The Sexopaths (32 page)

He expounds with the occasional
ad lib: it’s a peculiar sensation as his head-mike collects his quietly spoken
words and relays them about the auditorium, an infinitesimal yet just
discernible delay enabling him to feel the resonance of his voice within his
chest, as if he’s part of the sound system.  The amplification gives him
the impression of being a more skilled orator than he knows he is (having
watched video clips of himself on conference websites), but this is one
occasion when that probably doesn’t matter, given that most of the delegates
are listening to Mandarin… or Shanghainese… or whatever other translations are
available – and who knows how they will turn out?  He was initially
perturbed when Lifen informed him that the Chinese version of his new book is
really quite different to the English original – but that she admired
them both, of course.  He casts about for her among the rows of unblinking
homogenous faces, clearer now that he has stepped back from the limelight, but
he can spy no trace of the distinctive spiky hairdo that has aided his
recognition of her thus far.  It was a characteristic impressed upon him
when, on their late arrival in the hotel foyer, she’d swiftly detached herself
from the reception counter and, evidently having waited patiently for all of
the two hours of their flight delay, politely intercepted them with a bowing
introduction.  Up until that moment he’d reacted with some cynicism, even
mild annoyance, that Monique had procured somebody – via her newly
acquired AMIE contacts – actually based in Shanghai who would review his
book
and
his conference slides,
and
provide feedback upon any
salient points that might have an adverse impact in a local context.  He’d
complained that under the circumstances they were just trying to impress her as
a customer, their motives mercenary… and in any event what were the chances of
them
being qualified to comment upon
his
work?  But he knew in his heart
that the true source of his irritation was the connection to Lucien, indirect
or otherwise. 

They’d dozed fitfully during what
was a night-flight in UK terms, arriving in China to find the day well
advanced.  By the time they reached the hotel it was around seven p.m.
(and eleven a.m. at home), and though Adam had felt fatigued by the indolence
of travel, he was not actually sleepy – his internal clock knew it was mid-morning. 
He wasn’t due to speak until the following afternoon, and he’d calculated that
they could probably afford a long lie during the forthcoming Shanghai morning,
which was the equivalent of the next British night.  Nevertheless, he was
eager to shower and change, the humidity encountered since disembarkation
compounding his discomfort, and had been calculating how quickly they could
excuse themselves from Lifen’s dutiful attentions.  Monique, of course,
had insisted that they all have a drink in the foyer bar, and with hindsight
Adam was thankful for her instinct always to engage socially in any such
situation.  Not only was Lifen impeccably courteous, and a veritable
cornucopia of sincerity and humility, but despite her long and indeterminate
wait, she had immediately pointed out how tired
they
must be and had
suggested she come back at a time in the morning that would be more convenient
(commuting for who-knows-how long from who-knows-where across the seemingly
limitless concrete metropolis).  Naturally Monique had railed at the idea,
and in due course at their table Lifen had produced from her attaché case an
elegantly typeset pack of notes relating to his speech, along with suggested
itineraries, restaurants, sights, shops and contact details for things they might
like to do in their spare time in Shanghai.  She offered to take Monique
to see the local sister factory of that where the soft-toys would be made
– if of course they felt they could spare a couple of hours, and
naturally Adam was included in the invitation.  And when they finally did
part, some forty or fifty minutes later, she gave him his first lesson in local
etiquette: the bowing, two-handed presentation and mutual appreciation that was
required in order to exchange business cards, diplomatically pointing out how
to store the received card carefully in a case, and not casually to stick it in
the back pocket, later – horror of horrors – to be sat upon, as
ignorant Westerners are prone to doing.

