The Interior

1

THIS MORNING, AS EVERY MORNING THIS SUMMER IN Beijing, Liu Hulan woke before dawn to the deafening sounds of drums, cymbals, gongs, and, worst of all, the horrible squeals of a suo-na, a many-piped wind instrument that resounded for blocks, maybe even miles. Competing to be heard over the instruments were the exuberant voices, cheers, and yelps of the Shisha Hutong Yang Ge Folk Dance and Music Troupe. This was the beginning of what would be a three-hour session, and this morning it appeared to be taking place directly outside Hulan's family compound.

Hulan hurriedly wrapped her silk robe around her, slipped on a pair of tennis shoes, and stepped outside onto the covered veranda outside her bedroom. Though it was only four, the air was already thick as custard with heat, humidity, and smog. Once the summer solstice passed, Beijingers prepared for the arrival of Xiao Shu, or Slight Heat Days. But this year Da Shu, Great Heat, had come early. This past week had seen five straight days with temperatures over forty-two degrees centigrade and humidity hovering at about ninety-eight percent.

Hulan quickly crossed the innermost courtyard, passing the other pavilions where in the old days the different branches of her extended family had lived. On the steps of one of these, her mother's nurse- already dressed in simple cotton trousers and a short-sleeve white blouse-waited for her. "Hurry, Hulan. Make them stop. Your mother is bad this morning." Hulan didn't respond, she didn't need to. She and the nurse had followed this routine now for the past three weeks.

Hulan reached the first courtyard, pushed open the gate, and stepped into the alleyway that ran before her family compound. There were perhaps seventy people here, all of them senior citizens. Most were dressed in pink silk tunics, while a few wore electric green. The latter, Hulan had learned a week ago, had come from the Heavenly Gate Dance Brigade after an argument about who would lead the dancing in their own neighborhood. The people looked colorful and-Hulan had to admit it- rather sweet in their costumes: Sequins decorated their fans, while glittering tinsel and tufts of white fluff fluttered in time to the music. The bodies of the old people happily gyrated to the drums and cymbals in a dance that was a cross between the bunny hop and the stroll.

"Friends, neighbors," Hulan called out, trying to be heard, "please, I must ask you to move." Of course no one paid her any attention. Hulan stepped into the dancers just as they began marching out of their circle and into rows.

"Oh, Inspector! Beautiful morning!" This greeting came from Ri Lihan, a woman in her eighties who lived five compounds away. Before Hulan could respond, Madame Ri twirled away.

Hulan tried to stop first one, then another dancer, but always they slipped past, laughing, their wrinkled faces flushed and sweaty. Hulan made her way through the dancers to the musicians. The cheeks of the man blowing on the suo-na were puffed out and red. The sound emanating from that instrument was high, loud, and discordant. Speech was impossible, but when the musicians saw Hulan pat at the pockets of her robe, they exchanged knowing glances. They had seen their neighbor, Liu Hulan, do this before. She was looking for her Ministry of Public Security identification, but, as was so often the case on these early morning excursions, she had left it behind. The musicians beamed and nodded agreeably to the inspector.

Still clanking, drumming, and blowing, the musicians slowly set off down the alley. Following this cue, the old folks-continuing their dancing rhythm-filed past Hulan. She waited for Madame Zhang to pirouette by, but when she didn't Hulan walked to the old woman's home, silently cursing this current wave of nostalgia to sweep through the city.

One month it was restaurants celebrating "the long-past good days" of the Cultural Revolution; the next month there was a run on collectible Mao buttons. One month there was a craze for Western-style white wine mixed with Coca-Cola and ice; the next month old people were bringing their rumpled yangge costumes and instruments out of trunks and closets and taking to the streets like a bunch of teenagers.

Yang ge music had originated among the peasants of China 's northeast and had been brought to Beijing by the People's Liberation Army in 1949. Now, after years of deprivations and political upheavals, the old people had resurrected twin passions-dancing and singing. The only problems-and they were big ones as far as Hulan was concerned-were the time of day and the noise. China, although a large country, operated on one time zone. While in the far west farmers might not go to their fields until the sun came up at nine, in Beijing the day started unconscionably early. Psychologically Hulan hated waking up before six, let alone four in the morning, to the ungodly racket of the yang ge troupe.

This constant clamoring had also been extremely upsetting to Hulan's mother. Rather than filling Liu Jinli with sentimental longings or carefree memories, these raucous sounds made the older woman quite querulous. Since the Cultural Revolution, Jinli had been confined to a wheelchair and still suffered from bouts of catatonia. During the first weeks that she'd come back to the quiet of the hutong, her health had improved considerably. But with the yang ge music stirring up the past, Jinli's condition had once again spiraled downward. Which was why Hulan had gone several times already this summer to Neighborhood Committee Director Zhang to register complaints. But the old woman, whose duty it was to keep tabs on the comings and goings of the residents of this Beijing neighborhood, had joined the troupe herself and for once seemed completely immune to Hulan's imprecations.

"Huanying, huanying," Madame Zhang Junying said automatically, opening the door to Hulan. Then, seeing how her neighbor was dressed, the older woman quickly pulled Hulan inside. "Where are your day clothes? You are trying to scare the neighbors?"

"There's nothing to see that they haven't seen before," Hulan said, pulling her robe more tightly around her.

Madame Zhang considered these words, then said, "For most people this is true. After all, what surprises can any of us have? But with you…" The Committee director shook her head in a maternal show of disapproval. "Come sit down. Will you drink tea?"

Hulan, as custom dictated, politely refused.

But Madame Zhang would have none of it. "Sit down here. You pour. I'll put these papers away." As Hulan did as she was told, the old woman continued, "Today no fun for me. I have to file my report. So much paperwork, right, Hulan?"

"I have something for you to add to your report."

"Don't worry," the Committee director chortled. "I have already put in your complaints. Formal, as you requested."

"Then why isn't anything done?"

"You think you are the only one to complain? Remember that hot line the government set up for people to call? They got almost two thousand calls the first day. Then they turned off the phone!" Madame Zhang clapped her hands on her knees.

"The musicians are not supposed to be near residences…"

"Or hospitals. I know. You don't have to tell me. But you must look on the positive side. We are together maybe sixty thousand old people in different dance troupes. We are going outside the house and giving young people time at home alone. Daughters-in-law are happy. Sons are happy. Maybe next year we get a grandchild or great-grandchild-"

"Auntie," Hulan cut in sternly.

At her tone Madame Zhang finally turned serious. "I remember when your mother returned to our neighborhood from the countryside all those years ago," she said. "She's the one who taught us these songs. She's the one who taught us these dances. Now you tell me she doesn't want us to make noise? Ha!"

"But do they have to do it so early in the morning?"

At this Madame Zhang put her head back and laughed and laughed. "This is summer, Hulan. We are in Beijing. What is the temperature at this hour? Thirty-eight degrees centigrade? The people want to practice early before it gets too hot."

The old woman watched Hulan's face as she struggled to come up with another argument. Finally Madame Zhang leaned over and put a hand on Hulan's knee. "I know this must be hard for your mother. But she is just one person, and the people want to have fun." Her voice changed, becoming gruffer, deeper. "We all went through so much. We just want to enjoy the rest of our lives."

Later, as Hulan walked back to her compound, she thought over Madame Zhang's words. It was true, they'd all been through so much, too much really. In China the past would always be a part of the present. But unlike her neighbors, Hulan had the money and connections to make sure her family could escape it on occasion. And so Hulan made a plan. When she reached the Liu compound she went directly to her mother's quarters. The nurse had dressed Jinli, who now sat in her wheelchair. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Hulan tried to speak to her, but Jinli had retreated into silence. Hulan sat on the bed, dialed the phone, and made arrangements to send her mother and her nurse to the seaside resort of Beidaihe. They would be cooler there and away from the disturbing sounds of the yang ge troupes.

When Hulan was done, she carefully explained everything to Jinli, knowing that she might not understand anything that was said. Then Hulan kissed her mother, gave a few last instructions to the nurse, and made her way back to her own quarters.

At seven, Liu Hulan, dressed in a cream-colored silk dress, once again stepped through the gate of her hutong home to a waiting black Mercedes. A young man leaned against the back passenger door. "Good morning, Inspector," he said as he opened the door and motioned for her to get in. "Step inside quickly. I have kept the car running. The air conditioning is good."

Hulan sank into the soft leather cushions. Her driver, Investigator Lo, stepped on the gas and began heading toward Tiananmen Square and the Ministry of Public Security compound. Lo was a compact man- short, muscular, and prudent with his thoughts and emotions. From reading his secret personal file, Hulan knew that he was from Fujian Province, single, and an expert at several martial arts disciplines.

Several times during the last two months since Investigator Lo had been assigned to her, Hulan had tried to include him in the analytical aspects of her investigations, but he'd seemed circumspect, preferring to concern himself only with his chauffeuring duties. She'd invited him out for drinks, hoping that over a beer they might begin a friendship, but Lo had politely refused these offers as well. All of this was odd. Who would turn down an offer to "climb the ladder" at the ministry? It was through the successful conclusion of cases, recommendations from superiors, or political activities that investigators usually earned promotions. Investigator Lo appeared to have either no inkling of these rules or no aptitude for accomplishing any of these things, but Hulan was not surprised.

Her old driver, Peter, had been assigned to spy on her. Despite his lack of personal loyalty, Hulan had learned to depend on his judgment and instincts. She had hoped to build a similar relationship with Lo, but he seemed focused solely on his instructions from Vice Minister Zai, which apparently were limited to keeping tabs on her and working as some sort of bodyguard-a moving block of muscle with her protection as his goal. More than once she had needed to restrain Investigator Lo, who took it upon himself to physically bully witnesses who did not respond quickly enough to Hulan's questions.

