by Temple Drake
Back in her apartment, she stood at the window, staring down at the murky, polluted waters of Suzhou Creek. She took out her phone and called the gallery, saying she would be late. She still couldn’t quite believe that Torben had appeared—and in Shanghai, of all places…But what could he do, really? He was on a business trip, or on holiday, and he would be gone again in a few days. There was little chance of a second meeting. She’d had a fright, nothing more. Shaking her head, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Later, as she dressed for work, the sense of being threatened was replaced by a feeling of nostalgia. She could see the young man in the old one—the halting quality, the persistence. He had loved her, and she, in her own way, had loved him too. She wished she could have sat down with him and asked him about his life. Had it gone the way he thought it would? Had he been happy? And later, perhaps, when they had got over the shock of running into each other after so many years, when they were laughing again, just as they used to, she would ask him, half jokingly, if he had missed her…
But what was she thinking? Torben would expect her to be in her sixties, as he was. The fact that she hadn’t aged would render any normal conversation quite impossible. She wondered what had happened after she walked out of the restaurant. Had he apologized to Zhang and then staggered off, his mind in a daze, only half believing what he had seen? Or had the two men fallen into conversation? If they talked, what would Torben have said? How much would he have said? And what effect would the whole episode have had on Zhang? She took out one of his business cards, which she had stolen from his jacket pocket while he was sleeping. Perhaps she should call him and find out.
WHEN ZHANG LEFT THE PARK HYATT, the Jaguar was already waiting, parked in a sharp wedge of shadow. Fastening his seat belt, he told Chun Tao he had a meeting on the Bund. Chun Tao said there was gridlock in Lujiazui. It might be best if they took the Renmin Road Tunnel.
“You decide,” Zhang said.
While he was answering e-mails on his iPad, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and hesitated, then pressed Accept. “How are you, Father?”
“You sound tired.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Out carousing, I suppose.”
Zhang turned his eyes to the window. Outside, everything looked whitish, almost dusty, the city bleached by sunlight.
“Who were you with?” his father asked.
“I’m about to go into a tunnel,” Zhang said, though they were nowhere near.
Ignoring him, his father began to lecture him about his lifestyle. He ended the call, and when his phone rang again he pressed Decline, then put it away. Passing a hand over his face, he thought he smelled Naemi’s perfume, despite the fact that he had showered. Why did she guard her privacy so fiercely? Who was she, really? He took out the card Gulsvig had given him and stared at it. But it was only at five o’clock that evening, when he was sitting in the Bamboo Lounge, a cocktail bar in the French Concession, that he realized what he should do. He scrolled through his contacts and put in a call.
“How are you, boss?” Johnny said.
Johnny Yu was skinny, with narrow shoulders, and he wore cheap suits from Hong Kong and a porkpie hat with a brown ribbon. When you were with him, his eyes were always sliding past you or away from you, checking out the bigger picture. If he was at home in the gutters and alleyways, with the chicken feet in buckets and the blocked drains and the men in soiled white undershirts scratching their bellies, he was just as familiar with high-end restaurants and nightspots. Like Zhang, he was in his forties, but he had been many things in his life—accountant, taxi driver, journalist, croupier, detective.
“I’m fine,” Zhang said. “How are you?”
“All things beyond the body are an encumbrance.” Johnny was fond of quoting poets from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which he saw as a golden era in Chinese literary culture. His hands might be dirty, as he liked to say, but his soul was lyrical.
“Who wrote that?” Zhang asked.
“Wang Chi-Wu.”
The lights flickered, and Zhang looked around. The girl who had served him wore a clinging plum-colored dress, and she was drawing circles with her forefinger in the moisture on the surface of the bar. It was still early, and he was the only customer in the place. Outside, a heavy, steel-gray rain was coming down.
“I feel bad, Johnny,” Zhang said. “This thing I’m going to ask of you, it’s too easy. It’s beneath you, really. But I don’t know who else I can trust with it.”
He pictured Johnny’s smile, which had always borne a close resemblance to a wince.
“What is this thing,” Johnny said, “that is beneath me?”
“I need you to find someone. I want to know where she lives and where she works. I want her phone numbers. I want her e-mail.”
Zhang told Johnny everything he knew about Naemi.
“Blonde hair, black contact lenses,” Johnny said. “A woman like that must stand out in Shanghai.”
“She’d stand out anywhere.”
“How long have I got?”
“A week.”
“That isn’t long.”
“Don’t tell me you’re busy.”
“I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire.” Johnny sounded wounded, defensive. He would be sitting in the back room of his uncle’s bar, his feet up on the desk, an open bottle of beer in his hand. The girls still asleep upstairs, the balls on the pool table motionless and gleaming. There was a whole row of bars on the north side of Changyi Road: Hot Lips, Spicy Girl, Blue Angel, Naughty Beaver…
“Something I forgot to mention,” Zhang said. “She has scar tissue on the inside of her left arm.”
