by Song Ying
And in the midst of the raging storm, people were still out in the water.
Could Hu Guohao have died doing the same thing?
Midnight came and went, and there was no sign of the rain letting up. Having brought neither enough money to stay in a hotel nor an umbrella, he was forced to tough it out in his leaky tent. Dressed only in a pair of wet swimming trunks, he lay on his T-shirt, which he’d spread over a sheet of plastic, and his beach shorts. Both the T-shirt and the shorts were soaked, as was his baseball cap, which hung on the tent pole outside. He was drenched in rain and sweat, and encased in a fishy, ocean smell. As he observed the roiling ocean, listening to the roar of the waves and the rain beating down on the tent, he was reminded of the military training classes during his college days.
Exhausted and cold, he dozed off around 3:00 A.M., but only briefly. He’d left sixty yuan as a deposit at the tent rental office, not nearly enough for a hotel room or even a beach towel. So he decided to return the tent, retrieve his deposit, and walk over to the Haiyi Tea Shop in slippers and swimming trunks, his waterlogged T-shirt draped over his back and a wet swimming cap on his head. He was not alone. Tourists with the same idea, some alone and some in groups of four or five, were chatting among themselves as they waited for daybreak.
The rain that night appeared heaven-sent, for when he casually asked a tea shop attendant if anything interesting had happened during the night, he was given an important clue to the case. A tourist from Hubei overheard him and said that he had come to the beach the previous weekend with some friends on a business trip. They’d rented a tent that night, too. Around 3:00 A.M., when he got up to pee, he heard bird sounds out by Lovers’ Lane; the birds were calling to each other, as if stirred up by something. Paying little attention to the sound, he’d returned to the tent and gone back to sleep.
“There are lots of nests on the banyan tree by Lovers’ Lane,” the man said.
Egrets! Nie Feng’s eyes lit up.
“Last weekend? Was it the night of the twenty-fourth?”
“That’s right,” the tourist replied. “Apparently someone drowned that night. The police were all over the place the next morning.”
When day broke, Nie put on his damp T-shirt and beach shorts before going to check out Lovers’ Lane, and that was how he discovered the important clue that had eluded him the first time.
— 3 —
Evening. The Milan Café.
It was an upscale coffee shop located behind a McDonald’s in one of Shenzhen’s busy neighborhoods, a popular hangout on a quiet lane. Zhong Tao liked the quiet atmosphere and simple décor, characterized by long tables with grainy wood and small wooden chairs with rounded backs. A fragrant cup of coffee helped you forget the clamor and concerns of the city for the moment.
Set against the old floor tiles, under orange lighting, the dark wooden doors and windows gave the café an ancient flair. The space was small enough to see all the way to the back. Black-and-white photos adorned one whole wall, most of them depicting old Hong Kong: Queen’s Road, junks plying the harbor, old-fashioned tramcars, and the like. It was a study in nostalgia. A small, dark door on the opposite wall was next to a decorative Italian-style fireplace.
The waitresses wore plain green T-shirts, lending them a casual appearance.
Zhong Tao and Ding Lan were sitting in one of the three private booths against the wall. Wearing a polo shirt and jeans, Zhong Tao looked relaxed. Ding was also dressed casually. Between them on the table sat a charming little oil lamp with a brass base and mosaic glass shade in the shape of a pomegranate flower.
Their coffee came. Zhong Tao had ordered two cups of Hawaiian Kona coffee. The white ceramic cups had been warmed before the coffee was poured. A rich aroma rose with the steam.
“Their coffee is very good, so don’t add too much milk,” Zhong said as he handed her the small milk jar.
“I prefer Nescafé instant,” Ding Lan said.
“Instant coffee is terrible.” Zhong smiled and sipped his coffee. The taste, the aroma, and the richness were all first-rate. It was not something you could get just anywhere.
“Inhale the aroma and you can detect a hint of red wine,” he explained.
Ding took a sip. “Very nice. It has a fruity flavor.”
“Right. That’s the taste of Kona coffee.”
A dreamy look appeared on Ding’s face.
“Do you remember … back when we planted coffee beans in Lanjiang?”
“Of course. ‘Red, red coffee beans; green, green rubber trees.’ How romantic that was,” Zhong replied in a mocking tone, a blank expression on his face.
The silence was broken by music, an English song sung by a slightly hoarse baritone.
A twentysomething bartender in a black T-shirt was mixing a drink. Two of the ten bar stools were occupied by young men who were sipping Carlsbergs. A large screen in front of the fireplace was where fans congregated during soccer matches.
The song was replaced by the strains of a harmonica coming from the Shenzhen radio station. The DJ announced: “OK, everyone, here comes a harmonica solo called ‘Apricot in the Rain.’” A favorite on college campuses, it opened with light, fast percussion, followed by a weepy harmonica that sounded like someone sobbing.
Zhong listened and seemed lost in thought. Ding was also entranced by the music.
The pomegranate lampshade swayed gently as the harmonica played on, sounding like music from a different realm.
“Do you remember? Back then—”
Zhong gestured to stop Ding from finishing. He was caught up in the music; a minute later he mumbled, “The past is like a dream.”
