San Francisco Noir

“Music with No Words Is Reactionary”:

Beethoven’s music is inherently reactionary. Because there are no words, you can’t know what it means.

The prose style and reasoning reminded him of something Camus had written about Saint-Just’s writing style: “It is the style of the guillotine.” This, then, was the style of the dull butcher knife.

In the afternoon, he poked his head out the door and saw a girl sitting in the hallway. He assumed she was “guarding” him, though this was the first time he saw someone sitting instead of standing. Maybe they were getting the idea he wasn’t going to challenge them.

When she looked up, he was startled. He thought he recognized her, but that would have been impossible: He didn’t know anyone in China. Then it occurred to him that she resembled Cletus Dong’s sister, Candy. It took a bit of imagination to make the transfer: imagine Candy without makeup, her long, straight hair chopped off just above the chin, wearing a sexless blue suit. When she stood up, he could tell they were about the same height, too.

“I’m sorry. I fell asleep for a little while,” she said, in only slightly labored English. That was a major plus. Every single person that had been posted outside his door until now hadn’t said a word to him.

“Uh, that’s okay. If I’d known earlier, I would have made a run for it.”

“Do you enjoy your visit to China?”

“Sure. It’s been great.”

“Good. Please let me know if I can do anything for you.” Michael pondered that when she followed up with a question: “Where are you from?”

“Me? America.”

“What city?”

“San Francisco. Well, not exactly the city itself. I live in the East Bay.”

“Is that near New York?”

“No, it’s on the opposite side of the country.”

“Really? I thought it was next to New York.”

“No. You’re thinking of New Jersey.”

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“Do you smoke?”

“No. I am offering you.”

“That’s okay.”

“Yes, or no?”

“‘That’s okay’ means ‘no’.”

“Strange. You don’t like Chinese cigarette, eh?”

“I don’t smoke…tobacco.”

“American cigarette taste better, right? That’s what I hear.”

“My friend,” he gestured inside, meaning Ariel, “says that Chinese cigarettes are better. More tar.”

She shook her head. “How much does one cost in America?”

“One cigarette? Or a pack?”

“Pack.”

“I dunno. I never bought one.”

“That’s very strange. Is it true Americans eat raw vegetables?”

He blinked at that one. It took him a moment to realize what she was talking about. “Yes. We eat salad. You don’t eat salad in China?”

She shook her head. “We cook. Only barbarians eat raw food. Like Japanese.”

He nodded. It made sense.

Their conversation went on in this manner, with her peppering him with questions that sounded genuinely curious. It was the most fun he’d had in days, though he couldn’t help noticing that every time he tried to come back with a question about China, she would clam up and ask another question about America. He got the message after a few tries: Talk about America, don’t talk about China.

“You’re very curious about America.”

“I would like to travel there someday. I know it’s difficult right now, but I think the relationship between our two countries will improve in the future.”

“I hope so. There are a lot of Chinese people in America, especially in San Francisco.”

“I would like to see them. There are a lot of things I would like to see in the world.”

“Light out for the territory, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“‘I reckon I got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it. I been there before.’ That’s from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.”

“Marx…?”

“Not Karl Marx. Mark Twain. American author.”

“I don’t know him. Have you read any Chinese authors?”

“Just Mao.”

She took him down to the basement, where he met the hotel kitchen staff. Nobody could speak English, but they all waved at him, smiling. A crowd began to grow around him. He was, he supposed, something of an attraction. The enthusiastic reception he received seemed to go beyond mere obligation. The spontaneity was a welcome relief from the uptightness of the bureaucrats and flunkies he’d encountered so far. His guide asked the staff to show him what they were making, and they took him around the kitchen. In one spot, a group of women were wrapping what looked like won tons. The people there had the friendly, unpretentious appeal of blue-collar workers who, while they weren’t exactly happy, weren’t as miserable as they once were. It reminded him very much of the post office.

The next day, he and Ariel were taken out for a drive to a village on the outskirts of Peking. He got a good look at the countryside surrounding that gray city. It was a brisk autumn day, and the trees were in full color.

Their hosts were going to treat them to a banquet and took them to a restaurant that resembled a union hall. Michael and Ariel and a group of men in blue suits sat around a table and ate and drank. One of those in attendance, Michael believed, was Wang Hung-wen, the former Shanghai cotton mill worker who had been promoted by Mao to the number-three position in the party hierarchy, and who later joined Chiang Ching in promoting the “Criticize Lin Piao, Criticize Confucius” campaign.

Their hosts ordered a number of “delicacies.” There was an ugly thing that felt like eating a dead rat. Then they ordered a round of sea slugs, which didn’t have any taste at all. It was like sucking down snot. What fucking culture considered this sort of thing a delicacy? Michael thought their gracious hosts were bringing out these dishes out of sheer perversity-they weren’t delicacies at all. By the end of the night, their hosts had drunk them under table with moutai, a clear liquor that tasted like turpentine. They repeatedly toasted the Americans in Chinese and laughed, and the whole time Michael thought they were saying, “Don’t hold your breath waiting for the revolution in the U.S.A. This is the best we got! Ah ha ha ha! ”

That was their last day in China.

Michael picked up his luggage at the carousel. There was the suitcase he’d originally packed, and following, the suitcase he’d received in Vancouver, which he hadn’t seen since he’d checked it in for the Pan Am flight to Tokyo. It felt heavier than he remembered, but that was hard to say. He looked at Ariel once he had it, expecting some kind of response, a raised eyebrow, smirk, or nod, but Ariel had his poker face on. They went through customs. The officer checked his luggage ticket and waved him through.

They entered the arrivals lobby. There was no one to pick them up.

In the seconds that he scanned the crowd again, looking for the people who should have been there but weren’t, a flood of thoughts went through Michael’s mind. He was sure the exact same thoughts were now going through Ariel’s mind. Michael was carrying the suitcase. It wouldn’t be hard for him to outrun the old man. Pushing him down or hitting him would only cause a disturbance that would draw attention to him. If he just ran, it would take the sparse crowd around them awhile, whatever Ariel’s response, to realize what was going on, and even then, if that, security was light. Ariel didn’t have a chance.

He could lie low in Canada. There would be a lot of people out to kill him. It was a lot of money. He could steal