Whispering Shadows

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  It had taken a second meeting the following day to persuade her, with a mixture of charm, promises, and veiled threats, that she had nothing to lose and everything to win if she accompanied him home. She was too clever to turn him down. After all, no one could guarantee that Michael would keep his word and take her to America. That night, Tang screwed her three times, and if he really thought about it, those were the only times he really enjoyed it. But perhaps that was only because of the pleasure he took in having been right.

  Tang got up, put on his clothes, and cast Anyi a look that she did not respond to. He left the bedroom and went downstairs again without exchanging a word with her.

  The dining room table was laid with silver chopsticks and blue and white china to set off the dark rosewood. The cold appetizers were already on the table; they looked delicious. Tang had told his cook to prepare a twelve-course Chinese meal and also to put a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice and to fetch two bottles of Pétrus 1989 from the cellar.

  Tang did not want to leave anything to chance this evening. He did not know Paul Leibovitz. From what he had heard from Richard Owen, he seemed to be one of the few foreigners who had lived in Hong Kong for a long time and managed not to become rich. Tang wondered how that was possible; did this man simply not have the ability or was he one of the few people who was not interested in fast cars, fine food, or expensive wines? Tang wondered if he should leave the yellow Ferrari in the garage, then he called one of his drivers and asked him to move the car and park it in the driveway. That never failed to impress his Chinese visitors. Most of them were not able to tell the difference between Dom Pérignon and cheap sparkling wine, but more and more often now at least one of the party had some idea of what expensive and exclusive wines Tang was treating them to. It was not long, then, before word got around and everyone in the group raised his glass gratefully and a little reverentially to their host. If they were not impressed by the wine, the champagne, or the shark fin soup, the Ferrari by the front door or the gold golf clubs in the hallway did the trick. Tang was always fascinated by how reliably these techniques worked, by how people were awed by wealth. He himself did not care much for expensive wines; he merely sipped at them and never drank more than one glass in an evening. He had just as little interest in cars, and there was nothing he found more tedious than playing golf, but no one could have guessed. The luxurious lifestyle that he displayed to the world consisted of carefully chosen symbols, gestures, and signs to ensure that every guest would immediately understand Victor Tang’s place in the new hierarchy of modern-day China.

  Paul Leibovitz, too, would immediately know who he was dealing with. As long as Tang did not know why this man was involved in the Owens’ affairs, and therefore also in his, and why Leibovitz was snooping around, he had to be on his guard.

  Was he really acting on behalf of the family, as Anyi had told him? That would be bad news, for then he was probably a kind of private detective who had been employed by Elizabeth to nose around, without Richard knowing anything about it. Or perhaps Richard knew all about it and had been playing the innocent to him for days? Was he working alone or was he working with someone in Shenzhen? Was detective Zhang helping him? Luo had told him that Zhang had been seen near the Cathay Metal factory a few days ago.

  Zhang? It was a common surname; he knew many Zhangs and he remembered one of them in particular, but it couldn’t possibly be that one. He had not thought to ask Luo if his subordinate came from Sichuan. The thought of them meeting again over thirty years later, in a country as big as China, in these circumstances, was inconceivable.

  Tang heard the hum of the electric motor that opened the cast-iron gates to his property. He opened the front door and stepped out. His black Mercedes rolled up the driveway almost silently past the Ferrari and Lamborghini and came to a stop right next to him. He stepped toward the car, opened the door for Elizabeth, and inclined his head slightly in a bow. She greeted him with a tense smile. Richard looked a sight. He must have lost several pounds in the last few days. His face was ashen and he stood bowed as if he had a hunchback.

  “Mr. Leibovitz? A pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  Anyi had not been exaggerating. Tang could see that this was a stranger he had to take seriously. He could not say what impressed him the most at first sight; was it the way Leibovitz looked at him steadily? A gaze that held his for many seconds and in which there was no fear? Or the shadow Tang recognized in his face that seemed strangely familiar to him? If he was going to find out anything from him he would have to be patient and not let him out of sight for the whole evening.

  Tang invited his guests into the house. A server stood there with cold moist towels for them to refresh themselves after their journey. Another server brought a tray with glasses and champagne; he opened the bottle and poured the champagne with the label facing upward, as Tang had taught him. Tang watched Leibovitz and immediately realized that he was not one of those people who could be impressed by Dom Pérignon.

  Perhaps he would be impressed by the ancient Ming Dynasty vases that he had recently bought for fifty thousand dollars at an auction in New York. Exquisite pieces. They had been owned by a foreigner for more than one hundred and fifty years; now, thanks to Victor Tang, they were finally restored to their homeland. He planned to make a permanent loan of them to a museum in Shanghai.

  Leibovitz listened attentively but did not even start when Tang mentioned the price of the vases. Richard, on the other hand, gave a loutish whistle and clapped him on the back. Elizabeth didn’t seem to be impressed either. Was she listening at all?

