Ariunbat ignored the remark. He stirred some extra milk into his cup of tea. He said, “A few months ago we tracked down a man who’d embezzled from Liu, a man named Chi, so it isn’t beyond reason that — well — Chi killed himself, you see, couldn’t stand the shame and did the honorable thing. Jumped into the Tuul. Left two sons and an ailing wife. So maybe it’s revenge. We’ve questioned Lui’s family. He had a daughter — Song Liu — although his wife was dead. But then, you probably know that.”
“Yes,” agreed Dorj. “She was just a child when I knew him.”
“She’s engaged now,” said Ariunbat. “Works in a bookstore near the park. She gave a statement. She says that her father had been unwell, and was rather distracted this morning. He went out about nine, saying he would be back later, but of course he never returned.”
“What about the notebook?” asked Dorj.
“Oh yes.” From under a pile of papers, he produced a pocket-size, leather-bound notebook. “Did you get a chance to examine it when you picked it up?”
“I only glanced at it.”
Ariunbat pushed the book across his cluttered desk, ignoring the papers which fell on the floor. “What do you make of it?”
Dorj picked the book up and opened it at the space allotted for that day, where there was a small drawing of a fish with wavy lines around its head.
Ariunbat said, “There are other days marked the same way, about every three weeks this past year. Some kind of Chinese accounting method?”
Dorj pondered a moment. “Did the daughter know anything about these fish markings?”
“No, except that she said it was a ‘mei ren yu,’ whatever that is.”
“You have to say it rather more nasally,” said Dorj. He looked out the window for a moment, not seeing Central Square and the heroic statue of Sukhe Baatar, but thinking instead of a young Chinese girl who had coached him in Mandarin for a regrettably brief time. Mai’s lessons had been considerably less formal than those conducted by his Soviet instructors at the Mongolian State University. “As to what it means,” he said, “it means ‘beautiful lady fish,’ or, in other words, a mermaid.”
“A mermaid? But we’re nowhere near an ocean! And how is it you speak a bit of Mandarin anyway?” Ariunbat made it sound like an accusation.
Dorj smiled uncomfortably. He did not care to share much of his past with the man. “It was a personal interest of mine, once,” he said.
Ariunbat tapped his cup slowly. “But why a mermaid?”
“It’s puzzling. Many Chinese mariners consider them unlucky. Liu was such a traditionalist that I can’t see him starting the new year by inscribing an unlucky symbol into his diary for the very day that it begins, so there must have been a more pressing reason. I would guess it was a memory aid.”
“Well,” said Ariunbat, “considering your obvious interest in Chinese culture, I’m sure I could use your assistance in interviewing the daughter.”
“Ah,” said Dorj, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the persimmon.
The next morning Dorj accompanied Ariunbat to the northern suburb where the late Mr. Liu’s daughter lived. They bicycled. Fuel was too scarce to squander except in emergencies. Ariunbat rode a fancy ten-speed model, while Dorj had to content himself with a battered police issue with balloon tires. Despite his bulk, Ariunbat pedaled expertly, even braking neatly to avoid a cow grazing on some frozen grass in front of the Altai Hotel. He wore a set of headphones and Dorj wondered what he was playing on his portable cassette machine, but didn’t ask.
Song Liu lived in the fourth in a line of gers. Dorj had always preferred his solid, cozy — and thankfully square — apartment to the traditional circular, tentlike structures of white felt. But, he knew, most Mongolians aspired to their own suburban gers, complete with electricity.
The policemen left their bicycles beside the gate of the fenced-in yard surrounding the ger. Ariunbat knocked on the elaborately carved wooden door. Song Liu answered. She was a pale, pretty girl, not unlike Mai, Dorj thought.
“Wai,” said Dorj, dredging his memory for the greeting.
“You speak some Chinese, too?” The words were spoken in English by a large, overhearty American who appeared suddenly beside the Chinese girl. His handshake almost dislocated Dorj’s arm. “Pleased to meet you, Inspector,” his new acquaintance twanged. “Myrori: Young’s the name, here’s my card. Song here has been teaching me the odd phrase.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Ariunbat, in Mongolian. “We’ll try to be brief.”
The two policemen and Song took wooden chairs beside the stove in the center of the ger. Young positioned himself protectively behind Song’s chair. Dorj noticed that the shelves and tables that sat against the ger s crisscrossed wooden framework were burdened incongruously with the type of bric-a-brac usually found in tourist shops.
While Ariunbat offered condolences to Song, Dorj looked at the business card he had been handed. Apparently Mr. Young was a mining engineer — an associate of the late Mr. Liu.
“Did your father have any enemies?” Ariunbat asked Song.
The girl shook her head. “So far as I know, none, at least among the Chinese community.”
Dorj and Ariunbat exchanged glances. Was she suggesting that a Mongolian was responsible for her father’s death? There was tension between the Mongolians and Chinese. More than one Chinese had been beaten by gangs, usually drunks. But things had been quiet for a while.
“Your father — he was a man of mild temperament, not likely to get into an argument, say?” Ariunbat asked.
“He never lost his temper, not even when Myron — Mr. Young, that is, wished to marry me.”
“Dear!” the engineer said, “I don’t think we ought to—”
“Nonsense!” was the brisk reply. Dorj blinked. For a family so traditional to have such a modern-thinking girl seemed odd. “We must tell the truth about everything.”
Ariunbat’s pencil hovered hopefully over his notepad. “And that is—?”
“Well, my father was not happy about the idea. He wished for me to have an arranged marriage to one of his friends. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to go to America with Myron.”
Dorj sighed. Another young woman seeking her dreams in a foreign land. She seemed remarkably composed, less than a day after her father’s death. Maybe, thought Dorj, her grief was tempered by the removal of an impediment to her plans.
“Anyhow,” Song continued, “my father was adamant that we could not marry, and he sent Myron to look into a silver mine in Olgii.”
Dorj was familiar with the place, in the far reaches of the country on the border of Kazakhstan. The highest form of culture it boasted was a cinema that tended to show Indian films without subtitles.
“That’s right,” Young confirmed. “Song and I were separated for six weeks. We couldn’t even talk — except when the phones were working.”
“My father wasn’t himself recently,” added Song. “He had been ill, I think, but he didn’t like to discuss such things. Bad luck. I’m sure he would have changed his mind.”
Ariunbat nodded. “And, Mr. Young, what are you doing in Mongolia?”
“Joint mining venture with Mr. Liu. At least that’s what my company hoped for. Your country has plenty of untapped resources, Captain. Money to be made there. We’ll have you all living in proper houses before you know it.”
“Certainly,” said Ariunbat. “When did you return from Olgii?”
“Late last night. I have a room in the Ulaan Baatar Hotel. Rolled into bed and went out like a light. Firecrackers woke me up. It was an awful racket. Drums and people yelling New Year greetings. Like I said, Song’s taught me a little Mandarin. I decided to head into Chinatown.”