A ROOM WITH HER VIEW

Two young lovers trysting in a hotel room get caught up in the political turmoil that rages outside the red-draped window of their retreat.

A short story by Philip Cunningham

A Room with Her View

There was nothing special about the room – just a standard hotel guest room, a room with twin beds, a night table, a television set, and an armchair – but it did have a view. A sunny balcony overlooked the main boulevard of the city, and on a good day, it was a great place to watch the sun and the moon take turns lighting the sky.

The room was one of many such rooms in a large, self-contained, hulking edifice of an enclave situated at a polite remove from a busy public plaza. It measured its luxury not in terms of its proximity to city center but in terms of its stratospheric remove from everyday life. More or less an island unto itself, it was a safe haven for foreign businessmen, journalists, local officials and party leaders alike. The alert, at times surly, status-attuned staff went out of their way to keep people who had no business being there out, namely ordinary citizens.

Like her. Though she wasn’t quite as ordinary as she sometimes pretended to be.

It was all his fault. Why did he have to pick this ungainly state hotel of all the hotels in town?

She dragged the long, red drapes shut with a sigh

Her paramour was a college student, just like her. Unlike her, he could pretty much enter any hotel he liked. He got whisked through the doors closed to her, no questions asked. Not because he was well-connected with the powers that be, but precisely because he was not. He was merely foreign. But in a cash-strapped country keen to amass American dollars, that was enough.

For a local to get inside the fortress-like hotel was more of a challenge, even though she lived only a short distance away. To enter the premises, she had to first convince the guards at the outside gate she had legitimate business there. She resorted to a plausible lie, claiming she was an interpreter assisting a foreign businessman. Next a show of ID at the front desk. From there she had to walk through a lobby full of hidden cameras where plainclothes agents loitered.

To get past the elevator guards, she had taken advantage of a moment’s inattention, then nonchalantly boarded. When she reached the ninth floor, the white-shirted watcher gave her a dismissive stare, but in the end she entered his room without a hitch.

For as long as they remained within the confines of this habitat for honored guests, they could enjoy a provisional freedom, the freedom of physical intimacy, a freedom not readily available on campus or anywhere else.

Call it lucky timing, or bad timing, good luck or bad, the city was beset by record-breaking demonstrations even before their personal rendezvous began. A mass hunger strike in the heart of the capital had captured the imagination of the populace, mobilizing millions with a bold series of protests, strikes, and marches. The central plaza was occupied, a hive of rebel activity day and night.

The grand old hotel was as close to ground zero of the whirl of political strife as one could hope to be without getting sucked into the death-defying gyre itself. It took everything she had and then some to keep the disruption of the divisive street protests from coming between him and her.

The room wasn’t exactly the discrete hideaway they had been looking for, but it did give them a place to be alone, and being alone was the whole point of the exercise, wasn’t it?

But of course they weren’t really alone, were they?

Perched nine stories above the ground, the room was above the fray but not free of the bay of the crowd. Even if one did not avail oneself of the commanding view of the boulevard below, with its never ending parade of strident demonstrators, ragtag marchers and intrepid day trippers, you couldn’t help but hear the spirited shouts and screams, catchy chants and slogans.

She’d been locking the porch door and pulling the curtains closed from the day she arrived, partly for privacy—what kind of tryst would it be with the windows open?--but also to keep the infectious madness of the mob from distracting them from the task at hand.

She emerged from the bath flush-faced, fresh and dripping, her tall athletic frame wrapped in nothing but a big white towel. Their audacious hotel rendezvous was the culmination of a long, cautious campus courtship. It was supposed to be about them, and them alone, but it wasn’t working out that way. After waiting so many months it didn’t seem right that she had to vie with strangers for a lover’s attention, especially when it was only the two of them, but between the raucous demonstrations outside and the constant ringing of the phone, the room was getting crowded.

Look at him! Look at how he sits there, a slovenly king on an unkempt throne, sprawled out on the unmade bed, leaning back on the headboard in his white undershorts and white undershirt, phone cradled against his ear, gabbing excitedly to who knows who about who knows what.

Wanting to taunt him with her presence, she hovered around the edge of the bed, slowly combing her long wet locks, impetuously flicking little drops of water his way, not that he noticed.

When he did look up, he flashed a smile, a curious but busy smile, then turned his full attention back to the person on the other end of the line.

What would it take to get the man’s unbroken attention?

She paced the room as he went about trying to explain to someone sight unseen the dynamics of what was going on outside their window.

She adjusted her towel and plopped down on the bed facing him. She tried to distract him with her dripping presence, not so much to allure as to annoy.

Phone nuzzled between neck and ear his face lit up briefly. The flow of the phone conversation paused, but after blowing her a kiss, he resumed jabbering like she wasn’t there.

…it’s incredible, nothing less than a popular revolt against government suppression…a popular campaign of the people by the people…a peaceful protest, a spontaneous indigenous manifestation of the people’s will born of alienation and bourgeois liberalization…

What? Who in their right mind talked that way? He sounded more like the powers he was criticizing than he realized. Couldn’t he talk about something else? Did he have to talk to those foreign journalists at all?

She tried not to listen too carefully lest she be called upon to explain things later. When it came to politics, mutual ignorance was better for both of them in some fundamental way.

He was captivated about the sudden turn in current events, and wanted to keep abreast of it, she could grant him that. But half the time he didn’t know what he was talking about. It took only a brief glance at the room service menu, which he had been using to jot notes on, to get the drift:

Tea with Lemon, tanks spotted in east, Black Coffee without Milk, troop transport trucks spotted north of ring road, Buttered Toast with Marmalade, crew says satellite communications cut. For Consumption of Noodles Consult After-hours Dining Hall, provisional command vows not to withdraw. Salted Peanuts

Scribble, scribble, scribble.

She didn’t mind his desecration of the homely in-house menu, the choices were limited and room service in a state hotel was best avoided anyway, especially if one’s privacy was at stake. What really made her lose her appetite was the animated delight he took in the reception of bad news.

They say the army’s coming in!

Resistance to the end!

They’re gonna hold their ground!

Something’s gotta give!

He was just a boy at heart, a boy playing big boy, a big boy journalist, doing what he thought he had to do, doing what he imagined he was meant to do, but in doing so, he was also doing in whatever it was he had with her, though he did so without knowing it.

The very berth where they had consummated a long-frustrated, oft-postponed and sometimes passionate courtship was now just another prop in his news-addled world, a place to toss his camera, the day’s paper, the menu, whatever.

Every time there was a shout, scream or uproar, he was out there, out on the balcony, even if he had to pull himself free of her of embrace and the tangle of moist sheets to do so, to do right by the crowd, to do right by the all-too-real world they were supposed to be in hiding from.

When he came back, he’d say something playful, perhaps even whistle to himself as he picked up dislodged pillows and straightened things out. By the time he turned to her, ready to resume whatever it was they had been doing, or wanting to do, or had just finished doing, the mattress had gone stone cold.

As for the other bed, it was like a street vendor’s display of recycled belongings: used clothes, a tattered backpack, a faded baseball cap, an unopened can of Coke, a box of crackers, an empty coffee cup, a city map, a used paperback novel, a pristine state newspaper, a bilingual dictionary, and a dusty blue jacket.

