At each corner Amanda checked the street sign. She discovered that the signs were set up for drivers, not walkers. So at each street sign she grabbed the post and swung out into the road to read which street she was on. She finally came to the corner of Chong Shu and Hua Shan and realized that Hua Shan, on which she had started, simply made a right turn without notifying anyone. By staying straight on you were dumped onto Chong Shu. Okay, fair enough, she thought. Lesson learned.
She crossed the street toward King’s Bakery, knowing that the school should be on that side. As she did, movement in a glass window beside the bakery caught her eye. Her breath stuck in her throat. Several large snakes were in the window, many rising up to get a good look at her.
She hurried on. She passed the Jing An Hotel, which had a high wall with glass embedded in the top. Then she passed a lengthy area of what looked like stunted scarred elm trees, after which on her right she saw the small polished plaque for the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Thank God it was in English, she thought.
Across the street was the Marco Polo Night Club. Some fancy cars were parked there. And lots of neon suggested untold pleasures within. She turned away from the Marco Polo and back to the school. She was face to face with a problem. A gate. A locked gate. No door and a locked gate. Inside she saw a diminutive old woman pouring hot water from a thermos into a large glass jar with what looked like seaweed in the bottom.
Amanda called out to her. The woman ignored her. Amanda called again. The old lady hollered something back at her, no doubt something nasty, and walked away. When she was gone, an old man hobbled out of the gatehouse and stared at Amanda. His grizzled face wore a smile. Amanda had to stop her immediate revulsion at being stared at and her knee-jerk antipathy to his Mao jacket. Finally he began to point to the other side of the compound. Point and make circular motions of walking with his fingers. After a lot more pointing and much more smiling, she finally got the idea that she was to go around to the other side of the compound. The side that was on Yan’an-a straight, uncomplicated walk up the street from the Shanghai International Equatorial Hotel! She sighed. Second lesson. Addresses are not addresses are not addresses in Shanghai.
The trip around was uneventful. By the time she had to repass the snake place, its iron shutters had been pulled down. The walk up Yan’an was a little more interesting than the one up Hua Shan. Some stores were still open, as were little kiosks where you could buy anything from beer to tampons. At one point there was a small red car up on a two-story-high iron beam. It sat there at the junction of two streets. Amanda wondered briefly if they were advertising these peculiar little cars or the strength of the beam that held it. Behind the thing was a partially demolished three-story house that at one time must have been quite elegant.
Passing by the raised car she finally found the Yan’an entrance to the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Not fancy like the Hua Shan entrance but open, which was far more important. She walked into the compound and was immediately faced with the fact that she had no idea where exactly she was going. Fortunately for her, the gatekeeper on this side had gotten Fong’s message, and as he was to tell his wife later, “It was not hard to pick out the albino.” He signalled for her to follow him. She did with only a little trepidation.
They walked past a building whose six stories were completely surrounded by lashed bamboo scaffolding. Amanda had never seen anything like it before. They passed several elegant old Chinese-style buildings with swinging windows on their upper floors and finally she was guided into a low building whose foyer smelled of the washroom which was no doubt nearby. She looked back at the gatekeeper. He signalled for her to go through the next door. She did and was immediately greeted by the scent of thick dust mixed with years of dampness.
The dim overhead lights cast more shadow than illumination but there was a brighter light on stage. And up there was a white male-thank Christ. And he was speaking English to one of the Chinese women. In the theatre several people were sitting around, talking and smoking. Lots of smoking. Onstage the white man was evidently trying to make some point through the Chinese lady whom Amanda took to be an interpreter.
The person on the phone had indicated that Inspector Zhong would be in the theatre, but little else. She assumed that a policeman would be easy to pick out. But there wasn’t anyone there who stood out to her in any way except the white man on the stage.
With an exasperated sigh she sat down in an aisle seat. The dust literally rose around her. The broken seat back bit into her. The seat was too low, the arm rest too high. What the fuck was she doing here?
Just as she was about to leave, a smallish Chinese man, square across the shoulders with the casual walk of one used to physical activity, approached her.
If this guy tries to pick me up, I’ll deck him, she thought.
But Zhong Fong had no interest in picking up Amanda Pitman. He found her large features anything but appealing and the colour of her skin was like the white sauce that Fong refused to eat when he was a child. The length of her legs, below the hem of her skirt, surprised him. He would prefer to meet this lady sitting down. So he sat in the seat behind her and before she could get up in protest he said in his best English, reminding himself of the r sound, “Mrs. Richard Fallon?”
With a sigh of relief, Amanda said, “Inspector Zhang Fang.”
They always did that. He thought it proper to start things on the right foot so he corrected her. “Zhong not Zhang, and Fong not Fang.”
“Well, while we’re at it, Ms. Amanda Pitman, not Mrs. Richard Fallon,” snapped back Amanda, none too pleased with the opening gestures of this game.
He saw the flash in her eyes and the rise. It surprised him. What really surprised him was that he liked it. He smiled. “Welcome to Shanghai, Ms. Amanda Pitman.”
To which she replied, “Thank you very much, Inspector Zhong Fong.”
Turning her eyes to the stage she said, “Is this part of the investigation into my husband’s murder?”
“In a way.”
“What way?”
Fong was decidedly displeased with the tone of that. She was surprised at her own approach but it was on the table so she let it sit.
“This is China, Ms. Pitman. Perhaps more to the point this is Shanghai. This is not New Orleans. You are not a citizen here. I am seeing you as a personal favour, not in the line of duty, is that clear?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“How much did they tell you about your husband’s death?”
“Not much. Time and place. They also intimated that an open casket funeral would not be appropriate.”
Fong needed clarification on that. His English did not extend to esoteric areas like funeral rites. When he finally got the idea he was shocked. Clearly they had told this woman only the barest details of her husband’s demise.
“You are Richard Fallon’s wife, yes?”
“I was, yes.”
“I could use some more information about your husband. It could prove useful in apprehending his killer.”
“Would now be convenient?”
“Not for me, no. I would like to see you in my office.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Well, no. Tomorrow I’m going to relive the last six hours of the life of a man who was killed by the same man who killed your husband.”