Remo finished the meal with a bowl of steaming rice. It was the kind that clumped together because cooked grains were sticky.
"Japonica," he pronounced. "Grown, I'd say, on the island of Honshu."
Fang Yu stopped, a mouthful of Fragrant Carp on its way to her red mouth.
"How you know that?" she asked, startled.
"I know rice," Remo replied, tweezering another clump to his mouth with an expert flick of his chopsticks.
Fang Yu shrugged and resumed her eating. But her bright eyes glanced toward Remo oftener, and her smile came more easily.
Two hours later, they stepped out into the cold Beijing night, full.
"How hard is it to get a cab in this neighborhood?" Remo wondered, looking up and down the nearly deserted street.
"Nearly impossible," Fang Yu assured him. "I am surprised with you, Remo," she added.
"You mean at me," Remo corrected.
"No, I do not think so. You use your chopsticks like one born in China. And you can tell where the rice comes from by its taste."
"I've been around," Remo said evasively.
They began walking. The wind was cold and Fang Yu impulsively took his arm. Remo did not resist. He had become used to the familiar touch of her hand.
Here in China, he felt different. Back in America, he had learned to watch himself in public, careful not to make new friends or fall into relationships. It had been especially difficult these last few months, after an artist's conception of his face had been plastered on several consecutive editions of the National Enquirer, which claimed he was an evolutionary superman. For over a year, Remo couldn't move openly through the US. Lately Smith had agreed that memories of his face had faded. But only after Remo had pointed out that the National Enquirer wasn't like the National Geographic. People didn't stockpile their copies. They filled them full of coffee grounds and threw them away.
Here, in China, cut off from Chiun, he stuck out like a sore thumb, but strangely, Remo felt more comfortable. Maybe it was the company, he thought, glancing at Fang Yu.
"What are you thinking, Remo?" Fang Yu asked as they crossed a snow-slick street.
"I'm thinking that I'm having a pretty good time," he said truthfully.
"And I am too," Fang Yu said, squeezing his arm slightly.
"But I have a mission. I gotta find that Korean."
"I have told you, there is no word of him yet. What can you do without word?"
"I don't know," Remo admitted. "Guess I'll just hang around Beijing until he shows up."
"Beijing is the nerve center of China. If Old Duck Tang comes to Beijing, or any other place in China; I will hear of it. For no one can move unseen through China for long. China has a billion eyes. He will be seen, his presence will be reported. And I will hear of it."
"How?"
"We have a word. Guanxi. It means 'connections.' I have these connections. If there is word," she repeated firmly, "I will hear of it."
As they walked along, Fang Yu led Remo into a narrow alley.
"What's this?" Remo asked.
"You will see."
They came to a red door in a blank wall. Fang Yu took a key from her purse and opened the lock. She pushed open the door and Remo stepped in carefully.
Sensing no presence inside, he reached out for a light switch. A finger brushed one.
Light flooded a cramped, feminine, but Spartan living room.
"Where are we?" Remo asked as Fang Yu secured the door behind her.
"This is my place," she said shyly. "I have three rooms. I am very lucky to have them."
Except for the Asian-style decoration, the apartment looked like one of the smaller New York City apartments. There was a portable Silver Mudan TV set on a wheeled cart. A beaded curtain made a poor substitute for a divider between living room and bedroom. Beyond the first beaded curtain was a second, and the sound of a refrigerator motor straining.
"Nice," Remo said.
"Is your apartment in America as nice?"
"Not as well-furnished as this," Remo said with a straight face.
"Perhaps I will see it someday," Fang Yu said, going to a tabletop cassette deck. It looked like a fifteen-dollar Times Square special, but it occupied a place of honor on the table and looked as if it was religiously washed clean every day.
"You like disco?" Fang Yu asked, inserting a cassette.
"No," Remo said quickly. Polite was one thing, but disco another.
Fang Yu turned. "No?" she asked. "I was hoping you would show me the latest disco dance."
"It's called the lambada and it's not at all like disco. You dance close together."
"You show me how to do it?"
"Really, really close," Remo added. "I don't think I know you well enough for the lambada yet."
Fang Yu looked confused. "You do not want to dance with me?" she asked unhappily.
"Actually, I'm a terrible dancer," Remo said. "Honest."
"You not dance at all?"
"Never."
"Oh," said Fang Yu. "When you take American girl out on date, what do you usually do with her after you have eaten in an excellent restaurant as we have?"
Remo had to think about that one.