by James Church
“I know what it is. You don’t need a picture of that.”
“It’s a park or something.”
“No, it’s a marker. It commemorates a visit.”
“Historical?”
“I suppose, if you care to count the past fifty years as history.”
I sped up to get past so he wouldn’t ask to stop.
“Well, it’s nice anyway, the trees and all.”
I pressed down harder on the accelerator. The car jumped.
“What’s the matter?” Boswell reached for the dashboard to steady himself. “You don’t like a bit of color in April for these poor folk?”
“I do. I just don’t think it should be all banged together this way. People should appreciate nature for itself.” I stared straight ahead. “Not connect it with . . . other things.”
Boswell looked at me, then turned back to concentrate on the scenery. Finally, he shook his head. “Did you say something?” he said quietly. “I didn’t hear a word.”
“No, nothing.” My eyes never left the road. “Must have been the wind.”
Chapter Two
My head was heavy, but I lifted it anyway. The darkness of the room made me instantly alert. Somewhere, just beyond where I could see, the man in the brown suit was watching.
“Welcome back, Inspector. I saw a movie once in the West; the actress said, ‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ and everyone in the theater laughed. I didn’t find it funny then, but I think I see the point.” He took one of his measured steps forward and clicked on the lamp. The tips of his shoes shone. “In all the world, you and I must meet to talk again. Here. I find that depressing, actually.” He jangled some coins in his pocket. “Let’s begin.”
“What if you and I have nothing to say to each other?”
The club nuzzled against my neck, pressing my head to the side.
“Last time was only a warning, Inspector. This time you might be crippled.”
I tried a more positive tack. “You said you had decided I was the wrong man.”
“That was then.”
“Does my ministry know I’m here?”
“Why should it matter?”
“So, they don’t know.”
“No, actually, we don’t ring up employers, although I know of a few instances where next of kin were notified. Or lovers.”
“Why am I here?”
“Good, straight to the point. I was getting there myself. What is this with you and the British? First in Prague, now here, in your own capital?”
“I already told you about Prague. Check the files; that’s why people keep them, isn’t it? The Scotsman was dropped in my lap by the Ministry. I never saw him before, I had nothing to do with his showing up, and I’ll be happier than anyone when he leaves.”
“Perhaps, Inspector. That isn’t what this file says, however.” A paper appeared out of the gloom, then disappeared again.
“It could be wrong; some files are less reliable than others. I should know.”
“We’ll see.” He paused, and I heard pages being ruffled. I would have thought that he had the file marked exactly where he wanted the questioning to go, but he must have lost his place. “Let’s spend a moment on your professional life.” Another page or two turned; they sounded like dry leaves.
I thought of Yang and licked my lips. “How about another glass of water?” I needed a moment to lock all the doors to my memory.
“No, no water, Inspector, until we finish. Then you can have as much as you want.” I didn’t like the way he said that. There was a low laugh from behind me. I didn’t like that, either.
“Alright, what do you want to know?”
“The file says you come from a troubled office. Your former chief inspector was a good friend of yours. He died under suspicious circumstances, is that right?”
“You know exactly how he died, but I wasn’t there, so I can’t add anything.”
“He was shot by Military Security. Not a deserving end for a loyal Ministry of People’s Security official, would you say?”
“I told you, I wasn’t there.” I didn’t want to talk about Pak.
“It must have made you bitter. Thoughts of revenge ever cross your mind?”
“You want me to say yes? Will that make it easier?”
The club tapped on the floor a couple of times behind me, but otherwise it was quiet.
Finally, the man in brown crumpled a piece of paper and threw it between us. “We’ll leave Pak alone for a moment, Inspector. Let’s start with a clean sheet. Your new chief inspector, Min. Just between us, would you say he is competent at what he does?”
“I don’t rate his competence. He rates mine. We get along pretty well; he gives orders, I follow them.”
“Much of the time I suppose you do, though some might disagree. But I’m not really interested in the particulars of your ministry’s operations. I’m interested in people. Do people interest you, Inspector?”
Here we go, I thought. I knew what was coming next.
“Your colleague, Yang. He is an interesting case, I’d say. The sort of person who attracts the attention of anyone concerned about security. The poor man was practically paralyzed with grief when he lost his family. Yet he was kept on in the capital. His transfer orders out to the countryside were revised; by whom and for what reason was a mystery. Who do you think did that?”
“I was as surprised as everyone else. But he’s getting better.” I remembered what I had told Min. “It just takes a little time, that’s all.” That was the extent of my wiggle; if the subject of the Blue Paper came up, I had no idea what I was going to say.
“You often entertain women in your apartment?”
“Entertain who?” Having the subject changed so abruptly was a surprise. I thought for sure he would want to dig some more about Yang. “No. The old lady who guards the building would find out, and then I’d be in trouble. Everyone would talk.”
“Even foreign women?”
“None, of no description. Who is peddling this stuff?”
“Not even from Kazakhstan?”
I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes. “This is a waste of time, you realize that.”
