“I thought you said that you went there alone.”
“I didn’t want to drag your mother into it, but now you know. The Red Guard had sandbagged themselves on the roof of the library with machine guns and had dug tunnels under their positions for supply lines. There were so many deaths. People were so young and so full of devotion for Chairman Mao and the Party. Your mother couldn’t bear to see those white faces and bloody bodies. She couldn’t stand the screams or the sound of bullets roaring. She had just had you. You were so beautiful, a life that had just begun.
“Before long, we were all caught like little insects in the ever tightening web of revolution, being denounced, denouncing others, being sent to labor camps. I lost touch with your mother for a while and thus had no contact with Song. Some years later, I started to hear his name. While we suffered, he had risen to the top of the Ministry.
“Toward the end of the Cultural Revolution, Song was overthrown. The political current at the time was so difficult to navigate, things flip-flopped all the time—one day Deng Xiaoping was a hero, the next day public enemy number one. So it was not inconceivable that Song could have made miscalculations. When he lost out, his son was sent to the mountains of Dongbei, and I heard that he almost died there.
“Then there was the death of his wife. It was kind of mysterious. No one seemed to know the details. For all I know, it could have been Song himself who sent his wife to her death. There was something very cold about him underneath that charming exterior. With some people, you know that they could strike one day with the utmost cruelty.
“His loss of power and his family’s suffering made him a victim of the Cultural Revolution, which gave him the credentials to rise again after Chairman Mao died.” Uncle Chen sighed. “So there you go. When we started, Song was just a group leader. Now he is the deputy head of the Ministry of State Security, with a big apartment, a chauffeured car, and plenty of power.”
“But why does he want to help my mother?”
“My dislike for Song aside, he seems to have behaved well when it comes to your mother. For a while all our friends thought the two of them would get married.
“When your parents met, your father was a promising young writer, a poet of a certain reputation. He was also an idealist, the opposite of people like us, whose job was spying on others. Perhaps even then your mother had unconsciously harbored doubts about her duties and the world she represented. I suppose that was why your father held such allure for her.” Uncle Chen sighed again, as if life had been one long sigh. “Your mother was a beautiful woman, talented and full of life. We all loved her. Unfortunately, she loved your father.”
A chubby girl in a dirty apron had stomped over to scoop up empty dishes onto the plastic tray she carried under her arm, banging the bowls and plates carelessly as she went. The sheen of her face carried the air of the back kitchen, heavy with lard and the smell of wind-dried sausages. Mei watched the girl mopping the tables. Her movements were slack; her whole being was sluggish.
“Should we have some tea?” Mei asked Uncle Chen. Without waiting for an answer, she stood up and moved to the counter, feeling light-headed.
A woman the size of a small elephant slapped a towel on the board. “Got you!” she exclaimed, flicking away a dead fly with her middle finger. “What do you want?” she asked Mei unsmilingly. She wiped her hands on the towel.
“A pot of oolong tea, two cups.” Mei took out her wallet.
The woman marched over to the counter behind her, snatched a few loose tea leaves from a tin, and dumped them into a brown teapot. She lifted a giant aluminum kettle from the stove and poured hot water into the pot. “Four yuan.” She slammed the lid back on the teapot and pushed it and two teacups toward Mei.
Mei handed over the money before the woman could spit at her. As she walked away with the tea, she saw Uncle Chen tucking in to the last Dragon buns. She took in his physical form in all its details: the bulging waistline, the head that looked like an upside-down egg, the back hunched over the table. He had been in love with Mama? Mei’s stomach contracted. Then she thought of Song, his leanness and elegant stride. There was a controlled charisma in that man.
Holding the tray, Mei took a long breath and forced a smile. “Oolong tea?” She sat down and poured out the tea. Their hands reached for the teacups at the same time. “Sorry,” they both said, embarrassed.
“Do you know what happened in the labor camp? How did she get us out? And why not our father, too?” Mei held her cup next to her heart.