When she had gone to Vice Minister Zai to request that Lo be transferred, he had shaken his head and said, "This is how it will be, Inspector." His manner-the way he dismissed her complaints and concerns-was new to her. But he, like all of them, was still trying to adjust and adapt to the changes that the last few months had brought. As the saying went, the blade of grass points where the wind blows. The only problem was that the wind was blowing in so many directions these days no one could completely protect himself.

These past months had been especially strange for Hulan. Her family had literally been ripped apart. Her father had died under bad circumstances when Hulan exposed him as a smuggler, conspirator, and killer. The press-regulated as it was by the government-had made the story headline news. There had been features about Hulan's parents, her grandparents, even her great-grandparents-all of them shown in a bad light. But for a time the government had seen in Hulan's own story a politically advantageous message, so her life had also been examined. Photographs had been dredged out of newspaper files as well as government records showing Hulan at various crime scenes, at political rallies from her youth, even as the baby daughter of one of Beijing 's then-most promising couples. Hulan had been compared time and again to her namesake-Liu Hulan, martyr for the Revolution.

Hulan had thought that this interest would pass. But instead of dwindling, the coverage had swung in another direction thanks to Bi Peng, a reporter for the People's Daily. In a country that loved puns, Bi Peng was well known for his name. Bi was just a family name, but the tone sounded like bi, the word for pen. What he wrote about soon spread across the country. Now, to Hulan's growing embarrassment and anger, several newspapers and magazines had run photographs of her as one of Beijing's elite class-a Red Princess. Here was Hulan in a grainy photograph copied from a security tape dressed in a fuchsia silk cheongsam and dancing at the Rumours nightclub with an American. This showed her decadence as clearly as if she'd been caught buying silk lingerie at one of Beijing 's new department stores.

But all this was just propaganda. Hulan remembered that night at Rumours perfectly well. She had not been there for fun, but rather to investigate a crime. The American in the photo was David Stark, an assistant U.S. attorney, who had come to China to help solve that case. The two of them had been successful and had been hailed as heroes. But it wasn't safe for anyone in China to climb too high. Bi and other reporters had turned her relationship with David into a national scandal. Could the same Liu Hulan who had been treated as a brave woman now have succumbed to the depravity of the West in the form of this American man? Couldn't she say bai bai-a mutant Mandarin-English phrase meaning to say "bye-bye" to lovers-to this foreign attorney? Hadn't Inspector Liu read China Can Say No, the book that stressed the importance of just saying no to American imperialism, materialism, and sexism?

None of this should have surprised Hulan. All the world over, the press liked to build people up, then bring them down, then build them up again. The only difference between the rest of the world and China was that here the government helped to color what was said.

At the iron gates to the Ministry of Public Security compound, Investigator Lo flashed his identification and the car was waved through. Lo dropped Hulan as close to the entrance as possible, then drove away to find a parking spot in the shade. Hulan hurried inside, walked across the lobby, and climbed the back stairs to her office.

Like most public buildings in Beijing, this one had neither heat nor air conditioning to protect the inhabitants from the vicissitudes of the weather. In winter she worked with her coat on. In summer she wore simple silk dresses or linen shifts and used old-fashioned methods of conserving cool air. She kept her windows open at night so that the room would cool down, then closed them first thing in the morning to keep the hot air out for as long as possible. In the late afternoons, when she couldn't stand it anymore, she cracked the windows again. On the very hottest days she draped wet cloths on the window openings and hoped for a breeze.

Hulan settled in at her desk, opened a file, and tried to concentrate, but she found her mind wandering. Her caseload was, to her mind at least, uninteresting. During these last months she'd been assigned to several murder cases. They'd been easy to solve, with nothing for her to do but fill out the paperwork, deposit the prisoners at the jail, and turn up in court when the prosecutor called. That she knew all this was Vice Minister Zai's plan to keep her safe didn't make her feel any better about it.

A few hours later, the mailboy came by with a stack of envelopes. She went through them quickly. One held an inter-office report from Pathologist Fong. She didn't need to read it, as the entry wound on the body at the temple pretty much told the story on that case. There were a couple of forms to be signed and sent back to the prosecutor's office. Again, nothing interesting on cases she could barely remember. But when she saw the return address on the last envelope, her breath caught. She set it down on her desk and swung around to look out the window. Memories flooded back. A destitute village on a scorched plain. Pigs crying at slaughter. The smell of the red soil. The searing brightness of a brutal sun. And then other images- girls in pigtails berating a man until he broke down and confessed. People being beaten. Blood running as freely as sweat. Her heart pounding, Hulan picked up the envelope and tore it open.

"Inspector Liu Hulan," Hulan read, "I am Ling Suchee. I hope you remember me from your days at the Red Soil Farm." Hulan remembered. How could she not remember? In 1970, at age twelve, Hulan had been sent to the countryside to "learn from the peasants." Now, sitting in her stifling office, Hulan was transported back across the years to when she was that young girl. Suchee had been her best friend. In those days of severity they had built a teasing relationship. With great affection Hulan had called Suchee her maor ye, or country bumpkin. Suchee had called Hulan bei kuan, literally meaning "north-wealth"-or a person of wealth from the north. Suchee had been funny, strong, and honest, while Hulan had been somber, had covered her city ways with false courage, and had already learned the political advantages of not always telling the truth. But for all of Hulan's so-called sophistication, Suchee had gotten them out of trouble more than once.

Hulan looked back at the characters on the page. "Today, on June 29 of the Western calendar, my daughter Ling Miaoshan died." Reading the circumstances of the girl's death, Hulan's hand instinctively went down to the early swell of her own pregnancy. "My daughter worked for an American company. It is called"-and here the crude characters gave way to even cruder print letters-"Knight International. I see and know things, but no one will listen to me. My daughter is dead. My daughter is gone from me. You once said you would help me if I ever needed it. I need your help now. Please come quickly."

Hulan ran a finger over the characters of Ling Suchee's name. Then she checked the date and realized that Miaoshan had died only five days ago. Taking a deep breath, she put away the letter, left her office, and went up a flight of stairs to Vice Minister Zai's office. He smiled when she came in and motioned for her to sit.

"I have sent Mama to Beidaihe," she said. "This is good. I will go and see her on the weekend." "I will also be leaving the city." Vice Minister Zai cocked an eye. "I am going to Da Shui Village."

Hulan saw a flicker of worry cross her mentor's face as he realized this would be a personal conversation. It was said that there was no such thing as a wind-proof wall in China and that no one could ever be sure who was listening or not. People also said that things had relaxed, that there was too much going on-meaning that everyone, including the generals in the army, were trying to get rich-for so much time and effort to be given over to observation. But only a fool would take the risk that this was so. Even assuming the unlikely possibility that there was no electronic surveillance in the building, any of Vice Minister Zai's assistants or tea girls could be made to repeat conversations they'd heard if push came to shove. Knowing this and knowing that their private lives had long been a matter of government record, Hulan and Zai attempted to continue their conversation. There was no mistaking the concern in Zai's voice as he asked, "Do you think that is wise?"

"Do you think I have a choice?" Her tone was sharp.

"You of all people have choice," he reminded her.

She chose to ignore this, saying, "The daughter of Ling Suchee has died. She is skeptical of the local police bureau's official version of the case. Her suspicions are probably just her grief speaking, but I can go to her as a friend."

"Hulan, the past is behind you. Forget about it."

She sighed. "You have read my personal file. You know what happened out there. If Ling Suchee asks for my help, then I must go."

"And if I forbid you?" he asked gently.

"Then I will use my vacation time," she said.

"Hulan-"

She held up a hand to stop him from continuing. "I will come back as soon as I can." She stood, crossed the room, then hesitated at the door. "Don't worry, uncle," she said, ironing the tension out of her voice. "Everything will be fine. It may even do me good to get out of the city for a while." She paused, thinking he might add something, but they both knew her words had many meanings and some of them might even be right. "And please, do visit Mama. Your companionship helps her."

A few minutes later she stepped out into the ministry's courtyard. Heat radiated up from the asphalt. Investigator Lo started the car, and as he pulled out of the compound she felt sweat trickle between her breasts down to her stomach, where her and David's child grew. She brushed her palm across her brow and thought of what Uncle Zai had said. "The past is behind you." But he was so wrong. The past was never far from her. It was with her every day in the crippled form of her mother. It was in the joyous voices and rhythmic drums of the yang ge troupe. It was in the blurry photographs that she saw in the newspapers. It was in the scratchy writing on a cheap paper envelope. She carried within her the future, but what kind of a future would any of them have if she didn't drive the past away forever?

DAVID STARK'S HAND REACHED FOR THE RINGING PHONE. At five in the morning, the call could mean one of two things. Either a case had broken and an agent wanted David to come down and look at the scene, or Hulan was calling.

"Hello," he said, his eyes still closed.

"David." Hulan's voice coming to him at eight in the evening from thousands of miles away across the international dateline jolted him awake.

"Is everything all right? Are you okay?"

"Of course."

Her next words were lost in a wave of static. Hulan insisted on using a cell phone to call him, despite the poor sound quality. She said she didn't trust the phone in her office for their personal calls. More recently she'd begun to suspect the phone in her home. The cell phone was in no way perfect. Just about anyone could listen in if they wanted. Hulan took solace in this. There might even be an element of protection in more than one party-even an innocent person-listening in on their private calls.

The transmission cleared and David asked, "Where are you?" It eased his mind to visualize her. Usually she called from her garden and she might describe for him what was in bloom or the feel of the sun on her skin. He could almost see her there-the wisps of black hair that framed her face, her black eyes that often revealed the real meaning of her words, her delicate frame that belied profound inner strength.

