The Train To Lo Wu Part 10

Oh, she says. OK. But she remains there with the magazine folded, expectant.

So that's why I can't sign this, right? You don't want my my autograph, do you? autograph, do you?

Her eyebrows pucker. Sorry, she says. Don't understand.

You don't-for G.o.d's sake, he thinks, make the woman happy. OK, he says. Give me the pen.

Peace, he signs, he signs, Marcel Thomas. Marcel Thomas. But he scrunches up the words, and thinks, she'll never know the difference. But he scrunches up the words, and thinks, she'll never know the difference.

Hong Kong is like no place he has ever imagined. Green hillsides rising out of a steel-colored sea. Rows of identical white apartment blocks that seem to sprout from low-hanging clouds, like mushrooms after rain. When he steps outside the airport terminal the air sticks to his skin, and he feels queasy, his joints rubbery, a bad taste in his mouth. He'd give anything for a shower. Thirteen thousand miles, he thinks, staring at the curving aluminum handrails on the escalator, the green-tinted gla.s.s walls of the taxi stand, as if looking for evidence of that fact, some basis for comparison. Thirteen thousand miles from San Francisco. This. And this. And me.

He falls asleep on the long ride into the city, lying across the backseat with his head propped on his garment bag. When the taxi jolts to a stop his eyes open and he sits up carefully. The car is surrounded by people rus.h.i.+ng past, b.u.mping up against the window, and he hears a m.u.f.fled roar: voices, horns honking, music blaring.

What is it? he says. Is it a riot?

Yih ging lai dou ah, the driver croaks. Causeway Bay. Excelsior Hotel, OK? the driver croaks. Causeway Bay. Excelsior Hotel, OK?

When he steps out into the street, he finds himself staring down at a sea of black-haired heads, none higher than his chest. People moving in every direction, weaving, colliding, clutching shopping bags and mobile phones and children; no one looks up at him here. A van turns the corner with brakes squealing, and they scatter out of the way; like ants, like ants, he thinks, he thinks, like c.o.c.kroaches, like c.o.c.kroaches, and feels ashamed. He makes his way across the street, holding his bags shoulder-high, as if crossing a river. Without quite knowing why, he holds his breath until the hotel's revolving doors close behind him, and then releases it with a gasp. and feels ashamed. He makes his way across the street, holding his bags shoulder-high, as if crossing a river. Without quite knowing why, he holds his breath until the hotel's revolving doors close behind him, and then releases it with a gasp.

There's no place like it on earth, Wallace Ford tells him later that evening, on the outdoor patio at the American Club, twenty-two stories above Central. From his seat Marcel can see the s.h.i.+ning columns of office buildings crowded close together, and between them, the dark shadow of Victoria Peak. The glow of the city turns the sky dusky orange. There's an otherworldly quality to it, he thinks, as if Hong Kong were one of those cities in science fiction movies, where everyone lives far above the ground. It wouldn't surprise him to see a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p pa.s.sing silently among the skysc.r.a.pers, or a white robot coming out to serve them drinks.

You take New York, Ford says. San Francisco. L.A. Chicago. Even London and Paris-none of it compares to this. The Chinese were living in cities before anybody else on the planet. They've got it figured out. It's not always pretty-or at least we we don't think so. But it works. don't think so. But it works.

He sits back with a grunt of satisfaction and drains his gla.s.s. Fifty-three years old, Marcel remembers, and his skin glows like polished copper; he wears a cream seersucker suit, a crisp tailored s.h.i.+rt, and a new pinky ring, a ruby the size of a fish's eye. Marcel hasn't seen him in five years, since before he was hired at Peabody Stein Loeffler; it was Ford who gave him his final interview, who motioned him to shut the door to his office and said, confidentially speaking, from one brother to another. Marcel doesn't remember all of it-a torrent of words, as if Ford had been waiting for years for the right young candidate to appear- but one riff has always stayed with him: Antic.i.p.ate the next move. Antic.i.p.ate the next move. It's the key to good law and it's the key to surviving in this firm. Always be planning. Always listening. Never act until you understand It's the key to good law and it's the key to surviving in this firm. Always be planning. Always listening. Never act until you understand the whole field; and then strike before anyone notices. Work in the the whole field; and then strike before anyone notices. Work in the small hours. Let the others wake up to the bad news. small hours. Let the others wake up to the bad news. He remembers sitting on the edge of his chair, trying to keep up, nodding at the appropriate places. A few times he caught himself thinking, He remembers sitting on the edge of his chair, trying to keep up, nodding at the appropriate places. A few times he caught himself thinking, is is this for real? this for real?