“What are you telling me? She’s a junkie?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Zhang finished his drink. “Call me when you have the information.”
Pocketing his phone, he walked over to the bar, sat down on a stool, and asked the girl in the plum-colored dress for another whiskey. He asked if she would like a drink as well.
She looked at him. “It’s not that kind of bar.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s just a drink.” He glanced around at the empty chairs and tables. “You’ve nothing else to do.”
“All right. Thank you.”
She poured his whiskey and put it in front of him, then she reached for a bottle of Malibu. He smiled to himself, since he felt this was a choice he could have predicted.
“What’s your story?” he asked.
“My story?” Her full lips twisted, and she looked towards the window. “Nothing’s happened yet.”
She was twenty, she told him, and she came from a village in Anhui Province. Her father was a minor government official. He drank too much baijiu. If they were lucky, it sent him to sleep. If not, he shouted and broke things. Her mother sat in front of the TV. She didn’t care what she watched. She only stopped if there was a meal to cook or washing to be done.
“It doesn’t sound like much of a life,” Zhang said.
“No,” she said. “But maybe I learned a lesson.”
“Don’t live in the countryside?”
She shook her head. “Don’t live with somebody who drinks.”
“That’s a good lesson to learn.” He paused. “Strange you ended up working in a bar.”
“I know. How stupid is that.”
The door opened, and two foreigners in suits walked in, shaking the rain from their umbrellas. Zhang put a few notes on the bar.
“Thank you,” the girl said. “Have a nice evening.”
* * *
—
The next morning, Zhang’s alarm woke him at six, and he sat on the edge of his bed, studying his phone. There were e-mails from Hong Kong, London, and New York. Nothing from Naemi, though. He walked to the window and opened the fl
oor-to-ceiling curtains. The city was plunged deep in a milky fog. The other forty-story towers in the compound were visible, but the high-rise buildings to the north and west looked insubstantial, featureless. She was out there somewhere. He had no idea where. Just as screen savers are triggered by periods of inactivity, so images of her would float into his mind whenever he relaxed. Naemi with her elbows on a gold-topped bar, Naemi at a distance, beneath dark trees. Naemi kneeling by the window in the Chairman Suite, staring at the view. He was still wondering about her detachment, her apparent self-sufficiency. She had told him Finnish people were known to be reserved, but this was reserve taken to extremes—and anyway, she had gone on to say that she didn’t believe in generalizations. Was she trying to cultivate an air of mystery? Was it all a game? Whatever lay behind the facade she had built up, he had no regrets about asking Johnny to look for her. He wanted the information, even if he didn’t use it.
In the kitchen area, he switched on the TV. As he waited for his yellow tea to brew, his phone rang. It was Wang Jun Wei.
“So did you sleep with her?” Jun Wei said.
“Sleep with who?”
“The Park Hyatt girl.”
Zhang reached for the remote and turned the volume down. “You’re up early.”
“I haven’t been to bed yet. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
Jun Wei gave him an address on the north side of the Yangpu Bridge. Zhang knew those streets. They were dark and pungent, the creeks jammed with rubbish, the wooden houses patched with corrugated iron and sheets of colored plastic. Pet shops selling fish and snakes. Foot massage. Karaoke. Though Jun Wei drove a Maserati and owned several blue-chip properties, it seemed fitting that he would be drawn to such areas. He had made a fortune from the flattening of old Shanghai. History? he’d once said to Zhang. I piss on it. Nostalgia too.
Zhang finished his tea. It would be hot again, the weather girl was saying. There was an orange alert for rainstorms in southern China later in the day. He switched off the TV, picked up his keys, his wallet, and his phone, and left the apartment. He took a lift to the underground car park, where Chun Tao was leaning against the front wing of the Jaguar, smoking. When he saw Zhang approaching, he dropped his cigarette and trod on it.
“Where to?” he said.
Zhang gave him an address.
They arrived half an hour later, pulling in behind the black Mercedes Vito Tourer that Jun Wei often used on his nights out. Zhang told Chun Tao to wait, then entered the restaurant.
Usually, when Jun Wei had been partying, he had a woman with him. Sometimes two. Not today. Sitting alone, facing the door, he was hunched over a bowl of noodles. Lined up on the table next to his left hand were a packet of Chunghwa cigarettes, a lighter, his gold iPhone, and an ice-blue charger.
Zhang sat down. “There are some nice restaurants round here. This isn’t one of them.” He looked around. “I’m probably going to get diarrhea.”
“Only a bit.” Jun Wei’s head tipped back, and his mouth opened wide. His laughter was almost always silent, which Zhang found unnerving, even after a quarter of a century.
He scanned the menu, then ordered braised fish belly and a pot of green tea.
