Whispering Shadows

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  He shuddered at the thought. Interrogating Anyi.

  She was hiding something and was frightened of Tang, Paul had said.

  Zhang thought about his own past with Tang. One lie always led to another, and the second to a third until a web of untruths, attitudes, distortions, false assertions, and excuses was created. Was it ever possible for it to stop at one lie?

  He was not sure. He knew only that he would no longer be running away, that his lie had caught up with him, just as one day the lies would catch up with Tang and with the whole country.

  ———

  Zhang was one of the last to disembark. When he saw the border guards, the sight of a uniform made him nervous again for the first time in years. Were they already looking for him? Would they take him off to some side room on a pretext, take his police ID from him, and get in touch with the homicide division?

  Nonsense! Luo thought he was at home on the couch resting his damaged knee. Since yesterday, Zhang had not done anything that would arouse suspicion. But now he was about to cross a line and after that there would be no turning back, he knew that.

  Until now he had simply withdrawn from the system. Despite several invitations he had not joined the Communist Party again and was not on any committees or commissions. That was possible in the China of today without being immediately branded a counterrevolutionary. His colleagues did not understand him; they found him eccentric but harmless. Now, he was setting himself against the system, acting in opposition for the first time in his life, and that was dangerous, just as it had been before. It was only a matter of time, of hours or a few days at most, before his investigating encroached on the interests of other people, influential people who would know how to defend themselves. Apart from Paul, Zhang was on his own.

  The young border official guessed nothing of these thoughts. He glanced at the passport, the Hong Kong visa, and the computer, and waved Zhang through.

  He took a taxi from the ferry terminal to a café near Diamond Villas, where Paul was waiting for him.

  “You look a mess! Were you sick?” Paul blurted out when he saw his friend.

  “The crossing was rough. I was a little seasick. It’s not so bad,” Zhang replied. “I’ll just go to the restroom and clean my shoes and trousers.”

  They found the best taxi they could—a shiny new black VW Passat with tinted windows—and traveled the short distance to Diamond Villas. They passed the security guard, who greeted them with a snappy military salute, and got the car to drop them off in front of Sapphire.

  “I may ask you to leave after a while,” Zhang said as they walked through the parking lot.

  “What do you plan to do?” Paul asked in astonishment. “Do you want to intimidate her?”

  “No, but I have to see if she begins to trust me. If I succeed in making her do that, it may be better for the two of us to be on our own for a while.”

  Paul nodded.

  They stood in front of the iron grille gate that separated the garage from the elevator and looked at each other without exchanging a word. Zhang gave his friend a sign, and Paul pressed the button for the penthouse.

  They waited and buzzed again, but there was no response.

  “Maybe she’s asleep? She was pretty exhausted when I left,” Paul said.

  Zhang pressed his lips together as he thought, passing both his hands through his hair. “I hope nothing’s happened to her. She told you more than can be good for her. We have to get into the apartment.”

  They went back to the security guard at the entrance and asked for the building manager.

  The building manager lived in the basement of Sapphire; he sized up the two strangers with a skeptical look. Of course he had a key, but he could only open the door to an apartment if he had specific instructions from management to do so in an emergency or if the owner of the apartment was present. Even Zhang’s police ID did not impress him at first. Only when he read the words “homicide division” did he start, fetch the key, and take them up to the top floor.

  After ringing the bell and getting no reply again, the building manager opened the door. Zhang gestured with his head to indicate that they wanted to be left alone now. The building manager reluctantly took the elevator back down to the basement.

  “Anyi?” Paul called out hesitantly.

  No reply.

  “Anyi,” he repeated in a louder voice.

  Silence.

  Zhang was the first to enter the apartment carefully. The curtains in the living room were closed and it took a moment for their eyes to get used to the half darkness. They listened and flinched. Both of them had the feeling that they had heard a sound from the bedroom.

  “Hello, is anyone home?” Zhang called out. His voice sounded more hesitant than a police detective’s ought to, he thought.

  No reply.

  They looked around the living room. The glass of water Paul had drunk from was still on the table, as were the plastic flowers. Next to them lay a pile of magazines.

  “Anyi,” Paul said again, loudly. But he no longer expected a reply.

  Zhang shook his head and began walking toward the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He stopped, held his breath, and pricked his ears to try to make out if someone was breathing quietly in the room before he slowly pushed the door open.

  The bed was covered with shoes, tops, underwear, dresses, and skirts, and the closet doors were open. On one side were piles of men’s clothes; the shelves on the other side were almost empty.

  Paul had followed Zhang in. “She’s gone,” he whispered, as if to himself.

  “And not to run errands,” the detective said. “This looks like she’s run away.”

  They searched the flat but did not find anything suspicious.

  “What do we do now?” Paul asked.

