Now he is sitting in his hotel room in Beijing and the world seems far away. He flew coach and there is a pain in his neck that won’t go away. The room is small and smells a little mildewy despite being new and relatively upscale. The window is not operable. The air-conditioner purrs. The TV is on constantly. He leaves it on. The bed is the desk. Laptop and papers spread out. He doesn’t move them when he sleeps. He hasn’t changed his clothes. He has one small bag.
Every few hours he takes the elevator down, walks past the lobby fountains, the bar, the tired tourists in their shorts and caps, fanning themselves, young women standing around, pouting, waiting, looking bored, men in dark suits on cell phones. Lots of black leather shoes with metal buckles.
The overweight doorman in his baggy uniform always smiles and asks if he needs a taxi. Jintian buyong (Not today), he says. The doorman, in proper Beijing frankness, then says, Taiduo kafei buhao! He cha zuihao! (Drinking too much coffee is bad for you! It’s better to drink tea!). He gives a thumbs up.
