The chance meeting left Redding unsure of how to proceed. He had said that he wouldn’t complicate things and that had been his original intention but so much had already changed. He wanted to open his heart to Lin Ming and let her know how he felt. As he approached an invisible resistance seemed to rise.
“Why are you doing this?” Lin Ming demanded.
“I’m not sure I understand...” Redding started, but he didn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure if she expected an answer or if she had simply meant for him to stay away. He understood a certain amount of resistance. Based on their last meeting that would have been expected, but he wasn’t about to leave. Their chance encounter provided an opportunity that he wasn’t about to squander.
He pulled a chair away from a table for her, meaning that they should sit, but she didn’t move an inch. She just stood there defiantly. So many things had welled inside him that he wanted to say, but it would have been pointless. She wasn’t ready to listen. He knew well enough that her resistance wouldn’t last.
“Lin Ming, don’t ignore me.” He searched her face for a favorable response, but all he saw was sadness in her eyes.
“You promised you wouldn’t make this difficult for me,” she said.
He half expected that. Her words outside the Savory Hotel were loud in his ears, but at least she wasn’t ignoring him.
“I think Ting needs my help,” she said.
“I don’t need any help,” Ting said as she bolted from behind the counter. “You were invited tonight because we knew Redding would be here.”
“What am I supposed to tell my family?”
“Lin Ming, don’t mess this up. This may be your only chance.”
“My only chance at what?”
“Don’t be so stupid!” Ting said. Her acrid remarks were never meant to be spiteful, but the need to make her point often resulted in a caustic affect that had to be smoothed over. “Just talk with Redding, have some tea or maybe go for a walk, but be nice.”
Lin Ming didn’t say a word. She just headed toward the door. Redding wasn’t sure if she was leaving or if he was supposed to follow. A shove from Ting removed all doubt.
* * *
The coolness of the night wasn’t exactly comfortable, nor was it intolerable. Redding offered his jacket to Lin Ming, but she declined. He tried to walk side by side, but due to the narrow confines of the sidewalk she was usually one step ahead of him. Every time he moved next to her, he was jostled out of position by some opposing pedestrian. Along one stretch of sidewalk there were bicycles parked against a wall, which further lessened the useful portion of the walkway. He had been so intent on walking side by side he failed to notice a bicycle lying on its side. He stumbled over the bike, made a less than graceful recovery, and managed to avoid injury. He dismissed the incident as inconsequential, but Lin Ming’s eyes were laden with worry. In that one look he knew she still had feelings for him.
Further along the block the sidewalk had widened and he settled into step next to her. They were close enough that he should have been able to take in her fragrance, but couldn’t. Any scent was lost to the overpowering smell of garlic from one of several eateries. The street was well lit by an array of Chinese signs that had been affixed to buildings and, further down the street, the music of some Chinese pop star could be heard. More than at any other time since his arrival in Suzhou, he felt like a foreigner. The only sense of familiarity was that from Lin Ming. She hadn’t said as much, but he could tell she wanted to be with him. Although she presented a hardened exterior, her resistance had already begun to fade.
“My father will find out and he’ll be angry,” she said, resigned to the inevitable.
“So what can he do? He has already arranged your life. I understand tradition, but there are limits.” Redding suppressed the argument welling up inside. He had already said enough. He wanted to be close to her, not alienate her.
Unwilling to discuss the issue any further, Lin Ming turned the conversation. “What happened to your hand?”
“It’s nothing. I tripped over a curb.” Redding raised his hand and demonstrated its mobility.
“The last time I saw you, you had a swollen face and a black eye. Maybe you’re the kind of person who is accident prone.”
Redding shook his head. His injuries were no accident, and to prolong the lie any further was pointless. He had to tell her the truth, not just about his injuries, but the whole sordid story. He found a place off the sidewalk where they wouldn’t be overheard. His explanation started with an apology for misleading her. Then, he confessed to the illegal activities surrounding the painting. He told her about enlisting Sam and Ting’s help and holding the painting for ransom. He detailed the fight with Joran in the alley, the subsequent beating by the motorcycle gang, and concluded with Jian’s reaction to the money.
“If you gave the painting away, does that mean you will be leaving soon?”
“No, I’m staying. I’m going to teach English.”
One section of the street housed a series of small restaurants. The exhaust fan from one venue vented towards the street as if advertising its cuisine. The smell of garlic and chili hung heavily in the air and Redding willingly pulled the smoky aroma into his nostrils. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and his stomach seized with every passing whiff.
* * *
In an effort to appease Redding’s hunger, Lin Ming selected a restaurant that was short on decor but known for its regional cuisine. The meal started with wonton soup, but it wasn’t particularly flavorful. Redding spooned the liquid back and forth, taking an occasional sip only to fill in the gaps of silence. Their conversation flayed aimlessly, bouncing from one meaningless subject to another. There was one particular matter that he wanted to discuss, but he knew she wasn’t ready.
