Neal got back to the Hopkins, found Blue Line Transportation in the Yellow Pages, dialed the number, and found out that the old Number four plied a route from downtown San Francisco to Mill Valley, where it dropped its passengers at “the Terminal Bookstore.” Neal wondered if the Terminal Bookstore specialized in texts for morticians, but was generally willing to ride any bus that ended its journey at a bookstore. He had an hour and a half to catch the two-twenty from Montgomery Street in the Financial District.
He went down to the gift shop in the hotel basement and picked up a guidebook to the Bay Area. The index told him that he could read about Mill Valley on page sixty-four, where he learned that Mill Valley was a charming little village in Marin County, nestled on the southern base of Mount Tamalpais, just a few minutes’ drive from the Golden Gate Bridge.
Neal bought a copy of the book and a bright blue vinyl tube bag that proclaimed “I Left My ¦ in San Francisco,” and headed back to his room.
He ordered a cheeseburger from room service and started to pack the tube bag. The last bus back from Mill Valley left at 9:00 P.M. and seeing as he didn’t have any idea what he was going to do, he didn’t know if he’d be done doing it by then, so he packed for an overnight: a black sweater, black jeans, black tennis shoes, gloves, burglary kit, and two thousand dollars in cash. He took a quick shower, changed into a fresh shirt, and put his khaki slacks and all-purpose blue blazer, rep tie, and loafers back on.
The costume made him more forgettable than he was already. With his medium build, medium height, brown hair, and brown eyes, he could have been the poster boy for Anonymous Anonymous.
He wolfed down the eight-dollar cheeseburger, then took his tube bag, his paperback copy of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and his unremarkable looks and headed out to catch the two-twenty.
Like a lot of voyages, this one was born of desperation. There was no reason for him to expect that Pendleton and Lila should be in Mill Valley, and no way for him to locate them even if they were. But the tickets to Mill Valley were the only leads he had, so he might as well pursue them. The only other option was to put a call in to Friends and tell them he had blown it, and that was no option at all.
So he figured he’d just take the ride to Mill Valley, snoop around a little, and see what he could see. Maybe he’d have one of those rare instances of dumb luck and run into Pendleton on the bus. Maybe find him at the Terminal Bookstore, poring over the latest issue of Chickenshit Illustrated Maybe he’d waste an afternoon chasing a wild goose.
But there were worse fates than cruising across the Golden Gate Bridge on a sunny California afternoon. After six months in the rain and fog of a Yorkshire moor, the blue sky and open vista made Neal a little giddy. His cynical heart raced a bit, his jaded New York eyes widened, and his sardonic agent-for-hire leer opened into a smile as he rolled across the bridge, the Pacific on the left, the Bay on the right.
Just a natural-born tourist on an outing, he thought as the bus pulled into Mill Valley. A chameleon, a mere ripple in the shadows: the unobserved observer.
He stood out like a hard-on in a harem.
Nobody in Mill Valley wore a tie, Neal saw, and if anyone wore a jacket, it had leather fringe on it. Everyone was wearing plaid cotton shirts with denim overalls, or denim workshirts and painter’s pants, or actual robes. And a lot of sandals, running shoes, and biker boots.
Neal, on the other hand, looked like a Young Republican in need of an enema. Like a Ronald Reagan delegate at a communist party meeting. Like a rookie insurance agent going to sell term-life to Abbie Hoffman.
As he stepped off the bus, the locals gathered around the Terminal Bookstore actually stared at him. He couldn’t have been any more conspicuous if he had been wearing a sandwich board reading, UPTIGHT, UNCOOL, NON-JOGGING, MEAT-EATING, EAST COAST, URBAN NEOFASCIST WHO DOESN’T MEDITATE. Even the mellow dogs lying under the benches pricked up their ears and started to whine with unaccustomed anxiety, as if expecting Neal to slip a leash on them or otherwise impede their freedom to revel the oneness of nature.
The intellectuals playing chess at the outdoor wooden tables paused in their deliberations to stare at Neal’s neckwear. A couple of the older, kinder ones shook their heads in the sadness of a dim memory when they themselves had been similarly encumbered. Three teenagers who were sharing a joint suddenly developed a need to scamper to the trash barrel, which was painted a deep forest green. A winsome young lady playing a wooden flute stopped her warbling and hugged her instrument tightly to her breasts, as if afraid that Neal might snatch it out of her hand and use it to beat a kitten to death.
Neal wished he were naked-he would have felt less self-conscious. But there he stood, fully clad, in beautiful Mill Valley.
And it was beautiful, set in a hollow edged by steep hills made green with pines, cedars and redwoods. Houses built from these native woods blended into the slopes, and their cantilevered decks kept watch over the village. Coffee shops, restaurants, and art studios framed the main square, which was actually a triangle, the apex of which was occupied by the Terminal Bookstore.
The fast-running brook that bordered the west side of the village provided a natural air-conditioning effect; the air was cool and crisp-even cold in the shadows-and people found spots in the sunshine to sit and consider the world. The world seemed a pretty nice place from Mill Valley, as if its citizens had gotten the Sixties right, frozen the best parts of it here, and made them work. The world seemed pretty nice, that is, unless you were wearing a button-down oxford shirt, blue blazer, and polished black loafers.
