Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

The brown beard was neatly
trimmed and flecked with gray. His receding brown hair gave him a high forehead
with only a few frown lines etched between the brows. He looked about forty, a
seasoned traveler, dressed casually in a black turtleneck under a brown zip-up
jacket, and corduroys and work boots. He placed a small duffle bag and a
Chinese-American dictionary on a chair beside her, and with a nod at the book
and a sleepy smile explained, ”I’m learning Mandarin. You’ll take care of these
for me?”
    ”Of course,” she told him, and watched him stroll toward the buffet,
feeling very pleased about this Joseph Forbes who had made such a late
appearance on the tour list, and who looked very capable and reassuring if he
should turn out to be her coagent. She realized, too, that she’d forgotten the
thrill of being out in the world—how small and insulated her corner of New Jersey looked from Hong Kong ,
crossroad of the Orient! She took another bite of papaya and:
    ”Oh!” cried a voice beside her. ”I’ve found you! I’m Iris Damson!”
    Startled, Mrs. Pollifax turned and looked up at the woman standing over
her—looked up and smiled, and there was something about Iris Damson to make
anyone’s smile especially warm. She was tall and lanky and awkward, in her
early thirties, perhaps, with a great deal of shoulder-length brown hair which,
in spite of being tucked behind her ears, kept falling forward which led to
still more awkward gestures as she pushed it back. Her clothes— oh dear, thought Mrs. Pollifax, how totally and horribly wrong for her: a fussy summer cocktail dress with huge white polka dots on black cotton and
everything she wore shiny-new, right down to the brilliant white purse that she
clutched in one hand. Yet there was something oddly endearing about the effect. She looks as if she’s arrived at a
party, thought Mrs. Pollifax. Her face was thin, with both the jaw
and nose a shade too long, but her smile was radiant and exuded joy at being here,
at having found Mrs. Pollifax, at having found Hong Kong ;
it was like being struck by a bolt of sunshine.
    ”I’m delighted to meet you and I’m Emily Pollifax,” she told Iris
warmly.
    Iris Damson found the edge of a chair and perched on it, then abruptly jumped
up, gasping, ”It’s buffet? Oh, I didn’t notice.” Snatching up her purse she
swept a drinking glass to the floor, turned scarlet, and immediately
disappeared under the table.
    Before Mrs. Pollifax could rush to her aid or soothe her she became
aware that someone else had stopped beside the table, and half out of her chair
she looked up to find a tall, suave man at her elbow. ”Oh,” she gasped, feeling
that Iris’s confusion had become infectious. ”How do you do, are you one of us
too?”
    At that same moment Iris’ head appeared above the snowy white tablecloth
and the man, startled, said in an amused voice, ”Well, hello—have you been
there long?”
    Iris Damson unwound herself to her full height, which nearly equaled the
man’s, extended a thin arm, fervently shook his hand, gasped, ”It’s buffet,” and fled.
    The man calmly sat down next to Mrs. Pollifax, his calmness a welcome
antidote. ”I’m Malcolm Styles,” he told her, ”and you?”
    ”Emily Pollifax.”
    ”Thank you. And the young woman who—er—jumps out from under tables?”
    Mrs. Pollifax smiled. ”That was Iris Damson, pursuing a water glass.”
    A waiter appeared at his elbow, saying, ”Coffee, sir?”
    ”Love some,” he said, and as the waiter left he lifted the cup to his
lips and over its rim gave Mrs. Pollifax the same frank appraisal that she was
giving him.
    She reflected that he was precisely the sort of man that a waiter would hurry to wait on, her own
coffee having arrived much later, and without any sense of betrayal she put
aside Joe Forbes and substituted Malcolm Styles because she thought that if
Malcolm Styles was not a spy, he ought to be. He looked like a male model, or
the star of any Hollywood spy film, or at the
very least the head of some spectacularly successful computer firm. It was not
just the flawlessly cut business suit, it was that thick black guardsman’s
moustache and the quizzical dark eyes that also, she realized, looked
extraordinarily kind. One brow was tilting up a little now as he looked at her
with amusement, while the moustache followed the tilt very becomingly—oh,
charming indeed—as he smiled. If she herself had unnerved Iris, thought