Wei Lai held the edge of the paper; if it had been an aluminum can, he would have crushed it long since.
She wasn’t drawing him?
He held himself back and didn’t ask — because he could more or less anticipate her answer: I just told you not to move; I never said I was drawing you.
So he smiled, as restrained and amiable as he could manage: “What made you think of drawing this?”
“As we passed the refrigerated hold, I saw a silhouette of a pig on the cabin door. So I drew it.”
Wei Lai passed the drawing back: “I actually pick up a pencil now and then myself — though not in this sketch style.”
She took it back, too lazy to get up, stretching out her arm to pass the paper and pencil up to the empty upper bunk. Her tone was the perfunctory kind: “We should compare notes sometime.”
He checked the time. They were only halfway through the journey.
They made the most of what was available: eating the crew’s meals, using the lavatory, brewing instant coffee, reading old newspapers, sleeping some more.
At last, a crew member came to knock on the door: in port.
Up on deck, they would finally breathe Stockholm’s air. Cen Jin felt the release of someone who had endured a crossing and finally reached the other side. She got up to pack her bag and began rolling up the loose drawing papers.
Halfway through rolling, something felt off. She slowly flattened them out again.
Her drawing had been added to — someone had drawn a few extra strokes.
— “I actually pick up a pencil now and then myself — though not in this sketch style.”
Honest of him. His style was sparse — just a few lines — but it caught something essential. What he had drawn was unmistakably her.
She was riding on top of the lead pig.
From either side of the pig’s snout extended reins, like the reins of a horse.
One hand gripping the reins hard; the other arm raised high, as if rallying a charge.
Three more fattened pigs followed close behind.
Wei Lai, one bag in each hand, gave them a heave and hauled both up onto his shoulders: “Let’s go.”
As if nothing had happened.
Cen Jin looked up at him. Her hands didn’t stop moving — she folded the drawing paper in half, pressed her index fingernail and thumbnail along the crease from one end to the other.
Folded again, pressed again. The sound of nail scraping paper in that narrow space carried a vaguely ominous weight.
Wei Lai watched her thumbnail and had the feeling she might come up and scratch him.
At last the folding was done — neat and square. She tucked it into the pocket of her jacket.
Said: “Let’s go.”
——
Up on deck, the view opened up suddenly before them.
It was nearing evening. Both cities lay on the shore of the Baltic Sea, and both were in April — but while Helsinki had yet to shed its damp gloom, here the light on the water dazzled and shimmered. This was unusually good fortune; as a rule, Stockholm and Helsinki were brothers in misery — one gray, one cold; one rainy, one snowy. Neither had any advantage over the other.
They disembarked, left the port, and walked along the waterfront for a while. They came across a medieval multi-masted triangular sailing vessel flying flags of all nations — narrow hull, bow raised high, like a long beast’s horn.
The faint scent of coffee drifted over, along with the sound of a violin. This was a café that had taken up residence on the sailing ship.
Wei Lai beckoned to Cen Jin: “Let’s rest a bit — get something to drink.”
This wasn’t his real purpose: when a ship docked on this side, the port authority would receive the notice; Tapio would inform Milu that the “ticket” had been honored. If there were any new developments on the Saudi’s end, it would be time for Milu to call him.
Cen Jin had no objection. Wei Lai felt that, aside from the occasional moments when she acted entirely on her own judgment, she was mostly quite easy to manage — she either slept or trudged along silently behind him.
They sat outside, near the bow. A handsome blond man was playing a Nyckelharpa — its shape like a strange wooden shoe, though the sound it produced was long and drifting — accompaniment to the wind stirring the flags of all nations overhead.
The coffee, salad, and sandwiches had just arrived when Milu’s call came, right on cue.
“Wei — Hu Sha has news.”
Wei Lai showed nothing in his expression. He reached into the salad and picked up a small potato, popping it into his mouth: “What did he say?”
“They’ll only give you a general direction and pull you along step by step — still not saying the specific location. Just that the meeting will be in the Red Sea, international waters.”
Wei Lai frowned — he had no great grasp of geography: “The Red Sea — is that the long, narrow one?”
There seemed to be many countries along its shores.
“That’s the one. We’ve discussed it. You’ll take Miss Cen to the airport. At the entrance to the tourist center at Terminal 5, someone will deliver your tickets. Tonight’s flight.”
Relentless. Wei Lai gave a rueful laugh and rubbed his face.
“Flying where?”
“The Sudanese capital, Khartoum. Long trip, no direct flights — you’ll need a layover.”
Wei Lai was quiet for a moment.
Then, word by word: “Are you messing with me? You think I don’t know Sudan is at war?”
Cen Jin heard him. She corrected him quietly: “To be precise, it’s a localized armed conflict.”
Milu was evidently prepared for this.
“Wei, listen to me. First — a country is a very large thing. The south can be fighting while the north is singing. Sudan had a civil war for twenty-two years, but it’s essentially over now. Khartoum is the capital — it’s still safe.”
“Second — look at the map. Sudan has a long border running along the Red Sea, and it’s in the middle section of the sea — you can go up or down from there. Getting to international waters is very convenient.”
“Third — and this is the most important part — Ke Ke Shu has been there recently, guarding senior government and military officials. He’ll be at the airport to pick you up. He’ll take care of everything for you there. Ke Ke Shu!”
Wei Lai paused.
He repeated in a low voice: “Ke Ke Shu?”
That fellow who hated moles on people’s faces anywhere between the hairline and the navel, who cared about designer labels on his clothes, who wore his hair in a full head of tiny braids, and whom he hadn’t seen in quite a while — Ke Ke Shu.
Milu picked up on the shift in his tone: “Right? I told you so — I said you could see Ke Ke Shu there…”
Wei Lai laughed. He beckoned the server over to add a glass of dark beer to the order.
Milu said something on the other end; he hadn’t caught it: “What?”
“Wei! I was asking — how are you and that ‘deflated of all spirit’ Miss Cen getting along?”