Her things, in contrast, took up so little space that she could still sit down on the chair where she kept them: a small purse, a hair brush, a bottle of lotion, and yesterday’s intimate apparel, hand-washed and draped on the armrest to dry. Her body-length cotton dress, which she’d worn for days without washing, was drying out on the balcony.

He was on the phone so much of the time that even when he finally got off, he continued to speak in a weird impersonal register. He’d begun to adopt a quasi-professional voice that confounded any chance of intimacy. She wasn’t good enough at English to say what it was for sure, but to her ear, he was sounding more British.

For some reason, he really got carried away talking about dreamy abstractions:

Dee-dee-dee-dee-dee. Dee-mock-crazy movement, dee-mock-crazy memorial, dee-mock-crazy march, dee-mock-crazy statue, democracy this, democracy that, long live democracy, yackety, yack, yack, yack.

On the other hand he struggled with simple words, the kind of everyday utterances that held it all together, like “You are beautiful”, “I love you” and “We need to talk.”

Just a day before, padding around the room half naked was enough of a nudge to get him off the phone, but his mind was in a far-away place now. Still wrapped in the big white towel, she draped her hand-washed intimate apparel on open surfaces to dry—then pulled the balcony door shut, and closed the curtains, not so much for privacy—there was no one across the way with a direct line of sight – as to muffle the pulse of reverberations from down below.

“Hey hon? What are you doing?

The look of consternation on his face shook her.

“Too loud.”

“And the curtains?

“Too bright.”

“But I’m writing, I need light…”

“We need to talk. How much light you need to talk?”

She sullenly flicked on the low-watt overhead bulb, but wouldn’t compromise on the curtains, the last buffer between them and the mob. She wasn’t against the mob, not really, after all, when push came to shove, it was her mob, not his. Her classmates were out there, putting what little they had on the line. They were bold, they were brave, brave in their own stupid, selfish, vain and craven ways, crazy and confused, but brave. And sometimes that’s what it took. For despite their clashing egos, self-entitlement and gross inexperience, they had already transformed the city beyond expectation, like it or not.

They came marching in on a wave of discontent, spurred on by signs of the change in the air. They were opportunists, their timing was opportunistic, and their end-goals murky, but the complaints they rode in on were real enough and of long standing. The people, their people, her people, that is to say nearly all the people but the powers that be, were getting a raw deal, a really raw deal.

What her agitation-adoring wannabe journalist friend didn’t seem to realize was that it was precisely bastions of inequality like this forbidding building, the state hotel he had insisted on staying in, that was part of the problem. Though he hated to admit it, his non-native looks were his ticket into this and other bastions of privilege, and if that didn’t do the job, the blue passport in his pocket gave him the necessary kick.

Sure, he could tease her, telling her she was brainwashed, saying she was a communist, who didn’t care about the masses as much as he did, but what he didn’t seem to realize was that she couldn’t be with him if she wanted to be part of them. Xenophobia, the dark twin of nationalism, simmered just below the surface, ever ready to arise, and if it reared its head, the crowd, the crowd that he was cheering on and she was electing not to be part of, would eat him alive.

Nor had he always been so adamant against her closing the curtains. When she first smuggled herself into the hotel to reach his poorly chosen hideaway, he was the one who double-locked the door and drew the curtains tight, not once, but twice, for good measure, even before she had time to take her shoes off.

The first few days of what they playfully called “the honeymoon” had more highs than lows but it’s not as if it was free and easy, either. The room was most likely bugged, which put his gift of gab into question, but she knew a thing or two about the limitations of such things, and could live with it if she had to. She was young, she was stubborn, and in her own contrary way, she was as rebellious as the rebels outside. She took the chances she took knowing she was taking a chance.

In going against the wishes of her father and his people, she had to close her eyes to the fact that her father’s people were everywhere. She could take cover, she could keep a low profile, she could bury her head under the covers, but she could not hide, not in a hotel where the walls had ears, and the halls had eyes.

On the other hand, her father was a reasonable man. He might not approve of what she was doing but he respected her enough not to disapprove too loudly. He knew she was here, given the way he kept tabs on her there was no way he didn’t, but he didn’t intervene.

Not that there weren’t reasons to worry. Things got both better and worse when the city seized up in a seemingly intractable political impasse. She knew from hearing and overhearing things that surveillance slackened precipitously just at the point when the protests exploded on the streets.

It was freer out there than it had been in memory, but it wasn’t a concession to those marching on the streets. The regime was preoccupied, deeply at odds with itself, riddled with factional strife.

There were suddenly too many people to watch, too few agents to infiltrate, too much paranoia stoked by political rivals, too little agreement on what the dangers were and how to deal with them. Even his student informants were stymied in their work.

With the elderly bosses battling among themselves, and the youth running wild, a ragtag freedom was born. Democracy didn’t seem to be the right word for it, not in her mind, but the Western observers didn’t have it entirely wrong. Maybe conflict was the crucible of the thing they called democracy.

The maelstrom had brought with it more than a breath of fresh air, it brought on tempestuous winds of change. Things were getting turned, rearranged, flipped left, right and upside down. The impossible suddenly seemed possible. Who didn’t want more freedom to do the things they wanted to do?

So while her family background taught her to be prudent and mindful of the status quo, in sharp contrast with the rabble rousers manning the barricades, she was radical enough to break the rules and sleep with a man, a foreign man, a man she liked enough, enough maybe even to love. Her rebellion was private and self-centered, but not entirely out of keeping with the infectious spirit of the uprising.

It was not entirely coincidental she chose this moment, this moment of all moments, on the face of it the worst of all possible times, to realize and bring to fruition a campus romance that had been bottled up so long it was starting to ferment.

For her to be shacking up with an alien of the opposite sex in a hotel bedroom was against the rules that people like her father were tasked to enforce, but the rules were changing now, and even if they weren’t, the rules were moot so long as you were clever enough to do what you wanted to to without getting caught.

While her presence in the hotel had not gone unnoticed, it had not been acted upon, which was good enough for now. Taking a slightly longer perspective, it meant information was still being gathered on her case, a case of no particular importance. The trap was armed and set, but it hadn’t been sprung yet.

Sometimes looking the other way was the better part of valor. And thank goodness for deviations from the party line. Even her stodgy father found himself in disagreement with the old guard. He had cheered the students when they first took to the streets, initially at least, but held his applause once they were deemed counter-revolutionary thugs by the big boss.

No. Time was not on their side.

The protest was bigger than expected and had lasted longer than expected, but how much longer could it go on? A crackdown was in the works, and whispers had it that blood would be drawn. She had overheard terrible cryptic things before she left home from people in a position to know. A plan for a military takeover had been delayed, there was opposition in the ranks, but it was still in play. Already the incensed but defenseless mob had begun to tussle with advance military units cautiously pressing in on the city from the cardinal points of the compass.

No sooner did he put the phone down than it rang again.

“Sorry, hon.”

He picked it up, but quickly dropped it when a roar rose up outside.

