Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

‘It must be wonderful to speak Chinese as well as you do,’ Margaret said. ‘It must open up the whole culture of the place to you in a way that most people could never hope to experience.’

Michael inclined his head doubtfully. ‘It can be a double-edged sword,’ he said. ‘China was once described to me as being like an onion. It is made up of layer upon layer upon layer, with only subtle differences between each one. Most people usually only get two or three layers deep. People and places, a little history, a little culture, become familiar to them. But the heart of the onion, the very core of China itself, is still many more layers away. Out of reach, almost untouchable.’

He thought for a moment. ‘When I first started learning the language people were great. The Chinese love it if you can pay them a compliment, or give instructions to a taxi driver, or order up a meal in Mandarin. But when you’ve been here a while, and your grasp of the language gets good enough so you can start talking politics and philosophy, suddenly they get cautious. The encouragement stops. You’re getting too close to something the Chinese don’t really want foreign devils like you and me getting too close to. The heart of China, the core of Chineseness.’

‘Wow!’ Margaret was taken aback. ‘I always thought the Chinese were very welcoming.’

‘They are,’ Michael said. ‘I love them. They are warm and friendly and wonderfully loyal.’ He paused. ‘Just don’t get too close, that’s all. Because you’re not one of them.’

And Margaret wondered if that’s why her relationship with Li was doomed to failure. Because she was not Chinese, because she could never hope to understand him the way another Chinese could.

A couple of chickens, startled by their approach, skittered away up an alley. A Chinese labourer humping coal into a siheyuan shouted, ‘Ni hau ,’ and then laughed raucously as if he had said something funny. They passed a tiny girl displaying remarkable skill in keeping a weighted pink ribbon in the air by kicking it up repeatedly with the instep of her foot. A group of her friends watched patiently waiting for her to make a mistake so that they could take their turn. At the far end of the hutong they turned into the outer edges of the Muslim Quarter, passing beneath a large character banner that straddled the street. Up ahead, shop fronts and food stalls blazed light into the road. Tables, with the now familiar red shades hanging over them, were set out down the middle of the street as far as you could see, lost in a blur of lights and people.

As they approached the frenzy of eating and cooking, they passed a wagon piled high with ox livers crawling with flies. A little further on another wagon groaned with great heaps of stinking intestine. Other smells rose to greet them on the warm night air. The ripe stench of an open sewer, the stink of dead animals as they walked past lines of pelts hung between trees. Then, as they left the gloom on the outer fringes of the Quarter, and wandered deep into the very heart of it, the olfactory sensations became a little more pleasant. Indian spices. Cumin, coriander, garam masala. The smells of cooking. Spiced lamb and roast chicken. Braziers were pumped up to extremes of heat and light by electronic blowers placed directly beneath them. Long troughs of charcoal glowed and smoked and filled the air with the mouthwatering smells of barbecued meat. Savoury chestnuts and black beans were being roasted together in huge woks, great vats of brown sesame sludge brought to high temperatures on fiercely burning fires to separate the oil from the tahini. There were barber shops, seed stores, sweet sellers, hardware stands. A boy was rolling out noodles on a sidewalk cooking table while a woman behind him washed dishes in a big stone sink. Through a doorway, Margaret saw a man stretched out on a barber’s chair, sleeping under green covers as he waited for the barber to finish reading his paper and give him a shave.

In a butcher’s shop, men in white coats hacked at carcasses with great cleavers, and a boy threw joints of meat through the open doors of a van backed up to the shop. They passed racks of barbecued chicken legs, and tables laid out with tray upon tray of candied fruits and baskets of nuts.

Old men in round white hats sat eating at tables and watched with a dull-eyed curiosity as Michael and Margaret strolled by, hand in hand. This circuit was not on the tourist itinerary, and white faces were almost unheard of here. But all the young children, clinging to mothers’ hands, were desperate to try out the English they were being taught in school. ‘Hello,’ one of them said. And then, bizarrely, ‘So happy you could come.’

Banners and flags fluttered in profusion overhead in the evening breeze. And above them, the leaves of overhanging trees whispered into the night sky.

‘Told you it was an experience,’ Michael said.

Margaret was wide-eyed and held his hand tightly. ‘That’s the thing about you, Michael,’ she said. ‘You never take me anywhere interesting.’

‘Come on,’ he said suddenly, and drew her off the street, past a young man tending a brazier, and into a tall, narrow room that opened directly on to the street. Hanging fluorescent strips reflected light harshly off cracked white tiles lining the walls and floor. There were several round fold-up tables with melamine tops and low wooden stools. An open concrete staircase led off, it seemed, to nowhere.

‘What are we coming in here for?’ Margaret asked, alarmed.

Michael grinned. ‘To eat,’ he said.

‘You’re kidding!’ Margaret was shocked. She had recurring visions of flies crawling over piles of ox liver and intestine.

‘It’s OK,’ Michael said. ‘Muslims are very particular about preparing and cooking their meat.’

‘Yeah, I’d noticed,’ Margaret said. She remembered the boy throwing joints of meat into the back of his van. ‘Like the health inspector would be redundant here.’

Michael was amused by her fastidiousness. ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ he said. ‘Honestly. I’ve eaten here many times and lived to tell the tale.’ He sat down on a low stool, and reluctantly she followed suit. A gaggle of graceless young girls in pink and white immediately flounced around their table, bringing dishes of plain soy and chilli soy for dipping. They couldn’t take their eyes off Margaret. One of them spoke quickly to Michael and he grinned. He said to Margaret, ‘They want to know if they can touch your hair.’

‘Sure. I suppose,’ Margaret said apprehensively, and they all tentatively touched her soft, blonde curls, withdrawing their hands quickly as if it might burn them. They giggled and gabbled excitedly. Another one spoke to Michael and drew a laugh from him. He shook his head and spoke quickly, making them laugh in return. ‘What was that about?’ Margaret asked, a little put out by her sense of exclusion.

‘They wanted to know if I was a film star,’ Michael grinned.

Margaret snapped her fingers. ‘I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. The Creature from the Black Lagoon , wasn’t it? Must be sickening being so good-looking, huh?’

He smiled. ‘And they want to know if you want chicken feet.’

Margaret pulled a face. ‘No thank you. I’m quite happy with the ones I’ve got.’

He sighed patiently. ‘To eat.’

She pulled another face. ‘Why would I want to eat chicken feet?’

‘The Chinese believe they are good for your skin. Make you look younger.’

‘Oh, yeah? Ask them how old they think I am?’

He asked them and they looked at her and had an animated discussion. Then, ‘Twenty-two,’ Michael said.

Margaret laughed. ‘Yeah, well, I’m thirty-one.’ She stuck a finger in her face. ‘And if they want to know how I keep this looking so young, you can tell them it’s McDonald’s. Quarter-pounders with ketchup and French fries.’