by Lisa See
After she’d moved out of their bedroom and into another building in the compound, he’d understood at last that, for all of Hulan’s privilege and brilliance, nothing—not even David—could protect her from the punishment that she inflicted on herself. He suffered from self-recrimination too. What if they’d taken Chaowen to the hospital sooner? What if they’d been in the States? Would Chaowen have had better medical care? He’d kept these thoughts to himself, just as Hulan had hidden hers from him.
He knew it was a rare marriage that could survive the death of a child. He knew as well that Hulan might be happier if he went back to Los Angeles. His presence here was just a daily reminder of the family they had lost. But he couldn’t leave Hulan, because he loved her and he knew she loved him still. He couldn’t leave her, because he’d promised her that day in this courtyard that they’d always be together. He couldn’t leave her, because he knew that somewhere in that shell lived the woman he’d fallen in love with. He saw himself as a brick, an anchor, a foundation. Her recovery was his job now, and he gave it everything that he’d once given to what others had called his “brilliant career.” He believed that if he was steadfast, one day she would reach out for him again. He would be there, and she would return from the empty place where she’d imprisoned herself.
He heard her footsteps before he saw her. Her face was turned down, and when he softly called her name she stopped and looked up. She had a smear of blood across her left cheek, where she must have tried to push her hair out of the way. Her blouse was spattered with blood, while her skirt showed a large dark crust where she must have kneeled in it. Somewhere Hulan had managed to wipe off her hands, but he could see dried blood still caked between her fingers.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“You know what happened?”
After he nodded, she looked up through the leaves of the ginkgo tree to the dull brown Beijing sky. After a moment, she said, “I had a good shot. That woman shouldn’t have died. She was crazy. I should have recognized it earlier.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. Then, “But you saved the girl.”
She looked at him as though she was trying to decipher the meaning of his words. For a single instant he saw a shadow of vulnerability, then she rearranged her features into a reassuring smile. He’d come to think of that look as her survival mask.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “That means a lot to me.” After a beat, she added, “But you should get to your office. Miss Quo will be worrying about you by now. And of course I need to clean up, then get to the MPS.” A trace of uncertainty crept back into her voice, and she averted her eyes again. “There will be things I need to do.….”
“Is there any way I can help?”
Her determined smile gelled again, and he could see just how hard she was trying. “We could have dinner together. I’d like that.” Then she held out her bloodstained hands for him to see. “I really need a shower.” With that she walked past him and into the next courtyard.
They had managed to get through the conversation without mentioning the one thing that was on both of their minds. The little girl who’d lost her mother only an hour ago was the same age that David and Hulan’s daughter would have been.
IT WAS STILL ONLY NINE IN THE MORNING WHEN HULAN LEFT HER room and walked to an adjacent building to pay a quick visit to her mother and her mother’s nurse. Hulan’s mother had been confined to a wheelchair since the Cultural Revolution. Her mind was “delicate,” which meant that her rare moments of lucidity were often swamped by weeks or even months of no words, gestures, or acknowledgments of any sort. This morning, Hulan’s mother stared into the distance, and the visit was short.
Hulan then left the compound and got into the backseat of a black Mercedes. Investigator Lo, her longtime driver, didn’t speak—it had already been a long day for both of them—and he quickly drove her to the Ministry of Public Security compound on Chang An Boulevard. As soon as Hulan reached her office, a tea girl brought in a thermos and a porcelain cup, then quietly left the room. There would be an inquiry about the events this morning, and Hulan would need to write a full report, but before she started that she needed to finish up with her informant. Hulan opened his file and began making notations for the prosecutor. It was a simple case. Mr. Wong, a teller, had used his bank’s official chop to move funds from several private accounts into one held by the All-Patriotic Society. Hulan had five other files with similar stories that had come across her desk in the last month. The difference between those and the case of Mr. Wong was that he was willing to trade what he knew so that he might not be sent to labor camp.
Unfortunately, stealing funds was not the only problem that Hulan had been able to link to the All-Patriotic Society. During the last few months, there’d been several cases of sabotage by workers who suddenly disapproved of the merchandise they produced in factories in the countryside and in Special Economic Zones. Equipment had been destroyed and defective parts inserted into products. There’d even been a couple of explosions in factories that manufactured high-tech components. The Chinese government took the position that the All-Patriotic Society was an extremist religious cult engaged in “domestic terrorism” and responded accordingly. Naturally, international human rights groups took a very dim view of China’s zero-tolerance policy.
Having spent much of her life in the States, Hulan should have agreed, but she hated the All-Patriotic Society. She hated the way they preyed on the powerless, the old, and the poor. She hated the way people gave their money to Xiao Da. She knew from personal experience that fanaticism could be harmful to the state and to society as a whole. America might let religious cults gain power over the weak; China wouldn’t. She told herself what others in the ministry told her: every time a file crossed her desk or she made another arrest she was protecting the masses and ensuring the stability of the government. Besides, she was grateful for the tasks assigned her. They kept her focused.