It wasn't until his first day on the job that he heard Ford had transferred to Hong Kong, almost overnight, without a farewell party or even so much as a good-bye letter. He was disappointed, momentarily, but then felt a strange surge of relief. He can't protect me, He can't protect me, he thought, he thought, but he can't make me his errand boy, either. but he can't make me his errand boy, either. Better not to be anyone's protege Better not to be anyone's protege.

I think you're going to like it here, Ford says, catching his glance and holding it for a moment. You like Chinese food?

I grew up on it, Marcel says, remembering the Fortune Kitchen, across the street from his old apartment house in Yonkers. Somehow it seemed there was always a container of sweet-and-sour pork dripping red sauce on the kitchen table, a packet of egg rolls in wax paper in the fridge. Egg foo yung, he says. Shrimp lo mein. All that good stuff.

You can forget about that. Ford leans forward. I've got a woman who cooks for me, he says. She makes food you won't believe. None of that Happy Delight stuff-everything's fresh, no MSG, no chow mein. She's got me eating it morning, noon, and night. No more doughnuts in the house, no potato chips. I feel like I did when I was twenty-five. No. Better than that. How long are you staying?

Not long, Marcel says. Cold spreads across the bottom of his stomach. They want me back for a deposition on the seventeenth. Next Monday.

Ford shrugs. Not bad, he says. Not bad for a young comer who wants to make partner. We'll make it worth your while. There's some people I definitely want you to meet.

Marcel has to glance away for a second. Another look into those eyes, he thinks, and I'll be telling the whole story, from beginning to end. The lights inside the club have come on, and through the sliding gla.s.s doors he can see the crowd gathered around the bar: young, blond, tanned, thin briefcases, martinis, cigars. A few faces he ought to recognize, from Williams or Choate. Can I ask you an honest question? he says. How can you stand it?

You mean the white boys' club inside?

I mean being the only one, he says. Sticking out all the time. In the airport I felt like I was in a museum display. Some woman thought I was from the NBA. Wanted my autograph.

I'll be honest with you, Ford says. Most can't take it. I've had boys making monkey noises at me on the subway. Sometimes babies cry when they see you. Sometimes they'll pretend not to understand your English. Or make up some excuse: only Chinese only Chinese menu, menu, or some such thing. I've seen lots of brothers come out, and most of them leave after a year or so. And it's too bad. Because they don't understand the underlying principle. or some such thing. I've seen lots of brothers come out, and most of them leave after a year or so. And it's too bad. Because they don't understand the underlying principle.

And what's that?

Ford takes a heavy gold pen from his pocket and flattens a c.o.c.ktail napkin on his palm. I learned this from a friend of mine, he says, drawing carefully. A box with a cross inside it, with a pair of legs underneath, it seems, and a few squiggles attached to the top. This is the Chinese word for foreigner, he says. Gwai Gwai. It literally means "ghost." Or "demon." Now, usually when they say gwai gwai they're thinking of the white man-the white ghost. But actually a ghost is anyone who's not Chinese. White ghosts, red ghosts, black ghosts. He looks up at Marcel, and from his expression Marcel can tell that his attempt to suppress a look of disbelief has failed. It means you don't really exist, he says. Sure, you might run into a little trouble once in a while. But fundamentally you don't matter to them. White people, black people-it's all the same. You're not on their radar screen. They'll make deals with you, sure. They'll take your money. But otherwise you might as well not be there at all. they're thinking of the white man-the white ghost. But actually a ghost is anyone who's not Chinese. White ghosts, red ghosts, black ghosts. He looks up at Marcel, and from his expression Marcel can tell that his attempt to suppress a look of disbelief has failed. It means you don't really exist, he says. Sure, you might run into a little trouble once in a while. But fundamentally you don't matter to them. White people, black people-it's all the same. You're not on their radar screen. They'll make deals with you, sure. They'll take your money. But otherwise you might as well not be there at all.

It sounds like a lonely way to live, Marcel says. He tilts his head at the crowd in the bar. No wonder they stick to their own. You wouldn't know it's not Manhattan.

