“Had to keep you out of trouble.” Craig nodded goodbye. “Cheers, Catherine.”
I walked out the door and hit the elevator button, excited about the prospect of seeing Asian elephants in the wild. I had to get back into the wild. The crowded cities of China were gnawing at me like an old rat.
Bird Street
The suffocating humidity almost knocked me over as I stepped out of the air-conditioned building that housed the Wildlife Investigation Agency office. Just an hour of air-conditioning can make one forget the realities of the tropics. And no matter how much I tried to anticipate the moment, the sickening heat, ever pregnant with rain, was always worse than my memory of it. Despite my liquid diet for almost a week in the hospital, I felt twenty pounds heavier as soon as I was exposed to the Hong Kong air.
Ten blocks later, my silk blouse was drenched with sweat and clung to my chest and back. I felt so claustrophobic, I could barely breathe. My ambitions of taking a stroll through the park to read my letter before heading back to my dingy room at the Chungking Mansions waned. I couldn’t bear waiting any longer, so I pulled it out and held it in front of me as I walked.
I rubbed my finger over the thin paper made bumpy by the words carefully written onto the page by Jon’s pen. The few texts and emails that I’d received from Jon were mostly business. And he rarely was within cellphone range for a phone call. But these letters were intoxicating. I couldn’t bear for them to end.
I drew my finger along the seal of the letter, transporting myself back to the Zambezi River—to the moonlight sparkling on the water. I could almost hear the hippos bellowing up and down the river above the chorus of tree frogs. My heart ached with the memory of the beauty of that place.
There was something addictive about the wilds of Africa—a primal energy had seeped into my bones and made me feel both immortal and grounded, like I didn’t belong anywhere else and could live there forever. I felt painful withdrawal symptoms the longer I was away. Even though I loved the energy of this city, it was feeling more and more like a prison the longer I was away from Africa.
As I held my unopened letter, my hips kept getting knocked by the increasing foot traffic on the sidewalk, all with parcels in hand. It was quitting time in Hong Kong and the streets were starting to swarm with workers rushing home, some grabbing dinner preparations along the way—fresh noodles, poultry, fish, eggs, and the ever-present bok choy.
Having spent a few weeks at my dad’s place in San Francisco before coming to Hong Kong, I was surprised by how much Chinatown felt exactly like this place. Except that there were a lot more Caucasians on the streets in San Francisco gawking at all the exotic Chinese wares—particularly in the open markets.
I had a hard time walking through these open markets. It killed me to see monitor lizard feet hacked off by the bucketful next to the piles of chicken feet as if rare monitors, the largest and reputedly the smartest lizards in nature, were a plentiful crop.
Unwitting tourists would chatter and point to the different oddities, taking pictures where there were no signs posted not to, and surreptitiously trying to take pictures despite the signs forbidding it. Then they’d move on, not realizing that endangered animals were making brisk business under the table for many of those dealers, both in San Francisco and in Hong Kong.
I took a breath, carefully peeled the glued edge of the aerogram, and started reading.
Dearest Catherine,
I had the strangest dream the other night. It felt so real I woke up thinking I was still in it, until I remembered that you were gone—which was a horrible sinking feeling by the way, but I digress. In the dream, we were on Vera together again, taking that long river trip I’d been planning for us.
As soon as I replaced the solar panels that the Zambians stole—and by the way, I got confirmation that it was indeed my beautiful laundress (and adulteress, with a little help from Nigel) Purity that stole them—I had stocked the deep freeze with the usual suspects—the best cuts of lamb the Katima butcher had in stock, of course. Truth be told, I had to order well in advance: chops, ribs, a leg, and a couple of kilograms of vacuum-packed thin wors.
I laughed at all the food details. Jon was the biggest foodie I had ever known, and in the bush it was particularly amazing how he could whip up gourmet meals as he did. I so wanted to savor these words and make this letter last as long as possible.
