The Chinese Alchemist

Six

In addition to serving Lingfei, I was going about acquiring considerable wealth. So disturbed had I been by Wu Peng’s revelation of what I saw to be my father’s perfidy in selling me to pay his gambling debts, I had overlooked for a time the other piece of information the man had offered me. He told me that his position in the royal household, which I might well take over on his death if I showed true merit, presented many opportunities for profit, that the access eunuchs had to the emperor was a highly valued commodity that I might exploit with care. I decided that I would not wait until Wu Peng died to take advantage.

There was a very good reason why eunuchs inclined to do so could enrich themselves, and that was that all was not well in the Imperial Palace. The Son of Heaven was revered as a wise and just ruler. Early in his reign, he stabilized the food supply throughout the Empire, thus bringing terrible famines under control. A benevolent leader of his people, he distributed government lands to the common people, and ended taxation for the poorest amongst us. He was strict in his insistence upon law and order, making the Empire safe hr his subjects, yet merciful in the administration of justice, approving executions only for the most heinous of crimes, and finally abolishing the death penalty. He was a patron of the arts, but also a man of enormous personal accomplishment, a gifted musician, an artful poet and calligrapher, an outstanding sportsman. He was a ruler of cosmopolitan tastes, having introduced the music, the costumes, and some of the customs of the peoples of the Silk Route to Chang’an.

But the Son of Heaven was spending very little time on the business of his empire. He was, you see, enamored of his Number One Consort, a young woman of the Yang family, one Yang Yuhuan, now known as Yang Guifei. Number One Consort brought her family to the palace, most notably her sister and her cousin Yang Guozhong, who rose through the ranks of power with incredible speed. More and more, affairs of state were left to people like Yang Guozhong, and First Minister Li Lin-Fu, a most unpleasant man according to my confreres, as the Son of Heaven spent most of his time with Yang Guifei, indulging her every whim and his. While the Son of Heaven and his Yang Guifei wiled away the hours at the imperial hot springs outside the city, other men were quietly flexing power. And it was into this void that those of us within the palace who wished to do so moved.

There was another man of much interest to Chang’an. That was the Sogdian, an accomplished soldier from the north, one An Lushan. Despite his bravery and tactical prowess in dealing with troublesome incursions on the northern boundaries, he was out of his element in Chang’an. He was uncouth, enormous in size, voracious of appetites of all sorts, and yet he was a favorite of the Son 0f Heaven. Perhaps the emperor enjoyed teasing this barbarian; I cannot tell. But the barbarian was named prince, was given a huge estate in Chang’an, and generally enjoyed access to the emperor that was the envy of many a minister and senior mandarin. An Lushan also seemed to enjoy the favor of the Yang family, except perhaps Yang Guozhong. That might well be because both An Lushan and Yang Guozhong were ambitious to a fault. It was perhaps inevitable they would clash, but who would have guessed the outcome of that political battle? I most certainly did not. A storm was gathering, but most of us were unaware of it.

“Argyria, almost certainly,” Dr. Xie said the following morning after he’d managed to extricate us from the police in both Hua Shan and Xi’an. “Completely preventable.”

“What’s argyria?” I said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s a condition resulting from excessive intake of silver,” Dr. Xie replied.

“You mean Burton once worked in a silver mine or something?”

“Minute silver particles in suspension in distilled water,” Dr. Xie said.

“He drank it?” I said. “Are you kidding?”

“I regret to say I am not,” Dr. Xie replied. “He ingested it in some form.”

“You said preventable. He drank silver on purpose?” I said, aghast.

“There are those who believe it to be an extremely effective antibacterial, antibiotic agent,” Dr. Xie said. “Silver was used for centuries in the treatment of disease.”

“But an antibiotic that kills you, obviously,” I said.

“Not in my experience, no. Under certain circumstances, it does color the skin, as you now know, especially the nails and sometimes the eyes.”

“Is there a cure for this argyria?”

“The color of the skin, you mean? Again, not in my experience. I would have to consult the literature, and I believe there are those who claim it is reversible, but I have not seen any indication it can be done.”

“But it did kill Burton?” I insisted.

“We’ll have to wait for the autopsy,” Dr. Xie said. “It could have, but I repeat I do not know of any cases where ingesting it has killed someone.”

“Where do you get silver you drink?”

“You can buy it on the Internet, or you can make your own. All you need is distilled water, silver, and a battery, really.”