"I'm on the train."

David sat up, squinting as he turned on the light. "Where are you going? Is it for a case?"

"Not exactly. An old friend has asked for my help. I'm going to see what I can do."

David thought this over. He had to be careful how he questioned her. "I thought you were trying to wrap things up. I thought your next trip would be here."

"I'll come…"

"One day? Eventually?"

She chose to ignore this. "You know I miss you. Can't you come to me?"

David was just barely awake. He couldn't face that conversation again right now.

"So, where are you?"

"I'm on my way to Shanxi Province in the interior." She paused, then said, "I'm going to a village near Taiyuan."

He could hear the hesitancy in her voice even over all these miles, even with the static. "What village exactly?" He tried to keep his tone light.

"Da Shui. It's where the Red Soil Farm was during the Cultural Revolution."

"Oh God, Hulan. Why?"

"It's okay. Don't worry. You don't know everything about that place." (That's probably the understatement of the year, David thought.) "I had a friend out there. She… Well, it doesn't matter right now. Her daughter died, an apparent suicide. Suchee thinks it's something else."

"Sounds like she should go to the local authorities."

"She went to the Public Security Bureau. That's the local level of the ministry. But you know how things are here."

Corrupt, sure he knew it.

"Look, it's probably nothing," Hulan continued, "but the least I can do is ask a couple of questions and put Suchee's mind at rest. She's a mother." That word came over the line with tremendous weight. It was another thing that Hulan didn't like to discuss. "She lost her only child."

"When will you be back?"

"I was lucky enough to get a seat on a semi-express train to Datong. That means we'll only be making about ten stops over the next six or so hours. Tomorrow I'll take another train to Taiyuan. Then a few days in Da Shui, then the trip back. I'll be back in Beijing next week." When David didn't respond, she added, "This is nothing to worry about."

"How will I reach you?"

"I don't know what our days are going to be like, so I'll call you."

He didn't like it, but he said, "Fine."

Across the line came the sound of a train whistle. Hulan said, "Listen, we're about to make a stop. With all the people getting on and off, we won't be able to hear each other. So let me ask you something. Knight International. Ever hear of it?"

"That came out of nowhere."

"It's where Miaoshan worked. It's an American company. Have you heard of it?"

"Who hasn't?" David replied. "It's huge. It's based back East somewhere, but the company has a lot of Hollywood connections."

"So what is Knight?"

"They-a father and son-make toys. Do you know Sam amp; His Friends? Do you have that over there? It's a TV show for kids. Sam amp; His Friends is a cartoon. I've never seen the actual show, of course, but the advertising! I think Knight makes dolls. No! What's the word? Action figures! They've got an action figure for every one of those damn 'friends' and ads to go with them. Knight makes those over there? Jesus!"

"It's that big?"

"Remember the rage over Cabbage Patch dolls? Did you have those in China?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Tickle Me Elmo?"

"No."

"Beanie Babies?"

"No. Barbie, I know Barbie."

"Sam isn't like Barbie. These Sam toys are a fad. Kids are crazy for them."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"That's what I'm trying to say. It's on the local news every time a new shipment hits the stores. Parents line up around the block to buy these things. The supply can't meet the demand. It's in the business pages practically every day. Knight stock has gone through the roof. Here's a company that was percolating along for about seventy years, then this show comes on and kids go nuts. It's a phenomenon."

"And Knight is manufacturing the toys in Shanxi," Hulan mused thoughtfully.

"I guess it shouldn't be that strange, Hulan. Half of everything is made in China."

"Sure, in the Special Economic Zone in Shenzhen," Hulan said as the train whistle blew again. "In Guangdong Province. Around Shanghai. But Shanxi? There's nothing out there, David."

These last words were almost lost in the noise behind Hulan. "We're at the station," she said. "I'll call you later. I love you." And then she was gone.

After putting the receiver back in the cradle, David couldn't go back to sleep. By the time he pulled on shoes and shorts, there was enough light for him to head out for a run around Lake Hollywood. Tall and lean, he had dark hair, graying a bit at the temples. His blue eyes tended to pick up the hues of whatever environment he was in. This morning, with the fog still hiding nature's sky and water tones, his eyes were flecked with highlights from the greenery around him.

His pace was fast today and he knew why. Certain words Hulan had used this morning-the Red Soil Farm, the Cultural Revolution, an apparent suicide-had sent tremors of anxiety into his bloodstream. Could Hulan have more secrets from him? Would she be placing herself in danger out in the countryside? Was it even healthy-physically or mentally-for her to go out there? With each stride he tried to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about. Hulan worked for the Ministry of Public Security. No one would mess with her, especially in the countryside. Besides, a girl had committed suicide. That was about as open and shut as you could get in law enforcement.

Maybe after Hulan settled this thing, she would go back to Beijing, pack up, and come to him. Who was he kidding? They had gone around this way for three months now, talking on the phone and communicating by e-mail. Back in March Hulan had promised she would come to Los Angeles. "We'll be together," she'd said, and he'd believed her. He'd begun talking to government officials and filling out forms for a permanent-residency card. But days had turned into weeks, weeks into months as Hulan's doubts kicked in. She had lost so much in her life that, as much as she loved him-and he had no reservations about the depth of her passion-she was still afraid to commit for fear of what she could lose. But she would never say this, and he could never push her into that conversation without her skittering away from the subject. Instead Hulan would say that she didn't want to uproot her mother. "You should have seen Mama today. We talked for half an hour." Or, "Mama had a bad time today. How can I ever repair the damage?"

"Bring her here," David might say. "Bring the nurse. I'll make the arrangements." But Hulan always seemed to have another excuse.

And so their conversations had changed. Instead of Hulan coming to California, she now wanted him to move to China. "You said that if I didn't come, you'd come back for me. Well?"

But how could he? He had his job at the U.S. Attorney's Office. His family was here in America. His friends were here. All of which was true for Hulan as well. She too had her job, her family. Which was why they were at an impasse. "We're both strong-willed people," David had said once. "I guess it's not in either of our natures to give in."

Hulan's laugh had come floating over the line. "It has nothing to do with that. Relationships are always like this in China." Then she'd babbled on about other people she knew. So-and-so got married, spent one day with his wife, then was transferred down to Shanghai. That was two years ago. Since then the couple had spent a total of three nights together. Another couple she knew had met at Beijing University and gotten married. Chai Hong and Mu Hua had struggled hard to get a wedding permit. The problem was that she was from Hebei Province and he was from Zhejiang Province. Officials might give them the marriage permit, but they couldn't guarantee that the next bureau would give them residency permits for the same city. But Hong and Hua, persistent and idealistic, finally received their marriage permit and got married. But after their education was completed, twenty years ago now, they had each returned to their home provinces. They hadn't lived together again except for a week or two here and there during annual vacations. For people from different countries the problems were even greater.

And here was where David would typically interrupt and remind Hulan that she had promised to come to him. She would again launch into the excuses about her mother. Around and around they went. Who was going to concede first? On what issue would he or she cave in? Career? Family? Friends?

David stopped in the middle of the path that led around the lake. He was on the far side now, just a little past the halfway mark. He looked out across the city: Hollywood below him, downtown to his left. To his right, way in the distance, he should have been able to see the ocean, but the morning fog still shrouded the western side of the city. But David wasn't thinking about weather conditions. He was thinking about friends. Hulan didn't have "friends." Vice Minister Zai was Hulan's superior and her mentor. She seemed to have an amicable relationship with a neighbor woman, but Madame Zhang was decades older than Hulan. She had her colleagues, whom she treated with a polite coolness. Friends. Hulan had called Suchee a friend. He felt another wave of worry ripple through him.

Even as he stood there looking out across the city in the early morning coolness, he saw clearly that his emotions and concerns were primitive, base, elemental. Hulan was pregnant with his child. He remembered with absolute clarity when she'd told him. For weeks their conversations had revolved around anecdotes about cases they were working on, how the harshness of the Beijing winter was fading, how much she loved him, how much he loved her. But when she'd spoken the words "I'm pregnant," his life changed and the tenor of their conversation shifted. David wanted his child to be born in the U.S., where he or she would automatically become a citizen. "This is a Chinese baby too," Hulan said. "Why can't it have Chinese citizenship?"

That had been their only real argument. David had reminded her of the Great Leap Forward, when Mao had attempted to revolutionize agriculture and industry, but instead had created the largest famine in history, resulting in the deaths of thirty million people. He'd reminded her of the One Hundred Flowers Campaign, when people were encouraged to criticize the new society, then those who had made those criticisms were thrown in jail or worse. He'd reminded her of the Cultural Revolution, which had been so devastating to Hulan's own family. And then he reminded her that she had been the one who told him all of these horror stories. "And you want our child to remain in China?" He had pushed her too far, argued her into a corner, and they hadn't spoken about the baby since.

Ridiculous Chinese laws might be acceptable to couples like Chai Hong and Mu Hua. In fact, they might even work. David knew of many couples even in the U.S. who kept bicoastal relationships romantic and alive. But ten thousand miles was too great a distance with a woman like Hulan. He needed to see her eyes when she told him she was pregnant. He needed to be face to face with her to ask why she'd waited so long to tell him. Today he'd needed to see her eyes when she said the word friend.

David arrived at the U.S. Attorney's Office at nine. He was dressed in corduroys and a Polo shirt instead of his usual suit and tie. He grabbed a cup of coffee and headed down the hall to his office. Today he had no appointments or court appearances. In fact, for the first time in years he had nothing on his calendar. No cases on the docket. No depositions to set up. No special assignments. All he planned to do today was clean up his office after months of trial work. Later, workmen would come by with dollies to take away all the boxes and put them in the file room for temporary residence before moving them to a big government warehouse.

