by Aimee E. Liu
When she didn’t move, Freeman lifted the flap for her. It was not the first time it had been opened. The stationery bore the mark of the Indian consulate, Kashgar. He smoothed the sheets until they lay flat in front of her, then he said, “Can I get you something to drink?” She barely heard him.
Kashgar, May 20, 1949
Dearest Joanna,
It’s been well over a month since you last heard from your wandering husband, and if you’re not ready to throw him over yet, then you’re not the woman I married. Please believe me, if I could have written before this, I would have, but this is the first chance I’ve had since Kashmir for a secure delivery, and at that, so much of this little adventure is undecided that I can lay out only the barest of its bones. Doug’s a good man. I’m sure he’ll get this to you if he can, but it’s a long way from me to you, and anything could happen in between. I have to be careful, Jo. And one way or another, you have to trust me.
Where to begin? I love you. How’s that for a start? I miss you and Simon more than you will probably believe. I even miss Lawrence’s ugly mug. He deserves an apology, too. If he’s still there in Delhi with you, tell him I got waylaid, but I’ll make it up to him.
All that notwithstanding, I have a bad feeling that certain rumors are going to precede my return to Delhi. Rumors about the company I’m currently keeping, both personally and politically. Name: Alice James. Age: 23. Politics: Decidedly left of center.
Yes, my darling, it was this “other woman” who waylaid me, but before you jump to the predictable conclusions, please just hear me out. I was told Alice was going into China hell-bent on exposing the Nationalists’ crimes against humanity. Which included, she was heard to say, extortion and torture. The burning of villages. Mass graves and midnight execution squads. Yawn, yawn. It may be old news to you and me, but she had all the markings of a young crusader, utterly convinced that her particular pen was mightier than the sword. (Believe it or not, my own tirades pale by comparison with hers.) While in Srinagar I was tapped by forces who must, for now, remain nameless, to go after her and knock some sense into her pretty blond head, lest said sword slit her throat. This, as it turned out, was not as simple as it sounds. Her guide was substantially wilier than the fellow I hired at the last minute, and we played a game of cat-and-mouse all the way over the mountains. When I finally caught up with her two days ago in a town called Khargalik (a quaint little place that looks and smells like the Middle Ages), she threw such a tantrum I thought we’d both be arrested, which in these parts could mean having our tongues cut out.
Yes, well, as far as Alice is concerned, you have nothing to worry about. I want you to know that. If I had my way I’d have put a leash on her, dragged her bodily back over the mountains, and dumped her on the first plane home.
Nothing doing. Easier to collar a cobra than turn this girl around. Besides, I’ve decided it’ll be quicker and easier to accompany her as far as Tihwa, where there’s an aerodrome, and try to fly out rather than trek another six weeks back from here. So that’s my game plan. With a little luck and a lot of persuasion, I might get back to Delhi in another two weeks. In the meantime, there’s enough traffic around these parts, some of it almost what you might call civilized, that the aforementioned rumors are a distinct possibility. I’m hoping this note will defuse them, at least until I can get back and recover your good graces in a more intimate fashion.
However…there could be another twist in this road before I head for home, and part of my reason for writing is to prepare you for that, as well. Fact is, the winds of change are blowing even harder and faster over here than I realized sitting back in Delhi. I’d feel a pretty sad sack if I up and left without giving this change its due. I’ve replenished my resources so I could stay on in Sinkiang another month or two if the situation warrants. That’s why I say, the adventure is undecided. A lot depends on the wind.
I don’t want to alarm you, Joanna, but in case time stretches and I don’t write again, I’ve asked Doug to stay in touch with you, to lend you and Simon a hand if need be. I’d like to think Lawrence would hang by you, as well. I’d like to think you’ll still be sitting tight in Delhi, beavering away at your good works and keeping the faith in my return… At the same time, I recognize that if this disappearing act goes on too long, it will start to pall.
