Whispering Shadows (18 page)

Of course he understood. Every word. Forgetting was betrayal.

“You made a promise. Does it still hold?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. He took the last rice dumpling from the plate, bit it in two, and gave her the other half, which disappeared into her mouth with a slurping noise.

The wind had let up, as though the typhoon were gathering strength for its full force tomorrow or the day after. They continued sitting under the tarpaulin as one fellow diner after another left, and until the cook doused the fire and started to fold the tables and chairs up. They watched the lights in the high-rise buildings go out one by one until some of the buildings could only be made out in the darkness by their towering outlines.

Paul told her a bit about Justin, about the first pancake he made by himself, which landed on the kitchen floor, about his tears on his first day at school, about the nights watching over him when his dreams about witches and ghosts just would not go away. It was the first time he did not feel uncomfortable talking about these things. For the last three years he had had nobody with whom he had wanted to share his memories, and whenever he had hinted at them to Christine in the past, he had always regretted it soon after. In his mind these moments with Justin were so alive and so present to him that they could have happened yesterday; it was as if his son might walk through the door any moment and start making a new pancake. But as soon as Paul had put his memories into words they had become something final, part of the past, as though Justin had died a little more with each sentence.

He did not get that feeling today. He knew she was the right person to share these memories with. On this wet and windy night, they drew the two of them closer together.

By the time they got back to Exit B1, the last metro train had long gone. Under the streetlamp was a taxi that could take him back to Central.

“Would you like to stay the night?” Christine asked.

Only a short time ago, he would have thought such a question showed a lack of sensitivity. Now he remembered their night in the Mandarin Oriental hotel and suddenly felt unsure of himself. He was happy that she had asked him to stay, but what would she be expecting?

“I don't know,” he said.

“Just stay the night. Nothing else.”

He was constantly amazed at how well she could guess at his thoughts, doubts, questions, or fears.

“What about your son?” Paul asked.

“He's sleeping. By the time you get up tomorrow he'll have left for school. I've told him so much about you anyway.”

They went up to the twelfth floor of a building in Wo Ming Court. The higher floors, Christine explained, had been too expensive.

The entire apartment was barely larger than Paul's dining room and living room combined. Right behind the front door was a tiny kitchen, then came a room with a round table, four chairs, and a couch. On the other side was a shelving unit with a DVD player and stereo system, with a big flat-screen television on top, and there was an ironing board and a basket full of laundry in front of it.

They walked down a short narrow corridor: The bathroom, a walk-in closet, and Josh's room led off it; at the end was Christine's small bedroom. The double bed in the middle practically touched the walls on either side. Christine closed the door behind them, flung her arms wide, and whispered, “Make yourself at home.”

“I love your sense of humor,” he whispered back.

“The bathroom isn't big enough for us to be in at the same time,” she said. “Shall I go first?”

“In a moment,” he said quietly, pulling her T-shirt over her head carefully, taking her trousers off, and kissing her on her tummy. His desire grew with every breath he took; he would have liked nothing better than to pull her onto the bed and make love to her. But not here, he thought, not with her son sleeping in the next room. Maybe
tomorrow. They would go to Lamma tomorrow. He would get groceries and cook her favorite soup in the afternoon, buy flowers, and a bottle of champagne, and fill the house with candles.

“Will you come to Lamma tomorrow evening?” he whispered. “To stay the night?”

She held his head in her hands and looked at him; he saw in her eyes that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“If you don't change your mind by then.”

———

Paul stayed awake for a long time. Christine had fallen asleep in his arms. He stared at the ceiling, listened to the dull hum of the air-conditioning, and was much too keyed up to be able to fall asleep. Since he had lived on Lamma, this was, following the night in the hotel a few days ago, only the second night that he had not spent in his own bed. He longed for the familiarity of his own house but loved having Christine's warm, soft body next to him, her delicate skin, the lovely smell of her, and her breath on his shoulder; that was what made this night magical.

He felt incredibly thirsty, so he nudged Christine's head onto her pillow carefully and got up.

He crept down the corridor to the living room, where he stood still for a moment. The furniture reminded him of all the other living rooms of his Hong Kong acquaintances. There were no books on the shelves but black and white photos of some ancestors with a stalk of plastic flowers next to them, and a statue of a shiny golden cat that was perpetually waving its left paw, a symbol of luck and wealth. There were several piles of DVDs behind it. On the wall above the black imitation-leather couch there was a framed poster of European alpine scenery with a lake, snow, and blue sky, probably from an airline or a foreign tourist agency.

Paul thought about her tiny, badly ventilated, noisy, and hopelessly overcrowded office in which she had to work long and hard to be able to afford this small apartment for her and her son. How
proud she should be of herself. How much he respected her for it.

Placed tidily next to the sink in the kitchen were a red plastic container with the logo of an English football team on the lid and a water bottle with the same logo. Someone had gotten Josh's lunchbox ready for school the night before. The sight of it was so unexpected and so painful that he had to bite his lips in order not to cry out. He bit down until the tears trickled down his cheeks and blood dripped onto the counter.

Christine was strong, but was she strong enough for them both? Was he not too difficult a proposition? He went back into the bedroom, thought for a moment about whether to get dressed and slip away, out of the flat, out of her life, but he did not have the will. Instead, he lay down next to her in bed once again, curled up to her, and fell into a sleep like death after a few seconds.

———

Morning voices woke him. Josh seemed to be looking for something and was swearing under his breath. The Filipina housemaid also did not know where the missing pencil case was, and was complaining about his mess. Christine kept asking her son to keep quiet and to hurry up. She was clearly running late. There was a smell of fresh coffee and baked goods. After a while the voices faded away, and Paul heard a door closing. Shortly after, Christine came into the bedroom holding a tray.