David sat for a few moments behind his desk, where files and correspondence were piled together haphazardly. Along the walls were stacked dozens of boxes already filled with trial transcripts, interviews with witnesses, and photocopies of evidence from the Rising Phoenix cases. Against many of the boxes were propped large poster boards. Some charted evidence, some served as time lines, others showed diagrams of crime scenes. Facedown on a set of boxes near David's desk were post-mortem photographs, which graphically showed the handiwork of the Rising Phoenix. The triad had once been the most powerful Asian organized-crime syndicate in the city. Now, after a series of trials that David had headed-at one point he'd supervised four cases involving other gang members in addition to his own trials involving the triad leader and his lieutenants-the Rising Phoenix's members were either dead, behind bars, or had been absorbed by other gangs.

During the trials David had received several death threats. He hadn't taken them seriously, but the FBI had. They put a trace on his phone and arranged for round-the-clock surveillance. The routine was claustrophobic and enervating, but-as the agents had reminded him on their last night of duty after the trial was over-he was still alive. Better to be safe than sorry, they said.

David took a sip of coffee, grabbed a box, then began sifting through the papers on his desk. There was a time when he would have kept the congratulatory letters, but now he tossed them, even the one from his ex-wife, in the trash. His secretary had grouped about a dozen invitations together with a rubber band. Without opening them, David dumped these as well. Why should he look at them? He knew what they were. Ever since the O.J. case, lawyers had become pseudo celebrities. Hostesses and fund-raising groups liked to invite lawyers who'd been on the news every night to give their parties a buzz. Other invitations were issued by private law firms. With his rise in celebrity-and with every Rising Phoenix conviction-several headhunters had phoned to inquire if he wanted to go back into private practice. Old friends, who'd been ensconced in firms for years, had called out of the blue to ask if David would like to have lunch with the senior partners or stop by for drinks. David had said no. He understood that this chapter of his life was over, but not knowing what would happen with Hulan had put his career in limbo.

By eleven, David had gone through the easy piles. Now he moved on to the everyday materials that he'd needed during these last months of back-to-back trials. As he began looking at the folders-knowing that they held so many lives that had been lost or ruined-he couldn't help but be aware of his own dejection.

Like most lawyers, David often experienced melancholy after the completion of a trial. But this time he was also hounded by a sense of futility. Sure, he'd been successful. The Rising Phoenix had been brought down, but as David had predicted, other triads had filled the vacuum. A couple of months ago, the Sun Yee On had become more active in Southern California. At that time David was deep into trial, so the case had been handled to someone else in this office. More recently the Wan Ching group had been caught with a shipment of heroin coming in from the Golden Triangle. That case had gone to the narcotics unit. The media loved a big drug case, and attention had finally shifted from David's work. The baton, so to speak, had been passed.

After the favorable conclusion of a big case, an assistant U.S. attorney was expected to parlay that triumph into a lucrative job in the private sector. The calls from the headhunters only verified for David that it was time to move on and that there were opportunities out there. At the same time, his name was being bandied about for U.S. attorney. If he believed the newspapers, his appointment and confirmation were assured. The current U.S. attorney, Madeleine Prentice, was behind him too. She'd been encouraging him to throw his name into the hat ever since her nomination to the federal bench. Madeleine's was a path that David had once aspired to, but he no longer desired it. True, he no longer trusted his own government, but it was more personal than that: he wanted to be with Hulan, to be with her when she gave birth to their child, to live together as a family.

So he had come back to thoughts of Hulan. Hours had passed since her call, and he was still worried about her. David hadn't been completely forthright with Hulan this morning, and it bothered him now. He knew how he could get information about Knight International, but he hadn't mentioned it. Recent press coverage had focused on speculation that the company was about to be bought by mega-toy company Tartan International. His old law firm, Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout, had long done Tartan's legal work. Tartan, a major client, paid millions of dollars in legal fees each year. As name partner and firm rainmaker, it was expected that Miles Stout would keep a close guard on his best client, and he had. He had managed the acquisition of several smaller companies by the conglomerate and had served as Tartan's spokesman for many years. Additionally, he represented Randall Craig, the chairman of Tartan. But when it came to the actual grunt work for the company- licensing deals, handling esoteric copyright-infringement violations, or performing due diligence during contract negotiations-Miles passed most of it on to junior partners and a flock of associates.

When David had been at the firm, he'd been friendly with Keith Baxter, one of the young attorneys who'd been corraled by Miles into the Tartan work. David reached for his Rolodex, found the number for Keith's private line, and put through a call. After a couple of minutes, David and Keith had made arrangements to meet at the Water Grill on Grand Avenue for drinks and dinner. Keith was a good guy, pretty open. The next time Hulan called, David was sure he'd be ready with whatever information she might want on Knight.

At seven, the Water Grill was jammed with the pre-theater dinner crowd, as well as people who'd come down out of their office towers for business dinners or romantic evenings with their spouses. The Water Grill specialized in seafood, and here and there men and women wore big plastic bibs to protect their clothes from the splatter of bouillabaisse or flying pieces of cracked crab. At other tables customers attacked towering fruits de mer platters piled high with shrimp, oysters, mussels, and sea urchins.

David followed the hostess as she wended her way through the main room to one of the banquettes along the far wall. Keith was already seated and nursing a scotch on the rocks. A waitress came up and asked if David wanted a drink. "Shall we get a bottle of wine?" David asked Keith. When Keith nodded, David ordered a bottle of Chateau St. Jean. Moments later, wine had been poured for David, and Keith was working on another tumbler of brown liquor. During this time David sized up his old colleague.

Ten years ago, Keith had come to Phillips, MacKenzie fresh out of law school. He hadn't known much about law except how to take a test and argue with a teacher. And, with the exception of moot court, he'd never tried a case in front of a jury. But at the law firm, as it was in private law firms across the country, he hadn't been expected to try a case for many, many years. He'd been assigned to several of David's matters, had written briefs, done document reviews, and summarized witness testimony. When David left Phillips, MacKenzie, Keith was a senior associate. A couple of years ago he'd made partner and decided to focus more on mergers and acquisitions. But as a junior partner he was nothing more than a glorified associate-working hard but getting little of the credit or the fun.

Sitting across from Keith now, David saw that the past decade had been hard on the younger man. He'd once been a bit of an athlete, but he'd put on weight and begun to lose his hair. And the drinking? That was something David didn't remember.

Over dinner-Hawaiian mahi mahi on nori rice with blackened sesame seeds for David, grouper with an ancho chili sauce for Keith-the conversation concerned mutual friends, legal committees they were involved with, and news from the headlines. They bantered about David's captivity at the hands of the FBI security team-the fast-food meals, the lingo, the sense of importance the men and women agents brought to a job that David thought totally unnecessary. Once the dishes were cleared, Keith ordered brandy while David settled for coffee.

Finally David asked, "They still have you slaving away over there?"

"Yeah, you know how it is," Keith said.

"Have you tried any cases yet?"

"Shit no. I'm corporate all the way now."

"It's not too late to go back to litigation. If you want experience, come to the U.S. Attorney's Office. By the end of the first year, you'll have been in court so many times-"

"But my bank account would be empty."

David shrugged. "There are things other than money."

"Really, what?" The bitterness in Keith's tone made David look up.

"Doing right, working on the side of justice, putting away bad guys." David said the words, but he didn't know if he believed them anymore. So much had happened in his own life and to his sense of who he was and what he did.

As if reading these thoughts, Keith asked, "How can you still spout that stuff after all you've been through?" When David didn't respond, Keith continued, "After everything that happened to you in China…"

No one was supposed to know exactly what had happened to David in China. Was Keith speculating or did he actually know something? David decided to dismiss the comment with a laugh.

"All I'm saying is that you might have more fun if you changed jobs," David said. "It doesn't have to be the government. There are other things you can do."

"What about my clients?"

When David raised an eyebrow inquiringly, Keith continued: "Okay, so they aren't my clients exactly, but I still feel responsible for them. I may not be the name partner, but I'm the one the clients talk to day to day."

"Who are you working for?"

"In the firm? Miles, of course."

"Some things never change."

"Oh, they change, all right." There again was that bitter tone.

"How do you mean?"

"David, you don't want to know. I mean, you'd recognize the place. We've got the same carpet and draperies and oak desks and all that shit, but, man, we're at the end of the millennium. Practicing isn't the same."

"We all get burnt out," David offered, but Keith just shook his head and took another sip of brandy.

After a pause Keith said, "You didn't ask me out to dinner to catch up. What's up? You want to come back to the firm? You throwing a bone my way? If I get you to come back, I'd be guaranteed a bonus at the end of the year."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, then both cracked up. David realized that it was the first time this evening he'd seen anything of Keith's old sense of humor.

"It's not that, but when the time comes, you'll be the first to know."

"I doubt it. The name partners talk about you all the time. I'm surprised you haven't heard from them yet."

David thought about the unopened invitations he'd thrown away, but before he could follow up, Keith's smile faded and the moment passed.

"So what do you want?" Keith asked.

"It's about Knight International. Since Tartan's buying the company, I thought you could tell me about it."

"Anything I could tell you would fall under the auspices of privileged information."

David waited, hoping Keith would say more. Instead Keith took another swallow of brandy, then waved his empty glass in the air to signal the waitress he wanted another. As Keith brought his hand back down, David noticed it was shaking. Had he been nervous all night?

"Come on," David said at last. "What's Knight up to these days?"

"Why are you asking? Is this some Justice Department investigation? Because if it is, you're way out of line."

"That's a leap! I ask a simple question and you give me that?"

Keith shrugged. "I told you. Things are different at the firm. We have to be careful of outsiders."

"I'm not an outsider."

