Whispering Shadows (19 page)

“Dear Victor,

I told you this yesterday on the telephone and want to express it one more time very clearly in this letter. Our last meeting was more than unpleasant. I do not want to experience anything like it again, or I will feel forced to act out the consequences. I find your threats impertinent. Your accusations and blame are entirely without foundation. What you say is hurtful and outrageous. You insult not just our company but our family too. If we were in America, I could sue you for something like this. I am asking you herewith to apologize unreservedly by the weekend.

Michael.”

Paul looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye. Zhang had sunk into himself; he was cowering on the couch, his eyes roaming aimlessly across the room; his lips had thinned and his eyes had narrowed. If Paul was not mistaken, he looked frightened. Almost in a whisper, he asked Paul to repeat what he had just read.

“This doesn't sound like the usual kind of disagreement between business partners, does it? What do you think?” Paul said, after he had read the letter out one more time.

Zhang did not react at all. Had he not heard him or was he lost in thought? What was he so frightened of ?

“Zhang, what's wrong with you?”

He still did not react.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Me?” he replied in a sluggish voice, as though he were slowly
returning from another world. “Absolutely nothing. I'm just exhausted. What did you say?”

“That the letter doesn't sound like a normal disagreement between business partners.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Perhaps the parents know something about it. Shall I call Elizabeth Owen now?”

“No,” Zhang blurted out in a raised voice. “Not now. On no account.”

“Why not? You said . . .”

“We . . . we have to be careful.”

Paul had known his friend for over twenty years, but he had never seen him look so frightened before. “Zhang, you're not well; something's wrong.”

Zhang shook his head. “No, no, Paul, it's nothing. I'm just saying that we can't make any mistakes now. We don't know what kind of relationship the parents have with Victor Tang and how much they are in touch with him at the moment. If you ask them about a quarrel now, they'll wonder how you know about it and why you're asking so many questions anyway since the murderer has now been caught. They're likely to tell Tang about it; he absolutely must not find out that we—that I—am still not letting the matter rest. He'd tell Luo about it right away, and I really don't want to think about what would happen then. Apart from that . . .” He did not finish his sentence.

“Apart from that, what?”

“Nothing, Paul, nothing.”

“You wanted to say something.”

“Yes, but not right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it has nothing to do with this case.”

“So? It's on your mind, isn't it?” Paul said in a gentle tone that indicated that he was ready to listen to whatever Zhang wanted to talk about. But Zhang did not take him up on the offer. Instead, he
jiggled his left leg nonstop and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Do you know the woman in the photos? Does it have anything to do with her?”

“No. She looks like someone you'd see in a karaoke bar.”

“Does it have anything to do with Tang?”

“Why do you think that?” Zhang retorted sharply. He did not seem to like Paul's question at all.

“I don't know. Just a feeling I have.”

“Nonsense.”

“Didn't you say he came from Sichuan?”

“Yes, and what about it?”

Why was Zhang being so vague? Why was he so slow to reply? “Does he come from Chengdu?”

“I . . . I think so.”

“He must be our age. Early or midfifties, right?”

“Why do you think that?” Zhang responded.

“Do you know him personally?”

“Why are you asking?”

“That's not an answer,” Paul replied. He saw in Zhang's eyes that he felt cornered; he had a secret that he did not want to divulge. He had gone too far. This was not an interrogation; he had no right to question his friend like this. He had to accept that even a friendship like theirs had boundaries, that there were taboos, ghosts, or demons that it was better not to awaken. Nevertheless, he trusted Zhang without reservation; this unconditional trust was the foundation on which their friendship rested. He did not want to disturb it. “I'm sorry,” Paul said.

“That's okay.”

“What do you think about the letter?”

“It's difficult. It doesn't get us much further at the moment because there's nobody we can ask about it. Later on, maybe.”

“Should I call the Owens again now anyway?”

Zhang nodded. “Okay. Try, but be careful. It would be best if you could ask Mrs. Owen a few questions about Michael's life in China
in as casual a way as possible. I hope she has a lead.”

———

Paul rang Elizabeth Owen and said something about the investigations in Shenzhen being wrapped up and two or three final questions that the police still had that they'd passed on to him to handle in order to make things easier; a pure formality, as he said, just so they could write a full report; that was how it was with the bureaucracy in the Middle Kingdom.

Elizabeth's replies were not very useful. She knew neither any friends nor any acquaintances that her son had had in China; he had never mentioned any names. When he had stayed the night in China, which he had done often, he had always stayed in the Century Palace Hotel near the station; she remembered that. There was a very good massage parlor in the basement there, which he had visited often after long days in the office, and a bar, which he had liked. That's all she knew. Paul thanked her.

“The bar is called Glass. It's a club, a karaoke bar, and an expensive brothel,” Zhang said in a tired voice, after Paul had told him about the conversation. “I've never heard of the massage parlor, but many of these places are also brothels. We still don't know much, but it's better than nothing. I'll be on my way.”

“On your way. Where?”

“To the Century Hotel.”

“Do you know anyone there?”

“No.”

“What are you going to do there, then?”

“Look around, see if anyone can tell me anything about Michael Owen.”

