Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

‘You are such a complete bastard,’ she said. ‘This is absolutely not fair. Michael has done nothing wrong. Everyone loves him. You talk to anyone who knows him. No one’s got a bad word to say about him. They’ll all tell you he’s really good guy. You can’t hound him like this just because you’re jealous.’

‘I am not jealous,’ Li said evenly.

‘Like hell!’

‘Uncle Li, why is Auntie Mar-ga-ret angry?’ Xinxin asked timidly from the back.

‘She’s not angry with us, darling, it’s to do with work,’ Li told her.

‘What are you saying to her?’ Margaret asked suspiciously.

‘I’m just telling her not to worry about you shouting at me. And that Americans are always bad-tempered.’

‘Jesus!’ Margaret hissed.

‘The point is,’ Li said, ‘I’m just tying up loose ends. We follow one line of inquiry until we reach a dead end. Then we move on.’ But he was not at all certain that he would be pursuing this particular line of inquiry if it was not for Margaret’s relationship with Zimmerman. ‘If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I’ll drop you off at the embassy.’

‘Oh, no you won’t. I’m going with you, even if it’s just to make sure you don’t go getting Michael into any more trouble.’

She felt Xinxin tugging at her sleeve. She turned and found herself looking straight into Xinxin’s earnest little face as the child spoke directly to her with unusual timidity.

Li said, ‘She’s asking if you’ve finished being angry now.’

Margaret pursed her lips in a moment of annoyance, and then found herself forced to smile by the wide-eyed innocent appeal that wrinkled Xinxin’s forehead. She sighed. ‘Tell her, yes. Tell her that I was never angry with her in the first place. And tell her that the next time her uncle starts letting his personal feelings cloud his personal judgement, I’ll slap his goddamn face for him again.’

Li spoke to Xinxin who nodded her head in satisfaction.

‘What did you say to her?’ Margaret demanded to know. She was frustrated at always being at the mercy of someone else’s interpretation.

‘That you were very sorry, and wouldn’t speak to her Uncle Yan like that again,’ he said. Margaret narrowed her eyes at him and he grinned. ‘Only kidding.’

They drove north through Chaoyangmen and Dongcheng District, heading for the third ring road. Li and Margaret sat in silence while Xinxin sang popular kindergarten songs to her panda in the back.

‘What did you mean the other night when you talked about “the Little Emperor syndrome”?’ Margaret asked suddenly.

Li smiled sadly. ‘It is what we call the social consequence of the One-Child Policy.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Chinese society used to be built around the idea of family and community, the individual putting his responsibility for others first. Now, with most families having only one child, the child is spoiled and pampered and thinks only of itself. They become Little Emperors. The future of China will be in the hands of selfish, self-seeking individuals. Just like in America.’

‘Maybe, then, you’ll join the rest of us in the twenty-first century,’ Margaret said.

‘And replace five thousand years of culture and history with the hotdog and the hamburger?’

Margaret was sick of hearing about China’s culture and history. Even Michael was full of it. ‘Well, maybe it’s about time you started looking to the future instead of always living in the past,’ she snapped. ‘Maybe that’s why America ended up the most powerful country in the world. We weren’t shackled by five thousand years of tradition. We just looked straight ahead and made it up as we went along.’

‘And when you run out of ideas,’ Li said, ‘you’ll have no history to draw on. No lessons you can take from the past.’

Margaret said, ‘My old history professor always said the only thing you learn from history is that you never learn from history.’

‘But he would be an American.’

Margaret looked at him triumphantly. ‘Actually, he was Chinese.’

Li flicked her a look. ‘Chinese- American . Yes?’

She glared at him. ‘You’ve always got to have the last word, don’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘I usually do.’

*

The west gate of Beijing University was a traditional Chinese gate, with sweeping tiled roofs raised on beautifully painted crossbreams and supported on rust-red pillars. Li parked his Jeep in the shade of the trees that lined the street outside, and showed his Public Security pass to the guard on the gate who waved them through, past stone lions that stood sentinel left and right. Little Xinxin trotted at Margaret’s side, clutching her hand as if she were in fear of her life. The campus within sat in the cloistered seclusion of landscaped gardens and tranquil lakes behind high grey walls, a million miles, it seemed, from the frantic activity and roar of the city they’d left behind.

Students and lecturers strolled or cycled along leafy paths that meandered through the lush gardens, ancient bridges sweeping over green waterways lined with flowers and dotted with lilies. On rocky outcrops, almost obscured by trees, tiny pavilions provided seats in the shade for undergraduates poring over textbooks or reading newspapers, or just sitting smoking and quietly reflecting on life. University departments were housed in large white pavilions with maroon windows and towering columns below elegantly curling roofs.

Margaret was entranced. ‘What a wonderful place to come and study,’ she said. ‘It’s so peaceful. So … Chinese.’

‘Actually,’ Li said, ‘it’s so … American.’

She frowned at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This place used to be the site of the American Methodist Yengching University. Beijing University didn’t move here till 1952. All these “wonderful” halls and pavilions were built by the Methodists, designed by an American architect in the Chinese style. In those days, maybe, the Americans still thought there was something they could learn from us.’

The archaeology department stood in a long, two-storey pavilion beyond fresh-cut lawns, lush and verdant from frequent watering. The ground floor had been converted into the Arthur M. Sackler museum of art and archaeology. Administration and lecture rooms were on the floor above. Li took them in through the main door, and they were confronted, across shining marble floors, by two life-sized replicas of Terracotta Warriors standing guard at the far entrance. Margaret was momentarily startled by them, and was transported immediately back to the pit at Xi’an where she had so carefully scraped away the earth to reveal a ceramic face that no one had cast eyes on for more than two thousand years. A bald and wizened caretaker with a speckled face told them they would have to go in by the side entrance and up the stairs to find the head of department.

‘Professor Chang’s not here right now,’ an officious young man in white shirt and dark trousers told them offhandedly in the office. He had a shock of thick hair, dirt under his fingernails, and seemed more interested in the contents of the filing cabinet than in the three visitors.

‘Would you like to tell me where he is?’ Li asked.

‘Not particularly. I’m busy right now.’ The young man was clearly irritated by the interruption.

Li produced his Public Security wallet and held it out at arm’s length. ‘What’s your name?’

The young man turned and saw the ID and his face immediately darkened. His frightened rabbit’s eyes flickered up to Li. ‘I’m sorry, detective, I …’

‘What’s your name?’ Li repeated firmly.

‘Wang Jiahong.’

‘What do you do here?’

‘I’m a lab assistant over in the Art building.’