The things you learn! “Maybe it was a combination of things,” I said. “He was always dosing himself up with something or other: special teas, pills, tonics. Maybe they interacted in a fatal way. He was very big on traditional Chinese medicine, the Medical Classic of the Yellow Emperor, disharmonious or blocked qi, that kind of thing. He seemed to know a lot about it.”

“Burton talked a good line about traditional Chinese medicine, but clearly he did not understand it,” Dr. Xie said, with an impatient gesture. “It is possible that he took something in a lethal combination, or merely took a lethal dose. You recall I told you that poisons are used in treatment of illness all the time, but in minute and controlled quantities. Perhaps he just took too much of something. It is also possible that he had an underlying condition, and that condition got out of hand. You see the body would regard silver as an invasive agent.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“I’m simplifying here, you understand, but the body would attempt to rid itself of this foreign substance, and in doing so, neglect, as it were, the other condition, which might then run rampant, get the upper hand. That might kill someone.”

“An underlying condition like what?” I said.

“HIV/AIDS? I shouldn’t speculate, nor should you. We will wait for the autopsy results. There is no question in my mind, however, that the blue-gray color of his face and chest is argyria.”

“Potable silver,” I mused. “Do you remember that recipe for the elixir of immortality in the T’ang box? It had potable gold in it. I thought… I guess I don’t know what I thought. That it was just silly, maybe?”

“I believe it did mention potable gold,” he agreed. “That might have meant the mysterious yellow, though, the hsuan huang, which was the material from which the elixir was made, the starting point. Many alchemists tried to make potable gold from other substances. Some claimed to have been successful. Silver could also be used. You are not saying, are you, that our colleague Burton was trying to join the Immortals?”

“No, but he did want to stay young and healthy,” I said. “Maybe that’s the modern equivalent of wanting to become immortal.”

“Philosophically speaking, I suppose it is. At the heart of alchemy is the process of transmutation. In Europe, it was the transmutation of base metal into gold by means of the prima materia, the starting point for the process. Others saw it as a spiritual transmutation of some sort. The idea of an old body transmuting into a young body would not seem out of place in the study of Chinese alchemy. There are recipes for substances that if taken for a short period make you weigh less, look younger. Take enough of it and you float away, literally. You became an Immortal. Yes, in ancient times, there were people fixated on the idea of becoming immortal, of either preserving their existing body beyond death, or actually living forever in some state or another, but how different is that, I ask you, from botox injections and plastic surgery, liposuction, and everything else we do to try to hold back time?”

“Not very,” I said.

In truth, if Burton had to go, I was relieved it was something like this. I hoped he hadn’t suffered, but when I got his last phone message, I had feared something much more violent. Because the message from Burton, left, according to the time recorded by the voice-mail system, at 9 PM on the day I’d found him, and delivered in a panicky tone that I can attest was contagious, went as follows: “Lara! Get out of China right away! Please believe me, it is very dangerous for you here, for both of us. Do not look for the silver box. You must leave immediately. I’ll be back in Xi’an tomorrow. I can’t get a direct flight to Hong Kong, so I’m flying to Beijing, and transferring to the international terminal. I’ll sleep there if I have to. I’ll get on the first flight anywhere that I can. I’ll call from the airport in Beijing to explain if you’re there, but please don’t wait for me. Get out of the country as fast as you can. I’ll tell you everything when we get home.” There was a pause, during which I heard the sound of a door slamming nearby. Just before he hung up, he said in a shaky voice, “This is not a trick, Lara. Please do what I say.”

“Does this argyria make a person delusional or anything?” I asked.

“Not that I know of,” Dr. Xie replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Burton left a message for me in which he sounded frightened by something. I just wondered if he was out of it.”

“What did he say?”

“He just said it was dangerous here, that he was going to fly back to Beijing as soon as he could, and then proceed directly to the international terminal to wait for any flight out. He said I should do the same. He told me to stop looking for the silver box.”

“Who knows what was going on in his body and his head?”

“But didn’t you tell me that the desk clerk mentioned to the police that Burton had had an earlier visitor? Jackie said Burton was planning to meet someone. Could it have been someone who threatened him? Perhaps even killed him? Who could he possibly know in Hua Shan?”

“I wouldn’t believe a word that clerk said,” Dr. Xie replied. “Let’s wait for the results of the autopsy, all right? We shouldn’t leap to any conclusions.”

