At the Heart of the Universe by Samuel Shem

than a stunning young woman. She and Clio take care with her long hair—no ponytail today, but straight down on her shoulders, pulled back by a purple headband. Like Clio’s.
    The four bellboys in red with pillbox hats escort them out the great brass revolving door. A sudden heavy rain has started to fall. They turn around and go back to find hotel umbrellas, one of which shelters all three of them. Huddled together under the umbrella they tiptoe through the yellowish mud and screaming machinery widening the road, wading alongside a dozen barefoot men in tattered undershirts, who are digging more trench with pickaxes and shovels. Suddenly there it is, in the middle of a block of low shops being destroyed, the exact same red pagoda-like gatehouse. Clio looks up and sees, once again, the roof gods on the upcurved beams, the last in line “the man riding the chicken,” who, she knows from her study of Chinese art and architecture, is prevented from bedeviling the inhabitants of the building below because a man can’t fly down there on a chicken. A sign, in Chinese and English:
    CHANGSHA SOCIAL WELFARE CENTER NUMBER ONE
    FAMILY PLANNING IS EVERYBODY’S BUSINESS
    The entrance is the same as they recall but for a uniformed guard who carefully checks identification, and a shiny new chest-high steel gate, which completely blocks the entrance. The guard swings the massive gate open.
    Inside, everything has changed. To the right, the spot where the one-story redbrick building with the courtyard/playground once stood, the spot where they were handed Katie, is a pile of rubble and bricks. To the left, where the low recreation room was located, is a four-story building, the administrative offices. Nearby, where the room for the newborns and the schools for the older, special needs children used to be, is an eight-story concrete building looking like a new apartment house. Shocked at how the place has grown, they go into the administration building for their meeting with the new director.
    Mr. Ma is about thirty-five, a chunky, handsome man with eyes that seem alert, humorless, and firm. He wears a robin’s-egg-blue short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. But for his face, Pep thinks, he could be a Columbian neighbor in high-summer garb—say, a golfer. He sits at the head of a boardroom-type table on a marble floor, with eight cushy leather high-backed chairs on rollers; standing up in a corner of the room is a ferocious air conditioner. Damp from the rain, they are soon chilled. The place gives a feel of being well funded. Probably , Pep thinks, by grateful Westerners like us .
    Pep explains who they are and why they’ve come. Mr. Ma shows little reaction—it’s hard to tell how good his English is. Pep speaks slowly and gestures every question, like charades. Has Mr. Ma gotten the photos they sent showing Katie in the arms of her nurses when they adopted her? No. Where are they? He doesn’t know. He gets a lot of letters and photos, it is hard to keep track of them all. Pep asks to see whatever documents the orphanage has on Katie.
    Mr. Ma asks for her full name, and then sends an assistant out to find them.
    Clio takes out the little album that Katie and she have prepared, to show to the orphanage workers, and hands Mr. Ma a photo of Katie in the arms of her caretaker, a rail-thin woman with a squirrelly face and a prominent gold front tooth.
    Mr. Ma sends another assistant out with the photo.
    Maybe money will talk. Pep tells Mr. Ma that they have brought a donation to the orphanage on behalf of their group of eight families. Mr. Ma nods. Pep zips open his fanny pack and finds the envelope containing the thousand-dollar check. As Pep opens the envelope there is a ripping sound. Two weeks of humidity have sealed the flap onto the check. A piece of the flap sticks to the check, obscuring his name and address. Mr. Ma inspects the check meticulously and shakes his head no. No bank will cash a