It can be, Ford says. But that's not necessarily such a bad thing.

On the way back to the hotel Marcel stops the taxi on Kennedy Road in Wan Chai, intending to walk the rest of the way. The driver gives him a knowing smile, and when he steps out of the car he realizes why: the street is a long line of girlie bars, with neon signs blinking overhead. Hollywood Club. Midnight Sauna Hollywood Club. Midnight Sauna Ma.s.sage. La Fleur de Paris Ma.s.sage. La Fleur de Paris. He remembers, now, his uncle Bill telling a story of how he stayed in Wan Chai on the way home from Vietnam and gambled away a thousand dollars in a single night.

Hey! an old woman shouts at him in a hoa.r.s.e voice. Michael Jordan! Hey, over here!

He ignores her, and takes the first right turn, walks a block, then left, and finds himself on a bustling market street. Stalls piled with mounds of oranges, cabbages, mushrooms; dried squid hanging like fans from a wire. The air is filled with a sharp, sour smell, of fish and dirt and rotting vegetables; he finds it oddly comforting. In the next block he sees a newsstand tucked into an alleyway, and stops, looking for an English newspaper. Everything in Chinese: fas.h.i.+on magazines, comic books, racing sheets, even Time Time and and Newsweek Newsweek. Each character is like a little map, he thinks, like a maze; how can anyone read so many at once, and not get lost? He stares at one magazine after another, and a strange sensation comes over him, p.r.i.c.kling the back of his neck.

Deja vu, he thinks. It's been years since he thought about his dyslexia; he was lucky, diagnosed early, and his parents fought the schools for special cla.s.ses and a private tutor. By high school it was under control, and in college it had all but disappeared. But in law school, during exams, he had a recurring dream of picking up a newspaper, a textbook, and finding the words garbled, illegible. Strange, he thinks, being reminded of that here. he thinks. It's been years since he thought about his dyslexia; he was lucky, diagnosed early, and his parents fought the schools for special cla.s.ses and a private tutor. By high school it was under control, and in college it had all but disappeared. But in law school, during exams, he had a recurring dream of picking up a newspaper, a textbook, and finding the words garbled, illegible. Strange, he thinks, being reminded of that here.

In his room, in a folder marked Confidential, Confidential, is the resignation letter Wallace Ford has to sign, and a stack of papers detailing severance pay, company holdings, disclosure and confidentiality agreements, pension and annuity plans. On the plane, he glanced through them one last time and even now, thinking about it, he has a strange sensation of walking on a balance beam and reaching a foot mistakenly into midair. No one should ever have to fire a partner, he remembers Paul Loeffler saying. It goes against everything we believe in. I'd go myself, but it's a busy time. And I think that he'll appreciate it coming from someone he had a close relations.h.i.+p with. is the resignation letter Wallace Ford has to sign, and a stack of papers detailing severance pay, company holdings, disclosure and confidentiality agreements, pension and annuity plans. On the plane, he glanced through them one last time and even now, thinking about it, he has a strange sensation of walking on a balance beam and reaching a foot mistakenly into midair. No one should ever have to fire a partner, he remembers Paul Loeffler saying. It goes against everything we believe in. I'd go myself, but it's a busy time. And I think that he'll appreciate it coming from someone he had a close relations.h.i.+p with.

The numbers on the balance sheet were undeniable; the Hong Kong office was hemorrhaging money, billable hours in decline for three quarters in a row. Wallace Ford is a great lawyer Wallace Ford is a great lawyer. He heard that line so many times, in so many different apologetic tones. But he's no administrator. He has his enthusiasms, his But he's no administrator. He has his enthusiasms, his pet projects. It sounds to me like he's gotten in over his head out pet projects. It sounds to me like he's gotten in over his head out there. Bank accounts in Vanuatu? Does he want the SEC after us? there. Bank accounts in Vanuatu? Does he want the SEC after us?

He would have believed it, too, if Wanda Silver hadn't cornered him in the office kitchen late one Friday afternoon, when everyone else had gone home. Marcel had never known what to make of her: a woman older than his mother, with silver streaks in her curly hair, who wore tie-dyed jumpsuits, batik headbands, and bright bangles on her wrists. There was a rumor that she had spent six months in jail back in the seventies, after chaining herself to the gates of the Livermore Laboratory; yet she had been the firm's office manager for thirty years, and held the keys to the firm's safe-deposit boxes, filled out the paychecks, and knew all the pa.s.swords to the computer network.