“Of course. You’re right. It was exceptionally good of you to come with me, Dr. Xie. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been with me. I shouldn’t have called you that late I know, but I didn’t know where else to turn. I have imposed on you. I’d still be in the police station if you hadn’t been there. You are obviously much admired and indeed revered here.”

“Nonsense,” he said, waving that off as if I’d said something preposterous, but it had seemed clear to me that everyone was practically bowing and scraping in his presence, even kowtowing, a form of obeisance that had been outlawed by the Communist Party and rightly so. “Why wouldn’t I help you? We’re both Canadian residents, after all, and you are a guest in the country of my birth. I gave you both my home and mobile numbers so that you could call me at any time. As you know perfectly well, I was here. It was no inconvenience whatsoever. As it turned out, regrettable though it might be, you were quite right to worry about Burton. I wish we had managed to get there in time to save him, but I suspect that perhaps at that stage, even if he were still alive, there would have been little that could have been done.

“I’m glad I could help,” he added. “Not just because you are a friend of Dory’s and George’s, but also because I have enjoyed your company here. I should tell you that I have given the authorities my word that you will not leave China. You will have your passport shortly and can travel in the country, but should not attempt to leave just yet. We will work on that part of it, Mira and I.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t make a run for it. I wouldn’t dream of it, given that you have been so kind.”

“That is why I have no hesitation speaking on your behalf. Now I think you should get some rest, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid to go to sleep. I know I’ll dream about Burton. He looked terrible, Dr. Xie.”

“Yes, he did. It was an unpleasant sight even for someone trained to deal with it. I think that if we find that Burton died trying to stay young and healthy, that will be a very tragic end, indeed.”

“Oh, it’s worse than tragic. It’s criminal. I laughed at him, at the way he carried his air purifier every place he went, at how he wiped down the chopsticks even though the restaurants had perfectly clean ones, at the way he disinfected every hotel room, his desk at the office. His staff made fun of the way he wouldn’t use the facilities at work, and went home for lunch every day. But he must have had a compulsive or obsessive disorder of some kind, a pathological fear of germs. He needed help, and I laughed.”

“It would be difficult for most of us not to laugh. We would see Burton as eccentric, not ill.”

“It wasn’t just his health he was obsessed with. He was obsessed with the Tang box. He came to Xi’an to try to find the box, you know. I’m certain he also went to Hua Shan for the same reason.”

“Did he?”

“I’m sure he did, even though I thought it was a ridiculous idea. He was looking for the box all over Beijing. He had this idea that if he showed antique dealers the photograph and then left his business card everywhere, someone would contact him, and he’d be able to purchase it. He was convinced he could get it out of the country, stolen or not. He hinted that he knew how to do that.”

“It can be done, I regret to say,” Dr. Xie said. “And why did you come to Xi’an, if this idea of Burton’s was so ridiculous?”

“The short answer would be that I lost my temper. I don’t mean that I was yelling at him or anything, but he kept lying to me, over and over, and it got to me. I thought we’d established some sort of rapport over dinner one evening. He told me he’d booked a flight home the morning after we went to Cherished Treasures House to watch the videotape. But he hadn’t.”

“You know, I believe he had,” Dr. Xie said. “I could not help but overhear him speaking on his mobile phone. His Mandarin was execrable, but he did ask for a reservation the next day, and certainly sounded as if he had one.”

“You’re saying he didn’t so much lie as change his mind?”

“Quite possibly. That is certainly the way it sounded to me.”

“I guess I was wrong. I wonder what made him do that? That wasn’t the only time, though. He told me he was just going to rest, visit the fitness room in the hotel before going to the auction, and instead he went to a hutong neighborhood and paid a visit to the man in black, the fellow in the army who didn’t feel the need to help the police with their enquiries. That still bugs me, by the way. If anyone could pull rank and get out of it, that would be you, Dr. Xie. You didn’t choose to do so.”

Dr. Xie ignored that last remark of mine. Suddenly he leaned forward and clasped both of my hands in his, a surprising gesture for a distinguished Chinese gentleman who would not tend to use physical contact to make a point. “Do not go there, Lara,” he said. “Please!”

“Burton did.”

