"If I could rewrite the alphabet, I would put U and I together."
"That's bad."
"Do you sleep on your stomach? Do you mind If I do?"
"Urgh. Even worse."
The minivan's shock absorbers failed once again. As the fold-out seat squeaked obscenely, O'Neill shifted to avoid an especially prominent spring which threatened to gash his butt.
"Plenty more where that came from," he said. "By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be an expert."
"Uh-huh." Susie had opted for a cross-legged position on the unadorned metal floor of the van, but was bouncing with every bump of the road, her hand perpetually clearing hair from her eyes.
"Don't blow it off, Little Missy. It's important to know how pigs think. How soon till we're there?"
She turned to the window, but could only observe building tops and withered trees from her vantage point. "Maybe five minutes?" She queried the taxi driver -- Five more minutes, right? He nodded, and she nodded.
"Great." O'Neill pressed a palm to the window. "Look at that sunset. Beautiful." Like a flood, he thought. Stretches of road like carpet, overpasses and railings and traffic circles all caught in evening's wake.
"Mmm." She thumbed the contents of her bag -- notepad, mini tape recorder, the English-Chinese pocket dictionary, tissues, pills. "Philip better be there."
"Was he awake?"
"Just got up."
He tsk-tsked. "How often does he work? Once a month? Twice?"
"On average? Once a week, I guess ..."
"How can you put up with him?"
"He's good." She passed a tissue over her forehead, and O'Neill admired her pellucid skin. Asians just don't seem to sweat much, he mused. What's the genetic quirk behind that?
"But why at your place?" he persisted.
"Friend of a friend. You know how it is."
"Well, bless you, you're a Samaritan. But a man camping in your apartment all day ... it's not healthy. How's his Chinese?"
"The same as yours." She threw him a challenging smile. "Nonexistent."
"Ah, you're killin' me. A Chinese guy who can't speak Chinese ...."
"Chinese-American," she corrected. "Before he came here he couldn't even write his name in Chinese."
"And he can now?"
"Never seen him do it."
"And he's been here how long?"
"Six years."
"The whole time with you?"
"Yep."
"Un-fucking-believable. How do I get in on this little halfway house you're running?"
"Have a tissue." She enjoyed this little game. Completely unlike growing up in Taiwan, or even school in New York. O'Neill had to be forty years old, or close to it, she had never asked him or her friend Julie. Friend of a friend. Friends of friends were always better to be around. No need to pussyfoot, just enough tangential history to set each other at ease. And he could be charming, especially when telling stories.
"Hot," O'Neill puffed. "Veritable heat wave coming on."
"Just like being in Taipei."
"Ah, Taiwan. Largest island province of China." He laughed at her withering look, let out a mock yelp as she drew back a fist. Mentioning China's alleged sovereignty was the one sure way to gall her. "So what does Philip do at your place when he's not sleeping?"
"Dunno." She was losing interest in this line of questioning. Philip was nice, but he was ... Philip. Just there and smiling, laid-back to the point of being comatose. The day before he had stumbled out of his closet-sized bedroom at noon, hair sticking straight up from his head like weeds, muttering something about finding a fax machine.
Come down to the office and use ours, she said.
Naw. He scratched his head. It's for -- personal stuff.
Like what? she said slyly.
Oh, you know ... my mom. She's always calling, wasting money. Still wants to teach me Chinese over the phone.
How sweet.
Sweet? Heh. Yeah, sweet. He turned back to his room. His shorts had hitched up so she could see his underwear. He was almost adorable then, like a beat-up doll.
"Shit," she muttered.
"What is it?" O'Neill said.
"It's past five-thirty. I have to get the story in and meet someone at the airport at 9."
"Oh yeah? Who?"
"Friend of --"
"-- a friend. Another culturally deficient Chinese American?"
"No. His Chinese is perfect." Actually, she had no idea, but she liked egging O'Neill on. The guy flying in was covering the Salem Open, that was all she knew. A room had been reserved for him at the Yanshan Hotel. Still, an American was an American: an opportunity to have a normal English conversation. No, even that was unnecessary. It was enough to merely see a newcomer's jet-lagged face and gain a whiff of where they had been a few hours before, places which had clean running water, large furniture, autumn leaves on flagstones.
The cab groaned to an unexpected halt. Susie was nearly slammed to the floor, but O'Neill had settled underneath and caught her with sinewy arms. "Whoa, you okay?" he said. He seemed most earnest and decorous.
"Yeah, thanks." She bounced away from him, made a show of clearing her throat, and asked the driver what was happening.