Neal sought cover in a coffee shop across the street. It had floor-to-ceiling picture windows on three sides. The walls, floors, and counters were made of polished pine, and wooden stools were set by the wraparound bar. A middle-aged blond women smiled at him as he walked in, attractive wrinkles of laughter and sunshine crinkling around her brown eyes. She was wearing a fire-engine red chamois shirt over faded denims.
“What would you like?” she asked.
“One black coffee to go,”
She stared at him sympathetically.
“What kind?” she asked.
“Black.”
She pointed at a blackboard behind her on which about a dozen brands of coffee were written.
“Uuuuhhh,” said Neal, “Mozambique Mocha.”
“Decaf?”
He felt a sudden burst of courage and defiance.
“Caf,” he said. “Double caf, if you have any.”
She came back a few moments later and handed him a Styrofoam cup.
“You really should drink decaf,” she said as she looked pointedly at his attire. “Really. You looked wired.”
“I am wired.”
“See?”
“I like being wired.”
“It’s an addiction.” “It is.”
“Try herbal,” she said with great sincerity. It was clear to Neal that she was convinced he was dying.
“Herbal coffee?” he asked.
“It’s so good.”
“And so good for you?”
“You should meditate,” she said as she poured him his poison. “Unwind.”
“Nah, then I’d just have to get all wound up again.”
He took his black, caffeinated Mozambique Mocha and sat on a bench in the square. He sipped at his coffee and wondered what to do next. He had been in Mill Valley for at least five minutes and neither Pendleton nor Lila had shown up yet. Didn’t they realize he was on a tight schedule? Oh, well, he thought, when in Mill Valley… He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, set his coffee down, and leaned back, raising his face to the late-afternoon sunshine. Maybe I should meditate, he thought. Maybe if I meditate hard enough I can make Pendleton appear. Better yet, Lila.
Her name wasn’t Lila, it was Li Lan. She wasn’t a prostitute, she was a painter. And she wasn’t as beautiful as she was in the snapshot. She was far more beautiful.
Neal stared at the two photographs of her on a poster at the Terminal Bookstore. The poster promoted a showing of her paintings at a local gallery called Illyria. “Shan Shui by Li Lan,” it read, and included black-and-white photos of several paintings: large, sprawling landscapes featuring mountains mirrored in rivers and lakes. The photos of Li Lan were arranged so that in one she appeared to be contemplating her work, while in the other she stared out at the viewer. It was this image that captivated Neal. Her face was open and unprotected. All the lines of sorrow and happiness were there for him to read. Gentleness lit her eyes.
We never learn, he thought. We assumed she was a hooker because of who we are.
He had only seen the poster because he had quickly become bored with meditating and wandered over to the bookstore to entertain himself. The bookstore turned out to be also a cafe and cabaret and who knows what else, and it had a bulletin board announcing local events, one of which was Li Lan’s show.
The Illyria Gallery was right across the street, three doors down from the coffee shop. He had been looking right at it as he sat on the bench.
He didn’t dick around browsing for books or consuming java or eating. Instead, he bought a copy of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, found a phone booth with a directory, and called the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco. He got put on hold several times before he got a staffer who was willing to have a phone conversation with a student doing a research paper.
The bleached wooden door to Illyria was set back between two plate-glass display windows that featured large acrylic landscapes by Li Lan. The interior was a large, whitewashed, open room in which canvas partitions had been hung at strategic angles to display paintings and prints. A few bleached wood stands held small sculptures, and brightly colored printed textiles hung from the high ceiling like sails in a low breeze. A larger version of the poster he had seen was set on an easel just inside the door.
A woman sat behind a desk writing in a ledger book.
“‘And what should I do in Illyria?’” Neal asked her.
“Buy something, I hope,” she answered. She was small and maybe in her early forties, with thick, shiny black hair pulled back severely from her face. Her blue eyes were also shiny; she had a small, aquiline nose and thin lips. She wore a black jersey dress and black ballet shoes.
Neal couldn’t tell whether she was impressed with his erudition, but she sure did notice the “I Left My ¦ in San Francisco” bag.
“Can I show you something?” she asked.
Like the door, maybe?
“Are you the owner?”
“I am. Olivia Kendall.”
“Olivia… hence the gallery’s name.”
“Not many people who walk in here make the connection.”
“Twelfth Night might be my favorite Shakespeare. Let me see… ‘When my eyes did see Olivia first-Methought she purged the air of pestilence…’ How’s that?”
She stepped out from behind the desk.
“That’s pretty good. What can I do for you?”
“I came to see the Li Lans.”
“Are you a dealer?”
“No, I just have a strong interest in Chinese painting.”
Since about an hour ago.
“Good for you. We’ve sold several. Tomorrow is the last day of the show.”
“I’m not sure I’m buying.”
“You’ll wish you had. Two of the purchases were museum buys.”
“May I look at them?”
“Please.”
Neal didn’t know a lot about art. He had been to the Met twice, one on a school trip and once on a date with Diane. He didn’t hate art, he just didn’t care about it.
Until he saw Li Lan’s paintings.
They were all mirror images. Steep, dramatic cliffs reflected in water. Swirling pools in rushing rivers that showed distorted images of the mountains above. Their colors were bright and dramatic-almost fierce, Neal thought, as if the paints were passions fighting to escape… something.
“Shan Shui,” he said. “‘Mountains and Water,’ a reference to the Sung Dynasty form of landscape painting?”
Like the nice lady at the museum told me?
Olivia Kendall’s face lit up with surprise. “Who are you?” she asked.
