The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory

by David Rotenberg

  “The proscenium’s too wide.” “Stanislavski loved a wide proscenium.”

  “Chinese audiences need the floor of the stage lowered because the average height of Chinese people is less than that of Russians.” “Stanislavski always had his stages this height.”

  “The dimension of this place is inhuman. Brutal.” “Stanislavski said the humanity should be on the stage, not in the house.” And so on.

  So she had lost. Actually, the city of Shanghai had lost. A lot of money had been spent on a virtually useless theatrical space because a Russian acting teacher who had probably not said a third of the things Russians claim he said was too godlike to be challenged.

  Fu Tsong assumed that Stanislavski was a nice enough guy with the odd good idea. She also assumed that he never intended to be quoted and deified. . . although being Russian it’s possible he was interested in deification. Be that as it may, Fu Tsong had found it a breath of fresh air when Geoffrey Hyland entered her theatrical life with the line: “Stanislavski who? If I had a dog, I might call him Stanislavski—if he were long dead and gone and irrelevant to the twentieth century art of acting, that is.” It had been artistic love at first sight.

  Fong remembered Fu Tsong coming home after that first rehearsal with Geoffrey Hyland. He remembered her excitement, her joy. He also remembered his feeling of being outside her world. Outside while Geoffrey was inside.

  Now, on the stage, Geoffrey spoke to the Twelfth Night cast who sat around old wooden tables. There was a rapt concentration so unlike most Chinese rehearsals, which were often exercises in wasted energy and diffused focus. Fong noted that the academics had been ushered out of the room. This session was not about text. Not even about Twelfth Night. This session, the first rehearsal in Geoffrey Hyland’s theatre land, was about his passion: acting. Fong had heard Fu Tsong talk about Geoffrey Hyland’s first rehearsals. She had said that she learned more about acting in two hours with Geoffrey Hyland than she had in four years at theatre school. So Fong leaned forward and tried to catch every word, to hear what she had heard.

  Geoffrey was on his feet—“in full flight” was the phrase that came to Fong’s mind—his translator at his side. “For an actor the art form of the theatre is not theatre, but acting. Acting is the art. Because most actors are taught by directors they are usually taught that what actors do is interpret. That acting is not an art but a craft. It behooves a director to have a pliant, obedient actor. And the best way to achieve this is through convincing an actor that his job is to serve the text, the way a brick mason serves an architect. Bullshit! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, and more fucking bullshit.”

  Geoffrey looked out into the house. For the briefest moment his eyes locked with Fong’s.

  Geoffrey took a breath and allowed his interpreter to catch up. “Acting is not about pretending. Acting is about knowing your instrument and selecting the notes on that instrument that produce the ’most eloquent music.’ Hamlet, when pumped for information by Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, takes a recorder from his pocket and offers it to one of them saying, ’Will you play upon this pipe?’ To which Guildenstern responds, ’My lord I cannot.’ After further beseeching by Hamlet, Guildenstern finally says, ’I know no touch of it, my lord!’ To which Hamlet responds, ’Tis as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.’ Then taking back the recorder he says, ’Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from the lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to play on than a pipe?’ Like everything else in this play, Hamlet is talking about acting. What an actor does, as Hamlet says, is know his ventages and his stops and plays them in order to create most eloquent music. To do so is an art, not a craft.”

  Once again Geoffrey let his gaze move to the theatre seats. Fong was still there. Listening. Taking it in. Rapt, as Fu Tsong had been.

  Fong felt Geoffrey’s eyes on him and knew that with every word Geoffrey was proving to him that he understood Fu Tsong’s world in a way that Fong never could. It was a truth against which Fong had no defence. Fong felt the world spinning on its axis. It was several minutes more before he gained enough composure to refocus on Geoffrey’s words.