“Did we wake you?”

“No, I was awake already,” he lied. “What do you have there?”

She put the tray down on the bed. There were two cups of coffee, milk, sugar, and two croissants on it.

“You're amazed, aren't you?” she asked. The pride in her voice moved him. “Josh loves croissants. They have chocolate in them. I had two left in the freezer. Real French croissants!”

“But I'm not French,” he said, regretting his blunt reply immediately. He hated croissants, but he did not want to dim her happiness.

“Neither is Josh. Don't you like them?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Great,” he said, sitting up.

Only now did she see his wound.

“Paul, what have you done to your lip?”

“Nothing. Had a bad dream. Must have bitten on it in my sleep. I didn't notice.”

She gave him a considered look but let it pass without probing.

They traveled into the city together. Paul took her to the office, and Christine promised to come to Lamma that night. At the door, they kissed with such passion that neither of them knew how they were to pass the day without the other.

From Wan Chai, he took the metro to Queens Road, bought the groceries for the soup he was going to make, flowers, candles, and a bottle of champagne in the IFC Mall, and took the 12:20
PM
ferry to Yung Shue Wan. The hydrometer on the pier displayed 96 percent humidity; it was one of those overcast hot days that never seemed to brighten up. The ash-gray clouds hung over the harbor like a giant lid. The water was still choppy but the wind had let up. Paul hoped the typhoon had either weakened or changed direction unexpectedly.

In Yung Shue Wan, he took a seat at the Green Cottage Café on the harbor and ordered his usual—a freshly pressed apple and carrot juice with a little ginger—and tried to imagine the night ahead. Would the house be big enough for three? Would Christine forgive him again if he lost the strength? Did he have “all the time in the world,” as she had promised him once before?

He bought some more fresh tofu, mangoes, and water in the village and climbed the hill to Tai Peng laden with two heavy bags.

The storm had raged through his garden and terrace: leaves, small branches, frangipani flowers, geraniums, and bougainvillea petals were scattered everywhere. The wind had blown the rain through the old wooden window frames; the puddle of water pooled over the entire kitchen counter, with his cell phone in the middle. It was still working and was showing twelve missed calls from an unknown number. Who would have tried to ring him so many times?
The Owens? Zhang? He wanted to ring his friend, but first he had to mop the kitchen. Then he put the flowers in a vase and the champagne in the fridge, put candles in all the holders he could find, and distributed them all over the house. He went upstairs, cleaned the bathroom, changed the sheets, dusted his and Justin's room, cleaned the living room, swept the terrace, and had completely forgotten about Zhang until he heard footsteps and a familiar voice calling from the path.

“Zhang? Goodness, what's happened?”

His friend was in a pitiful state. He was dragging his left leg behind him and walking with stiff and jerky movements, as though he had used up his last reserves of strength struggling up the hill. Paul had seen that slightly absent look in his eyes before whenever Zhang was suffering from his severe headaches or joint pains. “Come in. Shall I make you some tea? Have you eaten already?”

“Tea would be good, thank you.”

They entered the house. Zhang lay down on the couch, and Paul made some tea and sat down next to him.

“Tell me what's going on.”

“I'm afraid I have a problem.”

“Michael Owen?”

Zhang nodded. “I couldn't let it go. This morning I went to a restaurant near the Cathay Heavy Metal factory once again and talked to a couple of the workers there. They were pretty worked up about Zu's arrest and didn't know what he was being accused of. One of them took me to see Zu's wife and child after that.”

He paused, slurped a mouthful of his hot tea, and looked his friend straight in the eye. “Paul, the man has an alibi. This Zu guy was sick. He had been lying in bed for days. His wife and his child were with him all the time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. His wife told me, quite innocently, without knowing why her husband had been arrested. I have no doubt whatsoever.”

Paul took a deep breath, looked down at his shimmering light-
green tea, looked over at Zhang, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. He felt as if someone were shaking him so hard that he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

After a long pause, he asked, “What does that mean?” so quietly that Zhang barely understood him.

“That means the murderer is still a free man.”

“And what else?”

“That an innocent man is being sentenced to death and will be executed, that a woman will lose her husband. And a child his father.”

Paul had the feeling that this was not all that it meant, that he could not go on pretending that all this was none of his business. He said nothing for a while, sipped his tea, and then asked a question.

“What do you want to do?” Why had he said “you”? Had it slipped out of him unconsciously or had he meant it that way? Was he trying to distance himself from Zhang, his dear friend, his only friend? Would Zhang ever forgive him for that?

“I can't do much yet, not now. I need your help. I'm sorry to be asking at all; you've already said that you don't want anything to do with . . .”

“What can I do?” Paul interrupted him brusquely.

“I have to find out what Michael Owen got up to in China. Who was he in touch with? Did he have friends or acquaintances? At the moment, I can think of only two ways for me to find out about him: via his computer and his parents. And I don't have access to either.”

Paul could not bear sitting on the couch any longer. He stood up and started pacing up and down the room. The computer and the parents. Would it stop at that? Could he turn down these requests from Zhang? He had already had a look at Michael's computer and a telephone conversation with the Owens would only take a few minutes.

“I got to work on the hard drive right away yesterday. I wanted to tell you about it, but couldn't get hold of you. I stumbled across the password to get in: It's Packer67. I didn't get very far. The computer
is full of documents that are almost all secured with passwords too, and I haven't tried to crack them yet. I was able to open a folder of photos, and there was a letter saved on the desktop. I'll show you.”

Paul fetched the hard drive and his laptop, put them on the table in front of Zhang, and turned the computer on. They looked at the photos without saying anything, then Paul opened the letter and read it aloud, translating it sentence by sentence: