by Trevor Wadlow
When Wang stepped out of the elevator of the
Hefei Hotel Harmony he saw that Reception was already
busy. Most of the guests checking out were Chinese but
there was a large foreign woman with wild blond hair
checking in. Late fifties, maybe, perspiring and flustered in
the summer heat. As Wang approached the desk she became
a mere blond blip on his radar. Wang often felt this way
around foreigners. He could chat with them, do business with
them, have dinner with them but he never quite accepted
them somehow. Outside of social or business contexts he
avoided them. He often recalled that the Cantonese slang for
foreigner was ‘ghost’. Flimsy, ethereal things that did not
really exist. Even though he wasn’t Cantonese, ghosts was
also how Wang thought of foreigners.

Now there was only her voice: high-pitched, agitated, fretful.
“British Council . . . bloody passport, I know it’s here
somewhere.” Keys clinking on the desk surface, papers being
slapped down.

Wang checked out and handed back his key card to the
pretty receptionist. He could tell by her accent that she was
a local girl. Responding to her the Mandarin stuck in his
throat, a language he only ever spoke when outside
Shanghai. By this time the blond foreign lady was gone. As
Wang leant to grab his bag, something caught his eye: an
orange square of card, conspicuous on the brown surface of
the desk top. The receptionists were busy with PC screens,
guests fumbled and moved off. Without thinking further,
Wang scooped up the ticket, shoved it in his pocket and
headed off to the car park.

* * *

Turning onto the motorway, Wang lit up a Double Happiness
cigarette and lowered the window to prevent the odour of
smoke from permeating the upholstery. His ten year old
daughter, Dan Dan, had a nose for cigarette smoke and was
forever at him to quit smoking. He was touched by her
concern but found it difficult to quit, especially as everyone
he knew smoked at least a pack a day. He smiled now as he
pictured Dan Dan waiting at home. She should be back from
the dance studio by this time, hyped up from her exertions.
Dancing had been his wife’s idea. Wei Wei worried that their
daughter was overweight, but it was understandable
considering the amount of food she put away. Of course she
was their little princess, of course they indulged her. How
was it possible not to indulge an only child?

All in all, life was good. He had his family and his
his network of close associates. His family gave him
sanctuary, something to care about; his
guanxi eased his
path through life and made his wonderful family possible.
Just a week earlier a friend/business associate, Hong Quan,
had got into a disagreement with a security guard about
double parking. The argument had ended with Hong hitting
the security guard, knocking him unconscious. Police and
ambulance were called. A lawyer made threats about having
Hong sent to prison. Luckily, the chief of police was part of
guanxi. The charges were dropped and the security
guard’s family settled for a cash sum. Hong was
overwhelmed with gratitude. Wang was glad to be of

That was friendship. Wang recalled an article he had read
recently in Shanghai Daily. A survey of foreigners had
concluded that Chinese people were only friendly if they
thought you might be useful, and promptly dropped you if
you weren’t. Such articles made Wang angry. What the hell
was wrong with these people? Wang often went to the same
bars and restaurants as the foreigners, especially when he
wanted to impress a new client from out of town. Many times
he had observed the foreigners in the Shanghai Brewery,
huddled around tables, drinking far too much and chatting
endlessly about—what? It was a mystery to him. He never
wasted time in such a manner. His potential client was there
to be courted. This might involve moderate amounts of
alcohol and a trip to the local massage parlour afterwards
but the end point was always the same: business. What
could be simpler than that?

The phone tucked into the dashboard suddenly flashed and
bleeped. Wang recognized the number on the screen as that
of the Hefei Hotel Harmony. He hit REPLY.

“Good evening, Mr Wang. This is the reception manager.”

“Ah yes?” His first thought was that he had left his phone
charger in the room again.

“I’m sure it was an accident but when you were checking out
today you picked up someone’s train ticket?”

"No I didn’t.” Wang heard his own voice speaking far too

“You were standing next to a foreign lady.”

