Baby In The Forbidden City

We bought our tickets and entered through Zhongshan Park. We wandered through the shade of bamboo and passed by perfectly manicured flower beds. We entered the massive gates of the Forbidden City and noticed most people were walking towards us, not in the same direction we were. I checked my watch. 4:45 pm. The museums closed at 5:00 pm. Why don’t we just walk around, even if we can’t enter the museums? The worst they can do is kick us out, I suggested. We began walking across the enormous bricked plaza, flanked by monstrous gates. I heard a very confident, slightly British lilting voice by my side. “Hello, there.” I looked down. There, at my side, barely reaching my waist, was an adorable ragamuffin. She wasn’t striking in a traditional sense, but in her simplicity. Her baby fine black hair was twisted into a bun, several wisps framing her face.

“How are you?” she began. I’m fine, thank you, and you? I replied. “Oh, very well, thank you. Would you like to look at a postcard?” and she displayed a variety of cheap, faded postcards. I smiled. No, thanks. She looked at me with serious eyes. “The Forbidden City is closed, you know.” She stretched out her spindly arm. On it was an oversized, cheap, purple plastic watch, moving daisies indicating the time. “See, now, it is almost 5:00. The ticket office, just there, closes at 4:00. Come tomorrow, between 8:00 and 4:00 to buy your tickets.” I stared at her. Her English was perfect. Oh. Thank you. “So, now, since you can’t visit the Forbidden City today, would you like to buy a postcard?” I parted my lips to utter a “No, thanks,” but before a sound escaped she continued. “Just take a look. Just one look. Right here, ma’am.”

As a seasoned traveller, I like to think I’ve perfected my “no, thank you” response accompanied by a smile. But she was so persistent. The words wouldn’t come. Oh, okay. Just one look. Even as the words left my mouth, I couldn’t believe it.

She held out the first package, views of The Imperial Palace, the official name of The Forbidden City. What are these? I asked, expecting to get a little more history about the city which was forbidden to us at that point. She eyed me quizzically. Okay, the question was vague. I knew the said objects were postcards. I wanted more information about the pictures *on* the postcards – she had been such a font of information thus far. With somewhat of a sarcastic tone, she responded, “Don’t you know how to speak English?” This time I was puzzled. Um. Yes. With a quick flip of her wrist she opened the envelope which housed the ancient postcards. She pointed. “Then read.” I saw a poor translation of information about the Palace. Before I could even begin reading, she continued at a rapid pace. “Forbidden City. You must see. Also Great Wall. And, here, the Summer Palace.” With each place she named, another pack of postcards magically appeared. “Good price. For you, lady, good price. You must see. Here.”

I had been looking down at her for the past several minutes while this transpired. I noticed many shoes surrounding us. Oh, god, I thought, Now I’m done for. All the other vendors are waiting to pounce. I looked up. The other shoes belonged not to vendors, but to Chinese tourists. At least twenty-five people encircled us. They were staring, some smiling, as this little girl worked me. I *did* need postcards. Might as well buy them here. Okay. 1 pack. How much? She grinned. “Good deal for you. Two packs, 30 yuan. Plus one pack free.” She spoke directly to me, ignoring the group around us. I scoffed. That’s too much. She looked me up and down. “Okay, okay. 25 yuan, very good price for you.” I knew it was still too high a price, but I was uncomfortable attracting so much attention from the crowd. I sighed. Okay. I started to reach into my bag. At that point, she grabbed my arm, gave me a very serious look, and said, “Not here.” She ushered me a few feet away.

The crowd ignored her yearning for privacy and followed us, matching each of our small steps with theirs. I pulled out three ten notes. The little ragamuffin handed them to an older woman on a bicycle, who rifled through her bag until a five note was found. Meanwhile, my small friend did not stop talking. “Maybe 1 more pack of postcards?” No! I replied, This really is plenty… “Would you like me to take a picture of you? All three of you?” She motioned to my parents, standing agape, innocent bystanders to this spectacle. I don’t believe in my entire life they have ever seen someone render me speechless, unsettled. They were enjoying the performance.

Simply by raising her arm, not a word spoken, my little friend parted the crowd and positioned me in between my mother and father with the skill of a wedding photographer. She stepped back, counting. She mouthed: one, two, three, four. She peered through the camera lens and took another step back. She clicked the shutter, then quickly handed the camera back to us. She stretched her tiny arm out, showing us the cheap watch. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow, tickets are on sale between 8 and 4. You really must see.” At this point my mother leaned over her. “What is your name?” she asked the small salesgirl. The little girl faced the three of us confidently, blinked as if *everyone* knew her name, and said, “Why, Baby.” The three of us stared at each other with bemused smiles on our faces, then looked down to continue our inquisition. Alas, Baby was gone.