Wei Lai woke very early — partly because today they would meet the pirates, people who had dominated global media headlines but were rarely seen in person.
Countless Western journalists had descended on the region hunting for sensational stories, but with the situation in Somalia too dangerous, they’d been forced to wait on the sidelines in neighboring Kenya, then offer high prices to purchase pirate stories.
This had even spawned another new industry: many Kenyan swindlers would dress in rags, disguise themselves as pirates, collect payment from those journalists, and deliver dramatic accounts of their blood-soaked, savage lives on the high seas — when in reality, some of them had never once laid eyes on the ocean.
The other half of the reason was…
He had to let the goat loose before the villagers got up. Otherwise there would be no way to explain himself — who would believe he’d tied up a goat for any reason other than slaughtering it for meat?
The goat had somehow managed to sleep in its half-slumped, half-suspended state. When Wei Lai untied it, it woke and blinked in absolute bewilderment.
Goats are born with old, weathered faces. The more Wei Lai looked at it, the more irritated he got. He reached out and shoved its head sideways: “Get lost. Don’t let me see you again. You’d better forget everything that happened last night, or I’ll butcher you.”
Probably because it had been bound all night and its front legs had gone stiff, the goat lay on the ground for quite some time before it finally got up and walked away, its steps deliberate and measured, its two haunches rising and falling with each stride, its tail giving one little wave.
How could it possibly forget? Research had shown that mammals have excellent memories — goats included. Not only could they identify individual human faces, but some of their memories could persist for up to two years.
It would often look back on this languid, intoxicating spring evening.
Damn — tied up for a whole night.
---
Cen Jin hadn’t slept much longer either.
Though she had been speaking all along with a casual air — not such a big deal, just one ship — now that the moment had arrived, it was impossible not to take it seriously. After all, this was the world’s largest oil tanker, the highest ransom ever demanded, and pirates described by media around the world as “the most dangerous.”
She finished washing up, ate some dried rations, and went into the tent to change clothes.
Wei Lai boiled water with a folding-handle titanium bowl, tore open a packet of instant coffee, waited until the water was nearly ready, then ripped the top off completely and poured it all in, gave it a stir with a spoon, and set it aside to cool.
In this near-primitive village — a place that could never be fully rid of the smell of brine and goat — the scent of coffee rising in faint tendrils struck him as thrilling and somehow romantic.
Cen Jin came out — light-colored jeans that reached her ankles, a white short-sleeved shirt. Compared to the past few days, she had dressed slightly more conservatively.
She apparently also knew to tone down her femininity in front of the pirates. It was odd, though — why had she originally packed a full five evening gowns? Where had she been planning to wear them?
She pointed to the open duffel bag beside Wei Lai: “Everything the ship should have — we don’t need to bring much. Three to five days of changes of clothes will do. Put it all in my bag. Your bag doesn’t need to come — leave it in the van.”
Santos had said before that no one in the village stole from anyone — which was why there were no doors and no locks. Theft had occurred, on the rarest of occasions, once or twice — all the work of goats.
Cen Jin sat down on the ground, took out her gold rectangular lipstick case, and twisted it open.
The casing gleamed gold-bright and could serve as a mirror. The lipstick itself had gone soft out of shape; she dabbed a little onto her fingertip and gently patted it onto her lips.
Wei Lai watched, transfixed.
From the very first time he’d seen her, he’d thought she looked like a high-contrast black-and-white photograph — and the red of her lips and the cinnabar mark by her collarbone were as though someone had dipped a finger in vermilion and touched color onto the photograph.
Cinnabar?
He looked more carefully and realized she was indeed wearing that collarbone chain strung with garnet stones — she had worn it all this time, through all the changes of the journey, changes of clothes, and the complete transformation of their relationship. Only this necklace had never come off.
It must have a special significance. Who had given it to her?
Cen Jin sensed his gaze. The gold tube tilted, and the small golden mirror surface caught his eyes: “What are you looking at?”
Wei Lai didn’t look away: “The lipstick color is beautiful.”
It suited her — a deep wine red, not heavy, making her skin look porcelain-pale by contrast.
Wei Lai thought the color itself was sensual: the heat of red and the suppression of black, simultaneously unrestrained and controlled.
Cen Jin said: “My other lipstick shades are lovelier. Unfortunately, someone removed them from my case and set them to one side.”
Wei Lai corrected her: “That was politely lifting them out and carefully setting them aside. Not removing.”
The coffee had cooled enough. Without an extra cup, he took a sheet of white wax paper and rolled it into a cone, folded the tip at an angle to slow the drip, and poured the coffee in, then handed it to Cen Jin.
He’d just drink the rest straight from the bowl — no need for formalities.
She took it, finished it quickly, and handed the paper cone back.
He’d been about to toss it — wax paper was useful that way, biodegradable, short-term resistant to heat and moisture, could be folded into cups, bowls, and little dishes, practical and weightless.
Something stirred in his chest.
He nudged the paper cone lightly: along the outer rim of the opening, there was a faint wine-red lip print, clear enough to make out the fine lines.
Cen Jin wasn’t looking at him — she was touching up her makeup.
Wei Lai set the paper cone carefully on the dangling handle of the duffel bag. It was too unsteady and kept tipping, and then a breeze caught it at just the right moment — and it tumbled into the wide-open gap of the bag.
It fell in on its own. Nothing to do with me.
He looked at Cen Jin: “Can I ask you something?”
“Do you ever not ask questions?”
“I can’t help it — you’re the one who told me to write down my observations about you every day. The more clearly I ask, the more honestly I can write.”
“Have you even written anything?”
Still composing himself.
“…When it’s time to deliver, I won’t short-change you.”
“What is it this time?”