  “In The Empty Space, Peter Brook begins with a comment that seeing five actors just standing on the stage his eye was drawn to one and not to the other four. He then goes on to make the point that the one able to attract his eye has a gift, is gifted. Fine. Perhaps. But I was sitting in a particularly dull bar back in Toronto one night in 1988. The faces were bland, boring, lifeless. Mr. Brook’s other four actors, if you will. And then a strange Flemish lady came on the bar’s television and informed Canada that our national hero, Ben Johnson, had been disqualified from the Olympics and that his gold medal was being taken back because he was so cooked up he could hardly find his way back to the dorm after the race or some such. Well, the faces in the bar became electric as everyone of them fell into the pure primary state of being of I AM BETRAYED. In that primary all the faces in the bar would have attracted Mr. Brook’s eye. But even as I watched, fascinated by the change in the people, I saw the faces close down as they were unable to stay in the primary of I AM BETRAYED and fell off into the redneck secondary state of being of ”We let the fucker into our country and what does he do”—I AM ANGRY—or the liberal secondary state of being of “Well, you know it’s hard on a black man in this country and his dad’s not here”—I UNDERSTAND. Actors get paid to stay in primary states of being—to stay in I AM BETRAYED and not roll over into secondaries. We pay five bucks or ten bucks or 129 bucks or however many fucking kwai to sit in the dark and watch you stay in primaries. To fully experience for us that which our systems are unable to fully experience for ourselves. Civilians, nonactors, retreat from primaries to the relative safety of secondaries to be able to live their lives, but pay money, sometimes a lot of money, to watch actors stay in primaries and experience live, before their very eyes, that which they themselves are unable to experience. They come to the theatre to watch actors act. To watch them find and stay in primaries. They come to watch artists—actors.”

  As if coming out of a reverie, Geoffrey looked up and smiled at Fong. Had he said these things out loud or were they only in Fong’s head? Fong didn’t know. He noticed that the actors, to a man, were hanging on every word. Then, to Fong’s amazement, he was sure that he heard Geoffrey’s voice deep in his head, as if the late night whisper of a lover dropped into a tilted ear. “Watched her, Fong. We watched her. From down there. You the cop and me the director. We watched her. But at least I appreciated, loved what she did. Loved her. And she loved me.” Fong lifted his head from his hands and stared at the stage. Geoffrey was standing to one side. His interpreter was translating Geoffrey’s answer to a question about balance between playing actions and maintaining states of being. Evidently a whole section of Geoffrey’s talk had passed by as Fong was dealing with the voices in his head. As his translator finished, Geoffrey moved toward her and with the ease of theatre people everywhere put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her. Then to the actors: “I get carried away. We’ll pick up tomorrow.” There were smiles and thanks and good-byes as Geoffrey shouted, “Ming tien jien, see you tomorrow,” as the actors left.

  In his seat at the back of the theatre, Fong lit a Kent and tried to release his tension with the smoke that he blew into the musty air.

  Geoffrey packed up his bag and stopped as he was about to turn off the stage lights. He called out, “So do you really know why you’re here, Fong?”

  Slowly, almost against his will Fong answered, “Because Fu Tsong loved this play.”

  “She certainly did,” said Geoffrey as he struck the lights and headed down the steps into the theatre. “She
claimed that everyone in the world was in this play. That all you had to do was allow yourself to know yourself. And once you did you would recognize yourself as one of the characters of Twelfth Night.”

  “And who was she?” Fong found himself asking.

  “Olivia, naturally. She who is loved.”

  “And you?”

  “For me to know, and indeed I do know, but seldom admit even to myself, let alone to you, Fong.” That hovered in the air for a moment, then Geoffrey added, “You of course are easier to spot in the play. Obvious to all but you, no doubt. You may have to see a few more rehearsals to allow yourself to know, ‘what all else do know.’”

  The silence between the two men deepened even as the connection grew. Geoffrey felt lumpish in comparison to this thin tight Chinese man. Fong for his part felt outside, outside a world that Geoffrey Hyland clearly knew very well. A world that his wife had loved as she loved her life and the child that had grown within her.

