Whispering Shadows

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  “But you don’t seem to be the daughter of a poor farmer who ran away from the country to the city because of poverty.”

  “No, I’m not. My parents are minor party officials in a truck factory. I have no idea why they never rose higher in the party. They probably weren’t ambitious or ruthless enough. I don’t mind. I didn’t lack for anything as a child.”

  She looked past Paul out of the window, looking pensive and doubtful, reluctant to share more childhood memories with this stranger. After a long silence, during which Paul heard only himself and her breathing, she carried on, “I was born in 1982. Compared to the years before that, it was a politically peaceful time. For me, the Gang of Four was a group of boys in the neighborhood, not Mao’s widow’s gang, if you know what I mean. My parents had a small factory apartment with its own kitchen and toilet, which was a great luxury back then. After I finished school I could have worked in accounts or administration at the factory, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to get away, just get away.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “Maybe for the same reasons that you could no longer stand being in New York? As long as I can remember, I always wanted to get away. Away from Shenyang. When I was a little girl I stood in front of a world map at school one day and I still remember very clearly understanding in that moment how big the world is. I picked out three cities in China that I wanted to travel to: Beijing, Shanghai, and Shenzhen.”

  “Why did you go to Shenzhen and not to Beijing or Shanghai?”

  “Random happenstance. Someone I knew worked at the front desk in the Century Plaza and wrote to tell me that the city was exciting and that the hotel was still recruiting young women. So I got on a train and came south.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Do you know what my father said to me when he was saying good-bye? ‘Anyi, you are doing the right thing. My generation wanted to sacrifice itself for the country and the Revolution, but nothing good came of it. You young people think of yourselves first, and that is good.’ It’s actually pretty sad, isn’t it?”

  Paul nodded without saying anything.

  She continued. “I worked a couple of months at the hotel reception. Then I applied for a position in the Emperor’s Paradise and was successful and got it. The job was pretty well paid and not difficult. You had to like men and naked bodies, and I like both. And you had to be good with your hands. Don’t get me wrong, that was not a brothel. We didn’t disappear into a back room with the men.”

  “But into the hotel.”

  “No, not that either. If at all, it was entirely of our own free will. The Emperor’s Paradise had nothing to do with it.”

  “And where did you meet Michael?”

  “He was one of my customers. He came in one day, and I liked him immediately. He was very handsome, very polite, and obliging, and so shy that he didn’t even dare to remove the towel. I only had to massage his thighs and he would have an erection, which he found terribly embarrassing. He only spoke a few words of Chinese, and constantly mixed the tones up, but he did try.”

  She paused, perhaps to give him the chance to ask questions. Or to see if Paul was judging her.

  “You can just say it,” she continued. “I know what you’re thinking. For someone who wants to see the world, Michael came in very handy, right? A kind of plane ticket on two legs. But you’re wrong. Even before I met Michael I had been made very decided offers by other men. I could have been the mistress of a construction magnate, a factory owner, a Hong Kong banker, or a senior party cadre in Beijing, and those were only the more interesting options. All of them had much, much more money than the Owens, believe me. But I did not want what they offered. I don’t want to be a pretty bird that some rich man keeps in a cage. I could claim that I waited for Michael, but I am not that romantic. The right man came at the right time. I love him and I think he loves me too.” The longer she talked and the more serious the conversation grew, the more unsettled he felt by her. He had underestimated her. She was smart. And she possessed the strength and the energy of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. In that way, she reminded him of his ex-wife, Meredith. Those qualities had been alien to Paul all his life, and made him feel uncomfortable. But they fascinated him too.

  What she said about Michael Owen sounded honest. Anyi probably really loved him, which meant that he would be the messenger bearing this terrible news. He had not considered this at all beforehand; without thinking about it, he had factored Anyi in only as a source of information. The thought of having to tell her that Michael had been murdered left him short of breath. He felt pressure against his chest, as though someone had wound a chain around his torso and was pulling it tighter and tighter.

  “Are you unwell?” Anyi asked. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Yes. Some water, perhaps.”

  She got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with a glass of water.

  “Would you like to lie down for a while?”

  “I’m fine now, thank you,” he lied.

  She sat down on the bed again, held the pillow like a hot water bottle to her belly, and kept staring at him. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze; he could not fathom it. Was she looking at him with concern or had his sudden attack of weakness awakened her suspicions?

  “I’ve told you so much about myself,” she said. “Now I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “What’s the matter with you? Is it because of Michael?” Uncertainty lay over her voice like a shadow.

  He replied by asking another question. “Have you really no idea where he might be?”

  “No.”

  “Apart from you, does he have friends or acquaintances in Shenzhen?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Who could he have quarreled with?”

  “What makes you think he quarreled with anyone?”

  “Who would benefit from his disappearance?”

  “You’re asking questions like a policeman.”

