Read Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station for Free Online Page B

old,” he said with his quick smile and another merry laugh.
    ”It tastes like egg, it just looks rather odd, as if it had been left
out of the refrigerator too long.”
    Jenny said, ”I believe they’re soaked in brine or something, and buried
in the earth.”
    ”The food’s coming with frightening speed now,” pointed out Malcolm
across the table as the waiter brought still another platter to the table.
”Sweet and sour something,” he announced, spearing a piece between chopsticks
and delivering it to his mouth before passing it on. ”How many meals will be
Chinese on our trip?”
    ”It is good, you all using chopsticks,” said Mr. Li. ”Very good. You,
Mr. Fox—press fingers a little higher,” he told Peter, receiving a hostile
glance in return. ”The food? After tomorrow no Western food.”
    ”Not even breakfast?” gasped Jenny.
    ”Chinese breakfast.”
    ”What fun,” cried Iris with a radiant smile.
    ”I’ve been studying Chinese this last year,” Joe Forbes told him across
the table. ”I’d like to try it out on you now and then. For instance, would I
be called a da hi zi?”
    Both Mr. Li and Mr. Tung burst out laughing. ”Xiao hua,” cried Mr.
Li enthusiastically.
    ”Meaning what?” asked Jenny.
    Joe Forbes said, ”I hope I asked if I’d be called a ‘long nose’
among the Chinese—except it’s so damn easy to get the tones wrong. Did I?”
    ”You did, yes,” Mr. Tung assured him, ”and Comrade Li said Xiao hua, meaning ‘a joke’!”
    ”Surely we’re called round eyes, not long noses,” asked Malcolm.
    ”Anyway not foreign devils anymore,” contributed Jenny.
    ”Capitalist-roaders?” suggested Iris, grinning.
    Mr. Tung gave an embarrassed laugh. Mr. Li lifted his glass of pale
orange soda pop and said, ”Let us toast to Chinese-American friendship!”
    Mrs. Pollifax raised her own glass of soda. The others lifted their
glasses of Chinese beer, which she promised herself she would try the next day,
since water was advised against, the tea extremely weak, and the soda tasted
rather like flavored water. In the meantime she waited to ask George Westrum
just what his government service might have been. He was a silent man but he
talked well when he did speak; his face was expressionless, even harsh, but
there was that occasional twinkle of humor that suggested other dimensions. He
must certainly have retired early—as CIA men often did, Bishop had told
her—because he looked to be still in his fifties, and he was obviously strong.
She felt that he was noticing everyone and everything—watching and alert—and
she was amused that he had especially noticed Iris.
    But there was no opportunity to question George Westrum further. Mr. Li,
pleased that Forbes was learning Mandarin, at once grasped the chance to
practice his English, and their exchange of words occupied the others. ”Yes, I
teach history,” Forbes was saying, ”in a small Midwestern university.” He was
smiling but Mrs. Pollifax realized that actually he did not smile all the time,
it was merely an illusion caused by the arrangement of his features, but
definitely smiling now, she could see the difference.
    ”Professor?” said Iris, and made a startled gesture that struck a nearby
bottle of beer and sent it rolling off the table. Iris turned scarlet. ”Oh,”
she gasped. ”Oh I’m terribly sorry.” She dropped her napkin and started after
it.
    Malcolm placed a firm hand on her arm. ”Please,” he said with a smile.
”Not again. Let me do the honors this time.”
    ”Oh! Oh thank you,” said Iris, her cheeks burning.
    But a waiter had rushed to the table to wipe up the spilled beer, just
as another waiter arrived bearing a huge soup tureen. ”Now that looks too heavy
for Iris to tip over,” Jenny said, with a laugh.
    ”I understand soup means the end of a meal in your country,” Joe Forbes
put in. ”In America we have it first, you know.”
    Mr. Tung looked appalled.
    ”We feel,” explained