A crescendo of noise, a thumping, pounding sound, rattled the windows, then faded away, only for another percussive wave to follow. A shockwave of wind cut by the screeching pitch and whine of a powerful motor shook the window panes. She stepped back from the window, he stepped towards it, exchanging phone for camera. He flipped open the folds of the curtain just in time to catch the blur of something going by.

“Helicopters!” he shouted excitedly. “Helicopters…”

He hurried out onto the balcony, camera in hand. The shutter continued to snap long after the squad of copters rounded the plaza and disappeared. He lingered against the balustrade a long time, staring off into the distance, staring at nothing in particular.

When he finally came back in, he went straight to the TV.

“No TV!” she cried.

“Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”

“Know what’s going on? If you want to know what’s going on, don’t watch TV!”

But her advice, born of watching state news since childhood, fell on deaf ears. His eyes were glued to the glassy screen even before the low resolution image flickered into life.

He flipped through a few channels, all with identical content. A stentorian voice was commanding all good citizens to return home. Evacuate the plaza. Avoid the demonstrations. A neatly-coiffed news anchor came on next, hectoring viewers like a prim schoolmarm, calling for conformity with the emergency decree.

The news report was full of crude phrases and incendiary innuendos such as “the foment of chaos” “foreign intervention” “black hands” “anarchism” and “counterrevolutionary rioting.”

She could see the puzzlement on his face. No matter how hard he listened, he didn’t quite get it. In contrast, she tried her hardest to tune it out, putting her hands over her ears at one point, but she couldn’t help but comprehend what was being said.

She understood it well, all too well. Those were fighting words. A fierce and unforgiving crackdown was sure to follow.

The TV crackled with an all-points blacklist of wanted fugitives, many of them students from campus. A series of monochrome photos flashed by in succession. Lifted from ID cards and hidden cameras, the blurry photos contained a few familiar faces, everyone from that charismatic, redder-than-thou campus hothead to the solemn face of a bespectacled young student activist who had once invited the two of them to a “Democracy Saloon,” whatever that was.

On her advice, they did not attend.

The newsreader concluded with a poker-faced reminder that contact with foreign journalists was strictly illegal and punishable by law. If there was any line in the whole bulletin he was likely to have understood in full, it was the last line, a line that should have perked his ears up, but he was already on his way to the phone then.

But to get there, he had to pass her first and she blocked his way, using her towel like a matador’s rag to distract the bull. He lunged left and right, feinting this way and that, trying to get past her, and it all seemed very playful and promising at first, but the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

“I gotta get it!” he pleaded. “The telephone.”

“No telephone!”

“First no television? Now, no telephone?”

Had she had his quickness of tongue, she would have explained that the first one lies to you, the second one spies on you, but her command of his language, while much better than his command of hers, was not so confident.

“No television, no telephone? How about telescope, is that okay?”

He raised his hands in front of his face and mimed twisting a cylinder, pretending to study her bare body through a long lens.

“You are especially beautiful when you are angry.”

That took the frowns off both their faces, but things weren’t quite settled yet. She placed an invisible telescope in her hands to return the compliment.

“I see a…foreigner!!”

The pained look on his face suggested he didn’t find it funny, but she had a point to make. It was her country, not his. A naive idealist with a tendency to intervene, he had a habit of getting in over his head.

The phone stopped ringing. The inadequate light he had complained about just moments before took on an inviting aspect. With a flutter of lashes, and exchange of wry grins, they dropped their invisible telescopes and jumped into bed. Burrowing under the covers, their limbs and lips pressed together, and a dreamy interlude followed.

When they awoke from their nap, sated, strengthened, unburdened by what was going on outside, she felt the time had come.

“We need to talk.”

“What hon?” he replied foggily.

“About us.”

“Oh. You and me?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Now”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I do?”

Just then, a flurry of sharp shouts could be heard through the curtains. He sat up, alert. His eyes darted around the room, as if looking for an excuse, then turned beseechingly at her.

“Just a peek, okay? It’s probably nothing.”

Still undressed, he got up and parted the curtains, straining to see what was going on. Lots of commotion and noise, maybe a skirmish, but not important enough to risk her wrath for.

“Sorry, just a…anyway so, like what were we, ah, talking about?”

“I hate you.”

“Oh? What now?”

“Remember before? Before you booked the room? How you talk about how you want to, you know?”

“Oh, honey, I do, I do. And I meant it too. And I still mean it, I mean, it’s great to finally be together, isn’t it?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, it means we are meant to be together.”

“Do you really want to marry, or is that just something you say to girls?”

“What? Yes, I mean no, but not now, not until things are more settled, you know.”

He was back under the covers again, but there was no moving closer, no motion, no roving of hands. The bed was a creaky one, barely big enough for the two of them when the mood struck, but neither of them was feeling it just now. A profound stillness permeated the bed, though it was far from quiet, given the drumbeat of discontent outside.

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“The noise?”

“What noise?”

“Is that like, ah, the helicopters again?”

When tried to get up she pulled him back down.

“I just wanna…” he mumbled.

“Bu xing!” she scolded.

The rhythmic slogans of the crowd speeded up, reaching a feverish pitch. Something was happening, something was happening for sure. Unwilling to forsake his high principles or whatever it was that propelled him like a moth to the flame, he broke free, slipped into his jeans and ran out to look.

When he came back in, she confronted him.

“You said this is our time.”

“It is our time,” he sighed. “I know, I know. Here we are, right now. But stuff happens, you know? And things are really happening now, really hopping out there. Why, ever since the provisional emergency decree…”

“I thought we were going to talk…”

“Aren’t we talking now?”

“Talking politics isn’t talking.”

“Oh.”

“You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I guess I know, I mean. I’m just saying. It’s not like we’re alone, you know, alone on an island, but ah…yeah, okay. We gotta talk. I get it.”

She frowned fretfully, then shifted gear.

“The emergency decree forbids contact with foreign journalists. What about that?”

“Well, first of all, I’m not a journalist, not exactly. I’m, you know, just a stringer, not that I call myself that, but a kind of a helper. Yeah, so I’ve been helping them out, you know, trying to make a little money for our trip, but it’s just a short-time thing.”

“Short-time? Didn’t you say short-time a month ago?”

“True. It’s been going on kinda long, longer than I expected it would, but it can’t keep going on like this, can it?”

“It is a dangerous time.”

“And I’m here to bear witness, bear witness to the first draft of history.”

Bear witness? First draft of what? How grand, how grandiose!

“You sound like one of the protestors.”

“Well, look. Pretty soon things will come to a head and it will be over and we’ll have all the time in the world. You know, that’s when we’ll be able to take the train to Xinjiang, and make the great escape we always talked about, that’s when we’ll be free.”

“Free?”

“Well, relatively free. Away from prying eyes, away from being spied on.

Knock, knock, knock.

They each tensed up, exchanging silent glances, thrust into fight or flight mode.

“I am not here!” she whispered in his ear.

“Oh. Okay…”

“Maybe you are not here, either,” she added, solicitously wrapping her arms around his neck.

“No I am, I mean, I better,” he said, prying himself free.

Knock, knock, knock.

He tiptoed over to the door, then stood still. Would he take her advice and pretend not to be in? It was the best course of action, but she had no time to explain such things.

Hotel security? Housekeeping? His news crew? Her people? Police?