  “No idea,” Zhang replied, letting himself flop onto the couch with exhaustion. “Hey, Paul, what exactly does ‘I am so sorry’ in English mean?”

  “Please excuse me. Or, my mistake, pardon. Forgive me. Why are you asking?”

  “Richard Owen stammered those words when he was identifying the body of his dead son. Could that have some meaning?”

  Paul thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  Zhang leaned back, crossed his arms behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. After a while he asked, “What do you think about meeting Elizabeth Owen again?”

  Paul paced up and down in the living room. Finally he said, “I’d be happy to, but I’m afraid she won’t be able to help us any further. Remember how little she knew when I rang her yesterday.”

  “That’s true. But now at least we have two names, maybe we can do something with them. Apart from that, I want to know what the father and the son had their big fight about. She should at least be able to tell us that.”

  ———

  Elizabeth Owen picked up the phone on the second ring, as if she had been waiting for his call. She was in the hotel resting, and her husband was at the US consulate seeing to the paperwork. She was happy to speak with Paul at any time. They agreed to meet two hours later in the bar of the InterContinental.

  ———

  On the way back to Hong Kong, Paul told Zhang again about his conversation with Anyi, this time in detail.

  Zhang’s cell phone rang while Paul was talking. He looked on the display screen and got a shock. It was Luo, the head of the homicide division.

  “Zhang, how are you?”

  “Thank you for calling, but I’m afraid I’m not well yet. Rather the opposite, in fact.”

  “Where are you? It’s so noisy in the background. I hope that’s not the brothel beneath you making such a racket.”

  “No, I’m on the ferry to Hong Kong,” Zhang replied, so nervous he was unable to think of an excuse.

  “What are you going there for?” Luo asked, a
stonished, in a tone of voice that did not sound at all sympathetic.

  “I-I’m on my way to see a specialist. My knee is quite swollen and is terribly painful. My friend Paul has booked me a last-minute appointment with an orthopedic specialist.”

  Luo said nothing for a few seconds, as though he was trying to decide if this was another thing to be suspicious about. “I’m only calling to tell you that the trial of Owen’s murderer has been brought forward. The Americans pushed for it. It’s taking place the day after tomorrow. Since we have a confession, it won’t take longer than a day. I thought you’d like to know about it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe you can tell the parents about it through your friend. We’re informing them via official communication channels, but that takes a bit of time.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  What did his boss want from him? Did he suspect him of not sticking to the official line? Or did he really only mean to ask him to tell the Owens about the trial?

  “It will be a relief for the parents, won’t it?”

  “Of course, Luo, of course.” His boss was suddenly talkative, which Zhang found odd. He wondered how they had gotten the factory worker to put his signature to a made-up confession. What had they threatened him with? The arrest of his wife, and his child ending up in an orphanage? The arrest of his relations in Sichuan or their expulsion from the village? They had probably promised him at the same time that he would be spared the death sentence, and that his family would be given a generous allowance during his time in prison. That would be an attractive offer for the poor fellow; if he had even the least experience with the police and the courts, he would know that there was no alternative for him.

  “Most bereaved people in these situations only consider the case closed when the murderer has not only been found, but been judged and sentenced by a court, yes?”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Zhang replied obediently.

  “When will you be back at work?”

  “In a few days, I hope.” He heard Luo’s heavy-smoker’s breathing on the other end—he still seemed to have something on his mind.

  “Zhang, just think. He who seeks revenge should not forget to dig two graves.”

  Zhang tried to think of a saying that defined the difference between justice and revenge, but nothing occurred to him. “I know. How does the saying go? Of the thirty-six possibilities open to one, flight is always the best option.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Sun Tzu in The Art of War, I think.”

  “You are right. Don’t forget it,” Luo said, hanging up.

  What made Luo think that he was trying to take revenge? Did he know something about Tang’s and Zhang’s past? Impossible. Luo probably thought that revenge was the only possible motive for him; why else would a policeman look for a murderer when a confession was already at hand?

  Paul had followed the conversation with interest.

  “Tell me, does Mei actually know where you are and what you are doing?” he blurted out.

  “Not exactly,” Zhang replied evasively.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I told her the same thing I told Luo, that I’m with you because you booked an appointment with a knee specialist.”

  “Why don’t you tell her what you are really doing?”

  Zhang hesitated before replying. Yes, why didn’t he? Because there was a time for every truth to be told and the right time for him to tell this truth had long passed? Because he loved his wife immeasurably and did not want to inflict his pain on her? Because she would be in danger if she knew? Because he was a pathetic coward?

  “I didn’t tell her anything because it would only worry her,” Zhang said in a subdued tone.

  “And because she would have tried to stop you?”

  Of course she would have done that, Zhang thought. By every means possible. He nodded instead of saying anything.

  “That is . . .” Paul searched for the right words. He wanted to voice an objection, but at the same time not to make any terrible accusations.

