Jon Cleary - The Pulse of Danger

‘You mean perhaps commit suicide? I think not. Not at first. He’ll stay alive so long as I still have these papers.’ He tapped his pocket.

‘Then you’re going to be stuck with him all the way.’

Singh looked back at the map, then up at the distant peaks. ‘All the way.’

It took them half an hour to break camp. There was so much to be left behind, so little to pack. Enough food for five days, tents, rope and climbing gear, blankets and sleeping-bags and cooking utensils: survival, not comfort, became the yardstick of choice. Li Bu-fang, the veteran of several such hurried flights but now the only one unconcerned with this one, sat in a canvas chair, his hands and feet bound, and watched with silent amusement.

‘What are you grinning at?’ Marquis, coming up from the garden with a polythene bag in his hand, stopped beside the Chinese.

Li Bu-fang looked up. Sitting in his chair, his bound hands in his lap, the only man not on his feet working, he could have been a general idly watching his staff dismantle their field headquarters after manæuvres.

‘All this hustle and bustle. You will all be dead in twenty-four hours. Why bother?’

‘Maybe it’s because I’ve never taken anything for granted, Chow.’

‘Chow. Is that a term of insult, like Chink? You whites never grow up, do you? Always sounding like schoolboys abusing the lesser races. Why do you bother to insult me like that? It’s a sign of a small mind.’

Marquis stared down at him, then he nodded. ‘I’d never thought of it. You’re right. You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?’

‘For a Chow?’

‘You’re insulting yourself now.’

‘You’re smart, too.’

‘Where did you learn to speak English?’

‘Various places. Certain of our schools and universities teach it.’

‘Part of your preparation for taking over the world, eh?’

Li Bu-fang grinned. ‘If you like.’

‘They teach you pretty well.’

‘Oh, I have had practice. I started learning very early. I was in Chungking during the war. The one you imperialists call World War Two. Such a conceit. Less than half the world fought in it, but you still called it a world war.’

‘I wouldn’t let it worry you. A war by any name is still a war. You’re talking to a pacifist, sport. What were you doing in Chungking?’

‘Working as house-boy for an American major.’

‘That made you a Communist?’

‘No. He hated Chiang Kai-shek, too. In those days it was safe for an American to feel that way. We Communists were not the main enemy then.’

‘You were a Communist then? You must have started young.’

‘I was born one. I was twelve years old when I accompanied my father on the Long March. You’ve heard of the Long March?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Marquis said, and wondered if he himself could have survived such a journey when he had been twelve years old. At twelve, a day on the beach at Coogee had tired him out. But then, as a child, survival had not been a driving force: the ice-cream cone, the meat-pie and the saveloy had not been meant to fight off starvation. ‘It was back in 1934 and 35, wasn’t it?’

‘You seem to know something of China.’

‘I always wanted to collect there.’ His voice was wistful, but somehow it didn’t seem ridiculous in such a big rough man; the tone of regret and disappointment was too genuine. ‘I used to read all about the French missionaries, blokes like David and Delavay and Soulié. People pottering about in their gardens in England and America and Australia, anywhere at all, most of them don’t know where their plants originated. They came from China and most of them were found by those French missionaries. Then blokes like Wilson, Forrest, Kingdon Ward. I read all about them and I wanted to follow them. No, I wanted to go one step further, bring back something they’d never discovered. I wanted to go up into northern Yunnan, all my rainbows seemed to end there in Yunnan. Then you bastards came along and put the kybosh on the idea.’ He looked back at Li. ‘I’d have walked all the way into Yunnan if your government would have given me permission. It would have been some hike, but I don’t suppose you’d have thought it much beside the Long March?’

‘Hardly, Mr. Marquis. Six thousand miles, across twelve provinces, for three hundred and sixty-eight days. We fought fifteen major battles and I’ve forgotten how many skirmishes. We climbed eighteen mountain ranges and crossed six rivers. A hundred thousand of us.’

‘You know your facts.’

‘We were not looking for plants, Mr. Marquis. We were looking for the survival of an ideal. The facts were beaten into my brain, my heart and my body. I lost my father and my two elder brothers on the march. I have not forgotten a day nor a mile of it.’

‘I guess you wouldn’t,’ Marquis said ungrudgingly. He admired courage and endurance; he had never been the sort to withhold his respect for a man as a man because of the latter’s politics. ‘Then you won’t think much of this little walk we’re going to do in the next few days, eh?’

‘It will stretch my legs, that’s all.’

‘Well, behave yourself or you might get your neck stretched, too. Someone tried to do you in a while ago.’

Li nodded. He was more composed now, there was no sign of the fear that had gripped him immediately after the attempt on his life. ‘My comrades will still kill you.’

The dialogue had gone full circle; the Chinese had even gone back to his same grin of amusement at what was going on in the camp. Marquis, suddenly frustrated and angry, bounced the polythene bag in his hand, wanting to throw it at Li Bu-fang’s head.

‘What is that?’ The Chinese nodded at the bag.

‘A plant. It’s called Meconopsis regia , one of the poppy family.’

‘You admire flowers?’

‘When I see them growing wild, yes. But not in drawing-rooms. Or in neat little gardens.’

‘You are like the man who cannot bear to see wild animals in a zoo?’

‘If you like.’

‘But flowers are beauty. Don’t you like to see beauty indoors?’

‘Maybe it’s just that I don’t like indoors . Are you an admirer of beauty?’

‘Why not? If you had lived the life I have, you might find need of it. Indoors and outdoors, wherever you can find it. What are you going to do with it?’ He nodded at the polythene bag. ‘Take it with you?’

Marquis glanced down towards the garden. The polythene bags glistened in the early morning light, a clump of artificial blooms that seemed to mock him. ‘There’s seven months’ work there. The best collection I’ve ever made. When you come to think of it, there’s no more peaceable work than that of a botanist. Beside us, Bertrand Russell and his mob are cannibals with a tapeworm. And now I’ve got to throw away seven months’ work because of you bastards.’ He bounced the bag in his hand. ‘I’ll take this back and name it after you. It’s bright red in colour, very appropriate.’

‘I’ll be honoured.’

‘No, you won’t. I’ll explain the reason I named it after you, and then every botanist in the world will hate your guts.’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.