She collected her dress from the porch and withdrew to the bathroom, quietly closing the door. She clicked the lock for good measure. She had done her best to make her visit a relatively stealthy one, and wanted to keep it that way.

They were said to be people looking for people like him, unofficial journalists, students working in violation of visa status, but she wasn’t sure if they were looking for him, or just people like him. He was low on the totem pole of journalists, so low he wasn’t even recognized as one by his so-called peers, even though the foreign crew was deaf, dumb and blind without him. He did all the talking for them, and translations, too.

She communed with her reflection in the mirror over the sink, studying the imperfections of her face, running her fingers through the tangled strands of her tousled hair. She bared her teeth at herself, flexed her eyebrows, pursed her lips.

He’d been freelancing, and while he wasn’t supposed to work on a student visa, that was the least of his problems. It was rather the nature of his work – interviewing the rebels, collecting information on the sly, telling the world the worst about the nation she was part of, exposing its follies for all to see--that not only put him at risk, but everyone he came in contact with. Especially locals he came in contact with. Especially her.

He was neither a card-carrying journalist nor a spy, she knew him well enough to know that, but he was undeniably foreign—even if he dyed his blonde hair black it would do little to alter his pronounced Caucasian appearance. At a time like this, any tall nose was tall enough to draw suspicion.

She pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail and released a deep breath. There was no anonymity in a state-run hotel, not for long anyway.

Knock, knock, knock.

Still knocking? Persistent, but definitely not the police. They weren’t so patient as that. As for the heavy-duty security guys, they didn’t need to knock at all.

The fact that a bona fide foreign student booked a room in this state-run hotel during the height of the demonstrations probably raised a few eyebrows from the start, but he was not like the foreign people of influence, who put up in the best hotels and wined and dined with abandon on company expense accounts. Far from being a big spender, he always ordered the cheapest things on the menu and even then he found himself arguing about the extortionate “friendship prices.” He was always trying to pay in local money instead of foreign exchange certificates.

The cavernous edifice was heavily surveilled, ostensibly to protect vulnerable guests like him, but the thick welcome mat for “honored guests” was wearing thin, what with all the rumors racing around and the very real clashes outside. Whether the hotel would remain safe when open conflict broke out was hard to say, but it was a safe enough haven for now.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Who is it?” she heard him ask.

When she realized he wasn’t going to pretend not to be in, she put her ear to the door.

“Room sir-whiz!” murmured a low voice.

“Sir who?”

“Room sir-whiz!”

“Oh? Room service? I see.”

She heard him unlock the door.

“Perhaps there’s been some mistake?”

“Food. Food for you.”

“For me? Are you sure? Well, come in, come in!”

By now she had a pretty good idea about who it was who came calling. If it was who she thought it was, he was looking for her. She could picture the undercover agent’s eyes darting around the room, looking for a local, as if the dumbstruck foreigner in front of him did not count. Hiding in the bathroom bought a little time, but it couldn’t hide the traces of her presence in the room. Her shoes by the door, the armchair draped with underwear, her underwear.

That someone from her father’s stable of agents might pose as a hotel waiter was not surprising, but there was a hole in the cover story so gaping that even the American noticed it.

“Yes. Say, if this is room service, what did I order?”

“It’s on the tray.”

“I can see there’s food on the tray, but you see, I don’t remember ordering anything.”

“No order?”

“No order.”

“The only thing I ever order is coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“You got the wrong room, didn’t you?”

“No sir.”

Mumble, grumble, mumble grumble.

Not until the man had left and the door was closed did she emerge from the bathroom

“Who was it?” She asked with feigned innocence.

“Room service,” he muttered. “But I didn’t order room service.”

“Was he dressed like a waiter?”

“I didn’t really notice. I guess he was. You know, the usual white shirt and dark trousers. Buzz-cut hair.”

“Oh? I see.”

They both looked at the tray that had been left on the floor. It was stacked with a generous supply of food and drink.

“You know me. I wouldn’t order all this food, not from that overpriced menu, not if you paid me.”

“I believe you,” she said.

“So what should we do? There’s like all this expensive stuff. Look! Imported chocolates, croissants, bread and cheese, apples, even two bottles of yogurt. And it happens to be the fancy yogurt you like, but I didn’t order it. I swear, I didn’t order a thing.”

“Sorry. Maybe I did.”

She made it sound like a reluctant confession, but it was really a lie.

“Huh? Oh, okay. Why didn’t you tell me? Well that changes everything…let’s eat!”

The food looked good, better than they had any right to expect under emergency conditions. He was confused enough not to notice it was almost all off-menu, not hotel food at all. The care package had been delivered by people unknown to him but known to her, her father’s people. It was both unsettling and reassuring, the solicitous way he looked after her.

Knock, knock, knock

“Oh, no! What now?

“I’ll get it,” she volunteered.

“But I thought you didn’t want anyone to know you were here.”

“It’s okay if it’s someone I know.”

“But how do you know it’s someone you know?”

Ignoring his question, she went straight to the door.

“But…”

She opened it.

It was the waiter again, or rather, the good-looking young security man who played waiter as a ploy to get into their room. He was still in character, this time carrying a tray with a flask of hot water, two coffee cups on saucers, a pile of instant coffee packets and some cookies.

“Coffee?” he asked with a grin. He strode across the room and placed the new tray on the floor near the other one.

“Xie-xie,” she said. “Xie-xie.”

The visitor shot an amused look at the possessive foreign male hovering by the door. He discarded his dedicated service person act long enough to give her a conspiratorial wink, a gesture that didn’t escape the other person’s notice.

“Sorry to interrupt,” her boyfriend interjected. “But I think I know what the waiter wants.”

“Please be nice…” she whispered softly.

“No, wait. This guy comes barging into my room, not once but twice, and I have to be nice to him?”

“He’s um, a…”

She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t allowed to say it.

“The guy’s ogling you, it’s like he’s fishing for a tip. Right? Waiter boy wants a tip, even though the food is, well, when did you order it, anyway? I don’t remember you ordering anything. I mean, I was on the phone all morning, not that you noticed, ha, ha!

Reaching into his pocket he scrounged up a few low-denomination bills and handed them to the man.

“No!” Turning crimson, the man shoved his hand back.

A push, then a shove. A short tussle ensued.

“Stop! He’s a foreigner, he doesn’t understand!” she cried, meaning to placate, but it only made things worse.

“Oh, and who the hell is he?” her foreign friend shot back. “What’s Mister Buzz-cut doing here?”

“He dares to ask what I’m doing here?” the man interjected. “Who is he? What’s he doing here?”

“Shhh! She stepped between them, pleading for civility.

Her boyfriend made it sound like he was jealous, and she would be okay with that if she knew that was really the case. She might even let them slug it out, but she knew it wasn’t that.

One of her foreigner’s pet peeves – and he had a few of them – was being called foreign, especially by her, especially when she used it to dismiss him, to imply opacity and ignorance.

“See? The nice man brought you your coffee,” she said, trying to wind things down.

“But I didn’t order coffee!”

Under the reprimand of her glare, the ersatz waiter dutifully held out an olive branch, though he couldn’t resist the temptation to tickle him with it.

“You speak the common tongue extremely well…for a foreigner.”