I don’t know, Mrs. Kendall.
“And she certainly shows a southern Sung-Mi Fei-influence,” Neal continued. He felt like he was back in a seminar, discussing a book he hadn’t read. “Very impressionistic, but still within the broader frame of the northern Sung polychromatic tradition.”
“Yes, yes!” Olivia nodded enthusiastically. “But the wonderful thing about Li Lan’s work is that she has pushed the ancient technique almost to its breaking point by using modern paints and Western colors. The duality of the mirror images reflects-literally-both the conflict and harmony between the ancient and the modern. That’s her metaphor, really.”
“China’s metaphor, as well, I think,” Neal said, grateful that Joe Graham wasn’t there to hear him.
Neal and Olivia slowly examined the paintings, Olivia translating the titles from Chinese: Black and White Streams Meet; Pool With Ice Melting; On Silkworm’s Eyebrow-this last showing a narrow trail up a steep slope beneath the reflection of a rainbow.
Then they came to the painting. A gigantic precipice was shown reflected in what seemed to be the fog and mist of the bottomless chasm below. On the edge of the cliff sat a painter, a young woman with a blue ribbon in her hair, looking down into the chasm, and her mirror image-the saddest face Neal had ever seen-stared back up from the mists. It was Li Lan’s metaphor: a woman sitting serenely with her art and at the same time also lost in an abyss.
The face in the mists was the focal point, and it drew Neal’s eye down and in, down and in, falling off the precipice until he felt as if he were trapped in the abyss, looking back up at the face of the painter, up the impossibly steep cliff. In the cool of the northern California dusk his hands began to sweat.
“What’s this one called?” he asked.
“The Buddha’s Mirror.”
“It’s incredible.”
“Li Lan is incredible.”
“How well do you know her?”
Yeah, lady, how well? Well enough to tell me where she is? Who she’s with?
“She stays with us when she’s in the States.”
Careful, Neal, he told himself. Let’s be nice and careful.
“She’s not a local, then?”
“To Hong Kong, she is. I’d say she comes over here every couple of years or so.”
“Is she here now?” he heard himself ask, wondering as he said it if he was moving too quickly.
He felt more than saw Olivia Kendall’s curious stare and kept his eyes focused on the painting.
“Yes, she is,” Olivia said carefully.
What the hell, he decided, let’s roll the big dice.
“I have a great idea,” Neal said. “Let me take all of us out to dinner. Mr. Kendall, as well. Is there a Mr. Kendall?”
Olivia looked at him real hard for a second and then started to laugh.
“Yes, there is definitely a Mr. Kendall. There is also a Mr. Li, so to speak.”
“I’m afraid I don’t catch your drift.”
Okay, okay. Just tell me that she’s otherwise engaged, all right?
“Are you interested in her paintings or in her? Not that I blame you-she’s drop-dead gorgeous.” She reached out and patted his arm. “Sorry. You’re a little young, and she’s very involved.”
Bingo.
Okay, Neal, he told himself-think. How about The Book of Joe Graham, Chapter Three, Verse Fifteen: “Tell people what they want to hear, and they’ll believe it. Most people aren’t naturally suspicious like you and me. They only see one layer deep. You make that top layer look real, you’re home free.”
He looked Olivia Kendall right in the eyes, always a useful thing to do when you’re lying.
“Ms. Kendall,” he said, “these are the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen. Meeting their creator would make me very happy.”
She was an art lover, and he was counting on that. She wanted to believe that a young man could find art so moving that he had to meet the artist. He knew it had far less to do with her perception of him than with her perception of herself.
“You’re very sweet,” she said, “but I’m afraid we have plans. In fact, Lan is making dinner tonight. Some Chinese home cooking.”
“I’ll bring my own chopsticks…”
“Seriously, who are you?”
“That’s a complicated question.”
“Shall we begin with an easy one? What’s your name?”
That’s not as easy as you might think, Olivia. My mother gave me the “Neal,” and we just sort of settled on the “Carey.”
“Neal Carey.”
“Now that wasn’t so hard. And what do you do, Neal Carey, when you aren’t inviting yourself to dinner?”
“I’m a graduate student at Columbia University.”
“In…”
“New York.”
“I meant what’s your major?”
“Art history,” he said, and regretted it as soon as the syllables were out of his mouth. That was a really stupid mistake, he thought, seeing as everything you know about art history is scribbled on a spiral pad in your pocket. Joe Graham would be ashamed of you. Oh, well, too late now. “I’m writing my thesis on the anti-Manchu messages encoded in Qing Dynasty paintings.”
Oh, God, was it Qing or Ming? Or neither, or all of the above?
“You’re kidding.”
Oh, please, don’t let that be “You’re kidding” as in, “You’re kidding, that’s what I did my thesis on.”
“No.”
“That’s hopelessly remote.”
“People often say the same thing about me.”
“How did you come to be interested in something so obscure?”
“I revel in the obscure.”
Which is true, he thought. My real thesis is on the themes of social alienation in Smollett’s novels. So feel sorry for me and invite me to dinner.
“Listen,” Olivia said, “tonight really is a private sort of evening. But I’m sure Lan will come in tomorrow to help close the show down. Could you come back then? Maybe we could have lunch.”
Yeah, and maybe you’ll tell Li Lan and Dr. Bob about the interesting visitor you had in the shop and they’ll take off. Maybe you’ve already seen through my act.
