The next day, November 28, was my last full day in Beijing. I had no meetings scheduled, but hoped to acquire one, with Song Binbin. That night Ye Weiyou called again. Mr. Wang wanted to meet with me again. I enjoyed spending time with Mr. Wang immensely and always learned something. We arranged to meet in the afternoon, after my attempted rendezvous with Song.
I went incognito. Before leaving on the trip, I had gone to a costume shop in Washington and picked out a disguise: a fake mustache, big round black-rimmed glasses, a fedora, and a cane to hobble about on. I wore my hair un-gelled to further alter my appearance. I certainly had succeeded in that, but instead of the distinguished, older, enfeebled, gentleman I had envisioned invoking a moment's sympathy in Song and giving me my opening, I looked like a guy who had gone to a costume shop.
My un-gelled hair was too long for the fedora and curled beneath the rim. The glasses were unnaturally big. The mustache glue gave a little every time I moved my facial muscles. I was afraid it was going to drop and hang from one end in the manner of a character in a slap-stick comedy.
Song's office was in Beijing, my hotel was in Beijing, so with no thought whatsoever to the distance between the two I hopped into a cab. The distance was great. It was about 9 am, morning rush hour. We crawled along the highways, the minutes passed, and the meter kept running, and I had to go to the bathroom. Nervous perspiration beaded on my forehead and upper lip, loosening the mustache glue. We kept driving. The cab driver got lost. Twice. And had to stop to ask for directions. "Tibet, Next Exit," the thought flashed through my mind. Did I have enough yuan to get from wherever I ended up and back to the hotel?
At 11 am, two hours after I had left the hotel, I finally alighted that cab in front of Song Binbin's building with a stiff back, a thin wallet, a mustache of uncertain adhesion, and a full bladder.
I went into a nearby restaurant to use the facilities. The restaurant was not quite open but the hostess showed me to a table. I ordered a pot of green tea. And went to the men's room.
I returned to my table and began drinking the tea. The steam was having a deleterious effect on the mustache glue so I took out Ma Lisen's book and read while the tea cooled.
As I was reading, the manager called out something in a loud voice. The staff came scurrying. They gathered round and the manager addressed them, giving them some sort of instructions it was clear. At one point the staff responded in unison. I looked and caught the eye of one young staff member who looked away sheepishly. I remembered seeing the same thing once at the hotel. A little later there was a second response in unison.
The staff didn't sit while the manager addressed them, they stood. They stood, not exactly in military formation, but in an orderliness and with body language that was "regimental."
It seemed to me (I don't know for certain because I do not understand Chinese) that the meeting was part inspirational and that the unified response was group affirmance of the ideal expounded, something like,
Manager: "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!"
Staff: "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!"
The purpose of the meeting was not, I am quite sure, limited to informing staff of the daily specials. To an American observer the regimented nature of these sessions was unusual (American manager: "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!" American staff: "ONLY WHEN HE'S A BIG TIPPER!"), and I think the staff member whose eye I had caught knew that I thought it was unusual.
I finished my tea, paid the check, and went to the men's room for one last mustache adjustment.
Song's building was just around the corner, the omnipresent manned guard station at the entrance. Emboldened by the experience that Carmen and I had with the guards at Bian's school, I confidently walked up to the guard in my clown outfit and showed him the piece of paper with the address. He pointed to the building entrance.
The doors were the standard double-glass and entered into the linoleum-tiled elevator waiting area. There were two elevators with standard metal doors. It was a standard building in every respect.
The elevators delivered me directly to the waiting area of Song's office. It had the look of a front, not a real office. There was no one in the waiting area and no one behind the drab linoleum desk when I first entered. Within moments a receptionist came from around the corner. I showed her my Public Occurrences business card and told her that I was here to see Song Binbin. She picked up the phone.
"No, Song's not going to come walking around the corner, is she? It can't be this easy," I thought to myself. The receptionist spoke into the phone, there was brief conversation, and then she gave the phone to me. A young man identified himself as Ms. Song's Assistant in the pleasant voice appropriate to Assistants.
I identified myself and explained that I was there to interview Song for Public Occurrences. He said that she was not in. I asked him where she was. I asked in a tone of slight annoyance that I thought he would find authentic for an American in the situation. He replied, in the tone of solicitous concern that I had expected, that he would call her.
