At each corner Amanda checked the street sign. She discovered that the signs were set up for drivers, not walkers. So at each street sign she grabbed the post and swung out into the road to read which street she was on. She finally came to the corner of Chong Shu and Hua Shan and realized that Hua Shan, on which she had started, simply made a right turn without notifying anyone. By staying straight on you were dumped onto Chong Shu. Okay, fair enough, she thought. Lesson learned.
She crossed the street toward King’s Bakery, knowing that the school should be on that side. As she did, movement in a glass window beside the bakery caught her eye. Her breath stuck in her throat. Several large snakes were in the window, many rising up to get a good look at her.
She hurried on. She passed the Jing An Hotel, which had a high wall with glass embedded in the top. Then she passed a lengthy area of what looked like stunted scarred elm trees, after which on her right she saw the small polished plaque for the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Thank God it was in English, she thought.
Across the street was the Marco Polo Night Club. Some fancy cars were parked there. And lots of neon suggested untold pleasures within. She turned away from the Marco Polo and back to the school. She was face to face with a problem. A gate. A locked gate. No door and a locked gate. Inside she saw a diminutive old woman pouring hot water from a thermos into a large glass jar with what looked like seaweed in the bottom.
Amanda called out to her. The woman ignored her. Amanda called again. The old lady hollered something back at her, no doubt something nasty, and walked away. When she was gone, an old man hobbled out of the gatehouse and stared at Amanda. His grizzled face wore a smile. Amanda had to stop her immediate revulsion at being stared at and her knee-jerk antipathy to his Mao jacket. Finally he began to point to the other side of the compound. Point and make circular motions of walking with his fingers. After a lot more pointing and much more smiling, she finally got the idea that she was to go around to the other side of the compound. The side that was on Yan’an—a straight, uncomplicated walk up the street from the Shanghai International Equatorial Hotel! She sighed. Second lesson. Addresses are not addresses are not addresses in Shanghai.
The trip around was uneventful. By the time she had to repass the snake place, its iron shutters had been pulled down. The walk up Yan’an was a little more interesting than the one up Hua Shan. Some stores were still open, as were little kiosks where you could buy anything from beer to tampons. At one point there was a small red car up on a two-story-high iron beam. It sat there at the junction of two streets. Amanda wondered briefly if they were advertising these peculiar little cars or the strength of the beam that held it. Behind the thing was a partially demolished three-story house that at one time must have been quite elegant.
Passing by the raised car she finally found the Yan’an entrance to the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Not fancy like the Hua Shan entrance but open, which was far more important. She walked into the compound and was immediately faced with the fact that she had no idea where exactly she was going. Fortunately for her, the gatekeeper on this side had gotten Fong’s message, and as he was to tell his wife later, “It was not hard to pick out the albino.” He signalled for her to follow him. She did with only a little trepidation.
They walked past a building whose six stories were completely surrounded by lashed bamboo scaffolding. Amanda had never seen anything like it before. They passed several elegant old Chinese-style buildings with swinging windows on their upper floors and finally she was guided into a low building whose foyer smelled of the washroom which was no doubt nearby. She looked back at the gatekeeper. He signalled for her to go through the next door. She did and was immediately greeted by the scent of thick dust mixed with years of dampness.
The dim overhead lights cast more shadow than illumination but there was a brighter light on stage. And up there was a white male—thank Christ. And he was speaking English to one of the Chinese women. In the theatre several people were sitting around, talking and smoking. Lots of smoking. Onstage the white man was evidently trying to make some point through the Chinese lady whom Amanda took to be an interpreter.
The person on the phone had indicated that Inspector Zhong would be in the theatre, but little else. She assumed that a policeman would be easy to pick out. But there wasn’t anyone there who stood out to her in any way except the white man on the stage.
With an exasperated sigh she sat down in an aisle seat. The dust literally rose around her. The broken seat back bit into her. The seat was too low, the arm rest too high. What the fuck was she doing here?
Just as she was about to leave, a smallish Chinese man, square across the shoulders with the casual walk of one used to physical activity, approached her.
If this guy tries to pick me up, I’ll deck him, she thought.
But Zhong Fong had no interest in picking up Amanda Pitman. He found her large features anything but appealing and the colour of her skin was like the white sauce that Fong refused to eat when he was a child. The length of her legs, below the hem of her skirt, surprised him. He would prefer to meet this lady sitting down. So he sat in the seat behind her and before she could get up in protest he said in his best English, reminding himself of the r sound, “Mrs. Richard Fallon?”
With a sigh of relief, Amanda said, “Inspector Zhang Fang.”
They always did that. He thought it proper to start things on the right foot so he corrected her. “Zhong not Zhang, and Fong not Fang.”
“Well, while we’re at it, Ms. Amanda Pitman, not Mrs. Richard Fallon,” snapped back Amanda, none too pleased with the opening gestures of this game.
He saw the flash in her eyes and the rise. It surprised him. What really surprised him was that he liked it. He smiled. “Welcome to Shanghai, Ms. Amanda Pitman.”
To which she replied, “Thank you very much, Inspector Zhong Fong.”