For a foreigner.

Everyone did it to him, everywhere, and all time. Even she did, though not as much as before. He complained about it. Nonstop. Never-ending. By pointing out the obvious, his social inferiors, even a waiter, could trim his sails, cut him down to size, box him up and put him in place.

“Thanks, I guess…” the American grumbled.

“I feel deeply mortified about this,” the white-shirted visitor added, with considerable formulaic precision but little sincerity. “It distresses me to have offended you. Please forgive the rude intrusion.”

“Forget about it.”

The tension dropped. Nothing more was said; a truce was in effect.

The man nodded and left without another word.

“You know him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Not your old boyfriend, is it?”

“No. No! He’s not! You’re so silly!”

“What then?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She was sworn to secrecy not to talk about her father’s work.

“A lot of nerve, that guy has,” he complained. “A waiter, I mean if he is a waiter. Talking to a hotel guest like that!”

“He’s not a waiter, okay?”

“So if he’s not a waiter, what is he? I suppose you’re not supposed to tell me, right?”

She went out on the balcony, not knowing what to say or how to say it. She stared idly at the swirl of red banners and pitched protests below. For the first time during this little pre-emptive honeymoon of theirs, she was more drawn to what was going on outside the room than in it.

He followed her outside, bringing the glum mood of the room with him.

“He had no right to talk like that.”

“What are you so mad about?”

“What’s not to be mad about?”

“But you believe in democracy, right?”

“Of course, I do!” he said. “Don’t you?”

“You say you believe in it, but…”

“Oh, don’t you start…” he added sharply. “Anyway, I bet he’s spying on us. Can’t you see it?”

“You say that about everyone. You even said that about my roommate.”

“Roommate? You have like seven of them. If I had that many, I’d go running home to daddy every weekend, too.

“You know who I mean.”

“Oh, you mean Miss Prim and Vigor? The biddy who wears her hair in a bun? She is, isn’t she?”

“What about me?”

She looked searchingly at him, but his gaze remained fixed in the distance, fixed on the thin mist hovering above the brightly-lit plaza down the road.

“Maybe I spy on you, too,” she said, suddenly in a mood to provoke.

“What? You, too?”

“You’re not a spy, are you?”

“No, but they treat me like one, don’t they?”

“Are you?”

“No. But that’s what a spy would say, isn’t it?”

“If you are, I don’t want to know.”

“Well I’m not, whether you want to know it or not.” He paused, then pivoted. “I could use some of that coffee, even if it’s instant.”

“Stay here, I’ll bring it out to you.”

“Bring out the whole tray.”

After feasting hungrily, he leaned precariously on the ledge of the porch, camera in hand, scanning the boulevard as if afraid to miss the littlest thing.

She carried the tray back inside. When something happened, or appeared to happen, he’d snap a few pictures and then call it in to his handlers by phone.

Maybe he was a spy.

The big march had broken up, the movement was now in disarray. Abandoned vehicles blocked the intersection, makeshift barricades were erected on the street below. Small bands of energetic activists did their best to obstruct unfriendly traffic, shouting out chants and waving banners to keep spirits high. Fortune was taunted as tensions continued to mount.

Not wanting to countenance what was bound to come next, she sat with her back to the balcony, checking for split ends, running her fingers through her hair.

From time to time shouts and screams erupted, but the most memorable sound was the ever-present wail of the ambulance corps. Something about the plaintive warble summed up the fragility of the whole affair. People were getting hurt, injured bodies were being hauled away. It was no longer a stand off. The tide had shifted, the army was on their way in.

Despite her disinclination to be a spectator to the tragedy being staged by her country in front of the world’s cameras, she remained by his side. She battled with a mix of pride and shame as her fellow citizens put everything on the line for a cause everyone knew to be futile. It distressed her to see her people willing to kill and die for ideas they didn’t even understand.

“What are they saying?” He addressed her after a fresh round of shouts erupted on the street. “What does it all mean?

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I don’t know nothing anymore.”

“But what about…”

The more he asked, the less she had to say. She let him do his job, what he said was his job, but she didn’t like being interviewed, especially by him. It got to the point she had to withdraw to the room, pulling the curtains closed tight.

He came slapping through the curtains, hot on her tail

“Hey, what’s eating you?”

“You!”

“It’s for work. It’s a job. A job so I can make some money. So we can make that trip.”

“It is not my job. I don’t want your money. I want nothing to do with it.”

“But, hey, come on, hon. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Right thing?”

“We want the world to know…”

“We?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Is it the world’s business?”

“Why do you think all the journalists flew in?”

“It’s my nation’s sorrow, not someone else’s entertainment. It is not a circus. It’s not a thing to make money on.”

“Now who’s the cynic? You’re sounding like the way I used to sound.”

“And you’re sounding more like them.”

“Them? Them who?”

“Them. Down there.”

“Down with dictatorship, Up with democracy?”

“That’s right. I totally agree. What’s wrong with that?”

“What does that even mean? What does it mean today, for you and me, in this broken city, where fighting is breaking out in every direction?”

“It, um, is, I don’t know. Freedom?”

“Free-dom. Sounds nice. So nice. But what does it mean?”

“What does it mean? It means, like, you know, to be free!”

A rhythmic chant arose below:

“Ya’ hear that?”

“Yes?”

“They’re saying—Dee-mock-crazy, democracy for eternity!—aren’t they?”

“Yes, mister journalist. You got it.”

“That’s super. That’s great,” he enthused, scribbling some notes. “So what do you think will happen next?”

“I don’t know. How do I know? They are very brave…and very – what do you call it—knave?

“Naïve?”

“Yes. That is what they are. Knave, just like you.”

The phone rang. He glanced at her before going in to pick it up.

“Oh, hello? Hi, yeah, I was just out there…!”

She felt a mix of aggravation and relief. At least it wasn’t the police calling. Not yet.

“What? Oh, okay. Sure, okay mate. Yeah. I’ll meet you at the regular spot, yeah, okay. See you in the lobby bar.”

He hung up.

“They want me to go out with them, things are really tense now.”

“They?”

“You know. The boys.”

“The boys?”

“The crew.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” She pulled a long look.

“Sorry, honeybun.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Okay, hon.”

“You don’t listen…”

“Listen, I gotta go. Gotta go down. You know, see what’s going on.”

“Why?”

“Look. Look at all those people out there, calling for change. It’s historic. The world is changing.”

Her delicate face was etched with an indelicate frown.

Ignoring her silent protest, he prepped himself to join the fray, dressing down, dressing local, as was his wont. One of these days, if there were any more days, she’d have to tell him that his baggy trousers, white shirt, blue cap and rumpled jacket did nothing to hide his outsider status. And while the students vying for media attention might play nice for the camera, they didn’t like foreigners any more than their elders did. If anything, with their lives on the line, they had to be redder than red. That silly army cap of his did a poor job of containing his curly auburn locks, but she’d save her fashion critique for after the apocalypse, if there was an after.

He slung his camera over his shoulder and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“You!” She pushed him away.

“Won’t be long. Just need to take a look.”

“Look, look, look. You always like to look. Look, look, look,” she sulked.

