punishment, leaving Raoul without a partner. Before Johan, there was Vlad, and before Vlad, there was Rudy, who used to sneak out of the dorm late at night and wander the streets of New Beijing aimlessly, carrying a lock of hair thathe said belonged to his dog. There were also a couple of others whose names I forget.
In any event, Frank uses the top bunk now as extra storage space for all of his junk. From the look of things, he’s brought back souvenirs from every mission he and Lydia have been on plus all of his solo missions. If Lydia did the same, I’m betting the two of them could make a killing holding a garage sale. Some of Frank’s stuff, like the coins and pocket watches, doesn’t take up that much space, but throw in the upper half of a seventeenth-century suit of armor, a twentieth-century wet suit and a fifteenth-century crossbow, and that bed fills up in no time.
I’m tired. Two snatches is a lot for one day. Of course, Uncle wouldn’t call it two because I came back empty-handed from China. Well, I don’t want to think about that right now.
I let my thoughts wander, and an image from Beijing pops into my head—of the father swinging his young son through the air. I wish I had known my own father. The way Uncle tells it, just before she died, my mother signed the papers giving me up for adoption. “Your father was never in the picture, Caleb. He abandoned you and your mother right after you were born,” was all he said.
For a long time I used to think Uncle made up the whole story of me being adopted so that I’d see him as a hero, saving me from a life on the streets. And if it was a lie, I figured, then Uncle must have kidnapped me—grabbed me away from my parents just like Frank is going to do to that kid. Which, quite frankly, is what I wanted to believe. I just couldn’t stand to think of my parents as being dead or as having abandoned me. But now I don’t know what I think. A few times, I came close to traveling to my own past to find out the truth. But I stopped myself each time, afraid that if I did go back and found out the real truth, it would be too much for me to handle.
I reach under my bunk and search until I feel the driftwood. It’s in its usual spot snug between the bed frame and the mattress.
I found the hand-sized piece of driftwood three years ago on a mission to Tofino, Canada. I read once that real artists don’t start with a fixed idea of what their sculpture’s going to be. Instead, they try to uncover the sculpture from the piece of stone or wood. I don’t consider myself an artist, but I like that idea: taking layers off of something to discover what’s really underneath. It took me a whole year to figure out what my wood carving was going to be. I’m fairly sure that I’m uncovering a face, but the jury’s still out on whose.
My progress is slow, but I’ve got it to the point where you can see a bit of the nose and the eyes.
I flip the wood around and look at it from different angles. I wonder if it will have a happy or sad expression.
Running my fingers along the surface, I allow my mind and body to relax. With any luck, I can make some good progress before it’s time for supper. But after about a minute, I find it hard to keep my eyes open.
Nassim’s voice over the intercom wakes me.
“Good evening, people. Dinner will be in five minutes. The word for this evening is
piào liàng
, translation: ‘beautiful.’ Everyone must use this word in a sentence at dinner this evening.”
I groan. Uncle has been on this Mandarin kick for about a month now. He’s convinced that, with the Great Friendship, it’s just a matter of time before Mandarin becomes the language of choice for conducting business in the West. Don’t get me wrong. I like learning new languages as much as the next guy. But does it have to happen at mealtime?
With some effort, I trudge to the bathroom and wash my face. No matter how tightly I close the tap, water still drips from the
In any event, Frank uses the top bunk now as extra storage space for all of his junk. From the look of things, he’s brought back souvenirs from every mission he and Lydia have been on plus all of his solo missions. If Lydia did the same, I’m betting the two of them could make a killing holding a garage sale. Some of Frank’s stuff, like the coins and pocket watches, doesn’t take up that much space, but throw in the upper half of a seventeenth-century suit of armor, a twentieth-century wet suit and a fifteenth-century crossbow, and that bed fills up in no time.
I’m tired. Two snatches is a lot for one day. Of course, Uncle wouldn’t call it two because I came back empty-handed from China. Well, I don’t want to think about that right now.
I let my thoughts wander, and an image from Beijing pops into my head—of the father swinging his young son through the air. I wish I had known my own father. The way Uncle tells it, just before she died, my mother signed the papers giving me up for adoption. “Your father was never in the picture, Caleb. He abandoned you and your mother right after you were born,” was all he said.
For a long time I used to think Uncle made up the whole story of me being adopted so that I’d see him as a hero, saving me from a life on the streets. And if it was a lie, I figured, then Uncle must have kidnapped me—grabbed me away from my parents just like Frank is going to do to that kid. Which, quite frankly, is what I wanted to believe. I just couldn’t stand to think of my parents as being dead or as having abandoned me. But now I don’t know what I think. A few times, I came close to traveling to my own past to find out the truth. But I stopped myself each time, afraid that if I did go back and found out the real truth, it would be too much for me to handle.
I reach under my bunk and search until I feel the driftwood. It’s in its usual spot snug between the bed frame and the mattress.
I found the hand-sized piece of driftwood three years ago on a mission to Tofino, Canada. I read once that real artists don’t start with a fixed idea of what their sculpture’s going to be. Instead, they try to uncover the sculpture from the piece of stone or wood. I don’t consider myself an artist, but I like that idea: taking layers off of something to discover what’s really underneath. It took me a whole year to figure out what my wood carving was going to be. I’m fairly sure that I’m uncovering a face, but the jury’s still out on whose.
My progress is slow, but I’ve got it to the point where you can see a bit of the nose and the eyes.
I flip the wood around and look at it from different angles. I wonder if it will have a happy or sad expression.
Running my fingers along the surface, I allow my mind and body to relax. With any luck, I can make some good progress before it’s time for supper. But after about a minute, I find it hard to keep my eyes open.
Nassim’s voice over the intercom wakes me.
“Good evening, people. Dinner will be in five minutes. The word for this evening is
piào liàng
, translation: ‘beautiful.’ Everyone must use this word in a sentence at dinner this evening.”
I groan. Uncle has been on this Mandarin kick for about a month now. He’s convinced that, with the Great Friendship, it’s just a matter of time before Mandarin becomes the language of choice for conducting business in the West. Don’t get me wrong. I like learning new languages as much as the next guy. But does it have to happen at mealtime?
With some effort, I trudge to the bathroom and wash my face. No matter how tightly I close the tap, water still drips from the
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