End of an Era

I did so, and my screen instantly filled with references. There were at least three Ching-Mei Huangs in the world: one

seemed to be a leading expert on the potato-chip industry. Another was an authority on Sino-American relations. And the third -

The third was clearly my woman: a physicist, judging by the titles of the papers she’d authored, and…

Well, I had to read that one: "Professors Arrested in Campus Melee." "Show me number seventeen," I said.

A Canadian Press wire-service story from 18 November 1988 appeared. A Ching-Mei Huang, then a nontenured professor, was one of six faculty members arrested at Dalhousie University in Halifax during a protest over cutbacks in research funding. The article said she’d broken the shin of one of the campus police officers. Feisty woman.

"Back," I said. The hit list returned to my screen. I kept scanning the results — and then I smiled. Apparently, like me, she’d also written a popular book, something called Time Constraints: The Tau of Physics, co-authored with one G. C. Mackenzie, published by Simon Fraser University Press in 2003.

The link was to the listing on Chapters.ca, which contained a review taken from Quill Quire (a publication I’d always liked, since it had been very kind to my Dragons of the North): "Mackenzie and Huang, both high-energy researchers at Vancouver’s TRIUMF, have put together a dry account of current…"

That was a decade ago. Still, it was worth a shot. I activated my PicturePhone and asked for directory assistance. "Vancouver, please," I said to the perky computer-generated face that appeared on my screen. "TRIUMF. T-R-I-U-M-F."

The image recited the phone number while simultaneously displaying it on my screen. The museum didn’t allow us to use the call-completion feature, since it cost an extra seventy-five cents, so I jotted the number down on a Post-it note, then dictated it back into the phone. After two rings, a man with what might have been a Pakistani accent answered. "Good morning; bonjour. TRIUMF."

"Hello," I said, surprising myself at how nervous I sounded. "Ching-Mei Huang, please."

"Dr. Huang is unavailable right now," he said. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, indeed."

Ching-Mei Huang failed to return the three messages I left for her at TRIUMF, but I finally weaseled her unlisted home number out of somebody who answered the phone late one evening. My palms were sweating as I spoke the string of digits to my phone. Christ, I hadn’t been this nervous since the first time I’d called Tess and asked for a date.

Toronto was 3,300 kilometers from Vancouver; it was a little after ten in the evening my time, which meant it would be just after seven on the west coast. The phone rang three times before the round Bell Canada logo did its usual self-indulgent backflip off the screen. But instead of Dr. Huang’s face, all I got was this graphic:

Audio Only Available

Then, thinned by what sounded like fear — the distance shouldn’t have affected the quality at all, of course — a voice made its way across the continent to me. "Hello?"

"Hello," I replied. "May I please speak to Ching-Mei Huang?"

A pause. Finally: "Who’s calling?"

"My name is Brandon Thackeray. I’m with the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto."

"I’m not interested in becoming a member. Good-bye."

"Wait. I’m not from the membership department. I’m a vertebrate paleontologist."

"A vert — ? How did you get this number?"

"Then you are Dr. Huang?"

"Yes, I am she. How did you get my number?"

I tried to sound jaunty. "It wasn’t easy, believe me."

"This number is unlisted for a purpose. Please leave me alone."

I put as much reassuring warmth as I could into my voice. "You certainly keep a low profile," I said with a laugh.

"That’s no concern of yours." A pause, while we both tried to assess who should speak next. Finally, quietly, she said, "My phone says you’re calling from area code 905. That’s not Toronto."

"No, it’s Mississauga, where I live. Just outside of Toronto."

I heard a sharp exhalation of breath. "And you’re not on a mobile phone, right? So you’re not here in Vancouver?" Her voice brightened slightly, but she still seemed shaken, nervous — hardly the kind of speech I would have thought anyone would have characterized as "precise." What was it the diary had said? Measured, monotonal, clicking over the consonants like a series of circuit breakers. That description seemed to belong to a completely different person.

"Do you have a PicturePhone, Dr. Huang? Could we switch to visual?"

"No."