The Victorians left us a heritage of beautiful personal letters. What are we leaving? In fifty years some moronic university type will get a Ph.D. based on Eccentric Phone Messages of the Late 20th Century-“Sorry we’re not home leave a message.” “This is the house of pain, the house of pain, the house of pain, leave a fucking message.” “If you don’t leave a message at the tone, we’ll bomb your house and dance in the ashes.” Stuff like that.
This letter has something to do with flying over the pole. That’s the route JAL takes to Tokyo. And it’s not that “looked at clouds from both sides now” crap-I always wanted that honey to lighten up-it’s the sense of majesty down there. The endless miles of ribbed ice on the Mackenzie River, the daunting mountains leading into Alaska, range upon range upon range, and then the sea-a dream of chilling no-moreness. But peace too. Solemn and simple, a rest from the burdens. I thought of Mom. Her quiet sadness as she padded round and round the house in those final years. A woman pulled inside with her own quiet. The thing that lived inside her eating her living flesh to keep itself alive. And coffee on the table late at night with her in that tattered bathrobe she claimed belonged to Dad but both you and I know didn’t. And the smell of bourbon in her coffee. And the smell of the drugs on her breath. And the retreat in her eyes. She’d never flown over the pole. She’d never gone anywhere.
But I’m here in Shanghai, in an American-style hotel with a bunch of other white folks and some rich Asians. I remember seeing Karasawa’s film Ran, did I see that with you? It’s his version of one of the Shakespeare plays, Lear I think. At any rate, I was in New York-having some girlish fun-and it was a cold rainy Wednesday afternoon so I checked into this movie theatre on 61st to see Ran. I remember now I wasn’t with you. Yes, I surely do remember that I wasn’t with you. No, I’m not going to tell you who I was with. At any rate the movie starts and being a Karasawa film it’s set in medieval Japan in the period of warring states. Well the thing is almost four hours long but for the first hour and a half each of the actors didn’t change kimonos, or if they did they kept to the same colour of kimono, so us westerners naturally were following the characters by the colour of their clothes. But then about an hour and a half in, they leave the country and enter the city, and all of the characters change clothes (and colour). Well, there is a moment of consternation in the audience and then some guy calls out in a loud New York voice: “Ah, come on, give us a break.” The place broke up. Everyone began to guess who was who. “No, that’s the guy who used to be in the red with the feather on the front.” “No it’s not, it’s the one who was in blue with the flags on his back.” It was a hoot.
Well, I thought that then. I don’t now.
I met with Inspector Zhong today, a small elegant man with tapered fingers. He’s going to fill me in more tomorrow on Richard’s death. I know that you thought things were not good between Richard and me. Well, you thought right, they weren’t. There was always something missing.
Walking back to the hotel today I passed by a small antique shop on Chong Shu. In the darkened window I could make out the shapes of elegantly curving teapots. All shapes and sizes. In the back there was a velvet case with ten small teapots in declining size from a grapefruit down to a Ping-Pong ball. Each was a perfect thing and complete in and of itself. But together they were a complete “other” thing. Different from the sum of their parts. They were a completed dream, a realized idea, a whole. When I got married I received some very beautiful gifts. Often a lot of thought and care went into picking them. But I kept hoping as I opened the gifts for something. . . something. Richard got angry with me. “What the hell are you looking for? What do you want?” I couldn’t explain then. But after looking at that set of ten teapots I now know. I wanted something complete. A whole idea. It’s what I think I wanted from Richard but could never have.
I’ll buy the teapots tomorrow for Beth. I’ll give them to her on her wedding day.
From Shanghai, with thoughts of you and yours,
Your sister,
Amanda
DAY SIX
The coroner didn’t look good. In fact he looked sallow and sickened, thought Fong. As gently as he could Fong said, “You asked to see me?”
“Yes, thank you for coming over at such an early hour.”
The old man’s politeness shocked Fong more than his pallor.
“Are you okay?”
To this the coroner half sighed, half laughed. “I am in my seventy-third year, how okay could I be?” Then he laughed, spat in the sink, and swore mightily. That made Fong feel better. Crossing to the freezer, the coroner slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and pulled out a dark green plastic bag. Then, bringing the bag over to one of the dissection tables, he let it tumble out.
It was the half of the heart remaining from Ngalto Chomi.
“The African’s heart?”
“Yes, and an interesting piece of work it is.”
“The heart?”
The coroner looked at him like he was crazy, “A heart’s a heart. It’s not like a dick or tits. Yes, there’s a standard variation in internal organs but this is well within the standard.”
“So what’s interesting about it?”
“This.” The coroner pointed to the cutline the knife had made. It was jagged. More ripped than cut. Fong said as much and the coroner nodded his agreement.
“This is the work of a specialized professional. One whose purpose is to terrorize. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Such a person would be highly skilled, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Expensive?”
“I’d assume so.”
“Professional, highly skilled, expensive and yet he almost botched this one.” He took the heart and showed Fong an incision off the cutline of almost an inch and a half.
“The knife slipped?” asked Fong, his interest definitely on the rise.
“If it did, it happened more than once.” The coroner pulled back a second flap where the knife had veered sharply off course. “Also, this body, although carved up in the same places as Richard Fallon’s, was not done with the same accuracy. There seemed to be a hesitation here. I’m guessing, but I think our man is losing his touch.”
“Professional, highly skilled, expensive but at the end of his career. A hunter whose prowess has crested.”
“A lion with a limp,” added the coroner as his ancient hands slid the half heart back into its bag.
Watching the coroner’s slow movements toward the freezer, Fong added, “They get dangerous near the end.”
“Like me,” said the old coroner. “Like me.”
Lily had something for him. The shard in Richard Fallon was in fact a tiny piece of ivory, probably from a carving factory. Fong took a note of that and asked Lily to get in touch with Interpol to check with corresponding MOs. “I’ve been on my knees to those fuckers in Hong Kong for three days getting the shard crap, do I have to do it again?”
“You’re so good at it, Lily.”
She playfully punched him on the shoulder. It hurt more than he thought it would. Then assuming she had not paid him back enough she added, “How’s the report for his Hu-ness coming along?”
He made a face at her. She made one right back then said, “Maybe it’s easier being on my knees in front of the Hong Kong guys than you being on your knees in front of the Hu-man. At least with me it’s not a sin against nature.”
In English Fong added, “You’re something, Lily.”
To which she replied, “You bet your picker I am.”
Fong was going to correct her but thought it unwise to teach Lily any more English names for male genitalia. So he merely said, “I try not to bet my picker, unless I’m sure of the horse.”