Xiao Bai - French Concession

An hour later, the poet from Marseille appeared.

An hour and a half later, he and Leng were walking out of North Gate Police Station. The poet came to the wooden cages with him, and he noticed that Leng recognized his old friend right away.

The poet told him that the search at the Singapore Hotel had been a coincidence. That morning, a steward at the hotel had found a hand grenade under the dressing table in Room 302, and the manager, Kung Shan-t’ing, had telephoned North Gate Police Station to report the find.

The poet was one of the only policemen Hsueh liked, which was why Sarly had assigned him to be Hsueh’s contact point. He was shy. He had hair the color of dried hay, and a weakness for Mallarmé and Verlaine. Before getting in his car, he had privately complimented Leng to Hsueh: she looks so graceful when she is frightened, like a swan.

Leng herself was standing in Hsueh’s empty living room, like a swan resting during a long journey, sadness in her eyes. They had politely declined the poet’s offer to give them a ride in his car, and when they were sure that no one was following them, Leng had made a phone call from a telephone booth on Boulevard de Montigny. Through the glass window, Hsueh could see her covering the receiver with her hand, trying to explain what had happened. She was beautiful. He wondered whether he felt that way because he had just rescued her from prison. For the first time, he learned what it felt like to have someone look to him for protection.

As she was coming out of the telephone booth, she told him she had nowhere to go, and would have to live with him for now, just to be safe. Her voice was so matter-of-fact that Hsueh was almost a little disappointed.

Hsueh tidied up the table, which was the only thing that needed tidying, since his living room contained nothing but a table and a couple of chairs. He poured out half a cup of cold coffee, and as soon as he came back into the living room, he remembered that he had to boil some water in the kitchen. The old photographs and newspapers could be tossed in a heap in a corner with bottles of developer chemicals. Standing at the doorway, he chucked all his clothes into his bedroom. No sooner had he gotten Leng to sit down than the lid of the kettle clattered in the off-kilter beat of an Irish jig.

Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him until now that he owed her an explanation. Wouldn’t her cell wonder how they had managed to escape from North Gate Police Station? He told her about the hand grenade, but then he realized that it sounded even more implausible than a lie. He still didn’t know what he would say to Sarly. And he had barely given any thought to the fact that he would one day have to betray Leng and her cell to the police. It was true that his mind was always swirling with thoughts, but he would never learn to think ahead.

Right now, he had to make sure he hadn’t left anything suspicious lying around. Though he shouldn’t have anything to hide — after all, he was a photojournalist, not a detective. All he had were piles of old newspapers and photographs, rolls of film and chemicals. Then he thought of something and shot into the bedroom, leaving Leng alone in the living room.

Ever since Therese’s Cossack bodyguards had found Hsueh’s rooms, she had been here a couple of times herself. She was the kind of woman who left a telltale trail wherever she went: lipstick smudges on wineglasses and cigarette holders, perfume suffusing the pillowcases and the very cracks in the wall, and of course, stained knickers.

He could not imagine what would happen if Therese were to walk in and find him at home with another woman. That hadn’t occurred to him as he was bringing Leng to his rooms. He had better go and meet her so that she wouldn’t take it into her head to come here.

Nor could he imagine why Sarly trusted him. In the police van that afternoon, it had crossed his mind that someone might have followed him to the Singapore Hotel, which seemed to be the only explanation for the police search of the rooms. But then he had gotten distracted by the fact that Leng wasn’t wearing stockings. It was hot and humid, and her legs had been glistening with sweat.

He was beginning to think that the search might have been a coincidence after all. One thing was certain: Sarly trusted him. Sitting in a trench and sharing a gas mask must forge strong friendships, Hsueh thought.

The sky was growing dark, but it hadn’t rained. They were still in Hsueh’s rooms on Route J. Frelupt, on the other side of the Concession from the police station, sitting across from each other and near enough to smell each other’s sweat.

“So that was the poet from Marseille. Who did you say I was?” He could tell that the performance she had kept up for so long had been shattered like a piece of porcelain and was all jagged edges now. It was her listless face rather than her vacant tone of voice that gave her away.

He looked at her face, her hands, her skin. You could see the pores because she had been sweating.

“My lover,” he said.

Her mouth was slightly open, as if she had just swallowed something bitter. He thought he heard her sigh. There was a stain on the side of her nose, from having been rubbed with grimy fingers. Her eyelashes cast long shadows on her pupils.

“Why did you rescue me?”

The pause would make what he was about to say more powerful.

“Because I love you.” The words slipped out as if he had been waiting to say them. There is never a good time to tell someone you love them. But then whenever you do, it usually sounds right.

She was weeping noiselessly. A breeze lifted the curtain. She shivered and got up. Then she looked at him and collapsed into his lap, clutching his sleeves and collar, and then punching his head and shoulders.

“But why? Why? Everyone who loves me comes to a bad end!”

It surprised Hsueh that no woman could withstand the power of those three words. They all seemed to be under the same spell, or to have drunk a potion that made them play the same part in the same movie.

JUNE 24, YEAR 20 OF THE REPUBLIC.

7:30 P.M.

Leng felt like a sorry piece of bait, rigged on the end of a line and dropped into the lake. Now that the fisher had abandoned his rod, she was starting to develop feelings for the fish. Her phone call to Ku was brief, and she neglected to mention that they had been arrested or taken to the police station. She was afraid he would expel her from the cell, which was her only connection to the outside world.

Luckily Hsueh had been there — this proved his friends at the police station were as influential as he said they were. Ku was intrigued by this, and repeatedly asked:

“Why would the Political Section be taking part in a North Gate police raid?”

“There wasn’t anyone but the North Gate police. The steward found a hand grenade and reported it to the police.”

“But you just said they got you out.”

“The police were about to burst into the room to check our papers, but Hsueh was standing at the door and started kicking up a fuss. Then he dropped the name of his friend in the Political Section.”

“So this poet friend of his must be an important man. Did you say you met him this afternoon?”

“They called the Political Section from the hotel, and confirmed that Hsueh was a journalist at a French newspaper. By the time his friend got here, the police had already left.”

This story doesn’t hold water, she thought. She felt guilty about lying to Ku for no reason. She felt like an incompetent actress who had forgotten her lines.