They're redirecting traffic, he said. Look. A total mess.
How far are we from the bridge?
The bridge? I don't know ... half a kilometer, maybe.
She thanked him, paid the fare, and yanked the sliding door open. O'Neill squinted in the sunlight as pedestrians stared at them, taking in the spectacle of a blond man over six feet tall.
"Over there," she pointed. Even from their distance, they could see the overturned bus, the glumly-colored military cars parked at difficult angles. People were milling about, poking their heads through car windows, gesticulating and discussing. Susie pressed forward, O'Neill admiring her from behind. The heat was affecting his eyesight, the baking road wavering. Just ahead, Philip lounged against the butterfly railing separating car and bicycle lanes in his tie-dye shorts, utterly out of place. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and there wasn't a mark of sweat on his T-shirt.
"Hey," she said. "Where's your camera?"
He tapped his shoulder pack. "All set." So it was the James Bond pack today. She liked to call it that, it was so circumspect and tricky. He had built the whole thing out of antiquated equipment, a few gears and levers he had extricated from dead cameras. A hole at the front of the bag where the lens could peek through - the entire bag was black, so it was easy to miss - and a particular pressure point on the top of the bag which activated the shutter. He had become an expert at using it, so much so that he could carry on apparently normal conversations while snapping away. You have to imagine yourself as two people, he had said to her once. One is me, just chatting with someone, and the other is about three feet tall, staring directly through the lens.
"Hello, there, Philip." O'Neill gave him the customary slap to the shoulder. "Getting enough blessed sleep these days?"
"Yeah, yeah." Philip was hawing in that semi-embarrassed manner, staring at his shoes.
Like gunslingers, they walked on together. O'Neill's tissue was completely drenched with sweat, and he rolled it into a tiny ball and shoved it in his pocket. What a place, he thought. Just the smell alone could put you away. It was the first thing he had noticed upon his arrival two months before - the toxic brew of diesel, unfiltered cigarettes, coal burners on sidewalk food stands, mothballed clothes and books in stores. He looked down at his white suede shoes - already clotted with dust and God knows what else, all but ruined. But that was all right, they were trophies now, proof that he had been to this place.
At the near end of the overpass, two public security officers approached. O'Neill took note of their footwear: differing sets of sneakers - one man had his shoelaces untied - both smudged as irrevocably as his. He scanned their faces: innocent eyes, a faint dust of hair on the cheeks, the tips of their chins. They had clearly taken weeks, or months, to grow that far.
Susie was talking to them now, and they were both shaking their heads. Nothing hostile or pigheaded in their speech or appearance, just a neutral no. Go on, dear, he thought. Work your magic.
And sure enough, as Susie continued talking, encouraging, suggesting, one of the boys smiled, a lightning flash of teeth. O'Neill watched as she took an almost imperceptible step closer to them, head bent forward a bit, as if she was exchanging confidences.
"Isn't she amazing?" he said to Philip. Philip nodded in an offhand way, a muffled cricket-like sound coming from close by. He was in full snapshot mode.
A crowd had gathered around them. Some whispered among themselves, mouths to ears, but most simply gawked, mouths slightly open, as if awaiting an Olympian event which would occur at any second. Empowered by the attention, O'Neill found his cigarette pack, tore the top off, and offered it to the circle of onlookers. "On me," he smiled. "All on me. Come on now, don't be shy."
He laughed for no reason, and some of them laughed at his laugh. Finally, a younger man with wavy, almost narcissistic hair reached out, grabbed hold of a single cigarette, and nodded his thanks.
"That's right," O'Neill said. "Come on, take one, come on. Just cigarettes. Come on, people." Lighters were passed around, and soon the area was general with smoke. "We're all friends, eh?" O'Neill offered the near-empty pack to the unsmiling public security officer. With a grave nod, he extracted a cigarette, and O'Neill was there with an open and flaming lighter. The other officer was murmuring something to Susie, and she nodded, added a grateful smile.
"I'm going on ahead," she said. "O'Neill, you mind staying here? I don't want to draw too much attention ...."
He waved diffidently at them. "Of course, you go right ahead."
He was left alone with the smoking officer, the onlookers around them quiet and occupied with their cigarettes. They're so focused when they smoke, he thought. Just like machines, smooth and flawless.