“As what? As a detective? As soon as you start investigating or questioning people there, word will spread. If there's a high-class brothel there, the owner will certainly have contacts with your
­people.”

“With us?”

“With the police,” Paul clarified. “They'll probably even have a stake in it, won't they?”

“Probably. Do you have a better idea?”

Paul thought for a moment. He went into the kitchen, put some more water on to boil, and returned to the living room, where his friend was still huddled helplessly on the couch.

Yes, he had a better idea. But should he say it? What would Christine say if he broke his promise? Would she ever forgive him? But the question of whether he could allow Zhang to travel back to China in this condition weighed just as heavily on him. Paul suddenly felt paralyzed; he felt a leaden heaviness in his whole body and was unable to make a decision.

What would Justin do; what would he tell him to do? Paul knew that this was an absolutely idiotic thing to imagine. His son would have been eleven years old now, and he would never have burdened him with a question like this, with such a difficult decision. But still, the thought of talking to Justin and having to account for himself to him helped. He was helping a friend in need.

———

“The hotel,” Paul said slowly, “is the only lead we have. I can think of only one realistic way of investigating without putting you further into danger. I'll travel there, book a room, get a massage, visit the bar, and tell everyone I meet that I'm a good friend of Michael Owen's. If he stayed there often, someone will know him and be able to tell me something about him.”

“Let me do that.”

“You? A friend of Michael Owen's? I think I would be more convincing in the role, don't you think?”

“Of course. But what about Christine?”

For an instant, Paul thought about simply not mentioning his trip to Shenzhen.

“I'll call her later from the ferry.”

Zhang did not look as though he wanted to carry on objecting. Paul went upstairs, packed a few things in a bag, got his passport, cash, and credit cards, and came down again. He felt better now, relieved; the wretched feeling of paralysis had gone. It had been good to make a decision, no, to make
this
decision.

His friend was lying on the couch with his eyes closed; he looked as if he were meditating.

“Zhang?”

“Yes,” he replied, without looking at Paul.

“I'm going now. The sheets on my bed are clean. There's food in the fridge. If you need something, you'll have to go down to Yung Shue Wan. Do you have any Hong Kong dollars?”

“Not many.”

“I'll put five hundred on the kitchen counter for you. I'll call you as soon as I'm at the hotel. Are the telephones in the Century safe or are they tapped?”

“As long as they don't suspect anything they're safe. And why should you seem suspicious to them?”

“Do you need anything else? Aspirin? Something to read?”

“No.” Zhang opened his eyes. “Be careful. And thank you. I know what it is that you're doing for me.”

———

Paul had to hurry. He walked down to the village in long strides. He was moving so uncharacteristically quickly that the old men and women weeding in the fields lifted their heads and looked at him in astonishment.

The ferry had barely set off before he rang Christine.

“It's Paul.”

“I knew that, whether you believe it or not. I knew it was you from the first sound of your voice.” The tenderness in her voice. He did not want to hear it now.

“Christine, I'm very . . .”

“Is it about this evening?”

“Yes,” he said abruptly.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No. But Zhang has arrived from Shenzhen. He needs my help. He's found the wife and the child of the supposed murderer. The man has an alibi. I have to find out something for him so I'm on my way to China now.”

That was it. Final. No argument. Paul could hear his own voice. He was surprised, shocked at how cool it sounded, how hard it was. He did not apologize, did not want her understanding or to ask for her forgiveness because he was breaking a promise. He was telling her. He was sorry about that, but there was no other way. He did not have the strength for a discussion, for questions or doubts about his decision. If she got angry with him or even started swearing at him, he would hang up immediately.

Christine said nothing for a few endless seconds. Would she start shouting at him? Throw accusations at him? Cry?

“Where are you now?” she asked in a calm voice.

“On the ferry to Hong Kong.”

“When are you arriving?”

“In about twenty-five minutes.”

“I'll wait for you at the ferry terminal at Central,” she said, and hung up.

XVIII

Her initial reaction was an ominous mixture of fear and rage. How could he do this to her? Why was this Zhang person more important than she was? Did his promise to her count for nothing? It had only been a few hours since he had asked her if she wanted to stay the night with him.

Will you stay the night?

She'd been waiting for these words, this request. She had imagined many times what she would do when he spoke them. Had dreamed about his body, about his bed in the house on Lamma, how she would lie under the white mosquito net, how she would feel him, his strength, his desire, how they would become one.

He was more tender than any man who had touched her. Like a teenager, she felt a desire that she would give herself up to immediately, if he would only let her. He defended himself against every one of her attempts to seduce him; they were shy and tentative, but scared him off nonetheless, made him withdraw and seek distance rather than closeness. Sometimes he took her hands gently from his chest or from his neck, and sometimes he pushed her away like a wrestler freeing himself from a claw hold. Many times she had been in a state of high arousal when she left him, and been unable to calm herself on her return journey, so there was nothing for it but to meet her own needs at home, alone in bed, with Josh and Tita sleeping in the next room, which she did not like, and which made her angry with him. Others, she knew, saw her as strong, stubborn, maybe. But
she too was vulnerable. She was needy, and, like every needy person, she was very vulnerable.