“I really miss those days. They were brief, but I was so happy,” Ding said fervently as she looked at him.
“We were only seventeen,” he said.
“And Apricot was barely fifteen,” she said sadly.
The music conjured up for Zhong the scene of apricots in the rain.
* * *
A hill in Lan’que Ridge and an apricot grove. Spring twenty-eight years earlier, when clusters of apricot flowers weighed down the branches and dyed the hill pink.
It was early evening, and Zhong Tao, along with a dozen zhiqing from Chengdu, came to the hill to sing. Part of the forced exodus of youngsters sent to the countryside during the Cultural Revolution, they belonged to the 2nd Company, 4th Battalion, XX Regiment of the Yunnan Construction Corps, all from the same Chengdu high school. Among the girls were Zhong Xing (Apricot), Xiao Yuhong, and Ding Lan. Zhong Tao and Ding Qiang were the most active boys. They sat in a circle singing a popular tune at the top of their lungs.
Xiao Yuhong, who wore long braids and had a round face and large eyes, was the prettiest girl in the corps, as well as the most talented. She sang and danced beautifully. She and Zhong Tao were childhood sweethearts.
Swarthy Zhong Tao, whose nickname was “Dark Boy,” sat beside her. He had an honest face and a slightly goofy smile. He usually sang off-key.
Ding Qiang and his sister, Ding Lan, were horsing around. With a chubby face, pencil-thin brows, and slender eyes, she was not particularly pretty. Her brother, lean and solid, was a principled, stubborn youngster. Combative by nature, he was nicknamed “Qiangzi,” or Bossy. He and Zhong were buddies.
Zhong Tao’s young sister, Apricot, accompanied the singers on her harmonica, the most popular and most fashionable instrument among the zhiqing.
They began with a song about their hometown, a piece based on an earlier melody, “The Same Old Autumn Water,” from the 1930s, with new, somewhat melancholy lyrics. Holding the pink harmonica in her hands, Apricot cocked her head and lost herself in the music, her gleaming eyes staring into the distance at the apricot grove on the slope. She was wearing a checkered blouse and, with her hair tied into two short braids, her guileless, innocent manner was captivating.
“The happiness of years gone by
Turns to loneliness before me.
Where has the dream gone?
<
br /> I look out with teary eyes,
Dear Mama.
When will I be able to come home?
The raging waters of the Jin River,
The splendid People’s South Road
Are the same as always.”
The lilting harmonica strains reminded them of the buildings in Chengdu’s Wangjiang Park, the unending traffic on People’s South Road, the flowing waters of Huanhua Creek, as well as the enchanting fields of golden rapeseed flowers.
They were seventeen, fresh out of high school, although some of them had actually completed only two years. Responding to the call of the great leader, Chairman Mao, these boys and girls had just arrived in Lanjiang in Yunnan two months earlier. Zhong Tao’s sister, Apricot, a fifteen-year-old middle school student, had joined him in the Yunnan border area, several thousand li from home, a place where they’d expected to find “bananas above their heads and pineapples under their feet” everywhere; what they encountered was a shock. Their meals consisted of turnips boiled in water and blanched cabbage. They had to clear the hillside and build their own living quarters. In the daytime, they made adobe blocks and cut bamboo until they nearly dropped from exhaustion. So when dusk descended and they could finally rest, naturally they thought of home and of their parents.
Tears brimmed in some eyes. Then, as the harmonica tempo picked up, they switched to a rousing tune:
“Go to the countryside,
Go to the border area,
Go to wherever the motherland needs us most.”
Now they were reminded of their departure from Chengdu, seen off with gongs and drums so loud they nearly shattered the sky, red flags flapping in the wind, earsplitting shouts of farewell, and the tear-streaked faces of their mothers.
The setting sun lengthened their shadows and turned the apricot flowers a fiery red. Qiangzi had discovered the grove a few days earlier by accident; flowers in this alien land were a pleasant and comforting surprise.
“Who’d have thought we’d actually see apricot flowers in far-off Yunnan.”
“They’re so pretty.”
Qiangzi, charmed by Apricot’s harmonica, fixed his gaze on her, prompting her to stop when she spotted him. “Why are you staring at me with those cow eyes?” she yelled.
He turned and said softly, “I’m not.”
“Liar! Your punishment is to sing us a song.” She wrinkled her nose and began to play again, sending her braids flying.
“Let’s get Qiangzi to sing for us,” Xia Yuhong echoed Apricot.
“Yes, sing us a song.” The others joined in.
Unable to fight them all, Qiangzi relented and cleared his throat.
“The girl plays the harmonica.
The boy sings.
The boy and girl are having a great time,
Two birds in a nest.
The boy wants a fan box.”
Since “fan box” meant having a romantic relationship in the Sichuan dialect, everyone jeered and cheered, then the girls and boys broke into song. They were hot-blooded youths who dreamed of turning the world red and changing the face of the earth. Simple, naïve, fanatic.
“Dark Boy” began to sing “Song of the Zhiqing,” which they’d just learned; the others quickly joined in, their voices loud and sonorous one moment, low and sorrowful the next:
“Say good-bye to Mama, say good-bye to my dear hometown,
The golden days of a student are entered into history books, never to return.
