David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

“I’ve got our meetings set up, Fong. The news guys are expecting us later this afternoon. The vice cops are ready for us now,” said Lily.

“Good,” said Fong.

As they entered the police station he whispered, “Have you found anything more on that DNA patent?”

“Not yet. It’s hard to get any exact information. But I’m still trying.”

The vice cops were cordial enough and offered to pick up Sun Li Cha, the Mistress of Cervical Arts, for them. Fong declined the offer. “Just tell us where we can find her.”

The possibility of seeing Sun Li Cha seemed to cheer up the coroner. “An unexpected benefit,” Fong thought.

The police began listing places to check.

Fong cut them off, “Does she have a home address?”

“Yeah,” said the youngest vice cop, “but we’ve never found her there.”

“Where does her mother live?” asked Lily.

Fong saw a flash of anger cross the officer’s face. Perhaps the man didn’t like being questioned by a woman or maybe he found it offensive to bring the mother into this. Xian was getting to be a big city; he’d have to learn that mothers are often the best way to daughters. Change is hard on us all.

Pockets of new wealth were in evidence throughout Xian. Although not pristine, the city was clearly maintained in such a way that Western tourists would find it acceptable.

Shanghai too Western? Chungking too crowded? Beijing too political? Don’t worry, there’s always Xian, real old Chinese. Foreigners certainly bought the pitch. They jammed the narrow streets. They were everywhere.

Sitting in the Jeep and waiting for Chen to return from his errand, Fong found himself put off. An old reaction. For years Chinese citizens had been fed a steady diet of hatred for the Westerners who had bled their country dry. It is hard to get over one’s racial training. “We’re all raised as racists,” he said aloud.

“Even from you, Fong, that has to qualify as an unusual statement,” croaked the coroner from the back seat of the car.

“Think about it,” Fong replied. “You’re born into a family. I sure was.” He noticed Lily cock her head in interest at that. He pressed on: “The first training you get is that your family is better than the one next door. Then you get that your street is better than the one behind you. Then your village is better than the village to the north.”

The coroner folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the door and closed his eyes. Fong continued, “Naturally enough, if all those things are true, your country has to be better than all other countries . . . and your race better than any other.”

The coroner began to snore.

Lily spoke softly, “So, Fong, does that make us all bad?”

Fong heard the concern in her voice buried beneath the veneer of a casual question. “No. Having racist feelings and behaving as a racist are two completely different things. It takes an effort to overcome the training of your youth. Often the initial biases are overturned, but sometimes they linger despite our best efforts to erase them.”

Fong looked in the rear-view mirror. The coroner had a gentle smile on his grizzled face. He began snoring louder.

In the other side of the mirror, Lily looked pensive.

“Lily?”

“Fong, we were all trained to hate Caucasians. There are still times when I can’t believe how ugly they are.” She stopped as if she were entering territory that was too complicated – perhaps too dangerous.

“You have a question, Lily?”

“I do.”

“Ask.”

“The white woman.” Fong instantly knew that she was talking about Amanda Pitman, the wife of the New Orleans police officer who had been found chopped into small pieces in an alley off Julu Lu almost five years earlier. He’d spent four days – and nights – with her.

“What about her, Lily?”

Lily allowed her tongue to trace the front of her teeth. Despite the new thinking in China and Lily’s almost constant exposure to Western media, she didn’t know how to broach issues of male sexuality. Especially with Fong.

“What about her, Lily?” Fong repeated. His voice carried a definite edge.

She let out a deep breath then said in English, “No gain without a penny for a pound, right Fong?”

Fong had no idea what she was trying to say but decided to nod.

“You won’t hate me in the morning?” she asked in English.

Fong was quite lost. Which morning? What had she done to be hated? He looked at her. She looked so earnest that he shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

He shrugged.

“Okay. Good. Okay.” She took a deep breath and switched back to Mandarin. “Did you sleep with the big white woman?”

Fong was shocked.

“Don’t look at me like that, Fong. You told me it was all right for me to ask. So I asked.”

Fong took his eyes from the mirror and looked out the front window. Chen was returning to the Jeep with a bag of steamed buns and about a dozen cheap Triad medallions dangling from his wrist. The timing of the gods was merciful for once. But as Chen approached the car, Lily hissed, “Was she good? Do you like big tits? What did she smell like?”

Chen opened the door and got in. “Sorry I was so long, the crowd was . . .”

“Just get in, will you!” Fong ordered angrily.

Chen didn’t know what to say, so he apologized again.

“Don’t apologize, fire plug. Your absence provoked a fascinating conversation,” said the coroner with a big smile on his craggy face. “What kind of cop are you, Fong, to take snoring for sleeping? Hey, how about one of those buns back here.”

Fong looked in the rear-view mirror. The coroner was laughing. Lily was not.

Then the coroner coughed – and coughed and coughed. Rattles deep inside him began to sound. A knell that everyone in the Jeep heard.

Twenty minutes later, Chen pulled the car out of traffic, headed down a side street and stopped in front of a modern building.

“Her mother lives in a government office block?”

“No, sir, this is where the autopsy was done on the island girl who was disinterred. I thought Grandpa wanted . . .”

“Grandpa wants to see Sun Li Cha, that’s what . . .” but the old man didn’t get another word out as he saw the scowl on Fong’s face. “Actually, a lively bit of scientific bibble babble beats meeting a mistress of the ancient arts any old day,” he said, stepping out of the car.

As Fong walked with him toward the building he noted the greyness that seemed to be growing around the man’s eyes. “Do you want me to stay with you, Grandpa?”

“No.” The older man unhooked his arm from Fong’s and climbed the steps to the building slowly but with a fierce determination. He stumbled and righted himself. He swore loudly – that gave Fong hope.

When Fong got back into the car he was smiling. “What did that old coot say?” asked Lily.

“Nothing much.”

“So why are you smiling?”

“He’s angry. As long as he’s angry he’ll be fine. Once he gets sentimental I’ll begin to worry.”

“Does his family know he’s here?”

Fong almost responded, “He has a family?” then realized that saying it aloud would admit how little he knew about the old man. So he said nothing.

At first Sun Li Cha’s mother wasn’t particularly happy to see them, but she warmed up quickly. There was something of the old coquette about her. Fong had seen it many times before. Older people were ignored in the New China. A burden. Now, all of a sudden, she was wanted. People cared about what she thought. Were willing to listen to her stories.

Both Fong and Chen sat patiently as she claimed ownership of a very exciting, although totally implausible, personal history. It was Lily who finally brought matters to a head.