Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

She wiped the tears from her face and became aware of the security guard at the gate watching her curiously, this strange blonde-haired, blue-eyed yangguizi , standing weeping on the sidewalk, staring up at an anonymous apartment building. She turned quickly away. This was futile, stupid. It was history, and she was leaving in the morning. Her life was too full of pain for there to be any pleasure in looking back. She could only go forward.

A small, red taxi cruised slowly up the other side of the street. She called, and waved, and ran across the road. The taxi stopped and she jumped in. ‘ Ritan fandian ,’ she told the driver, and for a moment marvelled that he knew immediately what she meant. And then straight away felt saddened. China, its language, its people, had taken a long time getting into her soul and under her skin. And now that it had, she had no further use for it.

As the taxi headed back up towards East Chang’an Avenue, a tall broad-built Chinese man with close-cropped hair wheeled a bicycle out from the apartment compound. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt tucked into dark trousers at a narrow waist. He stopped for a moment, feeling in his pockets. Then he turned to the security guard. ‘You got any cigarettes, Feng?’

The security guard was uncomfortable. None of the other officers in the compound even spoke to him, never mind knew his name.

‘Sure, Deputy Section Chief,’ he said, taking an almost full pack from his pocket. ‘Here, have it. I’ve got plenty.’

Li took it and smiled. ‘I’ll bring you a replacement on the way back tonight.’

‘No need,’ the guard said.

Li grinned. ‘Yes there is. My uncle always told me a man with a debt is a man with a burden. See you tonight.’ And he lit a cigarette and pushed off on his bike following, oblivious, in the wake of Margaret’s taxi.

It was almost dark when Margaret passed through the security gate of Yi Ban , No. 1 building of the American Embassy on Guanghua Road, west of Ritan Park. On the right was the main administration block housing the Press Office and the Department of Cultural Affairs, a huge satellite dish oriented south-west on the lower roof. Straight ahead was the Ambassador’s residence, a plain two-storey building with a brown tile roof. It stood at the end of a paved drive bordered by immaculately kept flowerbeds and silently weeping willows. On a tall flagpole the Stars and Stripes fluttered listlessly in the gentle evening breeze. From the street Margaret had heard the sounds of traditional Chinese music drifting languidly from the direction of the residence. Now, as she approached the double red doors at the front, she could see, through a latticed wall off to her right, the musicians — three men and two women — playing on an illuminated terrace.

The Ambassador himself met her at the door, accompanied by his wife, an attractive, statuesque woman in her middle-fifties. Margaret hadn’t met her before, and the Ambassador made the introductions.

‘Oh, yes,’ his wife said, regarding Margaret with curiosity. ‘You’re the rice lady. I’ve heard so much about you.’

Sensing Margaret’s embarrassment, and perhaps knowing something of her unpredictability, the Ambassador ushered her quickly inside to the cool of a dark marble-floored hallway. At the far end, a green-carpeted staircase curled up to the second floor where the Ambassador’s family had their private apartments. Off to the left was a cloakroom and a guest bedroom. Through a square arch to the right, came the sound of voices lubricated by alcohol, early inhibitions already washed away. Margaret had not come early.

From the cloakroom, she saw the Ambassador having a quick word with his wife. Perhaps he was telling her that for a diplomat’s wife she had just been very undiplomatic. Whatever he said, she did not seem impressed and strode away into the main lounge to rejoin her guests. He, however, remained unflappable, and took Margaret by the arm and steered her across thick-piled Chinese rugs through a passage towards a long lounge crowded with people. They passed a square room on their right, opulent classical Chinese furniture facing in to an ornately carved low table inlaid with mother of pearl. ‘Our little reception room, specially for the Chinese,’ he said. ‘They do like us to make a little fuss. Makes ’em feel like honoured guests.’

The lounge was a subtly lit oblong space with full-length windows down one side, sofas and armchairs neatly arranged in ordered groups. White walls were hung with pastel-coloured silk and paper collages, different coloured discs representing ancient seals dangling from each like pendulums. The Ambassador followed Margaret’s eyes to the pictures. ‘Produced on paper handmade by master papermakers in Annhui Province. The works of Robert Rauschenberg.’ He smiled his regret. ‘Just on loan, sadly. Like most of the pieces in the house. Part of the State Department’s Art in Embassies Program. Great idea. Just a pity we’ve got to give ’em back.’ He signalled a waiter with a drinks tray. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Vodka tonic with ice and lemon,’ she told the waiter. He nodded and melted away.

Meantime, the Ambassador had contrived some hidden signal, and Sophie emerged smiling from the crowd. ‘Hi, glad you could make it.’

‘I’ll leave Sophie to introduce you to folk,’ the Ambassador said. ‘Got to keep mixing.’ And with a smile and a wave he was gone. Margaret was relieved. There was something about him that always made her slightly uncomfortable — her sense that somehow he felt uncomfortable with her.

‘You hungry?’ Sophie asked, steering her towards the top of the room and through another square arch to a dining room which made a T with the lounge. Beneath a regimented array of photographs of vases and artefacts, a very long table groaned with salads and cold meats, and hot trays with bubbling Chinese dishes. Everything looked delicious, but Margaret had little appetite.

‘Maybe later,’ she said, looking around for the waiter and her drink. A group of guests had spilled out through open French windows on to the terrace where the quintet was playing. ‘Who is everyone?’ She was beginning to wonder why she had come. There was no one here who looked remotely as interesting as Sophie’s description of Michael Zimmerman, and she wasn’t really in the mood for making small talk.

‘Oh, there’s some senior members of the production team, representatives of the companies who’re sponsoring the series. That bunch of Chinese over there …’ she nodded towards a group of men standing uncomfortably in suits and holding glasses of wine like they didn’t know what to do with them, ‘… they represent the various government departments that have facilitated the shoot.’

‘Excuse me, I think this is yours.’

Margaret turned to find a young man in a dark suit holding her vodka tonic. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said, taking it from him.

‘My pleasure,’ he said and leaned across her to Sophie. ‘Sophie, I think the Ambassador’s looking for you.’

Sophie jumped. ‘Oh. Is he?’ She raised her eyebrows to Margaret in apology. ‘Be right back.’ And she hurried off.

Margaret took a long pull at her vodka and was slightly disconcerted to find that the young man was still there.

‘Don’t you just hate these things?’ he said, tugging uncomfortably at his collar.

‘Sure,’ said Margaret, a little surprised. ‘But in my case it’s self-inflicted. At least you’re getting paid to be here.’

He gave her a very odd look. ‘I’m sorry?’

A sudden cloud of apprehension descended on her. She waved her glass at him. ‘Well, aren’t you …? Didn’t you …?’ She didn’t have the courage to finish, and he laughed suddenly.