Peter May - The Firemaker

‘The money’s fantastic,’ he had told Li. And, compared to the subsistence existence of a Chinese student, it was. Even after his promotion, Li would earn substantially less than his friend. Yongli’s training had also included lessons in English, six months at a hotel in Switzerland learning how to cook and present European food, and three months in the States finding out how Americans liked to eat their steaks. There he had learned how to fully indulge his hedonistic inclinations, returning with a great appetite for all things American and a three-inch addition to his waistline. In many ways Li and Yongli had grown apart, their paths in life taking very different courses, and their friendship now was sustained more by its history than by its present. But the warmth between them was still strong.

‘So.’ Yongli pulled off his hat and threw it to one of the other chefs, who caught it deftly. ‘Tonight you and I are going to celebrate.’

‘But you’re working.’

Yongli twinkled. ‘I made contingency arrangements — just in case the news was good. The boys await my call, and a table is booked at the Quanjude.’

‘The boys?’

‘The old gang. Just like it used to be.’ A thought clouded his smile briefly. ‘And no Lotus. I know you don’t approve.’

Li protested. ‘Hey, listen, Yongli, it’s not that I disapprove—’

Yongli cut him off. ‘Not tonight, pal. Okay?’

The moment of friction between them was past in an instant. An onlooker might barely have been aware of it. Yongli grinned again, warmly. ‘We’re gonna get you drunk.’

To Margaret’s surprise, the bar was deserted, except for a balding middle-aged man in the far corner nursing a large Scotch and flipping desultorily through the pages of the International Herald Tribune . She felt better for having showered and changed and soaked up a little of the unexpected luxury of the Friendship Hotel. Built in the fifties to house Russian ‘experts’, this vast granite edifice was a throwback to the days of uneasy co-operation between China and Stalin’s Russia, all polished brass and white marble dragons beneath curling green-tiled eaves supported on rust-red pillars. She had changed into a cool cotton summer dress, and blow-dried her hair. It fell now in natural golden curls across her shoulders. Before leaving the room she had examined her face in the mirror — pale skin dotted with freckles — as she applied a little make-up, and had noticed the beginnings of lines around her eyes and the deep shadows beneath them. And she remembered with a painful stab the events of the last eighteen months and the devastating effect they had had on her life. In all her fatigue, and in all the strangeness and disorientation of China, they had actually slipped from her conscious mind for the first time. Now they came back like the pungent taste of something not quite right eaten some hours earlier. A drink was required.

A barmaid lounged on the customer side of the bar and two young men hovered behind it. Whatever conversation they’d been having ended abruptly when Margaret entered, and as she eased herself into one of the tall bar stools the barmaid thrust a drinks menu into her hand. Margaret handed it back, unopened. ‘Vodka tonic, with ice and lemon.’

The man in the corner looked up, interested for the first time by the sound of her voice. He folded his paper, drained his glass, and headed for the bar. He was short, only a little taller than Margaret, and stockily built. Margaret turned as he approached and saw a man whose face was collapsing, jowls deforming a weak jawline, deep creases running down fleshy cheeks from puffy eyes that were watery and bloodshot. His remaining hair, wiry and unruly, was almost entirely grey and plastered to his head with some kind of scented oil that assaulted Margaret’s olfactory senses. He smiled unpleasantly, and even above the scent of his hair oil, Margaret could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘Put that on my bill,’ he said in an unmistakably Californian drawl.

‘That’s quite all right,’ Margaret said coolly.

‘No, I insist.’ He tossed a glance at one of the barmen. ‘And gimme another Scotch.’ Then he refocused on Margaret. ‘Makes a change to hear a voice from the old country.’

‘Really? I thought this was where the international set hung out.’ It was what she’d read, and one of the reasons she had chosen to stay there. After relations between Russia and China had become less than warm and the Russian ‘experts’ had departed, the Friendship Hotel had become a haven for ‘experts’ of all nationalities, and more recently a gathering place for expats who preferred English to Chinese.

‘Used to be,’ he said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘But you know how it is. One place is popular this year, another the next. And the beautiful people move on.’ Margaret was aware of an increasing rancour in his tone now. ‘Still, I can’t say I miss them. The aesthetic can become somewhat tedious, don’t you think?’ But he wasn’t really interested in what she thought. He went on without pausing, ‘A steady supply of whisky’s all a man really needs. And from a quiet corner in here the solitary drinker can always watch the ridiculous spectacle of the Chinese nouveaux riches in search of status. My name’s McCord, by the way. J. D. McCord.’ He held out his hand, and she felt compelled to shake it. She had expected it to be limp and damp. Instead, it held her a little too firmly, and there was something almost reptilian in its cold, dry touch. ‘And you are?’

‘Margaret Campbell.’ She felt trapped by his politeness. And the arrival of her vodka tonic, on his bill, slammed the door on immediate escape.

‘Well, Margaret Campbell, what brings you to Beijing?’

There was nothing else for it. She took a long sip of her vodka and almost immediately felt its effect. ‘I’m lecturing for six weeks at the People’s University of Public Security.’

‘Are you indeed?’ McCord seemed impressed. ‘And what’s your subject?’

‘Forensic pathology.’

‘Jeez! You mean you cut people open for a living?’

‘Only when they’re dead.’

He grinned. ‘I’m safe for a while, then.’ And for one malicious, wishful moment, she visualised taking a circular saw round the top of his skull and watching his addled, alcoholic brain plop out into a shiny stainless-steel dish. His Scotch arrived and he took a long slug. ‘So… you just got here?’ She nodded and sucked in more vodka. ‘You’ll be needing someone to show you the ropes, then.’

‘Someone like you?’

‘Sure. I’ve been here nearly six years. Know all the wrinkles.’

‘You’ve stayed here for six years?’ She was astonished at the thought of anyone staying in a hotel for that long.

‘Hell, no, I don’t stay at the Friendship. I only drink here. My company’s got me staying at the Jingtan on the other side of town. Goddamn place is full of Japs. Can’t stomach ’em. But that’s only the last two years. Before that I was in the south.’ He shook his head, remembering personal horrors. ‘Coming here was like dying and going to heaven.’ He put his hand out quickly. ‘But don’t go reaching for that scalpel just yet. I ain’t really dead. That was just a metaphor.’

‘Simile,’ she corrected him.

‘Whatever.’ He drained his glass. ‘So. Can I buy you dinner?’

‘Afraid not.’

He grinned, unabashed. ‘Hey, I don’t mind a woman playing hard to get. I enjoy the chase.’

Margaret finsihed her vodka, its heady warmth making her bold. ‘I’m not playing hard to get. I’m just not available.’

‘Is that tonight? Or ever?’

‘Both.’

He chewed that over for a moment, then pushed his empty glass towards the barman. ‘Fill her up. You want another?’ She shook her head. ‘So, where are you eating tonight — if I may be so bold?’