  Without prompting Geoffrey said, “Fu Tsong was brilliant when it came to making most eloquent music. I’ve never seen anyone understand their ventages and stops like her. She was the most artful actor with whom I have ever worked.” He didn’t say more but a set of lines from Twelfth Night sprang full blown into his head:

  “Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

  And call upon my soul within the house;

  Write loyal cantons of contemned love

  And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

  Hallow your name to the reverberate hills

  And make the babbling gossip of the air

  Cry out ’Olivia’!”

  For a moment the two men stood in silence in the ancient theatre. An entire world separating them. A woman uniting them forever.

  The call came at 3:22 in the morning of the third day. Wang Jun had found the street sweeper. There was a car waiting downstairs.

  DAY THREE

  It was 3:46 A.M. as Fong dragged himself into the passenger seat of the car. Wang Jun sat behind the wheel. He had on sunglasses, white gloves, and the hint of a smile.

  “It’s very early in the morning,” sighed Fong.

  “It’s almost tomorrow in Hawaii,” replied Wang Jun. “I’ll take your word for it. That dateline stuff always made me nervous. No matter what time it is in Hawaii, it’s too dark to be wearing sunglasses, Wang Jun.”

  Wang Jun obediently flipped up his sunglasses. His smile broadened.

  “Where did you find her?” asked Fong.

  Wang Jun set the car in gear and with a laugh said, “Back in the country.”

  Fong groaned. He hated the country.

  “By one of the water towns,” Wang Jun added, as the smile creased his face. Fong really hated the filthy water towns.

  Pleased with himself, Wang Jun flipped down his sunglasses, sped up Yan’an and headed out of the city.

  The drive could take as little as an hour and a half or as long as six depending on the traffic. At that hour, it took just over two. Along the way they saw some fishermen pulling in their early morning catch from ancient manmade lakes, the odd farmer harnessing his water buffalo for its daily labours, and a great many people trudging their sorry asses toward Shanghai with their lives on their backs. At 4:50 the sun began to rise, and Fong wished that he had brought his sunglasses too. Wang Jun noticed but decided not to comment.

  They passed by Grand View Garden in Qingpu County. The massive re-creation was a sort of theme park based on a classic piece of Chinese erotica, The Dream of the Red Chamber. Despite protests from the prudish, the place proved to be a magnet to Chinese tourists from hundreds of miles around. They all came, knowing the sordid story of concubine intrigue and couplings. They gawked from one re-created pavilion bedroom to the next, ogling the finery in which these bored slatterns lived or were supposed to have lived. At the time Fong remembered wondering how, as the brochure puts it, the exhibits could be “faithful in even the finest detail.” Faithful to what? It was a book. An incomplete book to boot. Fu Tsong howled with laughter when they went the first time. “And here’s where she blew the serving boy, and here’s where both of the men disrobed for her and did each other to please her. It’s beautifully re-created don’t you think? I wonder if the chamber pots are full. Those novel characters do use chamber pots, don’t they?” A few years after their first visit Fu Tsong, because of her popular portrayal of a young concubine on Beijing radio had been asked to lead a tour of dignitaries to the park. She begged Fong to come on the tour and, after not too much cajoling, he agreed.

  He had stood near the back, a pair of dark glasses supposedly hiding his identity, as she led the crowd of politicos. It was a sight Fong thought he would never see. Puritanical, up-tight Communist party officials convulsed with laughter as Fu Tsong insinuated which sexual positions were used in which rooms. From one of the ornate mahogany beds she picked up a beautiful piece of yellow silk with rather hefty knots tied into its length. Swinging it in the air she asked if anyone of the politicians could help her out as to the use of this particular gizmo. They ate it up. She was a dream of desire with just the right taint of smut.

  That night she had showed him the many uses of a knotted piece of silk. And each had made him gasp with pleasure. But none more so than when he opened his eyes and saw her joy in giving him that pleasure.

  He awoke to a punch on the shoulder from Wang Jun. The sun hurt his eyes and he had a crick in his neck. He looked out the window and saw nothing but fields and a steepish, grassy hill.

  “Where?”

  Wang Jun pointed at the hill about a half mile off. They got out of the car and began to walk. As they got closer Fong could make out a small chimney on the top of the grassy mound and the slightest of smoke tendrils against the cloudless sky. “She lives in a hill?”