“I’m going home tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry,” she said. Then, as if offering a consolation prize, she warbled, “Did I give you a brochure? It has photos of the paintings.”
She reached over to one of the pedestals and handed him one of the slick, four-color catalogs.
“Thank you. Do you think you could ask Li Lan to sign this for me?”
“You can ask her yourself. Here she is.”
I didn’t even hear the door, I’m so out of shape, Neal thought.
Then he stopped thinking altogether and fell in love and it was just like falling off the edge of a cliff into the clouds. Falling toward Li Lan in the mists.
Olivia said, “Li Lan, Neal Carey. Neal Carey, Li Lan. Neal is a big fan of your work.”
It took her a moment to work out the slang, then she flushed slightly, struggling to set down the two grocery bags she was holding. She put them down on the floor and then bowed her head ever so slightly to Neal. “Thank you.”
Neal was surprised to feel himself also blushing, and more surprised to notice that he bowed back. “Your paintings are beautiful.”
She was small, and a little thinner than he would have thought from her pictures. She was wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and black jeans, and still looked elegant. Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail tied with a blue ribbon. Those gentle brown eyes sparkled like sunshine on autumn leaves.
“I went to the city,” she told Olivia, “to do some special shopping for dinner tonight.”
“You should have had Tom or Bob bring you. I’ll call Tom to come pick you up.”
“I can walk,” she said. “It is a beautiful day. And they are busy speaking about garden.”
“I’m calling them.”
Li Lan nodded her head. “According to your thought.”
“Neal is a student of Chinese art history,” Olivia said.
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit.
“Truly?” asked Li Lan.
Well, no.
“He is doing research on Qing Dynasty painting. Something political.”
Had he been alert, had he been in true working shape, he might have noticed Li’s slight wince on the word political. She turned those eyes to him as she said, “Ah, yes… Chinese paintings can mean many different things at same time. Picture of single flower is picture of single flower but also picture about loneliness. Qing picture of-what is word?-goldfish… shows just fish, not fish in water. Perhaps is about Chinese people with no country. Perhaps is about just goldfish.”
“Do your paintings mean many different things?” Neal asked. His voice sounded funny to him, thin and hollow.
She laughed. “No, they are merely pictures.”
“Of real places?”
“To me.” She smiled shyly and then turned stone-serious and looked down at the floor.
No wonder he loves her, Neal thought. Run away, Doctor Bob, run away. Take her with you or follow her where she goes, but don’t let her go.
Suddenly he was desperate to keep the conversation going. “Are you speaking about the reality of the mind?”
She looked up at him and said, “It is the only reality, truly.”
“You two have so much to discuss,” Olivia said. It was one of those unspoken questions women are so good at asking each other. Do you want to invite this guy to the dinner? Would Bob mind? It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.
“I think then he must join us for dinner,” Li Lan said. “Is that all right?”
“What a good idea!” Olivia said, as if the thought had never occurred to her or to Neal, even though all three of them knew exactly what had transpired.
“I must warn you, I do the cooking. Is it still all right?”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“It is not, but I would be delighted.”
“Eight o’clock?” Olivia asked them both.
“Great,” Neal said.
“Very good,” said Li Lan. “Now I better be going, get busy.”
“I’ll call Tom.”
“No, please. I can walk.” “The bags look heavy,” Neal said. “Not very heavy.”
Olivia shook her head and said to Neal, “She’s a tough lady.” Li Lan flexed her biceps and made a ferocious face. “Oh, yes. Very tough.” Then she dissolved into seemingly helpless laughter. Neal knew all about helpless right then.
So he did something he knew how to do. He went to the library. Maybe it would settle him down, and God only knew he needed to bone up on Chinese art. Jesus, he thought, why did I have to come up with that stupid lie? I know better than to overreach like that.
Settle down, he told himself. So Li Lan is beautiful, so what? You knew that coming in. So she’s an artist instead of a hooker? So what? You know some nasty artists and some pretty nice hookers, so don’t jump to conclusions. So she did a painting that sucked your soul into a vortex, so what? It’s not much of a soul to begin with.
So why are you so obsessed with Li Lan? Pendleton is the subject. So shake it off. Cool out. This is just another job, another gig, and the endgame is to send Pendleton home, stop his California dreaming, and get him back to the lab. Then you can go back to your own desk. So do it.
So do what? What now? You can’t hand her two K and tell her to dump him. That plan is out the old window. Maybe she’d like to go to North Carolina with him. Yeah, right. Maybe he’d like to go to Hong Kong with her. Maybe… maybe you should actually talk to them before forming any opinions. Just lay it out to Pendleton and see what happens. Keep your head and do your goddamn job.
He found the Asian arts section in the subject card catalog, then went to the stacks and tried to concentrate on Qing Dynasty landscape painting. That’s what he started with, anyway. He ended up staring at the photo of Li Lan in the brochure.
He grabbed a cab at Terminal Square and gave the driver Kendall’s address.
Olivia answered the door. She had changed into a white silk brocade jacket over black silk trousers. “In honor of the occasion,” she said, brushing the backs of her fingers across the jacket.
“Stunning,” Neal said.
“A gift from Li Lan. Please come in.”
The house seemed built for magic evenings. The large, open living room was dominated by windows that stretched from the floor to the cathedral ceilings. The floors were made of wide hardwood planks brought to a high polyurethane shine. Broad cedar crossbeams spanned the width of the room. The eggshell-white walls highlighted black-and-white photographs as well as prints and paintings.