  XXV

  She did not like champagne, no matter which unpronounceable French name it had. It gave her headaches. The conversation with Paul yesterday had left her no peace; she had not been able to get his questions, Richard’s hesitant replies, and her own role in all of this, out of her head. She had lain awake brooding next to her snoring husband the whole night. Surely it was possible that an innocent man was in prison because he had signed a forced confession. Elizabeth Owen could just not fathom it, but if it was true she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  They were standing with Tang in front of two old vases with blue snakes and dragons on them. Rare and precious antiques from the Ming Dynasty. Beautiful ceramics, she had to admit, but she was not here to listen to a lecture about Chinese antiques.

  Elizabeth watched her husband and thought he looked old. His tan notwithstanding, he was no longer handsome. The pinup. The crush of all the girls at college. Where had the golden boy gone, the high school and college football legend Elizabeth had not been able to resist? Where was the glow, that confident the-world-belongs-to-me smile that seemed to know no defeat, that had so impressed her that she fell in love with him and abandoned her plans to move to New York to become a buyer at a department store? He had courted her for two years; she had been reluctant at first because New York had been her dream but in the end she could not withstand his charm, his persistence, and the promise of a life free of materialistic worries.

  Richard was still tall, but he seemed fragile next to Paul and Tang. Especially in comparison to the Chinese businessman, who was standing bolt upright next to him holding a glass of champagne, swaying back and forth on his feet a little, always at eye level with her husband. He was wearing one of those Chinese jackets with a mandarin collar, all black; it made him look stern, perhaps a little reserved, and pretty handsome, she had to admit. There were certain moments when he seemed to her like the image of her husband when he was younger, even though there were fewer than fifteen years between them. The same confidence, the same decisiveness and strength that Richard had projected before, though Tang did not wear the smile of the victor but looked serious and focused instead.

  She did not like him, but no one could accuse him of being ingratiating. He had good manners and taste. He was courteous but never obsequious.

  Elizabeth as
ked one of the servers for a glass of ice water. Her throat was getting dry, as it always did when she was tense and nervous. All afternoon she had thought about how to approach Victor. Whether she should wait and start a casual conversation while they were eating to see how or if she should confront him directly with straightforward questions. Sitting in Tang’s limousine she had decided to wait; standing here next to him, however, she felt differently. She felt increasingly short of breath and dehydrated as Tang carried on about the Ming Dynasty. Her heart was beating fast, she was getting more stressed and strained by the second, with each new detail about the Ming vase. She knew the longer she waited the worse it would get. If only Paul or Richard would give her a reassuring look, but they did not pay attention to her, instead they listened attentively to Tang.

  She was on her own.

  “Mr. Tang?” That might have sounded rather sharp, admittedly, and it was probably the wrong moment but it didn’t matter. She could not wait any longer, and at least the three gentlemen had finally looked up and in her direction.

  “Mr. Tang, I am very sorry to interrupt you but does the name Metal Lotus mean anything to you?”

  He looked at her with a polite smile. “I’m afraid that means nothing to me. Perhaps you can tell me more? What is it about? A company?”

  “That’s what I want to know from you, Mr. Tang.”

  He paused for a moment. “In which context did you hear about it?”

  “Michael mentioned it as an aside once. Metal Lotus or Lotus Metal, I don’t quite remember.” She tried to sound as casual as possible but to no avail.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Owen. I have nothing for you.”

  Was he telling the truth? She could not read Chinese faces. Somehow they all looked the same.

  “And Wang Ming?” she asked, clearing her throat with a sip of water. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Wang Ming? Who is that? Why are you asking? Did Michael mention the name?”

  There it was. That was what she had been waiting for, for this hint of uncertainty in his otherwise relaxed voice. Did Michael mention the name? Why did he want to know that? His question had sounded strained, just a little, but Elizabeth Owen had not missed it.

  “Yes, Michael talked about him often, also in connection with you,” she lied.

  “There must be some mix-up. I’ve never heard the name before.”

  He was lying! And how! There was no question. Richard and Paul could not have missed that. The clipped sentences, the edge in his voice; that was how a person spoke when he had something to hide. She had to press on; she couldn’t give him any peace now, could not let herself be distracted by excuses. She was on his trail and she would eventually corner him and get him to disclose what he knew.

  “Mr. Tang,” she held her breath, weighed her words, “who murdered my son?”

  Silence. She heard the ice in her water melting. In place of a reply, an ominous silence spread in the room. She waited. Why was Tang not answering? Was he too cowardly? Why were the other two men not saying anything? This embarrassed silence. The looks they were exchanging. As though Elizabeth were nothing more than a nervous wreck, a pitiful, hysterical woman who would not keep quiet rather than a grieving, devastated mother who wanted to know who had killed her son.

  “Mr. Tang, I asked you a question.”

  He could look at her as coolly as he liked for as long as he liked. “Who murdered Michael?”

  “As far as I know it was the worker who is now in prison. He has signed a confession.”

  “The man has an alibi.”

  Was that a tightening of his face? Had his lips grown thinner than usual? Or was she imagining it?

  “Then you know more than I do, Mrs. Owen.”

  She couldn’t stand that dismissiveness in his voice.