She knew that David didn’t understand her obsession, but there was a lot she didn’t understand about him anymore either. When he was at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, he had labored to right terrible wrongs. He had followed a strict code of ethics and had a great belief in public service. He carried those ideals with him into private practice, where he’d had twenty or more other lawyers working on his matters, which often dealt with grave social or political issues. After David and Hulan reconnected, his law firm let him open a small office in Beijing. He was now a one-man show with a thriving practice. His days were busy and his clients paid him lots of money, but none of his cases was a great intellectual stretch for him or would make any real difference in the larger world. From her perspective, he now got through his straightforward business matters by occupying his mind with word puzzles and questions of culture. It was as if David were waiting for something to happen but it never came. The way things were between them now, she couldn’t ask him about his choices, and she was grateful he didn’t question her too much about hers.
When the tea girl returned after just a few minutes, Hulan looked up. “Yes?”
“Vice Minister Zai would like to see you, Inspector.”
Hulan closed the folder and left the room. Hurrying down the hall and up the stairs, she felt confident that she could answer any questions he might have about this morning. When she stepped into the anteroom of Zai’s office, his secretary stood, knocked gently on the office door, and opened it for Hulan.
“Good morning, Vice Minister,” Hulan said as she entered.
“Good morning, Inspector Liu.”
Their words were formal, but she was closer to this man than she’d been to her own father.
“Please sit,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. She did as she was told and waited as he finished writing on a notepad. They were comfortable enough with each other that he could complete his task with her sitting across from him rather than have her wait in the anteroom as a way of showing his more powerful position. In these q
uiet minutes, Hulan looked around the room. It looked the same as when her father had held the job. Heavy crimson drapes covered the windows. Official seals and plaques decorated the walls. Nothing spoke of the personal nature of the man who sat behind the desk.
At last the vice minister looked up. She’d known him her entire life, so she could easily read the concern in his eyes.
“I am sorry about what happened today,” she began.
“No need for apologies, Inspector. The woman’s death was an accident, and the press will report it that way beginning now.” He hesitated, then added, “It was a mistake to give the Central Broadcasting Bureau the ability to air the event live.”
Yes, Hulan thought, we had an arrangement. Why had things changed so suddenly and without any discussion? She had to approach the subject carefully. “A mistake or was it—”
He quickly cut her off. “There was no way to predict that a deranged woman would try to hurt her child.”
“If she was crazy….”
He frowned. “The Falun Gong and the All-Patriotic Society are not the same.”
What did he mean? That the self-immolations Falun Gong members had done were not the same as a woman trying to cut off her daughter’s hand? That the accusations—mostly in the foreign press—that the Chinese government had hired people to set themselves on fire in public as a means to discredit the Falun Gong were true? That using “deranged” people for this end was unpredictable? What Hulan did know was that Zai had easily distracted her from her real concern. What was that camera crew doing there at all?
The vice minister looked at a sheet of paper. “I see that Tang Wenting was not arrested.”
“He slipped away—”
“While you were tending to that child. This is not your job.”
“You’re absolutely right, Vice Minister.”
Zai’s voice softened. “Where is the girl now?”
“She was taken to the Number Five Home outside the Third Ring Road.”
“Ah, then she may have a not so unhappy end.” When Hulan looked at him questioningly, he added, “She might be adopted by an American family and have a much better life than the one she would have had.” He leaned forward slightly. “You could adopt too, Hulan, perhaps an infant. It would not be so bad for you to find happiness again.”
He was trying to be thoughtful, but his words hurt, reminding her of sympathizers like Neighborhood Committee Director Zhang, who’d told Hulan she should “try again.”
Zai cleared his throat, letting her know that this personal conversation was over, but what he said next had nothing to do with this morning’s events in Tiananmen Square. “A new case has come to our office. It is an unidentified body found in the Yangzi River.”
Hulan was so taken aback by the abrupt change in subject that she responded without thinking. “Surely this is a common occurrence. Why should the Ministry of Public Security be involved?”
“Because the body is that of a foreigner.” He spoke evenly, but she noticed the involuntary way he glanced at the walls. Did the government still listen to every conversation that went on in this room?
“Has anyone reported a missing foreigner?” Hulan asked, going along with Zai for now. “If the person fell off a cruise ship, the whole country would have been searching for this…. man? Woman?”
“Man. As you point out, he could not have fallen from a cruise ship. But let us not discuss the possibilities. I am assigning you the case. We need to know who he is and how he came to be found in the waters of our great river.”
“You know I’m busy today. I have to write a report on everything that happened this morning.”