The pervasive tone of spoken Chinese and the constant shuffling of dishes to and from the kitchen created an unceasing din. To compensate, Redding had to lean forward when he spoke. He had been toying with the changes in lifestyle that he expected while living in China. Using Lin Ming as a sounding board, he tried to validate various expectations. He accepted the fact that a certain amount of adjustment would be required, but that was well within his abilities. Just teaching English would be a sizeable adjustment, but based on his early efforts in the classroom, he didn’t expect it to be overwhelming.
“Your decision to stay, did it have anything to do with me?”
He didn’t exactly answer the question. He reached into his coat pocket and started to withdraw the card that he had purchased earlier. It occurred to him that an admission on his part might have been premature. A denial would have been an outright lie. He wanted more time, a more opportune moment. He shoved the card back into his coat pocket. Although he didn’t answer the question, she may have found her answer in his silence.
She held the chopsticks, poised and ready. She started to reach toward one of the dishes but stopped short, as if she were collecting her thoughts.
“We are each faced with an uncertain, yet different future,” she said.
Her message was somewhat cryptic, but the meaning was understood. Whether he stayed in China or not, she would soon be married. Out of politeness she sampled a few bites from each dish before setting the chopsticks aside. There wasn’t any bitterness in her words, but her voice betrayed a sense of despair.
He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her all evening. The red silk dress could have stopped any man’s heart, but that wasn’t the reason. He just felt closer to her than to anyone he had ever known.
“I’m sure Mei had a hand in this,” Lin Ming said.
“A hand in what?”
“This dress, the teahouse,” she said. “You didn’t think that I just happened to be there, did you?”
“Of course not!” Redding said, but prior to Ting’s outburst that was exactly what he’d thought.
“This wasn’t a coincidence. This was planned by Mei and Ting, but I don’t know how it will
help. I was suspicious when Ting invited me to dinner. The teahouse is always busy in the mornings and tomorrow Sam has to teach. They never go out to eat during the week.”
“It was planned and that’s why you wore that dress?” Redding asked.
“Mei insisted that I wear it. That’s how I know she was part of the plan.”
His mind raced back and forth trying to make sense out of the whole scenario. He couldn’t quite grasp what Mei was trying to accomplish.
“Father says it’s too late,” she said.
“It’s not too late.” He knew she was referring to her pending marriage.
“I think everything is late.”
“It’s never too late, at least not until you’re actually married. Maybe I don’t understand Chinese traditions, but I do know that you should have a say in whom you marry. I’m sorry, but your father is dead wrong to force you into some shitty marriage.”
Without even realizing it, he had withdrawn the envelope from his coat pocket. His timing couldn’t have been worse.
“Redding, what is that?”
“This? It’s a card, for you.” Redding said, handing her the card. “I was waiting for the right moment, but I’m not sure there is one.”
“Then you knew I would be at the teahouse tonight?”
“I didn’t know! I was going to leave it at your mailbox.”
She pulled the card from the envelope and read what had been written inside.
Would you consider marrying a man who once dreamed he was a cello?
“You want to marry me?” Lin Ming asked after an exceptionally long silence.
“Of course I want to marry you,” Redding said. “I know how you’re family oriented and I’m not trying to upset the balance of things, but this could work for us. I could be your family.”
“A family?” She asked.
“What I’m trying to say is that I love you. I’d walk from one side of China to the other just to be with you. So, will you marry me?”
Before Lin Ming could respond, one waitress collided with another, each wielding a tray weighted with dishes, bowls, plates, and cups. The sharp, shrill sound of ceramic crashing to the floor and shattering into hundreds of pieces startled the restaurant diners. Every muscle in Lin Ming’s body tensed before releasing a shudder. Soup, duck, shrimp, broccoli, and black bean sauce along with shards of broken ceramics were spread everywhere. Voices of panic and blame cussed at each other and Lin Ming cringed.
In those few second, behind her eyes, Redding witnessed the unhappiness that held her captive. She hadn’t said as much, but already he knew her answer.
“When could we marry?” she asked.
“Tonight, tomorrow, whenever you’re ready.”
The whole process of cleaning the splattered food and broken dishes had become quite disruptive. Redding pulled some cash from his pocket and tossed it on the table. He took Lin Ming by the hand and they left. No sooner were they outside than Redding stopped short.
“What did you mean when you said, everything was late?”
She broke eye contact with him. She let go of his hand and took a deep breath. Then she looked directly into his face.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
On the other side of the drapes, darkness still loomed. Clad in only a pair of boxers, Joran dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. He felt listless and exhausted. The few hours of sleep he had managed were anything but sound. He snuffed out the cigarette and reached for the phone. The desk clerk who answered reconfirmed his transportation to Pu Dong Airport. She assured him as per his request that a taxi would be waiting upon his departure. With so much at risk he could ill afford not to take every precaution.
He had spent nearly two whole days in the room without as much as a breath of fresh air. With only one cigarette left, he nervously paced while reflecting on the previous day.
* * *
The day before had been hell. Everything added to the boredom, from the chintzy wallpaper to the shag carpet. There was nothing unusual about the room, yet he felt increasingly claustrophobic. He had called the airlines and pleaded for any seat on their afternoon flight to no avail. The flight was fully booked. In spite of his boredom, he wasn’t about to leave the room or the painting unattended.
