The Book of Lost Fragrances

Thirty

LONDON, ENGLAND

THURSDAY, MAY 26, 6:30 P.M.

Xie sat on the edge of his bed in his hotel room in Kensington and stared at the telephone. It seemed such a simple act. All he had to do was pick up the receiver and make the call. But he remained immobile, his hands useless by his sides.

Was this an emergency?

The thin bedspread wicked up the sweat on his palms. Ten more seconds passed. Twenty. Soon he’d run out of time. All the students were going to a reception at the Victoria and Albert Museum. He needed to be downstairs in ten minutes. If he wasn’t, someone would come looking for him. He couldn’t let them find him like this, nervous and bathed in perspiration.

Xie crossed the room in six steps, threw the lock, and opened the window. Noise from the busy street below wafted in with a warm breeze. The traffic sounds were less ominous than the silence. When it was too quiet, he could hear his own heart.

Since he’d left China, meditating had failed him. Anxiety was his constant companion. He’d waited so many years to take this trip. Made so many preparations. Took so many chances hiding messages in his calligraphy. Put Cali’s and his teacher’s lives in jeopardy.

Now he was behaving like a frightened child. He’d been told not to make contact unless it was an emergency. Was it?

An hour ago, he’d caught his roommate looking through his drawers. Ru Shan had claimed he’d gotten mixed up.

Xie looked down at the phone as if it were a sleeping dragon he was afraid to wake. What if the call was traced? What if his government was monitoring all calls the students made? Could they do that here in London? What if Xie’s roommate came in while he was talking?

Ru could be waiting outside the room now, ready to follow if Xie went anywhere not on the itinerary. It wasn’t allowed, of course. The students were forbidden to leave the hotel except as a chaperoned group. But most of them had been sneaking out late at night. So far no one had gotten into trouble.

Xie hadn’t wanted to go with them. Despite his curiosity about being in a foreign city and tasting some of its forbidden fruits, he didn’t want to take any risks. Wanted to save his escapes for the grand one. Except he’d been concerned that if he stayed in when everyone else snuck out, that alone would appear suspicious. So he’d gone to the bars with his fellow students. Despite his anxiety, he’d been fascinated by Western culture.

How Cali would have enjoyed the scene. The lively students, the freedom, the lack of surveillance. The absence of military police.

But he and his fellow artists could only observe such liberty. It wasn’t theirs to share. Their government couldn’t even send a group of artists to Europe without moles. Was Ru spying? Beijing offered students special treatment for turning in their classmates. What had they tempted him with?

Without Cali and her wizardry with a laptop, Xie was incapable of checking out the Tsinghua University student’s background. He missed Cali in other ways too. Missed her bravado and passion.

There was a knock on the door.

Xie had missed his opportunity. He cursed his hesitation. Cali would have laughed at him and called him a coward. And she would have been right.

“Yes?”

“Xie, it’s Lan. I was just heading downstairs. Are you ready?”

He shouldn’t have answered. He wasn’t being clever or smart about any of this. His nerves were interfering with his thinking.

He opened the door. “Come in. I’m almost ready-I’ll just be a moment.”

The young woman from Peking University was not only the finest calligrapher of them all but also the shyest. Lan gave Xie a half smile as she walked in, her eyes cast down.

They’d sat next to each other on the plane. When he’d realized how quiet she was, he’d gone out of his way to respect Lan’s timidity and also put her at ease. Since then, she’d made an effort to pair up with him at every opportunity: on the ride from the airport to the hotel, during meals and on group walks.

In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, then lingered a few seconds to stare in the mirror. He could see the fear in his eyes.

Om mani padme hum.

Four times, he intoned his mantra and then brushed his hair, tugged his shirt cuffs, grabbed his jacket off the hook on the back of the door and shrugged it on.

Downstairs they joined the group of a dozen students already boarding the waiting bus.

The entrance to the Victoria and Albert Museum’s nineteenth-century marble splendor also incorporated contemporary design. Beside him, Lan stepped into the high-ceilinged lobby and looked around at the orange, yellow, and red flags emblazoned with the names of current exhibitions.

“I never dreamed my work would ever be seen anywhere like this. Did you?”

