Part 1 Ziyahn

Lisa Sze squeaked with fury. “But it’s our jet!”

The words crystallized something Gerhart’s mind. A private jet? This family wasn’t only strange, they were wealthy. Was marrying Lisa wise? He stared down at her, his fiancée. Lisa’s jeans and tee shirt were rumpled from travel, but with the resilience of a twenty-year-old she was bright-eyed and alert. Unwisely, Gerhart had eaten a dubious hot dog at an airport food counter in Calcutta. The echoes of that error still rumbled ominously in his belly.

Her father Lars chuckled. “Leased, child. A time-share.”

The Chinese receptionist spoke perfect English. “The senator sent a cable, Miss Sze. He’s landing in Hong Kong at five. And he’s bringing Camlet See with him. Chugger the rock star, do you know him?”

“Of course we do,” Lisa’s sister Sandy snapped. “He’s our cousin!” The sisters could have been twins, with long tawny hair parted down the middle. Lisa was prettier, with delicate features and icy blue eyes. Sandy meanwhile was dark-eyed and square in the jaw. Gerhart was taller than them both, taller than their father. In fact he towered over every person in the airport, possibly everyone in Hong Kong, thin and white, visibly alien.

“And,” Lisa added, “heir to the throne of Singii.”

A prince, surely Lisa had mentioned this? Gerhart knew she was from Singii, a small island nation in the South China Sea. They’d become engaged in the safety of the university in Switzerland, where the only important thing was one’s studies. Lisa studied finance and accounting, and when he finished his dissertation, Gerhart hoped to become a professor of Protestant theology.

Lisa poured the convolute family details out during the flight across Asia. He’d been clutching the airsickness bag too tightly to pay attention. Now she sighed. “I guess we wait.”

“Then let’s go eat dim sum,” Lars proposed. “We have hours, yes?” He was lean and white-haired, his eyes ice-blue like Lisa’s.

Lisa clapped her hands. “Gerhart needs to taste some real Chinese food.”

Sandy hugged her sister’s arm. “You poor thing, no noodles for months!” She shifted to fluent Chinese. Lisa returned the incomprehensible volleys effortlessly. Chinese was audibly their first language. Gerhart had never heard Lisa speak anything other than German or English. Speaking Chinese, she was a stranger.

After thirty-two hours in airplanes, from Geneva to Cairo to Calcutta to Bangkok to Hong Kong, all Gerhart yearned for was sleep. Instead, they sped through the thronged terminal out to a taxi stand. Dazzling tropical sunshine blasted down. Sweat trickled down Gerhart’s armpits underneath his jacket. The taxi gunned into a thundering torrent of bicycles, overladen trucks and cars darting in and out, the river of traffic bordered by gaudy advertisements in gigantic Asian characters.

They came ashore at what looked like a prison, all cement walls and grim windows. Lisa hauled him up a narrow concrete stair into a vast windowless space. This was crammed with rows of round dining tables covered with white tablecloths and weighed down with lazy susans. Every table was crowded with noisy Asian diners. They were the only Caucasians. Sandy pointed out the last free table, and they sat down without attention from any restaurant staff. Food appeared magically from trolleys pushed by schoolgirls in their school uniforms.

Beside him, Lars addressed Gerhart in their common language. “I don’t speak Chinese either.” His German was perfect, a relief to hear. “Even though I’ve lived in Asia for twenty-odd years. Asian languages are best learnt in childhood. Mack is the only Westerner I know who became fluent in adulthood.”

“Mack?”

“Mack Spencer. My daughters call him Daddy. He’s Sandy’s father.”

Gerhart stared at a dozen dishes and bowls. He didn’t recognize any of the foods on offer. The tea, in handleless cups, scorched his tongue when he tried to drink. “The three of you.” Slowly memory came back to him. “Polygamy. Three men, married to one woman.”

“It’s complicated, I know.” Lars’s calm held no alloy of embarrassment.

The thought rose in Gerhart’s foggy brain like a monster from the deep: I made a mistake. I should tell Lisa, right away. But she beamed at him, fond and proud. On her left hand the engagement ring winked, a flake of topaz set in the slenderest possible gold band. He could not bear to hurt her. Also, breaking the engagement would mean getting on an airplane straight away and flying home to Geneva. He couldn’t face another thirty hours of air travel, not until his digestion settled down. Awkwardly said, “I hope to be a good husband to her. Lisa’s the dearest, sweetest girl.”

