The Hamlet Murders

by David Rotenberg

  Near the end of the act, a large map lowered inexplicably from the flies.

  Madame Cheung leaned over Donny and intoned, “It is a map.”

  Tall Lady asked, “How long has this play been running?” The question was relayed down the line to Madame Cheung and the answer was relayed back from Donny, who announced completely straightfaced, “Just over an hour and a half.”

  Tall Lady let out a loud, “Oh, god” and returned to some deep inner space.

  In the middle of the fourth scene, someone offstage began singing “I Did It My Way” – very loudly. Fong saw the back muscles of Big Hair begin to quiver, then she spluttered. Madame Cheung leaned over and said gravely, “Flank Sinatra.”

  “Flank?” exploded Donny. That was too much for Tall Lady who burst out laughing. But Donny kept his face blank and asked smoothly, “Is that part of the play?”

  Madame Cheung pondered Donny’s question for a moment then the map came down again and she pointed out, “It is a map.”

  In the next scene, someone, Fong had by this time totally lost track of the characters, committed suicide. Fong cheered. Many others in the audience joined him. Every bad actor killed is a step in the right direction. Upon the death, the curtain fell and the house lights came up. Before the Caucasians could rise, the intrepid Madame Cheung announced loudly, “Good. It’s intercourse,” and headed to the bathroom.

  The three foreigners managed to hide their faces but Fu Tsong, who had been following the scene in the row ahead as closely as Fong, lost it completely. Donny pointed at Fu Tsong and then broke out laughing. Through his laughter he said to Big Hair, “I like her,” to which Big Hair, tears of laughter streaming down her face, said, “I can see why.” The Tall One had crumpled in her chair clutching her sides and barked out, “Good, it’s intercourse. And she’s an English teacher.”

  Donny announced to all and sundry, “I’ve been bored to tears in theatres in every language in every country in the world.” To which the Tall One replied through tears of laughter, “And whose fault is that?”

  Donny was still talking, evidently oblivious to that fact that Fong had just taken a rather extended internal voyage. “As I said, Detective, I’ve been bored to tears in theatres in every language in every country in the world.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Fong replied, immensely pleased with his own cleverness. Donny looked at him. “That sounds familiar.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t quite place it,” Donny said, for the first time eyeing Fong as something more than a student asking for an extension on a term paper.

  Fong avoided Donny’s eyes and said, “ Let’s start with the text of the play. It’s usually cut, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s only a myth that Hamlet’s a quick play. It’s ponderous and long, so everyone cuts it.”

  “Was Mr. Hyland’s cutting unusual?”

  “Well, he left in the Reynaldo scene and the whole Rosencrantz and Guildenstern plot, which is out of the ordinary. As well, he played up the relationship between Polonius and Claudius. Made Polonius a smart guy in disguise.”

  “Yes, he did,” said Fong. “Is the Reynaldo scene about spying?”

  “Yes. Reynaldo is sent to follow Laertes and make sure that he behaves himself and cover for him when he doesn’t behave himself. Yes, Mr. Hyland also left in the Voltaman plot.”

  “More spying and deceiving?”

  “Yes and of course so is the R and G plot.”

  “R and G?”

  “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – ah, gentle Rosencrantz and wise Guildenstern.”

  “These are the men sent to murder Hamlet on the boat to England.”

  “Yes, but Hamlet finds their orders, switches the names on the letter and the two of them are murdered.”

  “Spying again.”

  “That’s a little crude, but yes spying, if you will. He’s also used what’s thought of as the American cutting. By removing the subplot of Fortinbras the entire evening drifts toward the demise of a great soul, Hamlet. It makes sense when you see the opening he’s devised but it does make the evening more personal and less political. The Europeans have a tendency to make the play about succession and politics. For that you need the history of Fortinbras and he must arrive at the end to solve the problem.” Donny smiled, “Capiche?”

  “Pardon me?’

  “You understand?”