"Bit of an accident over there, eh?" He knew the officer wouldn't understand him, but it felt good to talk. Further down, an even larger line of public security people was turning people away, grabbing arms and tugging, or taking hold of shoulders and shoving to the ground. Susie and Philip reached the group, and like some single-celled mass, it curled around them, ingested them. Relax, he thought. She'll be all right. She's done this many times. The air was fragrant with spilled gas, and something metallic he couldn't quite identify.
"Lovely girl," he said. He pointed toward where Susie had been. "Very pretty girl. Don't you agree?"
The officer's mouth parted a fraction, and O'Neill could almost see the word lovely forming, as if he wanted to repeat what he had heard. Then the mouth closed.
"You should be proud," O'Neill said. "You should be proud of your work. You're doing a fine job. I mean that." He offered a hand. The officer stared at it, and then very slowly raised his own, the fingers limp. O'Neill grabbed and shook it.
"Yes. Friend. A new friend. Great," he beamed. The officer obviously comprehended friend, and smiled for the first time. His teeth were brown with dust.
A squat, obviously military vehicle braked to a drawn-out halt about ten feet away. As O'Neill instinctively pulled back, a half-dozen soldiers emerged, precision even in their casual strolls. One stopped to talk to the public security officer, and O'Neill was struck by the difference in attitudes. Amazing what unwrinkled clothes and clean shoes do for you, he thought. The officer was in the midst of an explanation, but a soldier cut him short by pointing toward the fallen bus in a manner which suggested he was giving an order. Suitably cowed, the officer bowed his head and gestured for the group to follow him.
O'Neill trailed them at a safe distance, pausing every so often to look behind. The crowd was edging down the overpass, all eyes on him, only daring to walk when he walked. I am your messiah, he joked to himself. Determined to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, he slid over to the railing and stood there, looking out and down at the highway below. The middle lane had been cordoned off, and a starfish-shaped patch of red occupied the space. Somebody fall from here? he wondered. Must have been quite an --
An army officer was at the railing with him. His face was ashen, chest tensing, as if ready to puke. Without thinking, O'Neill presented him with the cigarette pack. The man looked at it, then at O'Neill, then down at the pack again.
"Hello," O'Neill said in Chinese.
The man's answering smile was ghastly, but at least it was an attempt. He took the last cigarette, and O'Neill lit it for him. He was clean-shaven, sinewy, a total wreck. Thank you, he mumbled.
O'Neill thought to ask him How are you? but couldn't. Damn stupid, of course he's not all right, he thought. The man was fixated on the patch of blood below them. His hands were wrapped around the railing so hard his knuckles seemed to glow. It wouldn't have surprised O'Neill to either see the railing shrivel under the assault or the knuckles burst open.
"Damn, what a world," he sighed. "We're both human, and here we are, can't say a word to each other. Bonkers, huh?" O'Neill was taken with the urge to throw his arms around the man, give him a crushing hug. Just the act alone would open everything up, he thought.
"We should get a drink," he continued. "We ought to get out of this sun, find a bar, buy a beer. What do you say?"
The man turned to him; the color was flooding back to his cheeks. "Thank - you," he said. He held out the cigarette. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." O'Neill took the offered stub, indulged in two brief puffs, then returned it to him. "It's yours. Okay?" He raised his hands in front of his face in a mock dramatic manner, as if to say, Keep it away from me. "Okay?"
"Okay," said the man. He was now talking to himself, fist to his mouth.
"Christ," Philip said. He and Susie were now with them. "You wouldn't believe it," he told O'Neill. "It's nuts over there. The bus is Swiss cheese."
"You got the story?" O'Neill asked.
Susie shook her head. "Not everything. There was a bus accident, and then some kind of shooting. They took away the bodies already."
"Pictures?"
"Philip has a few. But they kicked us out before we could talk to -- who's your new friend?"
"Just a military lad. Not feeling too well."
But Susie wasn't listening. She was by his side now, speaking so low that O'Neill wouldn't be able to tell if he weren't watching her moving lips. Philip had sidled over, positioning himself for photos. O'Neill shielded the trio as best he could from other onlookers. He had no idea what they were saying, but there was no mistaking the heaviness in the man's shoulders and the tiny shakes of the hand holding his cigarette. His eyes shifted, looking at the ground, then the sky, never at Susie. At several points, without thinking, O'Neill reached out and patted him on the back, between the shoulder blades. The man didn't acknowledge the gesture, but O'Neill could feel the tension in that area easing with each successive pat. Words poured out of him now, almost at the speed of thought, and Susie stood with her mini-recorder out and close to her chest, like a prized locket. Her eyes never blinked as she nodded at the man's story, solicitousness in her entire attitude. Beautiful, O'Neill thought. Just beautiful.