I heard something important, she said, coming in behind him and closing the door with a discreet click. They're sending you to Hong Kong, Marcel, right?

So I've been told.

And Wallace is out?

He turned to face her. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her lips drawn tight, as if she'd been crying. He looked at the clock on the wall above her, and watched the second hand slide past fifteen, then twenty. Wanda, he said, what do you want me to say? I didn't make the decision. It's not my department.

I don't know, she said. I don't know you, Marcel. And I've never really known what to do with kids your age. Pardon my condescension. Young men. So I'm going to a.s.sume you're not as naive as you sound. I'm going to a.s.sume you can guess why Wallace Ford was made a partner of this firm.

Marcel stared at her and said nothing. No, No, he wanted to say. he wanted to say. Enlighten me. Enlighten me.

It wasn't because of all those other cases he won. It wasn't because of his golf swing, either. It was to avoid a lawsuit. They never liked him. You can say what you want, but I transcribed the minutes of all those meetings. G.o.d, I hope this isn't too much of a surprise to you.

No, he said. It isn't. Though it had never occurred to him to think about it one way or the other. Partners were partners; how they had gotten there was irrelevant.

I'm sure they've shown you the graphs, she said. But they probably haven't told you that Jim Phillips in Brussels has been doing half the business he did last year, and no one's planning to fire him, are they? This is a setup, Marcel. They're sending you to cover their tracks.

His heart thumped, as if someone had stepped on his chest. Should I listen to this? Should I listen to this? Suppose that were true, he said. What would you want me to do about it? Suppose that were true, he said. What would you want me to do about it?

You're a lawyer. Isn't that your job?

I am a lawyer, he said, his face getting hot. And I should warn you against making libelous statements you can't prove.

She gave a long, exaggerated sigh. Wallace is my friend, friend, she said. I talk to him on the phone every week. Yes, he has some strange ideas. He's a free thinker. And he's made some questionable choices. But who hasn't, may I ask? I've known him for twenty-one years. He's the best lawyer this firm has. She put her hand on the doork.n.o.b, and twisted it, with the door still shut. Do something about it, she said. Don't pretend you don't know how. she said. I talk to him on the phone every week. Yes, he has some strange ideas. He's a free thinker. And he's made some questionable choices. But who hasn't, may I ask? I've known him for twenty-one years. He's the best lawyer this firm has. She put her hand on the doork.n.o.b, and twisted it, with the door still shut. Do something about it, she said. Don't pretend you don't know how.

Following the map, Marcel takes Kennedy Road to where it intersects with Queen's, along the waterfront; he crosses the road and leans against the railing, taking a breath of sea air. The water is the color and texture of ink; in the jagged reflections of a thousand lights, it seems to boil, and congeal, and dissolve again.

He remembers when his family used to go for walks in Green-wood Park, along the Hudson, and he would climb up onto the concrete barriers and lean over to stare into the water. It always smelled faintly of gasoline, a few milk containers and c.o.ke cans bobbing up against the wall. What would happen if I fell in? he would always wonder, imagining himself thras.h.i.+ng in the oily muck, unable to find a handhold; and just at that moment he would feel his father's rough fingers, the fingers of a moving-company man, on the back of his collar. Gon get yourself killed, Marcel remembers his father saying, lifting him gently into the air and placing him back on the sidewalk. There was the rea.s.surance, the comfort, of having those hands to catch him; but he remembers the grain of disappointment he always felt under his tongue, knowing that the danger was only imaginary, that it was a question he would never have to answer.