  Fong nodded. Oh, yes, he understood more than this odd bowling ball of a man could ever imagine. Geoffrey Hyland and spying. Geoffrey Hyland arriving without a visa three months ago. Geoffrey Hyland eluding his surveillance team for thirty-six hours. Geoffrey Hyland and two Beijing handlers. “Do you know much about Shakespeare’s use of flowers, Donny?”

  “Everything about Shakespeare’s use of flora, I know.”

  “Everything?” Fong wanted to ask but let that slide. Instead he asked, “What did primroses mean in Shakespeare’s writing?”

  “They represented things unfinished. Things that die before they are old or done or consum-mated.”

  Fong thought about that then asked, “And marigolds?”

  “Flowers for middle age – a mid-life flower.” Donny smiled. His eyes twinkled. He was being impressive and he liked being impressive.

  Fong nodded, “And forget-me-nots?”

  A darkness crossed Donny’s round features. A vein suddenly pulsed in his forehead just over his left eye. “Forget-me-nots? I don’t believe there are any mentions of forget-me-nots in Shakespeare.” The smile returned to his face. “But I’ll check. That’s what graduate students are for, don’t you think?”

  Fong had no idea if that was what graduate students were for but asked, “Anything else I should know about Mr. Hyland’s Hamlet production?”

  “Well there’s the standard Laertes–Ophelia attachment.”

  “Attachment?”

  “Well, Laertes does seem to be a little more than just expressing a brotherly concern for his sister.”

  “Thus his anger at Hamlet?”

  “Absolutely. Well, there is also the fact that Hamlet killed his father and Ophelia committed suicide when Hamlet dumped her.”

  “Don’t you think those two little things just might be enough to lead to a bit of animosity from Laertes toward Hamlet?”

  “I guess it could, do that, that is,” said Donny in all seriousness.

  He guesses! Fong shook his head; he’d never understand academics. The watermelon of a man smiled. Fong didn’t. “Thanks.” He ushered Donny toward the door. The man was still talking. Then he stopped and looked at Fong for a long moment. “Hey, I’ve met you before.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re . . . ”

  “No, I have a really good memory for faces. Yes. Fuck the Dean then do the Bishop!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At that stupid play. Right. I saw you at that stupid play.” Donny rubbed his hands in satisfaction then looked hard at Fong. “Hey, you were with a really pretty lady, right?”

  “Right.”

  “An actress, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, how’s she doin’?”

  “She’s dead. A long time ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Beautiful girl. Really beautiful.”

  Fong finally manoeuvred Donny out the door and shut it. He took a deep breath. That was hard. Too hard. Fu Tsong was still so completely present. So entirely there – her ghostly weight almost too heavy to bear – and Fong knew it.

  Only the hulls of the junks that, before the war, used to ply the Su Zu Creek were still extant. In these rotting containers lived the poorest of the poor in Shanghai. The Su Zu Creek is not what is meant when real estate agents advertise “with river view.” The stink of the creek announces its presence well before one sees the turgid, shallow waterway. But water is water and summer is summer so kids are in the creek – and so is the body of a woman who used to hand out keys at Geoffrey Hyland’s guesthouse.

  Two children throw
a colourful button they pulled off one of their grandmother’s blouses into the water then dive after it. It’s a challenging game because the Su Zu Creek is thick with silt that is constantly churned up by wakes coming up the creek and produced by passing barges on the Huangpo River. It made every dive for the button an adventure. None more so than the dive when the young boy reached into the silt and touched something rubbery and yucky – something that had been a lady who gave out keys in Geoffrey Hyland’s guesthouse.

