Whispering Shadows (31 page)

“I don't. At least not those from my generation.”

“You're crazy. That's absurd.”

“Weren't you listening to what I just told you? I wasn't telling you a fairy tale!” He had to keep his voice in check. Paul Leibovitz was
not someone you shouted at.

“I know,” Paul said calmly.

“Then I don't have to explain to you how often in the past a truth was declared a lie and a lie the truth. How many children betrayed their parents. How many pupils their teachers. How many supposedly ‘best' friends denounced each other. Do you have to experience that yourself to believe in it?”

“No, but the Cultural Revolution ended over thirty years ago.”

“So? What are thirty years? Not even half a human life. Anyone who lived through the purges will never forget them as long as they live. Never, do you hear me, never! Anyone whose father . . .” Tang broke off.

Paul also said nothing for a moment. “I understand.”

“You don't understand anything,” Tang interrupted. He could barely conceal how worked up he was. The memories had flooded into him with a force that he would not have thought possible.

“I'm trying to understand,” Paul continued undeterred. “But in the last thirty years a great deal has happened in China.”

“Yes, I've noticed that too. The buildings have grown taller and the streets wider.”

“You're not being serious.”

“Of course not. But this country cannot reinvent itself. Only the Americans could think that. We all have something to hide. Your friend is no exception. And I would not trust anyone who has anything to hide, they'll do anything to keep their secrets private.”

“My friend has nothing to hide from me. You will not convince me that I cannot trust him.”

“No?”

“No!”

“Did you know that he lived in a village in the countryside during the Cultural Revolution?”

“Of course.”

“And do you know what he did there?”

“Like the others, he helped the farmers with the harvests. He
worked morning to night to prove that he was a good revolutionary and he is still paying for it today. He has problems with his knees and suffers from rheumatism.”

“Ah, knee pains and rheumatism. I would say he was a lucky man if they were all the problems he had.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he tell you that we were in the same work brigade?”

“Yes.”

“Did he let you know how well we worked together?”

Paul shook his head. He had no idea what Tang was getting at, and that was good as far as Tang was concerned, very good, in fact. Victor Tang had decided that an accessory to the crime did not really matter. He took a deep breath. He wanted to savor this moment. He had the feeling that the two men's search for the truth about Owen's murder would end right here at this candlelit table laden with Sichuan delicacies. In a few minutes Paul Leibovitz would understand that we have no choice but not to trust people.

“Did he ever tell you,” Tang said, dragging out every word, “about the story of the old monk in the temple?”

XXIX

Paul felt the life force drain out of his body. Every breath, every movement, yes, even sitting upright and motionless, seemed too much for him. Although Tang had only spoken a few sentences, Paul knew quite well that this was no mere anecdote he was telling to entertain or distract him, but a report that had only one object: to destroy the trust between him and Zhang forever. He saw it in Tang's face. There was a new glint in his eye, a coldness that announced a terrible evil. The man had to put some effort into injecting his voice with a cheerful, excited tone.

Paul wondered if he could interrupt him and simply tell him that he was mistaken, that he knew this story already. But that would have been cowardly. He wanted to know what event had been so awful for Zhang that he had kept it from him for over twenty years. He owed that to their friendship.

“We were all extremely agitated when the monk did not immediately open the gate . . .”

Paul could tell how the story would go. Certainly by the time Victor told him that he, Zhang, and the old man had stayed behind without the others in the temple. With every sentence, this tale led toward a terrible, unavoidable ending. Zhang, his Zhang, this reliable and beloved friend, had watched while an old defenseless man was beaten. Not only watched; he had fetched Tang the weapons and later covered up for the murderer with his silence. Zhang—a murderer's accomplice. With every sentence, this truth sank in
deeper. He could not believe it but he also had no doubt that what Tang said was true.

Paul could only guess what had kept Zhang from talking about this. The shame, a bad conscience, the fear that Paul would judge him and turn away from him?

Trust was a part of life, trust without boundaries. It was the basis of every human contact, every friendship and every love; Christine had reminded him of that. “He who trusts risks disappointment. Living without trust is far worse than any disappointment.”

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

Thinking about what she had said, he felt such a longing for Christine as he had hardly ever felt for a person before. He felt weak and helpless, and could only hope that Tang had not noticed it. He loved Christine. He loved her with all he had to give.