Now he had finally asked her to stay the night with him and she had thought about nothing else that whole morning in the office, but then, once again, it was all over? Did he not know what he meant to her?

His voice. She hated it when he sounded so cool and hard. He had not even apologized.

She sat motionless on her chair for a long time after she had ended the call. Quiet tears ran down her cheeks and she felt for an instant that she had metamorphosed into a five-year-old child who had been abandoned by everyone. She was small and defenseless, her life was slipping through her fingers, she would lose everything. Her son. Her apartment. Her small company. Paul.

No, she heard herself say. No, you won't. You were small and defenseless once, but this is today. You are a grown woman, over forty years old. You are not a victim, you are strong. Strong. Strong. You have the power of self-determination.

No one was forcing her to be with Paul. She could break up with him. She could meet him at the ferry now and tell him that he was hurting her and abusing her trust in him and that she never wanted to see him again. For a split second she felt a strange relief at this thought. Like a person who had been expecting bad news for some time and found it liberating when it arrived. But did she really want to be without Paul? She loved him, believed they belonged together . . . Only children believed that the moon did not have one side turned away from the earth.

She did have a right to be furious with Paul. Love allowed that. He had said something about an innocent man and an alibi, but she was completely uninterested in that. Could she expect him to have more understanding for her fear of the Chinese in the People's Republic? What was a suitable time period within which to stop
being frightened? Five years? Ten? Twenty? How long, she asked herself, was fear a natural defense mechanism? The thought of the uniformed men who had pushed her father from the window still having power over her life today was the most awful of all.

Christine looked at the clock. In less than fifteen minutes Paul would arrive at Central. She had to hurry. She grabbed her bag, said that she didn't know when she would be back, and left the office quickly.

It was almost impossible to get a taxi in Johnson Road at this time of day. In her high-heeled shoes, she walked swiftly through the market in Tai Yuen Street. She knocked over a box of children's clothing on the way and heard the stall keeper cursing behind her. She brushed past several passersby who swore at her, then snatched a taxi away from a woman with two children on Queens Road East. She was not especially superstitious, but she began to fear that she would have to pay for all her rudeness. The punishment followed in the form of a traffic jam because of an accident on Man Yiu Street, less than three hundred meters away from the ferry terminal. She was already more than five minutes late. She paid her fare, got out of the cab, took off her shoes, held them in her hand, and ran barefoot on the road between the stationary cars toward the pier.

Paul saw her from a distance and walked toward her. Instead of saying anything, they embraced. She felt how he was holding his breath, his body stiffening slightly, as though he was expecting an attack, verbal at least, at the next breath. But she said nothing and did not let him go, held him tight until he gradually relaxed and started breathing evenly again, and his muscles were less taut.

“Do you have time to take the Star Ferry?” she asked.

“The Star Ferry?” He looked at her in total astonishment.

“Yes, why not?”

He nodded, and they walked past the piers which the boats to Cheung Chau and Peng Chau stopped at, past the taxi stand and the bus station, turned left behind the General Post Office into Connaught Place and, in a few minutes, reached the old white and
green terminal from which the boats to Tsim Sha Tsui departed. She had taken this ferry very often before. Even after the opening of the much faster metro, which traveled beneath the harbor and took less than five minutes for the journey from Central, she had initially preferred taking the ferry, which was much slower. As time passed, she had taken the ferry less and less, and more out of nostalgia, and she had not been on it at all for years now. The ferry was a relic of another world, Christine thought, as the boat made its sedate approach to the quay. Even embarking and disembarking took more time than the entire journey with the MTR. The boat was so slow, so inefficient and uncomfortable, that taking it was an act of defiance against the laws and the logic that defined this city. Why did she want to take the Star Ferry now, of all times?

They sat on the lower deck, which had no protection from the wind, and stank of diesel and oil. All through their bodies, they felt the vibration of the engine, which was chugging so slowly that they felt as if they could count every single stroke of the pistons.

After a deckhand had cast off, she asked Paul, “You once asked me about my dreams. Do you remember what I said in reply?”

“Yes. You said that you were from Hong Kong and that you didn't have any dreams. Plans, yes, but no dreams.”

“That's right. And what did you say to that then?”

“I was surprised, and I felt a little sorry for you,” Paul replied. “I said to you that dreams could be beautiful, and you laughed and shook your head as if you did not know what I was talking about.”

“That's right. For the last few hours I've been trying to imagine what it would be like to have a dream. It's different from actually having a dream, but it's still a start, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

Paul looked at her waiting for a further explanation or an accusation. That he was destroying this tentative beginning, that she had been right not to dream, that now she saw how quickly a dream could be destroyed. But she did not say anything.

“And?”

“And nothing.”

He looked at the dark, almost black, water.

After a while he said, “I still owe you an explanation.”

“You don't owe me anything.”

“I'm very sorry about tonight, and that I couldn't keep my—”

Christine put her hand on his mouth and kissed him on the cheek.

“I can . . .”

She shook her head. “I don't want any explanations. I love you. That's enough.”

As if trusting was only for fools. As if we had a choice.