Adam reflects on such differences
as he reaches the concluding slides of his presentation.  When he
addresses a British audience, or even those further afield where English has
been enthusiastically adopted by the latest baby-booming multitude of young,
trendy, smart and hungry business graduates, like in many of the former Soviet
Bloc states, he usually gets a few laughs as they pick up the intended ironies
in his perspicacious observations.  The last time he’d lectured in Mexico
City he’d felt more like a stand-up comic than a serious conference speaker,
such was the level of audience participation.  Today, however, the Chinese
are either living up to their reputation for inscrutability, or are simply not
used to this kind of subtle double-speak – and why should they be? 
He’s the one in the minority around here.  He wonders if in fact his
entire way of thinking, the premise of his proposition, his hypothesis, simply
isn’t right for the oriental mind or mentality.  While Lifen gave no such
negative hints in either her notes or the discussion they’d had, he’s detected
none of the usual subtle but affirmative body language that tells him the crowd
is with him.

His final slide is the cue for
him to announce that he’s been asked to remain on the stage.  He is to
draw three business cards out of a large ornate bowl that was placed originally
at the registration desk, the lucky winners to come up and each receive a
signed copy of his book.  There’s an uncomfortable silent hiatus –
which ideally would be filled with applause for his finale – while the
business-suited female compere whose name he has been unable to assimilate
rises from her seat at one end of the first row and nimbly ascends the steps to
his right.  She has a roaming microphone and is followed by a shapely
assistant in a figure-hugging traditional red-and-gold
cheongsam,
bearing the bowl.  He allows himself to be guided to the front of the
stage, before clumsily reaching across the girl, melodramatically shielding his
eyes and mixing the cards as best he can, brushing accidentally against her
breasts in the process.  As he extracts three cards from the middle of the
heap, out of nervousness as much as anything, he says:

‘I slipped half-a-dozen of my own
in here during the lunch break.’

The woman says something in
Chinese – and suddenly the audience laughs explosively, reminding him of
just how many there are out there.  Adam hopes it’s not at his expense,
and that she has translated his quip as he intended it.  He makes a
gesture as if he’s understood and that he welcomes their response, and rather
awkwardly, wondering if it’s the right thing to do, he carefully examines the
cards printed in unintelligible Chinese characters, and passes them in
two-handed prayer fashion, according to Lifen’s patient instruction.  He
senses the woman’s approval.  She reads out the first name and after a few
moments a rather sheepish young guy comes up to shake his hand, followed by an
embarrassed-looking girl who curtseys before receiving her book.  He
doesn’t know whether to kiss her on the cheeks but leans forward to do it
anyway.  Belatedly she accepts, much to the interest of the crowd below,
and when he looks up to greet the final winner he’s amazed to find Lifen
striding confidently towards him, arms swinging and her trademark top-knot swaying
like a small spiny creature balancing upon her crown, a brilliant white-toothed
smile upon her face.  His reaction betrays their acquaintanceship and the
compere speaks in Chinese to Lifen, who answers her in kind.  She takes
Lifen by the hand and announces her to the audience, who break out into
spontaneous applause.  Adam wonders what’s going on, but the compere,
speaking now in English, thanks him for his edifying speech and calls for more
applause, to which he leaves the stage and walks with Lifen towards the back of
the hall.  The lights now come up as there is to be a break for
refreshments, laid out in the foyer beyond.  Adam has a creepy feeling
that he’s being followed.  He whispers to Lifen:

‘What was that all about?’

As if sensing what he really
wants to know, she says:

‘Your speech was excellent. 
They really like it.’  It’s the first time he’s noticed her deviate from
perfect English.

‘Thanks – but the business
cards – and how come I picked you?’

Lifen hesitates for a moment, as
if considering the advisability of answering his question.  She watches
him closely as she says:

‘The Chinese are very
superstitious.  That you met me only yesterday and chose me by chance
today – and in position number three – it seems to them very
lucky.  And to me, of course.  Thank you.’

‘It
was
a
coincidence.’  Adam stresses the was.  ‘I had no idea you’d even put
your card in the bowl.  But I’m the one who should be thanking you for all
your help.’  He’s humbled by her reverence.

‘You are most welcome.  If…
there is anything more you wish me to do… at any time during your stay.’ 
She flashes him a brief sidelong glance, interrogative, then bows her head and,
folding the precious copy of his book two-handed into her breast, walks half a
step behind him, like a chorister processing along a nave.