“There were lots of people at reception. I can’t remember.
Anyway, you must be mistaken. I didn’t take anyone’s train

“I’m afraid I’m not, sir. You see, we have cameras over the
reception area. The footage shows you taking the ticket. One
of my colleagues identified you.”

Wang instinctively patted his jacket pocket until he felt the
outline of the small, orange square of card.

“I must have picked it up by accident. Like you said.”

“The thing is, the foreign lady needs that ticket in order to
get back to Shanghai. The trains are now full so it’s too late
to book another one.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“In the circumstances I feel you should bring the ticket back
to the hotel.”

Wang himself was amazed at what came out of his mouth
next. “Out of the question. I’m miles away.”

Wang could hear the manager covering the mouthpiece and
mumbling to someone. When he finally returned he said,
“How about I send someone to meet you to collect the

“You’ll have to be quick. I need to get home.”

Arrangements were made. This involved Wang backtracking a
few miles to the nearest town but this was a minor
hindrance. Returning to the Hotel Harmony was unthinkable.
Other attendees at the Wind and Water Pump Conference—
slogan “Better pumps, better life”—might still be checking
out. The possible loss of face was too much to bear.

* * *

It was a small town that was identical to many other small
Chinese towns, not much more than a High Street with a KFC
and a McDonald’s, a row of shabby noodle bars billowing
steam, a hardware store, and a Family Mart. A warehouse
whose Chinese name suggested hotel outfitters announced
in English, HOTEL THING CONFLUENCE. If he hadn’t seen the
road sign he wouldn’t know exactly where he was.

Wang brought his BMW to a halt outside the Hotel 168,
leaned back, lit up another Double Happiness and punched a
number into his phone. After two rings his wife picked up.

“I’m running late, darling. I left something at the hotel. I
have to go back.”

“Not your phone charger again?”

The lie came fully-formed on his lips. “An important
document belonging to a client. There’s no time to have it
sent on.”

“OK, darling. What time will you be home?”

“Around nine.”

“I won’t start cooking till you’re well on the way then.”

Wang had only just slipped the phone back into its holder
when lights flashed in the rear view mirror. A small, black
minibus, the kind used for hospitality trips by hotels, pulled
up behind Wang’s BMW. Wang pushed open the door and got
out. By this time the driver, a tall, wiry young man wearing a
uniform that bore the Hilton logo, was standing at the kerb,
staring down at the pavement as if showing respect at a
passing funeral cortege. Wang handed him the train ticket.

“Thank you, sir.” The young man nodded without looking at
him and got back into the van.

* * *

Janice Henderson stared uncomprehendingly at the train
ticket. “But I don’t understand how he could have taken it in
the first place.”

“Maybe he thought it belonged to a friend,” said the
receptionist, clearly keen to have the matter over with.

“But the camera showed that there were only two of us at
the desk at that time.”

The receptionist smiled. “The most important thing is that
we got the ticket back.”

“Yes, but—“

The receptionist was already busy with another guest. “Can I
help you?”

* * *

As Wang’s BMW rejoined the motorway he realized that he
was angry with himself. When he went over that moment of
madness at the reception it was as though another person
had taken over, a man who saw the chance to get something
for nothing. The worst kind of peasant. With a nod and a
wink he could have got a refund for that ticket, even though
he didn’t need the money, which made his actions even more
mysterious. Would he have taken the ticket if it had
belonged to a Chinese guest? He couldn’t help thinking
about those pathetic young men who spent a fortune on the
grabber machine in the hope of winning a cheap packet of
cigarettes: something for nothing, even though it wasn’t.
And yet that wasn’t it.

Over and over he described the event to himself as though
doing so would solve the mystery: I was checking out. At
first reception was busy but soon there were just two of us.
Me and a foreign lady. A flimsy, ethereal thing. Not really
there. A ghost.

Trevor Wadlow was born in the UK in 1954. He now lives in
Shanghai where he teaches English for Academic Purposes at
Donghua University. In 2001 House of Stratus published his
novel, TOUCHED, and in 1999 a graphic children's book,
WINNERS AND LOSERS, was published by A&C Black. His
short fiction has appeared in Ambit, Eclectica, and London