Somebody shouted in their direction. The public security officer, the one who had accepted O'Neill's cigarette, was striding straight towards them, elbowing onlookers out of the way. Taking up the rear was a cordon of army men, all their eyes a single search beam as they latched onto the comrade talking to Susie.
"Shit," Philip breathed. "Susie. Now."
She asked a final question, the man gave a quick, spastic shake of the head, and she asked the question again. Same result. "Okay," she said. "O'Neill, back the way we came, go."
O'Neill turned to go, and the army man's face turned with him. There was a childlike helplessness about it, as if some favorite relatives were being called away far too early. O'Neill thought, Hang in there, boy. The public security officer was even with them now, reaching out to grab Susie, and O'Neill placed a chummy hand on the man's arm, halting him even as Susie and Philip scampered on, the James Bond pack flapping behind them.
"Hey there, relax," O'Neill chirped.
The officer's arm jerked back as if it had come into contact with lava.
"Hey, come on now," O'Neill laughed. "Easy, now, man, nothing going on here, okay?" The army men had gathered around the soldier Susie had talked to, completely encircling him so that the only thing O'Neill could see was the very top of his brush-cut head, and then even that was gone, blanked out by the sinking sun.
The officer was trying to get around O'Neill without actually touching him. It was a kind of game, and O'Neill felt as ridiculous and giddy as a kid as he sidestepped, blocking the man's path. "Easy now, easy!" he shouted. The officer finally grabbed his shoulder, and their faces were close together. "Please," O'Neill whispered. "Give us a break, friend, okay? Friend?"
The man's expression fluttered, and in the moment his grip loosened, O'Neill broke for the clear, not daring to look back once. Susie and Philip had already crossed the four-lane road and hailed a minivan taxi. O'Neill dodged around the stopped cars, bumpers catching him in the knees and thighs. The unexpected pain was a stimulant driving him on. The opposite lanes buzzed with passing vehicles, and one bore straight for him. He sprinted past it with no difficulty, the blast of its horn singing in his ears, recognizing an instant too late the futile chattering rings of a bicycle bell closing upon him. Both O'Neill and the bicyclist fell hard to the street, the dusty contraption landing square on his leg.
"O'Neill!" Susie yelled. He loved the concern in her voice. I'm coming, he thought. On my way, darling. The bicyclist was shouting at him, and the spittle settling on his cheek was as refreshing as rain. Sorry, he mouthed, and the bicyclist was now clinging to his arm. He couldn't tell if it was a man or woman -- it was bundled in clothes and a cap which descended halfway down its face.
"My fault, my fault!" he bellowed. Then he was free from the grasp, stumbling for the curb. All around, bicycles were ringing, deviating awkwardly out of his way, just missing him. With a final lunge, he made it to the taxi. Philip offered an arm and hauled him in, the door slammed shut, and the van lurched forward, back toward where they came from.
"Are you okay?" Susie asked. She was bending over him, all motherly. The taxi driver was shouting something, twisting in his seat so that his profile could be seen through the steel bars. She replied in a placating tone.
O'Neill surveyed his body with clinical detachment. A few bruises from the collision with the bicycle; ugly rivulets of road and oil on his pants (Another trophy, he thought with satisfaction); ankle twisted just a bit. "I'm all right," he said. "You know me. I'm a tough guy."
"Yeah," she groaned. "Don't do that again."
The driver was still shouting above the clatter of the engine. This taxi was nowhere near as quiet as the last one had been; something underneath was rattling, and O'Neill had the impression that the floor would crack in half at any moment, and plop, they would fall right onto the road.
"Relax," Susie said, running a hand over his forehead, clearing some of the sweaty hair away.
"Yes, that's a good idea," O'Neill murmured. He pulled himself up onto the seat - no springs this time, a homey cushion and pillow. A noisier ride, but no springs. Even trade. That was fine. He loved the individualism of taxis here. He curled up, head planted in the cushion, and closed his eyes as the driver continued talking. He was content to let the incomprehensible words lull him.
"Don't worry," Susie said to the driver. "It's nothing, really."
"If they saw my license plate, I'm in trouble," the driver persisted.
"Nobody saw it. Believe me. We weren't in any trouble."
"You say that, of course, but how can I be sure?"
She exhaled hard in disgust. She knew what was coming next: You should give me extra cash for taking you away, and putting myself in danger. Amazing how the mainlanders can turn mortal peril into a pragmatic moneymaking opportunity, she thought.