He picked up another phone and tried to reach Song. After several seconds He got back on the phone with me and said that she was not answering. "Where is she, I have an appointment to interview her?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Harris, she may be at her apartment in downtown Beijing. I will give you her cell phone number."
"No, he's not going to give me her cell phone number," I thought, but he did. He asked me if I had an appointment with her and, stupidly, I said that I did, for 11:00am. Song then called back. "That is her now, Mr. Harris, one moment please."
Assistant: "...(unintelligible Chinese)...Benjamin Harris..."
Song: "Benjamin who?" (gleaned from context)
Assistant: "Harris...(unintelligible Chinese)"
Song: "What does he want?"(gleaned from context)
Assistant: "He says he has an appointment with you." (gleaned from context)
Song: "I don't have an appointment with anyone at 11."
Assistant: "Mr. Harris, she says she didn't have an appointment with you."
Me: (in appropriately annoyed tone of American but realizing I had blundered in claiming that I had an appointment). "I emailed her from the States and set up this time for the interview with her," continuing my blunder.
The assistant and Song spoke.
Assistant: "She says that she had no appointment with you Mr. Harris. She is currently at the hospital with her mother."
Me: (seeing a way out of my blunder on the appointment). "Well, if she's at the hospital with her mother I can understand how she could have forgotten about the appointment. That's understandable. If it is all right I will leave my business card here at the front desk and we can reschedule."
Assistant: "Yes sir, please do. What was it that you wanted to interview her about, Mr. Harris?"
Me: "I'm doing a story on the Girls Middle School that she attended. It is one of the best schools in China, as I am sure you are aware. The school has named Song a distinguished alumnus and I wanted to interview her about one of her teachers, Bian Zhongyun."
Assistant: "What was the name again, Mr. Harris?"
Me: "BIAN ZHONGYUN." (authoritative tone).
Assistant and Song then talked.
Assistant: "Ms. Song will not talk to you about that Mr. Harris."
Me: "Why?"
Assistant: "She does not wish to speak to you, Mr. Harris."
I gave the receptionist my business card and left, satisfied, that I had at least made Song Binbin know that I knew where she was and wouldn't give up investigating Bian's murder.
I went incognito. Before leaving on the trip, I had gone to a costume shop in Washington and picked out a disguise: a fake mustache, big round black-rimmed glasses, a fedora, and a cane to hobble about on. I wore my hair un-gelled to further alter my appearance. I certainly had succeeded in that, but instead of the distinguished, older, enfeebled, gentleman I had envisioned invoking a moment's sympathy in Song and giving me my opening, I looked like a guy who had gone to a costume shop.
My un-gelled hair was too long for the fedora and curled beneath the rim. The glasses were unnaturally big. The mustache glue gave a little every time I moved my facial muscles. I was afraid it was going to drop and hang from one end in the manner of a character in a slap-stick comedy.
Song's office was in Beijing, my hotel was in Beijing, so with no thought whatsoever to the distance between the two I hopped into a cab. The distance was great. It was about 9 am, morning rush hour. We crawled along the highways, the minutes passed, and the meter kept running, and I had to go to the bathroom. Nervous perspiration beaded on my forehead and upper lip, loosening the mustache glue. We kept driving. The cab driver got lost. Twice. And had to stop to ask for directions. "Tibet, Next Exit," the thought flashed through my mind. Did I have enough yuan to get from wherever I ended up and back to the hotel?
At 11 am, two hours after I had left the hotel, I finally alighted that cab in front of Song Binbin's building with a stiff back, a thin wallet, a mustache of uncertain adhesion, and a full bladder.
I went into a nearby restaurant to use the facilities. The restaurant was not quite open but the hostess showed me to a table. I ordered a pot of green tea. And went to the men's room.
I returned to my table and began drinking the tea. The steam was having a deleterious effect on the mustache glue so I took out Ma Lisen's book and read while the tea cooled.
As I was reading, the manager called out something in a loud voice. The staff came scurrying. They gathered round and the manager addressed them, giving them some sort of instructions it was clear. At one point the staff responded in unison. I looked and caught the eye of one young staff member who looked away sheepishly. I remembered seeing the same thing once at the hotel. A little later there was a second response in unison.
