by Peter May
He smiled. ‘Oh, I think I do,’ he said. ‘I love China and the Chinese dearly. But after six months here I just can’t wait to get home, see a movie, have a hot dog, take in a baseball game. And, yeah, talk crap and have people know what I’m talking about.’
‘Oh, my Ga-ad,’ a voice drawled excitedly. Michael and Margaret turned to find Dot McKinlay and a group of her Travelling Grannies arriving at the bar. Her face was flushed with excitement. She put her hand on Michael’s arm, almost unable to speak. ‘Do y’awl know who you are?’
Michael smiled. ‘Well, I did the last time I looked.’
Dot turned to Margaret. ‘It’s Michael Zimmerman. He’s on TV.’
‘Actually, he’s not,’ Margaret said, and Dot’s face fell. Michael looked puzzled.
‘What d’yawl mean?’ Dot said.
Margaret shook her head seriously. ‘Michael Zimmerman’s his twin brother. Well, actually, sister. But that was before she had her sex change. Or should I say “he”? Anyway Daniel and Michela — that’s what she called herself before she became Michael — they don’t get along. And Daniel doesn’t really like being mistaken for her — him.’ She finished her drink and took Michael’s arm. ‘Anyway, we were just going.’
Michael let himself be led away from the bar. He smiled and nodded at Dot’s Travelling Grannies, who looked at him as if he had two heads. They were almost at the door before Dot recovered herself and called after Margaret, ‘I thought y’awl were leaving today, Miss.’ There was the hint of accusation in this.
‘Had to stay on unexpectedly,’ Margaret called back. ‘To meet a man who’d lost his head.’
They made it through the front door and down the steps before their pent-up laughter exploded into the floodlit forecourt.
‘Jesus,’ Michael said. ‘So now I’m a sex-change twin!’
‘It’s OK,’ Margaret said, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. ‘It doesn’t show.’ Which sent them into a fresh fit of giggles. With the vodka, and the endorphins, Margaret hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
‘Do y’awl know who you are?’ Michael mimicked.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Margaret. ‘We’re being watched.’
And Michael turned to see Dot McKinlay’s Travelling Grannies glaring at them from the window of the bar. He took Margaret’s arm and hurried her out of the gate, past the brown-uniformed guards who were watching them suspiciously. A taxi driver looked hopefully in their direction, and on a wave from Michael jumped in and started up his car.
‘Have you eaten?’ Michael asked.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘In return for my doing an autopsy for them, the embassy treated me to a slap-up meal. In the canteen. Which I had to pay for myself.’
‘Wow. These guys really know how to show a girl a good time.’
‘Don’t they just.’
He paused for a moment. ‘So how long are you staying on?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Could be a day, could be a week, could be a month.’ And she saw that this pleased him. ‘So where are you taking me?’
He opened the door of the taxi. ‘Somewhere a little special,’ he said, and he slid into the back seat beside her, then leaned forward to speak to the driver in what sounded to Margaret like fluent Chinese.
As he sat back she looked at him with admiration. ‘Your Chinese is fantastic,’ she said.
‘Not really.’ He shook his head solemnly. ‘Actually the driver speaks English. I briefed him before I came in to look like he knew what I was talking about.’
She was taken aback. ‘You’re kidding!’
He turned to her, straight-faced. ‘Yeah, I’m kidding.’ And then he grinned. ‘When I decided to specialise in the archaeological history of China at Washington University in St Louis, I figured I should really learn the language, too. There were more than twenty-five students when I started the class. At the end of the first year there were seven left — and I was the only non-ethnic Chinese among them.’
‘Everyone says it’s an incredibly hard language,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘On paper it’s quite easy. The grammar couldn’t be simpler. Basically it’s all present tense. I go there today, I go there yesterday, I go there tomorrow. The problem begins when you start trying to speak it.’
‘It’s all in the tones.’