Outside the window a pine deck wrapped itself around a steep slope. Steps led from the deck onto a flagstone patio surrounded by a cedar fence that provided privacy from the scattered houses on the facing hills. Potted shrubs, flowers, and bonsai trees sat on the deck around a sunken hot tub.
A large jute sofa sat in front of a glass coffee table and faced the picture window. Two cushioned chairs were set off at angles to the sofa to create a sitting area. To the left of that was a dining-room table, and farther to the left, behind a breakfast bar, was a spacious kitchen centered by a large butcher’s block.
The table was set with black dishes, glasses, and a black tea set. A large white lily in a black vase was the centerpiece.
Li Lan was standing in the kitchen, carefully stirring something in a sizzling electric wok. Dr. Robert Pendleton stood beside her, holding a platter full of diced tofu.
“Okay… now,” Li Lan told him, and he dumped the tofu into the wok.
“Two more minutes,” she said.
“That will give you time to meet our guest,” Olivia said. “Neal, this is Bob Pendleton.”
“Nice to meet you,” Neal said. Yeah, right.
Pendleton wiped his hands on a towel, pushed his glasses back up on his nose, then reached across the breakfast counter and shook Neal’s hand.
“Pleasure,” he said.
Not so fast, Doc.
“Now, where did Tom get to?” Olivia asked no one in particular.
“He went to fire up the hot tub,” Pendleton said. “Can I offer you a drink, Neal?”
“A beer?”
“Dos Equis or Bud?”
“Bud, please.”
“Bud it is.”
Neal watched him as he went to the refrigerator and looked for the beer. He was even thinner than he looked in his photograph, with a body that looked like it had never met a quart of chocolate ice cream. He was wearing a bright green chamois shirt and baggy khaki trousers, with a pair of brown moccasins that someone must have bought for him; they were much too laid back for a biochemist. His hair was a trace longer than it had been in the photo, and he looked older. Neal was surprised at his voice-it was low and gravelly-but didn’t know why he should be. Preconceptions again, he guessed.
Pendleton set a bottle of beer on the counter.
“Do you want a mug?” he asked.
“The bottle is great, thanks.”
“Get ready with sauce,” Li said. “Hello, Neal.”
She was preoccupied with preparing the meal, which was okay with Neal because it gave him a chance to stare at her. Her hair hung long and straight-the blue cloisonne comb had only a decorative function. She had put on light eyeshadow and red lipstick. Her black western shirt had red piping and red roses on the shoulders, and her black, pointed-toe cowboy boots were etched with blue designs. It was one of those outfits that could look either ridiculous or wonderful. It looked wonderful.
Neal was in the midst of this observation when Tom Kendall came in. He was short and plump, with prematurely white hair and a white beard. He was sporting a green chamois shirt that looked identical to Pendleton’s, and jeans with sandals. He had light blue eyes and a ruddy complexion.
What’s the bit with the lookalike shirts? Neal wondered. Who is Pendleton supposed to be in love with, anyway? Li Lan or Tom Kendall?
“The tub,” Kendall said in a soft, reedy voice, “will be hot by the time we’re ready. Neal-I assume you are Neal-when you are a Marin County shrink married to a woman who owns an art gallery, you are expected to have a hot tub. It wouldn’t do to violate an archetype.”
He smiled broadly and shook Neal’s hand. “I’m Tom Kendall.”
“Neal Carey.”
“I see you have a beer, which prompts the question: why don’t I have a beer? Why don’t I have a beer, Olivia?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“You’ll have to get it yourself,” Pendleton said. “I’m in big trouble if I miss my sauce cue.”
“Big trouble,” Lan said.
“Some bartender. Bob and Lan are the official host and hostess tonight,” Kendall explained to Neal. “Bob can’t cook, so the deal was he would tend the bar.”
“Now with the sauce,” Li Lan said, and Pendleton poured a small bowl of red sauce into the wok. The sizzling stopped with a whoosh.
Olivia said, “Neal, please have a seat.” She gestured toward the sofa.
“Actually, I’d rather watch the cooking.”
“No, please sit,” said Li Lan. “Dinner should be surprises.”
Dinner was surprises.
The first round of drinks was a surprise. Having consumed his share of straight scotch in his time, Neal didn’t figure any little Chinese wine in a tiny black cup could get to him, but the clear, fiery liquid scorched his throat and smoked his brain. He didn’t quite manage to utter the salutation, “Yi lu shun feng,” offered by the rest of the party. Instead he choked out, “Jesus, what the hell is this?”
“Ludao shaojiu,” Lan said. “White wine, very strong.”
“Uh-huh,” Neal answered.
Then she set a plate of appetizers on the table. They were pastries-translucently thin dough filled with red bean paste. The pastries were very sweet, which was just fine with Neal as they put out the flames in his mouth.
“These are wonderful!” Olivia said.
“Xie xie ni,” Li Lan answered. Thank you.
“So good they deserve a toast,” Tom Kendall said, and he filled everyone’s cup with more wine. “What’s a good toast in Chinese?”
Li lifted her cup. “Gan bei-empty cup.”
“Gan bei!” they responded.
Neal managed the toast this time and threw back the wine. He was surprised that it went down easily. Something like fighting fire with fire, he thought.
