Satori

and unnatural. We shall soon be putting an end to this anachronistic practice.”

“But Xun is sublime,” Voroshenin argued.

“These old operas are a waste of time,” Yu sniffed. “Ancient fairy tales and romantic fables of the old ruling class. The jingju should be utilized for social purposes, for propaganda and education.”

“Madame Mao is an enthusiast,” Voroshenin argued.

“Of course,” Yu countered, “and we are given to understand that she is even now writing new operas that will instruct the people in socialist principles.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Voroshenin said dryly. He turned back to Nicholai. “If you’d like to attend, I have a private box.”

If your opponent is of a choleric nature, he will be unable to restrain himself. He will seek you out, and show you the open gate to his vulnerability.

Let your enemy come to you.

“I accept,” Nicholai answered. “With pleasure.”

It’s a date, a rendezvous, he thought.

The waiters brought out a new platter, set it in the middle of the table, and Nicholai saw that Chen was looking at him for a reaction. Not to disappoint, Nicholai asked, “What is this?”

“Yang shuang chang,” Chen said, then clarified, “goat’s intestine filled with blood. A delicacy.”

Yu and Chen watched for his response.

Nicholai knew that the dinner was not only a ritual, but a test – of his manners, his language skills, his temperament. It was also a time-honored ploy, to lull a business associate with massive amounts of food and drink to dull his mind, move the blood from his brain into digesting the food.

He was also aware that the selection of dishes was also a measure of his attitudes. For so long insulted by Western condescension and cultural arrogance, the Chinese wanted to see if he would meet them on their own terms. If not, it could very well end the business deal that was the cover for his mission.

Nicholai was somewhat satisfied to see that Voroshenin’s face had turned slightly green. Not waiting for Yu, Nicholai speared a piece with his chopstick, leaned across the table, and put it on Voroshenin’s plate. Then he took a piece for himself and put it directly into his mouth.

“Exquisite,” Nicholai said, to his hosts’ apparent delight. Then he looked at Voroshenin and asked, “You don’t like it?”

The Russian pinched the chunk of bloody intestine and popped it into his mouth but was unable to keep the expression of distaste off his face.

Small victories, Nicholai thought, are nevertheless to be savored.

The yang shuang was followed by a dessert course, to please the Western guests, although it consisted of Mandarin-style delicacies such as glazed yams, small honeycomb cakes, and jellied bean curd.

Nicholai was full to the point of bursting.

Yu leaned back in his chair and said, “Now we can really drink.”

In honor of their respective nationalities, they switched between mao-tai, vodka, and Pernod, a dusty bottle of which the bartender found in the back of a cabinet.

Toasts were proposed and drunk.

“Our French guest.”

“Our Chinese hosts.”

“The eternal friendship between our three countries.”

It was another test, Nicholai knew, an effort to loosen his tongue with alcohol, to see if he was who he said he was. And a dangerous test, for getting into a drinking match with Voroshenin was no mean feat – the Russian was big, a practiced drinker who could hold his liquor. So could Yu, for a small man, and the toasts went on.

“Our beloved Chairman, the Great Pilot.”

“Comrade Stalin, who shows the way.”

“Jean Jaures.”

Between toasts, Nicholai struggled to keep his head and recall his briefings as Voroshenin pushed the conversation toward Guibert’s background.

“There is a cafe in Montpellier,” Voroshenin said casually, “renowned among the locals for its pain au chocolat -”

“Le Rochefort.”

“On the Square of St. Martin.”

“On the Place Ste.-Anne, actually.”

“That’s right.”

Through his thickening head, Nicholai thanked Solange for her attention to detail and incessant drills, even as his head began to swim. But that was the point of drill, after all – just as in the martial arts, repetition trained one to go beyond thought into pure reflex.

Voroshenin kept at it. The Russian invited him to share memories – some true, others false – about restaurants, regional dishes, even the local football side.

Nicholai fended off each probe.

Then Chen started in about Hong Kong. He had been there as a young man, when he had fled the Nationalist police for a while. He waxed on about Victoria Peak, the Peninsula Hotel, the street markets of Kowloon.

“Where did you live?” he asked.

“On the Hill,” Nicholai answered casually, recalling Haverford’s briefing and the fact that staged photographs had been created of him outside Guibert’s home in Hong Kong, pictures that were doubtless in Chen’s file.

Chen then proceeded to ask him about a tea merchant on the Hill that didn’t exist and Nicholai admitted to ignorance of any such place. It would have been a childishly easy trap to avoid had Nicholai been anywhere near sober, but with three brands of strong liquor swirling around his stomach and brain, nothing was easy.

He realized that they had been at the table for nigh unto four hours, and not a jot of business had been discussed.

But I have been vetted, he thought, and now I must wait to see if I’ve passed the tests.

Voroshenin rose unsteadily to his feet. “Back to the office for me, I’m afraid. You know the Kremlin – night owls.”

“It is the same with us,” Yu said, pushing back his chair. Chen steadied him as he got up.

“A pleasure,” Voroshenin said to Nicholai. “Those eyes… I wish I could remember… A countess, would you believe… I will see you at the opera, then? Thursday night?”

“It’s a date,” Nicholai answered.

I will kill you during The Dream of the West Chamber.

Sleep well, Comrade Voroshenin.

26

VOROSHENIN CHOSE TO WALK home from the banquet, to let the cold air attempt to clear the alcohol-induced fog from his head.

One bodyguard walked ahead, the other two kept a pace or so behind him, their hands in their coats, on the butts of their pistols. Idiots, Voroshenin thought. Beijing – especially this quarter – is perhaps the safest city in the world. The criminal class had been mostly exterminated in public executions, and an assassination attempt was highly unlikely. The only people who might try are the Chinese themselves, and if they want to kill me, these three aren’t going to stop them.

But Mao still needs to maintain his crouching posture and suck Stalin’s balls, so we are all pretty safe in China. The greatest risk is being bored to death. Or the related danger of cirrhosis of the liver.

But this Guibert, if that’s his name.