Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

‘Spring has sprung,’ she said.

‘I’m here to tell you that Hong Qiu is dead.’

Birgitta hadn’t known what to expect — but it wasn’t that. She felt a wrench deep down inside her. Not of sorrow, but of immediate fear.

‘What happened?’

‘She died in a car accident while on a trip to Africa. Her brother was there as well. But he survived. He may not have been in the same car. I don’t know all the details.’

Birgitta stared at Ho in silence, chewing over the words, trying to understand. The colourful spring was suddenly surrounded by shadows.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Several months ago.’

‘In Africa?’

‘My dear friend Hong Qiu was part of a big delegation to Zimbabwe. Our minister of trade, Ke, was the leader of the visit, which was considered very important. The accident happened on an excursion to Mozambique.’

Two of the drunks suddenly started screaming and pushing each other.

‘Let’s go,’ said Birgitta, rising to her feet.

She took Ho to a nearby cafe where they were almost the only customers. Birgitta asked the girl behind the counter to turn down the music. Ho drank a bottle of mineral water, Birgitta a cup of coffee.

‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘In detail, slowly, as much as you know. During the few days I met Hong Qiu she became a sort of friend. But who are you? Who has sent you all the way from Beijing? And above all, why?’

Ho shook her head.

‘I’ve come from London. Hong Qiu had a lot of friends who are now mourning her loss. Ma Li, who was with Hong Qiu in Africa, gave me the sad news. And she asked me to contact you as well.’

‘Ma Li?’

‘One of Hong Qiu’s other friends.’

‘Start at the beginning,’ said Birgitta. ‘I still find it hard to believe that what you say is true.’

‘All of us do. But it is. Ma Li wrote to me and described what happened.’

Birgitta waited. She had the impression that the silence also contained a message. Ho was creating a space around them, closing them in.

‘The information is not consistent,’ said Ho. ‘The official story of Hong Qiu’s death seems to have been sanitised.’

‘Who told Ma Li about it?’

‘Ya Ru, Hong Qiu’s brother. According to him Hong Qiu had chosen to go on a trip deep into the bush, to see wild animals. The driver was going too fast, the car overturned, and Hong Qiu died instantly. The car burst into flames; petrol had leaked out.’

Birgitta shook her head. And shuddered at the same time. She simply couldn’t imagine Hong Qiu dead, a victim of a banal car accident.

‘A few days before Hong Qiu died she’d had a long conversation with Ma Li,’ Ho continued. ‘I don’t know what about; Ma Li is not the type to betray the confidence of a friend. But Hong Qiu had given her clear instructions. If anything happened to her, you should be told.’

‘Why? I barely knew her.’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘But surely Ma Li must have explained?’

‘Hong Qiu wanted you to know where I could be found in London, if you needed any help.’

Birgitta could feel her fear growing. I’m attacked in a street in Beijing; Hong Qiu has an accident in Africa. The two events are somehow connected.

The message scared her. If you ever need help you should know that there is a woman in London called Ho.

‘But I don’t understand what you’re saying. Have you come here to give me a warning? What might happen?’

‘Ma Li didn’t give any details.’

‘But whatever was in the letter was sufficient to make you come here. You knew where I lived, you knew how to get in touch with me. What did Ma Li write?’

‘Hong Qiu had told her about a Swedish judge called Mrs Roslin who had been a close friend of hers for many years. She described the regrettable mugging, and the meticulous police investigation.’

‘Did she really say that?’

‘I’m quoting from the letter. Word for word. Hong Qiu also told her about a photograph you had shown her.’

Birgitta gave a start.

‘Really? A photograph? Did she say anything else?’

‘That it was of a Chinese man you thought had something to do with incidents that had taken place in Sweden.’

‘What did she say about the man?’

‘She was worried. She had discovered something.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know.’

Birgitta said nothing. She tried to work out what was implied by the message from Hong Qiu. It could only be a warning cry out of silence. Had Hong Qiu suspected that something might happen to her? Or did she know that Birgitta was in danger? Had Hong Qiu discovered the identity of the man in the photograph? In which case, why didn’t she say so?

Birgitta could feel her discomfort growing. Ho sat in silence, watching her, waiting.

‘There’s one question I must have an answer to. Who are you?’

‘I’ve been living in London since the beginning of the 1990s. I first went there as a secretary in the Chinese embassy. Then I was appointed head of the English-Chinese chamber of commerce. Now I’m an independent consultant to Chinese companies that want to establish themselves in England. But not only there. I’m also involved in a big exhibition complex that’s going to be built near a Swedish city called Kalmar. My work takes me all over Europe.’

‘How did you get to know Hong Qiu?’

The reply surprised Birgitta.

‘We’re relatives. Cousins. Hong Qiu was ten years older than me, but we’ve known each other since we were young.’

Birgitta thought about Hong Qiu evidently having said that she and Birgitta had been friends for many years. There was a message in that. Birgitta could only interpret it as meaning that their brief acquaintance had formed deep links. Significant trust was already possible. Or perhaps, rather, necessary?

‘What did it say in the letter? About me?’

‘Hong Qiu wanted you to be informed as soon as possible.’

‘What else?’

‘As I’ve already said. You should know where I live, in case something happens.’

‘What might happen?’

‘I don’t know.’

Something in Ho’s tone of voice put Birgitta on her guard. So far Ho had been telling the truth. But now she was being evasive. Ho knows more than she’s saying, Birgitta thought.

‘China is a big country,’ said Birgitta. ‘For a Westerner it’s easy to confuse its size with the impression that it’s secretive. The lack of knowledge is transformed into mystery. I’m sure that’s what I’m doing. That’s how I experienced Hong Qiu. No matter what she said to me, I could never understand what she meant.’

‘China is no more secretive than any other country. It’s a Western myth that our country is incomprehensible. The Europeans have never accepted that they simply don’t understand the way we think. Nor that we made so many crucial discoveries and inventions before you acquired the same knowledge. Gunpowder, the compass, the printing press, everything is originally Chinese. You weren’t even first to learn the art of measuring time. Thousands of years before you started making mechanical clocks we had water clocks and hourglasses. You can never forgive us for that.’

‘When did you last see Hong Qiu?’

‘Four years ago. She came to London. We spent a few evenings together. It was in summer. She wanted to go for long walks on Hampstead Heath and interrogate me on how the English regarded developments in China. Her questions were demanding, and she was impatient if my answers were unclear. She also wanted to go to cricket matches.’

‘Why?’

‘She never said. Hong Qiu had a number of surprising interests.’

‘I’m not all that interested in sports, but cricket seems to me totally incomprehensible — it’s impossible to work out how one of the teams wins or loses.’