  A pug-nosed Shanghai detective watched the flesh thing that used to be a body emerge from the creek’s dark water. He’d been an investigating officer for almost thirty years and although he had only a few years left on the force, he wasn’t looking forward to his retirement. With almost no money saved and very little pension, he knew his future was uncertain. After surviving all the regime changes in the Shanghai police force to be left maybe literally out in the cold struck him as particularly unfair but somehow infinitely Chinese. He smiled and indicated that the divers should put what was left of the body on the far shore. He didn’t believe they’d find out much about the death of this old woman – or at least she seemed to be an old woman. The eels in the creek had already eaten away most of the extremities of the body, the gelatinous facial parts and the liver. He lit a cigarette and allowed himself a fulsome cough. Then he saw the button the boys had been diving for. It had snagged on a string extending from the pocket of her quilted Mao coat. He pulled on the string and out came a key. A key to what? There had been a tag attached to the key but the acidity of the creek had removed the writing. He bagged the key, checked for ID and, finding none, instructed the officers to remove the body. Old people died all the time. Some fell into the creek. Some were dropped there. He allowed the key to roll around in his palm and wondered how he’d find out into what lock this key fit.

  The rest of Fong’s afternoon was filled with disappointments – to be expected – but disappointments nonetheless. Like clockwork, cops appeared at his office door with confirmations of alibis from the theatre people. The only one of any real interest was the confirmation of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s alibi. Several gay men, after a little bullying, verified Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s presence at the party. Not surprisingly, both party members who had been named by the actors had denied any knowledge of either the gathering or Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Both had demanded Fong’s phone number and made the usual threats. That was fine with Fong. He filed away the two men’s names and phone numbers. They could prove to be very useful at some time in the future. Then he sat back in his office chair and stared at the Pudong out his window. The dozens of new buildings stood proud against the fading August sunlight. He thought about how the Pudong only ten years ago had been nothing but a swamp across the Huangpo River. Now it was the Pudong Industrial District, the very centrepiece of the new China. Fong thought about how power had brought those buildings into being. He thought about how power worked. Then he thought about how good it was to have diverse attitudes like those of the two gay party members within the halls of power of the Middle Kingdom and he allowed himself a smile.

  It was the third locksmith that the Shanghai detective went to that informed him that the key was newly minted and probably was from a guesthouse because it had markings that indicated there could be a master key to override it.

  A guesthouse? This could be trouble. Guesthouses were used by foreigners. He was a basic Shanghai street cop. He didn’t deal with crimes that had to do with foreigners. That was done by those damn snobs down on the Bund. Well, so be it. He picked up the phone and gave Special Investigations a call.

  The call was received at general dispatch at Special Investigations just before sunset. Because the general dispatcher was a party hack’s son he didn’t mark it as urgent. Since there was no way of knowing if it was a murder and no way of knowing if it was committed by a foreigner, he filed the gist of the report in the boxes for Fong, Li Chou and the commissioner and didn’t give it a second thought. All three glanced at it before day’s end. All three had more important things on their desks than the remains of an old lady who probably had too much to drink, hit her head on the side of the junk and fell into the creek.

  In accordance with the department’s new policy of limiting expenditures, an autopsy was put on hold. It wasn’t until days later that Fong asked for the full report of the old lady’s death that had the reference to a key to a guesthouse buried in the bottom.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BODIES AND ALIBIS

  It was just past eight in the evening but the aggressive heat of the day still held a grip on the vast city. The morgue workers were packing up and heading home. Fong looked from Lily to the morgue slab where Geoff’s body lay.

  “I need you to sign off on the autopsy report as the head investigator, Fong,” Lily said in her lilting Shanghanese.

  Fong nodded but didn’t take the pen Lily was holding out to him.

  “So just do it. There’s nothing more this corpse can tell us and our refrigeration allowance was halved in the last city budget. It won’t be long before he begins to stink.”

  Fong couldn’t take his eyes from the corpse. Over and over he punished himself with the thought: “Fu Tsong loved this man.” He was shocked when Lily stood behind him and put her hands on his back – but he was glad for the contact. Lily moved in closer and whispered softly, “It’s time this was returned to the earth.”

  Fong took one last look then nodded. “Thanks, Lily,” he said in English.

  “Nothing think of it, Short Stuff.”

  Fong took the pen from her, held the autopsy report close to his face then signed it.

  “You need glasses,” Lily said, taking back the document and her pen.

