Chapter Fifty-Two

The driver’s cruising speed is ninety, and that’s not kilometers. Taxi 117 is a metallic-green Peugeot with electric seats and a not-bad sound system. The driver, Ma Tian Xi, looks quite regal at the controls, his dark hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. For the better part of the night, Ma has entertained us with stories of his life and that of his family, Phoebe serving as translator.

When he’s not piloting Taxi 117, Ma is busy in his family’s plum, fig, and apricot orchards on the small farmstead where six generations of Mas have cultivated the land. Since the economic reforms of 1989, there’s been a steady income from the orchards, enough for Ma Tian Xi to afford the Peugeot and a taxi license. Not that he really required an additional income stream, but Ma had found himself with a little time on his hands. He now relishes every opportunity to ferry locals to nearby Lu’an and, farther down the road, metropolitan Heifei. He is even willing, we learn, to make the occasional all-night drive to Beijing.

Ma’s younger brother, he has told us, is a scant year into a twenty-year sentence for murder. The brother, Ma Tan Shou, had been a carefree bachelor who operated a successful Korean barbeque restaurant in Xuan Cheng, providing hearty lunch portions for all who came, and many did. Tan Shou always closed shop at five sharp to wash up and spend his evening at a bordello outside of town. As often happens in such cases, Tan Shou developed a special affection for one of the ladies there, and it came to be understood that she was to be his companion whenever he called. Tan Shou was also a lover of cards, unfortunately, and one night he made the mistake of winning a lot of money from a particularly bad-tempered local bureaucrat. That man took his revenge by buying the aforementioned woman’s services for an evening and beating her rather badly.

Everyone in town heard about this atrocity and wondered what Tan Shou’s response would be. Wisely, Tan Shou controlled his rage. After a few weeks had passed without retaliation, the bureaucrat decided that he was untouchable. He presented himself at Tan Shou’s restaurant to gloat, ordering Tan Shou around like a house servant. That, our driver told us, shaking his head, was a mistake. His brother, like all men, has a limit. Tan Shou poisoned that man. The bureaucrat died a horrible death in front of everyone, crawling out into the middle of the street to expire in grotesque convulsions. Everyone in the town had hated that awful man and completely loved the restaurateur, so he received the lightest sentence possible.

If Tan Shou can manage to survive nineteen more years of labor, the driver told us, he can return home at the age of sixty-three and spend his final years in peace. With this, Ma went silent. A bit stunned, Phoebe asked whether the brother’s girlfriend was waiting for him, and Ma sucked his teeth.

That’s a very sad part of the story, he said. The day after Tan Shou went to prison, she took down her clothesline and hanged herself. They found her with clothes pins all around her pretty face. Everyone in town contributed money for the funeral. It was the nicest funeral anyone could remember, said our driver, nodding.

Such terrible news, said Phoebe, to find out in prison. Oh, said the driver, no one has told him. We don’t want him to lose hope. Every time Ma visits the prison, his brother asks about her, and every time Ma says she is well and waiting for him.

Ma sucked his teeth again and said, if his brother does survive his prison sentence, he, Ma, will certainly never eat at his restaurant again. Too risky. And that’s a real pity, he concluded, turning to give us a sincere gaze, because no one does Korean barbeque better than his brother.

After that story, Phoebe lost interest in translating. She passed most of the night curled up in the back with Ling. Undeterred, Ma continued to regale me with stories—quite interesting ones, I imagine—knowing quite well that I didn’t understand a word. For many men, driving and talking are one and the same. If we could get them to admit it, they talk when driving alone. Finally, the car was silent.

The final hours of night pass in a soft blur. I lose track of time and space. I actually doze off for a minute and awake with a start. I just had a dream in which a wide-eyed Lillian lay strapped to a gurney, a nurse looming over her with a huge syringe.

My heart pounding, I demand of Ma how soon we’ll be in Beijing.

He points through the windshield and says, “Beijing.”