“Burton is dead. Believe me, there is army and there is army. There is the real Chinese army, well-trained professionals, and there are those who set themselves up as rulers of their little fiefdoms, a town, for example, or a sector of Beijing. They are not real army, you understand. They may well be in the army, but that is not what gives them their power. What gives them their power is fear. They brook no opposition. Those who do oppose them often come to a bad end. I regret to say that the system here almost encourages such behavior on the part of those they abuse. It is drilled into us from a very early age. A man respects his father. The father respects the mayor. The mayor respects the governor, and so on, all the way up to the emperor, or for that matter, Mao Zedong, or whoever else is in charge at any given point in time. That is why things like the Cultural Revolution happen. This is a system where obedience to those in charge, whether they are there legitimately or not, is so deeply ingrained as to be almost impossible to change. It is for this reason I do not believe democracy can be achieved here, at least not in my lifetime.”

“I suppose a woman just respects everybody, is that right? What do you mean people come to a bad end? You make these people sound like the Mafia, or something.”

“Not a bad analogy, Lara. I do not know this man. I do not wish to do so. At my age I am just happy that, with the economic changes in the country, I have been able to benefit rather considerably. I can afford to live the good life. I don’t look for more than that. I hope that the system will change, but I am not optimistic. I live my life and that’s it.”

“Somebody knows who that man is. I’m sure Burton didn’t know him at first. There wasn’t the slightest hint of recognition when the man first came into the auction house, for either Burton or that man. So somebody told Burton who he is, and maybe he’s the one who gave Burton the idea of coming to Xi’an.”

“Lara! You are not listening to me. Leave this alone. The T’ang box is but one historical treasure in a country that has several millennia’s worth of treasures. Either the police will recover it, or they will not. If they recover it and it goes back on the market, then you get another chance. If it doesn’t, you don’t. I agree with you that it was a particularly beautiful object, but only one of many beautiful objects to be found here.”

I sighed. “You’re right, Dr. Xie. I am a foreigner, someone who does not understand what is happening around me. I got into a competitive situation with regard to the T’ang box, and neither Burton nor I looked good competing for it. It’s just that I had a client who wanted it, and I guess I wanted to prove something. I will drop this. I’d really like to go to Taiwan to see my stepdaughter and my partner. May I impose on you once again to continue to urge them to let me leave soon?”

“Of course,” he said. We sat quietly for a minute or two, and then he said, “Is it possible your client was Dory Matthews?”

“I’m not supposed to say,” I replied.

“I will take that as a yes. That is indeed very interesting. She is dead, remember that. I realize that a request from the deceased is a difficult one to give up, but there is no reason to pursue this. Dory would have no way of knowing the box would be stolen. Surely that absolves you of further responsibility. It does explain something, though.”

“Which is?”

“George Matthews called me in Beijing and asked me to keep an eye on you. That posed no difficulty, you understand. I was going to the auction anyway.”

“That’s nice of him, I suppose, but why would he do that?”

“I think that is a very good question. I thought at first you must be someone very young and perhaps a very inexperienced traveler, or had never visited China, but you are none of these things. Forgive me! You are young, of course, but hardly inexperienced. You seem to be able to manage all by yourself quite well.”

“You were right the first time, Dr. Xie. I am not that young anymore, but yes, I travel all over the world, usually by myself. I did express some reservations when I met with him in Eva Reti’s office about not speaking any Chinese, and not being entirely sure how the auction system worked here, but arrangements had already been made for Mira to help me with that.”

“Perhaps he was just being neighborly.”

“I’m sure that’s right, and I am grateful to him, because as it turns out, I rather desperately needed your help. It’s funny you should mention this, though. I was dreading phoning George to tell him that Dory’s silver box had been stolen. I felt I should be the one to do that, and not leave it to Mira and her partner in Toronto. The call went much better than I thought it would. If anything he sounded a bit relieved.”

“I got the distinct impression that he thought this was— how to put this politely?—that it was not the best idea she ever had,” Dr. Xie said. “But he felt he had to respect her wishes under these sad circumstances.”

“That’s exactly what my partner Rob says.”

“Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter now,” Dr. Xie said. “You need to go back to the hotel and get some rest. Doctor’s orders! Promise me you will forget all about this wretched silver box, that you will no longer pursue it.”

“I am no longer pursuing this,” I said. “I have had enough.”

But life is rarely that simple. I did stop pursuing the T’ang silver box, for a while anyway, but though I did not yet know this, by now the evil presence that swirled around the silver box was in fact pursuing me.