Wallace Ford's house is not on Hong Kong Island, as Marcel always a.s.sumed. It is on another island, with the strange name of Lamma, a mile or so to the south, and a ferry ride of forty-five minutes from Central. We'll expect you around seven, We'll expect you around seven, Ford told him. Ford told him. That way you'll be on the boat while it's still daylight. It's That way you'll be on the boat while it's still daylight. It's something to see. something to see. He sits on a plastic chair on the upper deck, facing forward, eating saltines and watching the horizon. Even looking at boats makes him a little queasy; he always remembers being sick, at four, the one time he took the Staten Island Ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. His roommate at Williams, who was on the sailing team, taught him a simple cure: soda crackers to settle the stomach, and keeping your eyes on the horizon, tricking your inner ear into thinking you're standing still. But you can hardly expect it to work here, he thinks, inhaling the smell of instant noodles and Happy Meals blowing up from the lower deck, with a folder of doc.u.ments in your bag that spells the end of a man's career. The deck tilts slightly, and he grips the arms of the chair, staring fixedly at the dim silhouettes of mountains in the distance. He sits on a plastic chair on the upper deck, facing forward, eating saltines and watching the horizon. Even looking at boats makes him a little queasy; he always remembers being sick, at four, the one time he took the Staten Island Ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. His roommate at Williams, who was on the sailing team, taught him a simple cure: soda crackers to settle the stomach, and keeping your eyes on the horizon, tricking your inner ear into thinking you're standing still. But you can hardly expect it to work here, he thinks, inhaling the smell of instant noodles and Happy Meals blowing up from the lower deck, with a folder of doc.u.ments in your bag that spells the end of a man's career. The deck tilts slightly, and he grips the arms of the chair, staring fixedly at the dim silhouettes of mountains in the distance.

Excuse me?

He turns and sees a young girl sitting in the chair next to him, and beyond her, a tiny old man, holding a cane across his lap. Sorry, she says haltingly. My grandfather says you must have some sea illness. Is it true?

He nods, not knowing what to do.

He says the best thing is to sleep, the girl says. Not stay out here. There are too much noises and bad smells. She stands up, and the old man stands, too, and beckons to him, pointing at the door. For a moment he stays where he is, wanting to say, No, I'm all right. But how would she translate this; what would the old man think of his courtesy? He stands up, shakily, and follows them inside. The upstairs cabin is nearly empty, perhaps a little quieter. There, the girl says, pointing to a long row of seats. You can rest there.

All right, he says, and sits down, just to get them to leave. But they linger, watching him, and so he has to lift his legs and stretch out his long frame, his feet sticking out over the edge. Wah, Wah, the old man says. the old man says. Hou cheung ah! Hou cheung ah! Good, he thinks, I'm learning Chinese now. He closes his eyes, and hears the door creak and slam shut. h.e.l.l, he thinks, as long as I'm here, why not? He puts his hands behind his head and takes a deep breath. Good, he thinks, I'm learning Chinese now. He closes his eyes, and hears the door creak and slam shut. h.e.l.l, he thinks, as long as I'm here, why not? He puts his hands behind his head and takes a deep breath.

This wasn't my choice, he repeats to himself, imagining Ford's face, those enormous, red-rimmed eyes. he repeats to himself, imagining Ford's face, those enormous, red-rimmed eyes. I'm delivering a message. I'm delivering a message. I'm sorry I have to be the one. I'm sorry I have to be the one. And then, in the moment before he falls asleep, his father's face appears in front of him. They are standing at the bus station, the day he left for Williams, waiting to load his duffel bag and new suitcase into the luggage compartment, and suddenly his father turns to him, his mouth twitching, as if to say, And then, in the moment before he falls asleep, his father's face appears in front of him. They are standing at the bus station, the day he left for Williams, waiting to load his duffel bag and new suitcase into the luggage compartment, and suddenly his father turns to him, his mouth twitching, as if to say, don't do anything I'd be ashamed of, don't do anything I'd be ashamed of, or words to that effect. But the words never come. After a moment, his father looks away, picks up the enormous duffel with one hand, as if it were a paper bag, and tosses it across the sidewalk into the bus driver's hands. or words to that effect. But the words never come. After a moment, his father looks away, picks up the enormous duffel with one hand, as if it were a paper bag, and tosses it across the sidewalk into the bus driver's hands.

He wakes when the throbbing of the engine stops, and hears feet thumping on the deck below, voices calling from the pier. The old man and the girl are gone. He stands up stiffly and sees a concrete jetty, and the low white buildings of a small village stretching along the edge of a long, curving bay.

When he steps off the gangplank, he hears someone calling his name in a high voice. Mr. Thomas? Mr. Thomas? A tall, dark-skinned woman, in a white blouse and turquoise skirt, carrying a basket of vegetables under her arm. I am Vinh, she says. I work for Mr. Ford. May I carry your bag?

