The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [88]
Neal knew a hint when he saw one, and changed from his robe into some of the clothes made for the mysterious Mr. Frazier: tan slacks, a light blue sports shirt, and cordovans. He shaved carefully, his shaky hand nicking him only once, and brushed his hair. He had just finished when he heard a timid knock.
A young man stuck his head in the door.
“May I come in?” he asked. His English had only a slight accent.
“Yes. Please.”
He was in his early twenties, about five-seven, maybe 120 pounds if he had a lot of change in his pockets. He wore gray trousers that looked like polyester, a stiff white shirt, and a dark brown jacket. He had thick glasses with heavy brown frames. His black hair was thick, parted at the side, and just touched the tops of his ears. His smile looked nervous but warm, and he blushed with shyness.
“My name is Xiao Wu,” he said. He stuck his hand out, a gesture that looked as if it had been learned in a class.
Neal shook his hand. “Neal Carey.”
Wu’s blush turned to scarlet and he dropped his eyes to the floor.
“Frazier,” he mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“Your name is Frazier.”
“Okay.”
Wu brightened considerably when he saw the heavily laden tray on the table.
“We are having lunch!”
“Please sit down.”
“Thank you!” He bowed slightly and took a chair.
“May I examine the food?” he asked.
“Please.”
Wu lifted the covers off the four dishes and issued oohs and aahs and other sighs of satisfaction. Neal decided that this guy didn’t get too many business lunches, if indeed that was what this was.
Wu remembered the protocol.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Very comfortable.”
“Thank you!”
Oh, you’re very welcome, Xiao Wu.
“Would you like to eat lunch?”
I live for lunch these days, Xiao Wu.
“You bet.”
Wu looked puzzled. “Was that a colloquialism?”
Neal nodded.
“Slang?” Xiao smiled broadly.
“Slang.”
“I am very interested in American language … as distinct from English language,” Wu said quietly.
“You and me both.”
“Especially American abusive language.”
“You’ve come to the right place, Xiao Wu.”
“You will teach me some?”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu giggled with unabashed enthusiasm, and repeated “Fuck yes” several times as if to memorize it. Then he uncovered a platter of hot noodles and filled Neal’s plate before he filled his own. He didn’t wait for Neal to start, however, but started right in on the noodles with his chopsticks, shoveling them down in a few smooth motions.
“I am also very interested,” he said when he was done, “in Mark Twain. Do you know Mark Twain? Huckleberry Finn? It is no longer banned, we are allowed to read it in school now.”
Swell. We’re not.
“He’s a wonderful writer.”
“Aaah. Fish.”
“Xiao Wu, who are you and what are you doing here?”
Wu’s supply of blushes held up. Direct questions are considered quite rude in China.
“I am to be your translator.”
“What for?”
“Would you like some fish?”
Okay, I’ll play.
“Sure, why not?”
“No reasons.”
“That was slang.”
“‘Sure, why not’? That means you would like to eat fish?”
“Fuck yes.”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu used his chopsticks to place some bits of flesh on Neal’s plate, and then spooned bean sauce on top. He then helped himself and concentrated on eating. Then he asked, “You would be ready to accept an important guest this afternoon?”
“Fuck yes.”
Wu started to laugh and then stopped himself and frowned. “You must not say that, though, in front of important guest.”
“Say what?”
“Fuck.”
“Okay.”
“It is very funny, though.”
“Who’s the important guest?”
“Vegetables?”
“You bet your ass.”
Wu looked startled, looked at Neal sideways, and said, “More slang.”
Neal nodded and Wu dished out the steamed vegetables—broccoli, pea pods, bamboo shoots, and water chestnuts. He ate with the dedication of a true artist.
“Wu, where are we?”
“I am authorized to tell you that.”
“Shoot.”
Wu chuckled again. “You are in Chengdu,” Wu said proudly.
Chengdu … Chengdu … Chengdu …
“Not to offend you, but where is Chengdu?”
Wu’s face clouded slightly. “Chengdu is the capital city of Sichuan Province, which is in southwest