I tried to sleep. I really did. My legs just ached from tension, though, and when I drifted off for a moment, they twitched. More serious, I also saw Burton’s blue-gray face hovering in the corners of the room as I sank into sleep. After an hour or so of this, I decided the only thing I could do was try to walk the tension off.

As always seemed to happen whenever I left the hotel, a man rushed up to ask me if I needed a taxi. As usual, I told him no. He was a good-natured fellow who always seemed to be there. I suppose business wasn’t that good. He told me his name was Peter. I told him mine was Lara. I took his card and promised if I ever needed a cab, to the airport or anywhere else, he’d be the first person I’d call. He beamed. That hurdle overcome, I then had to bypass the woman who swept the street in front of the hotel. The streets of Xi’an were very clean, actually, surprisingly so, perhaps because of this small army of women who sweep away all day and into the evening.

I rambled for awhile, looking into the shops, and just watching the people. I climbed the stairs to the balcony of the Bell Tower, which afforded me a view of the traffic and not much else. I tried to imagine what Xi’an would have looked like in the days of Illustrious August. The current city walls are Ming dynasty, not T’ang, although the Ming walls follow some of the ramparts of the older city, and the Bell Tower is not in quite the same spot. In T’ang times, the city would have been larger, hugely populous, and it would have been a city of walled neighborhoods or wards. To the north would be the Imperial Palace and just south of it the Imperial City where the mandarins and others worked. The wealthy by and large lived in palatial estates on the east side of the city. There would have been markets, east and west, pubs, temples, shops of all kinds, just like now, except there’d be no neon. At the moment I was standing there, the sun was low in the sky. Soon the city would be awash in neon. At sunset in T’ang times, the palace drums would have sounded to announce the palace was closing. Then the drums of the Drum Tower would beat, and when they had finished, it was required that the gates of the wards be locked.

It was a beautiful sight, but I was very much laboring under the weight of Burton’s death, and felt that it required some kind of appropriate recognition. I could not think what that might be, but I knew I wasn’t going to rest until I’d done it. It was then I had the idea that I should go to the Baxian Gong, the Taoist temple, to light some incense for him in the hall of Sun Simiao, the physician and alchemist. If ever there was someone who would look after Burton in the afterlife, it was Sun Simiao. He might even have understood, as I could not, why Burton drank silver.

I took the same route I’d taken the previous time I’d gone there, through the eastern gate at the end of Dong Dajie, and thence along the narrow park that ran along the city walls. It was dusk now with the remains of one of those brilliant orange skies that seem to exist only in winter. The tai chi practitioners, the practicing musicians, the men with their birds were all gone. There were only a few young couples wandering along in a languid way, holding hands.

Waiting to cross at the light where a smaller road led into the area around the Baxian Gong, I caught sight of a familiar form, at least I thought I did. I decided it was Mr. Knockoff, this time with a bicycle with a wicker carrier basket that contained something wrapped in brown paper. To my mind that package was exactly the right size. I tried edging my way through the throng of cyclists and pedestrians, but he saw me before I could get to him. In what looked to be a suicidal gesture, he’d pedaled straight into traffic, jumping the median in the busy street running parallel to the eastern city wall, and heading into the old area behind the apartment towers.

I hailed a pedicab at the corner, and tried to tell him to follow the man on the bicycle. He had no clue what I was say-mg. Consequently I told him I wanted to go to the Baxian Gong, which he did understand, given that was roughly in the direction that Mr. Knockoff was going. I hoped I would see him on the way.

I didn’t, but when I got to the temple, there was a bicycle that I was almost certain was his parked in the entrance courtyard. The wicker basket was now empty. Either the package was deemed sufficiently valuable that it couldn’t be left at the entrance to a temple, which seemed to say a lot about its contents, or the man was doing something with it in the temple. I paid the driver and followed, but by the time I’d purchased my ticket, there was no sign of the young man.

I was reasonably sure there was only one way in and out, but then when I thought about it, I remembered—at least I thought I did—a back gate. The question was, would he leave his bicycle? When there was no sign of him for several minutes, I entered, crossing a lovely arched stone bridge in the first courtyard, before systematically checking every hall that was open and crossing the next courtyard to another hall. The place was absolutely silent. I seemed to be the only person who did not belong there. There were the faithful few lighting incense sticks and kneeling in prayer, and from time to time a priest in black hat and tunic, short black pants, and white socks hove into view before disappearing again. There was no sign of my prey.

