A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [30]
STRATTON WAS ten minutes early. Kangmei arrived precisely on time, the trait of a good Chinese. She parked her bicycle in a guarded sidewalk lot and locked it.
“Just like Boston,” Stratton said.
“Excuse me?”
“Thieves, I mean.”
Kangmei shrugged. “Bicycles are expensive. Come with me, Mr. Stratton. We are going on a tour of the Forbidden City.”
“But I had hoped to talk—”
Again her eyes stopped him. “Please,” she said, “we will talk.”
At an imperial red kiosk, Stratton paid for his ticket with ten fen. Kangmei spoke to the cashier in Chinese and was allowed to enter without paying.
“I told her I’m your guide,” she explained, escorting Stratton through the broad entrance tunnel. “I saw my Uncle David two days before he left for Xian. We had a very nice talk. He was very thoughtful.”
“He mentioned you in his journal,” Stratton said as they walked. “He was very impressed.”
“Oh.” She paused as a crowd of Chinese tourists passed them, chattering. When it was quiet, she asked, “Was he important in the United States?”
“Yes, in his field. And popular. He had many friends.”
They approached a group of Americans, Kodaks clicking. They were led by a Chinese guide with her hair pulled back in a prim bun.
Kangmei said, in a louder voice, “This is the Meridian Gate, the entrance to the grounds of the Inner Palaces. It is the biggest gate in all the Forbidden City, built in the year 1420 and restored again in the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries. Every year, the reigning emperor would ascend to the top of this structure and announce a new calendar for the people of China …”
Stratton applauded. Kangmei blushed. “Please don’t make fun,” she whispered. “You must behave like a tourist and I like a guide. For me to be with you under any circumstances would be very serious.”
The competing tour group moved away. Kangmei walked Stratton across a paved courtyard to a marble bridge over a clear, slow-moving stream.
“The Ji Shui He,” she trilled.
“Did you and your uncle talk about politics?” Stratton asked.
“A little. He seemed to understand that China cannot be analyzed in a week, or understood. I don’t think that’s why he came, Mr. Stratton. Some of his questions could never be answered. They are not relevant anymore. Not to my generation.” A family of alabaster ducks splashed noisily in the stream.
“They were good questions, just the same,” Stratton said.
“Yes,” Kangmei said softly. “Very good. It was odd, seeing my uncle. He looked very much like my father; there is an alertness about both of them. Uncle David was more direct, of course. My father cannot afford to be so candid. Not with all the rumors of a new political campaign. We live with that concern, and it makes people like my father more cunning than David. No one can be sure what the future holds, so we must constantly be watchful. This, Mr. Stratton, is the Hall of Supreme Harmony.”
A group of Chinese schoolchildren swarmed around them. A plump teacher in a blue Mao tunic recited a history lesson and the children listened attentively.
“The statues on the terrace are made of bronze,” Kangmei said in her drone-guide voice. “On one side are storks and, on the other, giant tortoises. A sundial on the eastern side of the terrace represents righteousness and truth; on the west side is a grain measure, which symbolizes justice …”
“Did you memorize all this stuff?” Stratton said under his breath.
“We learn English at the Institute,” Kangmei explained when the school tour was gone. “Those who perform well may someday become translators. The very best will receive diplomatic assignments. And travel.” She ran a girlish hand through her hair, and Stratton noticed for the first time the glint of red nail polish, expertly applied. “So the answer is yes, I memorized this ‘stuff,’” she said acidly.
They climbed the stairs and entered the hall. The columns were extravagantly carved with gilded dragons. In the middle stood the emperor’s throne, surrounded by incense burners.
“How did David feel about seeing