‘Yeah. You can apply four different tones to the same word and it’ll mean four different things. I used to practise a lot with this girl whose spoken Chinese wasn’t really very good. But she was a real doll, so I figured it was worth the sacrifice. Anyway, one day she says to me, “Do you want to have sex?” And I can’t believe my good luck. But there’s something about the way she says it that doesn’t quite convince me that’s what she means. That and the fact that she’s peeling an orange at the time.’ Margaret laughed. ‘So I ask her to repeat what she’d said. And she says it again. “Do you want to have sex?” To be honest, all I really wanted to say was “yes”. But I asked her to write it down instead. Sadly, there’s no ambiguity in written Chinese.’ He smiled to himself.
‘Well?’ Margaret asked impatiently. ‘What did she write?’
Michael shook his head ruefully. ‘Turned out she was asking me if I was religious. It was a big disappointment.’
‘So you never did have sex with her?’
He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? And I never betray a girl’s confidence.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Their taxi cruised west past the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The portrait of Mao Zedong gazed down on Tiananmen Square where once hundreds of thousands of Red Guards had hailed him as the red, red sun in their hearts. Now the square was filled with tourists, and men working under floodlights to erect massive floral sculptures and a giant mirror ball in time for National Day.
As Michael stared out at the square, Margaret sneaked a look at him. He was dressed casually, in jeans, tan leather boots, and a black open waistcoat over a white shirt that he hadn’t tucked in. He was lightly tanned, with a fine clear skin. He had big, strong hands, pale skin beneath immaculate fingernails, and a strong, well-defined jawline. Their car was not big, and his thigh was pressed against hers. She could feel the warmth of his leg, and the firmness of the muscle. He gave off a very distinctive scent that she could not quite place. It had a bitter-sweet, slightly musky, high-pitched note.
‘What’s your aftershave?’ she asked.
He dragged himself back from some distant thought and frowned. ‘I don’t use aftershave.’ Then he realised. ‘Oh, you mean the patchouli?’ He grinned. ‘I hate the smell of aftershave. It’s kind of overpowering first thing in the morning. I just smear the tiniest amount of patchouli oil on to my neck, below the Adam’s apple. I think there’s something fresh about it. He paused. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, I do,’ she said. ‘It’s unusual, that’s all.’
‘I hope you like jazz,’ he said suddenly.
‘Jazz?’
‘That’s where we’re going. To hear the best jazzband this side of the Great Wall.’
And she felt a tiny stab of disappointment.
Their taxi dropped them in the forecourt of the Minzu Fandian on Fuxingmennei Avenue. But this was not their destination, and they left the lights of the hotel behind them and went down through the underpass. At the other side of the avenue, steps led them up into the deep shadow of trees separating the bike lane from the sidewalk. Margaret began to feel uneasy. Old men sat about on walls playing chess while women stood gossiping in groups, their children laughing and shouting, kicking a ball up and down the grass. The narrowest of hutongs led off into a maze of walled courtyards. She had been here before, she realised.
The Sanwei bookstore stood on the corner, its lights spilling out into the dark of the street. They could hear the sound of jazz music drifting lightly on the warm evening air. As they stepped inside, a young girl came forward to sell them entrance tickets for thirty yuan each. Down a c
ouple of steps, staff milled around narrow aisles between shelves of books and magazines. ‘Don’t be fooled by the bookshop,’ Michael said. ‘There’s the most wonderful tearoom upstairs.’
‘I know,’ she said, and he stopped on the bottom step, taken aback.
‘You’ve been here before?’
She nodded. ‘But not on a jazz night.’ And she remembered the stillness of the tearoom: lacquered tables and chairs grouped silently on a tiled floor; vases and sculptures displayed on shelves and cabinets; traditional and modern scrolls hanging on the walls; screens along the window wall dividing it into discreet individual areas, in one of which she had sat with Li on a night when the place was otherwise deserted, on a night when she had opened her heart to him for the very first time.
‘Are you OK?’ Michael was concerned.
She almost told him she didn’t want to go up, but in the end didn’t have the heart. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. He lingered a moment, still concerned, then took her hand and led her up the stairs.
The band was taking a break as Michael and Margaret got to the top of the steps, and the audience in the packed tearoom was still applauding their last number. A bespectacled young man sitting at a table, took their tickets.
