empty bottle, “I prefer not to. A little more all-weather motor oil?”

Ana’s eyes hold mine for a moment. “You seem to have a bit of Heracles going yourself, Julian, if you don’t mind my saying so. That is, you possess a great deal of power, but you’re not quite present with it. There’s a curious disconnect. Actually I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“It’s called apathy,” I tell her. “Very unpopular these days, apathy, but if humans had any less of it we’d have annihilated each other twelve times over by now. It may still be our last best hope. I’m ordering a second Zinfandel.”

“Oh, no. I’m perfectly fine.”

Waving for the waiter, I say, “Don’t worry. I’m entirely capable of drinking it myself.”

“If you’re going to get drunk,” says Ana, “I’m going to smoke. Do you mind? You Americans are funny.”

“Yes we are, and yes you may.”

With a wooden match, Ana lights an oblong Gaulois and pulls on it with relish. After the second draw, she smiles and says, “So, why are you really in China, Julian?”

I gaze at the woman across the table, enjoying the way she holds the cigarette between the bases of two fingers like a man, letting the ash grow.

“Isn’t that something we discover later?” I say. “Why we really did this thing or that one?”

“You’re hedging,” says Ana.

“I’m a master hedger. It comes with being my sister’s brother. There’s no other way to have a moment’s privacy. To answer your question, I’ve no idea why I’m really in China, any more than I knew why I was really in Memphis. The more serious questions I leave to Tree. I carry the suitcases.”

“Tree?”

“Short for Shatrina. She says the three of us have been together hundreds of lifetimes, mostly in the galaxy Cetus, which geographically I think is somewhere near Orion’s left clavicle.”

The waiter brings the second bottle and begins to open it.

“So,” says Ana, freshly interested, “a three-soul group. And what exactly is a pod from Cetus doing on Earth just now?”

I pause to absorb the fresh turn in the conversation. It’s not unusual to find myself in a dialogue I’d no intention of entering, often concerning beliefs to which I don’t subscribe yet which have a way of appearing in the mails nonetheless. There’s something about this woman. that tells me I’m already in the trap, and I’ve yet to so much as sniff the cheese. What am I doing on Earth now?

I give Ana Manguella a cool smile. “Saving it, I believe.”

“All of it?”

I nod agreeably. “And why are you really in China, Ana?”

“To meet you,” she says without missing a beat. Ana exhales a shaft of white smoke, gives her thick ponytail a toss and returns my gaze.

I ponder her words for a full minute. I’d like to believe that this woman is coming on to me.

“Might I ask,” says Ana, “what you and your friends are saving Earth from? Or is that a deep Cetian secret?”

“Voice mail. Saxophone music. The whole tight-underwear military-industrial sort of thing. Which is to say, Tree doesn’t exactly know yet. Things are supposed to become clearer on the Three-three-three.”

Ana gives me a blank look.

“March third, 2003,” I say. “All threes. New Age Groundhog Day or something of the kind.”

“A ceremony then? The three of you will perform a ceremony on the Three-three-three? Very thoughtful of you, actually, but would you mind telling me how—no, never mind. You’re just going to toy with me, and I’ll be bothered.”

I lean closer. “Promise that you’ll be bothered.”

“Julian, I wish you’d take our conversation more seriously or else say nothing at all. You toss these conflicting little snippets about and it’s all so clever, but you’re committed to none of it, which I find entirely offensive. If you must know, it doesn’t become you at all.”

“Are we having a quarrel?” I ask. “I’d say things are moving right along, wouldn’t you?”

“I think I’d like my check.”

Setting down my empty glass, I give it a half turn and say, “Every argument makes an equal amount of sense within the context of its devices, wouldn’t you say?”

“Julian…”

“No, this is just getting good. It all cancels out in the end, don’t you see? Are we biochemical accidents in a blind and random universe? Obviously. Is there some kind of grand evolutionary scheme afoot in which we’re all invited to play a role? Obviously.” I shrug. “It’s just rooms. Alternative realities, faux-realities. People talk about what’s true and what isn’t, what’s crucial and what’s not, and there’s none of that. Situations arise and you choose a place to stand. There’s nothing more. Myself, I choose to stand where it’s most comfortable, thank you, preferably in the shade with a drink in my hand.”

Ana takes a last weary pull on the Gaulois and puts it out. “So nice to hear it. Would you please ask for my check?”

I exhale resignedly. “Okay, you’ve teased it out of me. I am the narrator.”

Ana doesn’t respond.

“Are you surprised?” I ask.

“It depends on what you mean.”

“I convey the experience stream. I see to it that all this will be remembered.”

“But everyone witnesses reality, Julian,” says Ana.

“Do they? Can you absolutely ensure that, were I not here to describe the dinner we have just enjoyed, it would be available for others to know?”

“Thanks so much,” says Ana, lifting her purse, “for all that you do. Now—”

“One more question. When I asked why you’d come to China, you said, ‘To meet you.’ What did you mean by that?”

Ana very nearly blushes. “It seemed true enough when I said it. Sometimes I open my mouth and out it comes. Really, Julian, I’m quite tired. Would you ask—”

“I’ve got it.”

“No. Please don’t.”

“It’s the custom,” I tell her. “You’re in China now. Best get used to it. When will I see you again, my dear? In the morning, perhaps, in front of the loo?”

Ana rises and I with her. “We were put together once,” she says. “It can happen again.”

“But just to be on the safe side, I’d like an e-address.”

Her voice softens. “Julian, there’s no such thing as a safe side. You’re on Earth now. Best get used to it.”