Whispering Shadows

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  “We don’t know yet. My husband wants to sell our interests as quickly as possible.”

  Paul went back to the kitchen counter. There were several small bowls on it with sliced spring onions, garlic, bamboo shoots, and all kinds of vegetables that she did not recognize. He started dicing the ginger. He seemed to be expecting quite a few people to dinner.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time,” she said, finishing her tea. “But I still wonder about two things. What happened to the man who was suspected of the murder?”

  “He’s been released. I don’t know any more than that.”

  “And my son’s Chinese girlfriend, what’s she called again?”

  “Anyi.”

  “Anyi, that’s right. Was she arrested?”

  “I don’t know. Why should she have been?”

  “For being an accomplice to murder, of course. My husband said Tang could only have learned about Michael’s secret negotiations from her. She was with Michael in Shanghai and Beijing. She knew about the plans with Wang Ming.”

  “That’s what your husband says?”

  “Yes. Why do you look so surprised? He’s sure of it. How else would Tang have known?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Paul said hesitantly.

  He was once again as serious as when she had first met him, and he was avoiding her gaze. She could feel it.

  “Do you know how else?”

  Paul shook his head vigorously. “No. I don’t know who else was involved in your son’s plans.”

  “We don’t know either but we think she was the only one. Apart from my husband, of course.”

  He turned away and rubbed his eyes.

  “Is something wrong? Mr. Leibovitz, you told me a few days ago that my son had been murdered. I can’t imagine what else that you could tell me that would be more terrible than that. What is it that is so terrible that you cannot tell me now?”

  He still had his backed turned to her and his hands over his face.

  “You can see why I want to know,” she continued. “Because if Tang had only found out after the agreements had been signed then Michael would surely still be alive.”

  “You mustn’t think like that,” he exclaimed, whipping around to face her.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it can’t change anything,” he said curtly. “Because no ifs in the world can bring Michael back.”

  “I know that,” she stammered, surprised by his outburst. “I just want to know who betrayed my son.”

  “We know who murdered him. Isn’t that enough? The truth sometimes comes at a terribly high price, Mrs. Owen. The truth can’t always be borne.”

  “Mr. Leibovitz, are you all right? You’re crying.”

  “It’s the onions, Mrs. Owen, the onions.”

  ———

  Paul Leibovitz was a strange person. Every meeting she had with him confirmed this thought, but she felt strangely happy in his presence and would have liked to stay longer and talk about Michael as a child and a young man, about the profusion of rosebushes they had that Paul would like, about the Milwaukee house that he was of course always welcome to visit. But Paul had told her on the telephone that he did not have much time because he was expecting dinner guests and was getting ready. When she started making motions to leave he did not ask her to stay for another cup of tea or call for his son to say good-bye to their guest. He walked her to the door, hugged her, and wished her all the best and a safe flight back.

  She walked down the hill noticing for the first time the greenery growing wild and high all around her by the path. The ferns and grasses to the left and the right were a meter high and many of the leaves on the bushes and the trees were as tall as she was. The path was so overgrown in places that it seemed the undergrowth was about to reconquer the space. Climbing plants had wound themselves around the tree trunks and branches overhead as though they wanted to devour them, and for a moment she feared she might be their next victim. She imagined the branches above her rearing up and growing bigger, fatter, and stronger in seconds, wrapping themselves around her and pulling tighter and tighter until they had swallowed her up. She knew it was a horrible and silly thought, but she still felt a little frightened. She started walking more quickly and would have liked nothing better than to run down the hill to the village.

  Everything here was strange to her: the people, the food, the noise, the dirt, yes, even the plants and trees in their exuberant, unchecked growth. She could hardly wait to finally get home and walk through her garden, sit on her terrace, and look at the rosebushes. It would not be easy—she was not going to deceive herself. They had to organize Michael’s funeral first, put his affairs in order, and clear out his apartments. Perhaps only then would she really gradually realize that he was no longer there. And she also had to find a way back to Richard. Like everyone else, he also had had too much to deal with.

  She thought about the many evenings they had spent with Tang and had absolutely no idea how they could have been so deceived by him. It was strange how well he and Richard had gotten along. The more she thought about it the more uncomfortable she felt, and she did not want that, not again. She closed her eyes and tried to smell the sweet, heavy scent of her roses on a summer’s day but the air stank of salt and water. She wanted to think about Richard and their morning breakfasts on the terrace, their laps in the pool, their walks on the golf course. But she couldn’t do that either. Instead, she kept seeing images of Tang and Richard together. How they had constantly filled each other’s whiskey glasses at the end of their first evening together. How they had toasted each other, laughing. How they had roared and slurred through “My Way” together in the karaoke bar. She saw the images, heard the music and the singing, and did not understand a word. Was that the voice that Paul had spoken about? She hoped not. It brought more confusion than clarity to her.