Momentarily flirting with a vague
sexual fantasy and thus distracted, Adam reaches the cloth-covered trestle
table where cups and saucers are laid out before he can fashion a reply. 
He sidesteps along to face another of the cheongsam-clad helpers, this one
acting as if she’s in charge of a large urn that may hold coffee.  He
turns to Lifen:

‘After you.’

‘Thank you.’

Speaking in English she requests
a coffee and he follows suit.  Conscious of her silence, he says:

‘I thought eight was the lucky
number in China?’

‘For us there are many lucky
numbers.  Three is a lucky number, also.’

‘Why is that?’

‘The word for three sounds like
the Chinese character for
birth
.  Four in Chinese sounds like
death
.’

‘Just as well I couldn’t fit any
more into my case.’

She nods politely, watching him
closely, perhaps unsure of his levity.  Adam ponders for a moment, then
says:

‘Come to think of it, three’s a
lucky number in Britain, though I’m not sure why. It’s probably some obscure
mathematical model, or astrology maybe.’

Again she nods, as if hanging on
every word of his sage-like utterances.  They turn away from the
refreshments table, and Adam suddenly realises that what he’d subconsciously
been aware of as a queue behind him for drinks is actually a separate line of
expectant Chinese faces, waiting hopefully to gain his attention.  Among
the assemblage of about twenty people he recognises the other two book-winners.

‘Wow.  What do I do?’ 
He speaks out of the side of his mouth.

He’s accustomed to the odd person
approaching him afterwards – perhaps to thank him or ask him to sign his
book or to request a copy of his slides – but this, in surprising
contrast to the vibes he’d picked up during his speech, appears like an
organised appreciation society.  To his relief Lifen – seemingly
comfortable as his unofficial PA – steps into the breach and interrogates
the first few bodies in the line.  She returns to him and says quietly:

‘They would like each to speak
with you for just a minute or two.  To benefit from your great
wisdom.  We could sit over there and I can translate if there are any
difficulties?’

‘Of course – if the ones at
the back of the queue don’t mind missing some of the next speaker.  I
don’t usually get this much interest.’

‘Chinese people are always very
eager to learn.’

‘That’s probably why your economy
is booming.  Who makes all the pandas, eh?’

Lifen smiles dutifully. 
Adam suddenly hopes she doesn’t think it’s some kind of xenophobic gag and is
humouring him.  As they head across towards an arrangement of lounge-type
seating, trailed at a respectful distance by the snaking line of delegates,
Adam spots Monique being served with a drink.  He says to Lifen:

‘I’ll just be a moment.’

For a fleeting second Adam detects
a reaction, a flash of pique in her eyes, then uncharacteristically she barks
an order Chinese-fashion, and her new charges obediently shuffle into position
against a row of tall windows.  Beyond, the view is dominated by
university buildings that tower from within their perimeter fencing, separated
from the hotel and conference complex by a broad boulevard and junction. 
Adam crosses to address Monique.  He touches her on the arm.

‘Hi.’

She turns with a smile. 
‘You are quite the celebrity.’

He realises she must have been
watching him.  He shrugs, sheepishly.

‘My darling – I am very
proud of you!’  She sounds like she thinks he’s misinterpreted her comment
as a sarcastic snipe, a potshot loosed off in irritation at Lifen’s eager
attendance.  He acts to defuse the offending impression, saying:

‘Can you believe I picked
Lifen?  Evidently the audience now think I have special powers. 
Hence the queue, I reckon.’

Monique giggles.  ‘I did
wonder how you fixed it.’

‘Straight up, it was pure luck
– her card’s written in Chinese.  Lucky number three. 
Apparently it’s got to do with babies.’

‘I always thought it was buses.’

‘Yeah – and that.’  He
smiles and pecks her on the cheek.  ‘Look – I’d better get back to
that lot.  Are you going to listen to the last session?’

‘My darling – have you
heard to the English translation?’