Détruisez le mal

Chapitre 62

The next day at the hotel, Heinrich apologized for his "sudden illness" and hasty departure, saying he would compensate us by deducting an equal amount from our accommodation bill. I quoted a slightly lower amount, and he wrote a slightly higher one, trying to curry favor with his guests with a "free, hearty lunch" so he could skim off his boss. He was slick and utterly dishonest.

He once told me that he had managed the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Hong Kong. I found it hard to believe him because he didn't understand Cantonese at all.

I asked him, "What's good to eat there?"

Sweet and sour pork ribs.

This is a favorite among people who know little about Chinese cuisine and are unwilling to try other foods. I knew he was exaggerating, yet he showed no remorse for his lie, maintaining a smile throughout.

Floating islands (2)

Other tour leaders told me he wasn't a hotel owner at all; he actually worked for the CIA and was one of their top agents. His accent was fake, and his Swiss citizenship was false. He was American, Henry Glick, from Los Angeles, a place known for its actors. When he first came to Asia, he listed his occupation as "waste management consultant," while on other visas he said he was a "water purification engineer."

"Waste" is the CIA's designation for targets—people they want to eliminate; "Purification" is the designation for filtering intelligence.

For a spy, working in a hotel is ideal. He can drink and dine with various officials from Thailand and Lanna, giving them the impression of being drunk and harmless. He can also eavesdrop "under the table" while they conduct under-the-table deals.

That's what I heard, but it's unbelievable. If I knew all this, wouldn't the people he was monitoring have known? He would have been expelled from the Kingdom of Lanna by now. No, he couldn't be a spy. Besides, I smelled alcohol on his breath—how could that be faked?

I watched him drink "bubble wine," and he pulled that trick again. His profession has dragged him into stagnation; as a hotel manager, this is degrading him.

Only little Esme discovered that Heinrich was an imposter. The child was quick-witted, just like I was at her age. She saw her mother being completely charmed by him, "Our beautiful lady," he called her. Beryl became "Our English gentleman." A little while later, someone told him that Beryl had a very popular dog-training television show, and he called Beryl "Our famous television star," which made Beryl very happy.

Heinrich wasn't good at soothing children. He laughed exaggeratedly, just like many adults would say to a baby, "Is your tummy hungry?"

Esme looked at him suspiciously and noticed that he would always find excuses to lightly touch the ladies' arms, place his palm on the back of the men, and compliment each one: "You seem to be a seasoned tourist, different from the others, looking for someone deeper in a foreign land, don't you?"

Esme carried the dog in a nylon bag, covered with a scarf. The puppy was comfortably curled up in its bed, only barking when it wanted some fresh air. When Heinrich looked at Esme, she pretended to sneeze.

She went to the bathroom, tore a few pages from a magazine, and laid them on the tiled floor. She put the dog on it and urged it to "poop," and the puppy squatted down and pooped; it was as clever as a child.

When Esme returned, Heinrich greeted her with sparkling eyes: "Ah, our little one is back."

But she remained expressionless and hurriedly found her mother's seat.

It's lunchtime, toutcompris (all included), which includes wine and beer, and—as they'll soon find out—a hefty "welcome" champagne.

Heinrich joked that they'd better not complain about the food and service: "Because this is a hotel run by a very fierce tribe, and they have soldiers protecting them. So you see, your satisfaction is guaranteed, no complaints—"

“No need to complain,” Benny said hastily. “The food is very good.”

"What do you mean by 'protection'?" Mo Fei asked curiously. "Like the Mafia?"

Heinrich glanced around, as if to make sure his employees weren't eavesdropping. "Not entirely," he said, cracking his knuckles to indicate ill-gotten gains. "If you help others, you'll get something in return. Oh, don't be so surprised, it's a tradition in other countries, including yours."

He patted Mo Fei on the shoulder. "Isn't that right, my friend?" He laughed to himself, then added, "Actually, everyone can be friendly. The past is history—forget it. Of course, it's impossible to completely forget unless you're dead, but we can selectively ignore it, right?" He put his hand to his mouth. "Keep quiet."

Heinrich was indeed a cunning man, capable of making 180-degree turns from time to time. Even now, I still don't understand the true nature of this man. Did he erect barriers, or am I? The Buddha said that complete compassion leads to complete understanding, and I really want to embarrass the cunning Heinrich in public. I don't think that would mean lacking compassion, because I know nothing about him.