No thanks, he says. I'll carry it. There's something about her face he can't quite grasp. She has high cheekbones and a long, tapering chin, and her eyes are oval: perhaps Thai, or Filipino? Or Indian? She turns, flinging a long black braid over her shoulder, and he has to hurry to keep up with her pace. They pa.s.s a row of seafood restaurants with open terraces, and stores with their wares stacked on the sidewalk: plastic tubs, straw hats, brooms, crates of oil and oyster sauce. Vinh turns left, and they climb up a sloping street, narrowly avoiding a cl.u.s.ter of children running at full tilt, their flip-flops slapping the ground.

Is the house far from here? Marcel asks. He never imagined Ford living in any place like this: so remote, so-Third World, he thinks. For lack of a better word. he thinks. For lack of a better word.

A little farther, she says, waving a hand in front of them. The alley widens and levels out; now the houses are set back from the road, and spread farther apart. Here, Vinh says, and stops in front of an old iron gate spotted with flakes of red paint.

When Marcel steps inside he lets out a low whistle under his breath. The house is surrounded by an elaborate tropical garden: ma.s.sive ferns, dwarf palm trees, hibiscus, oleander, birds of paradise, orchids, flowers he can't name. Ford stands on a stone pathway leading to the front door, holding a watering can, in loose cotton pants and a collarless tunic, barefoot, and Marcel suddenly is aware of the thickness of his oxford-cloth s.h.i.+rt, his feet sweating in ta.s.seled loafers. The door closes, and he realizes that Vinh has disappeared into the house without a word.

Thought it would be you, Ford says, extending his hand. Excuse the informality.

Quite a place you've got here.

Oh, it's Vinh, Ford says. I just do what she tells me. A garden, you know, is a work of art. Like a painting. You can only have one painter.

My mother is just the same way, Marcel says with a tentative laugh. Ford opens the door and gestures for him to enter. Only with her it's daffodils and rhododendrons, he says, stepping inside. Not the same, I guess.

No, Ford says. Not exactly the same.

The roof of the house is a gla.s.s atrium, with windows tilted open along the sides. They sit at the end of a long dining table, underneath the branches of an enormous potted palm, and immediately Vinh begins bringing out food, dish after dish, each time scooping up the empty plates and disappearing before Marcel can thank her. He's never seen anything like it: spring rolls with black mushroom filling, rice baked in halves of a melon, a whole carp steamed in coconut milk. Ford serves them both, and eats without speaking; between courses he folds his hands on the table and breathes in deeply, staring out the window. All the better, Marcel thinks. The chopsticks are black lacquerware, with pointed ends, as slippery as knitting needles. When Ford isn't looking he shovels fish onto them with his fingers, trying not to stab himself on the tiny bones.

I'll be the first to tell you I didn't want this job, Ford says finally, leaning back in his chair, after they've finished the last course. I never was much for the international side of the business. Didn't think it was in the firm's interest to be here in the first place. But it came up just after my divorce, in 1995, and I wanted out of San Francisco. So I thought it was just the luck of the draw. And it was.

You seem to like it here.

h.e.l.l, Ford says. I'll tell you something. This position is supposed to rotate two years from now. But I'm going to ask them to make me permanent. I'll even take a lesser share if they want.

A salty taste rises in Marcel's throat. I would have thought that you'd want to go back, he says. Five years is a long time.

Ford gives him a slow, appraising look, and for the first time Marcel notices the puffiness around his eyes, the pouches at the corners of his mouth. Not so long, he says. Not when you're my age. I feel like I'm just getting started.

Marcel nods, wondering if he's supposed to understand what that means.

Peabody Stein needs a new strategy for Asia. Ford tears off part of his napkin and divides it into little squares, scattering them around the tablecloth. There is a faint buzz of anger in his voice: like a wasp trapped by a window. Right now we're operating on an outpost model, he says. We go wherever our American clients go. But the thing is, for every American company looking for a market in Asia there are three Asian companies that want a toehold in the U.S. You've got lots of young executives here that were educated at Harvard and MIT. They speak English just like we do, they eat pizza, they watch the Bulls on satellite. The problem is that we're not going after that market. The only people we're interested in are the Americans who think that the rest of the world is waiting to buy what they have to sell.

A breeze rises through the windows, smelling of oyster sh.e.l.ls and seaweed.

But that's our primary client base, Marcel says. We'd have to do that without alienating them, right? That wouldn't be easy.

