The stage lights shifted, taking the anguished man from sight and exposing a small man in a large ratty overcoat and hard-soled shoes shaking from the cold and trying not to drop his rather large spear.
“Spear’s a bit long for him, isn’t it?” asked Fong.
“I don’t use props very much, you may have noticed, Fong. Only when they are the quickest way to reveal the truth. Otherwise I find them a clunky nuisance.”
Fong thought about that. Yes, in all of Geoff’s productions there were, in fact, very few props or sets.
“It’s night, Fong. And Elsinore Castle has been under assault from the Poles for almost a decade. It’s the fourteenth century . . .”
“. . . and I assume no one could attack at night in the fourteenth century,” Fong said, completing Geoff’s thought. He turned to Geoff and saw close behind him the young man he had seen slide off the stage and the older man who had been sitting down front. Both were clearly Beijing men. Was Geoff now deemed worthy of having keepers by the powers up north? But why would a theatre director need a keeper? Let alone two?
“That being the case,” Geoffrey prompted, “the king wouldn’t waste the time of real soldiers to guard the walls so he’d . . . ”
“ . . . enlist the clerk and the night-soil collector.”
“Very good, Fong. I think of them as the tinker and the tailor myself,” Geoffrey said, indicating the small man onstage who stood very still for a moment then whirled around. His large spear dropped to the ground with a clang. He fell to his hands and knees trying to find it in the darkness but couldn’t. Then, as if he heard something, he rose slowly and peered out into the darkness. Geoff leaned in close to Fong and said, “And here it comes . . . ”
“Who’s there?” the poor man whispers.
“As I said, the first line of the play.”
“So you do know your Shakespeare, Fong.”
“Thanks to Fu Tsong.” The moment he said it he realized it was the very first time he had ever spoken his wife’s name in her lover’s company. It was as if he’d allowed two separate parts of himself to bleed together. It was as if he’d moved to the other side of a mirror where his image lived.
From the depths of the stage darkness the new watch comes to replace the old. With them is a nobleman, Horatio. The man questions the guard about the sightings of the ghost. Fong immediately liked the young man playing Horatio. Modest, honest and straightforward. But he didn’t like his insights:
“In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets: As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse . . . ”
“If only evil were mirrored by a cantankerousness in nature, my job would be easier,” Fong thought. But he’d often found the reverse. A sadistic father’s savagery could as easily take place on a beautiful spring day when the cherry blossoms are scenting the city as in the midst of a torrential sky letting.
The new guards, Marcellus and Bernardo, lead Horatio to the place they last saw the ghost. Horatio sees nothing and is about to leave when he senses something and turns. That single violin note again from the back of the auditorium. There is nothing there that we can see but clearly Horatio sees something. He staggers back.
“The darkness speaks to him,” Geoffrey says into Fong’s ear.
Fong thought about that. Darkness can most assuredly speak.
Hamlet makes his first entrance. The light strikes the man’s face and for a fleeting instant he looks oddly like a younger Asian version of Geoff. Fong’s breath catches in his throat. Then the violin note again and he too is addressed by the darkness. This time we hear the darkness speak too. The voice comes from somewhere high in the rafters of the old building.
Geoff’s staging was spare, almost entirely devoid of props. Only the most essential elements were used, but it had a real elegance – a grace that was present in all of Geoff’s work.
The dreadful message of murder by a brother is delivered and received. But the ambiguity of Geoff’s staging leaves it unclear as to the nature of this message. Is it honest? A message from the darkness that your uncle killed your father and that you are to avenge the murder. Hard to swallow in the light of day let alone in a voice from the darkness. Fong played with the phrase voice from the darkness for a moment. It reminded him of something. Finally he asked, “Is ‘a voice from the darkness’ from your Bible?”
“I’m not sure. I know there is a voice from a burning bush.”
Fong turned around to look at Geoffrey. “From a bush?”
“From a burning bush, actually.”
“Was it important what the bush said?”