Lars spoke with the voice of experience. “You’ll feel better after sleep. Flying across so many time zones perturbs your brain.” Gerhart nodded. Wise counsel – yes, he’d sleep on it.

Without difficulty Sandy shifted to English again. “Where’s JayJay, Papa? He loves sparerib with black bean.”

“He went back to Houston, my dear.”

“What?” Lisa looked up from her seventh dumpling. “San was just saying JayJay’s flying back to Singii with us.”

“There’s been a change of plan, daughters.” Lars balanced his chopsticks across his plate. “You remember I had a doctor’s appointment.”

“So did I,” Sandy said. “New eyeglasses.”

Lisa grinned. “Aviators?

Lars put a hand over hers, hushing the fashion chat. “I’m afraid I have bad news, Sandy, Lisa. My doctor is an oncologist, a cancer doctor. He removed some patches of skin from my back, and tests reveal they’re cancerous.”

Sandy’s teacup halted halfway to her lips. “Skin. That’s minor. Right?”

Lisa’s blue eyes went wide. “You’ll be okay, Papa. Doctors can fix you.”

“No, my dear, I’m afraid not. My case is serious. As serious as it can be, do you understand me? Even if I agree to the chemotherapy and radiation, they cannot promise success.” Lars drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My dears, I’m nearly eighty. I don’t want my last months to be full of suffering. I shall die as I’ve lived, on my own terms. Quietly, at home, with those I love beside me.”

Both girls cried out in protest. Lisa rose and flung herself into her father’s arms, and Sandy hugged them both from the other direction. Alone on his side of the table, Gerhart had missed his chance. Only a complete swine would break the engagement now, while Lisa was in tears at the prospect of her father’s death. If he had spoken first – but too late. He was stuck now, flying to Singii to spend the summer with her bizarre polygamous family.

No one ate any more. Gerhart averted his eyes from their grief. There was nothing he could contribute to the girls’ protests, tears, or frantic suggestions, the arguments for American doctors or hospitals in Europe.

He refilled Lisa’s cup and her father’s. The tea was finally cool enough, and he drained his cup. Then he cautiously began tasting bits from the small dishes on the turntable. He could not manage the chopsticks, but a waitress brought a fork.

“Jay’s returning to Houston, to resign his post at the university,” Lars said. “He wants to be free to stay in Singii until…”

“Oh, Papa,” Lisa wept.

“We have to go home,” Sandy whimpered. “Oh damn it, we have to tell Uncle Stephen and Cam.” Lars caught the waitress’s eye and pantomimed the signing of a bill.

Returning to the airport, Gerhart fell asleep in the taxi. Lisa dragged him out and Lars took his other arm. They guided him back up the escalator to the private-jet office again. The receptionist said, “Sure, the sofa’s in the back room.”

The sofa was long enough to stretch out on. Sandy adjusted the air conditioner, and Lisa tucked her raincoat over him and dragged off his shoes. “We’ll leave as soon as Uncle Stephen shows,” she said. “You nap until then.” She dropped a kiss onto his cheek and clicked the light off.

Nothing was vibrating, no engines roared, and no cabin announcements tormented him. His stomach was calm. And, oh bliss beyond description, he could stretch out flat. Gerhart sank into slumber a million miles deep.

A crash jolted him awake. Light from the open door blinded him. Something heavy fell onto his legs, dragging the raincoat off. “Oh, Jesus fuck,” a stridently American voice at his knees moaned. “I’m going to huuurlll…”

The thick gurgle made Gerhart jerk upright. Too late! Warm foul fluid flooded over his legs and stockinged feet. A German profanity Gerhart would have sworn he didn’t know burst spontaneously from his lips, and he shoved the weight off with vehemence. His assailant sprawled to the floor and lay unmoving, long hair trailing in his vomit.

“Holy cow.” The biggest man Gerhart had ever seen loomed in the doorway. In one long stride he was at the side of the fallen one, rolling him over. “Don’t want him to choke.”