Turning her eyes to the stage she said, “Is this part of the investigation into my husband’s murder?”
“In a way.”
“What way?”
Fong was decidedly displeased with the tone of that. She was surprised at her own approach but it was on the table so she let it sit.
“This is China, Ms. Pitman. Perhaps more to the point this is Shanghai. This is not New Orleans. You are not a citizen here. I am seeing you as a personal favour, not in the line of duty, is that clear?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“How much did they tell you about your husband’s death?”
“Not much. Time and place. They also intimated that an open casket funeral would not be appropriate.”
Fong needed clarification on that. His English did not extend to esoteric areas like funeral rites. When he finally got the idea he was shocked. Clearly they had told this woman only the barest details of her husband’s demise.
“You are Richard Fallon’s wife, yes?”
“I was, yes.”
“I could use some more information about your husband. It could prove useful in apprehending his killer.”
“Would now be convenient?”
“Not for me, no. I would like to see you in my office.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Well, no. Tomorrow I’m going to relive the last six hours of the life of a man who was killed by the same man who killed your husband.”
“Can I come with you?”
For a moment Fong missed the idiom and then he got it. His immediate impulse was to say no but he didn’t. He paused. His world was changing. Everything was in flux. Why not police procedure too? He nodded then looked toward the stage. Geoffrey was talking about addiction again.
Geoffrey was always aware of everything that went on in his rehearsal, be it on the stage or back in the auditorium. So Amanda Pitman’s entrance did not escape his attention. How large she looked in the context of Asian women. How very different from Hao Yong, let alone Fu Tsong. Yet there was something appealing about this big blond American. He was sure that she was an American. As a Canad
ian who had spent almost fifteen years of his life living in the United States he had no trouble picking an American out of a crowd. Unlike many fellow Canadians, he rather liked Americans. But the total victory of America at the end of the Cold War put America everywhere. Shanghai was loaded down with American images. Everything from the huge Marlboro Man billboard on the Nanjing Road side of People’s Park (Mao must be rolling in his grave) to the endless T-shirts with logos for American sports teams that so many Chinese young people wore. Dammit, Sprite was China’s national drink!
It was really only the language barrier that kept the Americans at bay. Unlike Europe where English is either sharply on the ascendance or already king, in China there were very few English speakers and English and Mandarin were so different that no amount of goodwill could cross the linguistic barrier.
Geoffrey remembered being approached on the Promenade across from the Bund several years back, before he spoke much Mandarin, by a man who began with “I English. You friend, ho-kay?” Geoffrey had been in Shanghai long enough to know that these seemingly innocent approaches were always the beginning of an attempt to sell services, but he didn’t mind.
Geoffrey continued walking but the man kept up with him.
“You tourist?”
“Well, no. In fact, I’m working here at the Shanghai People’s Theatre.”
That clearly was beyond this man’s English, so Geoffrey changed the subject. “What do you do?”
The man smiled and lifted his shoulders. Geoffrey recognized the man’s dilemma, being a formidable smiler and shoulder lifter himself in like circumstances. So he rephrased. “Work? What? You?”
A smile crossed the man’s face. Why didn’t the stupid white man ask that the first time? “Engineer, I.”
“Good,” responded Geoffrey, more than a little surprised that he had gotten through.
“Engineer, I. You?”
“Theatre director, writer, me.” He knew the word for writer although it had taken him several days of practice to get it down, “Zuojia, wo.” A look of utter confusion blossomed on the Chinese man’s face. Geoffrey knew that he had the right word but he could very well have had both the wrong pronunciation and the wrong intonation. Evidently the man believed Geoffrey had said something very peculiar and was going to ignore it. Geoffrey hoped he hadn’t implied something rude.
“American?” he asked.
“Mao (no), Canadian.”
A smile lit the Asian’s face. “Ottawa capital.”
The smile seemed to say that all this man’s hard work had been worth something. “Shide (yes).”
“Married?”
“Shide. You (ni) married?”
“Yes, girl.”
“You have a girl?”
“Shide, just one. Girl one. Government say no more. Ni?” “Two, a boy and a girl.”
Conversations with the Chinese always eventually came around to children. He was always saddened when he admitted that he had two children to their one. It was a moment of embarrassment of riches that he couldn’t defend. Even saying that he had a son while the man he was talking to didn’t, created a moment of real tension. Usually the Chinese person smiled politely, but whatever possibility of communication, of actual contact, however slight, was then at an end. A gulf always yawned at that point. A gulf of culture and reality.
There followed more smiling and shoulder lifting. Eventually the man pulled out a set of stamps and an old coin he had for sale. Geoffrey declined as graciously as he could.
Geoffrey noted that language was clearly not a barrier between Fong and the white woman. Fong’s English was good. Fu Tsong had made sure.
Having just arrived in Shanghai, he had no desire to spend his time in the company of white people, so upon breaking rehearsal, Geoffrey hustled out the side door. Besides, he still had his questions about Fong and the death of Fu Tsong. Questions that he was anxious to ask the investigating officer who had, seemingly out of nowhere, contacted him earlier in the day.
The officer’s name was Wang Jun.