By now the number of people hurrying home formed a fast-flowing current with me wedged in the middle, an obstruction that couldn’t be circumvented. To avoid further assaults to my still-sore rib, I pressed myself against the window of a dumpling shop, the steam wafting out at me from the takeaway window.
In my anxiety about meeting with Craig, I hadn’t eaten before going to his office, and the smell of dumplings was making me hungry. I bought a bag of “vegetarian” steamed dumplings and ate one as I continued walking and reading.
Anyway, we were motoring somewhere down in the delta, having seen no other houseboats for days. I had caught a tiger fish with a fly you helped me tie earlier in the day—like that mayfly I had framed in my kitchen, I’m sure you remember it because it was the only thing that the Zambians didn’t steal that night they stole all my furniture—and we had eaten it for dinner. Splendid, creamy flesh. The old tiger never disappoints.
We were sitting on the deck, admiring the full moon sparkling on the silver glassy water—just the tiniest current pulling us along. You were appreciating a last glass of that Syrah that you like from the Cape just as a large group of elephants emerged from the tree line and made its way down to the river for a drink.
I couldn’t help smiling as this was exactly the moment I had dreamed about in the hospital. Easy enough for us both to have dreamed about it since we had done a trial run of our fantasy trip just before I left Namibia. It was the overnight trip that had galvanized our relationship. We had been planning the longer trip for months, and now, apparently, it had pervaded both of our subconscious. I quickly read the next paragraph.
In the next moment, I turned to look at you and you had disappeared behind the reed wall of the bath. Somehow you had filled it without me realizing it, and there you were, taking a bath—the most magnificent bath that only the Okavango Delta could conjure. Just like that weekend we had had together, only in the dream I didn’t have a bum leg. I keep reliving it. I can’t help it.
With my mouth full of dumpling, I looked out over the crowd and imagined the scene that Jon had painted. I so wanted to be on that river again, in the crisp African night, air floral with grass and the musth of elephant hide, warmed by Jon’s touch.
My stomach grumbled in objection to the dumplings. They were a little richer than I would have liked, having probably been stuffed with vegetables and pork. And my stomach hadn’t completely readjusted to solids yet, much less grease.
I turned down a long avenue of fancy restaurants that petered out into a row of small noodle shops. The smell of greasy noodles and something rancid made me feel a little queasy, so I turned down a street full of tailor shops that were just closing up. There were fewer people on this street and I had an easier time navigating and reading.
At the end of the street, something caught my eye. A tall Caucasian man with dark hair was leaving a tailor shop wearing what looked like a newly tailored suit. He carried a bag of bok choy and a few other vegetables, and there was something about his gait that gave me pause—something familiar. He turned down a narrow passage that led to Bird Street and I felt compelled to follow.
I stuffed my unfinished letter into my bag and hurried down the passage, leaving enough distance to change course if the man turned around. The passage opened up into a bustling bird market where the air was filled with smells, both foul and sickly sweet.
I was immediately walled in by ornate birdcages of all shapes and sizes. The birds came in equally amazing varieties from the size of a hummingbird to the size of a macaw, some with crimson wings and some with neon-blue wings and a canary-yellow chest.
The sounds were just as diverse, from melodious to cacophonous.
I followed the man down an aisle lined with rows of particularly ornate cages, each containing a drab brown bird, about the size of a robin, with a reddish tail. I couldn’t help noticing the reverence with which the owners treated these very plain-looking birds as they showed off their songs to their potential customers.
The man moved briskly, with complete confidence. Since he was at least a head taller than everyone around him, it was easy to follow him through the narrowing aisle, staying close to any recesses that I could duck into in case he turned around.
But as the aisle narrowed and shortened into an alleyway, I had to move faster to keep up. Every once in a while, his head would turn slightly and I tried to get a glimpse of his profile.
The songs that I heard as I passed cage after cage were striking—watery, wavering notes, so pure and simple. Each one seemed to have a slightly different call. But to my untrained ear, this bird sounded much like a mockingbird. I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about.