"We're fine," she said slowly and firmly. "If you have trouble with that, then we can get off right here."
"No, no, miss." That did it, he was impressed with her toughness and the worst had passed. "You're probably right, too many people around, no one got a good look at me."
"That's right," she said, and with an exasperated grunt, she seated herself next to O'Neill's large head.
"How is he?" Philip asked.
"Asleep, I think."
"What'd he say?"
"The driver?"
"The soldier you were talking to."
"The soldier?" She looked out the window. The sun was almost gone now, and the feeble sodium street lamps remained dead. All sense of distance and location had been lost, the willowy trees as large as buildings, a passing minibus a coughing giant. In the windows, she regarded her own stony expression. Have I changed that much? she wondered. Or have I just begun to notice I look like this?
"What'd he say?" Philip asked.
"He said he knew the man who died."
Philip gave a short nervous laugh. "Which one?"
"An army officer. He hijacked a jeep and a gun, came all the way out here from his base, and started shooting people. They had to bring troops in to take him down."
"Christ ... he just lost it?"
"I don't know," she murmured. "This guy said there was a rumor around the base that this officer's wife was pregnant, and one of his higher-ups forced her to have an abortion."
"Why?"
"Who knows? Maybe he already had a kid and couldn't afford to pay the penalty for having more than one. Maybe he was made an example of. Maybe it's totally untrue."
"So he went crazy because the army killed his baby? Makes sense to me."
"Does it?"
A flatbed truck roared even with them. In the fading light, she saw men perched on the back, perhaps in uniform, perhaps not. They stared straight at her. Shocked, she bent her head down so that it was close to O'Neill's. She watched the breath enter and leave his opened mouth.
"What's wrong?" Philip said. He was looking out the window, but the truck had already moved on. "There's nothing there."
"Uh-huh." She sat up straight, tugged her hair behind her head, embarrassed at her jumpiness. Easy, she thought.
"So are you going to write the story?"
"Maybe."
"Why maybe? You got the lowdown."
"No." She fiddled inside her bag - the micro-cassette recorder had been going the whole time. She rewound it a bit and hit PLAY. From far off, sounding ghostly, her voice mocked her: Maybe it's totally untrue.
"If I go ahead, put together this half-ass story, you know what happens next," she said. "The military gives the bureau hell for printing vicious lies, my prominent friends and contacts lock me out, nobody gets anything."
"So you're writing nothing?"
"There will be a story. A man went berserk, killed a lot of people. That's the facts. That much will go in."
"Well ... all right." Philip shrugged. That was his character: when confronted by dissonance, react with a shrug. He unzipped his pack and set himself to winding his film.
She turned back toward the window. They had ducked onto a minor road, one of those boisterous half-alleys where people took their time shuffling from stall to stall, chatting it up, the cooks at their food stands grilling egg-flour pancakes and shishkebobs. She grimaced. It doesn't matter how good the food is, she thought. The smell of burning coals obliterates everything else. Soon they'd be at the office, she would hit the air-conditioned press room, see all the familiar faces sitting primly at keyboards and typing articles, letters, resumes. Once there, what had happened ten minutes before would be reduced to an occurrence, something which could have even been experienced second or third-hand. She remembered the young soldier and the edge in his voice when he said: I'm telling you the truth. That's what happened. He had run a hand over his head, smoothing aside hair that wasn't there.
What's your name? she had asked. He shook his head. She asked him again. The same response. It was a stupid question - she wouldn't have been able to use the name in the article anyway. And what would she have done if he actually answered her? Just one more thing to torment her. But at least it would give this whole business a title. She would only have to conjure the name, and all the other events -- the sight of the blood and broken glass like hellish decorations, officers shutting emotion away, O'Neill barreling through traffic with the brutal determination of a rugby player -- would be instantly remembered.
"Hey there," O'Neill said. He had sat up so that his head lolled on the back of the seat, but his eyes regarded her steadily.
"Hi," she said. She rubbed his forehead with a fresh tissue.
"So did you get your story?"
"Yeah. Got it," she said.
"From the army lad?"
"Yes, from the army lad."
"Ha. You see? O'Neill can ferret them out."
"That's right."
"And now ..." He licked his lips. " ... now you owe me, little miss."
She snorted but continued wiping the sweat away from his face, perhaps digging a little deeper with the tissue than she had to. He made a pleasant sound of comfort, almost like a cat. The taxi made another turn and they were submerged in near-darkness. Silly man, she thought.