David Rotenberg - The Hamlet Murders

Fong nodded although he had no idea what something called a PalmPilot could be useful for.

“It keeps notes, sir, calendars and the like. And it can even be programmed to monitor radio signals.” Fong smiled and nodded but thought, “Fine, Chen, you use that thing. For me, I’ll use a datebook to keep appointments and a radio to get radio signals.”

At his apartment, Fong was grateful that the water had come back on. While the small gas water heater attached to the shower did its work, he returned to the bedroom and slid one of the tapes into his VHS adaptor then into his machine. He punched the On button. A program called Six Feet Under came up. Fong watched, trying hard not to yawn. When he got the gist of the show, he let the tape run and headed toward the shower.

The water was scalding hot but Fong didn’t care. He put his face up to the pounding heat and allowed it to punish him in the hope it would take away his weariness. Over the sound of the water and the gas heater, he heard the VHS tape droning on. Between gurgles, he caught snippets of dialogue. Something about a cat. Something about these tits cost a fortune. Something about do you know who this was?

Fong reached for the soap and turned off the water to conserve gas. He began to lather up. Then stopped. No sound was coming from the VHS tape. Maybe this was an M.O.S. section. He smiled when he remembered Fu Tsong’s explanation of the term: “Mit out sound, Fong.”

“Mit out sound, what language is that?”

“Well, it’s English with a German accent. Lots of the early Hollywood directors were German and mit is the German word for with. So without sound became mit out sound. M.O.S. – and it stuck.”

Then a loud cackle of a microphone being tapped came from the VHS tape.

Geoff’s voice said, “Don’t do that.” Then, “Three, two, one – play.”

A beat of silence.

Then he heard her. His deceased wife, Fu Tsong – as clear as he heard her inside his head every time he entered a theatre: “Here’s flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun and with him rises weeping’ these flowers of middle summer, and I think they are given to men of middle age.”

Then she giggled, “I’m too old to play Perdita.

Fong felt himself stagger. His hand reached out and hit the water tap.

Then Geoff’s voice responded, “Nonsense. Westerners can’t tell the age of Asian women. Until they get old, that is.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m old?”

“No. Never will you get old. Not to me.”

The boiling hot water pelted down on Fong but he didn’t move. Couldn’t move, as Fu Tsong returned to her speech: “I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that become your time of day.”

And then he was crying. The water mixing with his tears and swirling down the drain into the nothingness beneath.

Li Chou looked at the crime-scene photos of Geoff Hyland, then pushed them to one side and took a large, sealed manila envelope from his briefcase. The envelope had belonged to his CSU predecessor and Fong’s close friend, Wang Jun. As part of Li Chou’s deal in accepting the post, he had demanded all private papers that could be found from Wang Jun’s time as head of the CSU. This was the only extant copy of Wang Jun’s confidential report on the death of Fu Tsong. It had been found after Wang Jun’s death, hidden in the man’s mattress.

Li Chou slid the long nail of his left pinky finger along the crease of the envelope, opening the thing as easily as any letter opener could. The opening sentence of Wang Jun’s report brought a smile to Li Chou’s lips: Fu Tsong, Zhong Fong’s wife, was having an affair with the Canadian theatre director Geoffrey Hyland.

In Li Chou’s mind, he ticked off one of the three ingredients necessary for a murder to take place: motive.

“For the flowers now, that frighted thou let’st fall from Dis’s waggon! Daffodils, that come before the swallow dares, and take the winds of March with beauty.”

Fong stood before the image on the screen. Entranced. Unable to reach over and turn it off. Wanting it to last forever.

“Violets dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses that die unmarried, ere they can behold bright Phoebus in his strength – a malady most incident to maids; bold oxlips and the crown imperial: lilies of all kinds, the flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack, to make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, to strew him o’er and o’er.”

Fu Tsong’s image held, suspended in digital space, her arms raised, her face alive with joy and then it was gone.

The phone rang so loudly that Fong jumped.

“Short stuff?”

“Lily?”

“Did you get my message?”

“Not yet.”

“Pick up your messages. I don’t leave them for my health, Short Stuff.”

“I will, Lily.”

“Good. When?”

“As soon as you answer a single question for me?”

“Sure. Xiao Ming is fine. You can pick her up early on Sunday if you want.”

“Thanks. I look forward to that.”

“So does she.”

Fong was pleased. Although it wasn’t easy, he and Lily were working their way to an understanding on how to share the raising of their daughter.

“But that’s not my question, Lily.”

“Well spit it out, Short Stuff.” He did wish she’d stop calling him that although it was true she usually only used that appellation for him in private. What’s your question, Fong?”

“What kind of flowers were on Geoff Hyland’s body?”

Fong fast-forwarded through the VHS tapes. There were no more speeches by Fu Tsong. Just lots and lots of Six Feet Under. Fong mulled that over – lots and lots of Six Feet Under. Why was Geoff all of a sudden interested in a program about dying. I AM TIM and dying. Soldier Sailor Tinker . . . Spy.

Fong began to leaf through Geoff’s notepads. In the back of the first one he found six typed pages filled with edits. As he read, he realized that this was Geoff’s writing: In the end all there is, is love. Every scene is about it, every character seeks it, every being lives in the hope of it.” Said by some old acting teacher, don’t ask me who.

I have been teaching professional actors for over 20 years. I began to teach in New York between directing jobs in the American regional theatres. I taught in my Manhattan apartment three nights a week – my wife was very patient. In my second year of teaching, I was contacted by a young man from Yonkers. He asked if I would teach him and three of his friends. I asked about his background. He was not an amateur but he was clearly not travelling on a traditional professional trajectory. What he clearly was – was hungry. So I agreed.

On that first night, he showed up with his three friends, one of whom was a dark-eyed girl whose anger was so close to the surface that her face was in almost constant motion – as if whatever boundaries she had to keep the anger in check had been breached.

That first class we talked through some basic concepts, did a bit of improvisation and broke down a simple text. Then I suggested that we find scenes to work on. The girl told me that she wanted to watch a little first. I said that was okay but she would have to get up and perform in the class after next. She agreed. I gave the three young men a copy of David Mamet’s American Buffalo and told them to prepare some of it for next week.

When we parted, they handed over the money for class. As a teacher, it was something that I will never forget. It was obvious the money they gave me, was “food money.” As they left my apartment, I looked at the money and thought of the responsibility it imposed on me – and to be frank – it frightened me.