The staff didn't sit while the manager addressed them, they stood. They stood, not exactly in military formation, but in an orderliness and with body language that was "regimental."
It seemed to me (I don't know for certain because I do not understand Chinese) that the meeting was part inspirational and that the unified response was group affirmance of the ideal expounded, something like,
Manager: "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!"
Staff: "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!"
The purpose of the meeting was not, I am quite sure, limited to informing staff of the daily specials. To an American observer the regimented nature of these sessions was unusual (American manager: "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!" American staff: "ONLY WHEN HE'S A BIG TIPPER!"), and I think the staff member whose eye I had caught knew that I thought it was unusual.
I finished my tea, paid the check, and went to the men's room for one last mustache adjustment.
Song's building was just around the corner, the omnipresent manned guard station at the entrance. Emboldened by the experience that Carmen and I had with the guards at Bian's school, I confidently walked up to the guard in my clown outfit and showed him the piece of paper with the address. He pointed to the building entrance.
The doors were the standard double-glass and entered into the linoleum-tiled elevator waiting area. There were two elevators with standard metal doors. It was a standard building in every respect.
The elevators delivered me directly to the waiting area of Song's office. It had the look of a front, not a real office. There was no one in the waiting area and no one behind the drab linoleum desk when I first entered. Within moments a receptionist came from around the corner. I showed her my Public Occurrences business card and told her that I was here to see Song Binbin. She picked up the phone.
"No, Song's not going to come walking around the corner, is she? It can't be this easy," I thought to myself. The receptionist spoke into the phone, there was brief conversation, and then she gave the phone to me. A young man identified himself as Ms. Song's Assistant in the pleasant voice appropriate to Assistants.
I identified myself and explained that I was there to interview Song for Public Occurrences. He said that she was not in. I asked him where she was. I asked in a tone of slight annoyance that I thought he would find authentic for an American in the situation. He replied, in the tone of solicitous concern that I had expected, that he would call her.
He picked up another phone and tried to reach Song. After several seconds He got back on the phone with me and said that she was not answering. "Where is she, I have an appointment to interview her?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Harris, she may be at her apartment in downtown Beijing. I will give you her cell phone number."
"No, he's not going to give me her cell phone number," I thought, but he did. He asked me if I had an appointment with her and, stupidly, I said that I did, for 11:00am. Song then called back. "That is her now, Mr. Harris, one moment please."
Assistant: "...(unintelligible Chinese)...Benjamin Harris..."
Song: "Benjamin who?" (gleaned from context)
Assistant: "Harris...(unintelligible Chinese)"
Song: "What does he want?"(gleaned from context)
Assistant: "He says he has an appointment with you." (gleaned from context)
Song: "I don't have an appointment with anyone at 11."
Assistant: "Mr. Harris, she says she didn't have an appointment with you."
Me: (in appropriately annoyed tone of American but realizing I had blundered in claiming that I had an appointment). "I emailed her from the States and set up this time for the interview with her," continuing my blunder.
The assistant and Song spoke.
Assistant: "She says that she had no appointment with you Mr. Harris. She is currently at the hospital with her mother."
Me: (seeing a way out of my blunder on the appointment). "Well, if she's at the hospital with her mother I can understand how she could have forgotten about the appointment. That's understandable. If it is all right I will leave my business card here at the front desk and we can reschedule."
Assistant: "Yes sir, please do. What was it that you wanted to interview her about, Mr. Harris?"
Me: "I'm doing a story on the Girls Middle School that she attended. It is one of the best schools in China, as I am sure you are aware. The school has named Song a distinguished alumnus and I wanted to interview her about one of her teachers, Bian Zhongyun."
Assistant: "What was the name again, Mr. Harris?"
Me: "BIAN ZHONGYUN." (authoritative tone).
Assistant and Song then talked.
Assistant: "Ms. Song will not talk to you about that Mr. Harris."
Me: "Why?"
Assistant: "She does not wish to speak to you, Mr. Harris."
I gave the receptionist my business card and left, satisfied, that I had at least made Song Binbin know that I knew where she was and wouldn't give up investigating Bian's murder.