  “What did you do together in Shanghai? Which building site did Michael visit there?”

  Paul could see that the brief moment she had trusted him had vanished, that she was unsure of herself again, and tried to conceal it with a brusque manner. “Which new company were you talking about just now?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said just now that you and Michael wanted to live in New York if everything worked out with the new company.”

  She said nothing and gave him a piercing look, as if she was seeing him for the first time. “Who are you, really?” she burst out. “Who sent you? You’re supposed to be a friend of Michael’s and you don’t know anything about Lotus Metal?”

  “I’m a friend of the Owens’.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “You trusted Michael Owen, I hope.”

  “I was sure that he held no danger for me. That is worth a great deal. If you call that trust, then yes, I trusted him.”

  “Then I am sorry for you.”

  Anyi rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “No pity, please. Thank you.”

  “What reason have I given you not to trust me?”

  “Since when did I need a reason not to trust someone?”

  “If you’re naturally suspicious, then no, of course not.”

  “What nonsense you’re talking. Naturally suspicious. There’s no such thing. Don’t you have children? They are not suspicious. Cautious, maybe, but not suspicious. If they are, they were made so.”

  “What made you suspicious?”

  “That’s absolutely none of your business.” She got up from the bed, tossed the cushion back against the wall, and walked into the living room.

  Paul followed
her.

  She was standing in the kitchen with her back to him.

  “What are you frightened of?”

  “Who told you I was frightened?”

  “I can see it in your eyes.”

  She turned around. Paul noticed for the first time the shadows under her eyes: much too large and dark for someone her age. “If you’re so clever and can see so much from the eyes of a Chinese person, then you will have to answer your questions yourself.” She took a step toward him. “And now I must ask you to leave. I would like to be alone.”

  Paul suddenly saw the photo of her and Victor Tang before him. Tang had his arm around her and was smiling into the camera. She looked strained in the photo, with her head turned to one side as if she wanted to free herself from his hold.

  “How well do you know Victor Tang?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re lying. I’ve seen photos on Michael’s computer in which Victor Tang has his arm around you.”

  “I want to be alone. Leave!”

  “He’s the one you’re frightened of.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? Please go!” she shouted, slapping the palm of her hand down on the kitchen counter. It was meant to be a decisive gesture, but like every demonstration of strength, it exposed fear and weakness above all. Paul knew that he was right. He saw it in her clenched fists, in her rigid pose, in her eyes.

  “Why are you frightened of Victor Tang?” he said slowly and clearly, repeating the question in English.

  Silence. She did not look at him, but stared down at the floor.

  Paul thought about the dead Michael, about Zhang, about Christine, about the supposed murderer, who had signed a false confession.

  “Michael Owen,” he suddenly blurted out, “has been murdered. His body is in the basement of the police headquarters. I want to know who murdered him and for that I need your help.”

  She stared at him. Her narrow eyes widened, and her mouth formed into a silent scream. Her knees buckled, and her hands lost their grip on the kitchen counter. For a split second, Paul thought she would faint. He reached his arms out to catch her if she fell, but then he saw her body stiffen again, saw a person turn to stone before his eyes in just a few seconds. Her face still twitched for a few moments, involuntarily. She bit down on her lower lip, and tears ran down her cheeks. Paul took a step toward her to comfort her.

  “Don’t touch me,” Anyi whispered without looking at him.

  Paul thought about Elizabeth Owen and the despair in her face when he had had to tell her that her son had been murdered. He saw Meredith when she saw her son’s lifeless body, and he thought about how everyone had their own language in love and in sorrow, in joy and in pain, and that it was a miracle of this life we understood each other at all. Then he had the feeling that with every breath she took, a little more life drained out of Anyi’s face; the twitching had stopped and no more tears flowed. Her skin was as white as snow, and she gazed past him.

  “I’ll answer two questions for you and then you must go, do you understand?” she said in a toneless voice.

  “Yes,” Paul said quietly.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What did you do in Shanghai?” Paul asked without taking any time to think about it.

  “We went there often in the last few months. Michael had meetings with Wang Ming, the head of Lotus Metal, but Michael’s parents know that. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Where will I find Wang Ming?”

  “Is that your second question?”

  “No.” He thought for a moment. “Why are you frightened of Victor Tang?”

  “Why am I frightened of Victor Tang?” Anyi repeated, as if she wanted to make sure she had understood the question correctly. “Do you know him at all?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “Otherwise you certainly wouldn’t ask that question.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  She said nothing for a while and kept looking past Paul into empty space. Her voice had regained neither color nor expression. “I think anyone who knows him is frightened of Victor Tang.”

  “Michael Owen too?”

