The Shanghai Union of Industrial Mystics (10 page)

Chef Tomori reappeared, trailed by two junior staff. They wheeled in a large, low-walled glass-sided bowl perched over a gas burner and containing giant tiger prawns swimming in consommé, along with chives and spring onions and sliced ginger. The chef then emptied a bottle of XO brandy into the bowl—and at the same time, turned up the heat. The tiger prawns started thrashing around.

‘See how the prawns are disco-dancing as they become inebriated,’ De Labauve laughed. ‘They’re really enjoying themselves.’

It was clear to everyone that this was not the case, but it would have been churlish to spoil the manager-chef ’s fantasy. ‘Look at that big one on the right—it’s breakdancing like Michael Jackson.
Formidable
,’ he said, his voice cracking with glee as he slipped back into French. ‘What a happy scene.’

The creatures writhed for another half-minute before Chef Tomori gave his staff the signal that they were ready to take the next step—which had to happen before the prawns died of alcohol poisoning and were boiled alive at the same time.

‘But now the dancing party must end,’ De Labauve said. ‘Just like humans get hot after a wild party, it’s time for our drunken prawns to get really hot-hot-hot.’

The prawns were moving slowly now, as the heat drained their ability to move. Chef Tomori threw a flame into the pot and
fwoom
—the whole dish was suddenly ablaze. At the same time the lights were dimmed, so that the blue inferno in which the prawns were being immolated became the only light in the room. The creatures thrashed in their death throes while diners watched fascinated (several personal assistants staring through gaps in their fingers). After thirty seconds, movement had more or less come to a halt. A lid was placed on the dish to put the flames out.

The main lights came back on in the restaurant and the junior chefs used tongs to transfer the steaming prawns out of the soup and onto plates, which were quickly distributed to the tables.

The room was filled with another spontaneous round of applause before the diners began tucking into the steaming morsels on their plates. Some of the women looked a little queasy, but again, most managed to get the prawns down.

Wong was proud to have chosen this dish, and bowed his head to acknowledge the thanks of the people sitting near him—Tun, Chen and their partners. The feng shui master was delighted at how the evening was going. Now this was Chinese cooking at its best. It took him back to his younger days in the fishing villages of the Pearl River Delta. He had been much too poor to eat in fancy fish restaurants, but had spent a year working with an uncle who had a fishing boat: and ultra-fresh fish and seafood, in some cases eaten raw, had been his diet throughout.

However, even the feng shui master felt a little disquiet at the next two dishes. A live civet cat (nominated by Bi Yun) and a live pangolin (nominated by De Labauve himself ) were wheeled through the room in cages. Wong did not feel any compunction about eating such beasts—indeed, he knew that both could be delicious and was anxious to try them out cooked and spiced in De Labauve’s signature East–West fusion style—but he was discomforted by the fact that both now might well be illegal items, and he tried to minimise the number of occasions on which he broke the law, since he’d become the pet feng shui master of the law enforcement agencies in east Asia. But then he scolded himself for being so soft. Any police officer would take a bite if offered such rare delicacies, he told himself. And why shouldn’t he? After all, this was just a bit of fun, nothing serious. Besides, much of the power base in Shanghai was probably in this room, so they had no need to fear the authorities.

In the event, the pangolin proved a little tough and chewy; and the civet cat, although tender, was rather dark-tasting. The first needed more marinating, he decided, and the latter should have been caramelised with honey in some way and served with garlic, ginger and oyster sauce.

The soup course—which came late in the meal, as it should—was Live Scorpions in Old Turtle Broth, nominated by Chef Tomori. Each dish had two whole scorpions boiled alive in it. It was warming, spicy and delectable.

Before the next course, there was an interruption. Chen Shaiming rose to his feet and held up his glass of 1996 Lynch Bages. ‘I would like to propose a toast to our host tonight. When he first sent the word around about starting a dining club called This Is Living, featuring live food, most of us thought that this would be a good idea, but probably not possible today, what with all the rules and regulations and animal rights and SARS and avian flu and what not. But he has done it. And I say: who cares about animal rights? What about human rights? Humans have a right to enjoy what God has put on this planet for us to eat. And by God, we are going to exercise that right. Right, Jean-Baptiste?’

Wong clapped loudly.

De Labauve smiled and raised his glass in reply.

‘This is living,’ said Chen, raising his glass.

‘This is living,’ the other diners echoed, rising to their feet.

The noise of the scraping chairs hid another sound— although the diners were probably too drunk to have registered it, even had they heard it. It was the sound of bodies—at least two, maybe more—falling over heavily in the corridor outside.

Lu Linyao was exactly halfway across the junction at the crossroads of Nanjing Dong Lu and Jiangxi Nan Lu on her way to Jia Lin’s tutorial school when her phone’s now-annoying melody burst out of its tiny speaker. She had been holding it in her hand, willing it to ring, and willing it to be the voice of her cousin Milly saying that Jia Lin and their domestic helper Angelita had returned safely.

‘She’s back?’

There was silence on the other end.

‘Milly, is that you?’

‘Mama! I—’ Jia Lin said before her voice became muffled, as if a hand had been placed over her mouth.

‘Jia Lin. Jia Lin!’

A woman’s voice came on the phone: it was neither deep nor dark, but the words it spoke turned Linyao’s world into a black and hateful space. ‘We have your daughter.’

‘Who are you? Where is she? I need to get her back.
Please
.’

