A Map for the Missing(33)

They looked around the room, appearing disinterested in her, eyes pausing at various points: the bookshelf, the china cabinet, the picture of her father displayed on the wall above an offering of fruit. Perhaps they’d come to scope out her furniture before robbing her. Ever since working at the restaurant, she’d felt a pang of fear whenever she was alone with men she didn’t know, and these were the kinds of men—powerful, who didn’t ask permission—who put her on edge.

Mr. Qian commented briefly on the weather, colder than usual at this time of year, before saying, “We’ve been working on a project with your husband. A new shopping complex, the International Prosperity Center. Has he told you about it?”

She shook her head.

“Does your husband often tell you about his work?” He raised his eyebrows in suggestion. She sensed he wanted her to pick up some meaning behind his words, but she couldn’t guess what. Again she said no.

“Well, we can understand that, can’t we?” He turned toward his companion. “Yes, Mr. Pan agrees with me. Your husband knows the job of a good housewife isn’t to know too much about her husband’s work. You stay home, take care of things here. You don’t need to get involved with things that don’t concern you.” She didn’t sense a need for response. His speech was quiet and efficient, unlike all the men in power for whom she’d always felt disdain, ones she’d met at dinners and receptions and who never let the slightest drop of self-awareness or sense of discretion tinge their boasts.

He rose slowly from the couch and took a porcelain vase from the bookshelf. His long fingers stretched around the neck looked as if he could contract his hands at any moment.

“You’ve arranged your home beautifully. You two have a son, right?”

He returned the vase to the shelf. Her chest, which she hadn’t noticed was tightened, unspooled. She gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Yes, your husband has spoken about him, too. I’d love to meet him sometime. Is he home?”

“No. He’s at school.”

“I’m sure you two will raise a fine child. Your husband is so different from other city officials. Just last week, I met someone who was at—where was it, the Ministry of Water and Electricity?—bragging about all the children he had with mistresses in the countryside. It’s no wonder the ordinary people see things like that and get angry with their government.” He shook his head, as if expecting her to bemoan the state of the country with him.

She sensed this might be an opening. “Mr. Qian, I’m sorry to be so abrupt. I’m afraid I have another appointment now.”

“Of course, of course!” He jumped up. “I’m sorry to keep going on. You must be very busy. We’ll get going now.”

She exhaled with relief. The visit had been strange, yes, but she couldn’t discern any particular threat. She’d ask Guifan about the men that evening.

“Oh, I seem to have forgotten something,” Mr. Qian said, just as they were about to depart. She’d gone outside, still in her slippers, to see them off.

He reached into his pocket and produced a tiny velvet box. He flipped open the top to reveal a pair of carved rose studs, each the size of a pinky nail, pressed into a soft pillow.

“Made of ivory,” he said. He held the jewelry box out, letting it linger in midair.

“I can’t take that. You’re much too polite.”

“No, I insist.” He hadn’t retracted his hand.

She closed her hand on the box and right then he leaned in and said, “I wanted to say this earlier, but I wasn’t sure if I should even mention it.” She could smell stale cigarettes on his breath. Her heart was racing. “Your husband is in a position to help us with the International Prosperity Center. You know, we have great plans for this city. Look at how beautiful it’s getting. You wouldn’t want your husband to get in the way of that, right?” Coming even closer, he added, “You have a beautiful home and family. Tell your husband not to do anything that would jeopardize what you’ve obtained.”

Then he backed away and was talking with the same airy voice again. “Don’t worry. You can ask your husband about what I mean later.” He smiled broadly at her and handed her a business card before departing.

She had to put her hand on the wall to steady herself after they left.

Ayi, who’d come to clean up the teacups, startled. “Miss, what’s wrong?”

Hanwen shook her head and almost fell forward onto the couch in her rush to sit down. The lightness was lifting her body away from herself once again. Dark spots trickled into her vision, like an ink spill blotting out her safe home.

She gulped greedily at the hot liquid Ayi brought to her, still with her eyes closed. They’re gone, they’re gone, she said to herself. There isn’t any danger. Slowly, she could feel weight returning to her head, allowing it to become a more solid thing again. She opened her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said, and when Ayi still appeared to be worried, she repeated herself. Hanwen hadn’t experienced one of these spells in over a year, not since before this new young woman had begun working for them. The episodes had been more frequent when Hanwen was younger, but year by year, the sources of stress that would cause a spell had grown fewer. Her life was bounded and protected by the walls around the complex, the others who went out and interacted with the world for her. Now these two men had breached the barrier. But for what? Mr. Qian’s words were shrouded in code, but she was sure of two things—the men had threatened to hurt her family, and it had something to do with Guifan.