Tai Po Market. Tai Wo. To Paul, the station names sounded like a distant echo from another life. He had often made this journey before, not just to see Zhang in Shenzhen but also on weekends, to escape the hemmed-in feeling and frenzy of Hong Kong and its bustling, noisy heartbeat. He had sought refuge here with Wendy Li, back when he thought their love had a chance. For two years, they had traveled to the New Territories nearly every time they had a day off; they had gone hiking and camping, made love in the night on the warm sand of the Sai Kung beach, and, in the candlelight, dreamed of having children together. They had seen each other for the last time in Sai Kung. She had told him that she loved him, and how grateful she was to him, because no one else in the world could make her laugh the way he did. Three days later, she had married the man that her family had chosen for her, a man whose existence Paul had not known anything of. How long ago was that now? What had happened to the Paul who had been so good at making women laugh? Who had liked to present a woman with a picnic on the beach by candlelight or spoil her with breakfast in bed? Who had been able to love so passionately? When had he ceased to exist? After Wendy got married? During his marriage to Meredith? After Justin’s death? “That must have happened in another life,” he used to say so often. How many lives did a person have? Two? Three? Or just one, after all?
The train slowed down and before long, in the blink of an eye, paddy fields gave way to barbed wire fences, roads, cars, concrete walls, and buildings that towered in the sky. Skyscrapers clustered together like trees in a thick forest. The train stopped with a jerk and people jostled to get out in a frenzy, as if not everyone was allowed to get off, as if whoever did not manage to get off the car in a few seconds would be forced to make the journey back immediately.
Paul followed the crowds up the stairs as they pushed and shoved him through various dimly lit corridors to the automated immigration control. He slid his Hong Kong identity card into the machine and, seconds later, passed through the turnstile. He walked through the arrival hall out onto the station concourse and rang Zhang.
“Are you there already?” he asked, amazed. “I still have work to do in the office. Do you want to wait or shall we meet at four in Starbucks? It’s around the corner from our apartment. Then we can go get the groceries and I’ll cook. Okay?”
“Okay. Where’s the Starbucks?”
“In CITIC City Plaza. That’s the big new shopping mall.”
“Is it far from the station?”
“No, not at all. Take the new metro line 1 to Ke Xue Guan Station. Exit D there is the south side of Shennan Zhong Road. Walk up the road to the shopping mall. On the right is Seibu, the Japanese department store, and on the left is the Chillout Lounge. You’ll see Kentucky Fried Chicken, Pizza Hut, and . . .”
“Zhang, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What do you mean?”
“A chill-out lounge?”
“You haven’t been here for a long time.”
“Not for years.”
Zhang sighed. “Would you prefer to wait at the station for me, then?”
Paul thought for a moment. “That would probably be better, yes.”
“Then wait for me in the station concourse. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
———
Paul sat down on a bench and thought about the first time he had crossed this border. It must have been in the summer of 1980, shortly after Deng Xiaoping had declared this insignificant backwater a special economic zone. Back then he had had to cross the Lo Wu Bridge on foot and rent a bicycle at the station. There were no taxis, not even a bus service then. He had cycled through the puddle-strewn streets made muddy by the monsoon rains, past pig farms and basic single-story buildings. Shenzhen had been nothing more than a small town where people made a living from fishing or cultivating rice. The passersby had worn blue or green Mao suits, he remembered quite clearly, and their looks of surprise, often fear, had followed him wherever he went. Whenever he had stopped, a crowd had gathered around him and he had been marveled over and stared at, touched and patted. Two children had pulled at the black hairs growing on his forearms. He had encountered searching looks and sometimes confused expressions; none of them had let him out of their sight for a second. When he had used a public toilet, the curious people had trailed him to the door and waited outside to see what would happen. In the toilet hut, several Chinese people had been squatting over holes in the ground with their trousers down. Paul remembered well their loud cries of horror when they saw the foreigner come in. Two of the men had almost fallen into the drop latrines in shock. The commotion acted like a marching order for the curious onlookers. They flooded in through the small doorway, and in an instant, Paul was surrounded by dozens of people in a space that stank of piss and shit. At first they still stood at arm’s length, but the more people crowded in, the smaller the distance between him and them. Soon they were standing so close to him that he could feel their breath on his skin. He tried smiling at them but there was no response. They whispered and murmured among themselves. At the time, Paul’s Cantonese was not good enough to understand everything they said, but he made out the words “foreign devil,” “spy,” and “class enemy.” He would never forget how the looks of amazement and curiosity gradually faded from their faces, to be replaced by a look of brooding distrust. He tried to make his way to the exit, but the men standing in front of him were crammed too close together. Even if they had wanted to make room for him, they could not have done so. He was pouring with sweat. He wanted to get out, just to get out there. Suddenly he heard a deep voice calling loudly, which made the crowd fall silent. A policeman was standing in the doorway. He looked around the room and, after he had spotted Paul, he barked orders for everyone who was not using the toilet to leave at once. Before long he and Paul were alone.