“Oh, come on hon. They are new here. They need me to be their eyes and ears…”

“Who…the jet journalists? Ha!”

“What?”

“They don’t need you. And they don’t re-speck you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just a go-to, a go-for,” she added dismissively. “What do they call it? Just a helper-boy.”

“Yeah, but it’s me leading them, not the other way around.”

“They fly in. They fly out.”

“And that’s what makes me different. I have a life here. I’m studying the language. I have a room on campus. But you know what’s best of all, hon?”

“What?”

“I have you.”

“You have me?”

“Yep. You.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

“And what are our plans for the future?”

“Future? The future is, ah, the future is in the future!”

“Not for me. Now is all we have.”

“Look, I’ve gotta go…”

“Going with journalist is going against the rules.”

“But I’m just a student, a stringer. I’m on a student visa! I’m not a card-carrying one of those!”

“That’s—that is, that is even more un-legal!”

“Yeah, I guess so, I mean, I know, I know, and I’ll be careful. Look, listen, honey, hon, hey. The crew is waiting for me, I won’t be long.”

She pinched the loose sleeve of his jacket, tugging with gentle futility.

“Back in a jiff, hon! See you soon.”

SIX HOURS LATER

Knock, knock-knock-knock-knock-knock, knock, knock

The playful, syncopated series of taps was not the knock of a stranger.

She unlatched the door and opened it a crack.

“Oh, hey. Hey, hon!”

“What?”

“Um…”

The um worried her.

“Hey, um, I, ah, we, uh, we’ve got a situation here.”

Over his shoulder she could see a group of strangers gathered behind him in the hallway.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” her paramour whispered.

“Don’t apologize! When you start to apologize, that is when I really start to worry.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Do you mind if these people, ah, my crew, if they hide out in our room for the night? It’s bad out.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded her assent, knowing it meant trouble. But what was she gonna do? Say no?

He quickly ushered them into the room and shut the door.

The sour body odor was the first thing she noticed. Four bulky, big-boned Caucasians came marching in, none of them young. With them were two slender local boys. Probably students. Their youth, unkempt clothing, sun-burnt faces and red headbands made it easy to guess where they had been. The great plaza, the revolutionary bastion they had occupied with such brio and fanfare, was no longer theirs.

The foreign news crew—who else could it be?--dropped their heavy gear on the carpet, but left their shoes on, as if wanting to be ready for the inevitable next knock. They smelled of onions and cheese, stinky cheese. While they murmured in thick accents among themselves, she spun around to tidy up the room, her room, their room.

Names were exchanged but what difference did it make? No one cared who was called what.

“Please make yourselves at home,” she heard her companion say, pointing to the armchair and beds.

She made a dash to collect the panties, bra, and socks that were still draped on the armrest.

One of the men with the news crew, the one with a shock of graying blonde hair and a quick grin, pulled out a flask. He passed it around to his countrymen, sharing a few fast gulps of something strong, then they took turns washing up in the bathroom. They were well-mannered in their own clumsy way, but they made a mess, and even when doing nothing took up more than their share of space.

The two local boys, rather more diffident, withdrew to a corner of the carpeted floor, while the foreign news crew traipsed back and forth menacingly like predators behind bars. The athletic cameraman, with his sound-man in tow, was drawn to the window, and ultimately the porch beyond, drawn like bloodhounds to the scent of blood.

Her companion was huddled in dialogue with the two activists. He cajoled them tenderly, offering what little leftover food there was, even offering to make instant coffee, all the while dropping big words, words like extraterritoriality, political sanctuary and unconditional amnesty.

The fair-haired foreign lady, with a rueful look on her face, returned to the room after a brief spell with the camera crew on the deck. Unlike the aloof men, she at least has the sense to exhibit an awareness that a trespass had taken place, an impingement on another woman’s space.

“Excuse me,” the foreign ma’am said contritely as she settled on the bed next to the phone. Leaning back with one pillow in her lap, the other propped up against the headboard, she picked up the phone and asked for an outside line. When the call went through, it was followed by an accented rush of words that defied easy understanding. The ma’am concluded the call saying that she had secured a room, a room with a view, a view of the action.

The shell-shocked local boys hadn’t said a word to her yet. About her age, they were probably frightened but unwilling to show it. The one gaunt, tan, long-haired, and soft-spoken had an aloof and distracted air. The other—short-haired, bespectacled and hyper-alert—fidgeted constantly.

A staccato volley of gunfire reverberated in the urban canyon below, broken by shouts and wails of despair.

“They’re bloody shooting their way in,” cried the cameraman. “Bloody Nazis!”

The pallid, moonless night was the destroyer of dreams. The air was demonic, laced with the odor of cordite and burning tires, cigarettes and alcohol, rifle shot and petrol smoke. The night air was shot through with the rat-a-tat-tat of rapid fire and percussive pings as the crackdown took on an increasingly tragic turn.

Despite the close quarters there was little communication. Everyone had retreated into their own inner world. The ma’am alternately worked the phone and tried to distract herself with a book. The foreign correspondent, whose stand-up had just been nixed by the camera crew due to risk of using the lights, continued to consult his appearance in a pocket mirror, just in case he had to go on air in the call of duty. The cameraman and the sound-man, neither of whom had much to say, refused to leave the balcony except to use the bathroom.

By dawn the urge to doze was hard to resist, but the crew, to their credit, were untiring, ready to roll at every audible thump, bang, rumble, wail, and shout.

The room was close enough to the conflict to follow the action, but mostly above the fray except for one instance of bullet spray nearby. Whenever something erupted on the streets, or gunfire erupted, the crew answered it from the balustrade with a point-and-shoot of their own. Towards dawn, a light rain wet the ground. Fires continued to burn. In the course of a few dark hours, the protest was quelled.

Shouts were heard in the hallway followed by the sounds of doors being slammed.

The crew, who, just moments ago, had been sprawled out on the floor, wearily exchanging war stories, leapt to attention. Anticipating a police sweep, they scrambled like frightened kids, looking for a place to hide their precious video cassettes. In no time at all, the bathroom ceiling vent was pried open, videotapes and valuables secreted inside. Another loud bang outside the door. The local boys retreated to the curtain while the foreign big boys played tourist, making themselves comfortable on the twin beds.

A loud knock shook the door.

The American went to the door and placed his hand on the knob, awaiting an all-clear signal from the crew before opening it.

Undoing the lock, he pried the door open a crack.

“Room sir-whiz!”

The waiter! The so-called waiter carried not a tray but a box of goods.

“Sister,” he greeted feverishly. “I’ve brought more provisions.”

He presented two more jars of yogurt, a package of dry biscuits, two cans of Coke, two pieces of stale cake and an orange.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have! But…thanks.”

“I have a message for you, and your, ah, friend.”

It was only then he realized it wasn’t just the two of them in the room.

One, two, three, four…he counted the faces – five foreigners!

His voice trailed off, rendered momentarily speechless at the sight of multiple foreigners with messed up hair and dirty outfits, sprawled out on the bed in awkward poses.

They could pass for a rock band. An aging rock band.

“What is this?” He asked, interrogating her with his eyes.

“They are taking shelter.”

“Not good,” he snapped. “Police everywhere. Checking every room on every floor.”

