“As far as I can see…” Xu’s voice was slightly high-pitched.
As far as I can see, Aki echoed silently.
“…the Japanese take 1945 as the cut-off point for everything. When in fact it was no such thing. For a déraciné like me, the postwar world and the prewar world exist on a continuum. That’s the only way I can look at things.”
“And my father?”
He shook his head. Aki took in a deep breath, then let it out. “Shall we go in?”
They returned to the living room.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask,” Aki ventured.
The old man turned to him with a quizzical look. Their two figures were reflected on the polished surface of the piano. “What’s that?”
“You said that if my father were alive, it would be because of the death of Zhou Enlai.”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you why. Suppose it was Zhou who had him arrested in Beijing and imprisoned. I have no way of knowing that, mind you; this is all conjecture. But supposing that is the case, then Zhou forgets about him. Forgets about why he had him arrested in the first place. As he would – just think of all that was happening on the mainland: the anti-right-wing struggle, Soviet-Chinese antagonism, the damage caused by the Great Leap Forward, then the Cultural Revolution. Each of these involved another purge. One false step and Zhou would be swept from power, thrown in jail. Political life was a tightrope. By around 1976 the Cultural Revolution had run its course. That must have been a big relief for him. And maybe then, in his relief, he remembered Waki Tanehiko, remembered that he’d had him lured back to Japan and arrested. Maybe he now regretted having done that.”
Aki murmured his agreement, and continued the thought. “And then what? What could he have done, or tried to do, about my father? But whether he thought of him or not, before he could make any decision, sickness carried him off.” He stopped. A tentative smile crossed his face.
“Yes, he died. They all died. Friend and foe alike.”
Seated on the sofa, Xu stirred with a small, birdlike movement. They had exhausted all they had to say to one another. Aki got up to take his leave, but the old man held up a restraining hand.
“My wife is preparing tea. Brewed Gungfu-style. Please wait.”
She came gliding in on slippered feet, carrying a tea set on a tray of red lacquer: three reddish-brown cups, with a teapot and water basin of the same colour. With graceful gestures, she poured hot water into the pot and removed the foam with the lid. Little by little she then poured tea into each of the cups, down to the last drop.
“This is Wuyi Rock tea,” she said, “rare oolong from the Wuyi mountains. Did you know, Mr Waki, that oolong tea is called ‘blue tea’ in Chinese?”
“No, I didn’t. It’s different from green tea, obviously.”
“Yes. Midway between green and black. There are several varieties of Wuyi Rock tea. This is one of the best, Shui Jin Gui. Golden Turtle. It tastes of the wind.”
He took a sip. There was a slight acidity, which did indeed have an effect rather like wind blowing on the tip of one’s tongue. After she refilled the pot, Aki gently took it out of her hands and placed it in the centre of the table. He then filled the three cups, arranging them first in a straight line facing the spout.
“Gracious! The Challenge! Where did you learn this?” she asked.
“From a friend in China.”
“A young person?”
Aki nodded.
“Well, well,” she said. “It’s hard to believe any young person on the mainland today would know about it.”
Xu Liping only gave a brief, tight-lipped nod. There was a certain tension between the two men. The person who arranged the teacups was inviting the other to join a cause with him. Whoever chose the middle cup and drank from it agreed to join forces with the other man.
Unhesitatingly, Xu picked up the cup at the end and drank it slowly dry.
After Aki left, Xu said to his wife: “You know, it looks as though Waki might still be alive.”
“What a thing to say! What did you think, that we had a ghost come calling?”
“No, I mean his father, Waki Tanehiko. He’s alive, still in prison on the mainland.”
She leant a hand on the back of a chair, a confused look on her face.
“Sit down, my dear,” he told her, and she perched on the edge of the sofa where Aki had been sitting. “He wants to rescue his father. It’s probably hopeless. The man may even be dead… But do you remember how, years ago, we taught our Xiaolan the Challenge?”
“Of course. How could I ever forget?”
“The person who taught it to Aki was …” He clamped his mouth shut. He’d made up his mind not to tell her about Li Xing. But he was torn.
