Xiao Bai - French Concession

Lin never made it to the apartment. He would later think he only got caught because he couldn’t stop thinking about Leng’s lie.

He had just turned the corner. Afterward he wouldn’t for the life of him be able to remember which street he had been on. He did remember seeing basketfuls of peaches between those fingers — pink and flat green peaches. A pair of large callused hands had covered his eyes, digging its fingers into his sockets, making his temples hurt.

The pair of hands had reached over from behind him, and the voice also came from behind, floating toward him like a disembodied voice:

“Guess who I am? Guess who I am?” It was a high-pitched singsong voice, like someone reciting a nursery rhyme. He could hear laughter muffled by the street noises. The hands were also twisting his ears, making all those voices sound as though they were underwater.

He heard a car screech to a halt. Someone was standing in front of him, pushing him, pulling him from the side. There was a brief burst of light, and then he could see nothing. He was surrounded by people breathing heavily.

He didn’t notice when they twisted his arms behind his back. He was aware of being dragged to the edge of the pavement, and he noticed the step. Then a stab of pain — a punch, he thought. He was just thinking that when he was punched again in the stomach, his knees buckled, he bent over and collapsed to the ground.

But this wasn’t the ground. It was soft and bouncy, with a smell of new leather. Before he knew what was happening, the door had been closed. He knew he was in a car because the door had caught on his pant leg.

As it sped off, the hands pushed his head down into the car seat. It felt as if a thousand people were sitting on his back, and he could hardly breathe. His nose was wedged into the gap at the back of the seat, and his mouth tasted of rust, probably because his lips or gums were bleeding.

Someone put a cloth bag over his head and tied it on tightly. The rope was right at his mouth, and it felt as though the corners of his mouth were going to split open. This must be to stop him from screaming, he thought. It actually hadn’t occurred to him to scream. He couldn’t make a sound if he tried.

He was dragged out of the car by many pairs of hands. He couldn’t see where he was and he had no concept of time; he had never been trained to handle situations like this. But he remembered Park once saying that you could count silently using a regular bodily rhythm like your heartbeat or breathing. Count how many times the car turns a corner — you can always tell, because of inertia. Pay attention to changes in the ground surface, notice whether it’s sloping upward or downward, whether it’s hard or soft. If you stay calm, you can feel even the gaps between the tiles beneath your feet. Without Park’s training, Lin didn’t have the presence of mind to start counting. All he could remember was birdsong, the sound of wind in the leaves, and the smell of car exhaust. He didn’t remember to count the number of steps they climbed, but he knew that he had been taken to an empty third-floor room, and he noticed the dank smell of slaked lime.

Now there was silence. No more breathing noises, no footsteps. He felt as though he had been abandoned, not just in an empty room, but also in an empty building. Before long, he heard someone talking in low tones through the ceiling. The voice sounded as if it was coming from a room to his left. His hearing was recovering. He could hear someone pouring water from a hot water bottle into a teacup. This couldn’t be the police station, he guessed. There were no clanking sounds of metal, no handcuffs, no metal doors. Besides, the police could arrest him openly. No, these men were more likely to be from the Green Gang. At first he thought it must be because of the Singapore Hotel, but he quickly abandoned that idea. Stay calm. He remembered what Park had told him: expand your senses of hearing, touch, smell, and the entire surface of your skin, so that you absorb every bit of sound, warmth, and humidity from your surroundings.

Not long afterward, he remembered about the Singapore Hotel, and realized that he hadn’t had a chance to report his discovery to Ku. The entire cell was in danger, and there was nothing he could do about it. Lin began to worry.

JUNE 29, YEAR 20 OF THE REPUBLIC.

2:30 P.M.

The jargon sounded abstract and remote to Hsueh. All those new words came from Europe via the Soviet Union and Japan, and over the past twenty years, they had flooded in so quickly that it had been impossible to keep track of them all. They had caught on faster than imported goods, ships, or cars. Everyone these days was learning the new vocabulary. Even small-time reporters and errand boys could go on about the Left or Imperialism, and you’d have to be a real philistine or country bumpkin not to know those words. To be sure, some of the new words were useful. For instance, having sex with a hostess was now called sleeping with her , and being interested in someone could be described as falling in love . This made things simpler. If everyone used the same words, the words themselves would have the effect of a spell you could cast on people. Now that “love” had been invented by novels and movies, all the women servants in Shanghai would soon tremble like actresses at the mere mention of falling in love.

Mr. Ku, Leng’s boss, was speaking to him. Spells had no effect on him, but Hsueh was intrigued nonetheless by Ku’s mystique. They had arranged to meet outside the gate of the Koukaza Gardens, but at the appointed time, Ku was nowhere to be seen. Five minutes later, two young people appeared behind him and Leng. Follow us, they said in a low voice.

They followed them down the road that ran north-south through the park. At the northwest corner of the park, the two students slowed down and told Hsueh to wait there. Without ever looking directly at him, they hurried away.

Two minutes later, someone in a black linen suit came toward them. His face looked familiar, and Hsueh remembered having once seen him in a black leather jacket. He sure likes wearing black, he thought. The man brought him and Leng to a Peugeot, and had them get in the back while he drove. Although they couldn’t see out the windows because of the blinds, Hsueh could tell that they were traveling west along Avenue Joffre.

The car stopped in an empty yard surrounded by tall buildings, such that only the northwest corner of the yard was sunlit. There were camphor trees on the lawn and carefully tended flower beds. Cherry blossoms were in full bloom, and the ground was carpeted with petals. They were taken through a glass door into a building. There was no doorman, and the elevator was to the left. It went up to the fifth floor, where Mr. Ku was waiting for them.

He sat in the middle of a horseshoe-shaped table, while Leng and Hsueh sat in soft chairs on either side. The man in black, whose name was Park, sat behind Hsueh. He slouched on his armchair and rocked it, with his legs propped up on a folding chair.

Ku talked about the cell’s ideals and mission. The atmosphere was a little awkward. Leng played with a pencil. Park’s armchair rocked more violently.

Then they took a break. Have a cigarette, Mr. Ku said. Let’s get some fresh air on the balcony. They went through the kitchen and climbed onto the rooftop via a spiral iron ladder that hung outside the building.

They stood by the railing. Hsueh lit a match for Mr. Ku with his back turned to the wind, and then lit himself one. They both smoked silently. The corners of the railing were overgrown with moss, and the uneven floor was partly flooded. Hsueh shivered. He turned his collar up and held his hand up to let the breeze carry the cigarette ash away.