Tang did not bother to conceal his pleasure at the success of the surprise he had sprung. On the contrary, he reveled in everything he said that could further disquiet Paul. The sweet sound of victory was in his voice. Paul wanted to counter with something, but what? What was more powerful than a friend's betrayal?

“Don't you believe me?” Tang asked, clearly wondering why Paul was silent.

“I do. Every word.” Paul felt unable to think clearly. “But it doesn't change anything.” He had not given this sentence any forethought; it just slipped out of him. An act of defiance, because he didn't want to allow Tang his cheap victory. Or was he trying to protect himself because he wouldn't have been able to cope with this revelation otherwise?

“What do you mean?” Tang gave him a searching look.

“Exactly what I said,” Paul said bravely. “It doesn't change anything. It doesn't change my friendship. It doesn't change my belief in Zhang. It doesn't change my trust in him. It doesn't change my affection for him.”

Tang started laughing, a cold and loud laugh, almost hysterical. “You're no romantic. I got that wrong about you. You're a pathetic
coward. You find out a truth and you're too frightened to act on the consequences.”

Paul did not have the strength to defend himself. He wanted to object, he wished that he really felt the way he had just involuntarily claimed he did, but there was a second voice within him that would not be silent. It kept whispering to him that Tang was not wrong. When did trust turn into unintelligent credulousness, loyalty to a childish defiance? “Zhang will have had his reasons for not telling me this story,” he said flatly.

“Of course he had his reasons,” Tang mocked. “We all have our reasons when we lie.”

Paul stared at the candles on the table. The pressure in his eyes had grown intolerable; he would not be able to hold back his tears for much longer. “Please excuse me. I have to use your bathroom.”

“Please do,” Tang said in a contemptuous voice. “Go up to the second floor. The two bathrooms on the ground floor are out of order.”

Paul could barely feel his legs as he rose from his seat. He felt as weak as if he had spent weeks in bed. He crossed the dining room and the entrance hall, taking tentative steps, and climbed the curved marble staircase slowly, holding on tight to the gleaming gold ­banister.

Tang had not told him whether to go left or right or which door he ought to open. The first on the right-hand side was not the bathroom, it opened onto an empty room without any furniture in it. The second led to a big bathroom without a toilet in it. Only after he had opened the third door did Paul realize that it could not have been the toilet. A television was on in the room. In front of it was a bed. On it was Anyi.

She looked at him with horror, as though he was a contract killer sent to silence her.

“What are you doing here?” Paul stammered.

“Get the hell out of here! Close the door at once!” she growled at him in a strangled voice.

Paul closed the door behind him.

“Are you crazy? Tang will kill us both if he sees us together.”

“What are you doing here?” Paul asked again.

“Go away! Now. Please.” Her anger had turned to pleading.

Paul was shocked by the fear in her face.

“How long have you been here?”

Anyi did not reply.

“Why are you so frightened?”

“If you don't go at once I'm going to scream for help,” she threatened.

“What do you have to do with Michael's murder?”

“Mr. Leibovitz.” Tang's voice came up to them from the dining room.

Anyi froze on her bed.

“I forgot to tell you where the toilet is,” he shouted. “The second door on the left.”

Paul opened the door slightly and said, “Thank you,” loudly before closing it again.

“Go away! Go away!” Anyi whispered.

“Not before you answer my question.”

“I don't have anything to do with it.”

“I don't believe that. Why are you here, then?”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can't.”

“Tell me one thing. What does Tang know about Lotus Metal?”

“Everything.”

“Were you the one who told him about it?”

“No,” she insisted.

“You knew about Michael's talks with Wang Ming and Lotus Metal. You were with Michael in Beijing and Shanghai. You were with him on the building site for the new factory. I saw the photos. Tang found out from you.”

“No. No. Not from me.”

“But of course. Who else?”

“I don't know either. But I never told anyone anything.”

“Mr. Leibovitz?” Tang's voice sounded from the hallway now.

“Please, please go now. Maybe he'll let you go, but he won't spare me.”

“Why did you betray Michael?”

“I didn't.”

“I thought you loved him.”

“I did.”

“Who else knew about the negotiations?”

“No idea. His father, maybe.”

“His father?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Mr. Leibovitz, where are you?”