Sandy and the receptionist peered in, their eyes round with horror. “I’ll get a mop,” the receptionist said bravely.

“I apologize, pal.” Without effort, the big American hoisted the limp figure up.

Sandy held her nose. “He’s been drinking.”

The big man must be the girls’ Uncle Stephen: athlete, founder of an aquatherapy chain and state politician. “I tried to keep an eye on him. But when I fell asleep, Cam strolled around the plane with an open Coke can, asking stewardesses to top it up with those little bottles of whiskey. They didn’t realize the can was empty, and he was swigging it straight.” His sigh was almost a groan. “I feel so helpless.”

Gerhart staggered to his feet. His socks squished, and the bottoms of his jeans flapped clammy against his legs. “This is him? The rock star? The heir to the throne of your country?”

“Camlet See, in the all too sodden flesh,” Sandy said. “Jesus, Gerhart, I’m sorry.”

“No profanity, San,” Lisa hissed. “Darling, pop into the bathroom and shed everything that got slimed. I’ll grab some clothes from your bag.”

“We’ll have everything laundered when we get home.” Sandy plucked the liner bag from the wastepaper basket and leaned cautiously over the mess to pass it to him.

Mercifully, Gerhart’s shoes had escaped. More or less clean and dry, he followed the others up the steps into the private jet. Immediately they were off, no tiresome boarding of other passengers or waiting for takeoff. The seats were luxurious, padded and reclining, in pairs to either side.

Stephen buckled Cam in. He sat with Lars, who said, “Stephen my friend, I have bad news…”

It was a six-hour flight, but further sleep eluded Gerhart. He sat in an aisle seat further back. Lisa sat beside him, and Sandy took the place across the aisle. “So this is the future king of your country? I had the impression that you were the only child – children,” he corrected himself. “The two daughters of the queen of Singii.”

“Sexists,” Sandy grumped. “It’s so unfair.”

“It’s cultural,” Lisa corrected her. “Like the animal worship. I told you about that, Gerry. There’s even animals on our flag.”

“Paganism. Worshipping cobras.” He had to add, “You’d never know this was 1979.”

“The snakes are gone,” Lisa assured him. “But Mom still feeds the sacred shark.”

“Her name is Jerung,” Sandy added.

Lisa blinked. “I thought our tutelary deity was male.”

“Nobody’s ever proven it one way or the other,” Sandy said. “So I’m unilaterally declaring Jerung is a girl. Who can argue?”

“And you’re the daughters of…”

“Of the Ziya,” Sandy said. “That’s her title. You were supposed to tell him this, Lisa.”

“I’ve never traveled out of Europe before,” Gerhart offered, humbly.

Lisa said, “I told you, Gerry, Mom and Uncle Stephen are only half siblings.”

“Halfs seem to be a family thing,” Sandy said. “Uncle Stephen was the son of the king, but Mom, Star, was just the daughter of his wife. Uncle bailed out to California after the war, and Mom’s been the Ziya, keeping the throne warm for one of his sons. It should have been either me or you, Lees. Why should being girls disqualify us?”

“You, me, the cat – anybody’d be better than Cam.” Lisa peered forward over the seat backs at their cousin, in a seat cranked all the way back. His thick snore reminded Gerhart of rubber kitchen gloves flapping. “It’s a pity Ikey died like that.”

“His older brother, in Vietnam,” Sandy explained briefly. “And we have one other cousin, the youngest. Allen’s over six feet, like Uncle there. He’s a rookie running back for the Baltimore Colts.” Gerhart didn’t want to ask what this was.

“And Ikey was built like Hercules. Cam’s the runt of the litter.”

“Am not!” They looked up. Cam struggled upright, clawing at the buckle of the seat belt. “I’ve always been taller than you, Lees.” He glared at his cousin as he reeled down the aisle from one seat back to the next. Shaggy brown hair hung in a thick tangled mop over shadowed eyes. The ends were pointed stiff with dried vomit. Thin strands of goatee clung to his chin and straggled helplessly away over hollow cheeks.

Ostentatiously, Sandy held her nose. “You reek, Cam.”

“Gotta pee.”

As he tottered past, Gerhart noticed the girls gazing forward. Stephen watched his son retreat. When the ‘Lavatory in Use’ light came on, he said, “I had the stewardesses offload all the booze in the galley. The only thing to drink on this flight is soda.”