“Beijing?”

I gaze through the windshield but see only traces of traffic along an anonymous four-lane. Grayish light is gathering at the edge of the sky, but there’s nothing to illuminate but the occasional unlit gas station. Phoebe stirs in the back seat and struggles to sit up. Stiffly I turn to her and say, “We’re there.”

“Bathroom,” she replies blearily.

“Did you hear me? We’re in Beijing.”

At length, Ma finds us a gas station that’s open. He fills the tank and we all drink colas to open our eyes.

“Tell Ma he’s dropping us at Peking University,” I tell Phoebe when we’re back in the taxi. “I’ll find a hotel room for you and Ling near the East Gate. I have to go take care of a couple of things.”

“Why we go university?” she asks.

“It’s the only part of town I know.”

When our taxi penetrates Fifth Ring Road, I begin to understand why reporters are describing this city as a ghost town. At dawn, the merest scattering of cars and delivery trucks dart along broad thoroughfares. Even inside Fourth Ring Road, streets are dead and buildings plastered with notices. It certainly appears that most, if not all, Beijing hotels are closed. Finally, near the East Gate of Beijing U., we find an open hotel, its lobby brimming with frustrated businessmen in need of a room. In their green surgical masks, the desk clerks are unyielding.

Phoebe tells me, “They say everybody go to hospital for examination, maybe four five hours, get certificate of health. Nobody want do this. I no want do this too.”

I pull her toward the exit. If there’s anything likely to kill you outright right now, it’s spending half a day at an overrun Beijing hospital.

We enter the crowded lobby of a second hotel. Same frustrated hordes. Same story. No certificate, no room. I check the key display behind the desk. Some two dozen electronic keys are hanging there. “Let’s go,” I say.

I tell Phoebe to instruct Ma to find us a funkier hotel, preferably one unauthorized to serve foreigners. Ma replies that he can’t remain in Beijing much longer, as his license isn’t valid here. We encounter a multi-story hotel with rusting fire escapes and a faded plastic sign, and I say, “Here.”

“Ma say he can’t wait,” reports Phoebe as the taxi stops.

“Fine,” I say. “Ask him how much.”

As Phoebe negotiates, I drag a sleepy Ling from the backseat. Next thing I know, Phoebe, Ling, and I are standing on the sidewalk and Taxi 117 is disappearing down the street.

“What happened?” I ask.

“He no want money,” says Phoebe. “Just laugh.”

“Just laugh? What did he say?”

“Chinese expression,” she replies, trying to arrange her hair. “Is better talk like duck than just give some old shoe. We go inside.”

Mechanically I follow Phoebe and Ling into a small lobby. This is a zero star hotel, but the lobby is filled with men, many of them shouting at the two grim-faced desk clerks. Even here, it’s no health certificate, no room. Phoebe looks at me wearily. Most of the rooms are empty, I note, scanning the key display behind the desk. The keys are the old-fashioned metal kind, and all the available rooms are located on the upper floors.

“Follow me,” I say.

In the general bedlam, no one notices that Phoebe, Ling, and I exit the lobby by means of the carpeted stairs.

“Ju? What we do?” says Phoebe.

“We’re checking in.”

We’re all panting by the time we arrive on the fifth and topmost floor of the hotel. The air is stale. I lead the way to the room farthest from the stairs. Good, I think, examining the lock. Room 513 has been jimmied on more than one occasion.

I go through my wallet. There’s nothing remotely resembling a credit card. I recall that Phoebe has none, either, my having deposited them in a post box. Now my hands come across something. It is a glossy image of Guan Yin, Goddess of Mercy and Illegal Hotel Room Entries. Is for make the miracle, I was told at Lijiang train station. Or maybe just don’t do nothing. The card is very worn now, the inner metal core exposed at one edge.

I insert the card between the door and the frame and try to slide it past the lock. Nothing.

“Shit,” mutters Phoebe, looking nervously up and down the empty corridor.