Li had gone back into the kitchen, and she came back with the next course, individual bowls of cold noodles in sesame sauce. She noticed Neal’s discomfiture as everyone started to dig in with their chopsticks. Smiling at him, she said, “Put bowl to mouth, use chopsticks to push in.
“Slurp,” Pendleton said. “Just get them up near your mouth and slurp.”
Neal slurped, and the noodles seemed to jump out of the bowl into his mouth. He wiped a drop of sesame sauce off his chin and felt a twinge of guilt. What are you waiting for? he asked himself. Pull the trigger. Pendleton’s sitting right across the table from you, so just say something like, “Dr. Bob, the folks at AgriTech want you to punch in now, so what are you going to do?” Why don’t you say that, Neal? Tell him you’re here to hound him until he goes home? Because you’re not ready to have them despise you yet. Because you like these people. Because Li Lan is smiling at you. He opened his mouth to speak and then filled it with more noodles. There’d be time for betrayal later. Maybe after the next course.
The next course was pot stickers, small, pan-fried dumplings. Li Lan had made three for each of them. “One shrimp, one pork, one vegetable,” she said, and then laid three small bowls in the center of the table. “Mustard, sweet sauce, peppercorn sauce, very hot,” she said.
She walked around the table, stood behind Neal, picked up his pair of the black enamel chopsticks, and put them in his right hand. Then she laid one of the sticks between his thumb and index finger, and the other under his forefinger. Then she lifted his hand, squeezed so that the sticks seized one of the pot stickers, and then guided his hand to dip the pastry into the mustard. Then she brought the food to his mouth. “See?” she asked. “Easy.”
Neal could barely swallow.
“Lan,” Olivia scolded, “you’ve hardly eaten a thing!”
Lan sat down, effortlessly stabbed a pot sticker, swished it in a generous amount of peppercorn sauce, and popped it into her mouth.
“It is very bad,” she said, and then devoured another one.
“Is very good,” Pendleton told her. “Uhhh… hen hao.”
“Very good!” she said. “You are learning Chinese.”
Neal watched Pendleton blush-actually blush-with pleasure. This guy is in love, he thought, major league.
“More beer,” Pendleton said awkwardly, aware that the Kendalls were beaming at him. He brought back two handfuls of Tsingtao bottles and passed them around.
The beer was ice cold and tasted great along with the hot mustard and the hotter peppercorn. Neal drank it in long draughts and practiced with his chopsticks as Tom Kendall and Bob Pendleton talked about feeding the roses in the garden out back. Li Lan popped back into the kitchen and emerged with another dish: a whole smoked sea bass on a platter. She showed them how to use their chopsticks to pry the white flesh off the bones, and it took a long time, another beer, and another round of ludao to finish off the fish.
As they were celebrating their conquest with more cups of wine, Olivia Kendall said, “So, Neal, tell us about your work.”
Well, Olivia, I’m a rent-a-rat who has lied his way into your house in order to threaten your friends.
“It’s very boring, really,” he said.
“Not at all.”
“Well,” he said, reaching through the haze of wine, beer and food to try to recall his notes, “primarily I’m interested in the political subtext contained in Qing Dynasty paintings as an effort to subvert the ruling foreign Manchus.”
Okay?
“And how do you pursue this research? What are the sources?” Tom Kendall asked.
Et tu, Tom?
“Museums mostly,” he said. “Some books, doctoral dissertations… the usual.”
He wondered if he sounded as stupid to them as he did to himself. Come on, Neal, end this. Just tell them that you wouldn’t know a Qing Dynasty painting if it was tattooed on your left testicle. Get it over with.
“You have looked at the pictures at the De Young Museum?” Lan asked.
The De Young Museum… San Francisco.
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “Superb.”
He looked at Pendleton and asked, “Now, what do you do?”
A pathetic desperation effort, Neal thought.
“I’m a biochemist,” Pendleton said.
“Where?”
Pendleton pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. His lips edged into a small smile as he answered, “I’m between jobs right now. So I’m abusing the hospitality of these good people.”
“Nonsense,” Tom said quickly. “Bob is the official Kendall Household Adviser on Rose Fertilization.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Olivia said. “Now if you could just think of a way to kill the weeds…”
“Not my line, I’m afraid. I only know how to make stuff grow.”
“You can keep your present position for as long as you want,” said Kendall.
“The pay isn’t so hot,” Pendleton said, “but the food is great, the beer is cold, and the company…”
Pull the trigger, Neal. Pull it now.
“The company is sublime,” Neal said.
Yeah, it is, he thought as he finished off his cup of wine. You cultivate loneliness like a flower in your garden, you treat people like weeds that need to be torn away, and here is a world where people love eating together, talking together… love being with each other. A world you’ve imagined but never experienced. Until now. Until this evening. Talk about abusing the hospitality of good people…
“Chicken with peanuts and dried red peppers,” he heard Li Lan saying, and he looked up to see her set down a steaming plate.
“The peppers are not for eating,” she continued, “just for flavor.”
The chicken dish stoked the dormant flames in Neal’s throat and brought tears to his eyes. Every bite was hotter and more delicious than the last and made the wine taste sweeter and cooler.
