A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [40]
“All right. Between you and Mr. Xia, you must be able to think of some things special here that have interested the old men in Peking. That is where we go.”
“It is a good plan, Thom-as,” she said. There followed another Mandarin interlude. “There are five or six such places.”
They visited the historical museum, a fourteenth-century temple, a thirteenth-century drum tower and Big Goose Pagoda south of the city, originally built early in the seventh century by the Tang, or was it the Sui? They walked the Ming city walls, and visited the neolithic site at Ban Po. Dynasties and centuries began to run together for Stratton. At each stop, Stratton and Mr. Xia would do a quick tourist round and Mr. Xia would ask to see the comrade in charge so that a distinguished American visitor could pay his respects. None of the comrades seemed overworked. To a man, they all poured gracious tea and exchanged compliments interminably. Three of them knew of Comrade Wang from Peking. None had ever met his distinguished brother. By midafternoon, Stratton wondered whether his patience or his bladder would burst first. Kangmei attended none of the interviews. Instead, she wandered around, “talking to the young people,” as she put it. It was hard for Stratton to know whether she was devoted more to seeking information or to recruiting for her cause.
“So much for the Taoist Temple of the Eight Immortals.” Stratton sighed as he sank back into seat cushions already dank with his sweat. “Now what?”
“The Qin ruins to the east of the city. It will take us about thirty minutes to get there, Thom-as.” She ran light fingers across his cheek. “Do not be discouraged.”
They drove through an intensely cultivated valley, past communes that seemed rich by Chinese standards. Suddenly, the car turned sharply onto a narrow strip of asphalt that looked as if it had been laid as an afterthought. Through gaps in the fields of chest-high corn, Stratton could see a large cone-shaped hill off to the right.
“That is Mount Qin, the tumulus,” said Mr. Xia. “It was looted three years after the emperor’s death, when the dynasty fell. It took an army three days and three nights to carry away treasure from the tomb. The new excavations have not reached it yet, so it is not known what the grave robbers may have left. The current excavations are all here, to the west of the tumulus.”
“What’s that?” Stratton nodded toward a squat, two-story building with a big chimney about a quarter of a mile off to the left.
“That is a factory belonging to the commune. They make Tiger Brand sewing machines.” Mr. Xia smiled. “The factory wants to expand, but the local authorities will not allow it because it is not known what is buried around the factory, or even under it. The factory owners say they do not care about old things: It is the commune’s land and the commune has an obligation to provide a good life for its people.”
“Sounds like the kind of squabble we have at home between environmentalists and developers,” Stratton said. “What happened?”
“The dispute went all the way to Peking. There is no decision yet,” said Mr. Xia.
Stratton turned to Kangmei. “By ‘Peking’ does he mean your father?”
She nodded.
To honor a cruel emperor reviled for two thousand years, but latterly proclaimed a hero, the Chinese had created an instant museum.
Kangmei vanished in search of young co-conspirators. Mr. Xia led Stratton into a large building with a vaulted roof that looked like an airplane hangar. Once inside, the guide went off to look for an official with whom Stratton could drink tea. Alone, Stratton pushed through two polished doors and into the main chamber.
It was like changing centuries.
Stratton stood about fifteen feet above the dig in a skylight-lit hall the size of a football field. His first thought