  “Ask Mr. Leibovitz if you don’t believe me. He and his friend from the homicide division found the wife of the supposed murderer. The man cannot have been the murderer. On the evening that Michael was murdered he was with his wife. He was lying ill in bed. There are witnesses.”

  Bulls-eye. She would have had to be blind not to notice how that affected Tang. He was grinding his teeth; she could see it from the movement of his lower jaw. The others were still not saying a word.

  “Is that correct, Mr. Leibovitz? Am I right?”

  Paul was silent. Yes, she had promised not to mention what he told her to Tang. But did he really think that was possible? He was a fool to have believed her. Why else had they accepted this invitation of Tang’s? Surely not to exchange small talk or to enjoy fine dining. Her Michael was dead and what Paul had told her yesterday had awakened her doubt in the official version. Without him she would never have thought to question Tang’s version of events. How could he leave her in the lurch now?

  “Mr. Leibovitz!” She wanted to yell at him, but her voice was getting weaker. “For God’s sake, say something. I’m only repeating what you told me yesterday. Wang Ming! Lotus Metal! The alibi! I haven’t just made it up. You told me all that! Why are you keeping quiet?”

  That had no effect. Paul Leibovitz remained silent.

  “Were you lying to me?”

  At least he did not dare to look her in the eye. Without his help she was trapped. Tang would not answer any of her questions in a meaningful way, she was only making a fool of herself. She felt betrayed and debased and wanted to get away, away from here, as quickly and as far away as possible.

  “My dear Mrs. Owen.”

  That tone of voice. That was how people spoke to someone who was sick, not to her. Tang’s hypocritical understanding was even more intolerable than his derision. “You know how terribly sorry I am about what’s happened. I know that you feel very upset and that you want to see the actual murderer of your son punished. Let me assure you that’s what we all want. Whether the suspect has an alibi or not and whether he signed a confession wrongly or not will all be established by the court on Friday. There are judges, public prosecutors, and defense attorneys for that. That is no different in China from the way it is in America. Mr. Leibovitz will surely be able to confirm that, won’t he?”

  He nodded. Paul nodded. How dare he do that after all that he had told her yesterday in the hotel about forced confessions in Chinese prisons? Whose side was he on?

  “I want to go back to the hotel immediately.”

  “But Mrs. Owen . . .”

  Elizabeth interrupted her host. “Not another word. I want to go, and right now. Call me a taxi.”

  “You don’t need a taxi. Of course I’ll ask my driver to take you. He would have taken you back to Hong Kong later anyway, so he’s waiting outside,” Tang said, walking to the door.

  Elizabeth Owen took her bag from the chair and looked at her husband. Why didn’t he say something? Where was the man she had fallen in love with?

  Richard put his glass down and made ready to accompany her. She had no idea how she would be able to stand him being near her.

  XXVI

  He felt his grief mingle with rage as he thought about Elizabeth and Michael. If only this one time Michael had listened to him. He should not have insisted on looking for a new business partner when the business with Tang was going so well. They had been earning more than ever before, and if Tang siphoned off a little more for himself than was due under the contract, so be it. There was more than enough for them. Richard could not understand Michael’s indignation on that count, especially when he could not even prove the misappropriation of funds. When did the ostentatious display of wealth that initially attracted Michael begin to repel him? The first time Michael expressed displeasure, Tang’s cars were parked in front of the entrance to the house. A yellow Ferrari and a golden Lamborghini had stood there like sentinels. Tang had told them that the Lamborghini wasn’t a standard make but that he had had a mechanic in Hong Kong take the car apart and gild the parts separately. That
had excited Richard—a golden Lamborghini! He had even squashed himself behind the small black leather steering wheel and taken it on an imaginary drive, but his son had reacted extremely negatively.

  Michael ought to have showed a little interest in Tang’s sports cars. As a courtesy. Instead, he had asked Tang if he were not afraid of getting into trouble by flaunting his wealth like this. It was a strange question, especially from an American, he had to agree with Tang there. That was just one of the many times when he hadn’t a clue what his son was thinking. The Chinese man had not allowed himself to be provoked by this, but had shaken his head, smiling, and quoted the words of Deng Xiaoping: “Some people can get rich first.”

  That was Victor Tang for you. Never short of a quick reply—that was why Richard liked him. Michael could not deal with his ready wit and humor. Richard sometimes felt that he was the only one in the family who really knew what they had in Victor.

  ———

  And now, Elizabeth had lashed out. Metal Lotus? Metal Lotus! She could not even remember the name. Metal Lotus. He could feel himself growing hot in the face. What would Tang say in reply? Yes, Mrs. Owen, I’m familiar with Lotus Metal. It’s another firm that supplies the car industry and a competitor of ours. An up-and-coming company, with a lot of financial backing from Beijing, that made a very attractive offer to your son. Luckily your husband was clever enough to let me know about it, so I was able to prevent Michael from succumbing to the temptation and doing business with them behind my back and to my detriment. Yes, Mrs. Owen, you heard right—your husband told me about it.