At the Heart of the Universe by Samuel Shem Page B

new skyscrapers are everywhere.
    Chinese Culture Camp has taken them through one dirty, noisy, polluted city of five million after another, seeking out tourist sites among the ratcheted construction and rising nondescript buildings. Changsha—like many of the other cities—could almost be Anywhere, USA, say, Atlanta. The China that they fell in love with ten years before has mostly vanished. Changsha traffic is fierce; driving, perilous. Before, there were few cars and a million bikes; now it seems the reverse. The roads are jammed. There used to be only a few traffic lights, now there are many—mostly ignored. Instead of Mao hanging from the taxi’s rearview mirror for good luck, it’s Michael Jordan. Their taxi driver acts like a kid with a new toy. The ride is heart-stopping. Pep and Clio white-knuckle their seats. After a few close calls, even Katie curls down in the backseat covering her eyes. Whenever Clio sees a young woman in a long white dress she scans her face, looking for her .
    The Jiangjiang Hotel has survived. Pep gets out of the cab and reenacts with Katie what he said to her the first time, bringing her back from the orphanage:
    â€œKatie Chun, this is your hotel !”
    Ten years ago, it was the best hotel in Changsha. Now it is shabby. In the lobby are several elegantly dressed “ladies of the night”—Clio can’t help but scan their faces too. In one of the private function rooms, there is karaoke—a man in a cheap suit up in front of his fellow workers, mike in hand, singing along with a woman in a bikini on TV. But the shabbiness makes it seem quaint, campy, even funky. Pep has difficulty explaining to the manager that they need his help in finding the room on the ninth floor where they lived during their first week with their baby. Like most Chinese who know English, he speaks a stiff, formal, textbook style. Even in five-star hotels, the translations of signs are literal, and often comical. Yesterday when they checked into the Grand Sun they laughed out loud at the sign over the courtesy phone in the lobby: “TOURISTS COMPLAINING PHONE.” Two days ago, south of Chengdu, at the colossal Grand Buddha of Leshan, the brochure started out okay—“At 71 meters he is the biggest ancient stone carved figure of Buddha in the world”—but then floated out into a religious/historical morass—“He was originated and built for reducing flood and serving for mass by monk Hai Tong rabbi in Tang dynasty.”
    Finally the manager understands, and accompanies them to floor nine. The wide, red-carpeted, dim hallway still has the same smell—pungent, earthy, mushroomy—with a hint of antiseptic. Four girls in scarlet uniforms are still there to attend to the wishes of the ninth-floor guests, though the rack of Communist propaganda is gone. Pep and Clio remember that the room is on the right side near the end of the hallway, facing the street where, every morning, a street cleaner truck playing a calliope tune awoke them, but they aren’t sure which room it is. They choose 921.
    It is much smaller than they recall, like returning to your hometown as a grown-up. Someone is occupying the room, but they aren’t there. A mahjong game lies orphaned on a low table. But it is much the same as it was—two single beds, a tiny refrigerator, large chrome thermoses of boiled water. They go into the small bathroom.
    â€œWe gave you your first bath here,” Clio says, “right there in the sink. It was the first time you made a sound—you wailed! In the orphanage, you never made a single sound.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWe don’t know—you were all bundled up, and peaceful. It’s a mystery.”
    Katie wonders at that, that she didn’t make a sound. Why not? Was I scared? Weird not to know why. She looks at her mom, who is inspecting the bathroom as if it has some secret passage in it. A mystery? Like