The End of Eden (Water Worlds 1)

Chapter 11

11

We stayed below deck the entire cruise to Bangkok. Little electric fans blew at top speed but the dank, humid air just hung in the still, small cabin.

There was no window to look out but there was a bathroom with running water, so we didn't go thirsty. At first, we ate only the food Mother had brought in her large shoulder bag, but after a few days, someone came to the door with cold soy milk and cooked vegetables. That was a treat, and we ate and laughed and it all seemed almost normal for a while.

The cargo ship hugged the coastline. The trip took nearly a week, with three stops at ports along the way. The water was calm and there wasn't much rocking, but I imagined there was. The feeling of swaying wouldn't stop even in my sleep. I spent most of the trip curled up on the floor, under a blanket. Mother would put a cold, wet cloth on my forehead every so often, and that helped, but I felt weak and helpless the whole time.

On arrival, we were led down to the ship's lower hold and then out onto a short gangway. We were all tired and a bit irritable, but happy to be off that boat. A car was waiting to drive us to Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi Airport, and the driver took our bags and put them in the back. The drive was not very memorable, but I do remember feeling quite like a refugee, and worried that others could see it in my face.

At the airport, there were families and tourists and only a few armed police, and everyone seemed so at ease and, I don't know... comfortable. I perked up right away. The airport was a spectacular show of opulence, and I wanted to stop at every kiosk and shop, just to look. It felt like what being freed from jail must feel like: suddenly, after a long time in the dark, released into a bright modern world full of possibilities.

We flew in a marvelous, new plane that smelled clean and fresh, with no hint of stale cigarette smoke. Although waiting for take-off, I did notice an odor of fuel and asphalt seeping in from outside, but it whooshed away once we were in the air.

Father had used his contacts to take us to America.

Did Father know everyone? I wondered on the long, sleepy flight.

When we arrived nearly half a day later at Dulles airport, outside Washington, I was a little disappointed. The terminal looked like any other in the world, just older and a little more run down. There was construction everywhere, with temporary walls and piles of rubble making for a long, snaking walk, and many, many people all around. More than there had been in Bangkok, even. Many Asians, too, which I didn't expect. 

I saw some heavily-armed police, but you see them everywhere, really, and besides, there were fewer than you'd see in China. I heard speaker announcements mumbled in multiple languages, but they were just as impossible to understand as anywhere else in the world. At least half the people looked as lost as I felt. 

Somehow I expected more. We were in America, after all. Where were the happy, smiling people? Where was the optimism? Maybe the talk I'd heard all my life about America in decline was true.

A man approached and greeted us as we waited in the queue at Customs. He looked familiar. I couldn't quite remember where, but I knew I'd seen him before. He greeted Father politely in perfect Chinese and then turned and smiled a hello to Mother. That's when it hit me! It was that same tall blond man, the one with his long hair tied back, who came to our flat in Beijing!

What was his name? I tried to remember. Now that I thought about it, I don't recall ever having been introduced.

He took us out of line and guided us into a small, side room. There, two other men stood, one white and one sort of Asian-looking, but not quite. There was an armed guard standing by the back door (which I assumed was the way out) and after some discussion in English that was too fast for me to follow, our papers were returned to Father. The guard stepped aside and we were led out the door into a bright, summer day.

It was hot and humid and that was a surprise. I thought America was colder than this. I squinted against the sunlight. We walked a few meters to the sidewalk and the Blond Man, still with us, called over the first taxi in a long line waiting for fares. He helped the driver load our bags as we settled into our seats. It was clean and cool inside, with windows all around. I was surprised that they drove on the same side of the road as we did in China. I thought I read they drove on the opposite side. Maybe that was Australia.

America was proving to be full of surprises.

We took a long drive on a major roadway and then exited onto a wide boulevard heading toward a village called Bethesda, a name I found impossible to pronounce. As we neared, I saw groups of people on the street. I recognized them instantly. Beggars. We have lots of them in China, too, but they're not allowed to gather, only to keep moving.

A flat had been prepared for us in a tall building a few streets off the main boulevard. As we went from the taxi to the entrance, I looked up and down the street. Exotic cars were parked along both sides of the road. Smiling couples walked hand-in-hand, people were going in and out of the sparkly shops and restaurants that lined the street. Only a few children were in sight.

I looked up. Living space soared above the ground level on both sides of the street. The buildings cast long shadows and gave some welcome shade from the afternoon sun. 

The entryway to our building was wide and dark. The door clicked unlocked as we neared and swung open for us. Black stone columns held up a vast, formal inner space, but there were no people. The door sighed closed and the lock clicked behind us.

Doesn't anyone else live here? I wondered.

The lift was large, clean and empty, but it was also dark, with a brick wall to our backs. We all piled in, including the Blond Man, who touched a number, 24, and looked over to smile at me. I blushed and looked down. I hadn't meant to stare at him.

The lift began to move. Suddenly, the dark brick wall dropped away, and we rose up the outside of the building, hugging the wall, rising up into a fantastic view of the street.

Through the glass walls, I could see the town spreading out. There was little smog in the air, so I could actually see a great distance. As we rose higher, vast neighborhoods blended into each other, and distant farmlands came into view.

Beyond, a thin ribbon of water appeared, glinting in the light. I thought of my view of Hai Phong from that ship's rickety steps only a week ago, and realized it was literally a world away from this scene.

The lift sped up as we rose, and I was quickly overwhelmed with the great height.

There's nothing between us except this thin wall of glass, I thought.

I had to sit down on the floor and Father and Mother laughed, but not the Blond Man. Joo Chen hung back against the lift door, as far as he could get from the window walls, trying to look calm, but I think he was a little frightened too.

The lift stopped quickly and smoothly, and the door slid opened with a small chime. Joo Chen stumbled backwards, out into a dark, half-round room. We all laughed, then, even Joo Chen. The Blond Man helped me up and I know I blushed. I had meant to convey the aura of an international woman of mystery, but I just felt very silly and very young. 

We stepped out of the lift, carrying all our worldly possessions, and walked down a green-carpeted hallway following the Blond Man, who was now fumbling a key card out of his wallet. It was cool and dark, like the entry area, with rich carvings on stone pedestals lit by spotlights in the ceiling.

He slid the card into the lock, a green light on the lock panel flashed, and the door sprung inwards.

"Welcome home," the door said in English, in a pleasant, young woman's voice.

A wash of daylight filled the interior. The wall across the room was floor-to-ceiling windows, and the curtains were flung back, revealing a magnificent view only partly obscured by another building across the way. As we stepped in, we could see, to the left and right, other brightly-lit rooms winged off the main entrance.

It was furnished in simple hotel-modern style, and I saw Mother looking around, assessing the scene. I couldn't tell if she was happy or sad. Mother was often difficult to read.

Then, as if she could hear me, she turned and smiled.

"Come," she said. "Let's find the kitchen."