You know what I like about Hong Kong? Ford says. People here are smart. You see the stock indexes and the exchange rates right on the front page of the newspaper. He brushes the napkin fragments into his palm, and lets them fall over an empty dish, like tiny snowflakes. They aren't hypocrites the way we Americans are. They understand that money is like water: it flows everywhere, but it never changes. Doesn't matter what language it's in, or what country it comes from. If you can trade it, sell it, or exchange it, it's all the same. That's why they call it liquid liquid a.s.sets, right? a.s.sets, right?

Marcel presses his lips together to stifle an answer: Aren't you Aren't you forgetting the regulators? We're still members of the bar, right? forgetting the regulators? We're still members of the bar, right? Hold on, he thinks. Why is he making this easy for me? Hold on, he thinks. Why is he making this easy for me?

But enough about that, Ford says. Tell me about you, Marcel. How's the firm working out? Are you happy?

He forces himself to smile. It's hard to say, he says. Sometimes I wonder where the last five years have gone. This is my first time off in I don't know when. I didn't take a week off all last summer. Working on the Geosynch bankruptcy. Thirty thousand pages of depositions.

I heard about that. They said you guys were logging all kinds of hours.

Sure, he says. The biggest severance payment in California history. Full entailment.

I remember what it was like, Ford says. Eighty, ninety hours a week. It's a heavy price you pay. I don't think Sheryl ever forgave me for it. All those years when she would keep the dinner for me in the oven and then I would come home and fall asleep before I could eat it.

That isn't the right metaphor, Marcel thinks. A price is fixed; you know what to aim for, you know when you're finished. This kind of work is just the opposite. The question is, will you give this much, and then more, more than you ever knew you had? Marcel thinks. A price is fixed; you know what to aim for, you know when you're finished. This kind of work is just the opposite. The question is, will you give this much, and then more, more than you ever knew you had?

I don't regret it, though, Ford says. And you won't, either.

Marcel pours himself a cup of tea, drinks it in one gulp, and gets up from the table without a word. His briefcase lies on a chair at the far end of the room; he takes the folder out and carries it back to the table in two long strides. In his hands it feels like a single sheet of onionskin, as if it might slip out of his grasp and drift away.

I'm supposed to say something before I give you this, he says. Ford stares at him impa.s.sively, his hands resting on the tabletop. I'm supposed to apologize. Blood is moving up his neck, seeping into his ears; he feels a rim of sweat on his upper lip. But I don't think there's anything I can say to dignify it, he says. So take it. Here.

Sit down, Ford says. He takes a pair of reading gla.s.ses from his s.h.i.+rt pocket and lets the folder fall open in his palm. His eyes dart across the page; he licks a finger and turns to the next, scans it, and turns again. Marcel's feet feel as if they are clamped to the floor. Ford snaps the folder shut and drops it on the table, nearly upsetting a bowl of peanut sauce. Sit down, he says again. Please. Drink some more tea. You don't look so good. Remember to breathe, now.

You knew, Marcel says. He grasps the armrests of his chair and eases himself down slowly, willing his muscles not to shake. You knew the whole time.

Ford shrugs again. I had a feeling, he says. When I saw you I knew for sure.

And you're not going to sue?

Ford gives a single sharp laugh. Would you? he says. If they were offering that kind of money?

Marcel's eyes are watering. I talked to Wanda Silver, he says. Before I left.

Wanda Silver is a great lady, Ford says. But she's a sentimentalist. She remembers when I used to come into work with an Afro. Don't you trust her, Marcel. She's stuck in a different era.

Is it true? About how you made partner?

That's ancient history. Ford twists his lips and rubs the edge of his mouth with his fingers. I was in the right place at the right time. There was a lawsuit. The government was getting involved, and they had to hire somebody. And I told them exactly what they wanted to hear. My business is to win cases, My business is to win cases, I said. I said. Not to Not to cause trouble. cause trouble.

You could clean up, Marcel says, in a dry, strangling voice. Punitive damages. It would be a huge case-it could set precedent all over the country.

Careful, Ford says, shaking his head slowly. You be careful, Marcel. They knew what I would do. This is about you. They want to test you. Make sure you're a team player.

To test me? Marcel says. What did they expect me to do? Throw the papers in the Bay and call the NAACP?