A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [11]
“Yes,” Stratton said. He was miserable.
The door opened and an American secretary beckoned. Steve Powell sat at a small desk in a tall room with one narrow window.
A gray file cabinet stood in one corner. On a table, in front of a cracked leather sofa, was a stack of American magazines.
“I’m sorry for making you wait,” Powell said. “I’ve spent the last two hours wrestling with the Chinese bureaucracy. It is intractable on the most routine matters. You can imagine the problems we face with something like this.”
“Can’t be much worse than ours,” Stratton said.
“Oh, but it is,” Powell said cheerily. “Infinitely worse. I could tell you some incredible stories …”
“What happened to David?” Stratton asked. “When I went to his hotel all the manager would say is, ‘Mr. Wang not here.”’
Powell nodded. “When you ask a question of a Chinese, expect a very literal answer. The man was telling you as much of the truth as you requested. Professor Wang became ill Tuesday night and was taken from the hotel.”
“But David told me he wouldn’t even be back in Peking until Wednesday evening.”
Powell shrugged. He slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and opened a file. Stratton noticed that it was the only item on the desk. Powell was a neat young man.
“Tell me what happened to David,” Stratton said impatiently.
“Death by duck.”
Stratton’s face twisted.
“Sounds funny, I know,” Powell went on, “but that’s what we call it. It’s a new China syndrome: Aging, out-of-shape American tourist comes to Peking, hikes and strolls through the Forbidden City and climbs the Great Wall until he’s blue in the face. Then he gorges himself on—what else?—rich Peking duck, gulps liters of Lao Shan mineral water and promptly drops dead of a myocardial infarction.”
“A heart attack, that’s all,” Stratton said
“Sure,” Powell said. “Death by duck. We’ve had dozens of cases. It has nothing to do with the duck, I assure you. Just too much food, too much exertion. Might as well be Coney Island franks.”
“Just like that.” Stratton’s voice was tired and low.
“After dinner, Dr. Wang apparently felt sick to his stomach. Several guests apparently saw him go up to his room. Two hours later one of the cleaning boys went in and found him there in bed, unconscious but still alive. Two medical students came and took him to a clinic nearby. The doctors apparently worked very hard but it was too late.”
“It’s all apparently this and apparently that. Aren’t you sure?”
“Of course. I use the word as a reflex,” Powell said uneasily. “This information comes from the Chinese government. I can’t vouch for it a hundred percent, but on a matter like this, I see no reason to challenge the facts. It is, as I said before, fairly routine. Tragic, to be sure, but still routine.”
“This is a maddening place,” Stratton said. “The people at the hotel might at least have told me which hospital he went to.”
“They probably didn’t know,” Powell responded. “It took me five phone calls to find out. It was a small but very modern clinic on Wan Fu Jing Street. It has everything most hospitals in Peking don’t have—the machines, I mean. I’m sorry for the confusion, but if you’ve spent much time in Asia, you come to expect it.”
Stratton nodded. He knew something of Asian confusion.
“Why,” he asked, “was there such a delay in reporting the death to the embassy? Is that routine, too?”
The delay, Powell explained, was another matter. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a new file; he put the first file away. Professor Wang’s death was not treated as those of other American visitors, the consul continued, because of Wang’s relation to a high-ranking Chinese official.
“It was a homecoming for Professor Wang, and apparently was a very moving reunion with his brother. In this file I have a note from the deputy minister himself—a rare communication, believe me—and it describes Professor Wang’s visit to Xian, and his return to Peking with his brother.