Peter May - Chinese Whispers

‘It must be some size of auditorium.’

‘It’s on three levels,’ he said. ‘Sixty metres wide, seventy metres from stage to back, and forty metres high.’ Figures that had been dinned into him in primary school. ‘And there are no pillars.’ The coup de grâce . His teacher’s eyes had shone with wonder as she told them. Li doubted if she had ever actually seen it for herself — a hick teacher from a primary school in rural Sichuan. He had later seen her beaten to death by Red Guards.

They crossed the concourse, and Li flashed his ID to the guard on duty who immediately saluted and lifted the chain to let them through. On the steps they were greeted by Commissioner Zhu and Deputy Cao, who were standing smoking in the cold night air, accompanied by their respective wives. Zhu glanced at his watch and said, ‘You’re late.’ He made no introductions and ignored Margaret. ‘They’re waiting for you.’ He took Li by the elbow and steered him away up the stairs.

Li called back to Margaret, ‘I’ll see you after the ceremony.’

She nodded, smiled politely at Cao and the two women. ‘ Ni hau ,’ she said, and made her way up through the pillars to the main entrance, conscious of their silence, and of their eyes on her back.

Inside, she had to put her purse through an airport-style x-ray security machine and walk through a frame that scanned her for … she had no idea what. Metal objects, she supposed. Guns or knives. As if she might be intent on attacking the father of her child. Through another doorway, and she was into the main lobby, a huge marbled hall, overlooked by a balcony that ran all the way around it. Stairs led up to it from either end. Tall wooden double doors along the entire length of the central hall, on both levels, led into the auditorium itself. There were already thousands of people thronging the floor, the echo of their voices thundering back at them from a ceiling you could hardly see, enormous chandeliers casting yellow light on a sea of black heads. Margaret felt at once conspicuous, anonymous and lost, aware of her fair hair and blue eyes drawing curious looks. Most of the guests would not have expected to have encountered a yangguizi on an occasion like this. She felt a tug on her arm, and turned to find a young Chinese girl grinning up at her.

‘Magret,’ Xinxin said. Li’s niece was nearly ten now and almost up to Margaret’s shoulder. Although her English was excellent, she still pronounced Margaret’s name the way she had when they had first met and the child had no English at all.

‘Xinxin!’ Margaret was both pleased and relieved to see her. She stooped to kiss her and give her a hug, and then looked around. ‘Where’s your mother? And your grandfather?’

By way of reply, Xinxin took her hand — which still felt very small in hers — and said, ‘You come with me, Magret. We are invited to reception for guest of honour.’ And she glowed with obvious pride and pleasure at the thought that her Uncle Yan was the guest of honour.

The child led the adult confidently through the crowds to the north end of the hall, and up a staircase at the far corner to the pillared balcony above. They hurried then across thick red carpet, past open doors leading to a huge overlit room with chairs set in a circle below a wall displaying a vast aerial photograph of the Forbidden City. ‘That Beijing Room,’ Xinxin said. ‘There is one room for every province in Great Hall. Even one for Taiwan, for when she come back to China.’ She grinned as if she understood the politics of it.

Margaret couldn’t resist a smile. ‘How do you know all this, little one?’

‘I come here on tour with school,’ she said. ‘All school visit Great Hall of People.’

Almost opposite the Beijing Hall, an enormous doorway led to the reception room, already crowded with dignitaries. There were high-ranking police officers and government ministers. Faces Margaret had only ever seen in newspapers or on television screens. She also saw some more familiar faces. Detectives from Li’s section. Qian and Wu and a few others whose names she could not recall. Glasses filled with champagne and orange juice were set out on a long table beneath a twenty-foot mural of a Chinese mountainscape illuminated by a rising sun. Most of the guests were drinking champagne.

Li’s sister, Xiao Ling, and his father, stood uncomfortably on the edge of the gathering, clutching glasses of orange juice. They did not belong here and they knew it. A retired teacher living in an old folks’ home in Sichuan, and a worker on the production line of the Beijing Jeep factory. Li’s father had made the trip specially to see his son. There had always been difficulties between them, but his father could not bring himself to miss such a moment. He was staying with his daughter and granddaughter during his visit.

Xiao Ling shook Margaret’s hand rather formally. She did not speak English, and she and Margaret had never really hit it off. Neither did Margaret get on with Li’s father, who regarded their relationship as ‘unfortunate’. He would have preferred that Li had found a Chinese girl to father his son. He, too, shook Margaret’s hand. ‘I will come tomorrow to see my grandson,’ he said. ‘With your permission.’ As if she might have refused it.

‘Of course,’ Margaret said.

‘In the afternoon,’ he added.

‘Magret, Magret,’ Xinxin clamoured for her attention. ‘You want drink?’

‘Champagne,’ Margaret said quickly. She needed a drink.

Xinxin came back with champagne for Margaret and an orange juice for herself. Margaret took a couple of quick swallows, and felt the bubbles carry the alcohol almost immediately into her bloodstream. She could do with a few of these, she thought.

‘Perhaps I might be allowed a glass. It is not often that I have had the chance to drink champagne.’ The voice at Margaret’s side startled her, and she turned to find Lao Dai standing by her shoulder. He was wearing a thick blue jacket over a knitted jumper, baggy trousers and scuffed leather shoes. A navy blue baseball cap was pulled down over his bald head. She had met him for the first time only after Yifu’s death, and they had struck up an immediate rapport. He took her hand warmly in both of his and held it for a moment. ‘How are you, Margaret?’ His English was almost perfect.

‘I am well, Mister Dai,’ she said. And she turned to Xinxin. ‘Xinxin, could you get a glass of champagne for Mister Dai?’ Xinxin skipped off, happy to have an errand to run, and Margaret turned back to the old man. ‘And you?’

‘Oh, as always,’ he said. He shook hands, then, with Xiao Ling and Li’s father, and they had a brief exchange in Chinese which, to Margaret’s surprise, brought uncharacteristic laughter to their lips.

‘What’s so funny?’ Margaret asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Dai said. ‘I told them I shouldn’t drink too much champagne or Li Yan would have to arrest me for being drunk in charge of a bicycle.’ His eyes twinkled mischievously. Xinxin returned with his champagne and he raised his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and took a long draught of it, putting the back of his hand to his lips as he then broke wind. One or two faces turned and scowled in their direction. But Lao Dai just lifted his glass and grinned, displaying broken and discoloured teeth, and they turned quickly away again. ‘Stuffed shirts,’ the old man whispered conspiratorially to Margaret. ‘In my day you succeeded on merit. Nowadays it’s down to brown-nosing and politics.’ He took another quaff of his champagne. ‘Li Yan is jade among stones.’

A sprinkling of applause drew their attention, and Margaret craned to see Li Yan being led up a broad staircase to the reception room by the Minister of Public Security, flanked by his deputy and the Commissioner of Police. Trailing behind were Deputy Cao and all the wives. Margaret should have been there amongst them. But she and Li Yan were not married, and she was not Chinese. She would be bad for the image of the poster boy.