“Checking for what?”

He nodded in the direction of the foreigners. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed the two local boys who were reclining on the floor by the curtain.

“They your friends, too?”

“You didn’t see them, okay?”

“Your, ah, friends, put you in jeopardy,” he declared matter-of-factly. “Hotel security is back on duty. They know about you and the “American businessman.” For now they will leave you alone. But not the others.”

“Should we leave now?”

“No, I’ve been instructed to tell you to wait one more day. You are safe here.”

“It’s over?”

“Almost. As for those journalists, they are journalists, right? They had best depart. Tell them to take the fire stairs, not the elevator.”

“Listen up, lads!” the ma’am announced stridently, causing all other conversation to cease. “I just got off the phone with the embassy, we’ve been advised to evacuate. Hundreds reported shot, there’s talk of civil war. A vehicle has been arranged to pick us up. We are to report to the bureau and await onward transportation. to the airport.”

The cameraman, a veteran of many coups and much combat but a man of few words, spoke up. “But there are kids out there, running interference,” he countered, cradling the big camera in his arms. “There is resistance. The story is out there.”

“Pack it up. Let’s go,” the ma’am snapped. “You take the pictures, but you don’t call the shots.”

The producer pivoted to her host. “Sorry for imposing on you like this. You’ve been simply grand, you, and your lovely girlfriend, too.”

The crew retrieved the hidden tapes and gathered up their gear with practiced haste. They filed out of the room one at a time, going to the emergency staircase as instructed. The short-haired activist left with them, helping with the gear.

Goodbyes were brief and business-like.

Whew! She closed the door to the room, their sanctuary. Taking a deep breath, it was a relief to be alone again, alone with her man-boy. But her man-boy was not alone.

Somehow it had escaped her attention that the skinny activist hadn’t left with the others. He was sitting in the far corner of the room, sitting on the floor, hardly taking up any space at all, talking quietly about the hunger strike. Her companion juggled camera and notebook as he spoke. Given the baleful tone of the striker’s dark mutterings, he appeared to be giving a last will and testament.

Interview concluded, the activist headed to the door, but one need only take one look at him to realize he was unlikely to get far. Chances were, he’d never make it past the lobby, not with that green hunger strike shirt emblazoned oaths and signatures. Not with that red dare-to-die headband.

“Take this, bro,” the American offered thoughtfully, picking through his clothes, handing his best shirt to the activist. “It might be a little big, but try it on for size.”

“Thanks.” Handing over his headband in exchange, the striker added, “Take this – I will remember you after I’m gone.”

And with that, he left. She watched his emaciated figure retreat to the stairwell with little more than the shirt on his back. The dress shirt was familiar enough, after all, she had purchased it for the person who just gave it away. On the skinny torso of the ex-hunger striker, it hung long and loose.

She closed the door.

“Just you and me now,” he sighed.

“Maybe you should go,” she said.

“What? And leave you here? On, on our, ah, honeymoon?”

His attempt to make light of it only deepened the gloom.

“No more honeymoon.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Your friends? They just left. You don’t want to be with them?”

“Them? They’re getting picked up.”

“Yes. And they did not offer you a ride.”

“Well. Some kind of company car or something. To tell the truth, I was kind of expecting them to offer a ride, not just to me, but both of us. I mean, it’s not exactly safe here, and they know it. After all, we were there for them when they needed shelter.”

The sustained growl of a powerful engine revving somewhere down below filtered through the curtains.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t say they’re friends, exactly. More like colleagues.”

“Colleagues?”

“Well, we went through a lot together.”

“They were using you.”

“You really think so?”

“You are so knave.”

“Okay, okay. So should I call their office? See if they can help us?”

“No. You are not one of them.”

He wearily sat on the bed; she took a seat facing him on the armchair.

A burst of what sounded like distant gunfire caused him to shiver, but he didn’t budge, let alone run out to the balcony to take pictures. Maybe he wasn’t sure what he was hearing, maybe he didn’t want to hear it.

They sat close for the longest time; silence broken only by the indecipherable sound of things they couldn’t see.

*THE DAY AFTER

The night was long because so much of it was spent trying to fall asleep and not succeeding. They tried different beds, at one point they even tried the floor, but nothing could make them relax. The morning was unexpectedly quiet, quiet enough that they briefly considered making a break for it, cycling back to campus. When, after several tries, she got through to her father on the phone, he advised otherwise.

Soon enough, the stifling silence was followed by the clank and rumble of treaded vehicles, dozens of them.

They peeked outside. The sky was gray. The ground was gray. Everything gray, gray, gray. For the first time in a month, the streets were devoid of chants, the plaza cleared of people. With the back of the protest broken, tanks ruled the road. Men in green commanded key corners.

Everything under control, nowhere safe.

It was over.

A great city, great because of the indomitable spirit that lurked behind the loud talk, crude gestures, and ready defiance, had been brought to heel. Crushed, vanquished, humiliated. The shock of the crackdown would dissipate, but the psychic pain would linger.

Another volley of gunfire. Another anguished silence, hoping it was over.

The sight of soldiers commanding the boulevard below was one thing; the sound of boots in the hotel corridors was another.

Already the clean up had begun. The plaza had been cleared. Mass arrests and forced confessions would follow.

Immobilized and numb, she and he moped around in their redoubt, wondering how long they could hold out. They huddled close but without intimacy. They nibbled stale crackers and sipped tepid tea.

She sat by the windowsill, soaking up the weak sun. She took in the view like a cat would, aloofly drawn to the goings on of the street below but without much comprehension.

He opted for the TV, and before long, was back on the phone. With his so-called colleagues.

She gazed dully at the long line of tanks crawling away from the central plaza, like a row of turtles abandoning a shallow pond, propelling themselves forward with difficulty. It was a slow grinding procession, going back to wherever they came from.

On a broad swath of pavement below, in the middle of a boulevard littered with flattened barricades, bits of broken brick and smashed bicycles, her eye caught the figure of a man crossing the wide road. Not an extraordinary sight in a city where citizens darted in front of traffic all the time, but suicidal in the current context. The man had gotten only halfway across the road when he stopped, putting himself in the path of the moving convoy.

She couldn’t hear the shouts, but she could see bystanders frantically urging him to hurry out of the way. The man, plainly dressed and carrying only a shopping bag, dawdled, as if in a daze.

The massive turreted vehicle belched smoke threateningly, but it ground to a halt in time to let him cross. The man stared down the tank for a brief eternity until he was whisked away by others.

The armored withdrawal proceeded apace.

She sighed, wiping an unexpected tear from her eye. She went back inside, swung the curtains shut, unsure if she wanted to share what she saw. He was still on the phone, still yammering with his people, his so-called people.

Too numb to talk, too humbled by the stubborn pride of her people to think rationally, she decided not to say a word. What the wannabe journalist didn’t know wouldn’t bother him, right?

It was just another moment of reckless courage in a month that had seen a million acts of reckless courage. If he hadn’t been so busy reporting the politics of the news, they might have shared the moment. But the moment was gone. If she told him now, he’d demand to know why she didn’t tell him sooner. Soon they’d be arguing about it, and she didn’t want to argue anymore.