It hit Xie then. The fact of this trip. Not the covert reason but the obvious one: his artwork had been chosen. He was capable of creating paintings that were worthy of an honor like this. There was no telling what the rest of the trip would bring, but he knew that he owed it to his teachers and himself to at least stop and be aware of this moment. The swirls of ink on paper, the concentration it took to make the brush dance, not stumble, the years of study and sacrifice. It wasn’t only about reclaiming his individuality and helping His Holiness-it had its own value. The message on the paper. The peaceful poetry of the art form.

No matter what else happened, that was important, too.

Swept up with the other students, he followed the guides into the Chinese sculpture galleries. Here tall windows faced a garden with an oval pool. Buttery gold light reflected off the water and back into the hall.

Their calligraphy hung on fine fabric partitions that had been positioned around the room. With Lan by his side, Xie walked in and out of the pathways created by the dividers-their very placement artistry in itself. It was a village of Chinese art-on the walls and on the panels-created centuries apart but all sharing the same spare, simple power.

Yes, there would be hours ahead to worry and plan. Days ahead to try quelling his apprehension and accomplish his goal. Tonight was for the work. It spoke to him. His job-to listen. To honor in the way he knew best. The way the Tibetan monks who’d been burned to death in the monastery had taught him when he was just a child.

With mindfulness.

Professor Wu corralled Xie and Lan and ushered them toward the rear of the galleries. “There will be time to look at the work. You need to thank our hosts first.”

The bar was set up with bowls of nuts, little sandwiches, wine, and soft drinks. To its right was the receiving line where the Chinese ambassador to Britain and other officials from the embassy stood with museum officials, greeting the students and guests.

When it was his turn to shake the hands of his countrymen, Xie bowed deeply and spoke in the soft, monosyllabic style he’d assumed since childhood. None of the dignitaries seemed any more interested in him than in any of the other students. That was a relief. Interest suggested attention. And drawing attention was to be avoided.

So it pained him when Ru approached him and in a belligerent tone that was clearly the result of drinking too much wine in too short a period, verbally attacked him.

“You think you are superior to all of us,” Ru intoned, pointing at Xie with his glass. “You think your work is better.” Wine sloshed over the rim, and red droplets fell on the white marble floor. “You are no better than anyone else. Your strokes are no finer. Your lines are no clearer.” Emphasizing his point, Ru drew an imaginary line in the air with his glass. The wine splashed onto Xie’s face and into his eyes.

Tears of red burgundy stained his cheeks and his shirt.

Ru stared, pleased with himself for a moment-and then terrified as he realized he’d created a scene on this very important night.

Before either of them could speak, a tiny, elderly woman approached Xie and thrust a paper cocktail napkin at him. “Oh, this won’t do,” she murmured. While he dabbed at his face, she took him by the arm and steered him away.

Although Asian, she spoke with a perfect British accent. “Let me show you to the lavatory, where you can clean up as best you can.”

They were headed for the main doors. “I’m so sorry this happened.” She wore a bright red suit with lipstick to match. Her grip on his arm was surprisingly tight. “What a shame. On this night of all nights.” If he’d wanted to escape, he would have had to pry her hand loose.

As they exited the room, the noise level dropped. “You know your paintings are indeed better than the other students’.”

“I’m humbled.”

“I’ve been studying them for the last two days.”

“I’m glad they please you.”

“You have a subtle style.”

“Are you a curator at the museum?” Xie asked.

“Yes. Calligraphy is my specialty.”

“Are you from China?”

“I was from Tibet.”

Xie felt a shiver start at the base of his neck and travel down his spine.

“And I have studied your work very carefully,” she continued as she led him down a quiet hallway devoid of any museumgoers. “I saw many things.”

“I hope you liked what you saw.”

“You have imbued your work with very understated themes. Easy to miss. Important to find.”

Xie hadn’t expected actual contact before Paris. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope he’d get help.

“Here we are,” she said, stopping in front of a door. “You can make your way back to the gallery after you are done here?”

“Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“All right, then. Now be careful, Xie Ping.”

He nodded.

“There are many people who want your work to succeed,” she whispered. “They will be watching out for you on your journey. Don’t look for them. They’ll find you. You’re very brave.”

“Thank you,” he repeated and bowed.

When he looked up, she’d already turned away.

Opening the bathroom door, Xie stepped inside and walked toward the sink. He didn’t see the man come up behind him until he was right on top of him. A flash in the mirror. A large hand covered his mouth. Xie tried to shout, but the stranger’s flesh absorbed the sound.