“You can relax,” I tell her. “There’s no one on this floor or the floor below us.”

I try again, this time simultaneously rattling the loose knob. The lock pops open. The door falls opens with a dry groan. We three gaze into a dismal but tidy room. An ancient window air-conditioner. Two double beds. A roach electrocution device. No settee by the window. It’ll do.

Ling runs past her mother to leap onto one of the beds. She doesn’t even bounce once. Phoebe still stands worriedly in the hall. I pull her inside and close the door.

“Keep the door bolted,” I say to her. “Keep the curtains closed. Don’t go anywhere and, for God’s sake, don’t call anybody. Take this money. I’ll be back after I take care of—”

“You not coming back,” says Phoebe, turning away.

“I’ll be back.”

“You not coming back,” she says again.

“Fine. Have it your way.” I place a stack of banknotes on the bureau. “If I’m not here by nightfall, wait as long as you can, then—”

Phoebe grabs the money and flings it into my face. “You just want get Beijing,” she shouts. “Now you Beijing, leave me, leave my daughter, don’t even care what happen.”

“Could you possibly say that a little louder?”

Phoebe hisses something in street Cantonese.

“Whatever,” I say, bending to pick up the cash.

Now she’s kicking at me. “Just like my husband!” accuses Phoebe, still kicking. “Just like all the men, lie me, lie my daughter, lie everybody.”

Ling, sprawled on the bed, begins singing to the ceiling.

I decide to leave the money where it lies. Backing toward the door, I see Phoebe fall onto the other bed, sobbing. I glance at Ling. She’s still singing. She’s also holding a scrap of paper in her hand, holding it out toward me. I walk to her and take the worn, folded piece of paper from her hand. Opening it, I discover several handwritten Chinese characters. I’ve seen this note before.

“Ling?” I ask. “What does this say?”

She doesn’t answer. Now I recall that Ling is a preschooler. “Phoebe? What does this say?”

She’s too busy sobbing.

“Phoebe.”

Still crying, Phoebe snatches the note from my hand and gives it a look before tossing it. “Just say please help this person so much.”

I bend to recover the scrap of paper. It’s all coming back to me now. Again I see the smiling young couple in the Beijing moonlight, the pretty face with the determined expression, a law student with a passion for women’s issues. This shelter begin help all the women children of the abuse. I’m watching a delicate hand scrawl a note of introduction for me, a note that I’ve never quite brought myself to throw away.

“Where did you find this?” I ask Ling.

“In the hall,” she says to the ceiling.

I pat my pocket to make sure my titanium-covered journal is still there.

“Okay, change of plans,” I announce. “Phoebe, I want you and Ling to go to the university lunchroom today with this note and ask for this woman.”

Phoebe, blowing her nose, doesn’t respond.

“Are you listening? There’s a girl who works at the lunchroom. I want you to give her this note and tell her about your problem.”

Phoebe turns to face me. “Lunchroom girl? How some—”

“Just give her the note, okay? If you won’t listen to me, listen to your daughter.”

Phoebe glares at me. “Why my daughter know something you no tell me?”

“I didn’t tell your daughter anything.”

“Then how she know?”

I shrug. We both turn to gaze at the five-year-old on the bed singing softly to the ceiling.

Phoebe shakes her head. “Sometimes this girl worry me so much.”

I hold the note out to Phoebe, and she stares at it.

“I take this,” she says, “you not come back.”

“That could actually be a good thing,” I say. “A lot of people are looking for me. Sooner or later they’ll find me.”

I set the note on top of the TV. With a sigh, I step over the multi-colored bank notes and open the door. Before I can close it behind me, I hear Phoebe’s sullen voice.

“Trouble,” she says. “When I first see you, I know this.”

I take one last look at Ling, her plastic make-up mirror in her hand. I’d thank her. I’d thank both of them if I only knew what for. Reluctantly, I close the door behind me.