  “No. I mean everyone Chinese. Not Michael and his parents. That surprised me at the beginning. Michael seemed so brave, so strong, so confident, just what I imagined an American to be. He wasn’t frightened of the police, he wasn’t frightened of officials, he didn’t get intimidated, even when Tang threatened him. That impressed me. But it gradually became clear to me that he did not understand Tang at all. Michael did not realize what danger he posed. ‘The law is on my side, don’t worry,’ he used to say. Then I knew that he had understood nothing. The law? In China!”

  Her voice slowly filled with expression again. She sounded astonished, still surprised at such naïvety. “He tried. You can’t accuse him of not trying. He tried to learn Mandarin. He read a couple of books about China and was convinced that America and China were not so dissimilar after all despite all the differences. Sometimes we really fought about that. We’re in China here, not in Wisconsin, I told him. And he always said the same thing back. ‘Darling, that doesn’t matter. In the end we all dream the American dream.’ I told him he was wrong, that we would dream the Chinese dream, but he only laughed and said that it was the same as the American dream, just in different colors. He was quite convinced of that.”

  “Why did Tang threaten him?”

  “He kept asking why I was so frightened. I told him, ‘Michael, everyone has enough reasons to be frightened, but Chinese people probably have even more reasons.’ He didn’t understand,” she replied.

  “Why did Tang threaten him?”

  Instead of replying she simply shook her head.

  “Does Tang have anything to do with the murder?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll find that out. Or maybe not. I said I would answer two questions and I’ve done that. Go now. Please!”

  “Can’t I help you?”

  “I wish you could.”

  “Perhaps I can—”

  “No,” she interrupted him. “You can’t do anything for me now except leave me alone.” She turned away and walked toward the door.

  Paul followed her. He had no doubt that she knew more than she was prepared to say, but it was also clear that he would not find out more from her right now. He had to call Zhang as soon as he had left Diamond Villas and ask him to come over. With his experience he would have more success; he would get her to talk.

  Anyi opened the door. “Don’t worry about me,” she said in parting, looking him in the face as she said this.

  Had he ever seen a face as lonely and despairing as this one?

  XXI

  Is there a life without lies? A life not permeated by falsehoods? Zhang was not thinking of the small untruths that make everyday life easier. Nor of the made-up excuses for arriving late or the tales concocted to cover up forgetting a birthday or another act of carelessness. He was thinking about a big secret that he, and perhaps everyone, carried around. What was it for other people? The misappropriation of inheritance funds? An illegitimate child whom the wife knew nothing about? The forbidden love for a close relative? The betrayal of a friend or a business partner? He wondered if Mei lived with a big secret. Was she perhaps secretly in love with another man? Had she had an affair that Zhang knew nothing about? He could not imagine so, but could a person ever be certain? Wasn’t every life based in some way on a lie, a fiction, a pretense? Could a person conceal it until his deathbed, or did it force its way out of its hiding place at some point? What will Mei and, later, his son say; how will Paul react, when they find out what he had kept silent about for over thirty years? Zhang wondered. Will they see everything that he has done and said in another light? Will they turn away or will they be able to forgive?

  Sitting on the express ferry fro
m Hong Kong to Shenzhen, he wondered if he had a choice in the matter. He probably had no choice back then, back when hysteria had ruled the whole country and the sixteen-year-old Zhang had longed for respect and recognition; he had wanted to belong too badly. Aside from that, he had not met anyone in his life so far who had dared to question Mao Zedong and his commands, the pervasive power of the Communist Party and the official propaganda, or who had even prompted Zhang to at least think about it. He had been a blind man who had believed he could see.

  But the Cultural Revolution lasted for ten years. By 1976 he had choices, like everyone who had been part of the madness. From then on, every day had been a choice, every day Zhang had decided anew to stay silent instead of telling the truth and asking for forgiveness. He bore the responsibility for that, and, if he were honest with himself, he could not pin the blame for his silence on society or on any political party, political chief, or great chairman. He had learned that from Buddha. We are the masters of our actions, we create our own Karma. It is our life. This late revelation, a revolutionary one for a Chinese person of his age, had been a liberation, but like every liberation, it brought uncertainty and many new questions with it.

  Zhang was so tortured by his thoughts that he felt nauseous, and he had to go up on deck.

  As the ferry zoomed toward the harbor at high speed, the warm air ruffled his hair, and the water, whipped up by the many vessels, looked like a bathtub in which children were splashing around. The waves slapped against the side of the ferry in quick succession, and some of them raised the ship high up in the air, only to let it dip again immediately. The constant up and down motion only made Zhang feel more sick. He leaned against the railing and tried to meditate, but retched loudly twice instead, feeling his stomach in revolt as the fried noodles and wonton soup he had eaten not long before rose like a wave and burst out of him. Part of it landed in the water and the wind spread the other part on his pants and shoes in equal proportion. Stomach acid burned in his throat and he wished he could crawl off somewhere to hide and find protection from what was awaiting him in Shenzhen.