A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [76]
Stratton saw without seeing the red-starred flag that hung limply from the building. He saw a chimney thrusting unnaturally from among the trees and knew without knowing that it belonged to a homespun woodworking factory that made grapefruit crates and slatted folding chairs. He saw a glint of water through the trees and knew that, except in the rainy season, the river that flowed there could be safely forded by men five feet ten or taller.
Stratton groaned aloud. In an instant of black despair, he cursed the luck that had forsaken him in rags among Chinese pines.
He rose to run.
Before him stood Kangmei. Smiling at her side were two erect, honey-colored men of late middle age with the same subtle, alluring facial structure that Kangmei had inherited.
“Thom-as,” Kangmei said gravely, “these are my uncles. They will help us.”
They were Zhuang, members of a race more Thai than Chinese that had settled in the southern hills in the mists of time. The Zhuang survived in modern China as the country’s largest minority. Kangmei’s mother was Zhuang, her father, Wang Bin, a member of the majority Han. The combination was what made her so striking. Stratton should have realized it before.
I know all about the Zhuang. They taught me that, too, Stratton wanted to yell, and wondered about his sanity.
Kangmei stared in open-mouthed concern.
“Thom-as! What is the matter? There is no danger. These are my uncles. They—”
“What is the name of this fucking place?”
“Thom-as!”
“Goddamn it. Tell me.” He took an involuntary step toward the girl and the two peasants closed around her.
“I told you. We live in Bright Star.”
“That’s not the right name. I know. Tell me in Chinese.”
The two peasants began talking angrily. Kangmei interrupted them with a stream of local dialect that seemed to mollify them.
“Thom-as, I have told them that you are feverish and hungry and very tired. But you must be polite to them, please.”
“I’m sorry.” Stratton grappled for composure. “Tell me the real name, please. I want to hear it.”
“We live in Bright Star,” she said slowly, as though instructing a slow child. “Over there is Sweet Water, and there, Good Harvest, and there, Evergreen. Why is it so important?”
“And the place in the middle? Where the factory is, and the water tower?”
“That is where the cadres live, and some soldiers. It is not important. Our people go there only when they must—for Party discussions, to buy shoes and bicycle tires.”
“What is it called?”
“It is called Man-ling.”
“Man-ling, yes, Man-ling. Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Stratton sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. The peasants’ hostility surrendered to concern. Kangmei sprang to his side.
“Thom-as, do not weep. Come, you will be safe. My aunts will cook special food. There is a warm bed and a doctor for your leg. Yes, a doctor … you can trust him. He is a friend of my uncles’. Come, please. It is not far to walk.”
“I can’t. I must not.”
“Please, Thom-as. Please. Soon there will be too many people. Already there are rumors about things that happened last night. … Please.”
“No. No. No,” Stratton muttered in an anguished litany that was a warrior’s penance.
He was too weak to resist when Kangmei and her uncles levered him to his feet and led him blindly down the gentle hillside into yesterday.
THE GENERAL CAME late.
He had lunched too long—a farewell banquet for a retiring colleague: sea cucumbers, suckling pig, whitefish, pigeon, shark’s-fin soup, tree fungus for dessert, and torrents of mao tai. The colleague, eighty-four years old, a Party militant for nearly half a century, had never cracked a smile.