Free A Map of Betrayal by Ha Jin

returned from the States, had granted him three weeks off. Gary went to Hong Kong in early February, hoping to be able to cross the border to enter Guangzhou; though he didn’t have a passport from Red China, he was still holding the one issued by the Nationalist government. He also had his refugee papers, which permitted him entry to the United States. For five years he hadn’t heard a word from his family and only joined them now and then in his dreams. Were his parents still able to work in the fields? Did Yufeng resent his long absence from home? What could he say about his unfulfilled promise to go back and fetch her in a year or two? What a lousy husband he had been. If he got to see her this time, he would try to give her a child so that she might feel less lonely when he was away, and so that he could have a solid reason for requesting discharge from his overseas mission.
    He wasn’t sure whether his superiors would allow him to go home for a visit. All his planning might turn out to be wishful thinking. But in spite of the uncertainty, he was full of hope and couldn’t stop indulging in reveries about a family reunion.
    On the very afternoon he checked into a small hotel on Queen’s Road in downtown Hong Kong, he called Bingwen, who was delighted to hear about his arrival and eager to see him. They agreed to meet the next morning, around eleven, at a restaurant near the ferry crossing to Kowloon. Bingwen reminded Gary not to eat too much for breakfast because they’d have an early lunch. Gary didn’t get up until ten thirty the following day. After washing, he set out for the waterfront unhurriedly. On his way he stopped at a bakery stall, bought a small bun stuffed with red-bean paste, and ate it ravenously while strolling. Like anywhere in China, nobodyhere took notice of his eating on the street. He felt at ease, though he hardly knew this city, having once lived here for only a month (in the barracks at Stanley Fort), and was unable to understand the peddlers’ cries in Cantonese.
    When he arrived at the restaurant, Bingwen was already in there, at a window table that commanded a full view of the room and a part of the terrace outside and the harbor. At the sight of Gary, he stood and rushed up to him. The man wore suede boots with brass buckles and a gray wool vest over a white shirt. They hugged, overjoyed to see each other at long last. Gary found that his comrade hadn’t aged in the slightest, having the same bright eyes and the same smooth, vivid face. After tea was served, a willowy waitress handed them each a small warm towel, with which they wiped their faces and hands.
    They ordered lunch and resumed chatting. Bingwen pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his cashmere coat draped over the back of another chair. Dropping his voice, he said, “This is a little token of thanks from our country.”
    “For what?” Gary asked in bafflement.
    “For the information you provided three months ago.”
    “Was it useful?”
    “Certainly, it helped us smash a clique of spies disguised as returnees from Korea. We nabbed them all, executed a few, and put the rest in jail.”
    Gary was shocked but didn’t say another word. He slipped the envelope into his rear pocket. He had assumed that all those anti-Communist POWs would go to Taiwan.
    Their food came. The crabmeat dumplings, which Bingwen had ordered for the benefit of Gary’s northern palate, were steaming and puffy. Together with the entrée were some side dishes, all Mandarin. Gary lifted a dumpling onto his plate, cut it in two with his chopsticks, and put half into his mouth. “Oh, delicious,” he said, sucking in his breath because of the heat. “This makes me more homesick.”
    A ferryboat blew its horn like a mooing cow, chugging away from the waterside and dragging a frothy wake. Bingwen said, “You’re from Shandong, so we’re having dumplings for this welcome-home lunch.”
    “Thanks. When can I go back? You know I haven’t seen my