They stood facing each other in silence, sizing each other up. The policeman was wearing an ill-fitting uniform that was much too big for his slight build. They must have been about the same age. Paul noticed the man’s features were soft and did not match the stern, brisk voice.
“Now you can continue in peace,” he said, and turned his back to Paul. “I hope you don’t need toilet paper. There’s none here.”
That was how Paul Leibovitz and Zhang Lin met for the first time, and a friendship that had lasted over twenty-five years now had grown from that meeting. There had been times when Paul had traveled to Shenzhen nearly every week, and later on, when it had become easier for Chinese citizens to travel to Hong Kong, Zhang had also visited his friend several times a year. After Justin’s death, Zhang was the only person whose company Paul could bear. Zhang came to Lamma for a day every six weeks. They did not do much; just sat on the terrace, drank tea, played Go or chess or listened to music. The first year, Zhang had often cooked a big pot of soup in the afternoon that Paul would finish off the following week. Zhang was able to listen and also able to be silent. He was wise enough to know that there was no possible comfort and honest enough not even to try to hide the fact that he knew this. For this, Paul was immeasurably grateful. Otherwise he would have had to ask him not to come again. Some days they had not exchanged more than a few sentences. Nevertheless, Zhang would come again six weeks later without fail.
Zhang’s most recent visit was over a month ago, and the thought of seeing him again now filled Paul with a feeling of calm that did him good. He stood up, looking to catch sight of his friend, and soon he saw him coming toward him from a distance. He walked with a slight limp, and his blue jacket and his shoes were more worn out than they should have been for a detective superintendent; a cigarette that had gone out hung from his lower lip. They hugged each other briefly, and Paul could see in Zhang’s eyes that he understood exactly what this visit meant for him. He had never experienced this mutual understanding, which needed barely a word or a gesture, with anyone else before.
“Always good to see you. Here today,
especially,” Zhang said in greeting. He smiled. “Have you eaten? Shall we go and buy the food?”
“Sure.”
They walked across the station concourse to the metro station. It had opened just a few weeks ago, and everything was still so empty and clean that Paul felt as if they were on a trial journey. They had the last car almost to themselves. Zhang, who looked exhausted, flopped onto one of the shiny aluminum seats.
“You can’t imagine what’s going on at work right now,” he said, lowering his voice. “Everyone’s running around like crazy, as if they’ve been told to practice self-criticism in public. Or give access to their bank accounts. Even the mayor’s office has called.”
“Why?”
“Why? The dead foreigner is driving everyone into a frenzy. Let’s say he’s not just a tourist who sadly happened to die of heart failure while taking a walk. Let’s say he’s an investor, an entrepreneur from America, who manufactures lights, rain boots, or Santa Clauses in China and has died a violent death. That would be . . .” He searched for words. “That’s never happened here but I imagine that would lead to one or two headlines in Hong Kong and in America. What do you think?”
Paul thought for a moment. “Probably. At least in Hong Kong. What do you know about the dead man?”
“A foreigner, and a Western one to boot. About thirty years old. Six feet two inches tall. Blond hair. Identity not known as yet; he had no ID on him. Cause of death unknown. We get the autopsy tomorrow morning. Two gardeners found him this morning in Datouling Forest Park on the bank of a small lake, supposedly with a smashed skull, but that’s a rumor. I’ve not been able to talk to either of the men yet.”
“Are you thinking it’s murder?”
“It’s not decided yet. It wouldn’t surprise me if there was an official announcement tomorrow saying that he died a natural death. Otherwise it would be a pretty bad story and we’d have a lot of trouble. Who’d want that?”
“Are you one of the investigators?”
“No idea. You know they don’t like assigning me anymore. Apart from that, there’s not a lot to investigate yet.”
“And if it’s really a murder?” Paul asked.
“Then I might be able to get one or two people to help me. Does the description match this Michael person?”
Paul racked his brain. “No idea. I forgot to ask the Owens what their son looked like.”
Zhang sighed loudly. “You’ll never become a detective.”
“But the age is right. His father is tall and blond and . . .” Paul fell silent. He thought about Elizabeth Owen. He thought about her fainting fit, about her tears, about her husband sitting next to her silently, and for the first time, he realized that this dead man could be Michael Owen. The image of the mother’s face distorted with fear and pain came before him. He shook his head as if he could rid himself of it that way.
They got off and slogged up a long staircase back into daylight. Clouds of dust hung in the air, and a cement mixer almost ran him over when it turned into a construction site without paying any heed to pedestrians. This place had nothing in common with the town he remembered. When exactly was it that he had last visited Zhang? He had come with Justin then, before he fell ill, so it was four or five years ago. Even then he had noticed the effects of the economic boom in how quickly Shenzhen had changed. Now he barely recognized the place. A metro system, even wider streets, even more cars, even taller buildings, even more people. There had been fifty thousand on his first visit. How many were there now? Seven million? Ten? Twelve?