‘Hello, Mr Zimmerman,’ he said in a slow, concentrated English. ‘How are you tonight?’
‘I’m good, Swanney. How are things at work?’
‘We are ve-ery busy just now, Mr Zimmerman.’
Michael introduced Swanney to Margaret, who shook his hand. ‘Swanney is a doctor at the infectious diseases hospital,’ Michael said, and Margaret had the immediate urge to go and wash the hand he had shaken. ‘He works here on jazz nights, partly because he likes jazz, but mostly because it gives him the chance to practise his English.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Margaret said. She looked around. The tearoom was crowded, a mix of Chinese and European faces. It was mostly a young crowd, with the exception of a single elderly man wearing jeans, a tee shirt and baseball cap. He was working hard at charming his way into the pants of a Chinese girl who was young enough to be his granddaughter. She looked exceedingly bored. It was a very different atmosphere from the still and solitary one Margaret had experienced here with Li on an emotionally charged night. Raised voices and laughter, people gathered round tables in animated groups, drinking tea and beer.
And yet there was something odd, something missing. And then she knew what it was. She said to Michael, ‘No one’s smoking.’
He grinned. ‘I know. A jazz club without cigarette smoke. Doesn’t seem right, does it? The lady who owns the place is a bit eccentric.’ He nodded down a colonnaded corridor to a door at the end. ‘She practically lives in there. Hardly ever shows her face. Hates smoking, so she made jazz nights a smoke-free zone.’ He steered her towards what appeared to be the only free table in the place. ‘Reserved,’ he said. ‘Wanted to be sure we’d get a seat.’
A girl of about twenty, wearing a white apron, and a big smile on an open, pretty face, materialised out of the crowd. ‘Hello again, Mr Zimmerman,’ she said, gazing at him with unabashed adoration.
‘Hi, Plum,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘Plum, this is Margaret. She’s a doctor.’
Plum turned to Margaret, her smile just as wide and disarming. ‘Hello, Miss Margaret,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m ve-ery pleased to meet you. I am study English at Beijing University. What would you like to drink?’
They ordered beer, and Margaret looked around the young, animated faces and froze, suddenly, as she turned and met the eye of a tall Chinese man pushing past their table. It was Li. She felt the blood colour her cheeks as he stopped, unable to avoid the fact that they had seen each other. And then her eyes flickered past him to an attractive young Chinese woman at his side, and she immediately felt sick. It was as if he had returned her slap ten times over. So this was why they had no future, she thought bitterly. There was already someone else. She wanted to stand up and hit him again. Only harder this time, with a clenched fist, so that it would really hurt. But she remained frozen in her chair. ‘Well,’ she said, barely able to control her voice. ‘This is a surprise.’
Initially it was his embarrassment that left Li at a loss for words, and then his eyes flickered towards Michael, and it was anger that flushed his cheeks. He looked back at Margaret. So this was why she had decided to stay on. It hadn’t taken her long to get over her heartbreak.
‘Isn’t it?’ is all he could bring himself to say.
Michael jumped immediately to his feet and extended a hand. ‘Hi. I’m Michael Zimmerman.’
Politeness forced Li to take his hand. ‘Li Yan,’ he said curtly.
Margaret stood up slowly and turned her gaze on the woman with Li. ‘And this is?’ she asked pointedly. She wasn’t going to let him away without having to make an introduction.
Li looked at Margaret steadily for a moment, and the directness of his gaze disconcerted her. ‘This is Xiao Ling,’ he said. ‘My sister.’
Another slap in the face, this time one of rebuke. Margaret didn’t know which was the dominant emotion, embarrassment or relief. But whatever else, she felt very foolish. She tried a smile and shook Xiao Ling’s hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said.
Xiao Ling nodded politely, her eyes meeting Margaret’s for only a moment before flickering downward.
‘Hi,’ Michael said, shaking her hand also. ‘Won’t you join us?’
Margaret threw him a horrified glance. But Li coldly dismissed the invitation. ‘We were just leaving,’ he said. ‘We made a mistake. This is not usually a jazz night.’
‘No,’ Michael said. ‘It’s a one-off tonight. A special event.’
