Whispering Shadows

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  Zhang is silent when the others ask why they are so late. He is silent when he hears the official version of events weeks later. The old temple in the mountains had long been a crumbling wreck and had finally collapsed; the monk living in it had been crushed by a falling beam from the ceiling when it happened.

  He has maintained his silence to this day.

  He has never told Mei about that day, and never told Paul. He has blotted it out of his memory, just like the crimes of those years have been excised from the Chinese history books. For over two decades he had not thought about it at all; he had been much too busy with the return to Chengdu, finishing school, moving to Shenzhen with Mei and his son, and his police work.

  Almost thirty years had passed before the memory had caught up with him after all, for reasons that he did not understand. At first it had returned intermittently, at long intervals, in his dreams; on those nights Mei had woken him up because he had been crying, or screaming so loudly that he woke their son. For some time now, it had popped up every few weeks, even during the day, at home, and Zhang could see no reason for it. It could be triggered by the sight of a wooden beam or a Buddha figure, but also by the sight of an old man with sunken cheeks and stick-thin legs crossing the road slowly. Memory operated by its own rules.

  In the past few months, he had, more and more often, found himself looking into the faces of people his own age and wondered: What did you do thirty-five years ago? Did you betray people or were you betrayed? Were you a victim or perpetrator, or both? Where are your memories? Are you only hiding them? When will they reappear? How can you stand the silence?

  That he would never get an answer to all these questions made him prone to regular periods of self-doubt. Was he perhaps the only one still troubled by what happened back then? Was it his mistake, a very personal failure of his, not to be able to leave the past in peace? There were millions of perpetrators and victims, so that was a ridiculous notion, absurd, really, he reassured himself when these thoughts came up. But because public discussion of the crimes that had been committed was not allowed and he himself had not mustered the strength to do so with the people closest to him, he felt unsure of himself, and this uncertainty plagued him.

  How did that day figure in Tang’s memory? Had he suppressed the murder? Did it haunt him, and, if so, how? Or maybe wealth helped him with forgetting? Is it easier to extinguish memories when you live in a big house with servants? And buy yourself a new luxury car every year? Eat at the most expensive restaurants, set up companies, build factories, buy apartments and sell them, fly back and forth across the country nonstop from one meeting to another, and when you have one or two lovers who are constantly available to offer their young bodies as distraction? Can a person escape his past that way?

  Zhang thought about how quickly the face of his country had changed. He thought about Chengdu, Chongqing, Shanghai, Wuhan, and all the cities he had visited in the last few years that he no longer recognized because the historic quarters in the city center had been bulldozed and a forest of high-rise buildings put up in their place. In a very short time, buildings hundreds of years old that had borne witness to the past had disappeared in those cities. Razed to the ground as though they had never existed. At times like these, it seemed to him that this untrammeled building frenzy and the incredible rate of change were a desperate attempt to flee from history, and the new high-rise buildings, roads, highways, airports, and factories were not so much signs of progress as giant memorials to the desire to forget. As if you could brick up memories. As if you could cement them all away and plaster over them. As if you could leave your shadow behind if you only walked fast enough.

  It was a ridiculous endeavor, bound to fail; Zhang felt this in his own body. He understood for the first time what power that moment still had over him, nearly forty years later. He had been witness to a murder. Could he have stopped it? Refused to give Tang the wooden beam? Charged at him while he was striking the blows? He might have been able to save the monk, but at what cost? Either Tang would have beaten him, Zhang, to death, or he would have had to answer to the Red Guards or to the party for his contemptible deed; he would no doubt have been cast out. There would have been no place in the new China for someone who saved the life of an old Buddhist monk.

  He saw his sixteen-year-old self before him, standing in the meditation hall, watching as Tang clutched the stick firmly with his strong hands, lifted his arms, higher and higher, torso twisting like a quill drawn taut. He saw the piece of wood whip through the air and he saw how everything was shattered with one stroke: belief in the Great Chairman and in the party, the permanent revolution and its young fighters, and, much worse, the young person’s belief in his own innocence. Destroyed, in a split second without him realizing it at the time. Measuring the consequences of that blow occupied him to this day.

  He did not feel guilt, only shame, bottomless shame about his own inadequacy, about how easily led he had been, and, most of all, about the cowardice within him that had showed its ugly face then.

  This shame had led him, though he had not understood the connection immediately, to the teachings of Buddha. One year after the murder of the monk, Zhang had seen the old cook Hu die, and his death was the event that gradually made him able to grasp the atrocities that were being perpetrated before his eyes. Beaten to death because of three lousy peppercorns. He had liked the mule-headed Hu; he had thought of him often in the years since, but the monk had been buried deep in his memory.

  How had this outbreak of violence become possible? How could pupils rise up against their teachers and children betray their parents? How had two pillars of Chinese culture simply collapsed in the space of weeks? How could he have participated in it?