"But you're not bound by what I tell you either."

"The way you're talking makes me think you or the firm or Tartan has something to hide. Lighten up! I just wanted some background on Knight. I thought you'd be a knowledgeable source."

"Do me a favor and read about Knight in the papers."

The conversation had taken a bizarre turn. Sweat had formed on Keith's forehead, and he wiped it with a napkin. His face was flushed- from drink, from anger, from the heat of the room, David couldn't tell. But there was something more here. Since when wouldn't an old friend answer a simple question? Did Keith think it was some kind of ethics test? And that nonsense about an investigation? All this was probably just the alcohol talking. David could wait to ask his questions until tomorrow, when Keith would probably call and say his head hurt like hell and he was sorry for acting like such an ass. Instead David decided to lay his cards on the table.

"My girlfriend…" It was strange to call Hulan his girlfriend, but what was the proper word? He cleared his throat and tried again. "My girlfriend lives in China."

Keith grinned, his mood switching again. "Liu Hulan. I never met her, but I remember you talking about her. When we first met you were about as brokenhearted as they come. I heard you reconnected, shall we say?"

David ignored Keith's kidding. "One of her friends had a daughter who worked at a Knight factory in China," David continued. "I didn't know they had factories over there."

"They have one. Old man Knight thinks of himself as cutting-edge when it comes to manufacturing. What could be more cutting-edge than China?" When David didn't respond, Keith went on, "I've been over there, you know, doing the due diligence work and working with Knight's American accountants to get all the financials in order for review by the Securities and Exchange Commission. I've seen a lot of stuff." "Like?"

Keith considered, then said, "Nothing exciting. It's a factory out in the boonies, and I can tell you that those accountants Knight flew in suffered from major culture shock from the food and the strangeness of the place. Those guys came and went as fast as they could." Almost as an afterthought he added, "Although I don't know why. Knight only employs women-some pretty ones too." He wiped his forehead again.

David stared at Keith, trying to make sense of the strange fluctuations in the other man's behavior. Finally David asked, "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" There again was that testy tone, a response that was far removed from what David expected from his friend and colleague of many years.

"You seem to be under a lot more pressure than I've ever seen you. What's happening?"

Keith's eyes seemed to get watery, but he covered this by lifting the snifter and taking another sip of brandy.

"I can't help you if you don't confide in me," David persisted.

Keith put the snifter down. "I'm in a bind," he said, keeping his eyes focused on the inside lip of the glass. "I'm in trouble and I don't know what to do."

"What is it? Can I help?"

"It's personal."

"Keith, we've known each other a long time-"

"And it's professional," he said, raising his eyes to meet David's.

For the second time this evening, the honorable, yet sometimes horrible, code of ethics to which honest lawyers adhered had come into the conversation. They could skirt around the code: David could ask general questions about a client (Tartan) or about what that client was involved in (the acquisition of Knight), and Keith might even answer them, although he certainly hadn't tonight. But to exchange real information about a particular case, a particular client, a particular act involving jurisprudence? To actually divulge that a lawyer had been involved in something shady or sinister or straight-on illegal was another matter entirely. They both knew it was taboo.

David took a deep breath. "Is there something I can do?" He hesitated, then asked, "Do you need to talk to someone at the Justice Department or the FBI? You know I can arrange it."

But Keith just shook his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do. All I know is that I want to set things right."

The conversation had run aground. Keith was up against the wall, but still at a point that he couldn't or wouldn't talk about it. Keith smiled wanly, then looked away. "Man, I'm beat. Let's get the hell out of here." He flagged down the waitress, got the check, and paid it, saying, "Don't worry about it. I can expense it out." When he stood, his body swayed slightly. Then he made an unsteady line for the door.

They emerged into the cool night air. Tomorrow would be the Fourth of July. In Los Angeles that could just as easily mean dense fog or a heat wave. This year it looked to be foggy. Standing in the cool white dampness, David and Keith chatted a few more minutes. He wondered if Keith, who'd consumed far more alcohol than David, should drive. "I left my car with the valet," David said. "You want a lift?" Keith shook his head. "I'll just walk back to the office. I have a couple of faxes I need to send."

The offices of Phillips, MacKenzie were in one of the skyscrapers on Bunker Hill. All Keith had to do was cross Grand, walk past the library, cross Fifth, then climb the "Spanish Steps" up to Hope. The distance wasn't far, but downtown wasn't all that safe at night after the day workers had gone home to the suburbs.

"I can drive you up there if you want." "No, I'll walk. It'll do me good. Clear my head." They shook hands. "Lunch next week?" David asked. "Sure, I'll give you a call."

Grand was a one-way street downtown. Keith looked right, saw nothing, then stepped off the curb. Up the street David saw headlights through the mist. Keith was halfway across the road, oblivious to the car. For a moment David thought the car was going to hit Keith, but then the driver decelerated.

To David it seemed then that everything slowed down so that he could see every detail as, maybe even before, it happened. A hand with a gun in it reached out the rear left window and swung toward David. He heard the gunfire and saw the flashes of light from the muzzle. Instinctively he fell to the ground. He heard screams behind him-probably other customers who'd left the restaurant just behind David and Keith and were on their way to the valet. David heard the bullets ricochet off the wall and felt pieces of stone and stucco rain down on him. From his position on the sidewalk, he saw Keith look back and left over his shoulder. If he'd looked right, he would have seen the car and hustled out of the way. Instead the car hit him. Keith's body flew up into the air, moving fast, arms and legs flailing, then slammed into the back wall of the library with a sickening thud. The car sped away, skidding as it turned the corner.

There was a period of silence, then David heard behind him the clatter of high heels on the sidewalk, the sound of men shouting, and someone begin to whimper in pain. All the while he didn't take his eyes off the motionless form of Keith across the street. Shakily David got to his feet, staggered across the asphalt, and knelt next to his friend. The bones in Keith's left arm were jagged sticks of white protruding from flesh. His legs were at unnatural angles, not moving. Blood gushed from a deep gash in one of his legs, probably where the chrome of the bumper had cut into flesh. David felt Keith's neck for a pulse. Somehow he was still alive.

"Help! Somebody help us!" David screamed.

David had never taken a CPR class, but he had an idea of how it worked. But should he tilt Keith's head back to give mouth-to-mouth? Maybe Keith had a broken neck-this seemed likely given that his limbs weren't moving. Should David massage Keith's chest? Maybe the internal injuries were too great; maybe David would cause more damage. At least he could do something about the blood. He put his hand over the gash and pressed hard to stanch the flow. Just then Keith opened his eyes. He moaned. When he tried to speak, blood bubbled out of his mouth and his eyes widened in terror.

"It's all right," David said. "I'm here. You're going to be okay."

Looking at the blood that oozed out over his hands and the blood that had now spread out like a halo around Keith's head, David knew that what he'd said was a lie. His friend was dying and he was terrified.

In the distance David heard a siren. "You hear that? It's an ambulance. Hang on. The paramedics will be here soon."

Keith tried to speak, but again all that came out was a ragged gurgle and a froth of foaming blood. Then Keith's body went into convulsions. Blood spattered the wall, the sidewalk, David. Then Keith took a last anguished gasp for air and went still.

Kneeling next to the body, blood on his hands and clothes, David did what he usually did in an emergency. He retreated into linear thought. When the police arrived, he'd help them with their report. He'd seen the Jeep: black, newer model, but he hadn't caught the license plate. He'd say that he'd been the target, that the locals would be smart to call the FBI right away, that an APB should be put out on those remaining Rising Phoenix members whom David had so grievously misjudged. Instead of scattering as he'd thought, they'd formed a deadly plan. Only they'd erred, killing Keith and injuring another passerby whose misfortune it had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He'd tell the police that the driver obviously hadn't seen Keith since he didn't attempt to swerve out of the way. Then David would get his car from valet parking and go home. By the time he got there, a team from the FBI would probably have already checked the rooms and once again set up residence. In the coming weeks David could look forward to the company of agents, no privacy and no freedom. But before all that he'd have to call the offices of Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout. He might even be the first one to tell Miles Stout about Keith's death. He'd fill in the particulars, offer to help with funeral arrangements, knowing perfectly well that Miles would want to control those details as he controlled so many things. Even the mundane thought that he'd have to make sure that his dark blue suit was back from the dry cleaner in time for the funeral flickered across David's brain.

But this time he identified something else, something different, amidst all these practical thoughts. Not anguish. Not despair. Not disgust at the rusty smell of the blood or the other bodily odors that now came drifting up from the corpse. Not worry over whether all that blood was clean. Not fear that he'd been the intended victim. It was an overwhelming sense of guilt. His complacency had led to Keith's death.

DA SHUI VILLAGE LAY ABOUT TEN MILES FROM TAIYUAN City in Shanxi Province. Although Taiyuan was only about three hundred miles from Beijing, it took Hulan almost two full days to reach. It had been too late to book a flight, and Hulan hadn't wanted to risk wasting time by offering a bribe if a seat couldn't be guaranteed. Driving was also out of the question, since the roads were painfully slow due to pedestrians, wheelbarrows, oxen-pulled carts, and bicycles, as well as cars, buses, and trucks. Besides, Vice Minister Zai would never have permitted Hulan to make the drive alone. He would have insisted that Investigator Lo accompany her, and that would have defeated part of her purpose for this trip. She wanted to get away, be alone for a while. As they said in the West, she needed to think things through.

The most convenient rail route to Taiyuan was on the Beijing-Guangzhou express, which required a train change at Shijiazhuang -a journey of about seven hours. Typically reservations were made ten days in advance, but since Hulan had made her arrangements on the spur of the moment, no seats had been available. Instead she'd traveled to Taiyuan via Datong, where she'd changed trains. And instead of booking a soft seat for the first leg, she'd only been able to buy a hard seat and even that required an extra "gift" paid to the reservations clerk.