  Fong was momentarily surprised that it was so obvious but he left that thought quickly as he realized that in the entire time he’d known Lily “You need glasses” was the only grammatically correct use of English he’d ever heard come out of her mouth. Maybe her English was improving and their daughter Xiao Ming stood a chance of speaking English properly.

  “You’re something, Lily,” he said in English.

  “Yeah. What but though is question,” she replied.

  “Nope,” Fong thought. Linguistic improvement: strictly temporary.

  Lily didn’t like the look on her ex-husband’s face so she shifted to Shanghanese, “So have you found out who this Long Nose was fucking just before he died?”

  Once Fong was back on the street he called Chen. “Are our Beijing guests there?”

  “Yes, and they’re a bit annoyed, sir.”

  Fong smiled, “Good.” He hung up and decided to walk back to the office. They’d made him wait at the prison, now they could cool their heels for a while in his office.

  The heat had finally backed off a pace although it would most assuredly return with the dawn. The evening was just beginning to soften. As he walked Fong marvelled at the human reality that is Shanghai. His home. He passed by sidewalk barbers cutting hair for customers seated on small three-legged bamboo stools; and sidewalk bicycle repairmen, often referred to as maestros, who busied themselves stuffing fat redrubber tubes back in tires; and sidewalk cobblers repairing shoes while surrounded by neat rows of upturned high heels from women’s pumps; and sidewalk seamstresses working on foot-powered sewing machines. Shanghai lives on its sidewalks. You can buy anything there. Fong passed by sellers of sugarcovered fried dough and soda-fountain pop and icecream bars made from frozen soya, and repackaged Western candy bars, and pirated CDs and pirated audiotapes and pirated DVDs, and old couples sitting on ratty chairs, their pant legs rolled up to their thighs. The latest Hong Kong pop tune floats on the air. A fivespice egg-seller blocks one nostril with a filthy thumb and discharges the contents of the other nostril onto the cracked pavement just a quarter-inch to one side of her cook pot then looks up at Fong: “I missed,” she cackles. A leather-skirted girl parades her legs as if she were the only person with gams in this part of the w
orld. Passing by the Hilton, the quotient of expensive cars increases as do the number of pimps selling their wares. A shop window almost entirely covered with snakes coiling upwards, their blunt snouts pushing against the uppermost pane, draws Fong’s eyes as do the large glass jars of dried country roots and herbs in the next store. A countrywoman carrying a filthy baby barely covered in rags approaches a man with a hand out and a plea for help. A pregnant woman crosses a busy eight-lane street with all the pride and confidence that only a woman carrying a child in a single- child society can have. The blunted trees in front of a walled former French estate release their scent to the night air adding a sweetness that was not there only moments before. Men hand out cheap flyers advertising dance clubs, inexpensive pants, Ye Sheng (literally wild food), appliance repairs, bundles of kindling and coal, bulk rice and of course young girls.

  On a city wall, a black-and-white eight-photo object lesson shows a corrupt official being caught by the federal police, tried by a federal judge and hanged before the populace. The photo lab’s work is better than in the famous fraudulent photo of Mao swimming the Yangtze, but the eight photos were frauds nonetheless – and everyone knows they are frauds.

  Two elderly Go players attract a crowd crammed with Shanghai’s most abundant commodity – unsolicited advice. A young street sweeper with a mask across her mouth moves her bound-twig broom slowly as she breathes in the street fumes that will first make her prematurely old, then collapse her lungs before she’s forty. The sound of Western music draws Fong into Renmin Park where old couples practise the steps of Western ballroom dancing to the sounds from a CD player that gets its energy from a hand crank. Above the dancers, the Marlboro man leers down from his billboard, clearly suggesting that a smoke and a horse are all a real man ever needs. The park is filled – no seat is free. The heat backs off another pace allowing in the gentle breeze from the mighty Yangtze. A child in new clothes plays with a large plastic toy to the glee of his parents and all four grandparents. Fong wonders when the child will realize that the dreams of all six of these adults lies squarely on his slender shoulders. Just a different kind of ghostly weight.