Fong was pretty sure this expression referred to the rights of the lowly to view their superiors, and in the realms of beauty Chen was far from being king.
As they passed by the Jade Buddha Temple, Chen stopped. “Can I go in?”
Fong had never been inside the popular tourist attraction that was supposed to be the “home” of the city god. “Sure,” he said.
Inside the temple, the city seemed to slip away amid the quiet and the wafting smell of incense. Chen paid for six long sticks, knelt on the low rest in front of one of the large statues, then set the incense alight. As he bowed his head he rubbed the sticks slowly between his palms.
Fong and Lily stood to one side. Fong looked around. Tourists with camcorders were everywhere. For a moment it occurred to Fong that it was wrong to take pictures in places like this, then he cast the thought aside. Why not, it was just a building set aside to honour superstition. He glanced back at Chen. The young man swayed slightly while he recited his prayers. As he did, it seemed to Fong that a remarkable transformation took place – the overriding clunkiness of Captain Chen gave way to an undeniable elegance. Something about the rhythm of the man’s silent recitation lent him a kind of grace.
Fong stepped outside. The whole “thing” of the place made him feel uncomfortable. The term left out came to him but he dismissed it. For the first time in a very long time he intensely craved a cigarette.
Chen came out shortly, with Lily at his side. Both were smiling. Fong led the way through the dank realities of the Old City. They entered a restaurant and Chen marvelled at the choices available on the menu.
“Order what you like, Chen, this is on us,” Lily said.
“Thank you, Miss Lily . . . or is it Mrs. Zhong?”
“For you Lily is fine . . . no Miss. Just Lily,” she smiled at him and touched his hand.
Fong wondered what had happened to Chen’s wife who he had once described as “a sad woman who can’t get pregnant and blames me.” By the time Fong had figured out what was behind the grotesque murders on the lake boat on Lake Ching, and he and Lily were ready to leave Xian, Chen wasn’t talking about his wife at all. They had probably separated, Fong thought. Why not? Chen was young – almost exactly Lily’s age. He had lots of time to find someone new.
“Food good, Captain Chen?”
“Great, sir. Aren’t you going to eat, sir?”
Fong sipped his Tzing Tao beer and said, “I’m not hungry. Are you ready to work?”
“That’s why I’m here . . . sir,” Chen said, catching a live shrimp between his chopsticks and plunking it into his mouth.
“Fine. I want you to lead the investigation into who made this.” Fong took out a photograph of the metal cage in which the fetus had been found. Chen looked closely at the image then put down his chopsticks and spat out the shrimp. He suddenly wasn’t hungry either.
A half-mile north of where Fong, Lily, and Chen sat, Robert stared at Tuan Li across a cheap card table. They were on Good Food Street down by the river. The street was closed to traffic nightly and turned into the world’s largest outdoor restaurant. It was one of Tuan Li’s favourite places. It was hardly classy dining and Robert knew he stood a very good chance of being quite sick the next morning – but Tuan Li was worth it.
“There was an explosion in the city today,” she said.
“I heard.”
“In a hospital. Awful.”
He nodded but thought, “Politics. None of my fucking business.”
A waiter plunked down a dish of steaming noodles in front of Tuan Li. She quickly swirled the sauce into the noodles and wrapped a swath around her chopsticks. “Open,” she said extending the noodles toward Robert’s mouth.
“This wouldn’t be traif, would it?” he mocked.
“Is that one of those kosher things?” she mocked back.
Robert wanted to say, “Yes, it’s one of those kosher things,” but his mouth was filled with the thick noodles. They tasted glorious but he knew that often the company made the food taste better than it actually was. He recalled a particular croissant after a particular night with a particular dark-haired Montrealer. Then he couldn’t believe he was reminiscing about another woman with Tuan Li across the table from him making bedroom eyes. What the fuck was wrong with him!
“Nice trip?” Tuan Li asked as a small sad smile came to her lips.
“How do you mean?” Robert covered, surprised that she could see through him so easily.
“You’re not nearly as good a liar as you think, Robert.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you in my . . .”
“It must be very lonely where you are, Robert,” she stated flatly. “Do you know why your mind floats like that?”
“No. Do tell.”
“Because you have no faith. No faith. No love.”
Robert thought, “No trust. No love,” but said nothing.
“You know that play I’m working on?”
“The one about the dumb nigger?”
“You are a very bad person,” she said. “The love in that play exists because of faith. Both Othello and Desdemona know that love is the gift the gods bring after you make the leap to faith. But no leap to faith. No falling in love.”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly work out – the love in this play.”
“No. True. But they have at least lived. Known each other.”
“I’ve ‘known’ you in the biblical sense,” Robert shot back.
“No. Robert. We’ve contacted each other but we have not known each other – in the biblical or any other sense.”
“Well, maybe that’s all there is – contacting each other.”
“Maybe there’s more, Robert, and you just refuse to see it. You have been with a lot of women but have found no place to rest.”
He sighed deeply. “You want to go on with this?”
Tuan Li canted her elegant head, “I do. How long have you been like this?”
“Always,” he said, hoping that would end the conversation on that topic.
“You were always like this?” Tuan Li prodded.
“Yes, I’ve always been like this.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.”
“When did you first experience this? Be honest, Robert.”
“When I was a kid. My parents sent me to summer camp. Jewish people in Toronto always sent their kids to summer camps named after trees – don’t ask me why.”
“Why, Robert?”
“I thought I asked you not to . . .”
“You did. Why?”
“Well, probably because there are lots and lots of trees – trees, trees, trees, and one Succoni station. Lenny Bruce said that – heard of him?”
“No. Why do you do that?”
“Do what?
“Talk fast about things that don’t matter?”
“Because . . .”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Because I’ve almost always done that.” Before she could jump on top of the “almost” he continued, “At any rate I remember coming home from a tree camp by train and getting off with all the other campers and going into the central hall of Union Station. It’s the downtown train station – not nearly as big as your North Train Station – but plenty big for a kid. Well, everywhere there were kids hugging parents. I looked around and couldn’t find my folks. A neighbour was there and she told me to wait with her. She saw I was upset and she held out her arms to me. I hugged her. It didn’t matter to me that she wasn’t my mother. I hugged her because I needed to be hugged and it really didn’t matter to me who she was. Because it was just as fucking good with this woman as with my mother.” He blushed. He hadn’t intended to spit all that out. He burbled a laugh, then dismissed his outburst with, “Any port in a storm I guess.”
“But there is no storm here, Robert.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes I am, Robert. I know what a storm is – and I sense that you do too. But you won’t share what you know with me.” She waited but he did not speak. Finally she said, “I cannot love a man who cannot fall in love. And you cannot fall in love unless you make the leap of faith to believe in love despite the storms that might be there. What are you doing in Shanghai, Robert? Don’t think about your answer, just answer."