“You should have gone for the noodles,” Jun Wei said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What about a beer? Or a plum brandy?”
“No.” Zhang closed the menu.
Jun Wei sat back. The whites of his eyes were pink, and his forehead shone. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s called Naemi. She’s Finnish.”
“Finnish? What’s that?”
Zhang explained.
Jun Wei’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, but didn’t take the call. “Sounds exotic,” he said. “But foreigners—I don’t know. More trouble than they’re worth.” He reached for his beer. “What’s wrong with Chinese girls?”
“You sound like my father.” Zhang drained his cup of green tea and poured himself another.
His food arrived.
“You wanted my help,” he said as he picked up his chopsticks.
Jun Wei used a paper napkin to wipe his forehead and the back of his neck, then he crumpled it into a ball and dropped it in his empty noodle bowl. He shook a Chunghwa out of its red packet and reached for his lighter. Jun Wei had a reputation as something of a gangster—things had been done by him, or in his name, which were questionable, to say the least—but he had been careful never to compromise his friend. Whether Jun Wei was driven by consideration or by a lack of faith, Zhang couldn’t have said. He was grateful nonetheless.
“HDPE.” Jun Wei leaned back in his chair. “Do you know what that is?”
Zhang shook his head.
“High-density polyethylene. It’s used in the manufacture of plastic lumber and corrosion-resistant piping.”
“Crucial in construction, then.”
“Crucial in all kinds of areas. Globally, it’s a billion-dollar industry.” Jun Wei flicked ash onto the floor. “I’m looking to import large quantities of HDPE from Iran, and I want you on board as a consultant.”
“Iran?” Zhang said. “What about sanctions?”
Jun Wei crushed out his cigarette, smoke streaming from his nostrils. “That,” he said, “is why it’s such a good opportunity.”
As Zhang finished his breakfast, Jun Wei expanded on certain aspects of the deal. He was having trouble with pricing mechanisms, he said, and with delivery routes, but these were difficulties that Zhang—or Zhang’s business contacts—would be able to resolve.
“Let me think about it.” Zhang signaled for the bill.
“My treat,” Jun Wei said.
The door opened, and two girls walked in. One had a boy’s haircut and a mole on her upper lip. Her heart-shaped silver earrings were the size of a man’s hand. The other one wore a tight pink T-shirt that said DREAM BIG.
“Over here, you two,” Jun Wei called out, waving an arm. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
* * *
—
The phone call Zhang had been waiting for came on a Tuesday evening. After returning from work, he had showered, and he was standing at his living-room window with wet hair and a towel around his waist. The temperature had dropped, and the sky was a stormy greenish gray. He thought he could hear thunder behind the rain.
When his phone rang, Unknown appeared on the screen.
“Hello?” he said. “It’s Naemi.”
“How did you get my number?” She didn’t answer.
“You call me,” he said, “but I can’t call you. The traffic’s a bit one-way, don’t you think?”
“I suppose you’re usually the one who behaves like that.”
It was true that he usually conducted his affairs on his own terms. He had never been confronted with it, though, and he wasn’t sure quite how to respond. Opening the sliding doors, he stepped out onto the terrace and leaned on the railing, his phone still pressed against his ear, the rain falling just beyond his face. To his surprise, he found that he was smiling. Far below, the compound’s outdoor swimming pool was neat as a pale blue tile.
“How long has it been?” he said. “A week?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to travel. It was work.”
“Sure,” he said. “Okay.”
“Also, I’m a very private person. I have issues with trust.” She paused. “I have to protect myself.”
“What from?”
She sighed.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to explain.”
“Thank you.”
Her relief sounded heartfelt, genuine.
She also wanted to thank him for the wonder
ful night at the Park Hyatt, she went on. She was sorry if she left abruptly. The man in the beige suit had thrown her.
Zhang told her not to worry.
“What happened after I left?” she asked. “He seemed very confused.” She paused again. “I hope he didn’t bother you.”
“I got rid of him.”
“Was that difficult?”
“No, not at all.”
He wondered why he was misleading her. Perhaps because he felt it was what she wanted to hear. How would she react if he told her he had sat down with Torben Gulsvig and bought him a coffee? What would she say if she knew the professor’s business card was in his wallet?
“Are you free this evening?” she asked.
“Not really. I’m singing.”
“Karaoke?”
“No,” he said. “Not karaoke.”
He played in a blues band, he told her, with Gong Shen and Fang Yuan, otherwise known as “Mad Dog” and “Laser.” They called themselves the Gang of Three. They got together most weekends, in a recording studio off Beijing East Road, but sometimes they played live, and this was one of those rare nights.
“Do you have a nickname too?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Flower Heart.”
“Nice,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“You don’t know?”
“Tell me.”
“I think it means I’m popular.”