Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha (3 page)

“Same floor,” murmured Mr. Hitchens.

“Practically neighbors,” she agreed. “And—where breakfast?” she inquired of the room clerk.

“The Golden Lotus Room,” he told her, leaning forward and pointing.

“I’d dearly love a shave first,” said Mr. Hitchens. “Can we meet there in thirty minutes?”

“Fine—and I think, remembering my first visit here, it’s buffet, with wonderful papaya and melons.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Mr. Hitchens.

Mrs. Pollifax found room 614 enormous and filled with light, for which she mentally blessed Bishop. She peered into the small, well-stocked refrigerator in the corner, removed her hat and then sat down on the bed to study the street map of Hong Kong that Bishop had given her, along with rather a lot of Hong Kong money. Feng Imports, he’d told her, was in the city’s West Point district, not far from the Man Mo Temple—Buddhist—and tucked away at number 31 Dragon Alley. Its location had been lightly penciled on the map and now Mrs. Pollifax lined it up with the hotel. Obviously a taxi, she realized, as she measured distances, her eye meeting exotic names like Ice House Street, Cotton Tree Drive, Jardine’s Bazaar and Yee Wo Street. Definitely not New Jersey, she thought, smiling, and decided that she must
reach Dragon Alley before the shop opened so that she could try first to intercept Sheng Ti on the street, before he began work.

Some minutes later Mrs. Pollifax was seated in the same Golden Lotus that she’d enjoyed in June, except that this was very late May of another year. A gracious white jacketed waiter poured coffee for her and she sipped it while she waited for Mr. Hitchens, admiring the oriental faces around her, the businessmen gesticulating to companions over fact-sheets, the young couples, the obvious tourists with their cameras. When Mr. Hitchens slid into the chair beside her he had changed into slacks and a jacket and looked older, less eccentric and a shade less interesting, but something new had been added: his sober face was animated by excitement.

“You won’t believe who I just passed in the lobby,” he told her boyishly, “the third-richest man in the world! Western world, that is, and right here in this hotel.”

“Now
you’re
the well-informed one,” she told him. “Who on earth is the third-richest man in the world?”

“His name is—” He frowned. “Oh yes, Lars … Lars Petterson.” He grinned. “I turned on my TV as soon as I got into my room and he was being interviewed on Hong Kong television.”

“I suppose I have a TV too,” she said doubtfully.

He laughed. “I’m addicted to it, very partial to reruns, especially the “I Love Lucy” and “Mary Tyler Moore” shows. Also green bananas,” he added, and positively enlivened now he said, “I’ve been married three times and I think each wife thought a psychic lives an exciting life.”

“They didn’t expect TV reruns and green bananas?” said Mrs. Pollifax, amused.

“No … oh, thank you,” he told the waiter pouring
him coffee, and then, his glance wandering, he said eagerly, “There he is now! Just walking into the restaurant.”

“Who?” said Mrs. Pollifax.

“Mr. Petterson—you know, the man I was just telling you about.”

Mrs. Pollifax wrenched her attention from Mr. Hitchens and her coffee and turned to catch a glimpse of the third-richest man in the world.

“By the door—just entering and talking to the waiter,” he told her.

Mrs. Pollifax saw an extremely attractive young man, very tanned and blond, whose slightly bent nose was all that prevented him from being outrageously and wickedly handsome. He wore an orange blazer over silk slacks, a striped blue shirt with an orange cravat tucked into it and Mrs. Pollifax, seeing him, drew in her breath sharply. “
Who
did you say he is?”

“Lars Petterson—Danish, I think, although he talked with an English accent.” His glance returned to Mrs. Pollifax and he said, “Is something wrong?”

Mrs. Pollifax, considerably jolted, had begun to smile. “No, nothing—nothing at all,” she told him.