The club hit my right arm, just below the shoulder. It made my fingers ache, then my wrist, then the pain shot up the back of my head. I took a breath and exhaled slowly.
The man in the brown suit moved forward into the light so I could almost see his face. His mouth was contorted. “Damn you, Inspector, just answer my questions, just do that.” He worked to gain his composure, shook his head, then stepped back into the darkness.
“What did you discover up at the shrine?” His voice had returned to normal, but there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. He was interested in the shrine.
“Not much. You spend your days following me around?”
The club tapped the floor, but the man in the brown suit held up his hand. “How old is that shrine?”
“How should I know?”
“Let me put it another way. When was it last reconstructed?”
“Not long ago.” That was what had been bothering me about the place. It was too new.
“When?”
“Recently.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The lumber.”
“Go on.”
“The boards were warped, they weren’t dried long enough, and they weren’t milled. The Japanese had mills, older lumber came from better trees, and there was time to season it.”
“Conclusion.”
“I’m going to say this carefully, because I haven’t had a chance to think about it. Alright with you?”
“Go ahead.”
“There aren’t a lot of mills around these days, for whatever reason. And most lumber isn’t seasoned; the logs are cut up and the wood is used before anyone has a chance to give it a look.”
“Conclusion.”
“Could have been a few years ago, but I’d say more recently.”<
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There was a silence. The man in the brown suit shifted his feet, a sign that the questioning was going to take a new direction.
“What do you know about Kazakhstan, Inspector?”
“Nothing. No, really, nothing. I hadn’t even thought about it until a few weeks ago. Of course, you mentioned those trees.”
“Did you know that Trotsky was exiled there?”
“Is that a fact?”
I didn’t even feel the club, not then. Maybe I heard the swish it made, but probably not. That might just be part of a broken memory. I couldn’t tell. I don’t remember any more questions. Or how I got back to my own room.
2
Min was there when I woke up. His round face was creased with worry, and I saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He stared at me with dull eyes.
“Did you miss me?” I started to sit up, but Min pushed me back down. I didn’t have the strength to resist. I didn’t want to sit up anyway.
“No, certainly not. I hadn’t realized you were gone for another two days, Inspector.” There was only a feeble irony in Min’s voice. “Were you gone that long? I just figured, what the hell, O has probably gone on a vacation and neglected to mention it. So I came over to your place, and you were here, not in very good shape, actually. Did you know that you moan in a rich baritone, Inspector? You should take up singing, once your jaw heals, I mean.” Min’s twitch had moved from the corner of his mouth up to his cheek. He looked like he was in a gray pain. “What have you gotten into? What have we gotten into? Don’t answer; don’t say anything, just rest. Do me a favor, rest. I’m going out to find you something to eat. Don’t go anywhere. Tell me you won’t get up. No, on second thought, don’t say anything. Just nod. You won’t get up, am I right?”
I nodded, and the motion moved something in my head against something else, so I didn’t want to go anywhere or say anything. Maybe some water would be good, a drink of water. But there was none. When Min had closed the door behind him, I blinked against the darkness and fell through a loose board in my consciousness.
3
Boswell was frowning when I woke up. To hell with him, I thought. What does he have to frown about?
“Well, at least you’re alive.”
I couldn’t tell if this was supposed to be an expression of sympathy. But he stopped frowning after he said it.
“How long have you been here?”
“A day.” He started to put out a cigarette. “You want a puff?” I shook my head, nothing vigorous. “Less, it just seems like a day. Min was hanging around, biting his nails, but he said he had to check something. He asked me to stay. You want something to eat?”
“Even if I did, there isn’t anything.”
There was the rustle of paper. “Don’t be so sure of everything, Inspector. I have here rice, soup, no longer piping hot, alas, and some vegetables. Roots maybe. I can’t tell.”
“Soup. Just a sip. Help me sit up.”
Boswell did as he was asked for once. “Jesus, Inspector, you looked like death when I got here. Min was in shock, sitting here looking at you. So was the restaurant lady.”
“What restaurant lady?”
“Where do you think the soup came from? I didn’t cook it myself. There’s no stove, no hot plate, nothing in here. You live like a caveman.”
“It’s my home, Boswell, don’t be so critical. What is it, “ ‘Home is the hunter, home from the hill . . . ’”
“ ‘And the sailor home from the sea.’ ” Boswell sat back and laughed. “Sweet Sisters of the Glen, Inspector, you are something. Finish your soup before it gets cold.”
“It is cold. Who let Miss Pyon in here? Keep her away, or she’ll get herself in trouble.”
“Pyon? Is that the restaurant lady? I don’t think you have to worry about her, Inspector. She seems to know her way around.”
I put the soup aside. “Any other visitors?”
“Now who could you be thinking of?”
My head hurt like hell. It made no sense fencing with him, I didn’t have the strength. The only thing left was to ask the question straight out. “What do you know about Miss Chon?”