Paul and Anyi both held their breaths. They heard the footsteps on the stairs clearly. Tang seemed to hesitate at the top. “Mr. Leibovitz?” He walked in the direction away from them and knocked at a door. When he got no reply he turned around and walked slowly toward Anyi's room. Paul took his hand off the door handle and stood against the wall next to the door. He saw the handle being pushed down slowly and the door opening wide.

“Mr. Leibovitz?”

Anyi did not say anything. Her lower lip was trembling and her face was ashen.

Tang stepped into the room and saw Paul immediately. “I didn't know you wanted to play hide-and-seek with me,” he said sarcastically. “If I'm not wrong I don't have to introduce you; you know each other already. Anyi-yi, my darling, did my guest disturb you?”

She shook her head absently.

“Mr. Leibovitz, what do you want from my girlfriend?”

Paul looked first at him and then at Anyi. She sat in the bed defensively.

“Nothing,” Paul said.

“Did you have a question?”

“No.”

“If that is the case I'd like to ask you to leave my girlfriend's
bedroom. I get the feeling that your presence here is not welcome.”

Paul looked at Anyi, but she did not look back at him.

He left the room with Tang right behind him.

“The toilet is over there if you still need it.”

———

Tang waited at the foot of the stairs and led Paul back to the dining room.

“Who told you about Michael's negotiations with Lotus Metal?” Paul asked once they were seated again.

“Why does that interest you?”

“I want to know who betrayed Michael Owen.”

“That is completely unimportant.”

“Not for me. Was it his father?”

Tang did not reply.

“Or Anyi?”

“I've told you already, it doesn't matter who told me. The consequences are the same.”

“I have never met anyone as cynical as you.”

“It will not surprise you to learn that I take that as a compliment.”

“Why did you kill Michael Owen?”

“I absolutely reject that accusation,” Tang replied with a lightly ironic tone. How can this man feel so completely secure? Paul asked himself. “But if you're convinced that I'm the murderer,” Tang continued, “you can also answer this question yourself. Michael conducted secret talks with a competitor firm behind my back. Our joint venture had made a lot of money, but at least until now it would not have worked without the Owens' contacts and supply agreements. So I had a motive, yes? But I'm going to tell you three things that you should take very seriously. First: I did not murder Michael Owen. Second: The truth has been decided. Third: You have to watch out that you're not fighting against the rest of the
world. You don't want to become a martyr for the truth, do you?”

“I'm not alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I hope for your sake that you are not deceiving yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Tell me where you got the story about the murderer's alibi,” Tang said.

“From the wife of the man who you've put in jail. Mrs. Owen already told you that.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No. My friend Zhang did.”

“Were you there?”

“No. He told me about it.”

“I see. He told you about it.”

“What's so unusual about that?”

“Are you still sure that everything Zhang tells you is true?”

Paul rejected the implication immediately. “Of course. Why not?” Let his host think he was naïve or stupid, but he would not let Tang realize he had any doubts about Zhang's honesty.

“Only the very wise and the very stupid never change their opinions. That's an old Chinese proverb. What makes you so sure? Maybe the last time I met Zhang was not thirty years ago but two days ago. Maybe he changed sides and you haven't noticed?”

That was enough. Paul stood up very suddenly, as though he was about to lean over the table and grab Tang by the collar. His chair fell backward and clattered loudly against the floor.

“That is ridiculous,” Paul shouted, raising his voice for the first time that evening.

“If you're so sure, why are you getting so worked up?”

Paul wanted to have nothing more to do with this person whom, he had to admit, he was no match for.

“I'm going now.”

“Do that. I won't stop you. You won't get far with what you know.”

“You're threatening me again.”

“I'm not threatening you. I'm merely stating how it is. Don't overestimate what you can do. The bee may have stripes on its back, but they do not turn her into a tiger.”

“Another Chinese saying?”

“And not a bad one. May my driver take you anywhere?”

“No thank you.” Did Tang really think that he would get into his car and trust himself to his driver after this conversation?

“Shall I ring for a taxi for you?”

That could also be a trap. Paul remembered Zhang's warnings; anything was possible. He just wanted to get out now, onto the street, where he surely would find a taxi before long.

“No. I'd prefer to go on foot.”

“As you wish. It's a long way from here to the ferry or to the next train station, and it won't be a pleasant walk, I assure you.”

Paul strode through the dining room and the reception room to the front door, where he turned around. Tang had followed him and was looking at him with a mixture of wonder and pity.