But past and present worlds were meeting in collision as she recovered from the shock of recognizing Mr. Lars Petterson, the third-richest man in the Western world, because the man entering the Golden Lotus she knew much better as Robin Burke-Jones, first met in Switzerland where he had been a very successful cat burglar, discreetly relieving sheiks and other wealthy people of their prized gems. For a brief moment a kaleidoscope of vignettes flashed through Mrs. Pollifax’s head: of Robin, discovered with her jewelry case, saying “You’re not going to blackmail me, then, and you’re
not going to inform?” Of Robin lowering her on a rope from a balcony to escape a murderer searching for her in the halls; of a long night spent in the Castle Chillon with a small boy and, upon their finding an escape route, Robin’s voice emerging from the darkness, “Over here in a rowboat, what took you so long?”

Dear Robin
, she thought, relishing the jest of seeing him here, for she had also been matron-of-honor at his wedding and only four months ago there had been the usual Christmas card from him and his bride Court.

Except that following his wedding—as she ought to have remembered at once—Robin had abandoned the hazards of cat burglary to become an honest man: he had been invited to use his considerable talents to solve crimes instead of to commit them. He had joined Interpol.

I wonder
, she thought now, with intense curiosity and considerable amusement,
what he’s up to here in Hong Kong … as Lars Petterson, third-richest man in the world
.

“I
believe I’ll linger over my coffee a little longer,” Mrs. Pollifax told her breakfast companion half an hour later, as he prepared to leave.

“Oh!” said Mr. Hitchens. “Yes, of course.” For just a moment he looked a little anxious, and then he nodded and smiled. “Yes. Well. Perhaps since we’re both here for only a week we’ll find ourselves on the same flight back.” He extended his hand. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you.”

She stood up to shake his hand. “I wouldn’t mind hearing if you successfully locate your missing person,” she told him. “Give me a call if you’d like—room 614. If you’ve time.”

His smile was wistful and she remembered that it was his first trip abroad. He would, of course, forget entirely about her once he was swept up by his young Hong Kong friend, but she understood that for just this moment he was experiencing a desire to hang onto the one
person familiar to him. “Happy hunting,” she told him with a smile, and watched him leave.

Once he was gone she put down her cup of coffee, gathered up her purse and headed for the buffet-island in the center of the room behind which Robin had vanished. She had reached a decision: Robin could not possibly have seen her and she reasoned that it was infinitely kinder that he become aware of her presence now, rather than to be surprised by it later, at some awkward time, since heaven only knew what he might be up to here. Rounding the buffet’s southern end her glance sought Robin among the diners and found him: he was seated facing her, talking animatedly to a plump Chinese gentleman at his side. As she appeared beside the pineapples the sudden movement caught his eye and he saw her.

Their eyes met, and for just the fraction of a second he stopped talking, while she in turn allowed her gaze to move through and past him with the indifference of a stranger; then Robin recovered his poise, his glance returned to his companion and he resumed his conversation. But he had seen her—
good
, she thought contentedly, and having established the fact that she was here, and that she would not betray him, she continued past the ham, the eggs, the chafing dishes of omelet, stopped to admire a stunning purple flower and made her exit from the Golden Lotus.

And now for Sheng Ti, she thought, and continued out of the hotel to find a cab.

As she was driven through the streets of Hong Kong she thought back to Sheng Ti, whom she had seen how many times, she wondered: once in the bazaar in Turfan, and twice on that night when she’d begun to realize
the KGB was involved, and then one last time in Urumchi, seated beside the road and waiting with the infinite patience of the Chinese, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. She could concede that China had performed miracles for its billion people, but to her Sheng Ti represented the cost of some of those miracles, for he was—she struggled now to remember her impressions—
different
 … not because his parents had been rich peasants but because of what this had denied him in Mao’s China. There had been no chance for him to use his considerable intelligence, there had been first of all the primitive commune to which he’d been sent in central China at the age of sixteen, and from which he’d run away when he was nineteen. For this he’d earned detention and had been sent even deeper into the country, to do roadwork near Urumchi, and here too he’d found it difficult to conform and had acquired a dossier, until at twenty-six, when she’d met him, he had become a nonperson, completely without hope and living by his wits. She had mourned the waste, the rebellions brought about by his incapacity to reduce himself, to repress his intelligence and to abort the talents that shoveling manure and carrying rocks could never satisfy.

In America, she thought, he would have become by now a teacher or a lawyer, for he’d been born curious and Mrs. Pollifax measured intelligence by curiosity, rueing people who never asked questions, never asked why, or what happened next or how. One had not asked questions in Mao’s China, and Mao’s influence still lingered; one had to conform or be labeled misfit.

And it was she who had urged that Sheng Ti be smuggled out of China with Wang Shen … if he was not happy here in Hong Kong, as Bishop had suggested,
she wondered if she had done him such a good turn after all.

Some minutes later she was deposited at the foot of a street too narrow for cars, and told by her driver that she would find Dragon Alley halfway up that street, and on the right side. With a feeling of excitement Mrs. Pollifax paid him and stepped out of the cab to be deliciously assaulted, nearly overwhelmed, by noise, people and color. She had found China again, in a corner of Hong Kong far away in time and ambiance from the world of polite commerce in the district that she’d just left.

Now this
, she thought with pleasure,
is more like it
, and she stood very still, letting the smells and sounds and profusion of colors sweep over her. The narrow street was crammed with narrow buildings from which hung signs of every size and color at wildly juxtaposed angles: T
AILOR
! S
HOES
! S
ILKS
! G
EMS
! C
OLOUR
TV! C
URIOS
! From balconies above the signs there protruded bamboo poles hung with laundry of every color and description, but mostly of eye-shattering scarlets that matched the other scarlets blazing from suspended banners, lanterns and signs. The street was already filled with people and the sidewalks with street stalls that were heaped with plastic flowers, fresh flowers, sandals, herbs, dried seafood and fresh fruit. The predominant smells were of incense, ginger and fried noodles; the sounds were a cacophony of shrill voices competing with shrill music from blaring radios.

Lovely
, murmured Mrs. Pollifax, and began strolling happily up the street through the crowds, stopping at street stalls to peer at jars of pickled snakes, roots of ginseng and souvenir mugs of Hong Kong. Eventually, halfway up the street, and precisely where the cabdriver
had promised it, she found Dragon Alley, little more than a broad staircase leading up to another street beyond it. She entered and began to climb.

Number 31 lay on her right, a shabby narrow store with a sign overhead announcing in both Chinese and English the existence of Feng Imports, and the shop window—none too clean, she noted—bore the name of Feng Imports in gold lettering. The door was not open, and drawing abreast of it Mrs. Pollifax shifted her gaze straight ahead and then casually—very casually—glanced at the store window, hesitated and again casually stopped to examine its contents, a display of carved jade and ivory objects.

Very nice, she decided, and certainly more attractive than the exterior of the shop; lifting her eyes she looked beyond the display and into the interior and found it empty. A glance at the door showed her a small hand-lettered sign that told her the shop opened at 10
A.M.
It was now 9:40.

Mrs. Pollifax continued up the alley. Number 33 was a shop selling plastic flowers, not yet open; number 35 a narrow house behind a wall; 37 a tailoring establishment with a solitary man hunched over a sewing machine, and 39 the blank wall of a building that fronted on the street at the top of the alley. The opposite side, except for one wholesale store advertising radios, appeared to be narrow wooden houses with balconies and gates, one of them with a sign R
OOMS
. This latter building, number 40, she noticed, had a bench beside the gate to its rear, and Mrs. Pollifax sat down on it to wait and to watch for Sheng Ti.

At nine forty-five a young girl hurried up Dragon Alley and stopped at Feng Imports, unlocked the door and entered: a very lovely Chinese girl wearing a
cheongsam
of dark blue cotton, her hair very black, her skin very white. Employee number one, decided Mrs. Pollifax.

At ten o’clock a man walked out of Feng Imports, startling Mrs. Pollifax because she had seen no one enter the shop, and strode at a fast pace up the alley toward her. He carried a pigskin overnight bag and was tall and lean, not Chinese, his cheeks pockmarked and his eyes—but she knew what his eyes would look like because she had seen him before: it was the man whom she had inadvertently bumped into on the plane, the man with the black aura.

He passed her quickly without a glance and disappeared into the street above the alley, leaving Mrs. Pollifax to speculate on the coincidence of his seeking out Feng Imports, too, and obviously before he had stopped anywhere else to deposit his luggage. But there was still no sign of Sheng Ti.