Fong took one last look then nodded. “Thanks, Lily,” he said in English.
“Nothing think of it, Short Stuff.”
Fong took the pen from her, held the autopsy report close to his face then signed it.
“You need glasses,” Lily said, taking back the document and her pen.
Fong was momentarily surprised that it was so obvious but he left that thought quickly as he realized that in the entire time he’d known Lily “You need glasses” was the only grammatically correct use of English he’d ever heard come out of her mouth. Maybe her English was improving and their daughter Xiao Ming stood a chance of speaking English properly.
“You’re something, Lily,” he said in English.
“Yeah. What but though is question,” she replied.
“Nope,” Fong thought. Linguistic improvement: strictly temporary.
Lily didn’t like the look on her ex-husband’s face so she shifted to Shanghanese, “So have you found out who this Long Nose was fucking just before he died?”
Once Fong was back on the street he called Chen. “Are our Beijing guests there?”
“Yes, and they’re a bit annoyed, sir.”
Fong smiled, “Good.” He hung up and decided to walk back to the office. They’d made him wait at the prison, now they could cool their heels for a while in his office.
The heat had finally backed off a pace although it would most assuredly return with the dawn. The evening was just beginning to soften. As he walked Fong marvelled at the human reality that is Shanghai. His home. He passed by sidewalk barbers cutting hair for customers seated on small three-legged bamboo stools; and sidewalk bicycle repairmen, often referred to as maestros, who busied themselves stuffing fat redrubber tubes back in tires; and sidewalk cobblers repairing shoes while surrounded by neat rows of upturned high heels from women’s pumps; and sidewalk seamstresses working on foot-powered sewing machines. Shanghai lives on its sidewalks. You can buy anything there. Fong passed by sellers of sugarcovered fried dough and soda-fountain pop and icecream bars made from frozen soya, and repackaged Western candy bars, and pirated CDs and pirated audiotapes and pirated DVDs, and old couples sitting on ratty chairs, their pant legs rolled up to their thighs. The latest Hong Kong pop tune floats on the air. A fivespice egg-seller blocks one nostril with a filthy thumb and discharges the contents of the other nostril onto the cracked pavement just a quarter-inch to one side of her cook pot then looks up at Fong: “I missed,” she cackles. A leather-skirted girl parades her legs as if she were the only person with gams in this part of the world. Passing by the Hilton, the quotient of expensive cars increases as do the number of pimps selling their wares. A shop window almost entirely covered with snakes coiling upwards, their blunt snouts pushing against the uppermost pane, draws Fong’s eyes as do the large glass jars of dried country roots and herbs in the next store. A countrywoman carrying a filthy baby barely covered in rags approaches a man with a hand out and a plea for help. A pregnant woman crosses a busy eight-lane street with all the pride and confidence that only a woman carrying a child in a single- child society can have. The blunted trees in front of a walled former French estate release their scent to the night air adding a sweetness that was not there only moments before. Men hand out cheap flyers advertising dance clubs, inexpensive pants, Ye Sheng (literally wild food), appliance repairs, bundles of kindling and coal, bulk rice and of course young girls.
On a city wall, a black-and-white eight-photo object lesson shows a corrupt official being caught by the federal police, tried by a federal judge and hanged before the populace. The photo lab’s work is better than in the famous fraudulent photo of Mao swimming the Yangtze, but the eight photos were frauds nonetheless – and everyone knows they are frauds.
Two elderly Go players attract a crowd crammed with Shanghai’s most abundant commodity – unsolicited advice. A young street sweeper with a mask across her mouth moves her bound-twig broom slowly as she breathes in the street fumes that will first make her prematurely old, then collapse her lungs before she’s forty. The sound of Western music draws Fong into Renmin Park where old couples practise the steps of Western ballroom dancing to the sounds from a CD player that gets its energy from a hand crank. Above the dancers, the Marlboro man leers down from his billboard, clearly suggesting that a smoke and a horse are all a real man ever needs. The park is filled – no seat is free. The heat backs off another pace allowing in the gentle breeze from the mighty Yangtze. A child in new clothes plays with a large plastic toy to the glee of his parents and all four grandparents. Fong wonders when the child will realize that the dreams of all six of these adults lies squarely on his slender shoulders. Just a different kind of ghostly weight.
In darkened doorways couples steal kisses, hands caress curves and clutch hardness only to be laughed at by the local crone. Nightclubs pour their relentless beat onto the streets and Mao-jacketed elders shake their heads in disgust. A young man holds onto a lamppost and vomits in the gutter as others watch but no one helps – the fear of disease from the West now alive on the streets of the great city.
A dark alley’s mouth emits sounds of anger and a whimpered apology. Floral wreathes outside a storefront announce the opening of a new business and plead for good luck from whichever gods have not yet forsaken the secular state of the People’s Republic of China.
The recyclers are out in force with their large metal tongs extracting scraps of paper from the sodden waste in the garbage cans. Then, as if on some unheard cue, jetting flares erupt from the seven tall chimneys down by the Huangpo River. Shortly thereafter clouds of dark smoke belch into the night sky – the city’s garbage begins to incinerate.
And the people and the smells and the lives in motion – Shanghai. Home.
“Present your alibis, please,” Fong said for the third time.
The two Beijing men didn’t move. They certainly didn’t answer Fong’s request.
Fong got up from his desk and, turning his back on the Beijing men, stared out his floor-to-ceiling office window overlooking the Bund. Just getting these two into his office was a major coup – but it wasn’t enough. At this point in a murder investigation gains were made by subtraction and he had to be sure he was right before he removed anyone from his list of suspects. So alibis had to be demanded and checked. Without turning back to the Beijing men, Fong said, “This is a murder investigation. The murder of a foreigner in Shanghai falls within my jurisdiction, not yours.”
The younger Beijing man took a step to his left, putting himself right beside Fong in the window’s reflection. “What did you find in Geoffrey Hyland’s room?”
“Old books, stupid tapes and dirty underwear,” Fong answered the reflection without turning back to the men. He was careful not to lie since these facts could be checked.
The older Beijing man took two oddly elegant steps making it a trio of reflections in the window. “You have been back to see Mr. Hyland’s play, this Hamlet, twice since his death. Why?”
“To figure it out.”
“What is there to figure out?”
“Mr. Hyland was a great artist. Great artists often include their present concerns in their art.”
“So you wanted to see what ‘concerns’ of Mr. Hyland’s life he put in the play?”
“Yes.”
“So what was there?”
Fong hesitated for a moment. He could lie about this because the truths he found were ephemeral – not evidence but ethos.
“What did you find, Traitor Zhong?”
“Ghosts and ghosts of ghosts,” Fong said. But even as he spoke he thought: “I have seen that damned play one too many times.”