The CITIC City Plaza was a modern gray block of steel, concrete, and glass, a sight Paul was familiar with from Hong Kong. Even the fountains in front of it had been copied by the architects. Paul and Zhang walked through the shopping mall and crossed the street behind it to the police detective’s apartment. Paul gradually began to recognize the place: On the corner was the small Muslim noodle-soup restaurant that he had eaten at so often. Just as before, a young man covered in flour was standing in front kneading a lump of dough and unhurriedly making fresh white noodles out of it. The cobbler on the other side of the road was also still there. Next to him, a new shop had opened. It was brightly lit and decorated with red lanterns. Two young women in long, dark-red evening dresses were standing at the entrance and a well-dressed man was standing at a rostrum in front of the door. At first, Paul thought it was the entrance to a restaurant, whose dining area was to the back, and the man was responsible for valet parking. But there was no area at the back, only a narrow marble staircase that led upstairs. The shop front was entirely made of glass; behind it sat at least two dozen heavily made-up young women in pink clothing, whose eyes all followed Paul. They reminded him of the big teddy bears displayed as fairground prizes that he had seen at Coney Island in his childhood. “Come on in, sir,” the man at the rostrum called. “They are yours, sir. You can choose anyone. Come on in, sir.”
Zhang walked on without paying the least bit of attention to the man.
“What was that?” Paul asked.
“Do you still want to have a few wontons before?” Zhang asked, instead of giving a reply.
“I’d love to,” Paul said, only half listening. He could not believe how much Zhang’s neighborhood had changed. Where were the many grocery shops? Where was the genius tailor who could sew a button on quicker than Paul could fetch a yuan note from his trouser pocket in payment? Where was the dentist who, at the entrance to his practice, had a display case of extracted teeth in front?
They turned into one of the narrow side streets where they used to buy fruit and vegetables. Now it was full of hairdressers and beauty salons with scantily clad women squatting outside, smoking, eating, whining to each other, or painting their nails. The younger ones stretched themselves as soon as they saw Paul, or thrust their breasts out at him briefly. The others just looked on, bored. They were experienced enough, he thought, to see straightaway that he was not interested. On one of the buildings hung an advertisement for different breast implants that purported to come from America: Bless You, Glorified Beauty, and Always Number One. Next to it was a Shenzhen police placard with an emergency telephone number for the serious fraud office printed in extralarge type.
Zhang was now deep in conversation with the owner of the last remaining greengrocer about the best recipe for a bitter gourd soup. Paul tugged at his sleeve. He felt like an impatient young boy pulling his father away from a conversation with a neighbor.
“What on earth has happened here?” he asked in a whisper, as the vegetable woman disappeared back into her shop.
“What do you mean, what’s happened?”
“What’s happened to your neighborhood?”
Zhang stopped for a moment, leaned his head to one side, and looked at Paul as if he still didn’t understand what his friend was talking about.
“What are you so surprised about? Would you like to go to the hairdresser? Should I make an appointment for you? I get a regular’s discount.”
Paul looked at him in astonishment. Only a very slight, barely discernible twitch of a smile around his mouth betrayed the fact that Zhang had understood exactly what he was asking about. Zhang’s very subtle sense of humor was one of the qualities that Paul prized most in him. It had taken a while for Paul to discover it, and even now, after so many years, there were still times like these, moments in which he could not immediately be sure if Zhang really meant what he said.
“No thanks.”
“Okay. The rumor is they’re not that good, not those in my block, anyway.” After a short pause, he added, “That’s what I hear.”
“And where are the tailor and the dentist?”
“Do I really have to explain the laws of capitalism to you?” Zhang asked by way of reply and laughed. “The rents here have tripled, no, quadrupled. The brothel-keepers can pay it, the others can’t. We’re now the last ordinary family left in ou
r building. The whole of the first three floors is a whorehouse.”
“With Detective Zhang in the middle of it all?”
“On top, to be exact.”
“What does Mei think about it?”
“We’ve already offered to move out. But our landlord said, ‘Certainly not, Comrade Zhang, certainly not. Please stay.’ And to make sure we did, he reduced the rent by thirty percent on the spot. To make up for any possible disruption from the noise. That convinced Mei right away. You know my wife. When he heard that I’m a Buddhist and that I meditate on the roof, he even arranged for an awning to be erected. I think they feel safer with a policeman in the building. At any rate, everyone always greets not only Mei and me but our son very politely and treats us with great respect. If we moved, we’d have to move to the edge of the city. We can’t afford an apartment in the city center anymore. We wouldn’t want to do that, so we’re staying here.”
“How much do you get from it?” Paul asked.
His friend gave him a long look and did not reply. Finally, he asked, “Who exactly do you mean when you say ‘you’?”
Zhang’s tone of voice unsettled Paul. How could he have formulated his question so clumsily?
“I didn’t mean you personally when I said ‘you.’ You know that,” Paul said, almost apologetically.
Zhang smiled. It was one of those smiles that started somewhere deep inside, raised the corners of the mouth gently, and quickly reached the cheeks and the eyes, until the whole face beamed. A smile that was so calm and relaxed that Paul envied him for it.
“I don’t know how much ‘we’ get from it. When I look at my fellow policemen’s and my bosses’ cell phones, wristwatches, apartments, and cars, I guess it’s not a small amount. But you know, if you’re going to drink wine, don’t forget where it comes from.”