Murder on the Silk Road by Stefanie Matteson

Author:Stefanie Matteson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 2016-03-08T05:00:00+00:00

9

Charlotte awoke with one thought: more than anything else, she wanted to be clean. She desperately wanted a hot shower, or even a cold shower. She felt as if she had spent the day on a windy beach. She was coated with a fine layer of grit. There was grit in her hair, grit in her teeth, grit between her toes. Even the creases in her pillowcase were brown with grit. But a shower was an impossibility until this evening; and even then the chances that she would beat out the Germans who had been monopolizing the showers for the last two days were slim. What she really wanted was a long soak in a hot tub, but she wasn’t asking for miracles. Instead she settled for a thorough wash-up in her enameled washbowl, and a prayer for enough hot water to go around that evening. She was getting quite adept at washing up in her washbowl, but it wasn’t the same. When it came to hardships, she was of the same mind as Roy Chapman Andrews: she didn’t believe in them; they were a nuisance. At least she had a good breakfast to look forward to, she thought as she brushed her teeth a few minutes later at the communal spigot. The breakfasts here were wonderful. In fact, the food in general was very good, just as Peter had said on the train.

She met Marsha in the dining hall at eight-thirty. Since dawn didn’t come until seven-thirty, everything was behind time here. People went to bed later and got up later. Breakfast was at nine, lunch at one, and dinner at eight, which was fine with her—she was on a New York schedule. Breakfast consisted of a delicious omelet, toast with fresh butter (in contrast to the rancid butter that had been served on the train) and a delicious pear jam, coffee lightened with warm milk, and “orong juice,” which was one of the beverage specialties posted on a sign in the dining hall, along with Luoky Cola and Ven Mouth Wine.

Eating in the dining hall was a little like eating in a high-school cafeteria—you never knew who you were going to sit with. Their dining companion that morning was a slight young Chinese man with a thick shock of black hair. He wore tinted aviator-style glasses, blue jeans, and a red-and-white Boston University T-shirt. His name was Chu and he was the director’s son, home from college in the United States on summer break. He had Chu’s broad face and flaring eyebrows. He had just arrived the night before, and would be working at the caves for the summer.

“My father has spoken of meeting you,” said Chu junior, once they had introduced themselves. He smiled, a grudging, toothy grin. “He wouldn’t admit it, but I think he was quite thrilled to meet you.”

“Why is that?” asked Charlotte.

“He was quite a fan of yours in his youth. He used to see all of the Western pictures in Shanghai.”

Charlotte found

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