On Friday morning Hulan had arrived at the massive North Beijing Railroad Station. Inside the air was dense with cigarette smoke. The steel-frame windows were open but didn't seem to have any effect on the overheated and stuffy atmosphere. Thousands upon thousands of people waited for trains for distant provinces. Some slept. Some ate. Some fanned themselves with torn sheets of newspaper. Several men sat with their T-shirts rolled up over their bellies to under their armpits and with their trouser legs rolled up over their knees.

At ten-thirty departure had been announced, and hundreds of men, women, and children had smashed up against each other as they tried to get their tickets punched. Then they pushed through the turnstiles that led to the train platform. Once on board, an attendant-a stern-faced woman in a starched pale green shirt with red emblems on the shoulders-took Hulan's paper ticket and exchanged it for a hard plastic ticket. Hulan took her assigned seat-the middle position on a hard bench that accommodated three people. There was no air conditioning, and all but two of the windows in the car had been sealed shut. Most of those on board were going on to Huhhot in Mongolia.

By eleven the train had left the station and had rolled through the crowded environs of Beijing. Gradually the high-rises and traffic jams of the city had been left behind. Within an hour the landscape had changed. Fields spread out to the horizon. Villages appeared, then disappeared as the express chugged through the rural western counties. Soon the train began a slow but steady climb. Occasionally she caught glimpses of the Great Wall as it snaked over the hills. Then the train leveled out again, and outside the window were fields of beans, corn, tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant. By the time the train reached Zhangjiakounan, with its massive nuclear power plant, the land had become harsher. Along the track were piles of coal, and the stations they passed through were dingy with coal dust. Hulan saw peasants-the poorest of the poor-working land that was filled with too many minerals to sustain proper life. Most people in this area had given up farming entirely and now worked in coal and salt mines.

Hulan had tried to keep her attention on what was passing outside the window, but it had been hard. Her compartment teemed with life. Babies wailed, spat up, peed (or worse) on the floor. Men chain-smoked rough-smelling cigarettes, occasionally hawking murky sputum toward the spittoons which had been strategically placed at either end of the compartment.

But usually the men hadn't bothered to move from their seats, and horrible globs of mucus ended up on the floor with the produce, the souvenirs, and gifts that people had bought in the capital, and the toddlers and those travelers who'd had it with their hard seats and had stretched out among the bags. Most of the passengers had brought their own provisions and throughout the day pulled out fragrant-sometimes too fragrant-containers of noodles. Others got by on slivers of garlic on cold buns. Most everyone had brought their own jar for tea, and the attendant passed through the aisle every hour or so with hot water refills. As the hours ticked by, these odors had blended with those from the bathroom at the end of the compartment. Many of the passengers were rural people who'd never seen indoor plumbing before, even if it was only a hole in the floor leading straight down to the track. The combination of smells could be nauseating under ordinary circumstances but were made worse by the train's constant movement. Indeed several people had lost their meals into plastic bags or straight onto the floor in desperate dashes to the bathroom.

Hulan, still in the early enough stages of pregnancy to be sorely affected by odors of any sort, had fought her feelings of queasiness by sucking on preserved plums and sipping from a thermos of ginger tea. Dr. Du, a traditional Chinese herbal medicine doctor in Beijing and Hulan's mother's longtime physician, had recently taken over Hulan's care. However, she had been extremely skeptical of his prescriptions for morning sickness-especially the Emperor of Heaven's Special Pill to Tonify the Heart, reputed to bring strength to the blood and calm the spirit- and had made the mistake of saying so to Madame Zhang.

The next day Madame Zhang had come calling with a bag of individually wrapped preserved plums and the mixture for the tea. "Doctors! Men! What do they know?" the Neighborhood Committee director asked. "I'm an old woman and you listen to me. You put one plum in your mouth and you wait. No chewing. Just suck. When the meat is gone, you keep sucking on the pit, too. You will feel much better." With this advice Madame Zhang had given her tacit but unspoken agreement to allow the pregnancy to continue without a permit. Sitting on the train, with her bag of plums half-empty, Hulan had been glad to have them. Old wives' tale or simple placebo, Hulan didn't care, so long as the plums continued to settle her stomach.

On the train went. So much dust, grit, and coal dust had blown in from the two open windows that they were closed until the heat became unbearable and were opened again. From loudspeakers music and a constant stream of announcements had competed with the human cacophony. Traditional Chinese songs were interspersed with newer romantic ballads. But the music was a relief compared to the broadcast declarations, during which a shrill voice announced train stops, cigarettes and liquor for sale, news of the day, and political reminders on birth control, politeness in society, and the importance of increased production. Not for the first time Hulan had marveled at her compatriots' ability-willingness-to have this noise, whether in music or propaganda, intrude into their daily lives.

Hulan had made reservations at the Yungang Hotel, a so-called five-star hotel and the only establishment in Datong that attempted to cater to foreigners. Driving there by taxi, Hulan saw a grimy city filled with coal trucks. Black drifts of coal dust tufted the edge of the road. Despite the taxi driver's high hopes that Datong would become a tourist center- "We are especially popular with the Japanese because they occupied Datong during the war and like to renew their memories"-the hotel and Hulan's room were desperately dreary. Cigarette burns marred the carpet, and grimy gray curtains hung in limp shreds. Hot water ran only from seven to nine in the morning, she was informed, and the television broadcast only local news and state channels. The cavernous hotel dining room had a staff of about fifty women dressed in powder blue cheongsams who looked listless and bored. Hulan had dinner alone, while a tour group of twenty Japanese silently picked through a meal of cold canned string beans, cold meat, sauteed pork with vegetables, french fries, watermelon, and lemon cake. A Karen Carpenter song played on a continuous loop with the waitresses joining in occasionally, "Every sha-la-la-la, every wo-oh-wo-oh, every shing-a-ling-a-ling…"

By eight the next morning Hulan was back on the train and heading south another seven hours to Taiyuan. She had been fortunate enough to book a soft seat for this second day. The compartment had two sets of bunks, and each person was required to sit on his or her own bed for the duration of the trip. The man who occupied the bunk across from Hulan put a newspaper over his face, fell asleep, and began to snore, prompting another man to shout out, "Roll over! You're making it impossible for any of us to sleep." The man did as he was told, and soon the other two occupants drifted off as well. On the table by the window, a brochure extolled this train's modern virtues in quaint, imaginative English:

Dear passengers, security, polite, and hospitality are the service aim of our crew. Please remember:

1. Never speak taboo words.

2. Keep the interior of the car clean and tidy. The environment must be graceful.

3. Our food dishes are meticulously prepared and have four features-color, fragrance, taste, and shape. Moslem food is also available.

4. When you are in car, please use the complement gloves.

Under the table Hulan found a basket with the gloves, a large thermos filled with hot water, and porcelain cups with lids. When a young woman attendant came by with packets of tea for purchase, Hulan inquired if there was some way to turn down the loudspeaker. The attendant not only said that she could but offered to turn the speaker off entirely. Soon the high-pitched announcements were replaced by the gentle sighs of the sleeping men and the soothing pulse of the train moving along the track. And although this train was also bereft of air conditioning, an oscillating fan circulated the warm air. This, combined with the hot towels that the attendant brought by periodically, made this day's I journey almost pleasant.

How different all this was from the last time Hulan traveled to and | from Da Shui Village! In 1970 she had joined other friends and neighbors! from Beijing on a train that superficially looked like this. That train had been packed, overflowing really, with other young Beijingers. (She remembered one whole brigade of kids who'd climbed on the roof of the train and had stayed there for the whole trip.) Hulan and the others had worn old army uniforms handed down from parents. They had spouted slogans, although secretly they'd rejoiced that they were just being sent to the west instead of the Great Northern Wilderness along the desolate and inhospitable Russian border. They had harassed the compartment attendants, even booting some of them off the train. In one village, a group-not one of them over sixteen years old-had decided that the train's engineer and those who helped him were running dogs of capitalism tied to the old ways. These people were set on the station platform and harangued for two days. Villagers came out to watch the spectacle. Finally someone realized that none of them was ever going to get out of that godforsaken place unless the engineer and his helpers were put back on the train.

Coming back to Beijing two years later had been no different. That trip too was plagued by numerous stops for rallies and struggle meetings. Instead of reaching Beijing by sundown on the direct route, it had also taken two days. That time Hulan, fourteen years old and still filled with the wild passions that were so much a part of the Cultural Revolution, had traveled in the safe and comforting company of Uncle Zai. Meanwhile her father had been under house arrest in their hutong home and her mother, having fallen from a second-story balcony, had lain in the dirt outside an office building during Zai's four-day round trip to retrieve Hulan from the countryside. The people at the office had worked for Hulan's father for many years. They had all known Jinli, but they had been forbidden to come to her aid. By the time Zai and Hulan reached Beijing, Jinli was crippled and her mind destroyed.

The closer Hulan got to Taiyuan, the capital of Shanxi Province, the more she worried about coming back to this place of so much bloodshed and sorrow. Shanxi meant "west of the mountains," and the entire province was a mountainous plateau that looked out over the fertile North China Plain. That rich land had been attractive to foreign aggressors for millennia. In ancient times invaders had come from the north. Their first obstacle was the Great Wall; their second and more formidable barrier was Taiyuan. This city had seen more violence over the last two thousand years than any other in China. Those centuries of bloody turmoil lay buried in the soil and in the souls of the people of this province.

