Later, he spent a great deal of time in the public library on Tenth Street at Tompkins Square Park. There, surrounded by old men and women who kept coughing in winter or blew their noses noisily into handkerchiefs the size of pillowcases, he studied Marco Polo’s accounts of his travels, Confucius, Laozi, and Mao, understanding little of what he read. But that did not bother him, as long as the books helped him to keep dreaming of China.
On his travels later, he learned how little his fantasies had to do with the Chinese reality, but bidding farewell to the land of his dreams was not too difficult for him. The reality in the 1980s, the period of gradual opening up, was even more exciting and interesting that he had ever imagined, and he no longer needed China as his castle, a place in which he could seek refuge in his dreams. With the birth of Justin, his interest in the country and in traveling there had waned, and after the diagnosis, it had been totally extinguished. He had refused Zhang’s repeated invitations over the past few years for him to visit or for them to take a trip to Shanghai or Beijing together. China no longer moved him. Or did it? Just a few hours ago he would still have said that with conviction.
Paul stood up, thought about which hotel was nearest on foot, and walked slowly up the empty streets toward the Mandarin Oriental.
———
The quiet murmur of the air-conditioning, a low hum from the bridge, and a cell phone that kept on ringing somewhere. Paul opened his eyes and reached for his mosquito net. It was a few long seconds before he realized where he was. The cell phone stopped ringing, only to start again shortly after. Eyes heavy with sleep, he looked at the display. He did not recognize the number; it was neither Christine’s nor Zhang’s. Probably the Owens. Paul switched his phone to silent. He did not want to speak to anyone, least of all to the Owens. The alarm clock showed it was 7:15 AM. There was a piercing pain in his head and his whole body hurt, as though he had drunk too much alcohol last night. Had he gone to the hotel bar? He could not remember anything. He turned on his side, pulled the light blanket up to this chin, and fell asleep again.
When he woke the second time, he felt even worse. The headache had gone but now he felt as if someone had bound him tightly around the chest. He tried to lie there quietly, but still could not breathe. He felt hot, even though he had felt cold the whole night through because of the air-conditioning and the blanket that was much too thin. He was afraid. Afraid of speaking to Elizabeth Owen. Afraid of too many impressions. Afraid of too many voices, sounds, smells, people. He could feel this fear growing with every moment that he lay alone in this strange bed, in this strange room.
He got up and called Christine. Her voice calmed him a little. Yes, she had time, always had time for him. He could come to pick her up for a lunch in an hour.
Paul went to the metro entrance on Statue Square. He wanted to take the MTR to Wan Chai, but the deeper he descended into the station, the worse he felt. When he saw the crowds of people waiting for the train and got shoved in the back by the first elbow, he turned around and hurried back up onto the street. On the tram, there was a seat free in the first row on the upper deck; he held his head out of the window, and the breeze from the movement of the tram dried the sweat on his brow.
The stairwell at 142 Johnson Road was even narrower and dirtier, and the World Wide Travel office was even smaller than he had imagined from Christine’s description. She and her two employees sat in front of three computer screens; all of them were wearing headpieces and in the middle of conversations with clients, talking loudly over each other in order to be heard above the air conditioner rattling in the background. The desks were piled with catalogues, brochures, bills, and tickets. The walls were covered with yellowing pages from a Cathay Pacific calendar, with photographs of pagodas in Japan, Thailand, Sri Lanka, and Vietnam. The room had no window. Paul wondered how she put up with these cramped and noisy conditions every day.
Christine led him to a dim sum restaurant not far from her office. She wove her way through the bustling throng of people on the overcrowded sidewalks so quickly and so skillfully that it was only with some difficulty that he was able to keep up with her.
The restaurant was as big as a soccer field and as noisy as a rock gig. Every table was occupied, and as soon as anyone stood up the people waiting would rush for the empty seat as if there was something to be had for free at that table. After a brief exchange between Christine and the maître d’, a waiter led them past a row of fish tanks to the back section of the restaurant, to one of the few tables for two. Christine checked the boxes for their order on a piece of card, and Paul told her in a few sentences about what had happened in Shenzhen and about the phone call he had to make that he had been postponing for a few hours now.
“What is it you want to hear from me? Advice?”
Her voice had lost its lightness of tone. She sounded stern and tense.
“I don’t know,” Paul said quietly. “Maybe.”
“I would call these people and tell them that you’re sorry, but you can’t help them, and that would be the end of that. The police in Hong Kong or in Shenzhen or the American embassy in Beijing can worry about the rest. You have nothing to do with it. I would stay out of it.”