“What’s wrong? Why won’t you go on?”
“In Shanghai, the person who explained it to him was an actress from Shanxi named Li Xing. Her mother’s name was Xu Xiaolan. In other words, he met our granddaughter over there. And she’s a member of the underground movement.”
His wife pressed her hands together to her breast.
“As you know,” he said, “in all this time I never had the slightest wish to get mixed up with either side, the mainland or Taiwan. I’m perfectly content here in Kobe, that’s all. And now in my old age I’m confronted by this – Aki asking me to join in with him… It’s too much.”
His wife buried her face in her hands.
Just then, the intercom buzzed. Thinking their visitor was back, Xu felt a momentary sense of dread; but it was only a bill collector for the newspaper they took.
22
The consul Zhang Liang was waiting for Aki, leaning on the counter in the dimly lit bar Camellia.
A few days after their first encounter at the funeral of Xu Liping’s mother in the autumn, Aki had called on Zhang at the Osaka consulate and put in a formal request for his father’s whereabouts to be traced. Since then, the two had gotten together three or four more times to go over progress reports, steering clear of touchy subjects like politics and ODA. For these meetings, Zhang took advantage of his monthly trips to Tokyo for embassy briefings. He and Aki always met at this bar in the hotel in Tokyo Station. Zhang admired the setting with the view of the trains; he wished aloud that there was a bar like this in Beijing.
Zhang attached no conditions to Aki’s request. But now that his ODA work was once again secret, and tricky, and fairly urgent in nature, Aki felt it was unwise to meet with him so often. Still, neither could he afford to hesitate. He did not have all the time in the world. The only way of reaching his father was to approach Cai Fang through this intermediary. He had no alternative.
In conversation, Aki was always astonished at how much Zhang knew about him: his wife’s death in 1983, his studies in college and graduate school, his trips to China and other countries, his position and achievements at Huxley. And yet, to his still greater surprise, Zhang seemed ignorant of all that had happened to him in Shanghai. It was most peculiar. After a number of cautious feelers, he reached the conclusion that Zhang actually had no knowledge of those events. The portion of his life having to do with Shanghai was simply missing, a gap in his file. When he mentioned his summer there, all Zhang had to say was that it was “a curious choice – nobody born and bred in Beijing likes the place.” And yet he was a member of the all-seeing Ministry of State Security. His boss was a senior official in it, had even travelled to Shanghai by ship with Aki, and was around the whole time he was there… so he had to know everything!
Clearly, Cai had given Zhang the specific task of initiating contact with Aki. Yet Zhang seemed genuinely in the dark about those earlier events. His boss had withheld the information. Why? What was he up to? Did he intend using that information against Aki, somewhere down the road?
Aki had hopes that Cai Fang would do all he could to track down his father. The man’s current post certainly gave him the necessary authority to conduct such a search. He knew Aki’s secrets, knew Aki better in fact than almost any man on e
arth. Only someone privy to a person’s secrets could truly understand him, which was why Aki persisted in believing, naïvely, that Cai would do all he could on his behalf.
But there was another secret issue: who was the woman he’d seen standing on the wharf? Li Xing had dismissed the suggestion that it was her; yet over time, the figures of the two women had merged indistinguishably in Aki’s mind again. If she’d been there to meet Cai Fang, then maybe the two were allies of some kind.
The initial response to Aki’s request came after a five-month wait. In full, it said: “This agency was unable to confirm the existence of anyone named Waki Tanehiko within the borders of this republic.” Short shrift.
The second response came three months later: “No record exists of a Japanese person named Waki Tanehiko having entered this country in 1955.”
It was then that Zhang Liang brought up a personal matter, something unusual for him. He mentioned that he might soon be getting married. Due to the sensitive nature of his work, Party screening was extremely strict; his boss was using his influence on the couple’s behalf, though, and it would probably turn out all right. How about telling him to use his influence on my behalf, too, Aki had said, half in jest. Will do, Zhang had said.