He watched Li Lan gracefully take the half-peanuts with her chopsticks and feed them to Pendleton, and he felt simultaneously touched and jealous. Let him go, he thought. Let him go and let yourself go. You can start over. Take the rest of your money out of the bank and stay here. Apply to Berkeley. Or Stanford. Or become the Official Kendall Household Adviser on Eighteenth-Century English Literature. You must be getting drunk. Getting drunk? You are drunk. With wine, with beer, with great food, with soft lights, with… you’re drunk.
“Oh, God, more?” he heard Olivia groan in mock despair as Li Lan brought out a plate of broccoli, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, and mushrooms in bean sauce.
“Your show ends tomorrow?” he asked Lan as he munched on a crisp stem of brocolli.
“Yes,” she answered sadly.
“It was very successful,” said Olivia.
“Then where do you go?” Neal asked.
She didn’t answer. You could cut the tension with a chopstick, Neal thought.
“Home,” she said quietly.
“Hong Kong?” Neal asked.
She looked straight at him. “Yes. Home. Hong Kong.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Olivia said. “It makes me sad.”
What about you, Dr. Bob? thought Neal. Does this mean you’re going home, too?
“I have a toast to propose!” said Tom. “Fill up your cups!”
Olivia poured out the wine.
Tom lifted his cup and scanned the table, looking each of them in the eye, then said, “To beauty-the beauty of Lan’s art, the beauty of the crops that grow through Robert’s knowledge, and the beauty of friendship.”
Neal drained his cup as a stupid question came to him: Had Judas liked the wine at the Last Supper?
Neal had never liked being naked. People didn’t get naked in New York, not outdoors, anyway, and they sure as hell didn’t shuck their clothes in public in England. But it was hot-tub time, and his hosts insisted that he join them. They didn’t use bathing suits in Marin County, and he was undercover-so to speak-so he surrendered his clothing in exchange for a promised towel and robe and then slid into the deepest part of the hot tub. He was grateful for the dim blue lighting on the deck, and more grateful that it was only Pendleton who joined him at first.
“I’m not a hot-tub kind of guy,” Neal said.
“Neither am I.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“I wanted to talk with you and know I’m not being recorded.”
Great, Neal thought. You sure fooled them.
“So, did the company send you?” Pendleton asked.
Neal thought about saying something clever like “What company?” or “Huh?” but decided that the old game was up and he might as well get it over with.
“Yeah.”
“That’s what I thought. Lan says that you don’t know anything about Chinese painting.”
“I just know what I like.”
If Pendleton thought the joke was funny, he disguised it pretty well.
“What does the company want?” he asked.
“They want you back.”
Jesus, this is stupid, Neal thought. Sitting here up to my chin in steaming water, half in the bag, trying to persuade another naked man to go back to work. I have to get a real job.
“I’m not going back,” Pendleton said. His thin chest puffed out in determination.
“What’s the problem?”
Perspiration had slid Pendleton’s glasses down his nose, and he pushed them back up again. Then he said, “You’ve seen her.”
Yeah, Doc. I’ve seen her all right. I wish I hadn’t.
“Look, Doc, they allow love in North Carolina.”
“To a Chinese woman?”
Come on, Doc, Neal thought. Lighten up. Join us in the 1970s. What’s the big deal?
“Sure, why not?”
Pendleton snorted sarcastically and shook his head. “I’m going with her,” he said.
“Yeah, well, there’s a problem with that.”
“Yeah? What problem?” Pendleton asked.
Neal saw that he was getting pissed off.
“You have a contract that has a year and change left. They’ll sue you.”
“Let them try to get to my money in Hong Kong.”
The hot water was starting to get to Neal. The wine didn’t exactly help, either. He felt enervated, tired.
“Doc, you don’t want to do that. Look, if it’s really love, it’ll last a year and a half. She can visit you, you can visit her… I’ll bet AgriTech would even spring for the airfare. Finish out your time and then you’ll be free and clear.”
It’s been about a year since I left Diane, Neal thought, and I don’t think it’s going to last. And who am I to talk about being free and clear? I haven’t been either free or clear in my whole life. If I were, I wouldn’t be sitting here.
“You’re never free from those people,” Pendleton said bitterly. “Once they have you, they think they own you forever.”
I know the feeling, Doc.
“It’s a free country, Dr. Pendleton. If you don’t want to sign the next contract, don’t sign it. But the harsh fact is that you have to honor the one you have.” Or love the one you’re with, or something like that, and why did I have to drink all those toasts?
“Honor?” Pendleton said with a chortle. “I don’t know.”
They sank into a sullen silence. It didn’t last long, because Li Lan came out wearing a black robe and carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups. She set the tray down by the edge of the tub and then straightened up and undid the belt of the robe.
Just then Neal couldn’t quite figure out whether Li Lan dropping her robe would be the best thing in the world or the worst thing in the world, and when she opened the robe around her shoulders and then let it slide to the deck, it turned out to be both. His heart stopped, his throat tightened, and he tried not to stare as she slipped into the hot water beside Pendleton. She rested one hand on his shoulder.
“Now we are all undressed,” she said to Neal.
“He is from the company,” said Pendleton.
Lan nodded.
“They sent him to bring me back,” Pendleton continued.
“To talk to you,” Neal said. “I can’t bring you back against your will. I can’t throw cuffs on you and haul you onto a plane.”
“You’re damned right you can’t,” Pendleton said. He looked like an angry bird.
“Robert…” said Lan quietly, stroking his shoulder, calming him down.
“Just go back and talk to them,” Neal offered. “You owe them that, don’t you? At least go back and tell them you’re quitting, see if you can work things out.”