“Well, it was God speaking . . . ”
“From a bush? A hedge? Not even a tree or the sky? What god would choose to talk from a shrubbery? Surely no one of any importance bothered to obey this voice.”
“No one important, just Moses, patriarch of Jews, Christians and Muslims.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Jews, Christians and Muslims have lots of problems. Maybe they stem, excuse the pun, from listening to bushes.”
Geoffrey laughed.
Fong had never heard him laugh before. Despite himself, he liked the sound. He didn’t know what to do with that. When he looked up, Polonius’s farewell to his son, Laertes, was taking place.
Fong listened to Polonius’s advice to his son:
“Beware of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Beaer’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice.”
Fong turned to Geoff, “Why is this man thought of as a fool? His advice is sound.”
“I agree, Fong. His outside may be foolish but he is no fool. Remember, he managed to keep his position under two different administrations. Not always an easy thing to do but something that I assume someone like yourself who works for a Communist dictatorship would be able to appreciate.” Before Fong could protest, Geoff continued, “I think Polonius is stupid like a fox. In fact, I have him supplying the poison that Claudius puts in Hamlet senior’s ear.”
“Is that in the play?”
“It’s implied if you follow the logic of the events.”
Fong thought about that too. Events do have logic. They even sequence themselves. He had noticed of late that his life had an odd logic to it. Like a play in three acts. And here he was just finishing his second act, watching Hamlet. He finished his first act watching Twelfth Night with his first wife, Fu Tsong, playing Viola. That production had been directed by Geoffrey Hyland as well.
Geoffrey was still talking. Fong hadn’t been listening but picked up just the very end of Geoffrey’s statement: “ . . . you have good eyes, Fong. You can see, really see.” Geoff put a hand on Fong’s shoulder by the collar of his summer-weight jacket. Fong couldn’t believe he would do that but before he could protest, Geoff continued, “I don’t know about in your work, Fong, but in mine something odd happens when you achieve a certain level of skill. Your life slips into your work. Not obvious. Not open. But absolutely there, for those with good eyes, to see. When I was in drama school, an entire lifetime ago, I assisted the single most talented director I’d ever seen work. He was my only teacher, Fong. He was the reason I went back to school. One rehearsal, he arrived late – really not like him – and he set right into working on a scene. He worked on it with incredible energy, almost frenzy. Then he ran it. When he finished, he turned to me and said, “So what d’you think?”
“Well, I was a student. Stupid. So I told him. ‘It looks like a car crash.’ His face sort of opened up and he began to laugh. ‘What?’ I asked. Then through his laughter he said, ‘I just totalled my car on the way to rehearsal. That’s why I was late.’ It really wasn’t until years later that I realized what was
going on. He was so hooked up, so in touch with himself that everything he put onstage was a response to the reality of his life. I always wanted to get that close to myself. I worked at it, Fong, and now somehow it’s happening. Everything important in my life is up there on that stage. Everything that’s happening in my life is right there for anyone to see, so long as they have the right eyes, like yours, Fong.”
Geoff removed his hand from Fong’s shoulder. Fong turned to look at him. Then Fong saw two Caucasian women approaching them. One was small and pinched and clutched a red zippered binder to her chest. The other was tall, dark-haired, older and may have at one time been attractive in a coarse kind of way. Were these some sort of Western keepers? The older, taller woman stood back and brooded. She was the kind of person who leached light from a room. The smaller one strode forward as if she owned the place.
“My producers – I call them my Screaming me-me’s,” Geoff whispered.
“I think we need to work on the opening,” said small Miss Pinch Face Me-me. “It’s flaccid.”
Fong looked to Geoff. Who was this woman? And the opening was anything but flaccid. It was pure liquid. Classic Geoff.
Geoff made a cursory introduction. “Kitty Pants, Inspector Zhong Fong, head of Special Investigations, Shanghai District.”
“Hi,” said Ms. Pants without any warmth or even really bothering to take in Fong.
