The man didn’t speak much English and didn’t have a car of his own but signalled for a taxi. After what Amanda thought sounded like a pitched battle between him and the driver, he opened the door for her, put her bag in the trunk, and then hopped in the back beside her.
As the taxi started (“took off” was Amanda’s impression), he turned to her and said, “Well-come to China.”
She thanked him but when she followed her thanks with a question as to whether they were going to her hotel or the consulate, the man just smiled and made a “sorry, no more English” shoulder movement. For a moment Amanda was going to make a scene but she stopped herself. A scene about what? She hadn’t expected to be picked up.
The cab swerved and bobbed in and out of traffic as they made their way downtown. The racket was something to hear, the smog something to smell, but it was the look of it all that most impressed Amanda. Huge hand-painted billboards lined the road on both sides. Behind them massive construction projects were under way, cranes turning like weathervanes in the afternoon wind. And bicycles, and people-so many people!
Not greatly to her surprise, the cab came to a stop outside a building with a U.S. federal seal on its outer wall and a line of Chinese people at the entrance waiting to apply for visas that would never be granted. Her escort led her to a back entrance. A marine in full parade dress uniform guarded the door. Amanda eyed the marine coolly. Military types-all spit and polish but not much real style. And forget content.
Inside the consulate, her young escort guided her to a closed door, pointed at it, and with a wave of his hand left her.
The door led to a walnut-panelled waiting room. And Amanda waited. For almost half an hour, during which time she was sure that she dozed off at least once. Finally a youngish Yale type came in with a flutter of papers and apologies. “So sorry that the consul general had to keep you waiting, how was the flight, isn’t thirteen hours the worst? Sorry we couldn’t send one of our better people out to get you but it’s a busy time, lots and lots of business here, blah, blah, blah.” She ignored him; if forced to choose she’d take the marine any day.
The consul general stood as she entered despite the fact that he was on the phone. He didn’t ask her to sit down and she finally thought “fuck it” and sank down on the leather couch. The consul general was trying to arrange a meeting with a General Electric someone or other and a Shanghai official or something like that. Amanda really couldn’t care less. What she cared about at this moment was trying to get some sleep. She felt herself begin to doze off again just as the consul general came around his desk and, extending his hand, began with, “Please accept my sincerest condolences, Mrs. Fallon.”
“Thank you. But I think I’d like to go to my hotel first if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I thought they’d brought you there already.”
“No, the man brought me here.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll get you taken to the hotel.” He phoned someone and turned to her.
“Perhaps I should see Richard first,” she said.
Before that moment Amanda Pitman didn’t really know what the phrase “His face fell” really meant. But that’s what the consul general’s puffy face did. It fell. He recovered in a moment and smiled. “How much did they tell you about your husband’s death, Mrs. Fallon?”
“Only that he’d been murdered. And that they haven’t found the killer yet.”
“Well, that’s correct on both points, but I would suggest that you go to your hotel and get some rest and I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up tomorrow morning. There’s not really any hurry, is there?”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. For some reason they made Amanda smile.
They also let her know that there was something here that she hadn’t been told.
DAY FIVE
At 8:15 A.M. the next morning the consulate car arrived at her hotel. A young man hopped out and opened the door for her. As he climbed in he said, “Mrs. Fallon, I’d like to offer my deepest condolences.”
She was already tired of hearing that. She nodded.
“The consul general also regrets that he’ll be unable to meet with you today.”
Anger rose up in her throat but she choked it down. “All I want to do is arrange for my husband’s remains to be returned to the United States.”
“That’s already been looked after.”
“Excuse me?”
“As soon as the Shanghai coroner’s office is finished with its work, Mr. Fallon’s remains will be put on the first flight back to New Orleans.”
“Is his body at the coroner’s office?”
“Yes, as I said-”
“Then let’s go there first.”
Evidently flustered by this suggestion, but unable to find a reason why they shouldn’t go there first, he barked directions to the driver in Chinese. Then he picked up a cellular phone and, with an “Excuse me,” dialled a number. He spoke in fluent Chinese. Amanda watched him closely.
Something was wrong with all this.
“Who are you calling?”
“I’m leaving a message with the consul’s secretary.”
It was only later that it struck her as strange that he was speaking Chinese.
At the coroner’s office they were met with resistance. All the talk was in Chinese, but it seemed that the coroner was not in the office and that no one had the authorization to allow anyone into the morgue.
“Tell them I’m the dead man’s wife,” she said to the man from the consulate.
He translated and immediately the Chinese words took on a solemn tone. Amanda was sure that if she had listened closely she would have heard the Chinese word for condolences several times. Finally the American turned to her and explained that without the coroner present, no one was willing to take the responsibility for letting her in. Then he made some crack about Reds not being able to pick their noses, begging your pardon, ma’am, without a written authorization.
So more quickly than she expected she was back in the car with the man from the consulate. As they pulled away from the morgue Amanda caught a glimpse of a tall building two blocks over that she could have sworn was the Hilton. But that couldn’t be, because her hotel was beside the Hilton and the car ride to the morgue had taken almost forty-five minutes.
Out of the side of her eyes she looked at the American.
He didn’t seem in any hurry. In fact he looked as if he was trying very hard to kill as much time as he could.
As they drove she asked, “Where to now?”
“I can take you to a funeral parlor. You can pick a casket or arrange for cremation. We’ve arranged transport for your husband’s remains but the actual funeral details we’ve left to you.”
“I’m not concerned about that now. How did my husband die?”
“I’m sorry to say he was murdered.”
“I’m aware of that. I’ve been told that several times. How? How was he murdered?” Like the need to see your mate’s new lover and ask for details, she was desperate for specifics.
“I really don’t know, Mrs. Fallon,” said the consular officer, as if he’d been asked something not discussed in polite society.
“Bring me to my hotel, then.”
In a remarkably short time, she found herself disembarking from the consulate car. Once outside she asked, “Can I see the consul general tomorrow?”
“We’ll do our best. He’s booked tight for a week, but call the consulate first thing in the morning and ask for me and I’ll see if he can squeeze you in.”
“Can you arrange for me to see the body tomorrow?”
“Of course, if the coroner is there.”
Amanda looked at him and thought that he was joking with her. But upon a closer look it became clear that there was no joke here. Just a bland face that said nothing and implied that you could not get it to say anything that it didn’t want to say. As he turned to the driver, about to give him new instructions, Amanda pulled open the door of the car.