A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [89]
Imagine.
After all these years they had not even painted it. His mind had seen the building thousands of times. And always he had imagined that it was white again, that someone had come, orders had been given, workers had arrived, and paint had covered the scars. White paint.
But his nightmare had deceived him. No paint. No clean-up, fix-up, paper-it-over. It was the wrong country for that. China. Let the scars be seen. The people’s struggle. Stratton wondered if Bobby Ho’s body still lay on the stage.
Kangmei arrived at last and, with her, a measure of sanity.
She hurled herself at him, burying her head in his chest. Stratton’s rice bowl went flying. From the spectators came laughter, nervous and polite. Women in the New China did not embrace foreigners, in private or public.
“Oh, Thom-as, you are so brave. So brave.”
He kissed the top of her head.
“The children?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“The boy is well, Thom-as. The girl … the doctors are still working.”
One for two. It could have been worse.
“Kangmei, can we go now? We have to talk.” She felt so good in his arms.
“No, we cannot. There are very many people. Now you are everyone’s rice expert. They want to express their thanks.”
“I just want to be alone with you.”
“The train will be here in less than one hour.”
He had forgotten.
“An hour?” He had so much to say to her.
The Chinese seized on Kangmei as their link to Stratton. They pushed and shoved and jostled for her attention. She yelled something in her struggle-session voice, and the crowd quieted. The semblance of a line formed.
“They will come individually to greet you. They want to take you across to the old theater where there is more room, but I said you were too weak. Also, I have told them to say only a few words and leave you to rest. Once they have left, so can we, not before.”
“Let’s get it over with.” Stratton fixed a smile on his face.
A ruddy-faced man with iron gray hair appeared, speaking forcefully.
“This is the boy’s grandfather,” said Kangmei. “On behalf of his family, he extends his most grateful thanks and wishes you a speedy recovery. It is his wish that you will be guest of honor for a banquet once you are well.”
“Tell grandfather that I am pleased to have been of assistance and that I would be honored to meet his entire family—when I am recovered.”
An uncle replaced the grandfather. Then cousins and aunts, the boy’s mother, fighting back tears, even neighbors. Stratton thought it would never end.
“Kangmei, let’s get out of here.”
“This is a Zhuang tradition and, for you, a great honor. We cannot offend these people.”
A few minutes later, while a portly man whose relationship to anyone seemed only dimly established spoke at length in a politician’s growl, Kangmei said suddenly:
“You are very handsome.
“Did he say that?”
“He says all the usual things, I say that.”
“Come with me, please, to America.”
“I cannot.”
“I love you.”
“This man is the best friend of the boy’s mother’s second sister and he wishes to convey to you …”
Stratton noticed a commotion at the door. Three men came in. Peasants made way for them.
“The leaders of the commune,” Kangmei whispered.
Stratton nodded. Their bearing alone made that clear.
The commune president wore an impeccable white shirt outside his belt. His were the first clean fingernails Stratton had seen all day. The vice president was a me-tooer, handsome and suave. They were both Han Chinese, their lighter skin and sharper features distinguishing them immediately in the room of Thai-like Zhuang. They came forward smiling, hands outstretched.
“Comrade president explains that he was at a regional meeting and has only just returned. He has heard of your bravery and would like …”
The third man in the delegation was old and fat. He had a cruel saucer face that made smiling a parody. He walked with a cane. The sleeve of his jacket was pinned neatly to his right shoulder. The absence of the arm, and the