If you do decide to pack up and head home, I certainly won’t blame you. I’d ask only that you let somebody obvious—the American embassy, or the powers that be at the Herald—know where I can find you. Also, you should know that I took out a bit of extra insurance, again, just in case. If you haven’t tripped over it already, I left the policy in a box on the shelf in my closet.
It’s paid up. The other item in that box belongs to Lawrence. Please return it with my apologies. Tell him I’m such a novice, I felt safer without it.
There. I’ve said the nasty. I promise when I get back I’ll improve on this pathetic attempt at explanation. In the meantime, you must believe that I do love you and Simon. Whatever else you may hear, Jo, know this much is true.
You are in my heart and my dreams. Forever.
Aidan
Douglas Freeman leaned forward. He pushed a glass filled with amber liquid into her hands. “I found the Scotch. Drink some.”
She stared at him.
“I had to convince you. Everything he said to you this afternoon was a lie. He’s a double agent, Joanna. For us.”
Her voice crawled out of her. “He gave this to you two years ago.”
“He didn’t know the full plan then. Actually none of us did, but I had an inkling. It would have been too risky to send this.”
“He trusted you to tell me.”
“And then—” He lifted his own glass to his mouth. His neck rippled as he swallowed. “This letter sat in safekeeping until just recently. But not my safekeeping. You see, I didn’t actually fly out of China, the way I told you. I spent about a year in prison in the same town where Aidan wound up.”
“Alma-Ata,” she said. “I know.”
He was silent.
She tasted the Scotch, concentrating on the sensation of heat flowing down her throat, up into her skull. “Is that when you ordered him to stay?”
“There were no orders. If anything, when push came to shove, it was the other way around. Aidan organized my escape. He made a friend in the hospital whose brother worked in the prison. But the quid pro quo was, he would stay on. If he hadn’t, our friends would have been killed.”
She closed the collar of her robe, pulling it tight around her throat.
Freeman said, “You have to understand. There are always contingency plans. Sometimes they take on a life of their own.”
“Like life insurance policies.” She drank. “Like divorce.” Then she drank again right down to the bottom. “It’s so quiet in the middle of the night. We could be anywhere.”
“Joanna. I need something from you.”
It dawned on her then, as he refilled her glass from a bottle of Johnnie Walker that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Freeman had been searching the room all this time. His eyes darted from the sideboard to the window ledge, through the kitchen door. He had gotten up while she was absorbed in the letter, had roamed through her living room and probably the hall. Perhaps he had even gone upstairs.
“When Aidan saw you,” he said. “He gave you a book.”
The sudden burst of comprehension was like an explosion in the back of her head. Aidan would use anyone, trample anyone. By comparison, Simon is lucky. He honestly believed that.
Freeman spoke softly, gently, as if the whole house might fall if he weren’t very careful. “There’s something extremely important inside that book. We’ll just take it out and give the book back. It will be as if I never came here—”
She interrupted, “Do you honestly expect me to think he’s a hero?”
His mouth hung open. Then he closed it and rubbed the back of his neck. “I certainly understand—”
“Do you? Do you have any idea?”
“I think so,” he said. He squinted at the ceiling. “I had the same life insurance policy, Joanna. My wife declared me dead on the day, and married my brother the following week. While I was sitting in a Soviet prison, dreaming about making love to her.”
“Blind faith is expensive, Mr. Freeman.”
“Doug.”
She took a sip from her glass then held it against her forehead. The condensation cooled her skin. A jackal wailed far in the distance. It sounded like a crying baby.
“Who’s he saving now?” she asked.
He shifted in his seat. Eventually he said, “I can’t give you any details.”
“I have a certain leverage,” she said. “I was prepared to burn that damn book when I got home this evening. I still could.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“Tell me why not.”
“A plane was shot down last fall. In Manchuria. Some good men were captured.”
“Good white men or good yellow men?”
He frowned. “The yellow ones were executed as soon as they were caught.”
“I see. Too bad for them.”
“Please, Joanna.”
