Xiao Bai - French Concession

She thought she knew what he meant. He was moved that she had been fated to experience such tragic conflict, as though no matter what choices she made, things would come out wrong.

That wasn’t what she had expected, and she teared up because he understood her, which made her think she understood him. They both tended to let other people make the decisions and go along with them. She had often tried to explain her own life to herself as she sat at the window of the apartment on Rue Amiral Bayle, but Hsueh had explained it better.

They were sympathetic words — a little ironic, although Hsueh may not have meant them that way. But the more she thought about it, the more they made sense. Something about her life felt unreal to her, like a movie. She couldn’t really say what the problem was, whether this was because she had lost the passion for what she did, or because her mission forced her to pretend all the time.

Her cheongsam was stiff with the sweat dripping from her armpits. She felt as though she were drowning in an illusion. Everything sounded indistinct and far away, except the dominoes clicking somewhere in someone’s hands.

The sound of the police siren escalated gradually and inexorably, as though it were bubbling up through water. Tires screeched on the road. Then they heard footsteps, and someone rapped at the door.

When they opened it, the steward was standing outside with a few policemen.

“What’s happening?” Hsueh drew the wooden blinds and looked down onto the street.

“North Gate police! Don’t leave your room. Have your identity papers ready for inspection.”

The clatter of dominoes ceased. Someone moved the table, and the teacup fell to the floor, spinning to a halt instead of shattering. Next door, children were crying, and a man was scolding his wife in front of the policeman. The steward tried shrilly to stay in control, like a hapless choir conductor:

“Send word to all the rooms. No one is to leave. Police orders.”

Detective 198 came into the room while his French superior stood at the door. He had switched to his summer uniform early, probably because he wasn’t used to Shanghai’s humid weather. The sweat ran down his calves from his knees. Soaked in sweat, his calves were as white as rotting flesh, and the hairs stuck to his skin. He kept fidgeting to avoid the mosquitoes. He wasn’t wearing gaiters — who would, given the weather in this blasted place? Shanghailanders often wrapped medical bandages around their long socks as a precaution against malaria, but surely an officer on duty couldn’t be seen in such a ridiculous outfit.

Leng’s face was white and she had a blank look in her eyes, as if she had already given herself up for lost. Detective 198 looked like a slapstick actor imitating a street portrait artist. He looked down at the document, up at her, and then down at the photograph. He scrutinized her in profile, as if being closer to the light filtering in through the blinds would give him a better view.

“I’ve seen this face before,” he commented blandly to the French detective. He might as well have been describing a photograph.

They left the building surrounded by detectives, who took them to North Gate Police Station in a police van. After just a few minutes inside the iron compartment, Hsueh was already sweating profusely. He kept wiping the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief. The seats for prisoners were narrow and low, and they were almost squatting on the floor. This was more embarrassing than being seen on the toilet. Leng kept her hands over the slits in her cheongsam so that Hsueh wouldn’t see her legs. She had been sweating, and the pores on her legs had dilated and looked ugly. She suddenly didn’t know what to do with herself, like an actress who was being dragged out of the limelight and kidnapped.

They were locked up in a wooden cage, and no one asked them any questions. She wouldn’t get away with it this time. Everyone would have seen those photographs of her, including the wedding photograph in which she was wearing so much makeup she hardly looked like herself. Ts’ao had insisted on having that photograph taken, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said yes, and needed to hang wedding photographs everywhere just to prove they were married. Now the photographs proved that she had been Ts’ao’s wife, just as he had wanted.

Although the sweat must have stung Hsueh’s eyes, he appeared to be deep in thought. He had noticed neither Leng’s imperfect legs nor the look of despair in her eyes.

He began to shout at the top of his voice, making Detective 198 rush over to the wooden cage.

“I am French! My father was a Frenchman! I want to talk to the sergeant! I have something to say!”

Detective 198 opened the cage with a key. He had already stripped his belt off, and put his keys, whistle, baton, and flashlight on the table. He was ready to teach this man a lesson for daring to cause trouble in the lockup.

But then the long-faced sergeant came in and had Detective 198 take Hsueh to his office. The detective was drenched in sweat. He couldn’t wait to finish work and find a bar where he could have a long cool draught of beer. He resented the place, his job, and the officers who were making him do all this work despite the weather.

JUNE 24, YEAR 20 OF THE REPUBLIC.

4:18 P.M.

Hsueh was brought to the sergeant’s office. His identity papers lay on the table open to the last page, alongside a wooden hat, a catalog of European furniture, and a vial of peppermint oil to keep the mosquitoes away. A green blackboard hung near the door, with a list of to-dos for the day scribbled on it in white chalk. A huge arrow had been added between 3:00 P.M. and 5:00 P.M., hours that should have been spent drinking tea and smoking in the cool of the sergeant’s own office. The words SINGAPORE HOTEL had been circled.

The telephone was on the wall next to the blackboard.

“Was there something you wanted to say to me?” the sergeant said.

“I’d like to make a phone call to Lieutenant Sarly of the Political Section. Call and tell him Hsueh wants to speak to him.”

“So we think we know a few bigwigs, do we?” The sergeant stretched his legs out to let the breeze filter into his pant legs.

When he got Lieutenant Sarly on the line, he sounded impatient. Hsueh could hear rustling sounds that meant either Sarly was reading something, or there was static on the line.

“And what were you doing in the Singapore Hotel?”

“A friend of mine is staying there.”

“A friend.” The voice gave no hint of what Sarly was thinking. “A lady friend?”

Hsueh didn’t know how much to reveal, and he had to make up his mind quickly. The line kept crackling. With probably no more than a few seconds left, he remembered that it wasn’t Leng the lieutenant was after. She wasn’t the protagonist of the story. In that case. .

“If you trust me, I’ll make sure you get everything you want.”

“If I trust you? Have you given me any reason so far to trust you?” The static disappeared, making room for a vast silence. Sarly’s voice sounded thin, like a piece of thread in the wind, or an echo in a distant corridor.

Hsueh felt his position weaken. He didn’t realize that he was shouting. “This is really important! When you come to your senses, you’ll see all my reports piled on your desk.”

He put the phone down and waited for Sarly’s answer. He felt sorry for Leng. He thought about how hard she had tried to pretend to be sophisticated, in the hope that he could be “useful” to her cell. Then he remembered her weeping by the ship railing, and the blank look in her eyes when she had seen him. She never forgot she was a woman. Even when she was terrified, she had held down the slits in her cheongsam, as if the gesture would anchor her in reality. He began to worry about her. For a moment, it seemed to Hsueh that it would be worth risking anything at all, Lieutenant Sarly’s trust, even his friendship with Hsueh’s father, just to keep her safe.