face, but I knew it was him. He wore a ring on his finger. I gave it to him. They were his hands. I know! I know they were! What are you trying to say to me?’
Although their table was secluded, she had raised her voice enough for some diners to turn their heads in her direction. She was glad of that, she felt frightened and lonely. The crowded restaurant reassured her.
‘Do keep your voice down. They were right.’
‘Who was right?’
‘They were. You can be very strong when you are angry. That’s what they told me. So please calm down. This meeting is merely to let you know that they haven’t forgotten you.’
The good food, the restaurant, were forgotten. This Chinese man, with his Western ways but Oriental habits, had taken her back in time to her years in China and before. Her husband; the thrill and excitement of her discoveries in Oriental medicine; and her disillusion with the great Chinese revolution, experiment in politics, too much experiment in politics, yet so often, following the history of Europe. For Tsars, read the Commissars; for royalty, read the Manchus. Then Nazism, Fascism, Communism, with democracy struggling to win through.
Her face had whitened, and she lowered her eyes to avoid his gaze. He had just said she was strong when she was angry. If only he knew the inner turmoil she was suffering!
She continued staring at the table top and said quietly, ‘They,’ she emphasised the word by repeating it slowly. ‘They. Are you trying to tell me that “they” murdered my husband?’
‘I did not say that. It’s good to hear you speaking quietly. Now listen carefully; they have reason to believe that you will be approached by people here …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen to me, please. Approached by people here,’ he repeated, ‘hoping that you can assist them …’
Again she interrupted him with, ‘Assist them in what way? For God’s sake stop talking like a spy!’
‘Assist them.’ He was unmoved by her impatience, speaking now with a flat, even, hard tone of voice. ‘To investigate thecauses of the mysterious deaths occurring at this time to help them solve the ENDS problem.’
‘What could I possibly do to help them?’
‘You alone will know that, and you owe much to China, do you not?’
This time fear struck her to the depths of her body, the kind that brings on a feeling of nausea. It reminded her vividly of questioning by the Beijing police.
‘What are you trying to say?’ She looked at Ah-Ming. Did they think they could use her for something, some plan, some plot? Events in her recent past suddenly began to make sense. It was like a jigsaw puzzle; she could at least see where some of the pieces fitted into the pattern. But one thing was certain: she could brush aside his innuendoes about her husband’s death – he was dead, murdered by a drug addict.
‘I don’t consider that I have a debt, as you put it, to China and …’
‘I did not put it that way,’ he interrupted. ‘I said you owe much to China!’
‘That’s the same thing!’
‘No. And what about your husband?’ Ah-Ming watched her with an expression of interest.
She returned it with one of disgust and replied, ‘I know your set-up. For some reason or other you think I can be of use to you, don’t you? I suppose that’s what’s behind this facade of an evening?’
‘I don’t understand you,’ Ah-Ming replied.
‘I think you do,’ Eleanor persisted.
He seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, ‘It’s up to you. But listen carefully.’ Ah-Ming leant forward to give emphasis to his words. ‘Your husband is alive and well, very much alive, and working in China. Otherwise …’
As he continued to speak, she shut herself off from his voice. She began desperately to plan her next move. Shethought she might suddenly get up and run away. Then as quickly, fear that he might be telling the truth about her husband nagged at her brain, holding her back from
Although their table was secluded, she had raised her voice enough for some diners to turn their heads in her direction. She was glad of that, she felt frightened and lonely. The crowded restaurant reassured her.
‘Do keep your voice down. They were right.’
‘Who was right?’
‘They were. You can be very strong when you are angry. That’s what they told me. So please calm down. This meeting is merely to let you know that they haven’t forgotten you.’
The good food, the restaurant, were forgotten. This Chinese man, with his Western ways but Oriental habits, had taken her back in time to her years in China and before. Her husband; the thrill and excitement of her discoveries in Oriental medicine; and her disillusion with the great Chinese revolution, experiment in politics, too much experiment in politics, yet so often, following the history of Europe. For Tsars, read the Commissars; for royalty, read the Manchus. Then Nazism, Fascism, Communism, with democracy struggling to win through.
Her face had whitened, and she lowered her eyes to avoid his gaze. He had just said she was strong when she was angry. If only he knew the inner turmoil she was suffering!
She continued staring at the table top and said quietly, ‘They,’ she emphasised the word by repeating it slowly. ‘They. Are you trying to tell me that “they” murdered my husband?’
‘I did not say that. It’s good to hear you speaking quietly. Now listen carefully; they have reason to believe that you will be approached by people here …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen to me, please. Approached by people here,’ he repeated, ‘hoping that you can assist them …’
Again she interrupted him with, ‘Assist them in what way? For God’s sake stop talking like a spy!’
‘Assist them.’ He was unmoved by her impatience, speaking now with a flat, even, hard tone of voice. ‘To investigate thecauses of the mysterious deaths occurring at this time to help them solve the ENDS problem.’
‘What could I possibly do to help them?’
‘You alone will know that, and you owe much to China, do you not?’
This time fear struck her to the depths of her body, the kind that brings on a feeling of nausea. It reminded her vividly of questioning by the Beijing police.
‘What are you trying to say?’ She looked at Ah-Ming. Did they think they could use her for something, some plan, some plot? Events in her recent past suddenly began to make sense. It was like a jigsaw puzzle; she could at least see where some of the pieces fitted into the pattern. But one thing was certain: she could brush aside his innuendoes about her husband’s death – he was dead, murdered by a drug addict.
‘I don’t consider that I have a debt, as you put it, to China and …’
‘I did not put it that way,’ he interrupted. ‘I said you owe much to China!’
‘That’s the same thing!’
‘No. And what about your husband?’ Ah-Ming watched her with an expression of interest.
She returned it with one of disgust and replied, ‘I know your set-up. For some reason or other you think I can be of use to you, don’t you? I suppose that’s what’s behind this facade of an evening?’
‘I don’t understand you,’ Ah-Ming replied.
‘I think you do,’ Eleanor persisted.
He seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, ‘It’s up to you. But listen carefully.’ Ah-Ming leant forward to give emphasis to his words. ‘Your husband is alive and well, very much alive, and working in China. Otherwise …’
As he continued to speak, she shut herself off from his voice. She began desperately to plan her next move. Shethought she might suddenly get up and run away. Then as quickly, fear that he might be telling the truth about her husband nagged at her brain, holding her back from
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