Uncle Chen shook his head. “I don’t know. She never told me. She never wanted to talk about that period of her life.” He gazed at Mei with all the misery of life in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mei. If you don’t want to go on with the jade, I’ll understand.”
“I’ll go on, and I will find it,” Mei snapped.
They were both silent now. The waitresses had disappeared. The teahouse was empty, with a musky aftertaste.
“Do you know what the eye of jade is?” Mei asked.
Yesterday she had called Pu Yan to ask the same question. But he hadn’t had the answer. He had told Mei that he would ask some of his colleagues and call her if he learned anything.
Uncle Chen was also puzzled. “No. I’m afraid not.” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Why?”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” Mei said. “I’ve got to go and let you go home to Auntie. She’ll think I’ve kidnapped you.”
She rose, quietly pushing back the chair. Uncle Chen looked up. Hidden gloom wavered behind his shallow eyes.
“I’ll be in touch,” Mei said.
The door had jammed again, so she left it ajar. Outside, the sun had exploded into a thousand pieces of white light.
Mei left the Beautiful Food Street and went down a winding road. The day was becoming hot. She felt her thoughts all tangled up and heavy. She had to clear her mind. But she didn’t want to go home.
She crossed to the south side of the ring road. Along the dusty street, a parade of little shops had just opened. The owners and helpers were bringing out packs of incense sticks, Buddha prayer beads, and scrolls. Behind the shops towered the golden roofs of the Lama Temple.
Mei bought a ticket and went inside. Smoke rose from a large incense burner. Sunday worshippers knelt in front of it, holding lit incense sticks and murmuring prayers.
In front of the Pavilion of Ten Thousand Happiness, a tour guide with an umbrella was talking about the history of the temple. It was originally built in the seventeenth century as a royal residence for Prince Yong of the Qing Dynasty. After the prince took the throne and became Emperor Yong Zheng, he converted his former home into a lamasery.
Leaving the tour group behind, Mei entered the pavilion and looked up. In front of her rose an eighteen-meter-tall statue of the Maitreya Buddha, draped in long silk scarves. The plaque on the floor said that it was carved from a single piece of white sandalwood. Mei stood in front of it for a while, her eyes registering the details: the graceful hands lifting slightly, the gold beneath the folds of the robe, the paint peeling off from the tip of the fingers as if they had touched something. The Buddha smiled mysteriously. Mei thought of the Mona Lisa, but only for a second. As she strained her neck to get a better look, she saw the warmth and light in the smile of the Buddha of the Future, as if to say that all would be revealed in time.
Stepping outside the pavilion, Mei went to the far side of the courtyard and sat down on a bench. The sun had sprayed a layer of golden light on the ground. A monk dressed in a long burgundy robe walked slowly across. The smell of the burning incense was strong and calming.
Mei thought about what Uncle Chen had told her. She didn’t see a reason for doubting him, but what he had said didn’t quite explain why her mother had wanted to keep her past hidden from her children. Surely, thought Mei, Mama could have explained what had happened. Mei certainly would not have held it against her for having been a secret agent, especially not since she herself had left the
Ministry. Perhaps Mama was ashamed that she had put them through hardship. But that seemed too petty a reason. After all, China had been full of hardship at that time. In the end, both of her daughters had turned out fine, well educated, with good jobs.
Mei took in a lump of incense-infused air and closed her eyes. The sunshine warmed her, and a light breeze caressed her face. She thought of the white curtain in Zhang Hong’s room, flaring in the spring sunlight. She opened her eyes. The medium-height, solidly built man with a crew cut whom she had seen running down the stairs could have been Big Papa Wu. The physical description fit. He had the motive, too. Zhang Hong could have been the loose end that he had needed to tidy up. Mei couldn’t be sure, but it was worth a try.
She looked at her watch. It had just reached noon. She got up and started walking toward the exit. At this hour, she thought, the city center would be swamped with shoppers, the ring road thick with traffic. Whichever route she chose, it would take a long time to get to Liulichang.