But the Scotch had gone straight to the top of her skull. She realized she hadn’t eaten in two days. And now she was drunk.
“So whatever Aidan hid in this book helps you get them back. Then what?”
“That depends on the war. And Aidan.”
“He doesn’t want to come out, does he?”
He smiled. “I wish I could tell you we’d had long heart-to-heart chats. But you’re the only person I know who’s seen him.”
“It didn’t feel like he was acting.”
“That’s the mark of a good actor, isn’t it?”
“Actor? Or spy?” She laid her hands flat on the table, pressing her fingertips into the unyielding surface. “Tell me something… Doug. If I hadn’t gone to the Chinese. If I hadn’t wanted so badly to see him, would he have come out anyway? For you?”
“Probably not. It was very risky.” He took a deep breath. “I know it’s practically impossible to believe, but I think he wanted to see you every bit as much as you wanted to see him. Even under these circumstances.”
“But your operation…?”
He shrugged too casually. “There are safer ways to smuggle information out.”
She closed her eyes. Waited for the room to stop spinning. Finally, she stood.
“Stay here. I’ll bring you the book.” She walked past him into the hallway and began slowly climbing the stairs.
5
Lawrence had insisted I cover my face.
“No one must recognize you,” he said. “Just for tonight, you’re in purdah.”
“No one can see,” I protested. “The moon is slim tonight, and besides, the rickshaw man has seen me already.”
He answered by draping a long black shawl over my head and shoulders. Then he took my hand and led me out of his flat. I stumbled in the unlit stairwell, but his arm was steady, pulling me up, holding me back. Outside, he pressed me against the wall, then walked alone some distance down the street to a row of sleeping rickshaw drivers. He woke one of them, and the man mounted his bicycle as Lawrence climbed into the rickshaw. I stepped from the shadows as they passed, and Lawrence instructed the man to pause. He asked if I would join him, as if he had never seen me before. Then he told the man to take us as far as Lodi Gardens.
We did not speak. We did not touch. There was some shame between us that I did not fully understand, but I knew it was not my own.
At the entrance to the gardens we waited for the driver to ride away, then turned back toward Ratendone Road. The night was clear, filled with stars and a lowering moon like a scythe. Dawn was still distant enough that we encountered no one but a few mangy pi dogs. I let the shawl drop from my face.
We could see the house when Lawrence finally spoke.
“You have to promise me,” he said.
“Promise?”
“I’ll pay them off. I’ll see that they never come after you again. I’ll get you out of here, but you have to promise me you’ll never sell yourself again. And you must tell no one about tonight.”
My heart rose in my throat. We had come to the gate, which stood ajar, as I must have left it. A breeze rustled the leaves, and one of the pi dogs roaming behind us nosed closer now, as if expecting us to toss him scraps. I looked up at the shadow-shape of the house, the pale box of its walls, the darker squares marking rooms I knew better than my name. Windows through which I had made my escapes. Windows through which I had spied.
Suddenly my voice flew out of me, like the ball in the photograph of Lawrence’s son, tossed by an unseen hand. “Will you marry me, then?”
You see, I was still, even in that one last moment, a child. I saw and I heard, yet truly I understood only my own selfish greed.
He stopped walking. “What on earth?” He sounded as if he might laugh, and I turned to him touching his cheek, willing him to lift me again like a child but to love me like a woman.
I heard a cough, then a strangled cry. A small dark figure stumbled into the road.
“Simon.” Lawrence recognized him first.
“I followed you.” Simon’s voice climbed quickly to a high-pitched whine. “You said you’d bring her home, but I followed you.”
“Hey, now, laddie.” Lawrence raised one hand and with the other gently pressed me away. “It’s not like you think.”
“I waited…and waited.”
I saw that Simon’s hand was outstretched, but it was too dark for me to see why. The quiet seemed to close around us, catching whispers in its folds. A snuffling. The sigh of dust underfoot. Lawrence took a step toward Simon. “Easy, son,” he said, low and soft. “Why don’t you give me—”
Just then one of the dogs gave a deafening bark and lunged toward us. It was like an explosion off to my right, the noise and movement so unexpected that I leapt backward. But in that same instant I saw a jerking flash by Simon’s hand and heard a second noise—a loud, startled pop.