She looked at Paul, her lips pressed firmly together. Her tone had probably been much sharper than she preferred it to be, but she could not help herself. Paul was thankful that she did not even try to cover it up. He knew her face and he knew that she did not trust the mainland Chinese. And how could she, after everything that had been done to her family? Any attempt to do so would be marred by the memory of the sound of the boots of the Red Guards, the creaking stairs, the sound of the wooden door splintering as it was kicked in, her father’s face filled with the fear of death. The jump from the window. An accident, they said. An accident! That was still what they said today, nearly forty years later. If it had been possible, she would have emigrated to Canada, America, or Australia before 1997. She did not want reunification. Her family had fled China for Hong Kong in 1967 only to fall under Beijing’s control after all, thirty years later. Of course, a lot of time had passed and the government of today apparently had nothing to do with the government of all those years ago. She knew the arguments, she knew them all; she had argued often enough with her friends about this, had tried to explain something that perhaps could not be explained. But the same party was still in government, and this party had never apologized to the people for the crimes that it had committed; as long as it did not do so, as long as it did not ask for forgiveness from the victims of all its campaigns and purges, Christine Wu would not trust it. And she would not attend one of the Mandarin language schools that now dotted every corner of Hong Kong. Nor would she organize any tours to China or travel there herself. She had tried once, and taken the train toward Shenzhen. She had grown more and more tense the nearer the train got to the People’s Republic. Finally, she had stood at the border to the land of her birth, her heart racing with fear. She had heard the voices of her parents. The voices of her grandparents. After a long struggle, she turned back. Because the shadows of the past were too long. Because the whispers would not fall silent.
Paul said nothing. He felt annoyed at himself for having asked her in the first place.
“I’m sorry. What I’m saying sounds very selfish and is perhaps not what you want to hear.”
As two waiters brought the first few bamboo baskets of dim sum dumplings to the table, Paul’s phone rang. It was Zhang.
“Hello, Paul. Did you catch the last ferry?”
“No. I spent the night in a hotel.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It was the Mandarin Oriental. It’s right next to the ferry terminal.”
“Where are you now? It sounds as though you’ve been put to work in a restaurant kitchen.”
“I’m sitting with Christine in Wan Chai, having dim sum.”
“Then I’ll make it
quick. Have you spoken to the Owens yet?”
“No.”
Zhang did not say anything for a moment. “I know that it’s not going to be pleasant conversation.” He did not sound formal, but it was impossible not to hear the detective superintendent in him speaking. “But I have to know as soon as possible if the body is Michael Owen. Even if it turns out this afternoon that he died of heart failure. With murder, time is mostly on the side of the murderer.”
“I know,” Paul whispered into the telephone.
“What did you say?”
“I know,” he repeated, a little louder.
“Can you tell those people to stop rattling their plates? Why do the Chinese have to shout so while eating? I can’t hear a thing.”
Did Zhang really not hear him or was that his way of telling him that he should call the Owens as soon as possible?
“I know that I have to talk to them,” he said, loudly and clearly.
“That sounds better. Decisive.”
“Can I wait till after lunch?”
“The sooner the better. Do you know if Michael Owen has an apartment in Hong Kong?”
“No, but I assume he must have.”
“Can you ask his mother? And if he does, go and look at it today, if possible?”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“His mother must have they key. Think of an excuse.”
“What am I supposed to look for?”
“If he really was murdered, there are probably clues in the apartment as to why he traveled to Shenzhen two days ago and who he was meeting there, also whether he had friends or acquaintances in the city. And even if he’s not the dead man, he’s still missing. Maybe he threw himself off the Tsing Ma Bridge and left a farewell letter.”
“If he is the murdered man, shouldn’t the Hong Kong police be searching the apartment instead?”
“They’ll be doing that, yes. But I want us to be the first to look at it. I’ll explain why to you later. Now, have you got Mei’s cell phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Will you call me on that number from now on about this?”
“But why?” Paul couldn’t help asking.
“Later, I’ll tell you everything later. Will you call as soon as you have news?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy your meal, then.”
Paul switched his phone off and put it in his jacket pocket. He would have liked to sink it in the sweet-sour soup that was in front of him. He did not want to call the Owens. Not now. And not later. He did not want to know whose child the dead young man was. He wanted even less, much less, to have to tell the man’s parents that they had lost their son. He did not want to be moved by this sadness, this pain, this distress. He did not want to be moved at all. He wanted to have a meal with Christine and then, since he was in the city, to buy a few things he needed and then take the quickest route back to Lamma. His house, his plants, and Justin’s rain boots were waiting there for him.
Paul sipped his tea, pulled his chopsticks out of their paper wrapper, and helped himself to a vegetable dumpling. Better than expected, he thought. What had he to do with the Owens? He dabbed a steamed shrimp dumpling in the red chili sauce. Wonderful. What did a dead body in Shenzhen have to do with him? The stuffed rice-flour rolls were a little overcooked and the dough was too thick. A pity. The jasmine tea was extraordinarily good, though; strong, but not bitter. Christine was right: he should stay out of it. Not get any further involved. Just one more phone call.