THIRTY
BOSS ISN’T HERE,” said the manager at Big Papa Wu’s. He was tall, with a nose like a crow’s beak. A yard of black silk was draped over his shoulders.
“Are you sure?” Mei’s lips curled up. “Tell him that I’ve come from the Hotel Splendor.”
He studied her vaguely, his nose twitching. A cloud of suspicion hovered behind his eyes. Eventually, he nodded and went back to moving receipts. Behind them, shoppers were murmuring, and people were coming and going.
A receipt was brought over, and he stamped the store seal on it in red ink. Then he turned and walked away. A door opened and shut noiselessly. The black crow was gone.
The window was open to bright sunshine. Big Papa Wu sat with his back to it, watching Mei from behind a large rectangular table. It looked like an old altar table, once placed before a family shrine. It had carved legs and no drawers. There wasn’t much on it: a pen, a notepad, a telephone, a small porcelain figurine of two People’s Liberation Army soldiers—one male and one female—in a ballet pose, a lamp with a silk shade, a pack of cigarettes, a silver lighter, and a glass ashtray.
Big Papa Wu spread his fists on the table. His muscles bulged under a polo shirt. He fixed his eyes on Mei. “What is it you want?”
Mei sat before him in a square-backed rosewood chair. “Did you kill Zhang Hong? You were in such a hurry to get out of there, you almost knocked me over.”
Big Papa Wu’s fists slid off the table. He stared at Mei expressionlessly. “He killed himself.”
“Why would he do that? He’d never had it so good—money, a woman, a new life.”
Big Papa Wu grunted throatily. “Money? The bastard should have left Beijing while he still had it.” He reached for the cigarettes but hesitated, tapping his fingers on the pack. He obviously knew he’d said too much. “What’s your version?” He glared at her.
“Let’s see. Zhang Hong gambled away all his money and was in debt. He came to ask you for help, but you refused. Perhaps he threatened to expose you and your smuggling. You shut him up.”
Big Papa Wu jerked his head sideways and spat. “Bullshit.” He grabbed the Marlboros, tore out a cigarette with his teeth, and seized the silver lighter. “Let me tell you something. I may be a brute, but I don’t kill.” He lit the cigarette. “Six years of street gangs, eight years of ‘up the mountains, down countryside,’ you can trust me when I say it’s better just to break a body part. Look at these photos on my walls.” He waved his hand, drawing a half-loop with the cigarette smoke. “I’m a respected member of the community. My connections go way up. I am not afraid of anyone, especially not a little man like Zhang Hong. Gamblers make me sick. They have no backbone and no loyalty.” He paused, enjoying the sound of his own words.
Mei looked around the room. On the walls were photos of smiling faces, Big Papa Wu’s among them. “Then why did you go to his hotel?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.” He tapped his cigarette over the glass ashtray. “But let me make one thing clear: He was already dead when I got there. Maybe he didn’t kill himself. Maybe it was the gambling house. I don’t know and don’t care.”
“Don’t you think the police may care?”
Big Papa Wu snorted. “Do you know how many people travel to Beijing every day? Twenty thousand. Then there are the migrant workers who are here illegally. We are talking hundreds of thousands of off-the-book nobodies. Why would the police care about any of them? People die, that’s just a fact of life.”
“So why did you tear the hotel room apart?” Mei looked at Big Papa Wu from beneath her eyelashes.
“Maybe I just didn’t like his face. Miss, you have a pretty face and maybe a pretty mind inside that head of yours. Why don’t you tell me what you are looking for? Then I will tell you what I was looking for.”
Mei crossed her arms. “What’s in it for me?”
“Money, of course—why else would you be doing it?”
Mei stood up. Her back was hurting from the hard chair, and her legs needed stretching. She idled her way along a wall of photos. “How long have you been in this business?” she asked. Most of the photos had captions, but none was dated. Judging by the fashions, some of them had been taken years ago.
“Seventeen years.”
“Have you always been in Liulichang?” She recognized the pop star Tian Tian.