“That can wait. More important, it might be better for you to delay. You may want to work on your facts—”
“I don’t need to think about what happened. I did what was necessary in the moment. Beyond that, I don’t do murder cases anymore.” A solution popped into her mind, but she had to offer it with the proper contrition. She looked down at her hands folded in her lap and said, “I am out of practice with the dead. Give the body to Luo or Cui.” These inspectors had risen quickly in the ranks the last two years. As a reward, they’d gone to the United States as part of an exchange program and had spent two weeks at the FBI’s training facility at Quantico.
“I’m not asking them. I’m assigning you. You have no choice.”
Hulan caught something in his tone and looked up. He was nervous, and it was exactly because someone might be listening. She held his eyes until he nodded almost imperceptibly. People were listening. The men across the lake…. Without being given a chance to explain fully her actions this morning, she was going to be punished, and Zai couldn’t or wouldn’t help her.
“Who is the dead man?” she inquired, keeping her voice steady.
“That is for you to discover.”
“But you must have an idea—”
Vice Minister Zai scowled. “Identification is all that is needed at this time,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”
It had been nearly five years since Hulan had gone down to the basement of the Ministry of Public Security building to Pathologist Fong’s domain. Back then she’d been known as someone who could look at any crime scene or decomposing cadaver with an analytical eye. She’d developed a technique of stepping back and back again from a body to take in the whole scene. Her colleagues had always thought her hard-hearted in this regard, and in retrospect maybe she was. But, she told herself, her heart wasn’t hard by nature. She just couldn’t allow herself to acknowledge what was before her as human. A body was merely a question to be answered. Step away and step away again….
She paused before the swinging doors leading into the forensics lab. She tried to prepare herself for what she would see and smell, but what was the point? Water deaths were particularly unpleasant, and she was hopelessly out of practice. But she would deal with it, accept her punishment, then get back to her real work. She pushed through the doors and was assailed by the odors of formaldehyde, bleach, antiseptic, and lurking just below that the unmistakable smell of human death. The outer offices were empty, and she passed through two more sets of doors before she found Pathologist Fong. He peered up at her, regarding her critically. He was a small man, and it had always bothered him that he was shorter than she. At last he said, “You’ve come to see our”—and here he switched to barely discernible English—“John Doe?”
Before she could respond, he scurried down the hall. He pulled out a set of keys, opened a door, and motioned her in ahead of him. In the center of the room was a stainless-steel table. To the right was a sink; to the left a counter with a scale, other equipment, and numerous jars and bottles filled with liquid and specimens. The refrigeration unit for corpses was on the far wall. Hulan didn’t know how many bodies were in there, but even from behind steel doors the smell of decay began to clog the back of her throat.
Fong’s movements slowed. She remembered this about him. His caustic sense of humor would still be present, but his actions would be deliberate and careful. He had more respect for those who entered this room on a gurney than for those who could walk in of their own volition. He slipped on latex gloves, leaving the drawer open for Hulan to get a pair. As she pulled on the gloves, he dabbed a bit of mentholated ointment under his nostrils, then handed the jar to Hulan. She swiped her finger through the ointment, ran it under her nostrils, and felt the rush of menthol into her sinuses.
Pathologist Fong transferred the body bag onto the lab table. Hulan slowly exhaled to steady herself, then crossed to stand next to the pathologist. In one long, swift movement, Fong unzipped the bag, revealing the body from head to toe. The mentholated ointment didn’t begin to disguise the horrible stench that assaulted her.
“We always save the most beautiful ones for you, Inspector,” he recited as though it had been only a few days since he’d last spoken those words to her. He took two discreet steps back to give her time to examine the body alone.
The autopsy had
already been performed and the y-incision sewn up with crude stitches, but this was the only thing about the body that could be said to be normal. Stretched out, the bloated corpse seemed like some grotesquely huge monster. The algae-covered flesh had shriveled into what was known as washerwoman’s skin as a result of prolonged submersion in water and had burst here and there both from trauma and to let out gases. The eyes and nose were gone. The mouth was agape, and she could see the shredded remains of the tongue. The genitals were still complete. The fish had not snacked there. In fact, compared with the torso, the bottom half of the body was in relatively good shape.
“A trip down the Yangzi is no picnic,” Fong commented dryly. “It is one of Chairman Mao’s more obscure sayings, but true nevertheless.”
Hulan ignored the joke. She ran the tip of her finger along the flesh of the man’s arm. “He lost his shirt….”
“That’s my inspector. You disappear but you don’t forget how to look. They should send you out to teach the young ones who come in here. Stupid as water buffalo—”
“Pathologist Fong….”
“Yes, of course he lost his shirt. If he’d been wearing a T-shirt maybe it would have lasted, but a dress shirt would not have held up in those conditions. He was wearing jeans. Levi’s 501s. Very strong material.”
She leaned in to get a closer look. All the river muck couldn’t disguise the red color of his hair. She asked, “You’re positive he’s a foreigner?”
“I can guarantee you that he’s not Han Chinese.”