Sandy sputtered with laughter. “Uncle, you’re such an operator. You should’ve stayed on the throne.”

He smiled like a superhero, muscular and handsome. “Maroon him on an island in the middle of the South China Sea to dry out. How can it fail?”

“Our citizens aren’t exactly law abiding.” Lisa rooted a bar of milk chocolate out of her bag.

“Or teetotal.” Sandy said.

“If they want an operational Ziy, they’ll lend a hand. We’ll get your mom in on it.”

“We didn’t have a chance to phone her a second time,” Lars said. “Star knows you’re on the way. But you’ll surprise her with Cam? Hasn’t she had enough shocks today? When we rang off, she was crying, Stephen.”

Stephen grimaced. “I couldn’t take the chance he’d get wind of it. Damn, and he used to be such a happy kid. Now zip it, everybody.”

The light above the curtain blipped out, and Cam emerged. He had pushed his hair back into a loose dark mane that fell past his shoulders. Behold, Gerhart silently reflected. The opposite of everything I mean to be.

Cam carried an open bottle of Coke in each hand. “Hiya, Sandy, Lees. Here.” He handed a Coke to Gerhart. “Sorry I puked on you, buddy. Do I know you?” Close to, his countenance was both puffy and gaunt, the unhealthy hue of oatmeal left on the counter for a week.

“No, you don’t,” Lisa snapped. “This is Gerhart Raderschall. He’s a top grad student in the theology department, gunning for his doctorate, and we’re engaged to be married.”

“Whew. You had me worried there, a relative I’d forgotten.” He perched on the arm of the empty seat ahead. “Theology, wow.”

Sandy said, “What are you writing your dissertation on?”

“Dietrich Bonhoeffer.”

Sandy’s glance slid past him to her sister. “Lutheran pastor who tried to assassinate Hitler,” Lisa explained.

“Wow.” Cam held out a hand. “Gimme a piece.”

Lisa clutched her chocolate tighter. “What’s in it for me?”

“Who put the stick up your ass? You sure about marriage, dude? Lisa’s pretty young, and not very smart.”

His intended growled beside him, but since he’d just been wondering the same thing, Gerhart couldn’t retort in anger. “You don’t know her very well.”

Sandy tactfully changed the subject. “Tell us what’s going on with you, Cam. I thought you were promoting an album. Is it Bus Stop Baby or a new one?”

The cocky cool fell away, leaving a more likeable young man slumped on the armrest. “The tour’s over.”

“Too loaded to play a guitar,” Lisa said waspishly.

“Are you taking a break, a vacation?” Sandy persisted.

He took a swig of Coke. “Your mom’s always after me to stay longer in Singii. But it’s a joke. Running the place, me? They can’t be serious.”

“You don’t have to gloss it over for us, you know.” From the flap pocket in her backpack, Lisa dragged out an issue of Rolling Stone.

Suddenly enraged, Cam snarled and hefted the bottle. Would he throw it at Lisa’s head, or just dump it out onto her?

From the front his father spoke mildly. “Come sit down, Cam. They need the aisle clear, to serve dinner.” There was nothing in words or tone, but Gerhart could not envision disobedience. Cam levered himself to his feet and slouched down to his place.

Sandy whispered, “Where’d you get that?”

Lisa passed the magazine over. “Geneva’s not a backwater like Saylor. There’s international newsstands.”

Gerhart leaned to look, and Sandy tipped the page so they could both read the breathless New Journalism account of dissipation, drunkenness, and failure. “Concert cancelled. That’s not good.” The sunny young man smiling in the photo bore no resemblance to the surly drunk at the front of the plane.

“So wasted he fell off the stage.” Sandy shook her head.

He was no better now. The stewardess rolled a drinks cart down the aisle. Word that nothing was on offer but soft drinks enraged him. “What about beer? You gotta have fucking beer, everybody does!”

“You didn’t read about the brewery strike?” Lars asked. “It was in all the papers, around here at least.”

There’d been beer on offer at the restaurant. Gerhart held his breath. Would Cam see through this transparent fiction? Apparently not. He slumped into his seat, beyond view, and the stewardess trundled on.