Linyao froze in the centre of the junction. The lights turned green and cars started surging across. But she remained in place, her palm cupped over the speaker of the phone as she struggled to hear. A truck stopped less than a metre away and blasted its air horn centimetres from her face—but Linyao was not shifting. She moved her mouth from the phone just long enough to scream in Mandarin at the truck driver: ‘Shut up. I’m talking to someone here.’ And then she said into the phone: ‘Where is she? Is she okay? I want to speak to her.’

The voice remained exceptionally calm. ‘She’s fine. And you can have her back in one piece. As long as you follow my instruct—’ The truck and two cars started honking at her, as did a van from the other direction. Linyao bent her head low and began marching around in a mad square dance in the middle of the junction, trying to hear. As a result, she blocked two more lanes of traffic and more cars started blasting their horns. A traffic officer in a blue and grey uniform raced towards her.

‘I can’t hear you. Too much noise here.’

‘I said, she’ll be fine, as long as you follow my instructions.’

The officer arrived and screamed at her in Shanghainese: ‘Idiot
tai-tai
, move out of the road.’

‘What instructions? What do you want me to do?’

‘Get out of the road NOW.’

‘Tell me what I have to do to get her back.’

‘I said move it, crazy woman.’ The traffic officer grabbed the top of her arm and started pulling.

Linyao turned and spat at him: ‘Get away. This is important.’ She wrenched her arm out of his grip with such ferocity that he was taken aback. He stood and stared, unsure what to do next. The watching drivers were so astonished they started laughing, and two of them applauded.

She turned back to the phone and screeched down it: ‘Come on, woman, spit it out. What do you want me to do? I’m in a situation here. Some idiot in a uniform is trying to arrest me.’

‘Uniform? Do not speak to the police. You speak to the police and you will never see your daughter again.’

‘I’m not speaking to the police. Some traffic cop is speaking to me.’

The kidnapper sounded distinctly worried. ‘I’ll call you later with the instructions.’

‘Be quick. This phone is running out of batteries. It might be dead. Give me your number, I’ll call you.’

‘Are you kidding? I’m not giving you my number. We’ll call you later.’

‘I told you. My phone is nearly out of juice. You won’t be able to call me later.’

‘Buy a charger.’ She hung up.

Linyao marched off, with barely a glance at the astonished traffic officer, who was too shocked (and judging from his expression, too scared) to try to detain this suicidal and clearly demented woman.

Eight minutes later, shaking with distress, Linyao was standing outside a huge pile of rubble that was supposed to be the address of the offices of CF Wong and Associates (Shanghai). Her mind was numb. Looking at the rubble, she wondered what it meant. Buildings don’t just disappear. Not in real life. Children didn’t get snatched. Maybe none of this was happening. Maybe this was all some sort of awful nightmare. She touched a fence post to see if it was solid. It was.

She tried to call Joyce, but the young woman’s phone was switched off. She must be on her bicycle, delivering the food.

Standing nearby, also staring disconcertedly at the demolished building, was a tall gentleman of Indian origin. He had white hair and wore a dark grey, almost black, Nehru suit. He looked over at her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Do you speak English?’

Linyao nodded, although she was too emotional to be able to say anything in any language at the moment.

He leaned towards her and his eyes filled with concern as he noticed hers were full of tears. ‘I’m so sorry. Was this your home? Your office, perhaps?’

She shook her head, and then managed to splutter a few words. ‘No. I wanted to meet someone who had an office here.’

‘Me too,’ said the stranger. ‘CF Wong is his name. Do you know where the people whose offices were here have been moved to?’

Linyao blinked her eyes dry. ‘You’re looking for Wong? Me too. Do you work with him? I need—I need someone to help me,’ she said. ‘My child…’ She trailed off into sobs. ‘Someone has taken my child.’

‘Dear, dear.’ The kindly man gently took her by the arm and led her down the road to a small, grubby noodle shop, where he helped her onto a stool. He said to the waiter in slow English: ‘Please bring her a cup of
lai-cha
, hot, sweet—two spoonfuls of sugar.’ The man recognised the words
lai-cha
and disappeared to fetch some milky English tea.

‘My name is Dilip Sinha. I do a lot of work with Mr Wong. We are both members of the Union of Industrial Mystics. We do some work with the, er, law enforcement people, and have enjoyed some success helping them. Clearly you have a problem. I wonder if there is anything I can do? Would you like to tell me about it?’

Over disgustingly sweet, lukewarm tea, Linyao brokenly related her story.

Sinha spoke little, but gently encouraged her to share every detail. She explained that she had been warned not to go to the police—but she knew that CF Wong, with whom she was familiar because he was the employer of her new friend Joyce McQuinnie, did some investigations for the police and might be able to help.

‘You are quite correct. Our group, I am pleased to say, has had a lot of experience in dealing with criminal elements. One of Mr Wong’s specialties is the feng shui of crime scenes. My recommendation is that you should go to the police anyway. However, I think—’

Her phone rang. She snatched it up and scrabbled to find the green button.

‘Yes? Yes?’

‘I hope you chose not to go to the police, Ms Linyao.’

‘Yes, yes. I mean, no, I did not go to the police. Where is my daughter? I want my daughter back.’

The voice on the phone was relaxed and nasal, almost sleepy. ‘You can have your daughter back. All you have to do is follow my instructions really, really carefully.’

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