It was in the hall devoted to Sun Simiao, the physician and alchemist, that I found him. He was kneeling, hands clasped around burning incense sticks, bowing and murmuring as he rocked back and forth, and I still couldn’t see his face well enough to positively identify him. The package was at his side. On the inside of the wooden railing that separated the worshippers from the worshipped, a priest was sitting on a low chair, chopsticks in hand, slurping a bowl of noodles. I suppose that, given we were in a Taoist temple in Xi’an, it was all perfectly normal, but I found it disconcerting, the idea of interrupting a man at prayer. I hung back, uncertain what to do, just long enough for him to see me. He leapt up, dropping his incense sticks as he picked up the package and, roughly pushing past me, made for the entrance and his bicycle. I followed as quickly as I could.

The bicycle wasn’t there. Before I could even begin to fathom what that meant, the young man gave a cry and bolted into the street. I went after him, just trying to keep him in sight as he moved deeper and deeper into the old neighborhood that I had thought appealing before, and now found menacing. It kept getting darker and darker, twilight coming upon us very quickly. I couldn’t both follow him and keep track of where I was, so the longer this went on, the more lost I became. I couldn’t read any signs, and everything was starting to look the same. I, however, was standing out in this crowd more and more. By this time, a lot of people were staring me. They would not forget me.

Just then the man turned into what looked to be an alley. Gasping for breath, I followed. At the entrance to the alley, I stopped, taking a second or two to get accustomed to the light, or rather the lack thereof, and to come to grips with what was playing out before me. I thought at first it was a dead end, that there was nowhere else for the pursued man to go, that perhaps I might somehow convince him to talk to me. At the far end of this laneway stood the man, whose face I still couldn’t see in the dim light, his back to the wall and package firmly held against his chest with both arms. He kept looking first in my direction and then at something else around the corner to his right, his head swiveling first one way, then the other. He looked as if he was trying to choose between the lesser of two evils and didn’t know which way to go. Suddenly, decision apparently made, he turned my way, and starting running straight for me.

It was all over in seconds. First I heard the roar of a motorcycle engine, and then saw two riders take the corner from what had been the man’s right. The first rider had his right arm straight out at shoulder height, and slowed slightly as he passed the young man with the package, now pressed against the wall to the right of the rider. There was a brief scream, a screeching of brakes, and the young man fell. The package flew out of his arms. The second rider came straight at me. Able to move at last, I ducked into the first doorway I came to, and the bike and rider swept by.

I heard the motorcycles turn for another run at me. This time they were going to stop, and I knew what they would do. The young man lay face down, almost certainly dead. Judging by the splash of blood against the wall and the widening pool under him, his throat had been slit. I staggered back from the sight, leaning hard against the door where I was standing. I almost fell through it into a little courtyard when it opened behind me. There were no lights in the buildings on the three sides of the courtyard, and no sign anyone was there. I pushed the door closed and locked it as the motorcycles swept by.

I was holding my breath when I heard the motorcycles stop, and then the crunch of footsteps coming right to the door behind which I stood. Someone tried the door. A few seconds later, something or someone slammed against the door with some force; the door bulged slightly but the lock held. I didn’t think it would hold for very long. As I looked about for somewhere else to hide, I heard a man shout, then many voices coming into the alley. Whoever was out there trying to break down the door stopped, as someone started to scream. In an instant I heard the motorcycles race off in the direction from which they had first come.

I waited for a few seconds, opened the door, and took a quick look outside, ready to hide again if need be. A crowd had gathered in the alley, all staring at a huge spray of blood splattered against one brick wall, a pool of blood on the ground, and the young man, facedown. There was no sign of the package he’d tried to protect.

I just stood there, tears burning my eyes, my legs absolutely leaden. I simply did not know what to do. Then someone with a very firm grip grasped my arm and started pulling me out of the alley. “Lookie, mother, lookie, mother,” a voice said. It was the woman from the Sunday antique market, the one with the scar on her face. She drew me rather forcefully out of the alley, and thence straight into a pedicab. She said something to the driver and he was off like a shot. I tried to get out, but he wouldn’t stop long enough to let me. A few minutes later, he dropped me at the door of my hotel, and pedaled away before I could pay him. The idea that he and the woman should know where my hotel was without my telling them absolutely terrified me.