Hulan's train pulled into Taiyuan at three-thirty. She made her way out onto the street, flagged down a dented Chinese-made taxi, and asked to be taken to the bus stop for Da Shui Village. As a young girl she had been to Taiyuan only a few times-when she'd come and left on the train and on those occasions when her team at the Red Soil Farm had participated in demonstrations at the Twin Pagodas, the double temples located on a hill that served as the city's emblem. In those days few automobiles or trucks plied the streets. Instead the avenues and alleyways that made up the city had been filled with the reassuring hum of bicycles transporting people and merchandise. The air-even on a hot and humid day like this one-had been clear and filled with the perfume of flowering trees and the rich soil that even in the middle of the city exuded a warm scent.

Twenty-five years had passed, and Taiyuan was not at all what Hulan expected. Her taxi driver jolted the car in and out of bumper-to-bumper traffic. He kept his hand on the horn, despite Hulan's repeated requests that he stop. She rolled down her window-it was too hot not to-and her nostrils filled with exhaust and other fumes that spewed from factory chimneys.

These last ten years had seen an invasion of another sort to Taiyuan. American companies, the driver explained, had set up joint-venture coal mines in the outlying areas and export companies in town. Australians were raising special pigs, which were not as fat as local pigs and considered to be far more tasty. New Zealanders had arrived with sheep to grow wool for carpets. Germans and Italians, meanwhile, had gotten into heavy industry. These varied enterprises had brought prosperity to the city. All around Hulan saw construction sites for offices and foreign hotels. For now, though, foreigners stayed at the Shanxi Grand Hotel. "Year in, year out, they live there," the driver said. "Those VIP-ers have water every day, all day, while in the rest of the city we only get water on certain days of the week." Then he added, bragging, "I went inside the Shanxi once. It was amazing, but then you think of the new hotels…" He sucked air through his teeth. "The Shanxi Grand will seem like nothing once they open."

After the driver dropped her off, she discovered that the bus to outlying villages to the south wouldn't arrive for another hour. Carrying her bag, she walked down the block, passing an open-air cafe filled with customers. Another two doors down she found another cafe all but deserted. If she'd wanted a meal she would have gone back to the first place, but in such heat all she wanted was a bit of shade, a little solitude, a place to pass the time, and something cold to drink. The Coke came cool but not cold. At five, the owner of the establishment, a woman, returned to the table.

"You have been sitting here too long! You have to leave so I have room for other customers!"

Hulan looked around. There were no other customers. "I am a traveler."

"A Beijinger! Big-city woman! So what! I am a business owner, an entrepreneur. You are taking up space."

"As an entrepreneur you should be more welcoming to your customers," Hulan retorted.

"If you don't like it, go somewhere else."

Hulan gazed at the cafe owner in surprise. This woman was insulting her in the same way a salesclerk in a Beijing department store might. Customer service had gotten so bad in Beijing that the government had inaugurated a politeness campaign and issued a list of fifty phrases that were to be omitted from speech. Either this campaign hadn't filtered out to Shanxi Province, or the people here simply didn't care.

But maybe this campaign, like others before it, was doomed to fail no matter who ordered it. Hulan could remember back when the government had launched the Four Beautifications and Five Spruce-Ups Campaigns to combat incivility. In those days people had been accustomed to obeying every decree, and still no one had carried out the new orders. The masses argued that it was bourgeois to wait on customers, but Hulan had always seen the lack of manners in another way. It was hard to be polite to strangers when the government assigned the job and guaranteed the paltry salary no matter how rudely you acted. Now the pattern was hard to break. But clearly China's most successful entrepreneurs had learned the benefits of good customer service, which might have been why the first cafe had been filled with diners and this one was about to lose its only patron.

Hulan paid her bill and headed back to the bus stop. By now the sun had passed behind a tall building and shadowed the sidewalk. Hulan sat on the curb and waited.

The bus, when it arrived, was filled to capacity with commuters. Still, Hulan and five more people were able to squeeze onto the back-door steps. At first the bus moved slowly through the crowded city streets. After twenty minutes and only two miles, the bus reached the huge bridge that traversed the Fen River. Hulan couldn't believe what she saw.

Twenty-five years ago the Fen had been a huge, raging river a half mile wide. Today it was a meandering stream. The now-wide banks were lush with river grasses and shrubs. Children played. Families picnicked. A few people flew homemade kites.

But this wasn't the biggest surprise. In another few blocks the bus driver stopped at a toll booth, paid a fare, then entered a brand-new, four-lane expressway. What had once taken hours of start-and-stop driving accompanied by honking at the pedestrians and animals that crowded the roadway now zipped along. Within minutes the bus passed the turnoff for the Jinci Temple, renowned for its Song Dynasty Mother Temple and for its Three Everlasting Springs. Another few miles and the bus was flanked by undulating oceans of millet and vast areas planted with corn and sorghum.

The bus made quick stops in Xian Dian, Liu Jia Bu, and Qing Shu before arriving at the crossroads for Da Shui Village. Alone, Hulan stepped off the bus. After it pulled away, she took a moment to orient herself. Behind her, the expressway led back to Taiyuan. Before her, if she was recalling correctly, lay the village of Chao Jia and town of Ping Yao. About three miles down the road to her right-and this she would never forget- was where the Red Soil Farm had once had its compound of dormitories, storage buildings, work sheds, and kitchens. The land all around her for as far as she could see had been a part of that commune. Undoubtedly this land had been redistributed in 1984, when China 's entire collective system was dismantled and individual plots were given to peasant families.

It was now about seven o'clock. Da Shui lay about two miles to her left, but she wouldn't have to walk that far. If Suchee's directions were correct, Hulan would have to go only about one li, or a third of a mile, to reach the farm. The evening couldn't be described as cool, but the air felt fresh and clean compared to that on the train, in Taiyuan, or on the bus. As Hulan began to walk, she took her time, enjoying the gentle bombardment of the country on her senses. The moisture-laden air hung heavily over the fields, creating a pale haze. The humidity gathered on her skin in a fine, damp, vaguely soothing film. One of the fields had just been irrigated, and the smell of the wet red soil and the fragrance coming off the plants was heady. She heard no sounds of technology, only the crunch of gravel under her shoes and the thrumming of cicadas in their evensong.

At last Hulan left the road to walk along a raised pathway that led left through the fields. Now that she was among the plants, she saw things a little more clearly. From afar the fields had looked green and lush, but these crops weren't thriving. They were barely hanging on. This was the height of the growing season, yet the green leaves were stunted. If this was happening aboveground, it was surely happening below, repressing and deforming the growth of the edible tubers. How odd, Hulan thought. The climate here was no worse for growing than in other parts of China. Irrigation had never been a problem, for this entire region was known for its springs and wells. Water had always been so abundant in this particular area that the village had honored the fact. Da Shui meant Big Water. But from what Hulan saw around her, these plants were starved for that very substance.

When the next two fields seemed far more healthy, Hulan allowed her optimism to rise, but this was deflated when Suchee's home came into view. These days one way to gauge a peasant family's prosperity was if the old mud-brick house had been torn down and replaced with one made from fired brick. On the train Hulan had seen many fired-brick houses. Then, on seeing the changes in Taiyuan, she'd supposed that some of that city's prosperity was a reflection of greater prosperity in the surrounding countryside, but her hopes and guesses had been wrong. Only three hundred miles from Beijing, this was the primitive interior.

Suchee's small compound had been built according to old customs, based on practical and political considerations. The building faced south toward the warmth of the sun and away from the north from which invaders had always come. There was a small walled-in courtyard of ten by ten feet, which protected a well. Other than this, the hard-packed m land that nestled between these walls was devoid of buckets, potted plants, a bicycle, or any of those items that spelled a life lived above a subsistence level. This side of the house had a door with a window opening on each side. There was no glass, which was fine at this time of year, but cruel during the winter when Suchee would have to stuff the openings with dried grass. If she were feeling particularly prosperous, she might even seal the window further with newspaper held in place with glue made from flour and water.

"Ling Suchee!" Hulan called out. "I am here! It is Liu Hulan!"

From inside the house Hulan heard a squeal, then her own name called out. A moment later an old woman stood in the doorway. "I didn't think you would come," the old woman said. "But you have."

"Suchee?"

Seeing Hulan's uncertainty, the woman came forward and took her arm. "It is I, Suchee, your friend. Come in. I will make tea. Have you eaten?"

Hulan stepped over the high threshold, which was designed to keep flood waters out. Except for the single bare lightbulb that hung from a rafter in the center of the room, she could have been stepping back in time a hundred, even a thousand years. The room held two kangs, beds made from wooden platforms. Once again memories rushed back. Hulan remembered her shock as a twelve-year-old on learning that people slept on these platforms instead of in soft beds. How the bones of Hulan and her young comrades had ached until the peasants had shown them how to make mattresses out of straw. Later that year, when freezing winds had come down from the north, the peasants had taught them to make quilts from raw cotton and to set braziers filled with hot coal under the platforms for warmth.

"Sit, Hulan. You must be tired."

Hulan did as she was told, perching on a stool made from a crate turned on end. She glanced around. There was so little here. The table, the upturned crates, the two beds. A shelf held two cups, four bowls- two large for noodles, two small for rice-three serving dishes, and an old soy sauce container filled with cooking utensils and chopsticks. To the right of the door was a small cabinet where Hulan supposed Suchee kept clothes and linens. On top Suchee had put together a simple altar with some sticks of incense, three oranges, a crudely carved Buddha, and two photographs. These would be of Suchee's husband and daughter.

Once the water was on, Suchee joined Hulan at the table. Too many things had happened in the last twenty-five years for these women to go straight to the reason Hulan had come. They needed to reconnect, to reestablish a rapport, to build again the trust that had once bound them almost as blood relatives. Yes, there would be time to talk about Miao-shan, but for now the two women spoke of Hulan's trip, of the changes she'd seen in Taiyuan, of life in Beijing, of Hulan's coming baby; of Suchee's crops of millet, corn, and beans, of the water shortage, of the oppressive heat.