He endlessly paced the floor, strategizing how best to sell the painting. After considering his options, he tentatively decided to set up a private auction when he finally returned to New York. That would provide the quickest means in which to sell the painting and still ensure a strong return. He knew individuals with money to spend and all would pay through the teeth to have such an extraordinary work of art. Most wouldn’t even know of the artist, let alone the painting, but that wouldn’t stop them from bidding on it. If they liked the painting, they would act like they didn’t, right up until the time the bidding started. For these individuals, a chance to possess something so acclaimed, so exclusive, so enviable outweighed any question of morality. Still, precautions would have to be taken. He could ill afford to make any mistakes. Certainly not like last time.
By mid-afternoon he was down to a half pack of cigarettes. He called room service for a fresh pack, but that soon became a frustrating, futile exercise. Going out for cigarettes was out of the question. He wouldn’t leave the painting unattended for one solitary minute. As much as he hated the idea, he had to ration the few cigarettes he had left.
Housekeeping had become a nuisance, so he placed the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, but that didn’t seem to keep them away. It wasn’t until he lost his temper that they finally left him alone.
Hour by hour the day dragged on. He tried not to think about his financial timeline, but looming in the back of his mind, ever present, was Mr. Azzian. A knot rose in the back of his throat and he tried to wash it down with some scotch and water. Although not his intention, one drink followed another and the day became evening. The accumulation of alcohol in his system brought on drowsiness, which caused him to roll into bed in search of sleep.
Sleep had been elusive. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. He spent the night unboxing the sheets, always on the verge of sleep but not quite there. In the early hours of the morning he drifted off, only to be wakened by amorous noises from an adjoining room.
* * *
The darkness outside had finally given way to daylight, yet every part of him felt tired, listless, and exhausted. His constant pacing had been anything but productive. He dragged himself into the bathroom to shower and shave. He was annoyed that he hadn’t slept well, only because he needed to stay focused and alert, especially during the flight.
With a towel wrapped around his waist he sipped coffee and smoked his last cigarette. After he dressed, he repacked his luggage and placed his passport and ticket in his coat pocket. Then he checked on the painting one last time before leaving the room.
* * *
Other than the tedious, irritating aspect of checking out, the whole process was handled in a timely manner and without incident. His luggage had been loaded into the trunk of a taxi, but the folded garment bag he kept with him in the back seat. He had the doorman confirm his destination with the driver so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings. Then the taxi pulled away from the hotel and merged into traffic.
There wasn’t anything peculiar about the driver other than that he wore thick glasses and sat hunched over the steering wheel. Like all taxis drivers, he was surrounded by a Plexiglas structure meant for his safety and protection, but the enclosure severely limited conversation.
“Go Pu Dong Airport?” the driver asked in a voice loud enough to escape the confines of the Plexiglas enclosure.
“Yes, Pu Dong Airport.” Joran said in disbelief. The hotel doorman had just confirmed his destination in Chinese not two minutes before.
“Go America?” The driver asked.
“Yes, go America!” Joran said, desperately hoping that the two-hour drive wouldn’t become a practice session of the English language.
Af
ter the taxi cleared the city boundaries, Joran slouched down into the seat and relaxed. There wasn’t anything special about the scenery, at least not anything that would occupy his thoughts. He had stared at the fallowed fields and mundane scenery long enough that he no longer saw them. His thoughts settled on Mr. Azzian. Their conversation hadn’t been an easy one, but he managed to convince him to wire the five hundred thousand. At any other time, he would have negotiated for better terms, but faced with a deadline he was in a weak position. He agreed with the terms but the money didn’t come cheap. He had to repay seven hundred thousand, and all within thirty days. He could still hear the conversation with Mr. Azzian in his head.
“This is a lot of money, but you came through in the past, so I’m going to do this for you, but you mess up, it’s going to be very unpleasant. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“You better be damned sure!” Mr. Azzian said. “’Cause I’m definitely not the kind of person that’ll listen to excuses.”
“I know what I am doing. There won’t be any problems.”
Joran knew exactly what Mr. Azzian was talking about. He had heard stories about the atrocities meted out to those who had failed to repay their debt, and Joran had every reason to believe they were true. Once, Mr. Azzian had shown him a jar of formaldehyde that he kept in his office. Floating inside the yellow-hued liquid was a severed human penis and testicles.
“This used to belong to some college boy who thought he could have his way with my daughter. She told him no, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I turned him into a bitch! My point is this: Don’t ever screw with me,” Mr. Azzian said.
Having a scalpel held to his manhood wasn’t something Joran ever wanted to think about, but owing seven hundred thousand put the thought at the forefront of his mind. It wasn’t until the painting had been delivered that he was able to breathe a little easier. Prior to that, he had been existing in a hyper state of fear. The worst part was in not knowing exactly what would happen if he failed to repay the debt, and that terrified him. In all likelihood, when Mr. Azzian was through with him, he would be dead.