itte." The elderly, bearded passenger offers a pack of Capstan
cigarettes to a blond young man sitting opposite him in the train
compartment.
No, thank you, I don't smoke." But the young man hesitates, as if he'd like to try it.
"Forgave, forgive?" Forgive Englisch. I learn that from the Schwedisch woman one time. Forget most." The old man, leaning forward, smiles. "You are American?"
The young man has rather hoped to be taken for French or at least British on his first trip abroad, but everyone, including Chinese porters who speak a little English, calls him American. He wonders if it's the seersucker coat, the white suede shoes. "Yes," he admits glumly. "I'm American."
"Where in America?" persists the bearded German, who has watery eyes.
"Connecticut." Father once told him men with watery eyes are usually drunkards.
"Con-nect-ti-cut," the old German repeats with difficulty. "Is east of America?"
Philip Embree nods but turns deliberately to the windows. The old man wants to practice English, so he's trying to keep the conversation going. But Embree has no interest in describing his unexciting life in Connecticut when just beyond the train window, in the Year of the Hare, 1927, the landscape of China is passing.
Their departure from Shanghai last night had been delayed by rumors of wayward troops, detached from a local warlord's army, causing trouble on the line to Kunshan. It was after midnight before the train left the Chapai Station; it is now shortly after dawn. For the last half-hour, awakened by first light, Embree and the old German have watched in silence the alluvial green plain of Central China jiggle past the window. Hearing the old man sigh in prelude to more conversation, Embree stares hard at the countryside, not wanting to break the mood of discovery.