Уолтер Тевис - The Steps of the Sun

“Perhaps. Would you like to be Chinese?”

“Mourning Dove, you are marvelous!” I said. “You and I understand each other very well.”

“Yes,” she said unsmiling, in her soft, gravelly voice. “I’m certain it will help with your plans, to be free of legal encumbrances. Our embassies protect the People, Mr. Belson.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” I said, exuberant. I had planned to go for this but hadn’t been sure it would work. As a Chinese I could have lawyers; I could use the whole string of multinational and world courts to go after the Isabel .

“Yes,” Mourning Dove said. “It will make our contract safe from red tape. And from publicity.”

“I’m right with you, Mourning Dove,” I said. “Do I need to pass any tests? I’ve read Confucius and the sayings of Chairman Mao. I have a pair of Qin horses by my croquet court in Atlanta, and my sweetheart, Isabel Crawford, is a Maoist.” I was high and feeling a bit silly. And I was really liking Mourning Dove, in whose eyes I had begun to detect amusement.

“None of that will be necessary,” Pear Blossom said coolly. “It’s a matter of form with the Committee for Enlargement, in Peking. The People’s Republic does not require performances from prospective citizens.”

Mourning Dove ignored her and smiled faintly at me. “Many of the Qin horses are exquisite,” she said. “I am pleased with your judgment.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for coming all the way from China.”

The forms were sent to Columbus by Transpacific Xerox, and by the next afternoon I was Chinese. I signed three papers in the presence of witnesses, made a ceremonial bow, and promised to be orderly in the arrangement of my household. Why not? I could have signed my name in script, but my professor of Chinese had shown me the calligraphic way and I did it like that, using a brush:

I became a compatriot of Confucius and Mao with a few strokes. A small world, if you know the right people. Chinese Belson.

I remained undeceived, however, aware that my being Chinese made the endolin contract safer for them. The papers were ready right after the naturalization papers. I signed them briskly. I was now not only a Chinese, but a rich Chinese.

After I left Lao-tzu with a plastic card that identified me as a Chinese national, my taxi took me to The People’s Bank of Shanghai, Columbus Branch, where I set up some accounts. I’d taken a check for ten million from Lao-tzu, for good faith and to tide me over until the transfer of funds was finished. The only possible snag was in Lao-tzu’s getting the endolin from the Isabel . I wouldn’t have any more cash from them until that was brought off. Since the People’s Republic maintained a big staff in Washington, and since even L’Ouverture couldn’t buck the State Department where Chinese relations were concerned, I hoped they’d have it within a week. I’d told Pear Blossom how to find it in the Isabel’ s cabin. Pear Blossom was clearly the sort of person who got hold of what was rightfully hers.

Back at the hotel I called London; first a retired actor I knew and then a theatrical agency. No luck from either. There was a subsidiary of Belson Tile and Marble in Fleet Street. I called its director and told him to find out what he could about an actress named Isabel Crawford. I’d call him back next week. His eyes bulged out to see his actual boss talking to him. “Certainly, Mr. Belson,” he said. “We shall put our shoulders to the wheel.”

When I’d done what I could about finding Isabel, I called the Lieutenant Governor of Kentucky, George Kavanaugh. I’d known him when he was a coal broker. We talked about Baynes, who was up for election in November. “Is he unbeatable?” I asked, after we’d finished the amenities.

“Maybe,” George said. “He won strongly last time.”

“Who’s running against him?”

“Mattie Hinkle. Liberal democrat.”

“What chance?”

“A Chinaman’s.”

“Watch your language, George,” I said. “I’m no person to talk to about Orientals that way.”

“Some of my best friends are Chinese,” George said.

“I believe it. What’s Hinkle’s program? What’s she promising?”

George scratched his head. “Shit, Ben, I don’t know. Reform, I suppose. She should try to get him from the Left.” Suddenly he looked at me hard. “Didn’t you escape from the Marines or something, Ben? In Florida?”

“It was two private cops, George, and it was Washington. You said from the Left?”

“Unemployment might work.” He paused and grinned. “God, Ben, you always were a live one. Betty says you ought to be in movies.”

“I don’t have the time, George. How can I get in touch with this Mattie Hinkle?”

“Try Miyagawa and Sumo in Louisville.”

“Okay, George,” I said. “Thanks for the information. And don’t tell anyone I called you.”

“Mum’s the word, Benny. Where are you calling from anyway?”

“I’m staying at a hotel,” I said. “In Los Angeles.”

Miyagawa and Sumo was an ad agency. I told them I was Aaron Fine, borrowing the name of my friend and accountant. I said I represented an organization backing liberal causes. The man on the phone was a clerk in the agency and clearly bored by all this. “We have impressive sums at our disposal, for key candidates,” I said levelly.

“Oh?” He looked more interested. “May I ask the name of your organization?”

“Something in the order of fifty million dollars,” I said.

He stared at me and set down his coffee cup. “That figure is hard to believe.”

“Do I look crazy?”

“No, sir…”

“Look,” I said, “I’d like to talk to either Miyagawa or Sumo.”

“They’re both in conference,” he said, for the second time. This time he seemed less sure.

“Well,” I said, “I’m going to hang up and have my bank send a million for the campaign to show good faith. Then I’ll call back and I want to speak to both of them.” I hung up.

I called the People’s Bank and told them to phone a million to Louisville. A certified check would pop out of a slot in the agency’s phone in a half minute. I called back and, sure enough, I was talking to two polite Japanese. By that time I’d invented an organization. “I represent the Friends of the Poor. We have been taking an interest in the campaign of Mattie Hinkle.”

They both nodded sagely and the smaller of them spoke. “Ms. Hinkle thanks you for sharing.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “What Friends of the Poor is concerned with right now is Ms. Hinkle’s stand on safe uranium.”

“Safe uranium?” the smaller one said. I took him to be Sumo.

“The uranium aboard the spaceship in Washington. The uranium Senator Baynes won’t release for use in power plants.”

“You say it’s safe uranium?”

“I can explain later. The main issue now, for Friends of the Poor, is Ms. Hinkle’s stand on that uranium.”

They hemmed and hawed for a bit and then admitted Ms. Hinkle had no opinion on the Isabel’ s uranium. They would be glad for me to enlighten them both on the issue.

“I’ll call you back,” I said, and hung up.

The next morning Pear Blossom called to say the endolin was off the Isabel and in the Chinese Embassy in Washington. I asked about Baynes.

“He did not involve himself,” Pear Blossom told me coolly. She was a shade more civil, now that I was Chinese myself, but she still could project a lot of dislike.