  He did not find any answers to these questions in Buddhism, but the teachings gave him clear and simple instructions and rules of behavior, a kind of moral compass that he thought China had lost, certainly by the time of the Cultural Revolution. Apart from that, he was fascinated by the Buddhist idea that he was responsible for his own fate and did not have to pray to any god, any saints, or any Great Chairman on the path to enlightenment.

  That was why he was not at HQ celebrating with his colleagues now. Twice now he had looked on from the sidelines without taking action when innocent people had been executed. He would not do it a third time. Not for anything in the world.

  But where should he be now? With Mei in the kitchen? If she knew the truth, would it destroy their love? Probably not, but would she understand him? Zhang was not entirely sure. She was ten years younger than he was, and had lived through the worst years of the Cultural Revolution as a small child. As far as Zhang knew, her family had not been politically active, and had been spared the purges. She had also never witnessed public humiliations or executions that might have traumatized her. She had never spoken of them, at least. But that meant nothing, Zhang thought, she probably thought the same about him.

  Where should he be? With Tang in the office? He did not have the strength for that. Not yet. Zhang had seen enough photographs of Tang in the newspapers to know that he had not paid the price of losing any of his charisma. The broad shoulders, the upright posture, the striking features, the confident look in his eyes: All made him look like the natural focus of every picture. Would he be able to stand firm against that look today? It was only a matter of days until they would be facing each other again, and when it came to it, he would have to be well prepared, otherwise . . . Otherwise? Was it possible that Tang might wield power over him once more? An absurd notion. He had proved his courage often enough in the years past; every gift he had turned down as a policeman was proof of his strength. But now that the thought had entered his mind, it would not be chased out again, no matter how ridiculous Zhang found it.

  Victor Tang knew what to take aim at in order to destroy a man.

  XX

  He left the station and walked up Jianshe Road, his brisk pace meant
to deter anyone who tried to approach him with offers of a shoeshine, a cheap hotel room, a massage, or a woman. He either ignored the few who still tried their luck or shook them off with vigorous arm movements. Why had Michael Owen chosen the Century Plaza? It was one of the oldest and best hotels in Shenzhen, but its guests were mainly Chinese businesspeople. Visitors from Hong Kong or abroad preferred to stay in the chain hotels they trusted, such as the Holiday Inn or the Shangri-La.

  A uniformed doorman opened the door, bowed slightly, and greeted him with a loud “Welcome, sir.”

  While registering at the reception desk, he said that his good friend Michael Owen had recommended the hotel to him, but there was no reaction to the mention of the name. Paul asked if it would be possible to stay in the room that Mr. Owen had always stayed in on his visits; he heard it had superior views. He did not know the room number, no, but perhaps they could check on their computer system.

  The receptionist tapped away at his keyboard without looking up and shook his head. He couldn’t find an entry. Paul had to spell “Owen” several times, and he felt glad that Michael’s surname was not Abrahimovich.

  After a while the young man’s face lit up. Owen, Michael, yes, there he was. On his visits he had stayed most often in junior suite 1515 but he had not been a guest at the hotel for quite some time now.

  Where in Shenzhen had Michael Owen spent the night before his death, if not in his regular hotel?

  Paul persisted. Perhaps there was a computer error? He was fairly sure that his friend had stayed at the hotel just a few days earlier.

  Absolutely not. His last visit was almost exactly six months ago. Before that he had indeed been a regular guest.

  The junior suites were all reserved, so were the deluxe rooms, so, a few minutes later, Paul found himself in a small nonsmoking room that reeked horribly of cigarette smoke, with a window looking out onto train tracks, a highway, and two building sites. The faucet in the bathroom dripped, and he could hear several loud Chinese voices and a television in the room on his left. He thought about Lamma, the flowers for Christine, and the bottle of champagne in the fridge.

  The Emperor’s Paradise was in the basement of the hotel. Paul had no idea what he was letting himself in for here. When he had traveled through China in the 1980s and the early 1990s, there had been neither erotic massage salons nor brothels, or they had been off-limits for foreigners and so hidden away that he had never noticed them. Was the Emperor’s Paradise a proper massage salon or would the hands of the masseuse not stop at certain places? How would she react if he turned down all erotic play? Would he be able to ask about Michael Owen without attracting attention?

  Four tall young women in long pink evening dresses with fake white pearls in their permed hair greeted him. From the excitement in their faces he could see that a Western guest was unusual here. A man in a black suit came up to him. He smiled, but it was one of those Chinese smiles that was more a showing of teeth than a friendly gesture, and covered up suspicion and uncertainty. The man labored to formulate a sentence in English, and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Paul speak Chinese.

  “A good friend of mine, Michael Owen, recommended this salon to me,” Paul said as casually as he could.

  “We’re very glad to be able to welcome a friend of Mr. Owen’s,” the man replied, still somewhat formal but a little more relaxed. The young women giggled and whispered something among themselves that Paul did not understand.

  “Michael raved about your massages.” Paul was amazing himself with his own acting talents.