Ah, the road ahead is so arduous, winding and endless,
The footprints of life beached on a remote alien place.
Leave with the rising sun, return with rising moon,
Our sacred mission is to repair the earth with great devotion, it is our destiny.
Ah, my beloved, I bid you farewell and I will head into the distance,
Where the flower of love will never bloom, never bloom.”
A breeze blew past the apricot grove, a heartbreakingly pretty sight that transfixed Xia Yuhong. Falling petals flew off into the sky.
“Ah, an apricot rain,” someone cried out.
“Yes, an apricot rain.”
The young Zhong Tao gaped at the raining petals; for the first time in his life he could feel its heart-stopping beauty. It was lovely and yet sad, something none of them would ever forget. As they frolicked amid the apricot rain, someone began to sob.
* * *
The light flickered under the pomegranate lampshade on the table. Zhong Tao was still humming the song as he recalled Xia Yuhong’s transfixed face.
Ding Lan, also lost in thought, looked at him with tears running down her cheeks.
Youthful days, ideals and ambition, rosy dreams, along with their boasts of dyeing the world red: it was all just like yesterday.
The harmonica came to an abrupt stop. Zhong’s face resembled a bronze statue; Ding Lan returned to the present.
“Do you know why this place is called Milan Café?” she asked.
“Because of its Italian flavor?” Zhong said, referring to Milano, the capital of Lombardy, in Italy.
“No, it’s because the owner was a Hong Kong girl called Milan.”
“Really?”
“She left, but the coffee shop has stayed.”
He asked about some of their college friends; she told him they were all quite busy.
“Qi Xiaohui asked me the other day when we could all get together again.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
“You be careful, OK?” she said in a worrying tone.
“I have one more thing to do, and then it’ll be finished.”
The blue flame never stopped dancing before his eyes; a heartrending scream persisted.
“Don’t forget, you don’t know anything,” he said slowly, staring at her eyes.
She nodded. “But—”
She was about to say something, but Zhong cut her off. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Have you heard anything from Xia Yuhong?” she asked.
Zhong shook his head.
“A friend who returned from study abroad told me she once saw her at an Art Festival at the University of Pennsylvania. She’s still single.”
Zhong listened but said nothing.
“Later I heard she came back to Chengdu to see her family and asked about you.”
A light of hope seemed to flicker in his eyes, but then he sighed. “We had the good fortune to meet but not to be together.”
“How’s your aunt?” she asked.
“I should go back to see my family.” He clearly had something on his mind.
— 4 —
A black tea café, half a block from the Landmark Building. Close enough.
It was lunch break and Nie Feng had asked Feng Xueying to meet him. Before leaving Shenzhen, he wanted to know as much as possible about Zhong Tao, Hu’s executive assistant.
Nie could not explain his interest in Zhong. All he could say was, as a journalist, he thought Zhong was somehow enveloped in mystery and intrigue. From the perspective of the case, he was a peripheral person in the eyes of the police, and Nie wanted to know exactly what role he’d played in the drama.
Ever since his return from Lesser Meisha, he knew that he must see two people: Ah-ying (Zhong’s colleague) and Ding Lan (Zhong’s friend from college).
* * *
Ah-ying was wearing a flax-colored short-sleeved blouse over pants with wide stripes. Her oval face, framed by shoulder-length hair, gave her the look of a well-educated white-collar worker.
After they sat down, Nie ordered a cup of jasmine tea; Ah-ying, lychee black tea.
“I didn’t realize you were still here,” she said after the pleasantries had been dispensed with.
“I’m heading back in two days.”
“Have you found anything useful?”
“I’m running out of time,” he said unhappily. “I’m afraid any follow-up report on Hu’s death will have to wait until the case is solved.”
�
��I’ve heard that the investigation is stuck,” she said, sounding upset with the progress of the police investigation.
“Who told you that?”
“Everyone in the company is saying so. Somebody even said it could be a woman, you know, cherchez la femme.”
The rumors were getting out of hand.
“What has Assistant Zhong been up to lately?” Nie asked, to change the subject.
“He’s not the assistant any more. Got promoted to VP,” she said sharply.
“Right, so I heard. That may be good for Landmark.”
“Maybe.”
“When did he come to work for Landmark?”
“Last summer.” After Ah-ying proceeded to tell him how Landmark had gone about filling the position of executive assistant to the CEO, Nie Feng no longer had to wonder how Zhong had become Hu’s right-hand man.
Zhong Tao, who had been working for a Shenzhen brokerage, was a successful stock trader who was well known in the South China market. He surprised everyone by applying for the Landmark job, since he had no real estate experience. The position was for executive assistant and chief of administration, with clearly delineated qualifications and a high annual salary—three hundred thousand yuan. Naturally, there were many applicants and the competition was fierce. Zhong did not stand out at first; he came to the interview in a black polo shirt, and wearing a beard—borderline slovenly. The other candidates came in suits and polished shoes, all neat and tidy. Ah-ying thought he looked familiar, eventually recalling that she had attended one of his talks on the market at a brokerage.