“It never came up.”
She exhales. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And fully capable of funding this trip,” I declare. “So, what do you say?”
She rubs her temples. “This is madness.”
“But fun madness,” I counter, deciding she’d just said yes. “Now, will you call your grandmother while I arrange our flight?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
ANTOINE
The cab jerks forward as the driver slams on the brakes. This is the fifth time in as many minutes, and Laura braces against the door.
We landed in Chengdu an hour ago at five in the afternoon a bit tired but very excited. Laura is pumped at the thought of seeing her grandmother in person after so many years of screen-bound conversations. For me, it’s a different kind of thrill. I’m one step—no, one giant leap—closer to finding the key. That thought alone sharpens my focus and fills me with bubbly energy.
We flew in on a private jet. It was the fastest way to get here. Convincing Laura that I hadn’t spent the entirety of my trust fund on our tickets required the kind of creativity that doesn’t come naturally to me. But I think I did well. When, after the lavish breakfast, she had a panic attack over my recklessness, I told her that our private jet was operated by a low-cost airline for the wealthy. “Think of it as the Ryanair of elite aviation” were my specific words. She rolled her eyes and let it go.
Now she stares out the window of the cab, all worked up with the tip of her little nose almost touching the glass. Around us, cars are packed like sardines, bicycles weave through thegaps, and pedestrians dart between the lanes with a confidence I can only admire. Above it all, a gray dome of smog blocks out the sun, muting the city in shades of dull steel. It feels like the atmosphere is pressing down on us, wrapping everything in a humid, sticky embrace.
Laura leans closer still to the window. “I don’t remember it being this stuffy. Or this hazy.”
“Did you ever come here in summer?”
“No,” she admits.
We pass a massive, bright red archway. The characters etched into the top glow faintly in the midday gloom. To the left, a towering apartment block looms over a tiny Taoist temple with curling green roof tiles. A short time later, we drive past a gigantic statue of a man in a double-breasted coat. Mao Zedong, judging by the hairstyle. Chairman Mao rises high on his pedestal, above a sea of neon capitalist signs that market everything from cell phones to hot pot restaurants. I’m well traveled, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a jarring mix of worlds all crammed together in a single metropolis.
The driver swerves sharply to avoid a cyclist carrying what appears to be an entire wardrobe balanced precariously on his back.
Laura smiles. “You have to look past the mess. There’s beauty here if you know where to find it.”
“Help me spot it?”
“Look there.” She points to a small public garden at the foot of a building.
Red lanterns dangle from the trees, their light soft against the gray backdrop. A group of elderly men sits around a stone table, sipping tea and slapping down cards. Some of the grandpas have a toddler or a baby in their laps. All look supremely content.
I can see what Laura’s saying. It’s not only the juxtaposition of different universes that characterizes this city, but also that of noise and tranquility of public chaos and private peace.
“I can’t wait to see Grandma Feng again!” Laura exclaims. “It’s been so long!”
Thirty minutes later, the cab pulls away, leaving us in a quieter neighborhood, in front of a small house tucked in between looming high-rises. It makes me think of Mount Evor. Just like my tiny principality holding its own against France, Italy and Switzerland, this stubborn relic from another time resists against the encroaching concrete and steel.
The door opens and out comes a petite woman moving with a liveliness that makes me question if she’s really pushing eighty. Her eyes light up when she sees Laura, and she cries out things in Mandarin, spreading her arms wide.
“Wàipó!” Laura rushes forward to hug her.
I stand a few feet away, smiling politely.
Feng pulls back, her hands on Laura’s shoulders. After examining her granddaughter for a good minute, she turns to me.
“French too hard, Antoine,” she says in English.
“That’s all right, we can communicate in English.”
She shakes her head. “English too hard.”
