Scholefield pushed his way slowly through the throng to where Yang, with his back to him, was buying Chinese leaves from the corner vegetable stall. The man in the rear of the cruising mini-cab lifted a hand in brief acknow ledgement to the photographer as the car swung sharply left and accelerated fast away towards Shaftesbury Avenue. inside the black Mini with smoked windows that was parked on a meter on the other side of the street, Razduhev and Bogdarin were watch- Yang and Scholefield so intently that they failed to notice that the photographer was recording several frames of them, too.
Yang wore dark glasses but Scholefield recognised him because, despite the heat, he was still dressed in the dilapidated fawn raincoat. He was holding three pale green. bomb-shaped lettuce plants in his arms, arguing loudly in Chinese with the stal l holder about the price, given on a ticket as 1 6p a pound. Eventually an abacus was produced and Yang received an extra ten pence in change from the disgruntled merchant. He turned with a snort of contempt and found himself face to face with Scholefield . Thirty yards away the street photographer surreptitiously pushed the long telephoto lens through a gap in the chain link fence and got off three shots of the two men facing each other in profile. ‘Follow me,’ said Yang softly, scarcely moving his lips, and brushed the Englishman aside without giving any outward sign of recognition.
Scholefield stood staring after him as he hurried away between the stalls, dragging his left leg in a shuffling, ungainly limp. He removed his jacket and loosened his tie then started through the crowd in pursuit. Tan Sui-ling, standing in the shadowy interior of a tiny kiosk selling Communist publications from Peking, watched them threading their way through the stalls towards her. Revolutionary figures in bold primary colours strode across posters on the kiosk walls proclaiming ‘Socialism Advances in Victory Everywhere—Our Great Motherland is Thriving’. She drew further back into the shadows behind the girl serving and studied Yang’s face intently as he approached the stall. Her expression softened suddenly and she saw the faint surprise in his eyes as they fell on the Communist slogans. He paused to look more closely at the books and magazines from the Chinese mainland spread out on the stallfront. He was scrutinising an English paper-backed edition of Dawn Blossoms Plucked at Dusk by Lu Hsun as Scholefield approached.
‘Have you got this in Chinese?’ Yang screwed up his eyes to penetrate the gloom and spoke quietly in English. In the shadows behind the counter he suddenly caught sight of the slender figure of the Chinese woman, standing against a giant portrait of Mao Tse-tung on the rear wall. Scholefield saw his eyes widen s u ddenly as though in elation. He looked sharply into the shadowy interior of the. kiosk—but he was not near enough to see the woman’s face. Then almost immediately the expression had gone and Yang placed his purchases deliberately on the counter to leave his hands free
Tan Sui-ling didn’t move as the girl bent out of sight and rummaged for a m oment beneath the counter. When she stood up again she was holding a Chinese edition of the book. She dropped it into a paper bag and banded it over. He put down some coins without looking at her. Half turning to conceal his action, he lowered the book below the level of the counter and took a folded wedge of pink paper from his raincoat pocket. He inserted it carefully between the pages then dropped the book back into its bag. ‘I’m going into the cinema for an hour to get out of this heat,’ he said quietly to Scholef i e l d, and the street photographer managed to get three more frames of them side by side as he thrust the package quickly into the Englishman’s hands.
As Yang limped hurriedly away Scholefield. pulled the book from its wrapper and studied the Chinese characters on the cover. Then he glanced into the
Yang wore dark glasses but Scholefield recognised him because, despite the heat, he was still dressed in the dilapidated fawn raincoat. He was holding three pale green. bomb-shaped lettuce plants in his arms, arguing loudly in Chinese with the stal l holder about the price, given on a ticket as 1 6p a pound. Eventually an abacus was produced and Yang received an extra ten pence in change from the disgruntled merchant. He turned with a snort of contempt and found himself face to face with Scholefield . Thirty yards away the street photographer surreptitiously pushed the long telephoto lens through a gap in the chain link fence and got off three shots of the two men facing each other in profile. ‘Follow me,’ said Yang softly, scarcely moving his lips, and brushed the Englishman aside without giving any outward sign of recognition.
Scholefield stood staring after him as he hurried away between the stalls, dragging his left leg in a shuffling, ungainly limp. He removed his jacket and loosened his tie then started through the crowd in pursuit. Tan Sui-ling, standing in the shadowy interior of a tiny kiosk selling Communist publications from Peking, watched them threading their way through the stalls towards her. Revolutionary figures in bold primary colours strode across posters on the kiosk walls proclaiming ‘Socialism Advances in Victory Everywhere—Our Great Motherland is Thriving’. She drew further back into the shadows behind the girl serving and studied Yang’s face intently as he approached the stall. Her expression softened suddenly and she saw the faint surprise in his eyes as they fell on the Communist slogans. He paused to look more closely at the books and magazines from the Chinese mainland spread out on the stallfront. He was scrutinising an English paper-backed edition of Dawn Blossoms Plucked at Dusk by Lu Hsun as Scholefield approached.
‘Have you got this in Chinese?’ Yang screwed up his eyes to penetrate the gloom and spoke quietly in English. In the shadows behind the counter he suddenly caught sight of the slender figure of the Chinese woman, standing against a giant portrait of Mao Tse-tung on the rear wall. Scholefield saw his eyes widen s u ddenly as though in elation. He looked sharply into the shadowy interior of the. kiosk—but he was not near enough to see the woman’s face. Then almost immediately the expression had gone and Yang placed his purchases deliberately on the counter to leave his hands free
Tan Sui-ling didn’t move as the girl bent out of sight and rummaged for a m oment beneath the counter. When she stood up again she was holding a Chinese edition of the book. She dropped it into a paper bag and banded it over. He put down some coins without looking at her. Half turning to conceal his action, he lowered the book below the level of the counter and took a folded wedge of pink paper from his raincoat pocket. He inserted it carefully between the pages then dropped the book back into its bag. ‘I’m going into the cinema for an hour to get out of this heat,’ he said quietly to Scholef i e l d, and the street photographer managed to get three more frames of them side by side as he thrust the package quickly into the Englishman’s hands.
As Yang limped hurriedly away Scholefield. pulled the book from its wrapper and studied the Chinese characters on the cover. Then he glanced into the
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