Li nodded, and ushered Xiao Ling past him. ‘Enjoy it,’ he said, and they left.
Margaret and Michael sat down. ‘Wow!’ Michael said. ‘I feel like I just spent the last few minutes in the freezer.’ He examined his fingers. ‘I’m not sure I didn’t get frostbitten.’
Margaret smiled reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry, Michael.’
‘Who was that guy? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘No, you can ask,’ Margaret said. ‘He’s just about the most stubborn, difficult and downright discourteous man I think I’ve ever met.’
‘Right.’ Michael nodded sagely. ‘So you and he were an item.’
She flicked him a quick look. ‘That obvious, was it?’
He smiled. ‘It was the stamp on your foreheads that said “ex-lovers” that really gave you away.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘Who is he?’ he asked.
‘Li Yan is Deputy Section Chief of Section One of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Beijing Municipal Police.’
‘A cop?’ Michael was clearly astonished.
‘Unfortunately, in my line of work, it’s very difficult to avoid them.’
He shook his head in amazement. ‘What’s Section One?’
‘Oh, it’s kind of like a serious crime squad. They handle all the big robberies and murders.’
Then the penny dropped for Michael. ‘So he was the one you were working with during that rice thing?’ She nodded. ‘And now? This autopsy you did for the embassy? He involved in that, too?’
‘Unfortunately,’ Margaret said. And she added, with feeling, ‘It’s just a pity he wasn’t the one on the table.’
‘Ouch,’ Michael said. ‘Wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of your scalpel.’
She smiled. ‘Some people have accused me of having a sharper tongue.’
‘Wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of that either.’
She gave him a sheepish grin.
Plum arrived with their beers. Michael took a long pull at his and eyed Margaret thoughtfully. ‘So what is it you’re working on, a murder? Or is that a state secret?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Margaret said. She took a swallow of beer. ‘Just a guy at the embassy, a Chinese-American, got his head lopped off by some serial killer. Or, at least, that’s what the Chinese think.’
>
Michael made a face. ‘Decapitated? That sounds pretty unpleasant. An ancient Chinese form of execution.’
She looked at him, interested. ‘Is it?’
‘For thousands of years,’ said Michael. ‘Until quite recently, in fact. And, you know, when they buried their emperors in these huge underground tombs, it was quite common for dozens of the imperial concubines and members of the entourage to be entombed with them. Some of them were buried alive. The lucky ones were executed first. There are plenty of examples of headless skeletons found in tombs that have been excavated.’
Margaret shuddered. ‘Wouldn’t make working for the emperor the most attractive career.’
Michael shrugged and said, ‘It was the price they paid for incredible privilege while he was alive.’ He took another draught of his beer. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you don’t think the Chinese-American guy was killed by this serial killer?’
She shrugged vaguely, her mind still very much on Li. ‘Not really. Too many inconsistencies.’
‘So who do you think did it?’
‘Haven’t a clue. And neither do the Chinese. And by the time they find out, if they ever do, I’ll probably be drawing my pension.’ She looked up from her beer and smiled, shaking her head. ‘But it’s pretty boring stuff, really. Not nearly as interesting as it sounds.’ She sipped her beer. ‘So how was your day, darling?’ She made a determined effort to tear her thoughts away from Li.
‘Pretty dull, really,’ he said.
‘I thought you started filming today.’
‘We did. But it wasn’t anything very exciting. We’re still setting things up. But the sun came out, so we did some aerial shots from a helicopter of the tomb at Ding Ling.’
She burst out laughing. ‘Ding-a-ling?’ she asked incredulously.
‘No.’ He smiled at her silliness. ‘Ding Ling. It’s the site of the tomb of Zhu Yijun, thirteenth emperor of the Ming Dynasty, Emperor Wanli. It is built into Dayu Hill in the cradle of the Heavenly Longevity Hills, just an hour out of the city. And it looked fabulous today. The first sunshine in ages. We couldn’t believe it. So we got the chopper up there fast, and came in very low over the mountains, so that as we traversed the final peak, the tomb opened out below us in all its glory. With the autumn colours, and the light, we got some great pics.’