  Elizabeth Owen could hardly wait until she was sitting on the plane tomorrow. Whatever awaited her in Milwaukee, at least she knew who she was dealing with there. Who she could trust and who she could not.

  XXXII

  He had not noticed any of the men. Not the four men by the side table nor the two men by the door nor the group having an unusually silent meal at the big round table on the way to the washroom. Victor Tang was sitting in the Golden Dragon and was too deep in conversation with new steel suppliers to be alert to anything around him. Only when he had paid the bill and gotten up to go did he notice that over a dozen young men in the restaurant stood up at the same time, and that gave him an uncomfortable feeling. The next thing that he noticed was that the restaurant manager, who usually fluttered around him and thanked him for his generous tip when he left, was nowhere to be seen. Even the waiters were keeping their distance from him. They were looking away or giving him strained smiles, not daring to bring him his coat.

  On his way to the cloakroom, two of the men planted themselves in front of him and told him to follow them outside. Whoever was behind this, Tang thought, must be incredibly sure of himself to arrange for him to be arrested in public.

  A convoy of cars was waiting outside the door: six limousines that were soon driving at high speed on the highway, bringing him to a large building on the outskirts of the city. If he was not wrong, it used to belong to the Ministry of State Security before that ministry moved to new quarters near the airport. The policemen were probably from Beijing. That was not a good sign, but he was not too worried. He had clearly made a mistake; now he had to find out who he was up against. Would it be Wang Ming and his pathetic Lotus Metal? If the ministry was trying to call him—and thereby also parts of the party and municipal authorities—to justice, then he had miscalculated badly. Tang could not imagine that was the case and it didn’t matter to him either way. As soon as he knew who he was dealing with he would assemble his allies and counterattack.

  His watch showed that it was just after t
en when they arrived at the building. Lights were on on the top floor, but the rest of it was in darkness and looked unoccupied. They climbed over a pile of rubble in the entrance hall and walked up a staircase without a banister and through empty, barely lit corridors to a large room with a high ceiling, with only a red couch and an empty desk and chair in it. A bulb hung from a long black wire, and the walls were bare. Plaster was peeling from several places on the wall, and it looked like a place earmarked for demolition. The men told him to wait there, and they left him alone. When he sat down on the couch he sank so deep into it that it felt like he might as well have been squatting on the floor. His knees were practically at eye level. A dwarf could have sat on the chair opposite and appeared like a giant to him. He was about to clamber his way out of the couch when a man entered the room.

  “Don’t stand on ceremony, please. Stay seated and make yourself comfortable,” he said, sitting on the chair behind the desk.

  As least he had a sense of humor, Tang thought, falling back into the pathetically flabby upholstery.

  The man looked down at him for a long moment without saying anything. He was young, probably not even forty yet, and he had a piercing stare that Tang could not avoid. Surely he didn’t think that Tang would be intimidated by that.

  “Tang Mingqing” the stranger said eventually, drawing out the syllables as he spoke.

  “Yes. And who are you?”

  “My name is Wen. I belong to the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection and I’m heading the investigation against you.”

  “When did this investigation start?” Tang asked, astounded. His surprise was not feigned.

  “It officially started yesterday. Unofficially, it started some time ago.”

  Was it this damn couch or the intolerable arrogance in the man’s voice? Tang started to feel uncomfortable, and slid back and forth in search of a comfortable position in which he would not look so ridiculous with his long legs.

  “To what do I owe this, if I may ask?”

  “The list is long. Several serious cases of corruption. Misappropriation of official funds. Tax evasion and,” he paused here as if to give the next word extra weight, “murder.”

  “That’s absurd,” Tang blurted out. “I think you don’t know who is sitting in front of you. A phone call from me will be enough to clear up this ridiculous episode.”

  The inspector took Tang’s cell phone out of his bag, which the men in the car had taken from him, and tossed it to him.

  “Please try your luck. To be honest, we would also be very interested to see who you turn to in such a situation.”

  The cell phone thudded next to him on the couch. Tang stared at it and felt himself growing hot. Please, he couldn’t show any sweat on his brow now. He had not expected this coldness. This man was of a different stature to the party cadre heads, fat cats, or local officials he usually dealt with. Threats did not impress him. He had been sent from the capital, and possessed the remorselessly self-righteous manner of a person acting on behalf of those in power. I must change my tone, Tang thought, to get this official to realize how important I am.

  “Inspector Wen, what do you actually know about me?” he asked in as jovial a tone as he could manage.

  “A great deal.”

  “I mean about my personal life.”

  “You were born in 1952 in Chengdu, son of an army officer.”

  “That’s right,” Tang said, interrupting him. “I was one of the Red Guards and led a work brigade in the countryside during the Cultural Revolution. Four years later, I went to study at Harvard. The first Red Guard to make it to an elite American university. Did you know that?”

  The inspector merely nodded. He did not look amazed or impressed. Tang comforted himself with the thought that he was from another generation—much too young to grasp what an achievement that was.