She retreated to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and splashed water on her face, a face drained of passion, a puffy, blemished face she hardly knew anymore.

Grounded by the gravitas of her hometown, bound to the land of her birth, she hated it with all her heart, but she loved it, too. It was her home, her only home. She would bear its burdens, come what may.

Voices were shouting in the hall. Evacuation orders given. The time to leave had come. At her urgent urging, he stuffed his passport in his pocket and grabbed his backpack.

She pulled out her bicycle key and let it dangle.

“But it’s still crazy out there.”

She continued to play with the aluminum key in her fingers.

“You’re not serious are you? It’s not safe to go out.”

There were more shouts, more footsteps and more commotion in the hotel hallway.

“It’s not safe to stay, either.”

Finally, a heavy knock on the door. Not really a knock, let alone a friendly taps. Just one big heavy-fisted bang.

She answered the door with resolve. A terse, clipped exchange with two soldiers followed, throughout which she remained calm, erect and composed. These were not her father’s people, but their mission was not difficult to understand. They were doing a job, emptying out the hotel, a job they’d rather not be doing.

She lied only as much as she needed to, explaining that she was the translator for a foreign businessman and they had been trapped in the hotel until now. She thanked the soldiers for their concern, for their facilitation of their rescue.

Lurking in the background, her talkative companion kept his mouth shut.

Whether her lies rang true or not didn’t really matter. It was a drama and there were roles to play. The room was given over to a cursory inspection, as was the foreign guest, and then they were waved off, free to leave the premises.

Before they left the room, she laid down the rules of the road.

“Don’t talk to anyone. Do not stop. Just continue walking until you are outside the hotel.”

“But I haven’t even paid the bill. What if they stop me?”

“They are too busy for that.”

“But what if…”

“Show your passport, pretend you don’t speak Chinese.”

“Once we reach the elevator, we are strangers.”

“Okay, stranger. Meet you in the bicycle parking lot, right?”

“Something like that.”

“So we go out separately, one at a time?”

“Yes. I will follow you.”

“Shouldn’t you go first?”

“No.”

“Oh? Oh, okay.”

“Remember. You do not know me.”

“Who are you?”

“What?”

“Only kidding.”

“No joking. From now on, you do not know me.”

They walked down the long corridor at a terse clip.

“Remember. No talk!”

“I get it, I get it.”

They walked past the elevator guard post where two soldiers rested with their rifles.

No words were exchanged.

Ding! They boarded the empty elevator and endured a slow descent; a descent made all the more slow by the budding silence between them. When the elevator doors popped open on the ground floor, he put his hand forward, motioning for her to exit first. It was just the kind of chivalrous gesture a stranger would make, and now that they were about to become strangers again, not just excusable but oddly appropriate.

She answered with a nod and a gesture of her own, insisting he get off first, which he did.

She watched him make his way through the chaos of a lobby brimming with men in uniform. He was doing his best not to act nervous, staring at the floor so as not to catch anyone’s eye.

A few hotel staffers were still on the job, teamed up with soldiers, hovering behind their counters. The hotel looked not so much a hotel as a barracks for troops to be billeted. A pair of rifle-bearing men stood stiffly guarding the entrance.

Once he cleared the lobby without incident, it was her cue to make a solo exit. She steeled herself, assuming an entitled air, adopting a pose she had picked up from people in her father’s circle, a pose that suggested she was best left alone.

One minute, a nagging wife; the next, an unfeeling stranger. She could play both with chilling verisimilitude. When she saw that he had been stopped for a passport check at a secondary checkpoint by the hotel gate, she blithely walked past, bumping into him ever so lightly. It was not an accident, more of a gentle nudge, a deliberate but subtle hip to hip. There was friction enough to cause her long cotton dress to catch against his jeans and bunch up for an instant.

“Sor-ry,” she said, just as a polite stranger might, but it wasn’t a reflexive apology. She wasn’t apologizing for bumping into him, but she was sorry. She was sorry about everything, sorry about things not working out, sorry about having to end things like this.

It was fare-thee-well, man-boy.

She continued on her way without as much as a backward glance. All her images of him were now relegated to the past tense, all their doings and interaction but a memory.

Fraught with regret, she frantically searched the clutter of the parking lot for her bike. Many of the bikes had been flattened or knocked over; she found hers on its side, its handlebars entangled with his. Their trusty rides had weathered the crackdown together but they’d be going off in different directions now.

She yanked her bike free and dusted off the seat, checked the tires, tested the brakes and the bell, and then righted his vehicle and gave it a check, too. He was going to be riding back to campus alone, but didn’t know it yet.

She turned her gaze to the checkpoint in front of the hotel. She didn’t expect him to be detained for long, it was just a passport check, and even at a time like this, his passport counted for something. But she waited just in case, waited until he was waved on, and then got ready to leave.

She undid the lock, released the kickstand, hitched up her dress just a bit and mounted the leather seat. She tapped the pedals lightly and took off, navigating an obstacle course of crushed and fallen bikes until she reached the main road.

There stood up on the pedals, put all her weight on the right side, then shifted left and right again. She gained speed and was off. She pedaled hard but steady, without once looking back. There was hardly a car in sight. She merged into a long line of catatonic cyclists traversing the defiled, littered pavement of the forlorn boulevard.

She could picture the hurt look on his face. She could hear him protesting.

Where are you going, honey? What? How can you leave like that, leave without saying goodbye?

But she had been saying goodbye for days now, and goodbye is what it was. It was over. Over and done. He was going his way; she was going hers.

Given the way things were, given the way he was, a lingering farewell was not in the offing. From the day he first flirted with her in the food hall, she liked being the subject of his attention, she was caught up with the idea of an illicit romance, but she knew their relationship wouldn’t go the distance, though things got serious enough for him to assume otherwise.

He had a long ride ahead of him, clear across town. Long before he got back to the foreign student dorm situated on the edge of the city, she would be home, back at her father’s house, hidden behind the walls of a secret compound not too far from the hotel.

He would spend an anxious day or two huddled in dark corridors of the foreign student dorm, commiserating with other foreigners in the foreign student dining hall as their evacuation flights were arranged.

He was leaving; it was as it had to be. There was never any doubt in her mind this day would come, sooner or later, one way or another. It was always just a matter of time, and timing. The real surprise was not that it didn’t work out but that it worked out for as long as it did.

The compound where her family lived was a hop, skip and a jump away, but the front gate facing the boulevard was cordoned off now. So she detoured, going around the moats of the old palace, passing burnt-out vehicles, streets littered with the remains of broken barricades and military checkpoints. She glided past clusters of bewildered fellow citizens and sulking cyclists. It was upsetting, and she was upset, deeply upset, but utterly unafraid.

Her thoughts briefly drifted back to him, the look on his face as she put foot to pedal and began to race away, her lovely, aloof, charming, over-earnest, exasperating, sexy, clumsy, frustrating boyfriend. Her former boyfriend. She was sad about things not working out, inconsolably sad, but not sad for him, for he was finally free of this place, finally free of its spell. He was going home. He had to. He was going back to where he came from, back to his people, back to where he belonged.

She was already home, at home with her people, people he would never meet. She was at home in a way he would never be, for she had been home all along and never had any intention of leaving.

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