The next thing I knew I was drenched and falling. Lawrence’s weight came after me, then rolled so that I lay against him, tangled in his arms. Too stunned to move, I heard a mewling, tasted smoke and blood and earth. My body throbbed, but not with pain. I raised up on one elbow and placed a hand on Lawrence’s chest. His heart pounded against his ribs, the force of his pulse pushing me away. I drew back and a fountain erupted between us, rising as high as my shoulder.
I reached with both hands to stop the flow, but Lawrence gripped my arm. “Blame me,” he whispered. “Somehow… Blame me.”
In the darkness I saw his soft gray eye turn toward Simon, who stood whimpering blindly, “I didn’t mean to!” Lawrence’s blood drenched my palms, the force of his heartbeat overpowering me. Simon stood almost close enough to touch—close enough now that I could make out the gun still clumsily wrapped in his hands. Lawrence’s fingers tightened and his face twitched, eyes squeezing shut. His chest rose as he drew in a breath, but when he let it out his grip relaxed. The fountain of blood subsided.
Simon knelt in the dust, sobbing now and holding his head. He had dropped the gun. Lawrence felt so warm. I wanted to lie back down beside him, but a door slammed, and I heard footsteps in the driveway, Mem’s panic calling our names.
Blame me.
I let Lawrence go. My hands were covered in blood. I rubbed them in the dirt, then crawled forward. “Simon,” I said. “I’m taking the gun.”
I picked it up, felt its weight, the length of its barrel. This was the gun Simon had been too fearful to touch. The gun like a cowboy’s pistol. The gun belonging to Mem’s husband, who had, after all, brought our world to an end.
I stroked the pistol against the hem of my kurta, cleaning away Simon’s marks. The pi dogs had fallen back at the shot but now were circling again, sniffing Lawrence’s blood. I wrapped my fingers around the trigger and took aim at the cl
osest one. It had a long, pointed snout.
I squeezed. The dog fell, whining. I shot again and killed him.
A man appeared in the open gate. He had pale hair and stood tall as Lawrence. I could not see him clearly enough to know that I had seen him before. For a moment I thought he was Lawrence’s ghost.
Then Mem came behind him. She started toward Simon. She saw me and stopped. Slowly her face turned toward Lawrence’s body.
And she began to scream. The sound filled her throat, raw and ragged, with pauses like hiccups as she caught her breath, then started up again. The cries built quickly to a wracking, explosive howl that seemed to take over the night. It was like an animal dying, but refusing to die, summoning the last pure breath of life. I had never imagined Mem capable of producing such sound.
It shook the very ground beneath our feet.
6
We had heard a voice—a familiar voice. Someone at the gate. We tried to wake Mem, but she was hard asleep—she often took a sleeping pill before bedtime. If it was Lawrence we knew she would want us to let him in, and we were almost certain we heard Lawrence’s voice. We hoped it was Lawrence, as he had been away many weeks. Still, this was India and one had to be careful, so Simon grabbed his cap gun to summon the servants, in case we were mistaken.
Simon knew where Musai hid the key, and when we reached the gate we heard Lawrence again, his Australian accent marking him as surely as a beam of light, though it was so dark we still could not see him, and he stood so far back we could not make out what he was saying. We opened the gate, but instead of Lawrence, a pariah dog confronted us. The animal was moving closer, growling, mad. I knew such dogs are often rabid.
I told Simon to fire his pistol, to frighten the creature away. But then the dog barked and Simon was too frightened to move, so I grabbed the gun from him and shot in the direction of the beast. The sound was much larger than I expected. I had never fired a gun before. The noise echoed in my ears, but the dog kept coming. I fired again, and again. At last the dog fell, and I realized Simon was sobbing. Only then did I see what I had done.