Tea_of_U_text:Layout 1
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him promise never to forget. It had something to do with nature. Mountains? He scans the vaulted ceiling, the red carpet, the empty tables, the glass wall and the dirty sky beyond. Something about the wonder of nature. He has forgotten every word of it, he realizes. It will torture him until he remembers. Maybe he should search through the small library at Peace Corps headquarters. Doubtful they’d have anything that heavy, though. Most of the holdings there are Harlequin romances rerouted from undeliverable US military addresses. To the north, where the river leaves downtown and emerges from its concrete embankments, are the outlying ger districts in the foothills. The gers are dome tents insulated with blankets, hides, visquene, whatever can be scavenged. They are the traditional nomad dwellings, the same wagon wheel framework design Genghis Khan’s hordes had strapped to their mounts when they took Eurasia. But around Ulaanbaatar, the ger-dwellers are no longer nomadic. They have gravitated here from the far reaches of the steppe, most without a clear reason. Perhaps they figured their standard of living couldn’t get any worse. The domes collect on the foothills like blisters. Some splice electricity from the city lines. Some leak smoke from dung-burning stoves. None have running water. Some of the domes are clustered within makeshift scrapwood fences, hasha compounds housing families and battle-scarred dogs. There is something expectant about the outlying formations of tent neighborhoods, as if the inhabitants feel the building-dwellers might suddenly uproot themselves at any moment to launch another drive into Europe. The Beijing flu? Charlotte wonders aloud. Warren has forgotten what they were talking about but then --