Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

‘Well?’ Margaret asked impatiently. ‘What did she write?’

Michael shook his head ruefully. ‘Turned out she was asking me if I was religious. It was a big disappointment.’

‘So you never did have sex with her?’

He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? And I never betray a girl’s confidence.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Their taxi cruised west past the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The portrait of Mao Zedong gazed down on Tiananmen Square where once hundreds of thousands of Red Guards had hailed him as the red, red sun in their hearts. Now the square was filled with tourists, and men working under floodlights to erect massive floral sculptures and a giant mirror ball in time for National Day.

As Michael stared out at the square, Margaret sneaked a look at him. He was dressed casually, in jeans, tan leather boots, and a black open waistcoat over a white shirt that he hadn’t tucked in. He was lightly tanned, with a fine clear skin. He had big, strong hands, pale skin beneath immaculate fingernails, and a strong, well-defined jawline. Their car was not big, and his thigh was pressed against hers. She could feel the warmth of his leg, and the firmness of the muscle. He gave off a very distinctive scent that she could not quite place. It had a bitter-sweet, slightly musky, high-pitched note.

‘What’s your aftershave?’ she asked.

He dragged himself back from some distant thought and frowned. ‘I don’t use aftershave.’ Then he realised. ‘Oh, you mean the patchouli?’ He grinned. ‘I hate the smell of aftershave. It’s kind of overpowering first thing in the morning. I just smear the tiniest amount of patchouli oil on to my neck, below the Adam’s apple. I think there’s something fresh about it. He paused. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No, I do,’ she said. ‘It’s unusual, that’s all.’

‘I hope you like jazz,’ he said suddenly.

‘Jazz?’

‘That’s where we’re going. To hear the best jazzband this side of the Great Wall.’

And she felt a tiny stab of disappointment.

Their taxi dropped them in the forecourt of the Minzu Fandian on Fuxingmennei Avenue. But this was not their destination, and they left the lights of the hotel behind them and went down through the underpass. At the other side of the avenue, steps led them up into the deep shadow of trees separating the bike lane from the sidewalk. Margaret began to feel uneasy. Old men sat about on walls playing chess while women stood gossiping in groups, their children laughing and shouting, kicking a ball up and down the grass. The narrowest of hutongs led off into a maze of walled courtyards. She had been here before, she realised.

The Sanwei bookstore stood on the corner, its lights spilling out into the dark of the street. They could hear the sound of jazz music drifting lightly on the warm evening air. As they stepped inside, a young girl came forward to sell them entrance tickets for thirty yuan each. Down a couple of steps, staff milled around narrow aisles between shelves of books and magazines. ‘Don’t be fooled by the bookshop,’ Michael said. ‘There’s the most wonderful tearoom upstairs.’

‘I know,’ she said, and he stopped on the bottom step, taken aback.

‘You’ve been here before?’

She nodded. ‘But not on a jazz night.’ And she remembered the stillness of the tearoom: lacquered tables and chairs grouped silently on a tiled floor; vases and sculptures displayed on shelves and cabinets; traditional and modern scrolls hanging on the walls; screens along the window wall dividing it into discreet individual areas, in one of which she had sat with Li on a night when the place was otherwise deserted, on a night when she had opened her heart to him for the very first time.

‘Are you OK?’ Michael was concerned.

She almost told him she didn’t want to go up, but in the end didn’t have the heart. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. He lingered a moment, still concerned, then took her hand and led her up the stairs.

The band was taking a break as Michael and Margaret got to the top of the steps, and the audience in the packed tearoom was still applauding their last number. A bespectacled young man sitting at a table, took their tickets.

‘Hello, Mr Zimmerman,’ he said in a slow, concentrated English. ‘How are you tonight?’

‘I’m good, Swanney. How are things at work?’

‘We are ve-ery busy just now, Mr Zimmerman.’

Michael introduced Swanney to Margaret, who shook his hand. ‘Swanney is a doctor at the infectious diseases hospital,’ Michael said, and Margaret had the immediate urge to go and wash the hand he had shaken. ‘He works here on jazz nights, partly because he likes jazz, but mostly because it gives him the chance to practise his English.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Margaret said. She looked around. The tearoom was crowded, a mix of Chinese and European faces. It was mostly a young crowd, with the exception of a single elderly man wearing jeans, a tee shirt and baseball cap. He was working hard at charming his way into the pants of a Chinese girl who was young enough to be his granddaughter. She looked exceedingly bored. It was a very different atmosphere from the still and solitary one Margaret had experienced here with Li on an emotionally charged night. Raised voices and laughter, people gathered round tables in animated groups, drinking tea and beer.

And yet there was something odd, something missing. And then she knew what it was. She said to Michael, ‘No one’s smoking.’

He grinned. ‘I know. A jazz club without cigarette smoke. Doesn’t seem right, does it? The lady who owns the place is a bit eccentric.’ He nodded down a colonnaded corridor to a door at the end. ‘She practically lives in there. Hardly ever shows her face. Hates smoking, so she made jazz nights a smoke-free zone.’ He steered her towards what appeared to be the only free table in the place. ‘Reserved,’ he said. ‘Wanted to be sure we’d get a seat.’

A girl of about twenty, wearing a white apron, and a big smile on an open, pretty face, materialised out of the crowd. ‘Hello again, Mr Zimmerman,’ she said, gazing at him with unabashed adoration.

‘Hi, Plum,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘Plum, this is Margaret. She’s a doctor.’

Plum turned to Margaret, her smile just as wide and disarming. ‘Hello, Miss Margaret,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m ve-ery pleased to meet you. I am study English at Beijing University. What would you like to drink?’

They ordered beer, and Margaret looked around the young, animated faces and froze, suddenly, as she turned and met the eye of a tall Chinese man pushing past their table. It was Li. She felt the blood colour her cheeks as he stopped, unable to avoid the fact that they had seen each other. And then her eyes flickered past him to an attractive young Chinese woman at his side, and she immediately felt sick. It was as if he had returned her slap ten times over. So this was why they had no future, she thought bitterly. There was already someone else. She wanted to stand up and hit him again. Only harder this time, with a clenched fist, so that it would really hurt. But she remained frozen in her chair. ‘Well,’ she said, barely able to control her voice. ‘This is a surprise.’

Initially it was his embarrassment that left Li at a loss for words, and then his eyes flickered towards Michael, and it was anger that flushed his cheeks. He looked back at Margaret. So this was why she had decided to stay on. It hadn’t taken her long to get over her heartbreak.

‘Isn’t it?’ is all he could bring himself to say.

Michael jumped immediately to his feet and extended a hand. ‘Hi. I’m Michael Zimmerman.’