Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

she said. ”I wish Mr. Li could be this
informative.”
    Peter shook his head. ”You can’t blame Mr. Li,” he said soberly. ”From
his age I’d guess he was brought up during the Cultural Revolution, when
education went into an ice age. You probably know more about his country and its
history than he does, though he’s learning fast.” He shook his head again.
”These abrupt changes must have been psychological hell for people, at one
point raiding monasteries, closing schools, and sending intellectuals into the
fields or to prison; the next decade opening the schools, retrieving teachers
and scientists from the rice fields, and restoring the same buildings that were
mutilated. It has a certain Alice-In-Wonderland quality, you know? Mao may have been a brilliant revolutionary, but he sure as
hell lacked consistency for the long run. Oops, here comes Jenny,” he said.
”I’d better mend my political fences and talk to her. See you later,” he added
quickly, and strolled back toward Jenny, his face emptied of expression again.
     
    In the afternoon they visited Huaching Hot Springs Guesthouse, from
which Chiang Kai-shek had escaped capture by the Communists, leaving his teeth
behind. It was a very charming place, with ponds and arched bridges, but Mrs.
Pollifax only felt uncomfortably hot; her feet were tired and she sat down as
often as possible and as close to the water as possible. Besides, she thought
crossly, Chiang Kai-shek might have escaped from a window to climb the mountain
behind his room, but he’d only been captured and eventually released again. Of
much more interest to her was the young Communist who had hurried to Xian to
negotiate with Chiang once he was captured. The young man’s name had been Chou
En-lai, and Mrs. Pollifax had long since succumbed to Chou’s personality from
seeing him on television. She completely understood the reaction to his death
in 1976 when the people defied Mao and the police to pour into Beijing ’s Tian An Men Square and mourn Chou
in their own way. It had been a spontaneous outpouring of national grief and
love and worry that had been conspicuously missing when Mao died eight months
later.
    She was seated on a bench thinking about this when Peter strolled up the
path and sat down beside her. His face impassive he said, ”Jenny’s gone to find
a ladies’ room so I’ve got to talk fast. Quick—have you pencil and paper?” She
was amused to see that he was speaking out of the corner of his mouth, just
like a film gangster.
    She nodded and dug into her purse, bringing out her memo pad.
    ”I’ve been talking to Mr. Li about what we see in Urumchi, and it sounds
good, as if we’ll be visiting all the right places, but when he confers with
you—and he will, because you’re leader, remember?—make sure we visit the
Kazakhs up in the grasslands after our overnight stay in Turfan. You can’t
possibly know what I mean, and there’s no time to explain so just write it
down, okay?”
    Mrs. Pollifax wrote turfan, see
first. ”Is there a name for the grasslands?”
    ”Yes, take a look at your Markham Tour brochure if you brought it—”
    ”Didn’t.”
    ”The grasslands have always beeh a part of their regular tours here, and
we’ve got to insist on them, but after visiting Turfan. If I remember
correctly the brochure reads”—he closed his eyes and quoted—” ‘See the colorful
Kazakh Minority Peoples demonstrate their superb horsemanship. A nomadic
people, they live in summer in yurts on the grasslands of the Tian
Shan mountains.’ And,” he added, ”we simply must go there
last.”
    ”I wonder what reason I could possibly give Mr. Li for this,” she asked
pensively.
    ”Tell him something. Tell him you’ve heard how hot Turfan is...
Well, it is,” he said. ”It’s five hundred feet below sea level.”
    ”Below!” she exclaimed.
    ”Yes you’ll find it listed on maps as the Turfan Depression. It’s
also an oasis in the desert, and hot. You can tell Mr. Li you’re feeling
the heat, or someone is, and it would be lovely to cool off in the mountains
after Turfan.” He smiled faintly. ”You seem to manage okay. As leader you’ve
got clout—use it. And if it’s any help,” he added, ”Jenny seems to be getting
tourist tummy, or Montezuma’s Revenge, or dysentery, whatever the current word
is.”
    ”Oh dear!”
    ”Yes.” He nodded and as Jenny appeared from between two ancient
buildings he added flatly, ”But it’s