Years ago they had been girls together, but since then they'd traveled very different roads. Except for those two years on the Red Soil Farm, Hulan had lived the sheltered and privileged life of a Red Princess. She had never wanted for clothes or food. Her position had allowed her considerable freedom to travel not only across China but also to the United States. She was not afraid of the government or of nature. All this showed in Hulan's clothes, in her smooth, pale skin, in the way she held herself as she sat on the upended crate, whereas, if she had seen Suchee on the street in Beijing, she would have taken her for someone sixty or seventy years old.

As twilight faded into darkness, Hulan began to see her girlhood friend hiding behind the old woman's face. Under the flickering light of a kerosene lantern-electricity was too expensive to use on a daily basis- Hulan saw how a lifetime of backbreaking work under an unforgiving sun had taken its toll. As a twelve-year-old Suchee had been stronger and far more robust than Hulan. But Hulan had spent the rest of her teenage years in America, eating meat at almost every meal, so now she was perhaps four inches taller than Suchee. Beyond this, Suchee's back was already curving into a dowager's hump due to years of carrying water and produce on a pole slung across her shoulders. Suchee's face pained Hulan most of all. As a girl Suchee had been beautiful. Her face had been round and full of life. Her cheeks had glowed pink. Now her skin was wrinkled and stained dark brown from the sun.

Of course, she had lived a much fuller life than Hulan. She had married and borne a child. She had also lost both her husband and her child. When Hulan looked straight into Suchee's eyes, she had to turn away. Behind the polite words Suchee was suffering from a loss that Hulan could not begin to imagine. Hardening her heart against the details that she knew would come, Hulan reached across the table and took Suchee's hand. "I think it's time you tell me about your daughter."

Suchee talked late into the night, recalling in painful detail Miao-shan's last day. Suchee had just finished locking the ox into its shed when she met her daughter, who was coming home for the weekend, having been away for several weeks at the Knight factory. Seeing Miao-shan on the dusty pathway that led to the house, Suchee instantly knew that her only child was pregnant. Miaoshan denied this accusation. "I told her, 'I am a peasant. I have grown up on the land. Do you think I don't know when an animal comes into season? Do you think I don't know when a creature is with child?'" Faced with these basic truths, Miaoshan had broken down completely. With tears streaming down her face-the Western display of emotion doing little to settle Suchee's fears-Miaoshan had confessed everything.

There were so many sayings that covered chastity and what happened when one didn't protect it: Guard your body like a piece of jade, or, One blunder can lead to remorse. But Suchee didn't believe in these kinds of reproaches. She had been young once herself. She knew what could happen in a moment of passion. "I told her that there was nothing wrong that couldn't be fixed." Then Suchee went on as if her daughter were in the room with her at this moment. "You can be married to Tsai Bing next month," she said. "You know he has waited a long time. Tomorrow I will go to the Neighborhood Committee director. That old grandma will understand. You will have your marriage permission certificate by the end of the week. The child permission certificate may be a little more difficult. I You and Tsai Bing are still young, and this will be your only child. But I am not concerned. I have known that busybody director for so long. If she wants to make trouble for you, I will tell stories of when she was young, eh? So don't worry. I will take care of everything."

But her comforting words had done little to calm Suchee's own emotions, and during the night she'd been jarred awake many times, feeling a sense of foreboding that went beyond the news of the pregnancy. "The next morning Miaoshan was dead, and the police wouldn't listen when I said that the men in our village were getting rich by sending girls and women to that factory," Suchee continued. "They don't care what happens so long as they make their profit." Before Hulan could question her about this, Suchee said in a voice filled with remorse, "But I let her go there! And when I saw she was happy, I let her stay! She liked the work and brought home most of her salary." With that money Suchee had been able to buy extra seed and some new tools. But her worries blossomed again with each visit home, which became increasingly rare as Miaoshan began spending her weekends at the factory too. One minute Miaoshan talked sweetly, the next her words were filled with turpentine.

One day she combed her hair into pigtails, and the next week she came home from the factory in new clothes and with makeup all over her face. She talked about marriage, then almost in the next sentence switched to the subject of her desire to leave Da Shui and go to a big city-somewhere much larger than either Taiyuan or Datong.

As Suchee talked, Hulan wondered if these were just the naive dreams of a simple country girl. In her job at the MPS, Hulan had firsthand experience with members of this class who were illegally leaving their villages and flooding cities like Beijing and Shanghai, looking in vain for a better life, only to find bitterness. In their innocence they were often the victims of criminals and crime syndicates. Without residency permits or work units in the cities, they were also subject to harassment and arrest by the police. Was Miaoshan just another one of these dreamers?

And parts of Suchee's story didn't make sense. Where was Miaoshan getting the money for new clothes, especially if she was giving the bulk of her salary to her mother? Where did Tsai Bing fit in? And what about Suchee's comment about the men in the village? If Hulan had been in Beijing and if Suchee had been a stranger, she would have felt no compunctions about asking whatever she wanted, but she was in the countryside now and Suchee was a friend. She would need to tread softly.

"I'm wondering about Tsai Bing and Ling Miaoshan," Hulan ventured. "Was theirs a true love or an arrangement?"

Instead of answering the question, Suchee asked one of her own: "Are you asking if we were following a feudal custom? Arranged marriages are against the law."

"There are many laws in China. That doesn't mean we follow all of them."

"True." Suchee allowed herself a small smile. "It is also true that in the countryside many people still prefer arranged marriages. This way we are able to consolidate our land or resolve disputes. These days we have even more concerns. The one-child policy-"

"I know," Hulan interrupted. "Too many abortions or girl babies given up for adoption. Now not enough girls to go around. Of course families want to make sure their sons will have wives."

Suchee nodded. In the golden light of the lantern, Hulan saw Suchee's eyes mist up again. "As a neighbor, Tsai Bing was always a good match for my daughter, but you know me, Hulan. I myself married for love."

"Ling Shaoyi." As Hulan spoke Suchee's husband's name, she was cast back again over the years. Hulan had met Shaoyi on the train from Beijing. He was older, perhaps sixteen, and not so afraid to be leaving home. He was a city boy clean through. Like all of them who'd come from Beijing, he knew nothing about farm life. Suchee had been the peasant placed on their team to teach them. At that time Western ideas like "love at first sight" were considered bourgeois at best and capitalist reader at worst. For a long while the kids in the brigade decided to look the other way when they saw Shaoyi's blushing face each time he spoke with Suchee, or when they observed her bringing him home-cooked treats while the rest of them were subsisting on bowls of millet porridge. After those years of turmoil were over, Shaoyi could have gone home to Beijing. He could have resumed his studies, maybe even become a party official. Everyone was surprised when he married Suchee, stayed in Da Shui, and became a peasant.

Suchee's voice cut into Hulan's thoughts. "Do you think I could let my daughter marry for anything less than true love?"

"No, not you," Hulan answered, knowing that this still might not be the full truth. The aphorism "Only speak thirty percent of the truth" was valid even in the countryside, even between old friends.

"Is there anything else I should know about Miaoshan?" Hulan asked. "Did she keep any papers here? A diary perhaps or letters?"

Suchee stood and went to one of the beds. From underneath she pulled out an oversize manila envelope, then laid it on the table.

"Miaoshan had a special place where she kept her private things," Suchee explained, "but I am a mother and this is a small farm. I knew that she hid her treasures in the shed behind the grain bin. After she died, I went there to look for objects to put on the altar." She took a deep breath, then continued, "I know some ABC letters and words that I learned in the Peasant Woman's School, but I can't understand these papers. And there are drawings…"

Hulan opened the clasp and pulled out three sets of papers. One set was folded into quarters, which Hulan opened and smoothed out on the table. Quickly Hulan leafed through them, while Suchee held up the lantern so they might see better.

"It says Knight International," Suchee said, "but what are they?"

"They look like specifications for an assembly line, and these look like they could be the floor plan for the factory itself. Have you been there? Can you tell?"

"I have seen the outside, but I've never gone inside. Even so, I don't understand the pictures."

Hulan drew with her finger along the lines. "This must be the exterior wall. And see, this says workroom, bathroom, office… Let's see what else you have." She refolded the plans and picked up a stack of papers held together by a paper clip. It was a list of some sort with several columns. On the left were names-Sam, Uta, Nick, and the like. In the adjacent columns were account numbers and what looked like deposit amounts.

Silently Hulan put the papers back in the envelope, then took her friend's hand. "I'll tell you the truth. When I came here, it was because you were my friend and I thought I could offer help in your time of mourning, but now I don't know. So many things you've told me don't make sense. What you said about the men in the town and the fact that Miaoshan was pregnant, well, these are common occurrences in our country. But these papers make me look at things differently. What are they? Why did Miaoshan have them? Even more important, why did she hide them?"

"Are these ABC papers why she was killed?"

"I don't know, but I want you to put them back in Miaoshan's hiding place. Don't mention them to anyone. Can you promise me that?"

Suchee nodded, then asked, "What will you do now?"

"If Miaoshan was murdered, then the best way for me to find her killer is to understand who Miaoshan was. As I begin to know her, I will begin to know her killer. Once I know her, I will know her killer." Hulan paused, then added, "But, Suchee, remember this. There may not even be a murderer. Your daughter may have simply killed herself. Either way, are you prepared for whatever I find?"

"I have lost my only child," Suchee answered. "I'm an end-of-the-liner now. With no family to take care of me, I will end up in the government old people's courtyard in the village. So am I prepared? No. Ready? No. But if I'm going to spend the rest of my life alone, then I need to know."