Demon Box полностью

“That and, of course, the stipend of three thousand huyen… that may have had some influence.”

They waited for their Prince and Pauper as long as they dared the next morning. The photographer fiddled with his aluminum camera cases. The writer checked his pockets again to be sure he’d flushed all the wild wanna. The editor paid the phone bill.

They finally ordered a cab.

“I begin to suspect that we’ve seen the last of Bling, Yang, and your thousand clams.”

The editor nodded glumly. “I wonder if the kid gets a cut?”

“I wonder if the kid even got the pitch. Bling may have put a hummer on all of us. Who can tell with these inscrutable pricks?”

The plane was delayed for two hours—emergency work for the flood victims—and they were drinking Chinese beer on the terminal mezzanine when they saw the taxi.

“Hey, look! Here he by God comes!”

“So he does, by God, so he does,” the editor admitted, not too much relieved. “And, by God, with those glasses and that cap—he does look a lot like Bling.”

The photographer lowered his long-range lens. “That’s because it is Bling.”

They couldn’t get seats together until after the takeoff. “You did what with my money?”

“You heard me. Your three Chinese grand went into young Yang’s travel fund to fly him to next year’s Nike marathon in Eugene.”

“Wait’ll bookkeeping comes across that.”

“Cheer up. He can still defect when he gets to Oregon.”

“But what about you, Bling? Your education, your career?”

“When I got back to my dorm room last night I found I’d been moved out, girly books and all. You know who was in my bed, all coiled up like a black snake? That damn Tanzanian. Mude must’ve liked his style. So I decided it might be time for me to do some myself. Tripping.”

“Listen, Bling. Be straight with us. Did you even ask the kid, or is this all a shuck?”

“I will not be tempted by doubt.” Bling sniffed. He pushed the recliner button and leaned back, fingers laced behind his neck. “Besides, you’ll get your money’s worth.”

“A thousand bucks for a thirty-year-old Pekingese punk? With times most high school girls can beat?”

“Ah! Good houseboy, me. Wash missy’s underdrawers. Velly handy.”

Yang did not wait for the bus from the Qufu airport. He left his bag and his coat with Zhoa. He would get them later at school.

He loped off down the puddled runway, east, in the direction of his village, feeling very happy to be back in the country. The sweepers smiled at him. The workers in the fields waved to him. Perhaps that was the difference: in Beijing there had been no smile of greeting on the streets. People moved past people, eyes forward to avoid contact. Perhaps it was merely the difference between country and city life, not between governments or nations or races. Perhaps there were only two peoples, city and country.

He rattled over the plank bridge crossing the canal and leaped the hedge of brush. Through the damp air he could see the fengs rising against the descending twilight, and his grandfather there like a scribble of dark calligraphy on the top, contorting through his ancient exercises.

or

Don’t tell me you’re the only youngsters never heard tell of the time the bear came to Topple’s Bottom? He was a huge high-country bear and not only huge but horrible huge. And hairy, and hateful, and hungry! Why, he almost ate up the entire Bottom before Tricker finally cut him down to size, just you listen and see if he didn’t…