“No, I had other little shops here and there for a while. I moved to this one a few years ago.”
The last photo was black-and-white, taken at the time when Big Papa Wu was young and lean. His left arm was locked with that of another young man, tall, with handsome eyes and soft lips. Unlike Big Papa Wu, he had a quiet and almost withdrawn demeanor. An older man stood behind them, smiling proudly.
Mei stopped in front of the picture for a long time. She thought that she’d seen the older man before somewhere. But the harder she tried, the slower her mind seemed to turn, until it jammed. She gave up. “Where was this picture taken?” She turned around to look at Big Papa Wu. His hair was shorter now and no longer full. The flame inside his eyes had died.
“At my first store. That’s my partner,” said Big Papa Wu casually. “We were together ‘up the mountains, down countryside.’ When I came back to Beijing, I had no job or home. He and his father helped me set up this business.” He took a long drag and then let the smoke out slowly. “Do you know why I am a good antiques dealer?” he asked.
“Why?”
Big Papa Wu shifted in his chair. “Before I was a send-down youth, I had been a member of a youth gang for some years. I thought I was tough. The thing about street gangs was that you never trusted anyone, because none of us was trustworthy. We were all thugs. If you wanted to survive, you always had to watch your back.
“But things were different in the mountains of Dongbei. Our camp was a patched-up old timber station deep inside the forest. In the summer, we cut down trees and sent the logs downriver. Winter was harsh and long, with deep snow. We were all teenage kids from Beijing. We had never hunted animals, never held rifles, never been cut off by snowstorms.
“When you have to face the power of nature, you learn to trust. Not blind trust. Humans can be much more dangerous than wild animals. But you find out just who you can trust. Back then you needed to know who would save you if you were in danger and who you could give a rifle to and not worry when you turned your back. Most important, you needed to know who you could speak your heart to without being betrayed to the Party secretary. Everything was empty out there, the landscape, the days and nights. If you couldn’t talk to someone, you’d go crazy.
“The mountains were vast and deep. It was the kind of place that gave you the creeps because you knew you couldn’t get out. Every winter, when the isolation and hardship got to be too much, someone would lose it and try to escape. But no one ever walked out of there alive.
“Like I said, there were dangers everywhere. One summer a boy we called Four-eyes, because he wore glasses, was swept away by the river. It h
ad rained for many days. Winter was unbearable. Sometimes the supply trucks couldn’t come to the camp for weeks because of the snow. It drove people mad. It drove them to do anything to get out. I mean anything. I’ve seen the most innocent beings turn into devils.
“This is my point. I learned very quickly how to judge people—to work out who was truthful and loyal and who was not. Later on, a man we called Big Brother taught me to read faces. You see, most dealers on this street know more about antiques than I ever could. But they can’t read faces. They don’t understand people. But me, I know in an instant whether someone is lying.
“Now, tell me…” Big Papa Wu leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing around here, looking for trouble?”
“What trouble?” Mei looked straight at Big Papa Wu and shrugged. She didn’t like being threatened.
“Miss…?”
“Wang.”
“Miss Wang, tell me something else. Do you trust easily?”
She watched Big Papa Wu’s cigarette smoke dissolve out of the open window. She thought of Uncle Chen, the man whom she’d known all her life. His was the warm hand she’d held on to as a child; he was the uncle she’d never had. Thirty years of love were worth a lot of trust. Yet she had wondered, inside the long dark corridor of Number 309 Hospital, in a fleeting moment of doubt, just how well she really knew him.
At that moment, the telephone rang.
Big Papa Wu sapped his cigarette. “Hello? Oh, fine…no sweat…really.” A trace of a smile crept over his face.
Mei wondered what her answer would have been if the telephone had not interrupted them.
When he hung up, Big Papa Wu was in good humor. “Think about my offer. Perhaps you and I could do business. We find whatever it is together, and I will make it worthwhile for you.”
Mei smiled. She laid one of her business cards on his desk and said, “We’ll meet again.”
The Eye of Jade Page 17