Once he turned that corner, he saw the little girl again.
It was on the way back to the Huang family villa from the Ye Family Martial Arts School. Every day he finished his homework at the Ye house and watched some TV, and by the time he was ready to go home and sleep it was already around ten at night. Under the streetlight, the black-haired mixed-race girl in her ragged clothes looked over at him, hesitantly, as if testing the water.
He had seen the little girl again three days ago, also at night.
Jianghai City was a big city, after all. It was nearly midnight, and though this stretch was close to the outskirts, the street could hardly be called dead—a few shops still had their doors open.
A fried-noodle cart that always packed up late stood parked at the side of the road, because at the other end of the street a construction crew lived year-round, and at this hour workers would drift over in twos and threes for a late-night bite.
It was in front of that cart that he happened to spot the mixed-race girl, and she saw him at the same moment.
She was nothing like the porcelain-doll image of a month or so ago: the girl was now in a ragged, filthy dress—Jiaming could still recognize it as the clothes Shasha had given her—her face smeared with dirt, her feet still bare.
Eyes fixed on the road beneath her, arms spread wide, she paced carefully back and forth in front of the cart, raising her little face now and then to look at the cart and twitching her dirty little nose.
When she caught sight of Jiaming she was plainly puzzled for a moment, then simply watched him walk off into the distance.
Only those eyes were as clear and flawless as they had been that first time.
Jiaming had no idea how the girl had ended up like this. Judging from the first time he had seen the mother and daughter, their family ought to be quite well-off—fine clothes, all those bodyguards. Even in a foreign land, if you needed help you could go straight to the embassy; and the money Shasha had given them, little as it was, would more than cover an overseas phone call. So how had it come to this? And where, for that matter, was her mother?
Jianghai City had grown fast these past few years. Past that street there were several construction sites, but also a condemned building—supposedly slated for demolition and rebuilding, though for any number of reasons nothing had been done yet—and these days vagrants and beggars often went inside to sleep. Judging by how the girl was dressed, were she and her mother living in that building now?
He was not a man with an excess of sympathy. In his years as an assassin he had long since understood that the world was short on everything except people who needed help; even if he gave his life, how many of them could he save? And yet, looking into the girl's eyes, Jiaming could not help feeling a stir of pity. Nine, maybe ten years old—that was exactly how old he had been when he was carried off and made into an assassin.
The next day and the day after, the two of them did no more than exchange a look each night; the girl would always stand there timidly and watch Jiaming go. The fourth and fifth days were the weekend, which he spent nights at the Liu family villa.
Then came Monday evening of the second week; he had played too long at the Ye house, and by the time he passed that street it was nearly midnight. The street was all but empty of pedestrians, and the noodle cart was getting ready to close up.
The girl stood in front of the cart with both hands raised, struggling to say something to the vendor.
Even a genius could not learn a foreign language in a month, especially one like Chinese, acknowledged as one of the hardest languages there is. The girl stammered and stumbled; the vendor, worn out by her pestering, said loudly, "Go on, girl, get out of here! You park yourself here every single day—I'm not running a charity. Get lost, get lost..."
After going back and forth with her a while, the girl finally understood there was no hope of any result. She turned, crouched down by the gutter at the side, and wept quietly, hugging her knees, curled up tight, glancing now and then toward the road—but Jiaming was hidden in the shadows and she had no chance of spotting him. It was summer already, yet the weather had not fully warmed; at midnight it was still cold, and the girl's bare feet rubbed against each other.
He watched for a while, and at last Jiaming sighed and walked over with a helpless sigh.
At his sudden appearance the girl's head snapped up. She looked about to run to him, but in the end she did not move. In her heart she believed Jiaming was the person who had saved her and her mother that night, but he had denied it every time.
Walking up to the cart, Jiaming said, "Boss, still selling fried noodles?"
"Ah—yes, yes, still have some. Sit down, it'll be right up. Hey, you came at just the right time—I was about to close up."
"Okay." Jiaming nodded. "Three portions. One to go, please."
As he spoke he waved the girl over. Her eyes lit up at once and she ran to him. "Big brother..." she said in English.
"Sit," Jiaming said, also in English, and had the girl sit down to one side. Then he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders and gently wiped the dirt from her face, saying nothing.
A moment later the first plate of noodles came up, and Jiaming pushed it in front of the girl. Watching her wolf it down, he stroked her back and asked the vendor, "Boss, does this little girl come here every day?"
"Oh, only these last few days. Looks like a foreigner, doesn't she? Seems she's waiting for somebody here every day. Last night and the night before she waited and no one came—she stayed right here until I packed up and still wouldn't leave, just squatting over there crying. Ai, poor thing. But I'm a small business too; I can't help even if I want to. You know her, kid?"
"Oh, she's a distant relative of mine. Just came back from America, and we got separated a few days ago. I've only just found her, and I'm taking her home right now."
"Ah, America. Good place..." The vendor held forth at length on the virtues of America. Jiaming had no mind to listen; he poured a cup of water and held it to the lips of the girl, who had choked on her food, and said softly, "Slow down."
"Mmm... thank you... big brother..."
"Eat slowly... What's your name?"
"I'm... Heidi. My name is Heidi. Tang."
"Heidi Tang..." Jiaming repeated. Sure enough, a mixed-race kid.
Before long the other plate of noodles arrived; Jiaming polished his off in a few quick bites, while Heidi over there ate for all she was worth and still left some on the plate. After that, with Heidi leading the way, Jiaming carried the boxed noodles toward the condemned building at the far end of the street. Just as he had guessed, mother and daughter were indeed living there.
What Jiaming did not know was that two years before, a good many vagrants and beggars had lived in that building; but around the New Year a small part of it had collapsed without warning, and after that fewer and fewer people dared to stay. Through a pitch-black, cavernous stairwell they climbed to the third floor, where a flicker of firelight seeped out at the far end. The girl was about to turn and say something to Jiaming when he—able to see even in the dark—suddenly clamped a hand over her mouth.
From the end of the corridor came the sound of a woman struggling weakly and crying for help...