Luck and Death at the Edge of the World

Eleven: With No Disrespect, So What?

Father Wen being Catholic, I suppose I expected a cathedral, or something more imposing than another storefront anyway, but that’s what I find. New High Street is just around the corner from my home and office. I once bought cleaning supplies from a discount store there, but I’ve never given it much attention.

The building is painted an odd shade of taupe. It’s flanked on the left by the entrance to a small Asian mall called Gold Stream Village and on the right by a sliding garage-style door of corrugated metal. The sign above the door still proclaims that it’s something called Actual Size, but a small, hand-lettered sign on the door announces that this is the St. Christopher Mission. I enter and a small set of chimes ring above my head, betraying my presence. The interior is much like Cal’s mission, although the decor is distinctly Chinese. There are several banners with hànzì characters stretching across them, red being the predominant color, and there are even gold accents on the framed pictures of Jesus and Mary, although I’m sure they’re just paint rather than real gold leaf.

Nothing happens for a moment, then an old man emerges from a back room. He is wizened and dressed in a black one-piece frock-like outfit that puts me in mind of monks.

“Father Wen?” I ask.

“Yes. You are Gat Burroughs?”

His English is like that of many people in Chinatown. It’s unaccented, but still slightly awkward, as though speaking it is a kind of concession to me. Given China’s isolation Wen was undoubtedly born here, but many people in Chinatown grow up speaking Chinese almost exclusively, so their English is still odd to a native-speaker’s ear.

“Yes. I believe Pastor Hearn was in touch with you.”

He nods.

“Yes, yes. I sent word to Chen through one of the others, but I don’t know if he’ll come. He doesn’t like police, especially gwai lo.”

Gwai lo, the foreign devil, the white man. Once upon a time it was a real curse, although lately people use it in a friendlier manner. In this case I suspect it isn’t friendly. “I may be gwai lo, but I’m not the police,” I say, trying to clarify, but Father Wen waves a hand as if this is of no importance. “To Chen you are the same. Police, not police. You are an authority, you are housed. To him you are the enemy.”

“I try not to be anyone’s enemy,” I say, somewhat lamely.

“Your intentions aren’t very important, we will see if he comes. I welcome you though. Please, come and have tea with me.”

I follow him into his small, windowless office, where a pot of tea has already been prepared. He sits behind an oak desk and pours for me first, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the desk, then pours his own cup. Beside us is a bookcase that reaches to the ceiling, full of theological works and, oddly, many scientific ones as well. Behind him are rows of scuffed grey institutional filing cabinets, the kind that wouldn’t look out of place in a school office, or for that matter a military base. The room doesn’t have enough space for everything in it, and I have a vaguely confined feeling – Forces training has short-circuited any possible claustrophobia. At one end of the desk a small holo plays a recording of a recent papal Mass. The holo unit is antiquated and the image is a little blurred, so that each figure seems to trail a ghost of itself. I’m reminded of an ancient painting by Francis Bacon, the so-called “screaming pope.”

“You were attacked, Pastor Hearn says,” Wen comments mildly.

“Yes, by men pretending to be homeless. I have no desire to bother the real homeless, Father. I’m just trying to find these men. They killed a number of innocent people while they were trying to kill me.”