The third response came a month ago. There was no record of an arrest taking place in Beijing, nor did the names Waki Tanehiko or Han Langen appear anywhere in court records or on the list of prisoners in Qincheng Prison; also, there were no concentration camps or secret prisons in the Republic of China. The inquirer should take care not to be led astray by propaganda put out by forces intent on slandering China and overturning its political system.
“A year you’ve been waiting, and this is all you get? I see they threw in a little lecture at the end,” said Zhang, driven to feeling sympathy for him. “The trouble is, you think of China as a country of written records. Sorry to disappoint. We also have a tradition of book-burning and burying scholars alive. People don’t take notes, and our keeping of archives is sloppy. Every change in the powers that be, every set of new executives, means piles of papers get destroyed. I spent two years in Moscow, and the Soviet Communist Party was impressive. They’re compulsive note-takers. Every written document, every last little scrap of paper, is kept. The archives are vast, and there are a lot of them. Their Central Committee has its own archives, of course, but so does every other government office. Not just documents, either. The number of film reels in storage is equally amazing. Films from all over the world, I’ve heard. Gosfilmofond, out in a Moscow suburb, is the Russian State Film Archives, and it’s the size of a small village. They may be fellow Communists, but what a difference. You have to wonder, maybe the Soviet system collapsed from the sheer weight of all those records… Anyway, I’m afraid you won’t get anywhere by looking for documentary evidence of your father’s existence. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to personally escort you to Jixian or wherever, either.”
An hour ago, out of the blue, Zhang had phoned Aki at his office to say he had a spare hour before his train left, and could they possibly get together? Any news, Aki had asked. No, Zhang said, he just wanted to talk. He’d gotten hold of some good tea. Not a lot, but enough to share.
Ignoring the chairs along the wall, Aki sat one stool down from Zhang at the bend in the counter, and leant towards him. “Here,” said Zhang, taking a small packet wrapped in tin foil from his pocket. Aki accepted it with a deliberately furtive air, commenting dryly, “You’d think it was marijuana,” as he looked inside. “Oolong, is it?”
“Yes. The best. Genuine Big Red Robe tea.”
“Wow.”
“A friend of mine just became vice-governor of Fujian Province.”
“An official perk.”
“Right. I’m from Beijing, but somehow I don’t go for jasmine tea. What about you?”
“I like them both.”
Zhang nodded.
The bartender asked for his order. Glancing at Zhang’s cocktail glass, Aki asked, “What are you drinking?”
“Between the Sheets.”
“Early for a nightcap,” he said, smiling. “Make mine a bourbon. Double.”
When Aki’s glass was set down on the counter, Zhang stared at it for a moment before saying in a flat, hoarse voice: “About the Tarim survey…”
Taking out a cigarette, Aki lifted his eyebrows to question if Zhang minded his smoking.
“Go right ahead. I’m no smoker, myself.” Zhang paused, then said, “In 1988 you conducted a survey of a high-quality cottonseed plant in Tarim, Xinjiang.”
Looking quizzical, Aki said nothing.
“Yet your final report – which was extremely well done, we were all impressed – that report contained nothing on that Tarim plant. Why not? I’d be interested in seeing that part.”
“No such thing exists.” Aki said this slowly and clearly, steadily returning Zhang’s shifting gaze.
“Didn’t you see anything in Tarim?”
“Yes, a farm in the middle of the desert. Quite an enterprise, in fact.”
“Why isn’t it in the report?”
“Look, it’s not our policy to review every single thing we see.”
“Is it in a side report?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Assistance for the plant amounted to seven hundred million yen, but it’s vanished into thin air.”
“Well, it’s got nothing to do with me. Start looking for corruption in these situations and you’re bound to find it, but that’s not the job of a think tank.”
“I see. All right.” Zhang’s mouth tightened, and he fell silent. This probably wasn’t the reply he had wanted or anticipated. His gloomy face brightened as he pointed at the lone window in the bar and remarked, “Nice to see the trains come and go, isn’t it? I wish we could get more tracks in Beijing. More trains, too.”