  “No, but her brother and his family do,” replied Wang Jun as he slid his service revolver into his hand and checked the cylinders.

  Surprised to see the gun, Fong remarked, “It’s the street sweeper I asked you to pick up, right?”

  “Right, Fong, but she ran. People with things to hide run. Or at least that’s been my experience, and I’m getting too old to chase them. So this,” he said, pointing to the gun, “is my way of being sure that should they try to run, I won’t get hurt following them.”

  “What happened to the gentlemanly touch of a few years ago?”

  “It got tired.” They were now a mere one hundred yards from the grassy hill. The door would be around the other side facing south, although “door” was probably a misnomer. An opening with a cover would be more likely. However, now with the new market reforms, a peasant could get rich, and quickly too. You never knew what you’d find at a peasant’s place. A complete Sony home entertainment system, a Jaguar convertible, a geisha—it was getting out of hand.

  The grassy hills were of course man-made. They were the accumulation of the original dirt that had been removed to form the sunken rice paddies. In this part of China several of these mounds were more than eight hundred years old. They had been constantly inhabited since they were first built. Few remained. Of those that did, the truly valued ones were covered in grass like this one. They were said to be remarkably warm in winter and cool in summer and totally water-proof. Yeah, but what about the view, thought Fong.

  The path led them to the south side of the hill. The other three sides were covered with freshly flooded rice paddies. Fong shivered at the thought of entering the barrow.

  Their reception was chilly, to say the least. The brother, a creature not so differently textured from the thick mud that passed as soil in this part of the world, stood in the doorway and would not let them in. At first he claimed his wife needed time to dress and then he claimed that his humble abode was unworthy of such esteemed guests. Then Wang Jun shoved him hard against the side of the opening and the policemen marched into the barrow.

  The first thing to hit Fong’s senses was the deep scent of the earth. The domelike shape above him was livin
g earth supporting plants and animals. And he was beneath it. The dampness of the air was complete. Fong felt his entire body coat with sweat. But he wasn’t totally sure it was from the air. There was fear here, too. Huddled to one side of the rounded space was a youngish peasant wife and her young son. Across the way was the grandmother. There was also beautiful Danish modern furniture sitting on a silk rug that must have cost several thousand kwai. Behind the furniture were various elaborate fish tanks. Besides the usual tanks that you would see in any restaurant window containing edible fish and eels, there was also a tropical tank replete with godly floating experiments in colour and design. Next to this aquarium was a large glass enclosure sitting on a sturdy wooden cabinet. As Fong took a step toward the enclosure, a mighty serpent, its body as thick as a man’s arm, rose a full two feet up and stared at him. For a moment the great animal was completely still and then it flared its hood and lashed at the glass, sending shivers through the panes.

  Wang Jun had managed to get some of the basics from the brother. Like his name. After some badgering the man even acknowledged that he knew his sister. But no, he hadn’t seen her for years, maybe twenty years. Wang Jun turned to the grandmother for confirmation of that fact and was met with an uncomprehending look.

  “She speaks only Cantonese.”

  “Yeah, and I’m Doctor Bethune,” Wang Jun shouted back. That made the child cry. The mother comforted him. Fong noticed that the boy was plump. A fat Chinese peasant boy—the world was changing. Wang Jun took a slow walk around the room and finally said, “You folks live pretty well. It would be a shame to have to confiscate it all as evidence in a murder case.” That clearly shook the wife, but the brother stared her down.

  Fong watched all this and said nothing. From the moment he entered the barrow he sensed that there was something else present here. There was something wrong with the geography of it all. He looked toward the door opening and then to the cooking fire in the opposite wall. The smell of morning porridge was thick in the room. He walked by the kitchen area and then parted a hanging sheet revealing the family’s sleeping mattresses, each a new Japanese-style futon on its own raised wooden platform. Then he crossed back into the centre of the room and stood directly under the apex of the dome. Entrance to the south, sleeping quarters to the west, cooking fire to the north, and silk-rugged living area to the east with its rows of aquariums against the wall.