  Zhang interrupted him. “I know what you want to say, and you’re right. But there was no other way. If I had told her anything I would not be here right now. I had no choice.”

  They fell silent and looked at the sea and the container ships in the roadstead being unloaded by smaller vessels.

  “What should I tell Mrs. Owen?” Paul asked.

  “Everything we know. That her son’s murderer is still at large. That an innocent man is in prison. That he will be sentenced to death tomorrow and executed soon after. If Elizabeth Owen does not help us once she hears us out, then she or her husband have something to do with the murder.”

  Paul stared at him incredulously, as if to check that Zhang really meant what he said.

  “What are you making that face for? Do you think that’s out of the question?”

  After a long silence Paul said, “I don’t know. I don’t even want to imagine such a thing.”

  ———

  When he walked into the bar of the InterContinental about two hours later, Elizabeth Owen was already waiting for him.

  XXII

  The dry martini was good, very good, in fact, even better than at the Drake in Chicago, where she normally treated herself to one at the end of a long shopping trip on Michigan Avenue. The martini there was sometimes too warm and a little watery; this one here was blissfully cold and strong, and it did not take long to take effect on her. After the second sip, Elizabeth already felt a warm shudder of well-being course through her whole body. Much better than the tranquilizers that she had been taking for days. They made her terribly tired, every movement was an effort, sometimes even speaking was too much. What had the doctors been thinking? If Richard had not insisted on them she would have stopped taking the medication yesterday. This morning she had pretended to swallow the pills to please him, but flushed them down the toilet later.

  The martini worked wonders, giving her an inappropriate but nevertheless wonderful feeling of lightness. It soothed her soul without numbing her; on the contrary, she felt wide-awake after half a glass. She was able to be impressed by the view of Hong Kong’s skyline from the large windows, with the colorful lights reflected in the water of the harbor. When she scrunched her eyes up a bit, it looked like a display of fireworks that went on and on. This was a fascinating view, she conceded to herself, even if she couldn’t otherwise stand the city. She liked it as little as Shenzhen, Shanghai, and Beijing and all the other places she had been to in the past few years. She did not understand what her son had found so wonderful about this country. Nowhere did Elizabeth Owen see what her son had rhapsodized about so passionately: the magic of thousands of years of ancient history, the supposed intelligence of the people, their optimism, or their creativity, which was said to be so similar to the American mentality. Everywhere she went she saw dirt and rubbish. She saw far too many people who, whenever she came into contact with them, pushed and shoved, who burped and farted while eating, who had bad breath and who dared to smile at her despite their terrible teeth. She heard a language in which not a sound was familiar to her. To her, Chinese sounded like a series of strange, often sinister-sounding noises. Sometimes the people made themselves understood by purring, piping, and almost singing, only to change to a hard, brusque tone the next moment, hissing, growling, and shouting, so that every sentence sounded like a dangerous threat or an order that brooked no resistance. It hurt her ears.

  At some point she had decided to simply suffer through the trips to Asia patiently, the price for seeing her son on a regular basis. The country itself meant nothing to her; the business in China existed to make the company flourish and ensure that there was enough money in the bank account and that they would not, as Richard had once feared, go bankrupt and have to compromise their retirement.

  Now Michael had
paid for his enthusiasm and his trust with his life, battered to death by a totally insignificant worker who probably couldn’t even read and write. Who could ever understand this?

  From afar, she saw Paul Leibovitz enter the bar and look around for her. He was a handsome man with a striking face and his curly white hair suited him. The look in his eyes was a little too weighed down, but this melancholic air did give him a certain aura, something mysterious. She raised her right arm and waved at him to come over.

  “Paul, here!” she called, making the other hotel guests around her pause their conversations for just a moment. That had been too loud. Much too loud.

  She had to be careful. The martini. One too many and friends would turn into enemies.

  Elizabeth Owen stood up and greeted Paul, going through the motions of an embrace and a kiss on each cheek.

  “I have to talk to you about something,” Paul said. His voice was almost as melancholic as his eyes. “There’ve been a few developments.”

  “I know. The court case against Michael’s murderer has been pushed forward. It starts the day after tomorrow,” she said, pleased at the surprise on his face.

  “How do you know that?”

  “From Mr. Tang. He rang this afternoon.”

  “Did he also tell you that the man who will stand before the court is not the murderer?”

  She must have heard wrongly. “Can you please repeat what you said?”

  “The man who will be sentenced to death on Friday is innocent.”

  “Innocent?” she repeated, as though he was speaking a foreign language she was not fluent in. “How do you know that?”

  “My friend Zhang and I have done a little independent investigation. The man has a cast-iron alibi.”

  “I thought he signed a confession.”

  “He did. But he was probably forced to do so. That is not unusual. It happens every day in China.”