Xiao Bai - French Concession

“The police think there are probably financiers among you,” said Hsueh.

“What does that mean?”

“No idea. Financier , that’s the word he used. I thought he might be talking about banks.” Hsueh flashed him a cunning smile.

Ku patted Hsueh reassuringly on the shoulders. He thought he knew what Hsueh was getting at. Only in retrospect, when he was reading the newspapers, had he realized why Ts’ao had to be killed. His contact hadn’t told him the truth — that man may not even have known. Ku had no idea why anyone would pay twenty thousand silver yuan to have Ts’ao Chen-wu assassinated. But later he discovered the hidden thread that linked everything together: Ts’ao’s mission in Shanghai, the influential Nanking man who was causing trouble in Canton, and the speculators betting heavily on public debt. The discovery didn’t upset him. That assassination had only been the first step in his master plan, a chance to give the cell some practice and make their name. Ts’ao was indisputably an enemy of the people. And back then the cell had been brand-new, so he’d needed the cash.

That night the cell members who returned to Boulevard des Deux Républiques sounded distressed when they called. Lin had disappeared. He was supposed to be in the apartment, waiting for news from them, but by 10:00 P.M. he still wasn’t back yet. Ku could feel the anger rising inside him. Of all things that could go wrong, the one that worried him most was the discipline of his crew. It was a sign of danger. Young people are capable of doing things you’d never imagined, but give them a moment to themselves and they can ruin it all. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. That idiot French lieutenant’s words came to mind.

JUNE 29, YEAR 20 OF THE REPUBLIC.

7:35 P.M.

Someone undid the piece of rope around his mouth, and tore off the bag around his head. Even so, it took a long time before Lin could make anything out in the dark, narrow room. He had been tied to a chair, and the moldy air made his nose itch. He could tell the room was full of dust and spiderwebs even though he couldn’t see them. Light filtered through a small gray rectangle in front of him, probably a louver door with both shutters closed. That was good to know. It meant he was probably in a house, and this dark room must be a storeroom, or perhaps a converted cloakroom.

He knew that some time had passed. But probably less than half a day. He had pissed just before being dragged into the car, and he needed to piss again now, but not urgently. He was in good health, and he had walked quite a way without drinking much water. He guessed that it was probably before sunset, and that he had been abducted about three hours ago.

He remembered what Park had told him about holding piss. In the absence of other information, it’s a good way of keeping track of time, Park had said. Lin was testing that out right now. If the darkness and loneliness terrifies you, then say you need to piss — no one will really punish you for that. If they won’t let you, they are testing your endurance. The principle is always to do the opposite of what you intuitively want to do. You have two options. If you don’t want to give in, and want to keep holding it in, then you should scream at the top of your lungs. But if you can’t hold it any longer and want to scream, you should just piss into your pants, because the greatest test of your ability to withstand pain is yet to come. The more you confuse your opponent, the easier things will be for you. I should scream, Lin thought. The ropes trussing him to the chair made it harder to project his voice, but he did his best. No one opened the door. There was no sound of footsteps, and he hadn’t disturbed anyone. Maybe I didn’t scream for long enough, he thought. Or is that proof that they want to test my endurance? He had too much self-respect to draw the conclusion that he should just piss into his pants. He stopped to breathe deeply and calm himself down.

As he was panting in the dust, the door opened, and he was dragged out along with his chair into an empty room with white walls. It was dark outside the window. They loosened the ropes and slammed him onto the floor. The cement grazed his cheeks. He was lying facedown, and someone had yanked his arms up and was pushing them forward toward his head as if they were switchblades. He felt as though his shoulder ligaments were being torn apart, and he couldn’t breathe. The knobby parts of his face — his nose and lips — were scraping against the cement. He felt his rib cage being pulled taut like a bow, as if his insides were about to burst out. They let go, and then it started again. He couldn’t even scream. He was sobbing, bawling, and he despised himself.

Finally, they unbound him and tore his clothes off. He was tied naked onto the chair again, but his ankles were pulled back and tied to the back legs of the chair in an odd position, forcing him to spread his legs. The spotlight in front of him shone up into his face and onto his testicles. He felt like a beaker in which humiliation and rage were two chemicals that had been made to react in predetermined proportions. He didn’t even know whom to be angry at. He couldn’t see anyone around him, and they all looked like shadows in the light.

Before they left, someone poured a bucket of water over him, and someone else lugged an electric fan over and pointed it at him.

He was cold. His teeth were chattering, and there was a rusty taste between them. His skin burned where the ropes were cutting into it. His bladder was distended with pain and about to explode, and the rope stretched across it cut into his skin. Before they closed the door, someone said: Want to piss? Piss on the floor.

Before long he could no longer feel the pain, and the feeling of bloatedness disappeared, replaced by a comfortable numbness. He tried to fall asleep, but as soon as he did, he was awakened by a sharp pain.

Maybe he had fallen asleep after all. As soon as the ropes were untied, he felt as though he was being pricked by a thousand needles, as though the air in the room had been compressed and was coming at him through an exceedingly fine mesh.

Someone held him down by the shoulders. Others were busy bringing tables and chairs and more lights. They didn’t want to move him, he thought, they wanted to freeze him in this position. He remembered Park telling him that you have to seize any chance to move or shift positions, that change in your environment makes you more alert and helps you feel less like a slab of meat on the chopping block. But Lin simply couldn’t move — in fact, there was no need to hold him down. His whole body ached, and he could barely sit up in his chair.

They began to ask him a load of useless questions. His name. Where he was from. They were asking these questions simply to make the interrogation sound official. He was still in the spotlight. Naked, he felt like a frightened, hunted animal. Eventually the pain subsided and his strength began to return. He planned to resist them as soon as he could pull himself together.

The spotlight shone at him from the left. The shadowy man sitting at a table to the right looked like the leader of the group. He listened, rarely asking questions, and smoked a cigarette that glowed red. Lin wanted to express his anger, but he didn’t have the energy to put up a fight.

He refused to answer the question. Where on Ming Koo Road had he been going? Which apartment? Lin remained silent, and the man behind him punched him hard on the back of his head. Unable to contain himself any longer, Lin leaped up and rushed at the shadow, his fists clenched—