The Chinese held out his hand, and somewhat unwillingly he passed the doll over.
“Oh, very beautiful! Legs long, feet small!” The Chinese tittered. “You do not like Sheng have. Sheng understand.”
Only when it was back in his pocket was he willing to admit that he had feared he would never get it back at all.
“Soon Sheng show. First tea.” A white smoke-dragon from the pipe mingled with and fought a savage steam- dragon from the teakettle. Seething water rained into a teapot, followed by a mummified snow of fragrant leaves.
“Soon,” Sheng said. “Very soon. Like pot? Very good, very cheap. Nankeen yellow, hundred year make. Have more.”
He nodded. “How did you come to this country, Mr. Sheng?”
The Chinese smiled. “Build railroad. Young man, think far away, all better.” A thin hand pulled reflectively at the long mustache. “Go home, rich.” The Chinese sighed.
“Do you still want to go home?” He found himself suddenly fascinated by this lean, brown, middle-aged man’s history. It was as if he were seeing his own future in some strange Eastern glass. “You agreed that your basement was paradise.”
“Paradise of young man. So he dream. Work railroad. Tear shirt.” The Chinese paused reflectively. “No needle. Ask men, have needle? Piece thread? No have …”
“Yes?”
“Go to town. Saturday. Buy thread. Ask needle, store man no sell. Sell paper, twenty needle. Sheng buy. Say, you want needle? Cost dime. So Sheng here.” The hand fluttered tapered fingers at the little shop, then swooped to pick up the teapot. Perfumed liquid splashed into the cups. “Sheng paradise.”
“I see.”
“Now dream new paradise, many children, many sons, pray for poor Sheng. Young Sheng dream so, this Sheng not. Law Heaven—one paradise each man.”
He nodded, sipping the scalding tea and wondering just how his search for Lara could have gone so far astray as quickly as it had.
Without rising, the Chinese stretched a long arm to one of the shelves and took down a lacquer box. “Now Sheng show. You want much touch, okay touch. Sheng like better you no touch.”
He nodded, setting down his cup. The lid of the box slid in grooves in the sides. Vaguely, he recalled seeing a box of marbles that had opened like that in Antiques. Inside the box was a doll, elaborately dressed, no longer than his hand.
“This Heng-O,” the Chinese explained. “Also same yours.”
He bent nearer to look. It was indeed the same face, as though an Oriental had sculpted Lara, unconsciously adding the racial features such an artist would feel normal and attractive. Her robe was real silk, a costume that might have been worn by a minute empress, aswim with embroidered birds and strange beasts.
“She’s very beautiful,” he told the Chinese. “Very, very beautiful.”
“It so.” Silently the lid slid shut again. “Moon full, she stand here. Joss burn. Only can do that. Sheng funeral rice steam on Sheng grave, she see me, smile, say, ‘You burn joss for me.’ Happy forever.”
He nodded again and drained the last of his tea, grateful for its warmth and cheer. For a moment their eyes met, and he knew that the Chinese was his brother, despite the differences of half a world—and that the Chinese had known it even in the alley.
“I’ve imposed upon your hospitality for too long already, Mr. Sheng,” he said. “I should be going.” He rose.
“No, no!” The Chinese lifted both hands, palms out. “No go before Sheng show stock!”
“If you really want—”
The impassive face split in a broad grin. “You see many things. Tell friends. They come, buy Sheng, sure Mike!”
He tried to recall his friends. There was no one. “I’m afraid you’re the only real friend I’ve got, Mr. Sheng.”
“Then live too much by self. You look!” It was a deck of cards. “Magic charm, bring friend! Learn poker, bridge, rummy. Go ‘round, ‘I want play, no one play.’ Soon many friend!”
He shook his head. “It’s a good idea, but I’m too shy.”
The Chinese sighed. “No charm for shy. No liquor license. Like get mail?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Good! Mail good shy man. Magic charm!” The Chinese held up a shriveled, flattened root.
“Will that really bring mail?”
“Yes! Mail root,” the Chinese said. (Or perhaps, “Male root.”)
It seemed crisp and thin between his fingers. In the dim light, he could have sworn he held an envelope. “I’d like to buy it,” he said. He owed Sheng something anyway for rescuing him from the police.
“No buy. Free! Next time, buy.” A slender thread of red silk held the dried root. “Put ’round neck. Wear below shirt. Plenty mail.”
He did as he was told. A rhythmic booming, muted yet deep, sounded outside. He wanted to ask what it was, but the Chinese spoke first.