There was a soft knock, and a piece of paper appeared under the door. Boswell sprang up and wrenched open the door, but the hallway was empty. He went out and walked from one end to the other; I heard him cursing under his breath about the lack of light. “Gone, never here, what a place!” He reached down and scooped up the paper. “Here, it’s in Korean.”
“You speak the language, I believe.”
“I do. That I do. But I don’t read it. Speaking isn’t so difficult, but reading takes effort. Especially if you have to learn a whole new alphabet. I never had time to memorize strange alphabets. What the hell difference does it make? The note’s for you, anyway.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Everyone knows you’re here, Superintendent. From the moment you got out of the car, everyone knew. They listened to you climb the stairs. Maybe it’s a love note; maybe some heartsick lass wants to be swept away to some loch or another, to sit over the fire and boil your oatmeal while you’re out in the damp fog.”
“Very amusing, Inspector. I like that in a man who has just had the piss beaten out of him by his own authorities.” He dropped the paper on my chest. “Read it and then try standing up. I’ll be downstairs, if I can find the stairs in the gloom.”
The note was typed. It said, “Native to Korea is one venomous snake, whose bite is lethal but which is not aggressive. The tigers left long ago. New bears have been seen.” Snakes. I had to get back to the temple to see the old man.
4
Across the table, she lit another cigarette, puffed nervously, put it down, then picked it up again, just held it. It quivered as her fingers shook for an instant, then was still. “I have a child. A son.”
Just like that. It was a plea for forgiveness. She looked at me as if she had made a horrible admission, as if she had broken a favorite vase of mine. I never knew a more painful silence. It didn’t last more than a second, but I thought it had swallowed me up and left me in some other place on the other side of the world, so I didn’t know who she was or what language she was speaking. It wasn’t the fact that shook me, not that she had a child, but the anguish it caused her to say the thing out loud. I couldn’t see what there was to forgive.
We were sitting in her apartment. It made mine look like a closet. She had said she needed to talk to me, only this time I could tell she meant it. That was good, because I needed to talk to her. I was still wobbly from my last meeting with the man in the brown suit, but I couldn’t lie in bed forever. She came over to my apartment house to pick me up just past noon. A group from the apartment was sitting on the ground near the bushes, arguing about whose fault it was that the garden plot hadn’t been weeded. They pretended to ignore me when I passed them, but as I climbed into her car, a lot of necks were craning. She drove fast, with a nervous foot on the gas and not much attention to lanes. I closed my eyes and relaxed; after what I’d been through, there wasn’t any sense in worrying about my fate. When we got to her apartment, she pulled around the back. A guard checked her license plate, flicked his eyes at me, then waved her into a space reserved for six or seven cars. There was another guard at the door, but unlike the old lady in my apartment house, he didn’t say anything as we passed by.
The apartment was on the tenth floor. The elevator worked, which I was glad of because I didn’t want to climb stairs. There were lights in the hallway, and the gray-white paint on the walls was only just beginning to peel from the moisture. She had a few framed photographs on a low table in the main room; they looked like they might be family. One had her posed in front of a mountain that came down to a rough and foggy beach. She wasn’t smiling in the picture.
“I can see it in your eyes, Inspector. You’ve already begun to look at me differently. You are one of those who can’t forget anything, aren’t you? Forgetting is a coin you can spend anytime you want, but you are a miser. You ha
ve no memories.” She wasn’t speaking to me now, not exactly, but off into the distance at someone else I couldn’t see. “An inability to forget is not memory. It’s a form of cowardice. Like pulling yourself back from sleep at the last moment. You remember too much, you forget too little. You know why? Because you are afraid if you forget often enough, it will become an addiction.”
I knew she wasn’t expecting me to say anything, not yet. My silence seemed to bring her back from wherever she had been. Her voice was calmer. “Is there something here”—she gestured not around the room but as if we were on a hill and she was pointing out the city and the fields and the solitude beyond—“something here you would choose to remember? Better forget it, or is there nothing else for you to hold?”
She was wrong. I had forgotten something; why had I come, what did I want to ask her? It was as if she had taken an eraser to my memory. I couldn’t remember anything except her face, and how close it was to mine. “That’s fine,” I said finally, but hearing the words I knew they were wrong, wrong words, wrong voice. I sat back. “What I mean is, it’s a fine thing, bringing children into the world.” I paused. What was that supposed to mean?
“He’s with my relatives in our village in Kazakhstan.” The cast of her features became impassive, like ancient rock, but her eyes were filled with fury. “No, he isn’t part Scottish. He’s all Kazakh.” Her voice trailed off. She turned away, so I took a breath, nothing too deep because I was afraid it would sound like a sigh.
“A son is a good thing.” Not what I meant to say, not at all what I meant. My voice sounded strange in my ears. “All children, they’re good.” That sounded worse. She turned back and looked at me with such ferocity that I began to squint.
“Shut up! You bastard, can’t you hear me? I told you I have a son, Kazakh, he’s fifteen, do you know what that means?”