Chapter Fifty

As we hammer across the broad Yangtze River into Anhui Province, Phoebe tells me about the recent sting operation that caught three hundred thousand Anhui civil servants with their hands in the till. But what barrel is without its one or two bad apples?

Phoebe has to lean toward me and shout this news over the horrid blat-blat-blat of the truck engine. But there are worse things than having Phoebe Sternbaum’s face a few centimeters from my own. I lean a little farther into that closeness, luxuriating in the sudden openness of this woman as changeable as a puppy and with much better breath. Even better, we’re lying close beside one another on a bed of straw, Ling curled at our feet. Beneath our canvas tarp, we’re undetectable as we inch our way north, in tow behind what could almost pass for a very old pick-up.

We reach the other side of the antiquated one-lane bridge, and the road becomes an empty patchwork two-lane. Phoebe and I celebrate by throwing aside the tarp that has concealed us throughout the long morning, to revel in a springtime fantasy of pristine air, sky-reflecting rice paddies, and ranked terraces of new wheat and budding yellow-green corn. Our driver, the teenaged grandson of Yang’s brother, whistles to us through the glassless rear window of the truck and hands back snacks prepared for us in the chilly pre-dawn. Leftovers from last night’s feast, they are wrapped in this morning’s griddlecakes.

“Is so good,” sings Phoebe, “this food from countryside. No find this kind of food anywhere. Is like I take you to countryside wedding, you learn so much real Chinese people of countryside always live the hard life but have good life. Why you always so worry, Ju? You see we get Beijing now, everything just good.”

I try to smile. I’m not sure how to accomplish it. My mind is already in Beijing, where Lillian is going through God-knows-what.

Phoebe’s face comes a little closer. “Ju, this so special moment. Look, look everywhere. You see?”

“I see.”

I dreamed again of being back in Memphis. This time I was strolling naked on Beale Street. At least it was early morning. The only people around were street-sweepers, their heads down. I heard my sister’s voice behind me and turned to see her trotting toward me in a jogging suit, her hands closed in little fists. The red chiffon dress was draped across her arm.

“You remembered,” I said appreciatively.

I put on the dress. I’m starting to feel like one of the Chiffons.

“What seems to be the problem,” asked Lil, “with getting me out of that concentration camp? Not that you’ve ever functioned very well on your own. Every day somebody new questions me, and every day it’s someone creepier than before. Where’s Tree?”

“I’m still working on—”

“Find her. And lose that deer-in-the-headlights expression, okay? It doesn’t inspire confidence.”

“Thanks so much for the confidence boost,” I said, adjusting my shoulder strap. “That’s going to come in handy when I take on Beijing single-handed. And I do quite well on my own. You were in Italy for six months, you’ll remember, and I did perfectly fine.”

“Three months,” said Lil, “and you had to be institutionalized.”

“It counts.”

“You get your big ass up here and save me,” said my sister. “Remember me? The one on the right?”

“I remember, Lil.”

“And be careful. Something’s stalking you.”

“Exactly what is stalking me?”

“I don’t know. I think it has to do with that whole catastrophe thing in Cetus. Find Tree. And get me out of that horrible place.”

“I’m on it.”

The last thing my sister said before jogging away toward First Street was that she and Adrian were taking a little break. “He wants some kind of commitment, and I’m like I don’t know, man. He used to have a Bush sticker on his car. You can see where he tried to get it off.”

Away jogged my sister, her white fists held high. I awoke with a renewed sense of responsibility and a yearning for something / anything slinky.

Now suddenly blat-blat-blat becomes whackle-churf-bluff-thonk, and the truck dies miserably at roadside. I watch Number One Grandson open the hood and stare at the engine as though he’s never seen one before. I try handing him one of my two flip-phones, and he gives it the same stupefied look.

“We could have a problem,” I mutter to Phoebe, returning the phone to my pocket.

Not that we were moving that much faster when we were moving. This truck has two forward gears, and they’re both grannies. We’re still a good three-hour hayride shy of Honorable Uncle, and here we are at roadside with the Barney Fife of emergency automotive repair.

As Barney and Phoebe discuss our options, which don’t appear to be many, Ling squats at the edge of a roadside ditch, singing to herself and stirring the water with a twig. Joining her there, I notice that the water is alive with tadpoles. Ling’s song seems to be for them. If I weren’t so uncomfortably sober, I’d swear the tadpoles were drawing close to her, all but boiling in the water at her little feet. Strange. Even stranger, this doesn’t surprise me.

Phoebe appears beside me. “We walk.”

“We walk where?”

“Just walk,” she says listlessly.

Moments later, Phoebe is leading the four of us toward whatever is next. I hope it turns out to be a Jacuzzi. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the view, meaning Phoebe Sternbaum. I’m already growing nostalgic for our little hayride across the Yangtze, that pouty mouth so close to mine.

Actually I managed to do a little thinking during those morning hours. Maybe it was the clear country air, but during that time a matter previously vague/troubling became troubling/troubling. Having to do with a certain Beijing tourist attraction. The energy surrounding the Temple of Heaven, said Tree, was so overpoweringly twisted that she had nearly succumbed. Curiously, neither Lil nor I had had any trace of trouble with the place. In fact, now that I’m en route to Beijing, I feel practically giddy at the possibility of revisiting that park. I see, in particular, the three ornamented gates leading to the Circular Mound Altar, at its center the Heaven’s Heart Stone.

There’s something very peculiar about that place.

First of all, I never feel giddy. Secondly, if we even need a secondly, recent personal observations point out a growing problem with a certain integer not easily given to tables, chairs, nor the requirements of convenient music, an integer built into the Circular Mound Altar with a zeal bordering on psychosis, an integer that has no place in the Fibonacci sequence yet which does insinuate itself quite nicely between two Fibonacci numbers that may, if Xu knows anything, very succinctly describe this moment in time.

Before I can press on to thirdly, my thoughts are interrupted by the extended hiss of bald tires sledding to a stop. I look up to see a heavy flatbed truck rocking to a halt. Crammed into the cab are four men, each of them staring at me in astonished revulsion.

I glance down to make sure I’m not wearing the dress.

Dozens of other men, until now seated on the flatbed, rise to their feet and scramble to the nearer side to gawk, and the truck tips a little toward us. All the men are wearing the same outfit—white canvas coveralls with bold blue stripes. Convict labor.

Phoebe begins shouting questions to the driver, who doesn’t seem to hear. Like all the others, he’s still staring at me, mouth agape.

“How is everyone?” I shout, flashing two peace signs.

No one answers.