I heard one of the vendors bragging that he had the best nightingale in all of China. Nightingales, of course. The nightingale was highly prized for its beautiful song. Collectors were known to pay large sums of money for a bird that sang just so. I wasn’t sure exactly what quality was prized, nor did I have an ear for the music, besides thinking it sounded pretty. And I had had no idea that they were so drab looking.
The Caucasian man quickly dispatched with the dealer, so the dealer started following me instead. He became so persistent about his very special price that I felt he was drawing undo attention.
I didn’t want the man I was following to turn around and see me, so I stepped into the next row and bent down to pick up a cricket cage from a low shelf. It was made of little wooden bars thinner than matchsticks, with a little sliding door that lifted up in the middle of the cage. I pretended to be interested in the cage while maintaining a view of the strangely familiar man as he made his way down the row of nightingales. While engaging a different vendor, he attracted the attention of the one trying to obtain my interest and the vendor hurried back to his row just as there was a tap at my shoulder.
I spun around, cricket cage in hand, to face a tiny hunched woman pushing a larger, double-decker cricket cage toward me, smiling with a mouth full of rotting teeth. I smiled back but waved my hand dismissively, put the cricket cage down, and moved to the next vendor.
I looked back over to the nightingale aisle to see that the Caucasian was gathering more vendors in his wake. When he turned around to shake them, I felt a jolt of recognition and almost bit my tongue. I dropped what was left in my bag of dumplings and raced to get a better view.
The man stopped at various stalls, asking questions as he went, making it harder for me to stay hidden, as I was also taller than much of the crowd. I could tell his mood had changed as if something had disrupted his confidence. He kept looking from side to side as if he sensed he was being followed. At one point he turned a little further and I was finally able to see his profile. It was indeed who I thought it was: Nigel Lofty.
I hadn’t seen Nigel since the day before he escaped from the Katima prison almost three months ago—an escape roughly equivalent to going out for a piss and never making it back to his jail cell, such was the level of security applied to this key criminal in the Africa–China ivory-smuggling syndicate.
Worse was that he knew he was going to get away with it. While staring at me from behind bars, he had had the nerve to invite me to share his most expensive bottle of white wine with him when he got back to Hong Kong.
Seeing him swagger as he walked the streets a free man made me furious all over again—for all the lives lost, both human and elephant, at this man’s hand. And I couldn’t help wondering how many more elephants had died as a result of his prison escape. And yet here he was, right in front of me. I needed to stay on him until the police could get here. I needed Craig to send someone down right away.
I dug around in my bag for my cellphone and called Craig. No answer. “Shit.” I typed out a quick text, hoping to get Craig to call me. Nigel spotted on Bird Street.
I followed Nigel until he worked his way down another nightingale aisle. I texted Craig again, Nigel in nightingale region of Bird Street, and waited a few moments before dashing after him.
Nigel slowed down to inspect more birds as if he were looking for something specific. He stopped abruptly to talk to another vendor, so I ducked into a side passage where I could watch from a safer distance. He pointed at a cage hanging above the vendor’s table and an old man nodded and disappeared behind a tarp, leaving Nigel alone to admire the bird.
Nigel reached up to remove the cage from a hook just as a very large young man with sleeve tattoos appeared from behind the tarp and barked at Nigel.
All the nearby dealers watched the surly youth stare Nigel down. Nigel backed away from the cage and the volume of chatter increased as the other dealers quickly removed their birdcages from display, as if they were expecting a fight to break out.
I ducked between an assortment of painted china, wooden and ivory ornaments, and food holders made to attach to the rails of either cricket or bird cages. From a crouched position, I looked through the display of cricket cages and watched for whatever Nigel was waiting for to happen.
I felt another tap on my shoulder and spun around to face the same old woman who had tried to sell me a cage earlier. She had somehow kept track of me this whole time. I was so eager to be rid of her that I purchased the cricket cage.