He kept talking, laying out the whole thing: It was no big deal, everything was forgiven, Pendleton wasn’t the first guy to fall in love and lose his head for a while, no sense in destroying a distinguished career. Why, Neal himself would even help Pendleton negotiate some sort of visiting arrangement. Swept away with his own eloquence, he pushed on: North Carolina is beautiful; a change of scene would help Lan grow as an artist; there is, in fact, a large Oriental community in the Research Triangle. He was so convincing he convinced himself: their life would be great, his life would be great, they would visit each other for magic evenings.
Lan turned around and started to pour three cups of tea. The movement of her shoulder blades sent another pang shooting through Neal. When she turned back and leaned over to hand Neal a cup he could see the tops of her breasts, but it was still her eyes that drew him. She seemed to be looking into his mind, maybe into his soul. She handed Pendleton a cup and then leaned back to sip her own tea.
“Maybe Neal Carey’s thought is correct,” she said.
“I’m not leaving you,” Pendleton said quickly. He sounded like a twelve-year-old.
“Will Robert have much trouble if he does not return?”
“His research is very important.”
“Yes, it is.” She smiled at Pendleton warmly, and Neal would have donated his live body to science to see that smile sent his way.
“You’re more important,” said Pendleton thickly, and Neal had the sudden impression that Pendleton was going to start crying.
“It’s not an either/or situation,” Neal said.
“‘Either/or’?” Lan asked.
“One thing or the other.”
She took another sip of tea, set the cup down, and took Pendleton’s face gently in her hands. She leaned toward him until her face was an inch from his.
“Wo ai ni,” she said softly. I love you.
It was such an intimate moment that Neal wanted to turn away. His Chinese was pretty much confined to Column A or Column B, but he knew that she had told Pendleton that she loved him.
“Wo ai ni,” Pendleton answered.
Li Lan reached out under the water and took Neal’s hand, gently folding his fingers into hers.
His heart started to race.
She let his hand go.
“We will go with you tomorrow,” she said. “Both of us.”
Pendleton’s head whipped around like he’d been jerked on a choke chain and he started to protest, but Li Lan’s hand on his stopped him.
“Your work is important,” she said.
She closed her eyes and settled into the water-the image of perfect repose.
Pendleton couldn’t let it go as easily. “Tomorrow-”
She cut him off without opening her eyes, “-is a dream. Tom and Olivia wish to speak with you now.”
It was one of those don’t-I-hear-your-mother-calling-you bits, and Neal watched as Pendleton dutifully got out of the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stomped into the house. So much for the submissive Oriental woman, Neal thought. Then he realized he was alone with Li Lan, and he stopped thinking altogether. They sat there for at least five excruciating minutes before she spoke.
“You will not let them hurt him?” she asked.
Hurt him?! What the fuck?
“Nobody wants to hurt him, Lan. They just want him to come back to work.” I mean, we’re talking about a research lab here, right? not the Gambino family.
“Please do not let them hurt him,” she implored.
“Okay.” Look at me like that, Li Lan, and I won’t even let them hurt his feelings.
“Promise.”
“I promise.” Should be an easy enough request to fill. They want him back so bad they’ll probably give him a raise and a bonus. Monogrammed test tubes. Fur-lined eyepiece on the microscope.
Li Lan stood up. She stood in front of Neal as if inviting him to look her over, as if she were in a lineup at a cathouse. He tried to look away, tried as hard as the booze, the steam of the tub, and his own feelings for her would let him. He felt himself swallowing hard and staring, first at her body and then at her eyes.
“I will go to speak with him,” she said.
Neal looked around for a towel but didn’t see one. “Yeah, it’s about time to get going.”
She shook her head. “No. Wait for me, please. I will come back.”
“Uhhh, would you bring a towel, please?”
“You are shy.”
“Yeah.”
She put her robe on. The silk stuck to her wet skin.
“There is no reason to be shy. I will come back to thank you.”
“Aww, shucks, ma’am. You don’t need to thank me… jes’ doin’ my job.”
He was pretty surprised when she leaned over and kissed him, quickly and softly, on the lips. “I will be back in a moment… to thank you.”
It was a whisper of a promise.
“No,” he said, more reluctantly than he felt real good about.
She looked at him quizzically.
“You don’t understand,” Neal said. “That’s not the way it works. You don’t need to buy… insurance.”
Of course, if you want to leave him and run away with me and live happily ever after, that’s another story.
“It’s not insurance. You have been very nice.”
Right. She’s not buying it. She’s still scared for him, and she’s ready to give it up to get a little added protection. Where does a painter learn about that?
“Really, Lan. No thanks.”
But please don’t ask again, Lan, because I think I’m out of no-thank-yous.
She looked confused for the smallest part of a second, then smiled and shrugged. The robe came off her shoulders with the shrug and she gave him another long look, a think-about-what-you’re-passing-up pose, and it shook him. Backlit by the light coming through the picture window, she looked unreal, unearthly-divorced from the mundane world of reality, and jobs to do, and boring ethics. She became part of a magical evening, of a different kind of life-a world in which he wanted to lose himself, float with her in the mirror mists. He told himself to get up, get out, but she froze him in place, held him in the whirlpool, trapped him in the vortex.
He leaned over to splash some water on his face and barely heard the whine of the bullet that just missed his head and smacked into the wall of the house.
He sank into the water.