Christine had followed his conversation with Zhang. She was now sitting opposite him, bolt upright, not touching the food.
“Are you not hungry?” Even as he was asking the question, he could hear how stupid it sounded, how ridiculous he was making himself. As if he did not know what she was thinking.
“No,” she retorted.
“I’ll follow your advice. This situation is a matter for the police.”
“Do you really mean that?”
Paul nodded.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Christine helped herself to a pork bun. The finest in all Hong Kong.
———
Paul walked through the narrow alleyways of Wan Chai looking for a place where he could call the Owens. But no matter which street he turned into, which entryway he stood in, or which coffee shop he sought refuge in, the roar of jackhammers, construction machinery, cars and buses, and the clamor of the voices of passersby and street vendors made such a conversation impossible. He thought about the Grand Hyatt Hotel with its big, wide lobby; surely he would be able to find the necessary peace and quiet in a secluded corner there. Paul crossed Lockhart Road and Gloucester Road, passing the immigration authorities and Wanchai Tower before he arrived at the hotel.
———
“Mr. Leibovitz. I’ve tried so many times to reach you. Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry. I . . . my cell phone . . .”
Elizabeth Owen did not wait for his explanation. “Have you spoken to the man you know in Shenzhen? Do you know anything about my son’s whereabouts?”
“No.” Paul had no idea how difficult it would be for him to tell this lie. He had thought he could be able to pronounce these two letters and put down the phone shortly after. Instead, they echoed through his head like dark, muffled drumbeats that did not die away but grew louder and louder. NO. You coward.
“I mean, of course I spoke to my friend. Several times, in fact, and he talked to his coworkers, but no one had heard of a Michael Owen.” No cheating, Daddy. Tell the truth. “So that’s really a good sign, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth Owen said nothing.
Paul heard nothing but a quiet rustling. He could not stand the silence, so he continued talking. “I’m sure that everything will be cleared up soon. Your son will turn up today or tomorrow. My friend in Shenzhen promised to call me as soon as he hears of anything. What does he actually look like?”
“Who?”
“Your son, of course.”
“Tall, blond, blue eyes. I don’t know how I should describe him.”
“Does he have any distinguishing marks?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Any special marks. A liver spot on the forehead or something like that.”
“No.”
“A scar on the cheek?”
“No.”
“No old scars or injuries?”
“No.”
“From a car accident, perhaps? A fall from a bicycle?”
“No.”
Paul got up from his armchair. He had to move; he had to express the relief he felt somehow. He walked up and down, rocking on his heels, with the phone pressed to his ear.
“That’s great.”
“Michael was always a very healthy boy.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Very glad to hear that. Then I’m sure that everything will soon be sorted out, Mrs. Owen.”
“He always did a lot of sport.”
Paul did not want to know any more.
“He was a very, very good sportsman, you see. He was captain of the football team in high school.”
Paul wanted to end the conversation. A press of the button would suffice.
“He even got a sports scholarship from Florida State University.”
Fantastic. An amazing guy; no doubt about it. And why couldn’t the story end right there? He did not want to hear any more.
“Mrs. Owen, I’ll get in touch if I hear from my friend in Shenzhen, okay?”
“Florida State. You know what that means. Florida State! They have one of the best football teams in the whole of America. But then he had that stupid accident. After that he was never able to play football properly again.”
“What kind of accident?” Paul couldn’t
help asking.
“He was hit by a fellow player during a training session; it wasn’t intentional, but Michael’s ligaments got torn. He had to have three operations.”
“Where?”
“On his knee.”
“His knee? Which knee?”
“The left one. Why are you asking? Hello? Mr. Leibovitz? Are you still there?”
———
Michael Owen’s apartment was on the thirty-eighth story of Harbour View Court, one of the condominium complexes typical of the Mid-Levels of Hong Kong, with its identical high-rise blocks containing cookie-cutter apartments piled on top of each other like little shoeboxes. Elizabeth Owen was waiting in the lobby for him. In the taxi he had already felt his heart pounding harder and harder and his hands growing cold and clammy. How should he greet her? He had said nothing to her on the phone, and did not want to tell her anything now either. That was not his job. The police or the American consulate in Hong Kong or whoever it was should take care of it. He had come to Robinson Road because Zhang had asked him to do him a favor; he would take a look at the apartment, tell his friend about it, and then take the next ferry to Lamma.
Mrs. Owen looked him up and down and kept her eyes fixed on him as they walked through the lobby and into the elevator. As though any one of his movements or his gestures would shed light on her son’s whereabouts. Did she know that he had been lying? Could she tell by the way he was avoiding her gaze, by the way, as they stood next to each other silently in the elevator, he was staring at his shoes? Or was she simply nervous? Had his request to see the apartment roused her suspicion? Her husband had been in the apartment yesterday and said that he had not found anything suspicious. Might he have overlooked something? A message? A note? A farewell letter?
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