David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

When he was finished, Fong sat quietly looking at the great lake with the island just coming to light in the dawn. All he could think of saying was, “Thank you.”

The old fisherman shrugged and began to row away.

“One more question?”

The old man stopped. “What more could you possibly want to know?”

“Just one thing – why did you tell me?”

A long silence followed. The old man looked away from Fong and stared at the dawn. When he spoke, something had broken in his voice. Something had given up. “You ask why I told you all this – because I have no children left. Because I’m old. Perhaps, because I’m a fool.” He patted the cormorant. The bird nuzzled its beautiful head into the old gnarled hand. Then the man sighed and finally unleashed his burden. “Because Chu Shi, the girl who died from typhoid, was my daughter. Her mother and I met – once – when I was young.” A smile softened his ancient features.

Fong nodded but didn’t speak.

The fisherman reached down and picked up something from the floor of the boat. Then tossed it to Fong. Fong caught the object and turned it in the light.

It was the small bronze of the hindquarters of a horse.

“What . . .?”

“I found that thing, down there.” He pointed vaguely toward the shoal. “I gave it to Dr. Roung. He gave it to Chu Shi. She arranged to get it back to me before she died. I think that thing killed her. No, I lie. My greed killed her.”

He sat very still for a moment then turned away from Fong, toward the rising sun. His shoulders lifted and dropped convulsively. Fong heard nothing but assumed the man was sobbing.

The coroner had the window seat. Lily sat beside him, her head buried in a fashion magazine she’d bought at the airport. As soon as the plane levelled off, he leaned his forehead against the cool Plexiglass – and drank it in.

China.

Home.

Bands of colour melded into the patterns of intricate tapestries – then into rainbows. Hills became the contours of women’s bodies. Space became infinite and soft. Things that do not meet, met.

Then clacking. Clacking. An express train slowing as it passed through a local station. Then him, seated on the express train, looking at the platform across the way through the windows of the stationary local train.

A young man and a woman. Standing on the platform. Holding hands. She facing the tracks, he turned away – peeing through the boards. Simple. Just holding hands and peeing.

“Are you done?” she asked.

He looked up into her round, calm face, into her coal black eyes and nodded.

“Then button up, the train’s ready to go.”

“Is it far?” His voice was surprisingly young.

“Beyond the mountain,” she said and smiled.

“That far?”

“It’s not far, dear. In fact, it’s always been very near.”

He wanted to look at her but found himself looking at his hand. And her hand. And recognized it – his mother’s hand. He looked up into his mother’s proud face and grinned.

“You know the way?”

“I do.” She touched his forehead and brushed away his hair. “Do you?”

He felt himself smiling and crying at the same time. He took a deep breath then said, “I do.”

Then he let go.

Lily saw Grandpa’s tears running down the windowpane. She heard him mumble. She heard him take a deep breath then let out the air in one long single line of life. In the reflection, deep in the double Plexiglass windowpane, she saw the smile on his lips. She felt his hand. It was cold and so very still.

When the plane landed in Beijing, she sat beside the dead man until everyone left their seats. A steward came down the aisle to them. “Is he all right?”

Lily looked at the young man. She didn’t know how to answer his question.

Within six hours Lily had the basic information on the telephone number and was back on a plane to Xian. This time it was she who stared out the window at the terrifying, intense beauty of China from the air.

A small porcelain vase with a sealed top sat on her lap.

A great desert storm cloud enshrouded Xian as Fong approached in the Jeep. There was no water in the dingy cloud, only darkness and sand blown all the way from the vast desert to the west. “Here the West is to the west of you,” Fong thought. “At home, in Shanghai, the West is to the east. Old and new.”

Fong guided the Jeep carefully into the darkness. It was colder than he thought and the streets were empty. Gaudy tourist hotels, then crumbling Chinese buildings momentarily pierced the gloom as the vehicle’s headlights swept past them.

Fong took a corner and suddenly emerged from the cloud. He stopped the Jeep and hopped out to glory in the beauty of the night sky. Brilliantly bright stars, pinpricks in the black, black dome of the heavens shone down on him. On the horizon, a perfect crescent moon.

For an instant he considered getting back into the Jeep and driving as hard and fast as he could in any direction. Just drive until the gas gave out. Then walk until his legs failed him. Then crawl until – but only for an instant. He checked his street map and got back into the Jeep, slamming the door. He liked the angry sound of the metal against metal. It bespoke action. Maybe even justice.

Dr. Roung wasn’t particularly surprised when Fong barged into his office, but he was definitely not pleased. The man excused himself and went out of the room, leaving Fong alone. Fong fingered the small bronze statue in his pocket. It and the four stacked stones linked the archeologist to Chu Shi. Xian to the island. But he still needed the link back to the rogue in Beijing.

Fong’s eyes scanned the broad desktop and landed on the small bronze of the forequarters of the horse sitting to one side.

Then the man’s cold hand touched his shoulder. Fong hadn’t heard him return. Or perhaps he hadn’t actually left. Just stepped toward the door. Before the taller man could speak, Fong said, “I have a few questions I’d like you to answer.”

The archeologist raised an eyebrow. “Evidently you do.” The light glinted off his heavy steel-framed glasses as he tried to learn what Fong had seen among the objects on his desk. But he wasn’t able to discern what had drawn Fong’s attention.

Fong noticed and smiled openly. He ran his tongue over his smooth teeth.

The archeologist smiled back. That twinkle again.

Fong stepped away from the desk, careful to keep his eyes away from the small bronze statuette.

The older man watched him carefully, then nodded as if he’d made up his mind about something. He tapped the top of an odd-looking, square machine sitting on the office floor. “Do you know what this is, Detective Zhong?”

Fong looked at the squat grey thing. By its bulk and open ugliness he assumed it was Soviet in design, but he couldn’t begin to guess what it was. “World’s most impractical doorstop,” he suggested.

“No, Zhong Fong, it’s a shredder.” A knowing smile blossomed on the man’s face as he added, “A Sovietmade shredder.”

Fong was disconcerted by the latter comment – it was as if the archeologist had read his mind. “What does it do?” Fong demanded, a little too forcefully.

“It shreds things, Detective Zhong.” The man’s smile grew to offensive proportions as he took a large map of Shaanxi province from his desk and placed it in the feed bin. He pressed a button. A flurry of metal blades made a racket for a few seconds then hundreds of odd-shaped pieces vomited out into a tray. The archeologist tilted the contents of the tray onto his desktop and spread them out flat. He didn’t bother turning over the pieces that were face down. For twenty or so seconds he studied the array before him. Then he began. In less than five minutes he had reconstructed the entire map. As he fitted the last piece of the puzzle, he looked up. “It’s a unique talent. I was born with it. I never worked at it. Never thought about it. Just used it. My talent.”