There were cowbells attached to the door, and they rang clearly as a couple came in. They sat at the bar near the window; the man, middle-aged, ordered a Scotch on the rocks, the woman, who was much younger, a Cherry Blossom. She kept stroking her hair. Thanks to these newcomers, the view of the trains was now blocked off.
“Not bad-looking,” murmured Zhang Liang. “Chest flat as a pancake, though.”
Aki smiled politely, although he didn’t enjoy this sort of talk.
“Let’s drink a toast,” said Zhang. “My wife is finally coming.”
“Cheers,” said Aki, raising his glass. So Zhang was now a married man.
“Finally! And more good news: I got my Japanese driver’s license.”
“Well, hey, good for you. Mind if I have another smoke?”
“Of course not. I don’t smoke… but you know that.”
“I haven’t got a driver’s license,” said Aki.
“Really? That’s unusual. Here, take a look at mine.” He reached into his suit jacket pocket, took out a leather case, and showed it to him. “While you’re at it, take a look at my wife.” He took out a colour photo from the opposite side of the case, but before Aki could see it, he said, “Oops, wrong one, this is my mother.” He put the photograph back and pulled out another one, holding it up before Aki’s eyes like a trump card.
He saw it first at a slight angle. Then straight on. A gust of wind from a far-off pier swept straight through him.
“Mr Waki.”
Hearing his name jolted him back to reality. Quickly, he reached for his glass of bourbon, meaning to drain it, but not a drop was left.
“She’s a fine-looking woman. May I see it again?” His voice was as even as he could make it.
“Sure. Look all you want – you can’t wear it out!”
But the light in Aki’s eyes burned with sufficient intensity to reduce the picture, and with it the person photographed, to cinders.
“I’d like to get you something to celebrate, a gift. What would you like?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Oh, I insist. Please. Allow me to get you something. When is
she arriving?”
Zhang slid the photo back into his leather case, looking happily excited. He flicked a finger repeatedly against the rim of his cocktail glass. “Next month. The year’s almost over; she’ll be coming the very last week of the year. So we’ll be spending this Chinese New Year’s in Japan.”
“Are you going to Beijing to travel with her?”
Zhang shook his head. “Can’t leave Osaka. It wouldn’t work out, anyway. Li Yan – that’s her name; it’s written with the character for swallow, the bird – she’s coming by boat. I was against it, but she wouldn’t listen. It’s just a hop from Beijing by plane. Only two hours to Kansai International Airport. Instead, she’s taking three whole days! She says it’s because she’s never seen the ocean before. I told her once she gets here, she can see it till she’s blue in the face if she wants.”
“She’ll take the Yan Jing ferry from Tianjin?”
“You’d think so, but she’s insisting on taking the Xin Jian Zhen, the one from Shanghai.”
Aki finally ordered another bourbon. He lit another cigarette, took two or three puffs, and snuffed it out between his fingers. He felt no pain.
Zhang kept stealing looks at the female customer. In a low voice he said, “I prefer breasts like mangoes.” He dropped his voice further. “Like my wife’s.”
Aki said nothing, only closing his eyelids. Another gust of wind swept through him.
“I’ll try a little harder to look for your father. Once my wife gets here and things settle down a bit, I’ll go back to Beijing. I’ve got some reports to file there, anyway. Don’t give up hope. Just be patient.”
Aki was scarcely listening.
23
The ship that Zhang Liang’s wife, Li Yan, was taking from Shanghai to Kobe in December 1994 was due to sail at one o’clock in the afternoon on Saturday, the 24th, and arrive in Kobe at ten o’clock in the morning on Monday, the 26th.
On 23rd December Aki flew from Narita on ANA to Shanghai Airport. He himself made the arrangements for airline and boat tickets and reserved a hotel; no one else knew about the trip. Still less could anyone have known his purpose. He obtained his visa in Tokyo. Since Zhang Liang worked for the Osaka consulate, there was no danger of immediate detection. Top secret all the way, he murmured to himself in the airplane.
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