Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [33]
When he had wrapped my purchase and given me my change, I pulled my mother's small framed photograph out of my coat pocket and laid it where the book had been.
“I wonder if you know these people? They may also be interested in feng shui.”
Again, I could read no reaction on the man's face. But I felt a brief beat of stillness before he leant forward, adjusting his spectacles to look at the photograph obediently. After a few seconds, he raised his eyes to mine. “You think I should know these people?”
“They lived in San Francisco, at least they did ten years ago. I knew them as Mah and Micah, although I don't suppose those were their names. They used to work for my parents. I'm trying to locate them.”
He did not ask why, although I expected him to. I even had a story prepared, about a bequest in the will. Instead, he reached out and ran a curious finger down the frame.
“I found the picture on my mother's dressing-table,” I said without thinking.
That time, he reacted. Only a quick glance at my face, and completely understandable—what kind of white woman would have a framed photograph of two Orientals on her dressing-table? But what could I say to that? I didn't even know myself, although I did know that it was very like my mother to look past society's restrictions.
When he sat upright, his face was once again polite and closed. “I am sorry, I do not think they live around here. But I will ask. How do I get in touch with you, should I find anything about them?”
I took out a visiting card and wrote on the back of it the address of the lawyer and, at a whim, the house itself. “I will only be in San Francisco a few days, but anything to the first address will be sent on to me, at any time.”
He accepted the card, and inclined his head slightly. “I wish you luck, miss.”
As I went out of the shop, I noticed a small mirror, located so low on a wall that only the proprietor would see it. And I wondered if, somewhere in the back of the store, lay a bowl of water and a small pot-plant.
Another waiter scurried past on his delivery, and as his heavy-laden tray trailed across before me, it emitted odours that tugged at me in a way I had all but forgotten. The hot breath of chilli pepper, the comforting aroma of fresh rice—for the first time in weeks, food had appeal. As I lingered on the pavement, waiting for the waiter to return, my mouth actually watered.
I had to wait for some time, jostled by black-clad women smelling of incense and spices, blue-clad men bearing the odours of laundry and labour, and bright, bobbed young things graced with the perfumes of the downtown shops, all of them intent on the greengrocer's peculiarly shaped wares, the impossibly long green beans and aubergines the size of eggs. Eventually, however, the young man reappeared, the tray tucked easily under one arm, a cigarette dangling from his lip, exchanging greetings with the people near the stall. I fell into step behind him; when he turned down a narrow alleyway and stepped down into a door-way, I did not hesitate to follow.
Once inside, however, I was not so sure of myself, for this was clearly not a restaurant that catered to outsider trade. A dozen Chinese people holding chop-sticks in their hands turned to see this exotic invader, and I offered them an uncomfortable smile, looking around for my unwitting guide. One of the customers called something in a loud voice, and the man popped out from a door-way, his eyebrows going up when he saw me.
“You like something?” he asked.
“Luncheon, if you're serving,” I said.
“Sure, sure,” he said, to my relief. “No problem, here, sit here.”
He dashed a clean white cloth over the surface of a corner table, and pulled out the chair. “You need menu?”
Even if it was in English, I probably would not have