Fong stood. He wasn’t about to be dismissed by the likes of this sour woman.
“We have work to do, Mr. Fong.”
“Inspector Zhong,” Fong corrected her. She was clearly surprised that he spoke English.
“Yes, well, could you excuse us for a moment?” It wasn’t really a question. “Come.” She signalled for Geoff to follow her. Fong had met many theatre people during the time he had been with Fu Tsong. He could sense who was and who wasn’t of that world. Geoff most assuredly was. Miss Pants certainly wasn’t. So what was Geoff doing answering to this tightassed little woman?
As Geoff moved up the aisle with Miss Pinch Face, the two Chinese watchers flanked them. What the fuck was going on here?
Fong shifted in his seat. Something fell from beneath the collar of his coat, where Geoff’s hand had rested so uncomfortably. Fong eyed the business card that now lay on the floor. He noted the position of the watchers and when he thought it safe, leaned over as if to tie up his shoe and picked up the card. Under the italicized words The Play’s the Thing were Geoff’s name and contact numbers in both Mandarin and English. Fong turned the card over. There, in a scrawling hand, were slashed the words: I have no right to ask, but help me, Fong.
And now Geoffrey Hyland was no more. Fong sat back in his seat and thought about the card. The request for help – and how out of bitterness, and jealousy, he had ignored it.
Four hours later, Li Chou handed over the crime site to Fong with the pointing of a fat index finger and the warning that his people would be back to “pack it up” later. As he left the theatre, Li Chou said loudly to Fong, “Don’t make a mess.”
“I’ll wash my hands and everything,” Fong snarked back, but he felt small the moment the words were out of his mouth. Once Li Chou and his men had left the theatre, Fong ducked under the tape and headed toward the stage.
He’d seldom ventured onto a stage. In fact the only time he remembered actually being on a stage was in an attempt to hide himself and an American woman, Amanda Pitman, in the days before his internal exile.
A stage was Fu Tsong’s domain. Not his. His place in a theatre was in the darkness of the audience. Fu Tsong’s place was in the light. She somehow seemed to bring the light.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then hopped up on the stage.
The platforms were arranged like a shattered cross. Fong knew the basic Christian significance of this but it carried no resonance for him. He walked over to the body that still hung by its neck. It seemed to be in motion as if it were the bell at the bottom of a long pendulum. As Fong approached, an unwelcome thought flitted through his consciousness. “Fu Tsong had loved what this body encased.”
He took a breath and then another. His heart was racing. He bent over from the waist. “Fuck, I’m going to faint,” he thought. He yanked off his jacket, crumpled it and held it to his mouth. His breathing became less laboured. His heart stopped racing. Slowly he regained control. Then he turned back to the body.
Fong knew his men were watching him.
A young detective stepped forward. Fong held up his hand. The man stopped. Fong hoped that when he spoke his voice wouldn’t wobble. “Get me the forensic report as soon as it’s available.” The young detective gave a curt bow and left through the side door by the pinrail.
Chen waited for him to issue more orders. He was careful to keep his eyes down. Finally he asked, “It’s a suicide, isn’t it, sir?”
It sure as hell looked like a suicide. The ladder Geoff had climbed and then kicked aside was lying where it ought to be forward and downstage from him. The knotted rope around his neck had the traditional look of a hangman’s noose. “Was there a note?” Fong asked.
“No one has found one yet,” said Chen.
“Get me access to his room. Was he staying at the theatre academy or in a hotel? He usually stayed on the grounds.”
The cops looked at Fong. They all digested the information that Fong had known the deceased. More mystery for them about their boss. “I’ll find out,” said another young cop and headed out.
“Chen, photograph the scene, I’m more confident in your abilities than in Li Chou’s.” There was a chorus of muffled chuckles.