I counted my money, my eyes going between coins and Nigel, when a loud clatter of cages fell over behind me. Nigel snapped his head around in my direction.
I ducked down again and looked back to make sure Nigel was still there as I placed my cricket cage in my handbag. A large parrot squawked into my right ear as dealers yelled at each other in the background. The sour smell of guano was now rank as I moved in a crouched position around the jutting objects, trying not to knock anything over.
Being closer to the pavement, I could almost taste the ammonia from the guano and couldn’t avoid some splashing up onto my opened sandals. I gagged at the sensation of bird shit squishing between my toes, causing the taste of greasy pork to rise in the back of my throat. The hair on my arms stood up as sweat broke out on my face and seeped uncomfortably down my back.
A wave of panic brewed as a few old men leered at me, breathing heavily, as I squeezed passed them. I wanted more than anything to head back to the Chungking Mansions, but I wasn’t going to let Nigel out of my sight.
In the next row, an elderly woman emerged from behind the tarp where Nigel was standing. I moved closer to hear how she would address Nigel. The intensity of Nigel’s interaction with this woman caught me off guard. It was hard to figure out what was going on, but they were yelling at each other.
Nigel picked up the cage again and the woman threatened him with a broom, as if he were trying to make off with her precious nightingale. She now had three muscled young men with sleeve tattoos, long ponytails, and hoop earrings surrounding her. Both parties seemed adamant that the bird was theirs. The argument attracted a crowd to assemble around Nigel, vendors joining in the threats from all sides—tightened fists filling the air.
I walked in and around more cages to watch from a safer vantage. I ended up knocking a few cages over and the ramifications rippled down the alleyway with objections from both birds and vendors. A man stepped right in front of me, blocking my way as I felt a tug at my handbag from behind.
I pulled my bag away as the man in front of me seized my wrist so hard, it felt like a twig about to snap. He stared at me with cold black eyes as a long shelf of cages flew at us from the neighboring aisle where the argument over the nightingale had turned into a brawl.
In the surprise, the pressure let up on my wrist and all I could see were scaly feet as I pushed through the amassing crowd. Talons got bigger and more grotesque as I ran past ca
ge after cage. There was a blur of human faces surrounded in feathers, then a sharp pain at the back of my head before everything went black.
The Wrong Ally
Icy water whipped my face, jolting me awake. I tried to gasp but couldn’t open my mouth. It was taped shut. And there was something covering my eyes—a blindfold tied tightly at the back of my head.
My ear lay against a gritty concrete floor as I struggled against burlap-bound limbs. I breathed in and out quickly to purge the assault.
Judging from the echo of an empty bucket as it hit the floor and the hollow crush of sand beneath leather-soled dress shoes, I could tell I was inside a building—an empty one with high ceilings and concrete floors. It smelled like fish.
“What were you doing in the Gulf of Tonkin?” a man yelled at me in broken English.
My ears rang. The commotion still emanated from Bird Street. I couldn’t be far from it. And I sensed from the sustained vigor of the commotion that I couldn’t have been passed out for very long.
“If you cooperate, you will not get hurt.” The man paced. “Why were you flying in that area?”
There were only a few people who knew about my trip to the gulf. I immediately thought of Mr. Weiping. Maybe he had ties with the Sun Hee Un. Could he have told Nigel about my flight down the Ka Long River and into the Bay of Tonkin? Maybe he steered me away from the main action by getting me to focus on that one tugboat while a trade was happening somewhere else.
Sand crunched next to my ear and I flinched. I sensed that my lack of response to the question was angering my captors.
“Let us try a different approach.” The man sighed as he paced. “We know you visited Nigel’s distributor in Beijing. What did he tell you?”
I shook my head defiantly.
He clucked his tongue. “You have caused us a great many headaches, Ms. Sohon.”
I felt the sharp sole of a dress shoe pressing down on my wounded rib. He knew exactly where to press. He tore the duct tape from my mouth and my cheeks stung from the tearing of tape from my skin.
White Gold Page 4