That night, in the safety of his Portman hotel suite, Loa Wei Fen allowed the memory of the kill to come back to him. The African’s heart had wrapped itself around the knife. Its life had surged up the blade and almost thrown Loa Wei Fen back on his haunches. This was a kill that was different from all the others. This was a man with great power. A man whom he was lucky to have surprised so thoroughly. He remembered the tearing sound as the blade cut through gristle and snagged on tendon. He remembered the battle to cut the heart. But most he remembered the pounding of his own heart as for the first time he saw that he was taking a life that was worthy.
He remembered that the black man’s heart tasted of bile and Loa Wei Fen knew it moved him farther from the edge of the roof. Away from the leap that would finally put his life on the path—the tao.
Ngalto Chomi’s half heart received a reception comparable to that of Richard Fallon’s. The hotel differed, the men in the room differed, but their reaction, as mentioned, was the same.
Fong had offered to drive or walk Ms. Pitman back to her hotel but she declined. She just asked him to walk her to the Yan’an gate and point her in the right direction. For a moment Fong thought to follow Geoffrey but then decided that his duty was to help Ms. Pitman.
As they emerged from the dim theatre into the clear night sky a whisper of wind picked Amanda’s perfume off her shoulders and tickled it beneath Fong’s nose. He was startled by its effect. Up his nose and directly into the rhinencephalon part of the brain and bingo—memory clarion clear.
She was holding out her hand and saying something before he realized that he hadn’t been listening.
“Well,” she said, withdrawing her hand, “I’ll see you at what time?”
Feeling more than a wee bit foolish he covered by saying, “No need to start until eleven. I’ll send a car for you.”
“I can find my way, just tell me where I’m going.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you at the entrance to the bird and fish market off Cheng Dou Road.”
She tried to say Cheng Dou several times and couldn’t get it quite right so he spelled it for her. Like so many Europeans, she learned better from the letter than the sound. So unlike Fu Tsong, he thought, who learned English whole, mostly from movies. Movies she watched on the VCR that Geoffrey Hyland had given them. Movies she watched snuggled in close to him, her perfume whispering memories that he stored in the rhinencephalon part of his brain.
All he could think as he watched them from behind the costume shop was that they made a strange couple. The handsome blond woman and the delicate Chinese man. Almost a reversed yin and yang, thought Geoffrey. Almost.
April 21
Dearest Sis,
Yeah, that’s right, it’s your big sister writing you. It must be years since I’ve written a letter, but if you recall, sweet thing, I used to write to you all the time. Shit, I used to write all the time and not just to you. Well, I feel like writing again and you’re the target so read it and enjoy it or give the stamp to that nephew of mine or let little Beth chew it into tiny bite-sized pieces and spit them at her brother. Do with it what you will.
The Victorians left us a heritage of beautiful personal letters. What are we leaving? In fifty years some moronic university type will get a Ph.D. based on Eccentric Phone Messages of the Late 20th Century—“Sorry we’re not home leave a message.” “This is the house of pain, the house of pain, the house of pain, leave a fucking message.” “If you don’t leave a message at the tone, we’ll bomb your house and dance in the ashes.” Stuff like that.
This letter has something to do with flying over the pole. That’s the route JAL takes to Tokyo. And it’s not that “looked at clouds from both sides now” crap—I always wanted that honey to lighten up—it’s the sense of majesty down there. The endless miles of ribbed ice on the Mackenzie River, the daunting mountains leading into Alaska, range upon range upon range, and then the sea—a dream of chilling no-moreness. But peace
too. Solemn and simple, a rest from the burdens. I thought of Mom. Her quiet sadness as she padded round and round the house in those final years. A woman pulled inside with her own quiet. The thing that lived inside her eating her living flesh to keep itself alive. And coffee on the table late at night with her in that tattered bathrobe she claimed belonged to Dad but both you and I know didn’t. And the smell of bourbon in her coffee. And the smell of the drugs on her breath. And the retreat in her eyes. She’d never flown over the pole. She’d never gone anywhere.
But I’m here in Shanghai, in an American-style hotel with a bunch of other white folks and some rich Asians. I remember seeing Karasawa’s film Ran, did I see that with you? It’s his version of one of the Shakespeare plays, Lear I think. At any rate, I was in New York—having some girlish fun—and it was a cold rainy Wednesday afternoon so I checked into this movie theatre on 61st to see Ran. I remember now I wasn’t with you. Yes, I surely do remember that I wasn’t with you. No, I’m not going to tell you who I was with. At any rate the movie starts and being a Karasawa film it’s set in medieval Japan in the period of warring states. Well the thing is almost four hours long but for the first hour and a half each of the actors didn’t change kimonos, or if they did they kept to the same colour of kimono, so us westerners naturally were following the characters by the colour of their clothes. But then about an hour and a half in, they leave the country and enter the city, and all of the characters change clothes (and colour). Well, there is a moment of consternation in the audience and then some guy calls out in a loud New York voice: “Ah, come on, give us a break.” The place broke up. Everyone began to guess who was who. “No, that’s the guy who used to be in the red with the feather on the front.” “No it’s not, it’s the one who was in blue with the flags on his back.” It was a hoot.
The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory Page 12