  “I’m happy to hear that. I think perhaps, then, that you will also want to be massaged by Number Seventy-Seven?” the Chinese man responded.

  “Very gladly. Michael recommended her to me warmly,” Paul replied, speaking as if no other woman would do.

  “Then please follow me.”

  They walked past a small fountain and several plaster statues of cherubs before they came to a changing room, where the man passed Paul to two attendants who helped him to undress, folded his clothes, and stored them in a numbered locker. They wrapped a bathrobe around him and led him to a kind of spa with two swimming pools, showers, and sauna rooms. Several Chinese people were lounging in the whirlpool chatting; they looked up briefly, sized Paul up, and then continued talking.

  Paul sat down in a sauna for a few minutes. He wanted to think about how best to begin his conversation with Number ­Seventy-Seven. But he was too flustered to concentrate. He showered and went to the quiet room.

  There was a guest lying on almost every lounger here. Some of them had closed their eyes while others were talking in whispers or looking at one of the four flat screens on the walls, on which live stock exchange data from Hong Kong, New York, Tokyo, Shanghai, and Shenzhen flashed. As far as Paul could tell in the half darkness, he was the only foreigner there. What had brought Michael Owen to this place? Was it a recommendation from Victor Tang, pure curiosity, or simply coincidence? Had he just had a massage or had he been looking for a young girl to take up to his room?

  Paul had barely sat down when a young woman came to stand in front of him. Her beauty surprised him. She had an unusually narrow face, a large mouth with thick, sensual lips, and long black hair that hung down her back. She was wearing a blue and white striped smock that barely covered her bottom. The skin on her slender legs was so white that they shimmered in the dim light of the quiet room. She spoke in a low voice and asked him to follow her. They walked through the twists and turns of the corridor into a pleasantly warm room that smelled of essential oils, in which two candles were burning. Paul took his bathrobe off and lay down on the massage table on his stomach. The young woman closed the door and slid the inside bolt.

  She stood next to him, put a towel over his naked lower body, rubbed oil on her hands, and started her work with slow movements.

  A shudder of pleasure rippled through Paul at the first touch. It was more stroking than massaging; her fingers played with him, gliding over the oiled skin from his tailbone to his shoulders and back again, down the sides beneath his underarms, over his arms, pressing gently into his flesh at certain points.

  “That feels good.”

  “Thank you. Why are you so tense?”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. Do you often have headaches?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Your shoulders, your arms, and your back are very stiff and much too hard.” She pushed the towel aside a little and massaged his lower back with gentle circular motions.

  “Too much work,” Paul claimed.

  “It doesn’t feel like that,” she said, spreading more oil on his legs.

  “What, then?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  Paul closed his eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “When I’m working, they call me Seventy-Seven.”

  “And when you’re not working?”

  “Pu. And you?”

  “Paul.”

  She started massaging his thighs with gentle movements. Was she trying to relax him or to arouse him?”

  “Michael asked me to say hello from him.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been told that you’re a friend of his. How is he?”

  “Fine.”

  “I haven’t seen him for a while. Not for two weeks at least,” Pu said.

  “He has a lot to do at the moment.”

  “He always does.”

  “You’re right. When was he last here?”

  “No idea. After Anyi stopped, he no longer came, and that was almost exactly half a year ago.” After a long silence she asked, “Do you know Anyi?”

  “No, not yet, I’m afraid.”

  He felt like he was a poker player who was bluffing and raising his stake with every remark he made. One wrong question, one wrong answer, and he would be exposed. Was Anyi th
e woman in the photos on Michael Owen’s computer that were saved under A?

  “She’s never talked about you either.” Was that a hint of suspicion in her voice or mere surprise?

  “I haven’t seen Michael for a long time. I live in Chicago and . . .”

  “Chicago?” she interrupted him, astonished. “Where did you learn such good Chinese, then?”

  He was a terrible liar. Chicago! Why on earth had he chosen a city he had never been to in his life! If he was unlucky, she would start telling him about an uncle who owned a restaurant there and ask him where he lived exactly. He had to talk as little about himself as possible; the more he had to make up, the greater the danger of getting entangled in a net of contradictions. “I lived in Hong Kong for a long time before, and have traveled through China a lot. That’s how I learned the language.”

  “You speak it very well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pu continued massaging his upper legs, kneading the muscles and stroking his inner thighs gently. He had walled in his emotions, his senses, for so long but now he had to will himself not to be seduced by this young Chinese woman.

  “You can turn over now,” she said.

  No, he could not do that right now. It was impossible for him to lie on his back in his current state. “In a minute. My shoulders often ache a great deal,” he said apologetically. “Could you massage them a bit more?”

  She moved to the upper end of the massage table and stroked his curly white hair and the thick hair growth on his arms. His hirsuteness had fascinated every Chinese woman he had met so far. “You’re older than Michael, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, quite a bit,” he said, laughing. Did she mean to compliment him or did she really find it difficult to guess his age?

  “I’m actually more a friend of his father’s. That’s how I know Michael.”