David Rotenberg - The Shanghai Murders

That night Fu Tsong took a long time in the bathroom. Fong had already bathed and was in bed, a book open on his lap. But his mind was miles away on a journey to the West. The door to the bedroom opened a hair and he heard Fu Tsong’s voice say, “Turn off the overhead light and put my red silk scarf over the bedside lamp.” Fong knew better than to argue with her about such things. Turning off the overhead’s harsh green-tinged light was a relief. When he placed her red silk scarf over the bedside table lamp the light from the weak bulb diffused enough to cast a pleasing shadowy glimmer.

The door opened. Fong gasped. There in the doorway was Fu Tsong dressed in the full costume of the princess from Journey to the West . Her face was made up porcelain white. The feathers bobbed as she moved. It was Fu Tsong but it was also the princess, both the one Fong had seen that night and the one he had seen when he was a boy. The mix both confused and intoxicated.

Fu Tsong moved to the foot of the bed and with an elegant flick of her wrists the sleeves of her gown flowed freely down. Then arching her neck back for a moment she snapped her head to one side and the feathers elongated the shock into a graceful dance of pure energy. She turned, and sliding her hands free of the sleeves, placed a feather in her mouth with a slight cry and a momentary flash of eyes and a pose.

Fong had no idea how long Fu Tsong continued her dance in the softened silk-red light. Nor did he have any idea when exactly she came into his arms. Her kiss at first tasted chemical but as Fu Tsong parted her lips and drew his tongue into her mouth he found himself making love to the princess from the East. She took him on the voyage of his life, to a place far to the west where the erotic dreams of youth meet the adult realities of sex. Where the old and the new meet, and the smell of the earth rises through the shimmer of silken clothes.

The delivery of the second half heart did the trick. All over Shanghai there were hushed conversations in corners of KTV private rooms. The whores were sent away and the men huddled together considering their options. They were traders of every conceivable nationality, race, colour, and creed. They only had one thing in common: the smuggling of ivory. But now, after the deaths of two of their kind, they shared a second thing: fear for their lives.

The phones had been ringing, faxes faxing, and e-mail e-mailing. Decisions were made. And all the decisions were the same. This place was not safe for ivory anymore. Fuck ’em, we’ll move it to Singapore or Hong Kong or Hanoi, this place was just too much bother- and too dangerous.

So in private planes, luxury cars, and first-class airplane seats, the smugglers bailed out of Shanghai and headed toward safer ports of call.

That night in the power plant in the Pudong, glasses were lifted and toasts recited. Their spy network had informed them that the rout was on. The smugglers were leaving. After the congratulations went around, the hoarse voice said, “But we are not finished yet.”

A chorus of agreement met his comment.

“Now we must proclaim to the West that we have rid the city of these smugglers, that Shanghai will no longer tolerate the killing of endangered species for the edification of a few elite. We must proclaim it loudly so that the conservationists in the West will stop their lobbying against us and allow the money we so badly need to be invested here.”

The European voice spoke up. “The stories are already planted in the major presses in the West. By week’s end our efforts-well, not our efforts but the results of our efforts-will be trumpeted from the newsstands of New York, London, Paris, and Berlin. The Sunday Times is going to do a feature on the eradication of ivory smuggling in Shanghai.”

The hoarse voice, gulping air again, burped out, “Good.”

There was a strong murmur of concurrence and then the hoarse voice resumed. “We have but two problems remaining. First, the assassin must be eliminated.”

“He has already been betrayed. Our people in Taiwan are awaiting the arrival of a Shanghai detective, and they have prepared a dossier on Loa Wei Fen that should lead the police right to him.”

There was a pause, and then another voice, unheard before, spoke up. “Is the second problem the detective in charge of the case?”

“It is,” replied the hoarse voice, careful to conceal his surprise.

“I have troubled dreams about this Inspector Zhong.” The ancient man made note of the inherent challenge in the voice and then replied, “We have already begun to look after that situation.”

“Good.” The response was conspicuously neutral.

“To the renewal of most favoured nations trading status. To Shanghai, and growth that will never end. To the New China, strong and powerful,” intoned the old man.

Glasses were raised but the owner of the hoarse voice did not drink. He sat and remembered the Shanghai of his birth, the simpler place, the happier time.

That night Geoffrey Hyland sat down for a second time with Wang Jun and went over his evidence again-evidence aimed at convicting Fong of the murder of Fu Tsong. As Geoffrey spoke he felt himself floating, drifting back to that hot summer afternoon four long years ago.

In Shanghai the hot dry days of early summer give way with a vengeance to the rainy season. On average the city is wracked by six to eight full-fledged tropical storms every year between late July and early September.

The fury of the winds that day, four years ago, had rattled the windows in the bedroom as Fong awoke from a terror-filled afternoon sleep to find Fu Tsong, now six months pregnant, gone from his side. He threw back the covers and put on his trousers.

Then the previous night came flooding back in on him.

He shook himself free of the horror and, grabbing an umbrella, headed out into the gathering storm whose darkness had changed day to night.

By the time he got to the theatre he was three leagues wet and none too thrilled that Fu Tsong hadn’t left him a message about where she was going.

After last night’s fight it was no real surprise.

She’d arrived home late, as she had done so often since her pregnancy began. But it wasn’t her lateness that angered him. It was her distance, and if Fong were more honest, her endless bringing up of Geoffrey Hyland’s name. Geoffrey had arranged for Fu Tsong to do a play with him in Vancouver. But rehearsals began only six weeks after the baby was due. Fong was amazed that Fu Tsong didn’t see this as a problem. She replied that the baby could come with her. That Geoffrey had thought of all that. “It’s a great opportunity for me. Geoffrey says my English is good enough and he wants me for the role so I’m going.”

“No you’re not,” came out a lot harder than he intended and sat between them like a solid thing, unmovable, unretractable. After a seeming eternity Fu Tsong snapped, “Does your ‘you’re’ mean me, the baby or both of us?”

“It means you and the baby.” In for a jiao, in for a kwai.

“If the baby’s a boy, right? If it’s a girl, then Fong doesn’t give a fuck where it goes, right?”

“Don’t, Fu Tsong, we’ve been over-”

“You’ve, you’ve, you’ve been over and over this but not me.” Then grabbing her belly, “Not us.”

“I don’t know how to say I’m sorry anymore, Fu Tsong.”

“You don’t know how to say it because you’re not sorry. Zhong Fong wants a son and I’m carrying a girl. One kid. Wrong kind.” She screamed the last two sentences so loudly that the windowpanes shook. Then he saw Geoffrey through their open bedroom window. He’d been sitting on the base of the stupid statue, listening.

For a moment betrayal washed over him. This had been planned.