Fong turned to his men. “Enough. We have work to do.” Turning to the nearest cop, he said, “Find me the stage manager. I want to know which actors were last to leave the theatre.” Before anyone could question him, he added, “Find me another ladder.” Then, to everyone’s surprise, Fong turned and walked over to the stage-right proscenium arch. He pointed to a smudge mark of some sort on the pillar eight feet above the ground and said, “Take a photo of that too, will you Chen? And bag a sample.”
“Sir?” Fong ignored Chen’s question and marched across the stage to the other proscenium arch and looked at it carefully. “Is there something . . . ?”
“Later, Chen, later. Let’s stand that ladder up now.”
After carefully noting its position, marked by Li Chou’s people on the stage floor, they righted the ladder. Fong looked up at the hanging body then allowed his eyes to follow the noose. The rope went up to a pulley attached to a wooden batten dead hung from the ceiling by thick chains. The rope then continued from the pulley offstage until it met another larger pulley then headed down to the floor stage left, where it was tied off to a pinrail. Fong headed over to the pinrail. He reached out and held the rope. Its thick tautness was not pleasing. He gave it a yank. Immediately yelps came from the stage as the body twitched. Fong ignored them and looked around. Chen pointed toward a set of iron weights attached to the pinrail. “Counterweights, sir, to make it easy to lift a dead weight. Sorry, sir, no offence intended.”
Fong looked at Chen. “None taken. Thanks.” But Fong wasn’t really paying attention. He was trying to recall a story Fu Tsong had told him about counterweights. Something about Christ and counterweights. Fong shook his head. That couldn’t be right – Christ and counterweights? He sat heavily in the chair that was by the pinrail. Then he stood and looked at the chair. A simple school chair. He looked up and down the wings. It was the only chair there. He looked at it a second time then strode back onstage and climbed the ladder to Geoff.
It was only later, when Fong recalled Fu Tsong’s story, that he realized he hadn’t noted a crucial fact: how much counterweight was on the line.
Face-to-face with Geoff, everything else receded into a misted background – the theatre, his cops, Captain Chen – as if in a film when the camera zooms in tight. Here, with death, Fong was at the apex, in the very centre. In focus.
He snapped on a pair of latex
gloves and touched Geoff’s face.
The flesh was almost hard to the touch. Already dense, spongy. The blood had, upon death, pooled in the lower extremities of his body leaving a tough plastic-like consistency to the skin. But beneath the skin, Fong knew that rot was setting in quickly. Nothing dead resisted rot long in Shanghai’s summer heat. Fong leaned in to look at the rope marks. There was a lot of ligature burn up and down the neck. Fong hoped Geoff’s neck had snapped. The image of Geoff strangling slowly on the end of the rope was not pleasing – Fong had seen hangings that didn’t go off well, the phrase “without a hitch” came to him but he put it aside. If it’s not done right it can take several terrifying minutes before a man suffocates at the end of a rope. A scent caught Fong’s attention. He couldn’t identify it but it was not a body odour.
Captain Chen had set up the other ladder and was climbing up to take pictures of Geoff.
Fong waited until Chen was at body level then pointed to the neck. “Shoot this.”
Chen did, then asked, “Is there something I’m not seeing? Those marks are to be expected in a suicide, aren’t they?”
“Maybe,” Fong said and descended a rung to get a better look at Geoff’s fingers. Long. Tapered. He bent the wrist to look beneath the fingernails.
Chen took another picture then asked, “Scrapings?”
Fong shook his head and descended.
“I don’t see any defensive markings, sir. Do you?”
On the stage floor, he stepped back and looked at the body again. Trying to get a fuller picture. “I want the body to go to Lily first. I want a full toxicology report.” Chen nodded. Then Fong remembered the odour. He raced quickly up the ladder.
“What?” said Chen surprised.
“Hold him still.”
Chen did and Fong pulled aside Geoff’s jacket. He was wearing a vest. Odd for a hot day. On the inside pocket of the vest Fong found them.
“Flowers, sir?”
Fong took a deep breath of the fragrance. “Yes. Three different types of flowers.”
The Hamlet Murders Page 4