  “It was my own long march, if you like.”

  Silence. Not even the hint of a smile passed over the apparatchik’s expressionless face at this allusion.

  “When the economic reforms started I established several companies here in Shenzhen for the Sichuan government, and earned about a hundred million American dollars for the province.”

  No reaction. It was like speaking to a wall.

  This conversation had taken a turn for the worse, and Tang could feel himself growing more and more uneasy. He had wanted to demonstrate how superior he was but he felt smaller and smaller as he went on. As though this was a magic couch that was shrinking him back to the size of a fourteen-year-old.

  “Then I set up my own company and, as you know, became a very successful entrepreneur.”

  “Not by legal means. That’s why we are sitting here.”

  “Inspector Wen.” Perhaps a joke would help to lighten the situation. “Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.”

  “And?”

  “Do you know who said that?”

  “No. Chairman Mao? President Hu?”

  Tang gave a deep sigh. “Balzac.”

  “Who?”

  “A French writer. Forget it.”

  He could not believe that he was supposed to answer to this young man. Did he have to give him a history tutorial first? What in damnation was he accusing him of in the first place? It would be very difficult for them to prove that he was responsible for the murder of Michael Owen. What remained were crimes like fraud, misappropriation of funds, and corruption. Laughable. What kind of China did this man live in? This was a time of establishing new horizons, a gold rush period in which everyone was out to get as much as he could for himself. Every great power in their history had experienced a time of change like this. It was a time for chancers and gamblers, speculators and robber barons. Tang was convinced that it was people like him who helped the country make progress. Without them, the people would be sitting in the dirt and chewing on tree bark like the North Koreans. How did the inspector think that the Rothschilds and the Rockefellers had come by their fortunes? By honest reckoning of every cent or centime? By keeping their word on agreements?

  “If you’re suddenly trying to crack down on these types of crimes in China,” Tang said in a trembling voice, “then you can arrest the majority of party cadre heads, officials, and entrepreneurs in the country.”

  “I’m not investigating the majority, Mr. Tang. I’m investigating you.”

  “That is completely arbitrary. Today I’ve fallen into disfavor. Tomorrow you’ll seek out another victim. And what about the rest of them? Do they stay under the carpet? What do you have in mind? A show trial?”

  “I understand a show trial to be for cases where the accusations are unfounded and the judgments have been decided before the start of the process. Our charges against you are based entirely on the facts. An independent judiciary will decide on the outcome.”

  “You can’t be serious. Based on the same facts you could lock up tens of thousands, no, millions of people.”

  “My task is to conduct an investigation of you. The rest do not interest me right now.” He paused and smiled briefly. “We’ll have to start somewhere.”

  It was this smile that made Tang feel a deep, bottomless fear, a fear that he had thought he had left behind him forever. He recognized this smile from when he had smiled the same way. It was the evil smile of contempt that the powerful cast at their victims.

  This interrogation was only the beginning. They had probably already searched his offices and his house and arrested his managing director. Victor Tang no longer held himself upright. He was suddenly no longer one of those people who could bend and twist the truth or even completely dismantle it and make something else out of it entirely.

  He saw his father. The pack was on its way to the market square. He could hear their cries already.

  If anything could save him, it was the fact that Inspector Wen was not an independent investi
gator who was bound to observe the rule of law. He was a tool, a henchman for the powers that be, and those could change, Tang thought.

  A second man came in, walked over to Wen, leaned down to him, and whispered something in his ear. The men talked in low tones so Tang could not make out a word of what they said. While they talked, the stranger looked at him as though he was regarding a dog warily, unsure of whether he was about to attack him. He was shorter and quite a bit older than the inspector and seemed somehow familiar to Tang. He stood up, walked around the desk, and stared at him without saying anything. They had met before, but where? Why was his usually excellent memory letting him down now, of all times?

  “Do we know each other?”

  The man nodded.

  “How?”

  “From a temple.”

  “Where did we meet?” Tang could not remember when he had last been in a temple.

  “At an execution.”

  “Whose?”

  “A monk’s. But mine too,” he said, stretching his arm out and making a movement as if he was holding something and striking downward with force. Where was that musty smell coming from? What was that horrible sound that cut Tang to the bone in his spine and his legs? Wood splintering.

  “Mine,” Zhang repeated. “And yours.”

  XXXIII

  She had wanted to come unburdened, without the terrible fear of the past few days and nights when she had hardly been able to sleep because she was worrying about him and wondering what had happened. Most of all, though, she had wanted to come without the weight of high expectations. He had rung her that morning and asked her to dinner and also asked her if she might like to stay the night. His voice had sounded quite different from before: very relaxed, cheerful, in fact, and she did not want to bring anything with her other than the happiness and lightness that had been with her all day since they had spoken on the phone. She simply wanted to spend the evening and the night with him, to simply see what would happen, and not be disappointed if it turned out to be nothing much.